Sword and Scimitar

by Simon Scarrow

  ‘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.

  ‘Good God . . .’ Richard muttered as he leaned from his saddle and glimpsed the horror inside the tent.

  Thomas turned to him with a weary expression. ‘I wonder that you can still utter those words.’ Then he turned his horse and spurred it into a trot to quit the deathly scene as swifdy as possible and fill his lungs with untainted air.

  They continued along the track, the ridge rising up to their left, the waters of the harbour sparkling to their right. There was no sound of life from the ridge. They rode past four of the batteries from where the enemy’s guns had pounded Senglea and Birgu, and St Elmo before that. Two of the guns had suffered damage to their carriages and had been left behind, their barrels split by a blocked charge to render them useless.

  At last the track rounded an outcrop of rock and there before the riders lay the ruined walls of the fort. Thomas reined in and grimly surveyed the scene. The ground before the fort was scarred by the lines of enemy trenches. A ramp of compacted rock and soil had been laid up into one of the breaches so that the Turks could mount their guns on the surviving walls to fire across the harbour. As before, there was no sign of life. Thomas waved his hand forward and the small column trotted towards the fort. As they drew closer Thomas saw a line of stakes at the top of the ramp, each one topped with a dark, withered orb. His stomach clenched with disgust and rage as he realised what they were.

  ‘Aren’t those . . . heads?’ asked Richard.

  Thomas nodded once then urged his horse to a trot so that Richard and the others would not see his grief. After two months in the sun there was little to recognise in the dried features of the faces on the stakes. Thin lips curled back from teeth and the skin had shrunk against the bone. Wispy tendrils of hair clung to the scalps and the eyes had long since been devoured by gulls. Thomas felt sickened by the sight. These pitiful remains were all that was left of the comrades who had given their lives to hold St Elmo far longer than anyone had thought possible. They had paid with their suffering and death to save their comrades in Birgu and Senglea. As he looked upon them, Thomas felt a pang of guilt that he still lived. He tried to push the feeling aside, reasoning that he had fought on for as long as he could and that to stay and die would have been poindess — worse than pointless now that he had Maria and his son to live for. But the mute testimony to sacrifice of the heads mocked his reason and shamed him.

  He passed the last of the grisly trophies and rode into the fort, followed by his men. The clop of the horses’ hooves echoed off the pitted walls surrounding the courtyard.

  Thomas cleared his throat. ‘Who has the standard?’

  ‘I do, sir,’ one of the sergeants replied.

  ‘Then dismount and follow me.’ Thomas released his reins and slid from the back of his mount. He looked up at Richard. ‘Send two men with good eyesight to the top of the ridge. I want to know what Mustafa Pasha is up to. He can’t have finished embarking his men already. Also, they’re to look out for any sign of the relief force. Is that clear?’

  Richard nodded.

  ‘Then search the fort. They may have left someone behind, their wounded, a prisoner perhaps. If so, we might gain a better grasp of what the Turks are up to.’

  Thomas gestured to the sergeant to follow him and then made his way across the courtyard to the entrance of the main tower. Behind him he heard Richard giving his orders in a muted tone. It was understandable. Both of them had seen the full horrors of the bitter fighting for possession of St Elmo and it was as if the ghosts of all those who had died here were looking on in silence. When Thomas reached the top of the staircase and emerged on to the tower he saw at once that the flagstaff raised by the enemy had been stripped of the Turkish banner that had been flown to taunt the defenders across the harbour.

  ‘Raise our colours, Sergeant. If there are still Turks on the island then let them know that St Elmo is ours again.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ The sergeant took the tightly folded flag from his haversack and approached the base of the mast. He worked quickly to attach the Order’s standard to the halyard and when all was ready he raised it up the pole. The light breeze that blew across the harbour caused the red cloth to billow slightly. A moment later Thomas could hear the faint sound of cheering from across the water and saw the garrison of St Angelo waving their arms in jubilation. Already, boats were setting off across the harbour, loaded with men, their equipment and a few days’ rations to sustain them through the endgame of the siege. He turned to look down at the comer of the fort where he and his men had endured the bom-bardment and faced the fire and steel of the enemy day after day. He felt a stab of pain as he fixed his attention on the spot where Colonel Mas and Captain Miranda had faced the last assault, propped up on chairs, holding true to their promise to defend St Elmo to the last.

  ‘Sir, look there.’ The sergeant was shielding his eyes and squinting to the north. Thomas joined him. In the shimmering haze of the distance a cloud of dust hung over the dry countryside in the direction of Mdina, stirred up by the passage of a large body of men. ‘Who are they?’ asked the sergeant. ‘Ours, or theirs?’

  Thomas clenched his jaw. ‘It’s the Turks. They’re moving against Mdina.’ He tried to gauge their numbers from the cloud of dust that surrounded the main column. ‘They must have every available man under arms. It looks like the Grand Master might have been mistaken about the relief force.’

  The sergeant spat over the side of the tower. ‘If Don Garcia hasn’t landed, the enemy will take Mdina, sir. There’re no two ways about it. The food supplies there might be enough for them to return to Birgu and starve us out.’

  ‘Then we’d better hope that Mdina holds out,’ Thomas said. The hope that had been building inside him began to fade. He turned his gaze away from the dust cloud and stared out to sea. A faint haze covered the water a mile offshore but he could just make out the masts and sails of the Turkish fleet steering towards the northern tip of the island. ‘They’re making for St Paul’s Bay. We shall know the reason for it soon enough. Stay here and keep watch. If the enemy column changes direction then come and find me in the courtyard. If the Turks decide to re-occupy St Elmo then we’ll need to quit the fort in good time.’

  The sergeant nodded and Thomas left him on the tower and descended to the square. As he stepped out of the tower and into the glare of the sun, he shielded his eye and glanced round. Two of his men were holding the reins of the horses and had retreated to the narrow strip of shadow along one of the walls. Richard emerged from the chapel and Thomas beckoned to him.

  ‘Remove those.’ He pointed up the ramp at the impaled heads. ‘Take them down and place them in the chapel for now. They can be given a proper burial later.’

  Richard did not move but stared at the heads for a moment before he turned back to face his father. �
�We should let them stay there. So that our people understand the true nature of the Turks.’

  ‘No,’ Thomas said firmly. ‘We must remove them. They are an affront to humanity.’

  Richard laughed bitterly. ‘This entire struggle is an affront to humanity. Let the heads act as a reminder of that for now. They are the real fruits of war. Let that be the lesson for all those who see them so that they know what war has made of us.’

  Thomas paused before he replied gently, ‘You think to teach our men the terrible cost that has been paid here? They already know,

  my son. Their hearts are filled with the tragedy of it. What is the purpose of letting them see this fresh atrocity? It will only inflame them further. They will thirst for revenge and their violence can only beget more violence.’

  ‘Then let it be so. Until the world is purged of Islam.’

  A leaden despair weighed Thomas down as he beheld the disfiguring, dark rage in his son’s expression. ‘Richard, at some point we must put an end to such conflict, else it will put an end to us. Can you not see that?’

  Richard looked down and responded in a strained tone. ‘I can see it right well but I cannot help my feelings. Not now. Not after this.’

  ‘Don’t waste the rest of your life hating. There are better things to embrace. It has taken me too long to learn that. I would not have you repeat my failings, Richard.’ He rested a hand on his son’s shoulder. ‘Help me to remove them, please.’

  Richard’s lips pressed into a tight line but when he looked up, he nodded. Thomas ordered the other men to continue searching the fort and then the two of them made their way up into the breach to the first of the heads. Thomas paused in front of it briefly and waved his hand to ward off the flies, and the air filled with a disturbed droning. Now, at close quarters, he could recognise enough of the features to know who it was.

  ‘Captain Miranda

  For a moment his mind filled with an image of the lively Spaniard who had inspired his men to fight on against impossible odds: Miranda, sword in hand, sun glinting off his blade and armour as he shouted his defiance at the enemy. Then the image faded and there was nothing left but the shrunken discoloured remnant in front of Thomas. He took a deep breath and reached out with both hands.

  A clatter of hoofbeats caused him to turn and he saw one of the men he had sent up to the ridge riding hard across the open ground towards the fort. Temporarily abandoning the unpleasant task he was about to perform, Thomas strode down the ramp with Richard at his side. The rider reined in at the last moment, spraying grit and dust into the air. He thrust his arm to the north as his report spilled from his lips.

  ‘The relief force has come, sir! There, towards Naxxar. They are deploying to give battle.’

  Thomas felt his pulse quicken at the news. ‘How many men?’ The soldier estimated quickly. ‘Seven, perhaps eight thousand.’

  ‘Eight thousand?’ Thomas’s brow creased with concern. ‘And the enemy?’

  ‘Twice their number, sir.’

  Still the odds favoured the Turks, Thomas reflected anxiously. But set against that, the men in the relief force would be fresh, unlike their weary, famished enemy.

  ‘There are boats putting out from St Angelo,’ he said to the rider. ‘Ride down to the shore and take one back across the harbour and tell the Grand Master all that you have seen.’

  As the horse pounded towards the far side of the fort, Thomas turned back into the fort.

  ‘What now?’ asked Richard.

  ‘Now?’ Thomas smiled thinly. ‘There is only one place to be on this day, Richard. The fate of Malta, and Christendom, rests on the result of the coming battle. If Don Garcia wins then the Turks are crushed. If he fails, they will return to the siege in the knowledge that they can starve us into surrender without any threat of further intervention. Don Garcia will need every man he can find to fight for him today. Naxxar is where our fate will be decided. Come!’

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  The horses were spent by the time Thomas and the six men he had brought with him reached the command post of the relief force. They had ridden round the northern harbour, circling behind the Turkish army before making their final gallop across country to join the men forming up on the slope in front of the small village of Naxxar. Their approach had been noted and a company of pikemen had turned to face them, but they moved back into line when they saw the distinctive red surcoats worn by the riders.

  Some of the Spanish troops raised a weary cheer as Thomas and the others rode down the rear of the line, but most were too hot and thirsty as they leaned on their weapons, slowly cooking inside their breastplates and helmets. Less than a mile away the Turks were forming up to give battle. Thomas briefly noted that the enemy only had two small squadrons of cavalry, one on either flank. The rest of the army was composed of infantry, mostly Spahis, corsairs and the surviving fanatics, and Janissaries. There was little sound of the drums and shrill pipes that had accompanied their early attacks on the forts around the harbour, and none of the cheering that they had once used to bolster their spirits. The Turkish line extended across the uneven ground, overlapping that of their opponents.

  A short distance behind the centre of the position, Thomas saw the Spanish commander of the relief force and his officers, their armour sparkling in the sun’s harsh glare, bright red plumes flicking from side to side like spatters of blood. He steered his blown mount over towards the officers and as they became aware of his approach they turned to stare. Thomas reined in and bowed his head.

  ‘I have come from Birgu. From the Grand Master.’

  ‘He still lives?’ asked one of the officers.

  Thomas nodded, then looked round briefly. ‘Where is Don Garcia? I should report to him.’

  ‘Don Garcia is in Sicily,’ a tall officer with a neatly trimmed beard answered. ‘I am in command here. Don Alvare Sande at your service.’ He nodded in greeting before continuing testily, ‘And might I know your name?’

  ‘Sir Thomas Barrett. I had thought to meet Don Garcia.’

  ‘The King has ordered Don Garcia not to place the fleet or himself at risk. The Turkish fleet would overwhelm our galleys with ease. Don Garcia was therefore obliged to sail back to Palermo as soon as the army had landed.’ Don Alvare made no attempt to hide his frustration. ‘I have orders to raise the siege and drive the Turks from the island.’

  ‘I see. Is this all the men you have, sir?’

  ‘All that could be spared, yes. With these I am expected to sweep aside the Turkish host. As you can see, Sir Thomas, my King continues in his unfounded optimism over what can be achieved with the minimum of resources. But tell me, how goes it with La Valette and his followers?’

  ‘We still hold Birgu, Senglea and Mdina, sir. St Elmo was lost, but is now ours again.’

  ‘Indeed.’ Don Alvare’s expression lightened. ‘Then you must have many thousands that you could add to my strength. Is the Grand Master marching to join forces with me?’

  ‘Alas, no, sir. Half the knights are dead, and many of the others are wounded. Of the rest, only some six hundred of the militia and mercenaries are left. There is also a small garrison at Mdina, but they number a few hundred.’ Thomas turned towards the distant town and pointed out the small force atop a hillock a short distance from the walls of Mdina. ‘There, sir.’

  Don Alvare’s gaze fixed on the garrison of Mdina. ‘Ah, I had thought them to be more of the enemy. So we are grievously outnumbered.’

  Thomas hesitated a moment and then asked, ‘What are your plans, sir?’

  Don Alvare gestured to the small hill upon which his army was formed up. ‘We have the advantage of the high ground. This is where we should make our stand and let the enemy come to us. That is what I would do in the normal course of events. But the Turks seem weak. They have suffered the same privations as you in these last months.’

  ‘Your men are fresh, sir. Attack now, while they are still forming up,’ Thomas urged.

  Don Alvare b
linked sweat from his eyes as he considered his options. ‘My men have been at sea for nine days while we waited for a chance to land unmolested. They are still suffering from seasickness. But we may never get a better chance to crush the Turks

  ‘There is no time to prevaricate, sir,’ Richard said irritably. He thrust his arm out and pointed in the direction of St Elmo. ‘Our comrades died there while we waited for the promised relief force. Your delay has been paid for with our blood, sir. Now you are here, it is time to do your duty. Attack the Turks and drive them into the sea!’

  Don Alvare’s eyes blazed. ‘How dare you address me so, you impudent pup!’

  ‘Forgive my squire, sir,’ Thomas intervened. ‘It has been a hard siege and all our reserves of patience have worn thin. But he is right. The time to strike is now. The longer you wait, the weaker your men will become and the greater the chance of defeat. Strike now, while they still have the heart and strength for it.’

  Don Alvare was silent for a moment before he nodded sombrely. ‘Very well. I think we must attack.’

  Thomas felt the tension in his heart ease and a great sense of relief wash over him. But he knew he must act before Don Alvare changed his mind or lost his nerve. Thomas spurred his horse away through a gap between two companies of pikemen and emerged in front of the relief force. He felt the blood racing through his veins, hot with desire to strike at the enemy. Drawing his sword, he waved it above his head to draw the attention of all.