‘De Naillac, can we not turn it?’ he asked.
The Grand Master shook his head. ‘They are too many, lord. They have made prisoner some of the greatest names in Christendom. Don’t give them more.’
The Constable turned to his king. ‘You should ride for the boats, sire. The Hospitallers will guard you. I will come behind you with the army.’
‘No,’ said Sigismund. ‘Why should they fight if their king deserts them?’
‘Because they will live to fight another day when we can do it free from Burgundian folly!’ said the older man hotly. ‘Go, sire, while there is still time.’
By the time that the bashibozouks had filled the ravine with their dead, by the time that the last Hospitaller knight had fallen, the Hungarian King, together with de Naillac, had reached the safety of the boats.
His army had thrown back charge after charge by the sipahis, horse archers fighting on foot beside foot soldiers.
But then the Serbians came, ten thousand of them, and the Hungarians’ last hope was extinguished. They’d fought for an hour against impossible odds and hardly a man had looked behind him. But now the line began to break and first one, then another threw down his weapon and turned for the river.
De Gara cursed and pleaded with them but it was no use. This army knew it was defeated and its soldiers thought only of their wives, their fields, their future. With de Gara were the knights of Hungary that had stayed to shield their king, knights who could at least expect some ransom if captured and who’d fight to help men of lesser station get away. They prepared to make their stand, standing shoulder to shoulder across the plain, facing both ways as the Turks encircled them, some looking back to Nicopolis where the gates had opened and another army was riding out to fight them.
‘Stand!’ shouted de Gara. ‘Let’s bring as many down as we can before they take us!’
And then it began. Sword clashed with sword and mace with mace and sparks flew into the air with the blood. The Hospitallers rejoined the fight towards the end, having delivered the Grand Master and Hungarian King to the ships. The river had been full of soldiers trying either to board the ships or swim to the other side where the Wallachians were already forming up to march away. Sigismund and de Naillac had stood side by side at a ship’s rail to watch a vessel slowly capsize under the weight of men clambering up its sides.
Then they’d heard a cheer. De Gara had raised his hand and the flag of Hungary come down, and a cheer had gone up from the Turks that could be heard in Nicopolis. The battle had been won. The Ottoman Empire had proven itself superior to Western valour and the gates of Europe were thrown open.
And as King Sigismund sailed away down the Danube, past the river’s islands and on to the Black Sea, his cheeks were wet with tears.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
NICOPOLIS, 25 SEPTEMBER 1396
The morning after the battle dawned noisily with the harsh, scraping calls of carrion birds circling high above the dead strewn across the field of Nicopolis. From the banks of the Danube to the hill where the Burgundians had made their last stand lay bodies. And those that had not been picked clean by the bashibozouks now had their eyes pecked out by crows. The cries of the wounded rose like a dark music and the stench of decay hung heavy in the air.
The morning was a grey one, with a low mist hanging over hills and valleys drained of autumn colour. There was a light wind with a chill that presaged meaner weather to come and men shivered and drew their cloaks around them.
Bayezid stood alone in the middle of the plain on which the Hungarians had fought and died, and held a cloth to his nose. He wore a long, open coat of buff leather above a mail shirt and loose trousers tucked into riding boots, their black leather stained with the gore around him. He’d just ridden from the crusader camp where he’d spent the night celebrating his greatest victory.
He was in a dark mood.
He’d risen early and spent some time just looking towards the fortress of Nicopolis. There were cages suspended from its ramparts in which meat for the birds had been left: the naked, twisted remains of crusader knights who’d died in shrieking agony the night before. The birds were still there, perched on the bars and reaching in with their beaks. The walls behind were streaked with blood.
Before the walls still stood the smouldering remains of fires. The Bektashi dervishes had piled the crusader scaling ladders high and put stakes at their centres on which to tie and roast the priests and monks found in the Christian camp. They’d danced their whirling dance around the flames and been clapped on their way by the men of the victorious army.
Bayezid’s temper since rising had been such that his retinue stood at a prudent distance: his three sons, the Grand Vizier and a bodyguard of Kapikulu.
‘How many dead, Vizier?’ he shouted across the bodies.
‘Ours or theirs, highness?’
‘Ours, fool. I care not how many Christians lie on this field.’
The Vizier looked around him as if in calculation. In fact the dead had already been counted and he knew their number by heart, dreading its disclosure.
‘Over twelve thousand of our men are martyrs, lord. It is too many.’
Bayezid groaned. Twelve thousand. A quarter of his army.
‘And theirs?’ he asked. Now he cared more.
‘Half that number, lord,’ the Vizier replied and then: ‘Their armour, highness. It stops our arrows.’
Bayezid was silent. He thought of Constantinople with its walls of double strength. He thought of scaling ladders and the men needed to mount them.
Twelve thousand!
The Sultan knelt beside the body of a young sipahi, his eyes still staring into the heaven he’d gone to. Was he, even now, in the arms of the promised virgins? Across his legs was strewn a Hungarian archer, one side of his head removed by a sword blade.
Bayezid stood and watched as a blackbird landed. He kicked out at it.
‘Vizier!’ he shouted. ‘I want this sipahi taken from the field and a mausoleum built. Find his family and give them money.’
An hour later, Bayezid’s mood was darker still. He sat, slumped, in a high-backed chair of burnished gold with piled cushions spilling out either side of his great frame. His boots had been replaced by soft slippers that rested on a little stool. One hand held a goblet while the other was poised above a low table on which a bowl of sugared fruits had been placed.
The Sultan sat beneath an awning that had been erected on some open ground beside the Ottoman camp. Sharing it were his three sons, the Grand Vizier and Yakub. Anna stood next to Suleyman. Behind them were the imams, who had been summoned for a reason: Bayezid wanted interpretation of the law of Islam.
There were hundreds of chests before him and piles of gold and silver plate. Some were open, their contents spilling out over the ground. The treasure had been brought from the crusader camp and its value was beyond measure.
Also in front of him was a young woman kneeling on the ground, her dress torn and her hair matted with filth. Anna was staring at her in shock, her mouth slightly open.
‘They did this as well?’ said Bayezid. His voice was barely controlled.
The Grand Vizier nodded.
‘Give her money,’ said Bayezid, turning away.
‘So, Majesty,’ said the Vizier when the woman had left. ‘We now know that these knights slaughtered all their prisoners before the battle began. They killed not just men but women and children too, people who could not have offered them any resistance. And the only ones kept alive were those pretty enough to slake their wretched lust.’ He paused. ‘You have heard it from her lips, lord.’
Bayezid nodded darkly into his wine.
‘You wish, therefore, Majesty, to execute as many of these infidel as is permitted under our law.’ The Vizier turned his vast turban towards the imams beside him. ‘I have consulted with the ulema, lord, and they tell me this. Prisoners are the property of those who capture them, to do with them as they wish. However, the law also says
that one-fifth of all prisoners will belong to the Sultan, God’s shadow on earth.’ He bowed low and Bayezid waved impatiently for him to continue.
‘Your Majesty has seen fit to interpret this in the past as the means by which we can claim the strongest prisoners for the Devshirme. In consequence you have generally sent your share to the villages of Anatolia to begin their education in the ways of Islam.’
Bayezid’s impatience was visibly growing and the Vizier hurried to his conclusion. ‘So the judges are unanimous, Majesty, in deeming it proper for you to execute one-fifth of the Christian prisoners if you so wish.’
‘I do so wish. How many are there?’ asked Bayezid, wiping his lips with the back of his hand.
‘We have ten thousand in all, lord. So two thousand will die.’
‘Good,’ said Bayezid. ‘Prince Suleyman, Prince Mehmed, you have prisoners?’
The brothers looked at each other. Mehmed stepped forward.
‘Father, we each have prisoners.’
‘Then you will kill them,’ said Bayezid flatly. ‘Kill them all. And do it here. I want an example set to the army.’
Mehmed bowed. ‘Yes, Father.’
Bayezid threw back the remains of his wine and looked at Candarli. ‘Vizier, my sons will bring their prisoners here and will be the first to execute them. Tell others that have prisoners to bring here those they have selected to die. Remember, it is to be one in every five.’
The Vizier bowed.
Suleyman stepped forward. He gestured towards Anna. ‘Should the woman retire, Father? It is not seemly.’
Bayezid shrugged. He’d barely been aware of Anna’s presence. Suleyman quickly nodded to the guards, who lined up to escort her away.
The Vizier said, ‘Lord, the Comte de Nevers, Marshal Boucicaut and the other leaders of the Christian army await your pleasure.’
The Sultan turned to his sons. ‘These men we will spare, and twenty others of rank that de Nevers will identify. These men we will keep for ransom. Now, go and fetch your prisoners.’ He looked back at the Vizier. ‘Bring the Burgundy Prince.’
A short while later, de Nevers was standing in front of Bayezid. He was still wearing his armour but it was pitted with dents and the arms of Burgundy had vanished beneath the filth of his hauberk. His face was bruised and unshaven and seemed much older than the day before. But the gaze that came to rest on Bayezid was still proud.
He, and a dozen of the highest-ranking survivors of the French-Burgundian army, had been led before the Sultan with their wrists tied and heavy chains dragging behind them on the ground.
De Nevers spoke in Greek. ‘Highness, we are noblemen of the highest rank and should not be chained. We have given our word not to attempt escape.’
Bayezid scowled. ‘Kneel.’
De Nevers looked bewildered.
‘Kneel!’
De Nevers was kicked behind his knees by a guard and he knelt. De Coucy and Boucicaut started forward but they too were brought down by the guards.
Bayezid’s scowl deepened.
‘It seems to me, Count, that you are a proud and stupid man. You must be to have led an army to such a defeat.’
De Nevers blinked up at the Sultan. ‘Sir, I am-’
‘You are nothing!’ yelled Bayezid, flinging his cup to the floor. He glared at the Prince through hooded eyes, his face flushed with anger. ‘Since crossing the Danube, your army has murdered and raped everything in its path. This person’ — he gestured towards the terrified woman still standing at the edge of the tent — ‘was kept as a concubine in your camp, her body defiled by your knights.’
De Nevers struggled to rise. His face was white and a film of sweat covered his brow. ‘Lord, I-’
‘Silence!’ roared Bayezid.
De Nevers’s eyes had lost some of their pride.
‘What did your army do to its prisoners on the night before battle?’ the Sultan asked softly. ‘Tell me, Comte de Nevers from this small place called Burgundy, what did you do with them?’
De Nevers was silent. He looked at the ground and then behind him at the knights kneeling to his rear. Beyond them, in the wide, open space before the pavilion, he could see other knights, pages, archers, being assembled, all tied to each other by thick ropes attached to their necks. At their front were a man and a boy dressed in gold mail to whom others bowed.
He turned back to the Sultan. ‘These men, you mean to enslave them?’ he asked slowly.
‘No,’ said Bayezid calmly, taking the new cup offered him. ‘I mean to execute them.’ He took a long draught of wine. ‘As you executed your prisoners before the battle. Is it not just?’
The young Prince’s eyes widened in disbelief. His hands had started to shake.
‘The difference, of course,’ continued Bayezid, taking a sugared fruit from the bowl, ‘is that these men are not innocent. They have fought against me and killed too many of my men. I do not wish that to happen again and this deed might prevent it.’
‘But … that’s barbaric!’ shouted de Nevers, his voice too high.
‘Barbaric?’ hissed Bayezid, leaning forward. ‘More barbaric than the massacre of every man, woman and child in Jerusalem three hundred years ago?’ He paused. ‘You see: we of the Faith have long memories.’
De Nevers heard a throat clear behind him. Prince Suleyman stepped into the pavilion and bowed to his father.
‘My prisoners are assembled, lord,’ he said.
‘And mine, Father,’ said Mehmed, walking up to stand beside his brother.
Bayezid’s eyes were glassy and the flush on his cheeks high. He took time to shift his gaze from de Nevers to his sons.
‘Prince Mehmed,’ he said, ‘I anticipate you enjoying this process rather less than your brother, so you will go first. Is your sword sharp?’
Mehmed looked at his father. His sword was drawn. ‘It is sharp, Father.’
‘Good, then you may begin.’ He turned to the man kneeling at his front. ‘Comte de Nevers, I desire you to watch these executions. Get up.’
De Nevers was lifted to his feet. He pushed away his guards. ‘You cannot do this!’ he yelled. ‘It is against every rule of war!’ He took a step towards Bayezid, who rose suddenly from his chair and slapped him hard across the face.
‘You will turn and watch or it will be worse,’ he hissed.
Out in the open a thick chopping block had been placed on the earth and beyond it stood the silent line of knights awaiting their fate. The first was being brought forward and offering no resistance to his guards. Mehmed had moved to the side of the block and was running his thumb down the blade of a vast scimitar. The knight calmly knelt and placed his head on the block. Mehmed lifted the sword high above his head, both hands on its hilt.
De Nevers looked around him in panic. ‘De Coucy, Boucicaut!’ he shouted. ‘Say something! We cannot let this monster do this!’
Bayezid lifted his hand to signal a halt. He stood there for what seemed like an age, swaying slightly and staring out at the scene before him. Then, very slowly, he turned to the Burgundian Prince.
‘What did you call me?’ he whispered. ‘Monster? Is that what you called me?’
De Nevers took a step backwards. There was sweat coursing down his unshaven cheeks.
Bayezid turned. ‘Vizier, ask the learned men of the ulema to step forward.’
Luke watched the scene unfolding with appalled fascination. He was to die, along with his friends, any hope of reprieve having been dashed by Suleyman who’d come up to him and spoken quietly into his ear.
‘This is a pity, Luke Magoris. I had given my word to Zoe that you would come back alive. Now it seems that a higher power has intervened.’
Luke had looked back with loathing. He was to die at the hand of this devil and he would never see Anna again.
‘You’ll not see me beg,’ he had said evenly. ‘Just do me this small favour, Suleyman. Release my friends. They have done nothing to deserve this fate.’
But Suleyman
had laughed and turned away without answering.
By now the imams had arrived. They were elderly men with heavy beards and heavier robes. They stood uncertainly in front of their sultan and looked at him quizzically. Did he require further interpretation of the ulema?
But Bayezid had had an idea.
‘Give them swords!’ he shouted, waving the goblet in the direction of the old men. He went back to his chair and lowered his bulk into it. He turned to the ulema. ‘You will show us how to kill these men. Please proceed.’
The imams glanced at each other. Swords were being thrust into their wrinkled hands and they looked at them with distaste.
The eldest stepped forward, shaking his head. ‘Highness, we are men of the law, not executioners. We do not know how to kill.’
Bayezid laughed. ‘Then you can learn as you go along, old man. Come, it’s not that hard!’
No one moved. The knight with his head on the block looked up and now there was fear in his eyes.
‘Begin!’ yelled Bayezid.
And so it began. So began the clumsy slaughter of knights from Burgundy by men hardly able to lift the swords to do it, by men whose hands were used to writing, to explaining, not to meting out death.
They did their best. They worked hard to kill with some precision. And the knights’ determination to die well, to show no resistance, helped. But the sword blows were weak and missed their targets and necks were left half severed, spewing blood while the executioners paused to draw breath or vomit.
Mehmed, de Nevers, even the guards tried to intervene again and again, but every time they stepped forward, Bayezid would raise his hand and fix them with a glare that left no doubt as to his will.
The massacre went on for what seemed hours. The old men slipped and fell in the blood they were shedding; knights tore off their mail to offer easier flesh to strike; men knelt to offer themselves to their God and to beg, silently, for a killer with some strength or at least sight.
At one point, a sudden ray of sunshine pierced the clouds and the knights took it as a sign from heaven and a great cry went up as men called out to one another to take strength, to trust in their God.
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