The Priest's Tale
The Ottoman Cycle Book Two
by S. J. A. Turney
For Prue.
I would like to thank everyone who has been instrumental in this book seeing the light of day in its final form, as well as all those people who have continually supported me during its creation: Robin, Alun, Barry, Nick, David, Miriam and of course Jenny and Tracey and once again my little imps Marcus and Callie who interrupted me at the most opportune moments, driving me to wonderful distraction. Also, the fabulous members of the Historical Writers' Association, who are supportive and helpful as ever.
Cover image by Lucy Sangster of Use or Ornament.
Cover design by Dave Slaney.
Many thanks to both.
All internal images are from the public domain with the exception of the map, which is copyright the author of this work.
Published in this format 2013 by Victrix Books
Copyright - S.J.A.Turney
Smashwords Edition
The author asserts the moral right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.
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This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
Also by S. J. A. Turney:
The Marius' Mules Series
Marius Mules I: The Invasion of Gaul (2009)
Marius Mules II: The Belgae (2010)
Marius Mules III: Gallia Invicta (2011)
Marius Mules IV: Conspiracy of Eagles (2012)
Marius Mules V: Hades Gate (2013)
Tales of the Empire
Interregnum (2009)
Ironroot (2010)
Dark Empress (2011)
The Ottoman Cycle
The Thief's Tale (2013)
Short story compilations & contributions:
Tales of Ancient Rome vol. 1 - S.J.A. Turney (2011)
Tortured Hearts vol 1 - Various (2012)
Tortured Hearts vol 2 - Various (2012)
Temporal Tales - Various (2013)
For more information visit http://www.sjaturney.co.uk/
or http://www.facebook.com/SJATurney
or follow Simon on Twitter @SJATurney
Prologos
Winter, early 1492. Bay of Al-Jazair (Algiers)
Ahmed Kemaleddin, the Reis - captain - of the Ottoman Iberian expedition, leaned on the rail of his kadirga galley, basking in the glow of the sun reflected off the turquoise waters. The awning that covered the aft section of the ship provided blessed relief from the sun's blasting rays and, combined with the sea breeze, provided most relaxing and pleasant conditions.
Kemal Reis - for such was he known - felt neither relaxed, nor pleasant.
For five years he had sailed the waters of the western sea between the cursed land of Spain, the semi-hostile coast of Africa, and the dangerous shores of Italia. Since being dispatched from Istanbul with a fleet of twenty two ships and a sizeable force of soldiers to help the beleaguered Emir of Granada defend his lands from the brutal expansionism of the Christian rulers of Aragon and Castile, he had watched the Arab world in the west crumble and fail beneath the iron-shod boot of the hated Fernando and Isabella.
But the loss of Granada and the end of Muslim rule in the peninsula was not what soured Kemal's mood.
For three more years he had fought on in the desperate hope that something could be saved from the failure of the western campaigns. He had landed troops in areas with small Christian garrisons and sacked coastal towns that had until recently been staunch Muslim strongholds. And yet nothing had arrested the decline. The Iberian Peninsula remained Christian and its new despots set about the removal of all that offended their Christian noses. In the end, Kemal had admitted defeat and sent the bulk of the fleet east, back to Istanbul and the Sultan, himself remaining behind with a small flotilla of three ships to carry out the last tasks of an unsuccessful expedition.
But the failure of his attempts and the disbanding of his forces were not what soured Kemal's mood.
For the past two years Kemal Reis and his subordinate captains, Etci Hassan and Salih Bin Abdullah, had forged routes through the increasingly hostile waters of the western sea, finding desperate Muslim refugees forced out of their homes after seven centuries of peaceful life, and ferrying them to the ports of sympathetic rulers. And even, along with these poor displaced Muslims, Jews who were being systematically eradicated in the 'New Spain' and who saw more of a hopeful future with Muslim rulers than with their new Jesuit-driven Christian overlords. And even this brought endless difficulties for Kemal, the Hafsid, Zayyanid, Wattasid and Mamluk dynasties who controlled the entire southern boundary of the sea bearing no love for the Ottoman Empire.
But the difficulties of trying to save the last of the old world in the face of the unnecessary hostility of the new were not what soured Kemal's mood.
No.
What soured Kemal's mood on such a glorious morning was the man standing four feet along the rail, seething with a resentment and barely controlled rage: Etci Hassan. One of his two remaining subordinates and the captain of the kadirga Yarim Ay.
The half dozen ships' boats were returning across the clear waters from the great port of Al-Jazair, having delivered the last of the Muslim refugees rescued from the Balearic Islands, after which the diminished fleet of the Ottoman force could move on.
The question was: where to?
Kemal had discussed the matter at length the previous evening with his subordinate Salih, and they were of a mind that it was worth continuing on their current path for the foreseeable future. So long as good Muslims - and well-paying Jews - languished in distress, it was Kemal's duty to ferry them to safety despite his original objective of saving Granada having long evaporated. Then, and only then, when the last of the displaced exiles were seen to safety, would the three ships sail east and return to the Sultan for a new assignment. It was what any honourable officer of the Ottoman navy would do. Salih, always a friend as much as a colleague, had been wholeheartedly supportive.
Yet despite the fact that Kemal solidly outranked his fellow captains, he had spent a night in discomfort, dreading the conversation with Hassan this morning. And with good reason.
Etci Hassan had listened sullenly as his commander had explained his intentions and the plan for the next season's campaigning. More of the same, in effect. Kemal had watched the irritation slowly building in the other captain's disconcerting eyes, his mouth taking on a grim set, his eyelid twitching and flickering.
Now, for the past half-minute, the pair had lapsed into an uncomfortable silence. Kemal could feel Hassan, standing like a taut siege weapon, waiting to unleash his barbed tongue upon his senior, but unwilling to break etiquette by speaking without being bidden.
Kemal Reis took a deep breath, savouring the fresh sea air.
"Speak."
As though the dam of his rage had been breached, Etci Hassan turned and raised his hands, his voice a low, dangerous hiss, his perturbing cold gaze intense.
"In a lesser captain I would say the decision was foolish in the extreme, and even cowardly."
A carefully worded attack. Hassan was no fool.
"Explain." There was no real need. Kemal knew his subordinate's mind well, but the man would hopefully lose some of his excess rage and bile if he could voice it openly.
"The west is lost. What we do now is the job of f
ailures and the defeated. We are warriors - officers in the Ottoman navy, not ferrymen. Our place is behind the bow and the sword and the gun, bringing death to the infidel and the light of Allah and the blessed Sultan to the dogs who would quash our culture."
Despite the bile in the words, Kemal had to admire the eloquence of the rhetoric. Hassan's words would sway many a good Turk.
"I have no love for the Christian scourge, Hassan, and you know that. We have fought them all we can, but we are far from our world and all-but surrounded by theirs. We are but three kadirga and the very idea of making war against the Christians is now beyond foolish. I was granted the position of defender of the Granada Emirate and my duty is clear: to see the last survivors of that land to safety before I move on."
"The Granada Emirate is gone, my Lord Reis. The blessed crescents are torn down and melted for their cannon, replaced with their ridiculous crosses. The mosques are ruined, the mihrabs smashed and filled with statues of their blasphemous 'Maria'. You cling to a world that has died, master. Bury it in the hatred it deserves and turn your eyes to the glory or war, I beg of you."
"Have a care, Hassan. You overstep."
Still vibrating slightly with coiled anger, Hassan bowed respectfully, his teeth clenched.
"My apologies, Lord. You know how I feel."
"I do. And I sympathise, in truth. But the task here is not yet complete and I will not abandon my position, no matter how untenable, until the job is done. Then and only then will we return east and see what the glorious Bayezid, may Allah bless his line for a thousand years, has in mind for us next. Would you have us return with an incomplete mission? Do you think the great Sultan will favour us then?"
"Respectfully, Lord Reis, I believe the Sultan will condemn us for our failure whenever we do so. To return east is as much accepting failure as to continue playing ferryman to the lost here. What we should do is sack the ports of the Christian dogs and sink their ships. We should attack their transports and take their goods. We should enslave the infidels and sell them to the Mamluks to whip to death. We have an opportunity to bring a true fear of the Empire to our enemies, along with the word of the Prophet - may the peace and blessings of Allah be upon him - while making ourselves ever richer and more powerful."
Kemal felt his blood chill as the fire of jihad danced in his subordinate's ordinarily so-cold eyes.
"Then," Hassan continued, the spittle of the fanatic wetting his lips, "when we have treasures beyond imagining and captured ships and gold and the heads of the great lords of the west rotting on spears, we can return to the Sultan in glory and he will laud our success, rather than breaking us on the hooks for our failure. Do you not see?"
Kemal turned slowly.
"I see that you advocate piracy and slavery in the name of the glorious Sultan."
"It is not piracy if we are at war, Lord."
It was a convincing argument, Kemal had to acknowledge. Many an Ottoman captain would be swayed by it, and the political situation here in the west was vague enough and hostile enough that a clever captain would be able to officially justify almost any level of depraved behaviour. But Kemal had accepted a commission, and he would not turn to the ways of the pirate until the Sultan himself gave him leave. His duty was clear.
"My mind is made up, Hassan. We will tarry here a year or more yet, to see our work done. Then, and only then, will we return to Istanbul and the Sultan. We will have no small amount of coin from the saving of the Jews, and he will be pleased with this. Once we return, you may seek a position with another commander if our next duty is not to your liking, but until we stand before the blessed Bayezid, you are my subordinate and will obey my word."
Hassan's eyelid flickered slightly faster as he lowered his head respectfully.
"Yes, my Lord Reis."
Once more, Kemal turned to the beautiful turquoise waters of the bay and the boats crossing back to their ships. The discipline and chain of command of the Ottoman navy forced the other captain's acceptance, and Hassan would do as he was bidden, but beyond that, Kemal would sooner trust a Popish bishop than his own subordinate. Now would be an excellent time to part ways temporarily, until the man had calmed enough to accept his duty. Fortunately, Kemal had a task of some urgency that would keep the man away for some time.
"Our supplies are low, Hassan."
With such a diminished fleet, the captains were no longer powerful enough to sack villages and towns for the requisite goods, and the nearest friendly port for resupply was far to the east. The lords of the African lands would be unlikely to help and, even if they did, their prices would be extortionate.
"They are, my Lord Reis."
"Salih and I will run the coast of Spain once more for refugees. To save you such a bitter duty, I would have you sail east to Avlonya and collect fresh supplies for our campaign."
"You would turn me into a merchant, my Lord Reis? A beast of burden?"
"Would you rather be a ferryman of the Jews?"
Kemal watched the turmoil in his subordinate's expression. For three heartbeats, Hassan wrestled with the choice between two duties he considered equally onerous. Finally, something seemed to change in his uncanny eyes, and he nodded his head respectfully.
"Of course, Reis. I will travel to Avlonya and bring back as many supplies as my kadirga will hold. I will require some of the 'Jew-saving' money, of course. And the journey will be long and dangerous, passing the Hafsid coast and the land of the Popes, so I may be some time."
Kemal wondered for a moment whether allowing Hassan to slip the leash might be a poor decision, but the benefits of his absence likely outweighed the burdens. Something about the man had changed so instantly. Etci Hassan seemed almost eager.
"Return before Ramadan and you will find us at our usual rally point in the Bab el Zakat."
Hassan nodded once more and turned without further acknowledgement, marching away purposefully towards the small skiff that would ferry him back to his own ship. Kemal Reis watched him go, hardly daring to breathe until the man was aboard the small boat and bouncing across the waves towards the kadirga anchored nearby.
"That went well then?"
Kemal turned at the soft spoken words. Salih Bin Abdullah had remained out of sight close by throughout the exchange and had waited patiently until his counterpart had left before returning to the open deck. It was unusual - and certainly disrespectful - to address the Reis with no honorific, though Kemal had granted his friend such permission whenever they were alone.
Salih was smiling at the expression on his commander's face, and Kemal realised that he must look as though he had chewed a lemon.
"It could have been better, Salih."
"He is going to be trouble, that one. He lusts after command. He would see himself in your place, Kemal Reis."
"He would not dare defy his commander, Salih. If word of it reached the Sultan, Hassan would be split in two for mutiny." Kemal nodded to himself, though in truth he was not so sure. "Anyway, I have arranged for him to be blessedly absent for a few months, fetching our supplies from Arnavutluk. What harm can he do on a simple supply mission?"
Salih raised an eyebrow as he turned and watched the small skiff rising and dipping as it approached the twin-masted, black and red-painted kadirga of Etci 'The Butcher' Hassan.
"What harm indeed."
Chapter One - Of changes wrought in tranquillity
May 1492. Heraklion, Duchy of Candia (Venetian Crete).
The sun beat down mercilessly on the small whitewashed courtyard as Skiouros staggered backwards, dust and gravel kicked up into the sizzling air and momentarily obscuring the man across the dusty gravelled flags. The young Greek narrowed his eyes, partially from the glare of the reflected rays bouncing off the dazzling white walls and partially from puzzlement as to how the man had managed to throw him off balance yet again.
Don Diego de Teba stood calm and composed, his elegant black and silver doublet and hose untouched by the endless white dust, his neat
beard and coiled black hair glistening in the sun, the only sign of their activity: a fine film of grey dust on the lower half of his high, black leather boots. His beautiful sword carved arcs and circles in the air languidly as he waited for Skiouros to recover.
The Greek looked down at his own dishevelled figure and noted with dismay that he had two new rents in the shirt that had cost him so much half a year earlier - more stitching required - but the thing that irritated him most was the fact that he was as dirty and dishevelled as Don Diego was neat and clean. The dust and grit was so ingrained in his clothes it seemed to form part of the very fabric. He looked like the poorer cousin of one of the peasants who worked the fields outside the walls. Poking a finger into one of the neat cuts in his shirt he had to grudgingly admire the man's abilities. In the preceding weeks, Don Diego had slashed, poked and rent Skiouros' shirts, doublet, breeches and even his boots and had managed to draw blood only once, and even that a bare scratch that was now long gone.
"Your right high guard is still very open and unstable. You are fast and accurate to thrust from it, but you are unable to hold the guard or move into any other defensive position without making yourself a big fat target."
Skiouros glowered at his teacher, glancing around the colonnade and the gates that sealed in the courtyard to make sure that no one was witnessing his latest admonishment. As usual the dusty grey figure of the Romani beggar lurked at the outside gate like a vulture waiting for his pickings. Worse than simply being upbraided was the fact that Skiouros' grasp of the flouncy Italian tongue was still new and troubled, and Don Diego - not a native speaker himself - made sure to speak slowly and to clearly enunciate each word so that his pupil understood. That, of course, meant that any passer-by had plenty of time to listen to detailed accounts of what a clumsy, oat-brained oaf he was with a sword.
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