Sword and Scimitar

by Simon Scarrow

  Thomas watched as they loaded and primed their weapons and blew on the smouldering fuses to make sure that they stayed alight, ready for use once the order to open fire was given.

  As soon as they saw the arquebusiers emerge from the main gate, the Turks responded in kind. A line of Janissaries advanced from the main battle line, long barrels propped against their shoulders as they strode confidently towards Birgu. Colonel Mas stood on a pile of rubble in full view of the enemy and calmly watched them approach, one hand resting on his hip, the other on the hilt of his sword. Thomas could not help but admire the coolness of the mercenary officer.

  The enemy were allowed to get well within the range of the defenders before Colonel Mas bellowed the order to open fire. A rolling crackle of explosions rippled along the line of arquebusiers as they fired from cover along the front of the wall. Tiny tongues of flame darted from the barrels of the weapons and were instantly engulfed in thick greasy-looking clouds of gunpowder smoke.

  Thomas saw several of the Janissaries tumble as they were struck by the heavy lead balls, while dust and chips of stone burst from the ground where shots missed. At once the arquebusiers began to reload their weapons. The Janissaries hesitated briefly before one of their officers drew his scimitar and waved them on. The advance continued, but now the enemy were hunched forward slightly as they tried to make themselves smaller targets. Colonel Mas gave the order to fire at will and the more handy of the men got their next shots off well in advance of their comrades and then the firing merged into a steady crackle.

  A score. of the Janissaries were sprawled on the open ground, some writhing feebly or trying to crawl back to the rear. When their comrades had closed to just over a hundred yards from the arquebusiers, their officer gave the order to halt and return fire. It was the last order he ever gave as a moment later a shot struck him in the head and the back of his white headdress exploded in bloody fragments. His body spasmed and he toppled on to his back, spreadeagled, and kicked a few times before lying still. But his men continued to follow his order, setting their long-barrelled weapons up on slim wooden stands and then taking careful aim on the defenders before returning fire.

  Even though their weapons were more accurate and they were better trained and could load and fire more quickly than their opponents, the Turks were in open ground and made easy targets. From the bastion it seemed to Thomas that for every one of Mas’s men who fell, at least three of the enemy were shot down. The colonel steadily made his way along the rear of the line, encouraging the men while miraculously avoiding the enemy’s shots which smashed into stones nearby or kicked up divots of soil and gravel close to his boots.

  As the exchange of fire continued, Thomas saw that the Turkish line had edged forward in front of the bastions of Castille and Auvergne and around him the defenders made ready for action. Scores of arquebuses, already loaded, were leaning against the inside of the battlements ready to be taken up and fired. Young Maltese boys who had been trained to reload the weapons stood ready to do their duty. Below, in the body of the bastion, Thomas could hear the ramble of cannon as they were run up to the narrow firing ports in their casemates. More men stood by armed with pikes, ready to rush forward and throw back any attempt to escalade the walls of the bastions, or the curtain wall that linked them.

  Looking round, Thomas saw that the Grand Master was watching the enemy’s preparations for the attack with grim satisfaction.

  Shrill blasts from brass trumpets gave the signal and with a deep roar the Turks swept forward across the open ground towards the bastions. Thomas saw that there were none of the headdresses of the Janissaries in the ranks of those charging towards him. Clearly the enemy commander had decided to spare his crack troops and entrust this first assault to the more expendable Spahis and the religious fanatics dressed in white robes. As they poured forward, the exchange of fire in front of the main gate continued uninterrupted, as if it was a separate battle. Colonel Mas spared the horde one brief look before turning his concentration back to the fight to his front.

  On the bastion La Valette watched the oncoming enemy with cool detachment and his closest officers affected the same calm. Ranging posts had been set up a few days earlier and as the Turks reached those furthest from the defences the guns in the casemates opened fire with a deafening explosion that seemed to rip the air apart. Thomas felt the stone shake beneath his boots and his ears filled with the roar of the guns. Smoke billowed up and over the battlements and caught in the throats of the men there, making them choke. As the smoke cleared, Thomas saw that the grapeshot that had been tightly packed into the muzzles of the cannon had torn great lanes through the ranks of the enemy, scything down ten or more men at a time, mangling their bodies into bloody heaps.

  The Turks did not waver for an instant but charged on, sweeping over their fallen comrades as they raced towards the counterscarp of the ditch a short distance from the bastions and the wall extending between them. As they passed the second line of marker stakes, the arquebusiers opened fire, adding their weight to the cones of grapeshot blasting out of the casemates. As flame and smoke rippled out from the defences, the Turkish ranks withered before the impact of the defenders’ fire. And still they came on, leaping over the bodies of the fallen and screaming their war cries, their robes flying.

  ‘Good God,’ Thomas said in disbelief, ‘they know no fear.’

  The first men reached the counterscarp and slid or scrambled down the steep angle into the ditch in front of the wall. More cannon opened fire from each of the bastions, sited to enfilade the ditch, and heavy shot scourged the Turks as they struggled to clamber up the scarp towards the foot of the wall. Thomas could see only a handful of scaling ladders and shook his head at the foolishness of launching such an assault before more had been constructed. The angle of fire was now so acute that some of the defenders stood on the wall to fire down at the enemy below.

  ‘Order those fools to get down before they are shot!’ La Valette snapped.

  Stokely ran to the side of the bastion and shouted the order. Only a handful of the nearest men had retained their wits enough to obey. The blood of the others was up and they were shooting down and handing back their weapons for a replacement as fast as they could. Then one of them spun round as he was struck by a bullet fired from the open ground. He tottered on the edge, then lost his balance and pitched over the wall into the ditch. Another man fell before the other soldiers realised the danger and hurriedly ducked back behind cover. Now they began to hurl large rocks over the walls, and the boys who had been loading the guns joined in. The deluge of missiles split open skulls and crushed bones as they crashed on to the Turks.

  Only one ladder was raised against the wall and as the Turks began to climb towards the battlements, Thomas saw the barrel of a cannon in the other bastion edge round, and then the muzzle disappeared behind a jet of flame and cloud of smoke and the ladder, and those on it, were obliterated into fragments of wood and flesh.

  That was the turning point. For a moment the men in the ditch hesitated, and then the first of them turned away, and then more, and the urge to get clear of the slaughter in the ditch spread like a fierce contagion. Moments later the assault was broken as the Turks turned to stream back across the open ground towards the safety of their original positions. The defenders shouted with excitement, triumph and derision as they watched, while some kept firing until the last of the enemy was out of range. As the main assault fell back, so did the Janissaries engaged with Colonel Mas and his men. They pulled up the supports for their weapons and shouldering both they turned and hurriedly joined the retreat. A handful of Mas’s men threw down their arquebuses and drew their knives as they set off after the Janissaries. The colonel bellowed and they stopped and reluctantly returned to their line. The arquebusiers closed up and marched back towards the main gate and across the drawbridge into the shelter of Birgu’s defences.

  Thomas stared out across the open ground, littered with the enemy’s dead and wounde
d, hundreds of them. In return only a few men had been lost along the wall and perhaps as many as thirty of the men Mas had led out to confront the Janissaries.

  ‘Very good.’ La Valette nodded. ‘The first round to us, gentlemen. Mustafa Pasha will think twice before he tries anything so rash again. ’

  He turned to survey the men who were still cheering along the wall. The shouts of triumph were taken up by the civilians in the streets immediately behind the wall, and to the far end of the defences in front of Birgu. And shortly afterwards by the defenders of St Michael who had followed the action from their walls. The bells of the cathedral began to toll and flags were waving above the walls of St Elmo as all savoured the first, small victory over the invaders.

  ‘Let them cheer.’ La Valette smiled. ‘Indulge them. We will be sorely tested before long, so enjoy this moment. Then, while the Turks make their preparations for the siege, we can complete our defences. Come, we can return to St Angelo now.’ He was about to turn and leave the bastion when he stopped and pointed. ‘What’s happening there?’

  Thomas saw that a group of Janissaries had stepped out in front of the shaken ranks of their comrades. They carried a stake with them and pounded it into the ground. When it was in position, two more men came out, dragging La Riviere between them. They tied his hands to an iron ring at the top of the post and then tore the ragged surcoat from his back so that he stood naked. Thomas and the others looked on helplessly.

  ‘What are they going to do to him?’ Stokely asked quietly.

  The two men who had tied him to the stake took out slender canes tucked into their belts and slashed them through the air a few times before they approached the French knight.

  ‘Bastinado,’ said Thomas. ‘They’re going to beat him to death.’

  ‘With those sticks?’ Stokely scoffed.

  ‘Yes, with those sticks,’ Thomas replied flatly. ‘I’ve seen them used in the Balkans. A man can take several hours to die, his agony increasing with each stroke.’

  The two Janissaries took up positions either side of La Riviere and began to take turns to lash him with their slender sticks. The knight lurched under the first blows and then hunched against the post and arched his back and endeavoured to keep still and endure his punishment stoically. The Turks sat down to watch the entertainment while those in Birgu looked on in despair and horror. After an hour, La Riviere’s knees buckled and he hung limply from the rope, his head lolled back, mouth open in a silent scream of torment.

  ‘Sir.’ Stokely turned to La Valette. ‘Can we bring one of the cannon to bear and put an end to his suffering?’

  La Valette shook his head. ‘Look for yourself. They have chosen their ground well. There is no gun that we can aim in that direction. There’s nothing we can do - other than spare our men from witnessing it. Only those on sentry duty are to remain. Order all the others to return to their billets. At once.’

  As the men filed away into the narrow streets of the town, it was clear from their quiet exchanges that the earlier euphoria had been extinguished by the spectacle of La Riviere’s torture. The afternoon wore on and the beating continued under the eyes of those defenders still on watch. On the bastion of Castille, Thomas remained, together with Stokely and Colonel Mas. The Grand Master and the others had retired to St Angelo. In front of Birgu, small parties of Turks gathered their dead for burial. The wounded were carried back to their camp for treatment. When they tried to retrieve those of their comrades who had fallen in the ditch, Thomas ordered one of the sentries to fire a warning shot to keep them away so that they could not examine the wall or bastions at close hand. The bulk of the forces that had made the morning attack had joined the procession of troop columns, wagons and artillery trains passing to the west of Senglea. A covering force remained, busy cutting trenches into the ground ringing Birgu and Senglea.

  Despite all the enemy activity the attention of the defenders was irresistibly drawn to the ongoing execution of La Riviere. The first two Janissaries had been relieved early in the afternoon and their replacements continued the beating in a steady rhythm until dusk, when one of their officers strode up to examine the knight. Squatting down, he raised La Riviere’s head and examined his face briefly before he drew a dagger and cut the Frenchman’s throat.

  ‘At last.’ Stokely closed his eyes and bowed his head. ‘Poor soul.’ Mas shrugged. ‘He should not have allowed himself to be captured. I’ll not make the same mistake. Nor will any of our men. It is a lesson well learned and will surely harden the resolve of every man, woman and child on the island. As the Grand Master said, there are no civilians on Malta. And now they know one thing more — there is only victory or death.’ Mas stretched his back and turned away from the enemy. ‘I’ll do the rounds of our sentries before I let the Grand Master know that La Riviere’s suffering is over.’

  ‘Very well,’ said Stokely. ‘I’ll see you at the evening briefing.’ The colonel bowed his head and descended the stairs. Only four soldiers remained on the bastion apart from Thomas and Stokely, and they kept a respectful distance from the two knights. For a while neither man spoke as they stared at the naked body still tethered to the post. Then Stokely cleared his throat gently.

  ‘I understand that you have seen Maria.’

  Thomas’s smile faded as he turned his gaze towards Stokely. ‘You’ve spoken to her?’

  Stokely’s lips momentarily lifted in a mocking smile. ‘Oh yes. You gave her quite a surprise, but she has recovered now and come to her senses. She does not want to see you again, ever.’

  Thomas felt a cold stab of anxiety in his heart, then it passed as he recalled her expression, her shock in seeing him and then the unmistakable stirrings of the old affection in her eyes. He felt certain that Stokely was lying. ‘I must confess, seeing her came as quite a surprise to me too after you told me she had died.’

  ‘I said she was dead to you.’

  ‘And now she is very much alive to me. And I am to her. Where is she?’

  Stokely stared at him, then said, ‘Safe.’

  ‘Safe? From the enemy, or from me?’

  ‘None of us is safe from the enemy. But at least I can save her from you, Thomas. I can spare her that misery.’

  ‘Where is she?’ Thomas asked again, this time through gritted teeth. ‘Tell me.’

  ‘I will do no such thing. Seeing you again has disturbed her mind enough as it is. Fortunately I was able to talk sense into her and Maria accepts that it would be foolish to even set eyes on you again. As I said before, she is dead to you, Thomas. Do not try to find her.’

  ‘I will find her.’ Thomas spoke in a low growl, his hands clenched by his sides to keep him from grabbing Stokely by the throat. ‘I swear it. I shall see her again.’

  Stokely stared at him for a moment before he spoke with a vehemence that Thomas had never seen in him before. ‘May God damn your soul to the eternal fires of hell, Thomas. I pray for that with every fibre of my being. It is what you deserve.’

  Thomas frowned. ‘Why do you hate me so very much? What have I done to wrong you that you wish such a fate for me?’

  ‘Hate you? Of course I hate you. It was you she loved. Always you.’ Stokely gritted his teeth. ‘It should have been me. I deserved Maria, not you . . . And you shall never have her. Now get out of my way.’

  Thomas met his cold, malevolent gaze, and then slowly eased himself to one side. Stokely swept past and started down the staircase. Thomas listened as the sound of his footsteps faded away, shaken by the venom in his words. After a moment he turned to watch the distant artillery train winding its way around the end of the harbour towards the end of the Sciberras peninsula. One thing was clear. The enemy had swiftly discarded the idea of an assault on Birgu and Senglea. Their full weight would be thrown against St Elmo, just as the Grand Master had hoped. The defenders had won some time to improve the fortifications of the most important positions. Their chances of surviving the siege would improve with every day that St Elmo held out. Tho
mas turned to look across the harbour at the fort. The setting sun bathed its walls in a warm glow and cast dark shadows where the acute angles of its star-shaped layout cut off the light. The breeze had dropped and the standards flying above the fort hung limply. It was a peaceful scene, Thomas mused. Not something that the eight hundred men garrisoning the fort were likely to see again.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  The mood in the auberge that evening was subdued. Jenkins served them a simple barley gruel, explaining that there was no longer any fresh meat to be had in the markets of Birgu. In order to save feed the Grand Master had given instructions for all livestock to be slaughtered and salted and stored in the warehouses by the dock. Only a small number of horses were to be given fodder from now on. With the arrival of a large number of refugees in Birgu, new billets for the soldiers had to be found and so a dozen Italian mercenaries had been assigned to the English auberge and these now joined Thomas, Richard and Sir Martin at the long table in the hall. With the arrival of the mercenaries Jenkins’s labours had increased considerably and he treated the Italians with ill-disguised disdain and resentment.

  As the men supped they were quiet and reflective and conversation was mainly limited to requests to pass the bread platter, the salt or the jug of watered wine. The mercenaries kept to the end of the table nearest the door and left the three Englishmen to the end nearest the fireplace.

  ‘Where is Sir Oliver?’ asked Richard. ‘He said he would be accommodated at the auberge once the Turks landed.’

  Sir Martin shrugged. ‘He has money enough to rent his own quarters. And a sufficiendy inflated sense of his own worth not to have to share accommodation with his brother knights.’

  Thomas stirred his gruel. ‘Do you have any idea where he might have taken up residence?’