Shadow of God (66 page)

Suleiman met with the Aghas again, and again he was briefed on the happenings of the day. The Aghas told their tales honestly and without excuse. The knights had fought hard. The Turks had fought hard. And the city still belonged to the Order.

“Majesty,” Bali Agha said. “Each battle brings us closer to victory. Though it’s disappointing that we are driven back out of the city every night, with each day we fight our way further and further inside. They lose many in the battles, and they have very few left to lose. While we can replace our losses, they cannot. While we have shot and powder, they are running out. Their batteries still fire, but I have noticed that they fire less frequently than before. I think they’re saving what little they have left. If we persevere, we will see the day when there is nothing left for them to fight us with; no knights to man the breaches.”

Suleiman didn’t answer. Piri bowed, and then spoke. “Majesty, Bali Agha is right. If we continue these assaults, and do not falter, we will,
Inch’ Allah,
win the battle.
”

So, all the Aghas spoke to Suleiman, and all agreed that the pressure must be kept up if the siege were to end with a Turkish victory. There was no talk—at least among the leaders—of a return to Istanbul. The Sipahis, the Janissaries, and the Azabs would, if necessary, spend the winter on Rhodes.

“Very well. Prepare our quarters for the winter. Send word to my ships that they are to weigh anchor and move offshore to the Anatolian coast, there to await my further orders out of sight of this land. Let our armies see these preparations, so that there can be no doubt that their only transport home has already left for the winter. Let them know that we will stay until the city is ours, if I must slay every last one of their accursed souls. Let this be known!”

November 30th. Nicholas Roberts stood on the battlements at the side of the Grand Master. Philippe stared out at the spectacle before him. In the lowering gloom and drizzle, he could see tens of thousands of Turkish troops moving towards every wall and battlement in the city. Trumpets and drums preceded the advance. As usual, there was no surprise when the Turks attacked, as it was announced with martial music and fanfare. The citizens of Rhodes had learned to fear the coming of the music, for they knew it preceded still another day of death.

Philippe turned to Roberts and asked, “Are the knights in place, Nicholas?”

“They are, my Lord. What knights we have. I’ve ordered them to defend the breaches that are still open. The mercenaries will back them up. The few loyal Rhodian citizens we have left fighting are organized into small roaming bands to fight where they can. Many of the Turks will get into the city, I’m afraid, so our fighting force is now diluted. We cannot stand and plug every breach as we once could.”

“I know, Nicholas, I know.” There was a sadness and a resignation that Roberts had not seen in the Grand Master before. It seemed as if Philippe had given up all hope, and only his legendary bravery—some called it stubbornness—kept him going.

Soon, the music began to fade, overwhelmed by the shouts of the advancing armies. On all sides at once, the Turkish soldiers
moved through the trenches and began to climb the earth embankments that led to the walls. Simultaneously, Azabs descended into the tunnels, digging and clawing their way inside the city. Fighting raged at every post, and none were spared a moment’s rest.

The Turkish Aghas had learned from their earlier battles that they could not afford to allow the knights the luxury of defending a single point of attack. Only by capitalizing on their superior forces could they sweep into the city. And they did.

Philippe fought alongside his knights through much of the morning. He stood, as always, shoulder to shoulder with his brothers, and slashed his heavy sword through the onrushing bodies of the Turks. His strength was incredible, as he matched the younger knights stroke for stroke, paring down the advancing troops. Several times he was forced to retreat, but each time he and his knights rejoined the battle from a more defensible ground. Soon, they were fighting well within the walls, and the Turkish soldiers were both behind and in front of the pockets of resistance.

Towards afternoon, the furor of the battle abated slightly. Both sides were drained by fatigue, thirst, and hunger. Incredibly, as the early darkness drew near, the knights once again pressed the Turkish assault back. It was as if the coming night were the goal itself; if only they could survive until darkness, the knights might live to fight yet one more day. No one, it seemed, within the city walls, could manage to think beyond that.

Darkness came, and the last of the Sultan’s army disappeared back into the trenches. When night had fallen, more than five thousand brave young Turkish soldiers joined their brothers lying dead in ditches. And hundreds of knights, mercenaries, and Rhodians lay dead as well.

Quiet descended upon both camps, as their leaders met yet again to decide the fate of the living.

Rhodes
December, 1522

Gabriele Tadini awoke before dawn on the first day of December, more than four months into the endless siege. The wind drove freezing rain against the shuttered windows of the hospital, rattling the wood against the huge iron hinges. In an effort to conserve the fast-dwindling supplies, only a few lamps remained burning through the night. The yellow glow flickered weakly, barely lighting the massive hospital ward. The vaulted ceilings remained in darkness, like a huge indoor night sky.

Most of the patients were asleep. The doctors and their assistants had just retired for a moment’s rest before the start of the new day. The air in the ward was rank, for the windows and doors had been closed for days against the constant cold and dampness, as well as the bombardment. The smells of infected wounds and disinfectants mixed in their nostrils, and few of the knights or inmates ever became fully tolerant of the odor.

Tadini sat up on the edge of his cot, pausing while he regained his balance. Seeing the world through his left eye had been disorienting for him. He constantly turned his head to the right to widen his field of vision.

He removed the cloth bandages that wrapped his temples. After six weeks, the skin was now completely closed, and the dressings served no purpose. He threw the soiled mass of cloth into the corner
and took a brown leather patch from his pocket. Thin leather thongs had been fixed to the two edges, and the stiff leather worked into a gentle curve that would hug Tadini’s cheek and forehead.

The tissues of the right eye were almost completely gone. Tadini’s now-useless orbit filled first with fluid secretions, and finally a fibrous scar tissue that had, in the past two weeks, hardened into an exquisitely tender gray mass.

In the darkness, Tadini placed the patch over his right eye socket, padding the surface of the orbit with the clean remnants of a silk handkerchief. He held the silk in place and secured the leather patch by tying the ends behind his head. After testing the whole apparatus by shaking his head, he nodded to himself with satisfaction. The leather patch stayed in place.

Next, he grasped the side of the bed and raised himself carefully to a standing position. His balance was a bit precarious since his injury, though he couldn’t tell if it were from the loss of half his visual field or from some damage inflicted upon his brain by the bullet. Satisfied that he would not fall, Tadini got dressed.

The young French knight Jean Parisot de la Valette had been assigned by the Grand Master to look after Tadini’s needs while he was recuperating. Valette stayed with Tadini day and night, often shuttling back and forth between the hospital and the battlements bringing news of the battle to Tadini and conveying orders to the knights.

He had quietly brought Tadini’s battle clothes into the hospital during the night. Knowing that the doctors would argue and create a row, Tadini had the clothes and his sword brought secretly and stored beneath his bed. Valette had balked, especially after the stern words from the Grand Master that Tadini was not to leave the hospital until the doctors released him. Now, in the darkness, with the quiet broken only by the background of snoring and coughing, Tadini dressed for battle. He girded himself with the broadsword, meticulously sharpened and polished by Valette. Then he placed his helmet carefully on his head and, beckoning impatiently for Valette, he strode from the ward. He hesitated at the top of the wide stone staircase to face the driving wind and icy rain. With the wetness
fresh in his face, he took a deep breath of air and thought,
Beware, soldiers of the Sultan. Take care and beware of me. Tadini is back!

Philippe sat crouched over the battle plans for the day. He rotated his neck slowly to relieve the pain that gathered between his shoulders and radiated into his back. Nothing seemed to ease the tension that had built there over the months of battle. He began to feel as if he were being pulled apart by the divisiveness around him. The citizens were now on the edge of open revolt. Nothing, they thought, could be worse than the lives they now led. How could rule by the Sultan be worse than the disease, starvation, and death that now gripped the city? Even Hélène had cast doubt upon Philippe’s resolve to stay the course. But, Philippe also recognized that his own determination might be affected by his need to protect Hélène.

Most of the knights followed Philippe’s orders without hesitation. But, each day he could see the brightness in their eyes diminish as they went off to their posts. They fought bravely, but the odds were overwhelming them. A few had broached the subject of an honorable surrender. Philippe had thundered at them and squelched their pleas with his rage at the idea of capitulation with the Muslims. Death with honor, he told them, was far preferable to the disgrace of surrender to the Infidels. “I would rather die in the service of Christ than surrender to live under the yoke of the Muslims,” he said.

Philippe rubbed his red eyes and reached for a piece of stale bread. The oil lamps flickered, reminding him that he should have them refilled before his command post was plunged into darkness. His Palace had been divinely blessed, he thought; not a single shot had struck her walls. Amidst all the destruction of his beautiful city, no cannonball had found the Palace of the Grand Master.

As he dwelt upon the wonder of God’s protection, he heard the door open. A knight took several steps into the room, and waited to be recognized. Philippe closed his eyes and wondered what more impossibly bad news would come to him now. “Yes?” he said wearily as he looked up. “Dear Jesus!” he said, and brought his hand to his chest.

Philippe hesitated for a second. Then, as if new blood had been injected into his body, he rose from his seat and rounded the edge of the table. He reached out and took Tadini’s shoulders between his two large hands. The two men stared at each other, and then Philippe pulled Tadini to him, embracing him in a hug that nearly took Tadini’s breath away. Valette remained in the hallway, out of range of Philippe’s possible reprimand.

“
Figlio mio,”
he murmured, still holding Tadini close. “My son, my son…” Barely stopping the tears that formed on his cheeks, Philippe stepped back and looked at his knight.