Текст книги "Sword and Scimitar"

Автор книги: Simon Scarrow

Соавторы: Simon Scarrow
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Текущая страница: 30 (всего у книги 33 страниц)

Romegas gestured towards one of the bodies on the ground and Thomas saw the standard lying beside the corpse. ‘He’s done for, sir.’

La Valette nodded and turned to Thomas. ‘Then the honour falls to you. Take up the standard, then you and your squire come with me.’

Thomas called Richard over and picked up the standard in his good hand and rested it against his shoulder. The three of them descended the stairs to the base of the bastion. Two men were guarding the entrance and they heaved the iron bolts back at La Valette’s order, and pushed the sturdy door open. Thomas and Richard followed the Grand Master as he crossed the open ground behind the line of men still fighting to hold the Turks back. There was a narrow gap left open by the wagon, just wide enough for two men to go through at a time, and they passed inside the last defence of Birgu. Grunting with the effort, La Valette clambered on to the fighting step and Richard helped Thomas up beside him before joining them himself.

La Valette turned towards the bastion and raised his hand and waved. Romegas waved back and a moment later the sharp blast of a trumpet cut through the sounds of battle and the rain. Those men who were behind the fighting line immediately turned and joined the wounded making for the safety of the inner wall. Those still fighting began to disengage, backing warily away from the enemy before turning to hurry down the steps from the wall or scramble away over the loose rubble towards the clear ground.

As soon as the Turks realised what was happening a cheer rippled along the battle line and they surged forward, desperate to pursue and overwhelm the defenders and put an end to the dreadful siege that had cost the lives of so many of their comrades. They poured into the breaches, cutting down those too slow to answer the signal to fall back or too maddened by battle rage to retreat, spitting their defiance into the faces of the Turks until they perished under the savage blows of enemy blades.

‘Here, take my dagger.’

Thomas turned to Richard and saw the handle extended to him. He nodded his thanks for the weapon and shifted the standard to his left, hooked his leg round the base of the staff and then tucked the shaft against his left shoulder.

Richard lowered the point of his pike over the rough stonework of the parapet and stared grimly towards the enemy struggling down the piles of rubble towards the open ground. To his left, twenty yards beyond the Grand Master, Thomas saw Maria helping a soldier climb over the wall. More were hurrying up the ladders and on to the inner wall, while others hurried through the gap beside the wagon. La Valette watched intently as the last of the defenders and wounded made for the ladders. The first of the Turks had reached the open ground and began to race after them. Thomas heard the dull whack of a crossbow and saw one of the Turks throw up his arms and tumble forward as a quarrel shattered his knee. More bolts darted across the open ground, most finding their mark at such close range. Those Turks alert to the danger hunched down and raised their shields, and came on more warily. It bought the defenders a sliver of time in which to reach the ladders.

Just then Mustafa Pasha appeared in one of the breaches, together with his standard bearer. He thrust his scimitar towards the inner wall and shrieked a command to his men. The cry was taken up and the Turks charged forward. A handful of men still stood at the bottom of each ladder, waiting their turn to climb to safety. Some turned towards the enemy and lowered their pikes, or swung their swords and clubs in preparation to strike.

‘Raise the ladders!’ La Valette called out. ‘Quickly!’

There were cries of despair from the men still on the far side, and the last few that could raced up the rungs and threw themselves over the parapet. Then the ladders were pulled up by their comrades. Some of the men still on the other side clung on and had to be shaken loose. Thomas saw one of the ladders fall to the side, a gift to the enemy.

‘Close the gate!’ La Valette shouted to the men waiting by the wagon and they put their shoulders to the timbered frame and heaved it across the small gap, sealing the opening, before securing it in place with chains. Then they climbed up on to the bed of the wagon and took up their crossbows to shoot into the bedraggled horde charging towards them. All along the final line of defence the crossbowmen took a last chance to pick off the Turks and scores more fell into the mud and puddles, pierced by the deadly bolts. Thomas caught sight of one last defender in a futile struggle to reach safety before he was engulfed by the enemy. The man had been wounded in the leg and limped as fast as he could, one arm reaching out to his comrades on the wall, imploring them to save him. Then he tripped and fell. At once a bare-headed man in animal skins rushed over to him and raised a spear in both hands. The soldier pushed himself up, his face plastered with mud, mouth hanging open in a last cry. Then the Turk rammed the head of his spear down between his victim’s shoulder blades. The point burst out of his chest and the man’s face contorted in agony before he collapsed, instantly lost from view as the enemy surged over him.

There were enough men on the inner wall to displace most of the women and children and they dropped back behind the fighting step and snatched up rocks and stones to hurl over the wall. With shrill cries of hatred they threw their missiles and Thomas saw them clatter off the helmets and shields of the enemy. But some struck home, striking men in the face, injuring many of the unarmoured fanatics who had joined Suleiman’s army to kill the enemies of Islam and find martyrdom for themselves. Then the Turks reached the wall and cut down the last of the defenders trapped there before they jabbed their spears at the faces looming above them.

Thomas saw La Valette lean forward and thrust his pike into the shoulder of a man below, then wrench the point back and thrust again. Richard cried out as a spear point caught in his sleeve and then cut into the flesh of his arm. His jerkin ripped as he tore his arm free and stabbed his pike into the man who had wounded him. For a short period the Turks were caught tightly against the base of the wall, easy prey for those above them who thrust and stabbed into the tightly packed mass of robes and armour. The first of the men carrying assault ladders forced their way through the throng and ran the ladders up against the wall. At once their comrades began to climb, desperate to get at the defenders of Birgu.

Thomas raised his dagger as a ladder clattered against the wall to his right, just between himself and Richard. It swayed a moment as the first of the Turks swarmed up. Thomas leaned forward and stabbed at his hand. The Turk seemed to ignore the pain; he hauled himself up and his wild eyes beneath the rim of his helmet stared at Thomas with hatred. He pulled his hand free with a rush of blood and drew his scimitar. His blade arced towards Thomas’s neck and he just had time to throw his weight to one side and duck the blow that would surely have struck his head off if he had not moved. The Turk shouted a curse and made to swing again. Before he could, a rock caught him on the bridge of his nose and blood spurted from his nostrils. He blinked and shook his head. Richard swung the butt of his pike and knocked him back amid the swords, spears and spiked helmets of his comrades.

Mustafa Pasha urged his men on, his sword punching out, his mouth stretched wide as he bellowed encouragement. Then he moved forward towards the inner wall, his bodyguard parting the press before him. For a moment Thomas could only follow his progress by the horsehair standard weaving above the sea of helmets, turbans, bare heads, points of spears and sword blades.

‘Sir,’ he shouted to La Valette and pointed out Suleiman’s standard. ‘Look there!’

The Grand Master followed the direction Thomas indicated and saw that the enemy commander was making directly towards him. ‘He means to kill me.’

Thomas nodded. ‘You must get off the wall, sir.’

‘No. Our fate hangs by a thread. I must stay here, where my people can see me.’

La Valette turned away as a spear thrust glanced off his shoulder plate. One of the Turks had climbed up on to the shoulders of his comrades to strike at the Grand Master, and now La Valette coolly turned his pike on the man and ran him through.

Thomas watched the steady progress of the enemy’s standard as it picked its way closer. Then the sea of faces before him parted and a squad of Janissaries pushed through, making space for their commander and his personal bodyguard, tall, well-built warriors, in fine armour and carrying heavy scimitars – hand-picked men from the elite corps of Suleiman’s army. Two of them grabbed a ladder from their comrades and placed it against the wall, directly in front of Thomas and the standard of the Order of St John. Now he could see Mustafa Pasha, his weathered face wet with rain as he shouted orders to his men and pointed at Thomas. The first of his men rushed up the ladder. Thomas stabbed at him with the dagger but the Janissary was quick and dodged the blow. He caught Thomas’s wrist in his hand and clamped tightly as he continued up the last rung and swung his muddy boot over the parapet. He reached for his scimitar. Thomas tried to pull himself free but the other man was too strong for him and his lips parted in a cruel smile.

‘Protect the standard!’ La Valette shouted in alarm.

Richard was two paces to Thomas’s right, thrusting a ladder back. The moment it fell away he turned and lunged at the Janissary. The man saw the danger and released his grip on Thomas’s wrist. He threw up his arm to ward off the blow and knocked the steel point aside. Thomas moved at once and stabbed his dagger into the man’s arm, and again. With a bellow of pain and rage, the Janissary thrust his sword hand out, smashing Thomas in the chest and unbalancing him so that he tottered on the edge of the fighting step for a moment and then fell back, the standard falling with him.

At once a groan rose from the lips of the nearest defenders, matched by a shout of jubilation from the other side of the wall. The Janissary swung his other leg over the wall and rushed at Richard, slashing wildly with his scimitar. Richard desperately blocked the blows with the shaft of his pike. Another Janissary came over the wall and turned towards La Valette, warily eyeing the lowered point of his pike as he closed. Two more men came over the wall and then a fifth, carrying Suleiman’s standard which he planted on the parapet and waved from side to side. Thomas scrambled to his feet and snatched up the standard of the Order in his good hand, leaving the dagger on the ground.

‘Stand firm!’ he bellowed to left and right. ‘Stand firm!’

‘Drive them back!’ La Valette yelled. ‘For God and St John! Kill them!’

Figures surged past Thomas and he saw a young boy, no more than twelve, pull himself on to the wall and throw himself at the Janissary attacking Richard. His puny fists clawed at the Turk’s face and he bit into the bare skin of his arm, above the gauntlet. The Turk glared at the boy, then grabbed his hair and wrenched him away before dashing his brains out on the parapet and flinging the wretchedly skinny bag of bones down beside Thomas. A shrill cry of grief and rage cut through the air and a thin woman stepped over the body and hurled a rock at the Janissary. The sharp-edged stone split his eyebrow open and blood coursed over his eyes, forcing him to pause and wipe them clear. The moment’s distraction cost him his life as Richard rammed his pike into the Janissary’s stomach, twisted the point to both sides and ripped it free. The Turk tumbled inside the wall and at once the woman leaped upon him, another rock in her hand, which she punched into his face repeatedly, pulverising flesh and bone as tears streamed down her cheeks and an animal keening strained at her throat.

More women and children charged forward, snatching and tearing at the Janissaries, pulling them from the wall and beating them to death. The enemy standard bearer on the wall looked down aghast as the Maltese slaughtered his comrades like wild animals. Then Richard cast his pike aside and rushed at the man, striking him in the face with his mantlet, the metal finger guards tearing into the Janissary’s cheek. He struck the man again and again and then seized the shaft of the standard in his left hand in a desperate struggle for its possession. There was a sudden lull in the fighting around the two men as the combatants on both sides watched the struggle.

The Turkish standard bearer clung on to the shaft as he endured Richard’s blows. He tried at first to ward them off with his left hand, and then suddenly thrust it forward, clamping his fingers round Richard’s throat. Thomas saw his son’s face contort in agony. Richard renewed his efforts, punching with all his failing strength. Then the man’s head snapped back with a deep groan and he staggered, dazed, his fingers releasing their grip on Richard. He stumbled and fell across the parapet and Richard tore the enemy standard from his hand before thrusting him over the side. At once Richard held the standard aloft and a wild cheer erupted from the defenders on and behind the wall. Richard waved it back and forth for a moment, taunting the Turks, and then contemptuously hurled the standard back towards Birgu where it landed in the mud.

The Turks fell silent. Then the first of them began to back away, and the motion rippled through the ranks as the rest followed. Thomas climbed up beside Richard and held the Order’s standard high in the air and added his cheers to those of the other defenders. Below him he saw Mustafa Pasha threaten his men with his sword as he screamed at them to continue the attack. Some stopped and turned back, and then a rock struck the enemy commander on the chin and he stumbled and fell to his knees, blood pouring from a deep gash. A wail of despair rose up from those immediately around him and the urge to retreat became unstoppable. Mustafa Pasha’s bodyguards hurriedly picked up their commander and bore him away, towards the breach. Around them the Turks fell back across the open ground to the main wall.

‘After them!’ La Valette commanded. ‘Drive them out! They must not be allowed to hold the wall!’

His order was repeated and the defenders slid over the parapet and began to chase after the Turks. Knights, soldiers, women and children all joined the pursuit, sprinting after the enemy and falling like wolves upon those that lagged behind their comrades. Watching from the wall Thomas felt sickened by the sight. This was not a war any more, but a savage, bloody massacre. Women and children attacked their prey with knives, axes and clubs, splattering blood and gobbets of flesh across the ground where the rain struggled to wash them away. An old woman hacked away at a fallen Janissary and then leaned down to clench his beard in her fist and raise the bloodied head aloft with a shrill cry of triumph.

‘Richard!’ La Valette called out. ‘Take up the enemy’s standard. The trophy is yours. Then follow me.’

The three men waited briefly while the wagon was unchained and rolled aside. Then they emerged from the wall and picked their way through the bodies scattered across the open ground and returned to the bastion. Romegas greeted the Grand Master with a wide smile, then waved his arm in the direction of the enemy trenches. The ground in front of Birgu’s outer defences was covered with a sea of fleeing figures. Ranged along the wall and standing on the piles of rubble in the breaches the soldiers and people of Birgu stood in the rain, cheering, waving, and shouting their contempt at the backs of the enemy.

‘Thanks be to God,’ Thomas heard the Grand Master mutter. ‘We survive.’

CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

11 September

The rain stopped and for several days the sky cleared and the sun shone down on the devastation of the battlefield. The Turkish bombardment resumed, interspersed with a handful of attacks that were not pressed home and quickly disintegrated under the withering fire from the defenders crouching in the rubble along the line of the walls of Birgu and Senglea. The Grand Master no longer held meetings for his advisers. There was nothing to discuss. Rations were running short, their numbers were so diminished that one more determined assault was bound to result in defeat and annihilation. It was simply a matter of holding on for as long as possible.

Each morning Thomas rose before dawn to take his position in the bastion, alongside Richard and the other defenders, and then watch and wait, senses straining to pick up any warning of another assault. But eventually the attacks stopped coming and only a few of the enemy batteries still maintained their bombardment of the defences. To Thomas it seemed as if the enemy no longer had the heart to continue the siege and for the first time he allowed himself to hope that he, Maria and Richard might yet survive. They would return to England, he resolved, and begin to live the life that had been denied them for so long. There was a rightness about the quiet fantasy he allowed himself to indulge in. It was meant to be, Thomas told himself with a smile of contentment, surely, after all that they had endured?

He would not pray for such an outcome, though he knew that Maria prayed for little else, and she prayed fervently. He had watched her, kneeling before the small shrine that she had erected in the cellar of the house, rosary beads clenched in her hand, eyes gazing at the small statuette of the Virgin Mary, lips working faintly as she muttered her imprecations. She paused whenever a Turkish cannonball droned overhead, or smashed into a building nearby. Thomas looked on with a fatigued sense of disappointment in Maria, and in all those who held to their conviction that this world was the creation of a loving compassionate God. But her religious convictions did not extend to denying herself the full pleasure of their relationship, one of many compromises among the faithful that Thomas took as a sign of the emptiness of religion.

He was aware that he no longer felt the burden of guilt that had formerly accompanied his abandonment of belief, when he had felt that he had failed himself and all those around him. Now it was as if a cloying mantle had been lifted from him and he felt free, and just a little afraid of the idea of the finality of death. At the same time, it served as a stark reminder of the need to live fully in the moment. There was no eternity of reward in the afterlife, just a shallow promise of paradise to sugar the bitterness of the brief span of life that for many was little more than a struggle against starvation and violent death. What better way to hold people in thrall, Thomas thought to himself, his expression bitter.

‘What is it?’

Thomas blinked as his thoughts refocused. Richard was watching him curiously where they both sat behind the parapet of the bastion.

‘What were you thinking?’ Richard asked.

‘It was nothing. A passing fancy.’ Thomas stiffly eased himself up behind the parapet and cautiously peered towards the enemy trenches a hundred paces away. The Turkish marker flags were still in position, hanging limply from their standards in the calm morning air. There was no sign of movement there, nor further back beyond the trenches where there were usually small parties of men carrying supplies from the ships to the enemy camps. Richard rose up too and peered over the edge of the parapet, eyes scouring the ground for any sign of enemy snipers.

‘They’re quiet today.’

‘Quiet be damned,’ Thomas muttered. ‘They’ve gone.’

‘Gone?’ Richard scrutinised the enemy’s entrenchments. ‘It could be a trick.’

Thomas pursed his lips. ‘Let’s see.’

He sat down again and unbuckled the chinstrap of his helmet. Then, taking up one of the loaded arquebuses that were leaning against the parapet ready for use, he balanced his helmet on the butt and slowly raised it behind the crenellation so that its plume would be visible above the top of the stone. Then he eased the helmet sideways round the masonry until it was in clear view of the enemy’s trenches.

‘If there’s any of them out there, they’ll not pass up the chance of trying a shot at one of the knights,’ said Thomas.

There was no response to his bait. He waited a moment longer before he lowered the arquebus and retrieved his helmet.

‘Have one of the men report to La Valette. Tell him that there is no sign of the enemy to our front. I’ll confirm that when I return.’ Richard sucked in a quick breath. ‘You’re going out there?’

‘Of course. We need to be sure.’

‘What if it’s a trick? An attempt to lure us from cover?’

Thomas tapped the brim of his helmet. ‘You saw. Not a single shot. They’ve abandoned their trenches, I’m sure of it.’

‘But why?’

Thomas smiled. ‘I would hate to tempt fate, and I will not say what my heart hopes, not until I have seen it with my own eyes.’ He patted his son on the shoulder. ‘No more tarrying, Richard. Send word to La Valette and then keep watch for me. I might just return somewhat more swiftly than I set out.’

He did not wait for a reply but scurried a short distance along the parapet towards the nearest breach where a low breastwork had been hurriedly thrown up. Easing his head up, Thomas swept his gaze over the ground in front of him. Satisfied that there was no movement, he snatched a quick breath, slid over the breastwork and scrambled down the rubble slope and dropped into the ditch where he pressed himself against the ground, breathing hard. He waited, his ears straining for any sound of voices or movement. A short distance to his right he saw a corpse, half buried in dust and rubble. There was a dried brown stain on the turban and torn cloth where a bullet had passed through his skull. His head lay back and his eyes stared into the clear heavens as flies buzzed lazily about the blotched skin of his face and walked undisturbed across his rotting flesh. From the sight and smell of the corpse, Thomas estimated the body must have lain there for at least ten days, one of many that the Turks had not dared to retrieve for a proper burial according to their custom.

Satisfied that he was safe for the moment, Thomas crept up to the rim of the ditch and peered over. Before him the rocky ground was scarred by the rough furrows of enemy shot that had grounded in front of the wall and ricocheted on into the defences. Broken ladders and abandoned weapons and armour lay scattered on the ground, together with the dead, their stomachs grossly distorted by mortal corruption under the glare of the sun. The shattered remains of a siege tower were no more than twenty yards away and Thomas slowly eased himself up before rushing across the open ground towards it, head and shoulders hunched down. Still there was no shout of alarm, nor the crack of sniper’s weapon. He squatted down behind the shelter of the solid timbers and caught his breath before he glanced back towards the bastion. There was a brief glitter of sunlight on steel and he saw Richard watching him.

‘Keep your head down, you fool!’ Thomas hissed and gestured furiously with his gloved hand, but Richard continued to expose his head above the parapet. Fearing for his son, Thomas moved out from his shelter and ran for the nearest Turkish flag indicating the front line of their trenches, trusting that if there was a sniper lying in concealment then he would find him an easier target than Richard. He did not run in a straight line, but zigzagged across the open ground. All the while his heart pounded with a mixture of exertion and fear. Then he suddenly found himself on the parapet of a trench and he dropped into it on his hands and knees, splashing into the muddy water pooled along the bottom. At once he pressed against the side, hands splayed against the stony surface, gasping for breath. He looked quickly from side to side.

Nothing moved. He was alone.

Once his frantic breathing had calmed, Thomas drew his sword and cautiously headed for an opening that he guessed would lead into one of the approach trenches. The Turks had left little behind them, merely broken tools and rags. Edging round the corner, Thomas followed the trench towards one of the batteries that had fallen silent three days earlier. As he made his way through the silence and stillness, he saw soil– and rock-filled wicker baskets that made up the embrasures of the battery, but no sign of the muzzles of the cannon that had been pounding Birgu for the last two months.

At length the trench sloped up and entered the battery. The air inside the fortified position was thick with the acrid odour of burning and Thomas saw the blackened remains of gun carriages, barrel staves and lengths of timber used to construct the platforms for the Turkish guns. A short distance behind the battery was a large mound. Near the top, a handful of wild dogs had scratched away at the thin scraping of soil that had been quickly thrown over the mass grave, and the half-starved animals were feasting on the dead limbs they had exposed.

From the raised platform in the centre of the battery Thomas could see puffs of smoke from the batteries on the other side of the harbour, but there was no sign of activity from the batteries facing the defences at the end of each of the promontories of Senglea and Birgu. He felt a surge of hope, and then exultation at the realisation that the enemy were abandoning their siege. He took a last look round at the heights on either side and then sheathed his sword and hurried back down the trench towards the bastion, a quarter of a mile away. He had thought about striding directly across the open ground but there was still a possibility that the enemy had left a handful of snipers behind to harass the defenders the moment they ventured too far outside their defences.

By the time he returned to the bastion, the Grand Master was waiting for him, an excited gleam in his weary face. ‘Well?’

‘They have gone, sir.’ Thomas crossed to the parapet and stood in full view of the enemy trenches as he indicated his route. ‘I went as far as that battery, there. I saw no one, and the Turks have carried away whatever equipment and supplies they could and burned the rest. They have abandoned their positions on this side of the harbour, I’m sure of it.’

La Valette nodded. ‘The lookouts on St Angelo have also seen some of their guns being withdrawn from the batteries on the Sciberras ridge.’

The dull roar of intermittent cannon fire from across the harbour proved that some guns were still in position. Thomas turned towards St Elmo and the peninsula stretching out beyond. He watched the flashes and puffs of the next few shots and said, ‘There’s not more than one gun left in each of those batteries, sir. No more than six in total. They’ve been left to keep our attention and cover the withdrawal of their army to their ships.’

‘Then we’ve beaten them!’ Richard exclaimed and smacked his gloved fist into the palm of his other hand. ‘By all that’s holy, we’ve done it.’

‘No.’ La Valette stroked his chin thoughtfully. ‘Mustafa Pasha must know that we are on the edge of defeat. He only has to wait until hunger, or the failure of our will, brings about our surrender. If I were him, I would stay here to the bitter end and have a prize to hold out to the Sultan. There can only be one reason for this. The Turks know that our relief force is coming. Don Garcia has stirred at last.’

There was a brief silence as they contemplated the Grand Master’s conclusion.

‘Then what should we do, sir?’ asked Richard. ‘Sally out from our defences and harry the Turks?’

La Valette frowned slightly. ‘Young man, it would be a pitiful force that marched out from Birgu to do battle. A company of scarecrows swathed in dressings. No. If Don Garcia is coming, then we shall await him. Except for one thing.’ He turned his gaze in the direction of St Elmo. ‘We shall take back our fort. I would see the standard of the Order flying there again. As soon as can be.’ He looked at Thomas. ‘We have ten horses left in the stables. All that is left. Take them. You, your squire and eight picked men. Ride to St Elmo. If you find no Turks before you, then occupy the fort and raise the standard from the cavalier. Have two of your men climb to the crest of the ridge to observe the enemy, and look for the first sign of Don Garcia’s army. There are still fresh troops at Mdina. I’ll send a man there with orders for the garrison to make ready to march to Don Garcia’s support.’

‘Very well, sir.’ Thomas bowed his head. ‘We’ll ride out as soon as we are ready.’

The huge camp that had sprawled across the land around the Marsa was abandoned and littered with equipment and smouldering heaps where the Turks had taken the time to bum what they could. Thomas and his small party of horsemen entered the camp shortly before noon. The sun beat down from a clear sky and locked the scene in a stifling embrace. The stench of burning was matched by the foul odour of the enemy’s latrines and Richard pressed the back of his gauntlet to his nose as their bony mounts clopped through the camp.

As they approached the far side, where the track led along the Sciberras peninsula to St Elmo, they came across several tents, the only ones remaining. The air was thick with the sickly sour smell of rotting flesh and Thomas swallowed as he edged his horse over to the open flaps of the nearest tent. The buzzing of flies through the still air was the only sound apart from the scraping of the horses’ hooves and their soft champing. Through the flaps he could see rows of men lying on soiled bedrolls. Every one of them was dead, many with cut throats; the Turks had clearly resolved not to let any of their men be captured or left to the mercy of the vengeful Maltese.