Sword and Scimitar

by Simon Scarrow

  ‘Hear me! Hear me!’

  Despite the soul-sapping sweat that coursed from their brows the men of the relief force turned their attention to him. The line extended along the slope so it was possible for almost all of them to see Thomas clearly. He paused briefly to marshal his thoughts and readied himself to speak.

  ‘For long months you have waited for this moment,’ he began. ‘And for years before that. I warrant there is hardly a man amongst you whose family or friends have not suffered from the raids of the corsairs who serve Suleiman. They have butchered your brethren and carried many off into slavery. You all know the dreaded names that have frozen the blood of our people — Barbarossa, Dragut . . .’ There were angry shouts and curses at the mention of the corsairs’ names and Thomas indulged them a moment while he drew breath to continue. His chest felt tight and strained under the weight of his breastplate.

  ‘Now those two demons are dead and gone, and Suleiman’s power is on the wane. The vast host that he sent against Malta was full of Turkish arrogance, ambition and avarice. They thought to make an easy conquest of my brother knights and the people of this island. They thought to wipe us out within a matter of weeks . . . We held them off for four months, at great cost to the base servants of the Sultan! But also at great cost to us. . . Many of my brother knights are gone, and other soldiers known to you all. Captain Miranda for one.’

  There were cries of surprise and grief from the mercenaries who had served under Miranda in previous campaigns. Thomas waited until the noise abated before continuing.

  ‘The noble captain died a hero’s death. As did Colonel Mas.’ More cries of anger rippled along the line.

  ‘Heroes both.’ Thomas thrust his sword in the direction of the harbour. ‘They died together defending the breach in the walls of the fort of St Elmo. They died, and then their bodies were cruelly mutilated by the Turks. Less than an hour ago, I beheld their heads mounted on stakes as trophies, cut off and left to rot under a merciless sun!’ He stabbed his blade towards the enemy battle line. Again the anger welled up in the throats of the soldiers and the relief force began to edge forward, down the slope.

  ‘Remember St Elmo!’ Thomas shouted. ‘That is our battle cry. Remember St Elmo!’

  Richard and the others urged their mounts through the line to join him and take up the cry, which quickly spread through the ranks. Don Alvaro hurriedly issued orders to his officers while he still had some control over them. Thomas grasped his reins and turned to face the Turks. ‘The time has come for revenge!’

  ‘No prisoners!’ Richard yelled harshly. ‘Take no prisoners!’

  The handful of mounted men walked their horses down the slope towards the enemy, and as if with one will, the rest of the relief force surged after them, pikes lowered and swords drawn, the colours of their standards swirling through the shimmering air. Glancing back, Thomas saw the fixed expression on Don Alvaro’s face before he gritted his teeth, drew his sword and joined the advance with the rest of his officers.

  The Spanish soldiers kept the line as they marched down towards the waiting Turks, shouting out Thomas’s battle cry and calling on the names of the saints to protect them. Beyond the Turkish line Thomas could see that the Mdina garrison was also on the move, striking towards the enemy’s rear without regard to the odds against them. Beyond his feeling of exhilaration, tainted as ever with fear, he felt a deep inner calm, as if this was the moment he had waited for all his life. His doubts about faith and the righteousness of religious causes fell away and all he saw was the need to defeat the enemy. At his side rode Richard. His sword was sheathed as he guided his horse, fastening the buckle of his gorget so that only his eyes, gleaming with ferocious intensity, were visible. Thomas drew his sword once more and urged the others on.

  Ahead, the Turks closed ranks and readied their weapons. A thin screen of men armed with arquebuses moved forward fifty paces and set their weapons up on iron stands. They took aim at their opponents and waited until they came within range. Then they touched their smouldering fuses to the firing pans and with a puff of smoke and a dart of flame the weapons fired. The initial range was long and Thomas saw only a handful of men struck down. The Turks reloaded quickly and efficiently and continued their fire, with ever greater success as the relief force drew closer. Over a score of men, dead or wounded, lay on the dry stubble of the slope behind their comrades. Some propped themselves up and shouted encouragement.

  A loud clang drew Thomas’s attention and he turned in his saddle to see one of his men slump over his saddle. He struggled feebly for a moment as blood seeped from beneath his holed breastplate, then his lifeless fingers dropped the reins and he fell from the saddle, lost from sight amid the pikemen advancing either side of his horse.

  The relief force reached the bottom of the slope, no more than a hundred paces from the enemy. The Turkish arquebusiers pulled up their supports, shouldered their weapons and hurried back to their battle line. The heat of the day and the blinding sweat that dripped from the brows of the Spanish meant that there was no wild charge into action. Instead they paced steadily forward. The pikemen lowered their weapons and drove into the Turkish line with a rolling chorus of thuds and clatter of blades. There were hoarse cries from both sides, rising to a feverish crescendo as the hand-to-hand struggle began.

  Thomas held his sword slightly to the side, ready to strike, as he urged his mount into the throng of turbans, pointed helmets and the flickering blades of scimitars brandished by the Spahis massed before him. Fixing his eye on the nearest of them, Thomas thrust his sword out and pierced the man’s shoulder, ripping the blade free before it might be twisted from his fingers. At once he chose another target, a tall, dark-skinned man whose crooked teeth were clamped together in a snarl as he turned towards Thomas. He raised his spear and plunged it towards Thomas’s chest, ripping through the material of the surcoat before it was deflected by the breastplate beneath. Thomas struck at the spear shaft, knocking it down, and then stabbed the point of his sword into the Turk’s throat before spurring his horse forward and ripping the blade free.

  A space opened up in front of him and Thomas took the chance to glance to each side. The attackers had driven deep into the Turkish line, led by the pikemen who methodically thrust their weapons into the lightly protected bodies of their enemy before pulling the deadly points free and looking for the next foe. A pall of choking dust was swirling about the combatants but Thomas could already see that some of the Turks were backing away from the fight. He opened his mouth to urge the pikemen on when his horse let out a shrill whinny of pain and terror and reared up, hooves lashing at the Turk who had slashed into the beast’s neck with a scimitar. Thomas threw his weight forward, clutching the reins tightly as the wounded animal kicked and reared and men of both sides retreated from the horse’s wild death throes. Its legs buckled and it slumped to the ground, snorting frantically. Thomas quickly kicked his boots free of the stirrups and scrambled aside before the horse could roll on him. An instant later, as it sensed the pressure from the saddle ease, the horse jerked over and kicked out.

  Thomas stepped away and turned to face the Turks. He picked out two Janissaries amid the figures flitting through the dust. They saw him at the same instant and charged, their ostrich plumes dancing above their white headdresses. Thomas thrust his sword up over his head to ward off the first blow and saw the sparks fly from the blades and a deafening clash filled his ears. The impact jarred his wrist and the scimitar scraped down his blade and glanced off his shoulder guard. Thomas saw the other man leaping round his comrade, sword rising, and he knew that there was no time to attempt a riposte on the first man. Instinctively he punched the guard of his sword into the Janissary’s face with all his strength and felt the blow strike home, crushing the man’s nose and gouging open the flesh of his cheek. The Janissary staggered back then lurched upright and the bloodied point of a pike exploded through the material covering his stomach. The man collapsed on to his knees and Thomas saw
a Spaniard behind him, teeth clenched in a triumphant grimace before he braced his boot against the man’s back and wrenched his pike free of the body.

  Thomas had no time to nod his thanks. The first Janissary was balanced on the balls of his feet, ready to strike. For an instant the surrounding battle seemed distant, as if the two of them were engaged in some private duel. Then the spell was broken and the man leaped forward, his scimitar slicing through the air. Thomas stepped quickly to the side and struck at where he anticipated the Janissary’s arm would be as the scimitar came down. The steel glittered as Thomas’s blade struck the Janissary’s wrist and cut clean through it. The hand and sword spun several feet away on to the dusty ground. With an animal howl the Janissary threw himself at

  Thomas, clawing at his gorget with his remaining hand. Thomas felt fingernails digging into his skin and clenched his eyes shut as he struggled to tear the man’s hand away. As soon as he had prised the fingers loose Thomas thrust the Janissary back and then ran him through with his sword. His opponent fell on to the ground and lay gasping as the blood pulsed from the wound over his heart and the stump of his wrist.

  ‘Father!’ Richard approached him through the dust haze with an anxious expression. ‘You’re bleeding.’

  Thomas could feel it, the warm flow on his cheek, running down to the comer of his mouth where he tasted the salty gore. ‘I’m fine,’ he panted. ‘Fine.’

  Sword raised, he looked round, but no more of the enemy loomed nearby out of the dust and the sound of fighting seemed to be fading. He turned back to Richard. ‘Where is your horse?’

  ‘Shot through the head. I lost my sword when I fell, hence . . .’ Richard held a pike up. ‘Which way?’

  Thomas had lost his bearings in the fight and now the dust obscured the surrounding landscape, but the afternoon sun was angled towards the west. ‘This way. Stay with me.’

  They followed the sound of the fighting, stepping over bodies and pausing only to finish off the enemy wounded who might yet pose a threat. The dust began to thin out and then there was open country before them in the direction of St Paul’s Bay. It was clear at once that the Turks had broken. They were streaming away from the men of the relief force, many throwing down their arms and equipment in order to hasten their escape. Behind them came their Christian opponents, mercilessly butchering any Turk too slow, or too weak, to flee. The first of the horsemen from the garrison at Mdina joined the pursuit, charging in from the flank, shouting with cruel glee as they rode down and killed the enemy who had caused so much fear and suffering over the long months of the siege. As he watched the unfolding massacre, it seemed to Thomas as if a swarm of wild and ravenous beasts had been let loose upon the helpless Turks. There was no longer any semblance of order in either army, just figures scattered across the barren landscape. With Richard at his side he followed the direction of the rout, across baking fields, past the blackened remains of farmhouses torched by the Turks. His armour weighed him down and every step forward seemed to take a great effort, and all the while sweat coursed from his brow and caused his linen undershirt to stick to his flesh and chafe the skin. At length, after three miles, they came to the top of a small rise overlooking the bay where St Paul had once landed to convert the island’s inhabitants to the new creed of peace and universal brotherhood. But on this day, the scene was from the darkest and most bloody of nightmares.

  The Turkish soldiers were trapped along the edge of the bay. Small clusters had turned on their pursuers and bitterly contested the shore-line. Elsewhere hundreds had waded out into the sea towards the fleet of galleys anchored in the bay. Small craft were desperately rowing between the galleys and the shallows to try and rescue as many of their comrades as possible. In amongst those waiting to be taken off waded the men of the relief force, pitilessly cutting down those they could reach and then looting their bodies before moving on. A score of Turks had crowded around the bows of one of the rowing boats and were fighting to get aboard. The small craft rocked crazily and the crew was trying to beat the soldiers back. Then the boat tilted violently and capsized, spilling men into the sea. The shallows of the bay were stained red and a pink froth washed up on the pebbles as the gentle waves lapped the shore.

  ‘Look there,’ said Richard, pointing out one of the bands of Janissaries still fighting at the edge of the water, a quarter of a mile away. There were perhaps a hundred of them, most holding off their pursuers with spears while a handful steadily fired and reloaded their arquebuses, picking off easy targets. In the middle of the loose crescent of soldiers stood an officer in silk robes and a bejewelled turban.

  ‘That’s Mustafa Pasha.’ Thomas breathed heavily through cracked lips, his voice hoarse. ‘If he is taken, then the Sultan’s humiliation is complete.’

  ‘Come then.’ Richard started down the slope, holding his pike in a firm grip. ‘Let us take him.’

  ‘Wait!’ Thomas rasped as he followed his son. ‘Wait for me.’

  The late afternoon sun was low in the sky, and cast long shadows across the carnage and burnished the grime and blood-spattered armour of the Christian soldiers as they went about their murderous business. Thomas saw a handful of Turkish boats setting out from the enemy flagship, steering towards their commander and his bodyguards. As the boats approached the shallows, scores of men converged on them, surging through the bloodied tide. Those on the boats were clearly under orders to permit only the Janissaries to board; they ruthlessly slashed out with their scimitars at any man who came within reach as they approached the shore. Mustafa’s standard had drawn the attention of his pursuers and a vicious struggle was taking place between the Spanish pikemen and the Janissaries.

  ‘We must hurry,’ Richard panted. ‘Before he escapes.’

  Despite their leaden limbs, the two of them broke into a trot, their scabbards slapping at their sides. Only a handful of the Turks were still resisting along the edge of the bay. Some threw down their arms and dropped to their knees to surrender but were cut down without mercy. Other boats were picking up the last of those still in the water and Thomas could see activity on the bows of the galleys as their gun crews loaded the cannon ready to fire on the Christians in one last act of defiance before the Sultan’s humiliated host was driven from the island.

  Mustafa Pasha, accompanied by his standard bearer and two other men, waded out towards the flagship’s boats. Behind him his bodyguards fought on, to buy him time.

  ‘This way!’ Thomas panted, striking out at an angle towards the enemy commander. They splashed into the shallows and then waded towards the personal standard of the Sultan, the horsehair tail flicking from side to side as the man carrying it struggled towards the boat. Mustafa turned towards the splashing in the water nearby and saw the two knights making directly for him. He snapped an order to the two bodyguards protecting him and they instantly turned towards Thomas and Richard, raising their scimitars. Richard held his pike clear of the water and feinted towards the nearest of the Janissaries. The Turk made to dodge to one side but failed to make allowance for the drag of the water and the pike tore into his side. Richard thrust home, and then worked the tip free. Thomas caught up with him and waded past to engage the other bodyguard. There was no finesse to his actions as he struck out at the Janissary, just brute force and determination. He hacked again, and again, driving the man back. Then the Turk missed his step on the seabed and fell back with a splash. At once Thomas pushed forward and pressed the man down with his left hand, holding him under the surface of the bay as he stabbed with his sword, and blood billowed up through the water.

  Thomas turned to see that Mustafa had reached the prow of the nearest boat, not twenty feet away, and two of the sailors were struggling to drag him aboard. Richard, too, saw that the enemy commander was on the verge of getting away; he cast his pike aside and the water boiled around him as he reached out for the shoulders of the standard bearer waiting in the water behind his master. Richard grasped the man roughly and turned him round before striking
his fist into the Turk’s face. The man clung on to the shaft of the standard with one hand and lashed out at Richard with the other. Richard blinked, momentarily disorientated, and then he growled angrily and struck the man again in the face with all his strength and the Turk’s head snapped back. His grasp on the standard slipped and with a triumphant shout Richard ripped it from his hands and raised the standard up so that all could see it had been captured.

  Thomas saw that Mustafa Pasha had been hauled into the boat and sat in an undignified heap near the bows as the crew lowered the oars and began to pull away from the shore. Just beyond Mustafa a soldier stood up, bracing his legs as he raised a light arquebus and took aim at Richard.

  ‘No!’ Thomas shouted, his voice cracking. Without thinking he pushed Richard aside and surged between his son and the boat as the flame flashed out. There was a small ring of smoke, a loud crash in the hot air, and Thomas felt a blow, like a vicious punch, in his stomach. The impact drove the breath out of him. He saw Mustafa Pasha’s lips part in a cold grin as the boat drew away.

  Richard burst out of the sea with an enraged expression. He still had the standard clasped in both hands and he glared at Thomas.

  ‘What are you doing? Why did you . . His words dried up as he stared at the hole in Thomas’s breast-plate.

  With a sick feeling of certainty, Thomas was aware that he had been shot. He looked down and saw the indent in his armour, just above where it curved towards the flange above his groin. Blood oozed from the hole and dribbled down the polished steel.

  ‘Oh God, no,’ he muttered. ‘Not this. Not now.’

  ‘Father!’ Richard hurled the standard towards the shallows and waded towards him. ‘Father, you’re hit.’