Mamluk

by J. K. Swift

  He had no idea what he was going to do once he got to the docks. He supposed he would have to commandeer a ship, or at least a skiff of some sort. He was not looking forward to doing so, for it would mean robbing some poor citizen of his or her means of escape. But that was the task with which he had been charged. He was to take a turn at playing God.

  A commotion, men shouting, the sounds of fighting, came from around the next bend. He decided it was best avoided.

  “This way,” he said in a low voice over his shoulder. He pointed to a narrow space between two buildings. “This path will put us near the Pisan Quarter, and from there it will be a short run to the docks.”

  The path was just wide enough to accommodate the shield and its precious cargo. The grand master’s shoulders brushed against the stone buildings as they hurried through. The men’s faces were wet with exertion. None of them talked as they focused on their task. Even the big lad, Pirmin, looked to be in pain, but then that may have been because he had to hunch over to match the carrying height of the others. Jimmy matched him in girth but Pirmin was a head taller.

  The narrow path opened onto a main street up ahead. Foulques signaled a halt and stuck his head out to check both directions. He saw people running at the far end away from them so he decided to proceed down the road for a few strides and then turn south down the small street just up ahead.

  “Quickly now.” He led them down the road as fast as he dared, turned left, and ran into a group of Saracens. Foulques drew his weapon, a scimitar that he had thrust into his belt earlier at the wall. He did not even have a chance to warn his men, but he did not need to, for they skidded to a halt right on his heels.

  The Saracens shouted in surprise, but unlike Foulques, they already had their weapons drawn. They outnumbered Foulques and his men two to one, so once they realized no more Hospitallers were coming from around the corner, they relaxed.

  “What is this?” a thick-set man said in heavily accented Arabic. Like many mercenaries, he was from one of the lands in the east. He spoke just enough Arabic to negotiate the terms of his contract and communicate with others like him.

  “We get extra for Templar heads,” he said, apparently mistaking Foulques’s red war tunic.

  “They are from the Hospital,” another, more knowledgeable man said. He was a native Arabic speaker. “But we get extra for them too. Especially the wounded one. He looks to be someone of importance.”

  “Then you can have him,” Foulques said in Arabic. “Let the rest of us go and you take the old man.”

  “Why would we do that?” the Arab said. “When we could have you all?” The first man had a dazed look on his face as he tried to understand exactly what was being said.

  Foulques pointed his scimitar at the Arab. “Because we will kill at least five of you for your trouble.” He turned his head and said to his men quickly in German, knowing fully well only Gissler and Pirmin would understand him, but he could not risk speaking French. “Put the master on the ground and be ready.”

  Pirmin and Gissler followed the order, and the other two caught on quickly enough.

  “Do we have a bargain?” Foulques asked, gesturing to the grand master with his sword.

  The Arab grinned. “You have some—”

  As Foulques turned back towards the Saracens after gesturing at the grand master with his blade, he suddenly lunged forward in a long slide step, thrusting the point of his scimitar through the neck of the Arab.

  His uncle had been a master with the scimitar and he made sure Foulques spent countless hours learning how to use it, as well. Guillaume knew that it was the favored weapon in the east, and would be the one his nephew was going to spend his life fighting against. He saw it as an indispensable aspect of Foulques’s training, even though most of the other knights frowned upon training with the weapons of the infidels.

  After stabbing the Arab in the throat, Foulques made good use of the scimitar’s principal design function as a cutting weapon. He stretched it forward as far as his arm would reach, laying it across the face of a man in the middle of the group, and then he slide-stepped back out from the midst of the mercenary core, letting his scimitar drag across whatever, or whomever, it touched. When the blade bit into flesh, its curve made it dig in even deeper as Foulques retreated. One second he was right in the midst of the mercenaries, the next he was back out with Pirmin and Gissler at his sides. One man was dead, another dying, and one more severely cut across the face. In a narrow street where it was safe for no more than three men to fight side by side, Foulques liked the new odds.

  Pirmin and Gissler were armed with hand-and-a-half swords. Foulques did not look back at Jimmy and Reynald, but he knew either one of them would be ready to step into the line if needed. But as he watched Gissler slice open both wrists and mark up the face of the man in front of him, he doubted it would come to that. Unlike Pirmin, Gissler was still growing into the man he would become. He was waif-thin and had a malnourished look about him. But by the Grace of God, could he whip a blade.

  The mercenaries were falling over themselves now, trying to bring their weapons to bear on the three Hospitallers. Foulques stepped forward and the two lads followed a half step behind, as they had been taught. The stocky Saracen, the one with the poor Arabic, shouted something and lunged forward at Foulques. So intent was he on his target he underestimated the big man at Foulques’s side. Foulques caught the Saracen’s blade in a bind and Pirmin slammed him in the side of his temple with the pommel of his sword. The Saracen collapsed with a deep imprint on the side of his head. Foulques stepped over him, confident he would never rise again.

  The Hospitallers pressed the attack. One more of the Saracens’ number fell and the rest decided it was time to go and find easier prey. They turned and ran away up the street, leaving their dead and wounded where they lay.

  The Hospitallers retrieved the grand master, and Foulques led them in the opposite direction. They turned left and proceeded cautiously toward the next corner. Foulques once again heard voices and signaled a stop. He could smell the water. The voices grew louder. He silently motioned for everyone to retreat back they way they came. They were in the middle of a long thoroughfare lined with shops. As they headed north, a large group of Mamluks entered the far end of the street. They spotted the Hospitallers instantly and began walking toward them, weapons drawn, and observing their surroundings cautiously. At almost the same instant, the voices Foulques had heard earlier rounded the corner from the south. It was another group of Saracens.

  Foulques looked up and down the street for a side alley, but he already knew none existed. He turned to his right and kicked in the door to the shop closest to him. It was the home of a butcher, and the smell of hanging lamb came flooding out as the door banged open. The silence of the street burst apart with the sound of Arabic and Turkic voices. Foulques could hear both groups running toward them as he led his men through the doorway. He did not look back.

  “Jimmy! Bar the entry! The rest of you, find the back door and get out. Go right toward the water.”

  Pirmin took Jimmy’s corner of the shield and practically dragged Gissler and Reynald through the shop, knocking dishes and tables aside as they made their way to the back.

  Jimmy had his back up against the door, with his feet wedged against the heavy butcher’s counter.

  “I will find something to brace it,” Foulques said, casting his eyes around the room.

  “I already have,” Jimmy said.

  Foulques looked at him. The big man’s face was red, sweat dripped into his eyes, and his chest rose and fell like the bellows in a blacksmith’s forge.

  “Help me push the counter over,” Foulques said.

  Jimmy shook his head. “You think it is easy dragging this much man around everywhere I go? No, Foulques, I think I will stay here for a spell.”

  There was a crash against the door as the first of the Saracens came up against it. Jimmy grunted and leaned harder against the heavy timber slabs.


  “You are disobeying an order, sergeant!”

  Jimmy shrugged. “It is what I do. Now get out of here, Foulques. And do not slam the door on your way out.”

  Another crash shook Jimmy. “Go!”

  Foulques backpedaled away. “I will see you again, Jimmy.”

  “Are you still here?”

  Foulques turned away and weaved his way quickly to the back of the shop. He slammed the door on his way out. He could have sworn he heard Jimmy the Mouth shout something after him.

  He turned right and ran hard to catch up to the others.

  “Where is Jimmy?” Pirmin asked.

  Foulques shook his head and Pirmin looked away.

  “Can you run?” he asked the three of them.

  “The faster, the better, for the grand master’s sake,” Brother Reynald said.

  “Stay close, then,” Foulques said. He led the way with a slow jog. He ran just fast enough that he could still hear the men’s heavy breathing and shuffling steps a few feet behind him. They hit their stride, and by the time they turned the next corner Foulques was moving at a good speed.

  They were near the water. One more turn and they would be able to see the docks.

  And then he slid across the cobblestones as he did everything within his power to stop. Twenty Mamluk warriors stood directly in their path. They were spread out, four or five men deep, stretched out to fill the whole width of the street.

  Foulques turned and the shield bearers almost ran right into him. “Back! Back!” Foulques shouted.

  They spun and began running back the way they had come.

  “More up ahead,” said Gissler.

  Sure enough, an even bigger group was headed toward them. From this distance, Foulques had no idea if they were Mamluk or mercenaries, but he did not want to wait and see.

  “This way!”

  He turned back toward the first, smaller group. The sudden change in direction made the shield bearers lose their grip and the shield slipped from their fingers. The grand master let out a loud exhalation of air as he hit the hard street. The three of them looked at each other with shocked expressions. Pirmin was the first to recover.

  “I got him.” He bent low and threw the grand master across his broad shoulders like he was a bag of flour. “Which way?”

  “To the left, down that street. Move!”

  They had to take a few more steps toward the now charging Mamluks. It was not a good feeling, but the street on the left opened up before the Mamluks could catch them. Foulques looked over his shoulder to make sure Pirmin was still on his heels. The big lad was there, all right. He had to swerve to avoid running Foulques over as he slowed. The other two also passed Foulques, and then, suddenly everyone was shouting and backpedaling once again. Foulques cursed and looked to the front. But his head was in the middle of Pirmin’s back. He could see nothing.

  Suddenly Pirmin fell, as did Gissler, and Reynald. Foulques was left standing alone in the road, staring at a line of crossbows. At first he thought his men had been hit, but then his brain registered the uniforms of Genoese mercenaries. All of them wore matching green and red tunics and breeches, except for one man in front waving frantically to Foulques and pointing at the ground. It was Vignolo dei Vignoli.

  “Get your stubborn, self-flagellated arse down!” Apparently, he was done asking, for the next word out of his mouth was, “Loose!”

  Deadly crossbow bolts zipped by Foulques on left and right before he had the presence of mind to throw himself to the ground.

  “Loose!”

  Another volley flew overhead. The eight or so crossbowmen who had just shot their weapons turned sideways and retreated back in the ranks. Another eight men stepped forward and raised their crossbows.

  “Loose!” Vignoli had to shout to be heard over the screams and shouts of the Mamluks as they tried to organize themselves into a fighting unit.

  “Infantry, advance!” Vignoli said, and a dozen brown-robed Hospitaller sergeants, armed with sword and shield, ran up the street. They stepped over Foulques and his men, putting themselves between them and the Mamluks.

  Foulques jumped up to his feet, suddenly realizing these sergeants were his men. His Schwyzers.

  “Pirmin, Gissler. With me.”

  The Schwyzers were two rows deep, six men wide. Foulques went to the center and put his hand on the back of the man there. It was Urs, a strong, stocky lad. Two men to the left was Thomas.

  “Hold here, Hospitallers!” Foulques yelled, more for the men to hear his voice, and to know he was with them, than anything else.

  The Mamluks charged. They still had the numbers, but the Hospitaller line held firm. They fought for a full minute in the cramped confines of the street, before Foulques called a line change. The new line came in and the old line fell back, dragging out two wounded men as they came.

  The green and red had reloaded their weapons and were now directly behind the Hospitallers.

  “Loose when you will!” Foulques called out. The Genoese spread out to either flank and began picking off Mamluks whenever they could find an opening. Once the crossbows were brought into play, the Mamluks quickly became aware of how much trouble they were in. The pyramidal iron tips of the bolts tore into them, penetrating armor like the prow of a ship pushing through lily pads. Already in disarray, the Mamluks panicked. Their commander called them off and they promptly retreated down the street and disappeared.

  There was no time for celebrations. The grand master was back up on a shield, but he was looking paler than ever.

  Foulques found Vignolo. “I sure hope you have a ship nearby.”

  The Genoan rolled his eyes. “Of course I do. The finest vessel in the entire Hospitaller Navy awaits your command, Admiral.” He bowed, and then added, “May God help us all.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  The last time Foulques had been at the docks, the English were still there to maintain some semblance of order. Now, with the Mamluks in the city, the situation had deteriorated beyond saving. People ran left and right for no purpose, it seemed, other than to scream in a new spot. Fist fights broke out between men and women as they argued over seats in tiny vessels that were just as likely to cause their deaths as any Saracen sword.

  “Go back to your homes! There will be no more ships!” A knight of the Order of Saint Lazarus shouted.

  His entire face was wrapped in gauze and his affliction caused him to limp everywhere he went, but he wore the green cross of his order with pride and carried out his duty with dignity.

  “Find somewhere to hide and wait out whatever is to come! Do not seek refuge in the churches!”

  Foulques spotted his hulk of a galley anchored a long row off the main dock. She rode low in the water. Vignolo assured Foulques that he had already taken on as many evacuees as was safe. More even. They were crowded into the hold to keep the weight balanced.

  They made their way to a waiting trio of large rowboats, where ten grim-faced Genoese crossbowmen stood guard, their weapons loaded and ready. The frenzied crowd gave them a wide berth, for everyone knew they were the most disciplined, yet ruthless, mercenaries gold could buy.

  “Where did you pick them up?” Foulques asked as they headed swiftly toward the Genoese.

  “Cyprus. They were already here two weeks ago, but got passage to Cyprus with some noble.”

  “How did you convince them to come back?” Foulques knew very well Vignolo did not have the coin to entice men such as these.

  Vignolo untied one of the boats, avoiding looking directly at Foulques. “I gave them an hour to loot when we first arrived.”

  “Vignoli!”

  “What? Better than the Mohammedans carrying everything away. Do not look at me like that. I specifically said, ‘No churches and no women.’ Are you getting in this boat or would you rather sit here, take off your boots, and dangle your feet in the water for a bit?”

  A helpless silence descended over the rowboat Foulques rode in as they pushed aw
ay from the dock and drifted by scene after scene of hell. They passed the main berth where several overloaded merchant ships were making preparations to leave. A naked woman ran from ship to ship, crying and begging for someone to take her away. Another woman holding a baby waited until one of the ships had untied and pushed away. Then she threw the bundle in her arms across five feet of open water. From where he sat Foulques could not tell if the infant landed on the ship or not, but the vessel continued to ease gracefully away, while the woman collapsed to her knees and held up her hands in prayer.

  The rowboat continued on. In the distance, a large group of men and women began jumping off the dock and swimming to nearby boats. The boats were already overcrowded and attempted to maneuver away from the splashing figures. One dangerously unbalanced fishing vessel rocked precariously as several people hung on its side, trying to hoist themselves up. The crew began to methodically beat them back into the water with the flats of their oars, the slapping sound of wood against skulls carrying over the water like the flapping of giant wings.

  Foulques brought his own hands together in prayer and looked at the grand master. He was still on the shield, on the bottom of the boat. Brother Reynald held a blood-soaked cloth to his side and dabbed at his forehead with another. It seemed to take an eternity, but eventually, the steady work by the oarsmen ate up the distance to their ship.

  Once on board, Brother Reynald whisked the grand master away to the captain’s cabin to perform surgery. Vignolo began shouting orders and his small crew unfurled the sails. Foulques joined Vignolo at the helm, as did Thomas, who had become Vignolo’s man for relaying orders to the different parts of the ship.

  As they waited for the sails to be set, the three of them stared wordlessly back over the port. The late morning sky, though blue as always, was thick with clouds of smoke hanging low over the city, the red glow of fires dancing off their underbellies. Foulques could tell that the source of at least two of the black plumes were churches. He wondered how many had sought refuge in those buildings, despite the warnings of the leper knight. How many were even now being burned alive?