Priest's Tale

by Turney, S. J. A.

  "You are a soldier, master Skiouros? And a scholar? You have the makings, it appears, of a condottiero."

  Skiouros scratched his chin and picked up the three-tined fork from the table, stabbing a chunk of something brown from the plate and lifting it to his mouth while his eyes never left his opposite number.

  "Forgive me, master Orsini, but I am no soldier. A scholar, to some small extent, but nothing more."

  "Your doublet and breeches show the unmistakable signs of having recently had a sheathed sword slung alongside them, master Skiouros, and a longer, heavier blade too, by my estimation."

  Sharp!

  Skiouros made a mental note to withdraw into an even tighter caginess with this man. It appeared distinctly possible that Cesare Orsini might be able to unravel any mystery placed before him, given the time and the opportunity to do so. Chiding himself for having underestimated the man, Skiouros tried to see the lower left of Orsini's doublet, but could not get a good enough view to make any such observation about him. Still, he would be prepared to wager that the young man had a sword in his cabin that was every bit as lethal and beautiful as the Spanish blade Skiouros had brought aboard.

  "I have had some training in the use of a sword" he countered pleasantly, forcing a fake casualness into his manner. "Not as much as yourself, though, I would wager."

  Something sparkled in Orsini's eyes and Skiouros suddenly understood. The young man was not only surprisingly clever and observant, but he was also playful, despite his dour appearance. He had been positioning conversational pieces in a game of investigation. In other times Skiouros might find such a pastime intriguing and alluring, but not with the dreadful, secretive goal that lurked at the end of his journey. In his current circumstances, he could scant afford this young traveller unravelling the tapestry of his life merely to keep himself entertained. He would have to head off any deepening of the game.

  Time to take a chance, then, and kill the game in a move. A guess, or series thereof.

  "You, for instance, I would say, have been training with the blade that sits in your cabin since you were old enough to stand the high guard? How old were you, might I enquire, when you and your mother were packed off to Crete?"

  Orsini narrowed his eyes. "Eleven" he replied simply, his eyes daring Skiouros to delve further.

  "I suspected so. Shortly after the current Pope came to power and your family began to prosper. Was your father a victim of his outspokenness, or did he remain in Rome - estranged from his own wife and child while they languished in exile - in order to repair the damage he had done?"

  "Have a care" Orsini murmured with a strange look.

  "The former then." Skiouros congratulated himself on his deductive reasoning. "My condolences on the passing of your mother."

  There was a tense silence as Parmenio and Nicolo paused, forkfuls of brown sludge halfway to their mouths, and stared at Skiouros. Orsini sat in a stony silence.

  And suddenly smiled for the first time since Skiouros had entered the room.

  "Bravo and well played, my friend. The coming days of this voyage are finally starting to look up. I am beginning to regret my decision to leave my chess board back on the island."

  Skiouros returned the smile, hoping his face did not display his relief that said game remained absent. He had only ever twice even seen a chess board, let alone learned how to play.

  "You and I will have to have a good chinwag at some point" the nobleman laughed. "Not now, though. Now it is time to investigate the mystery that is dinner."

  Skiouros nodded his agreement, eyes dropping to the unidentifiable brown meal before him, wondering whether it was supposedly fish or meat or perhaps neither. He would be very careful in the coming days to avoid every opportunity to be alone with the insightful young Orsini.

  Chapter Four - Of the scourge

  The heavy bulk of Methoni's powerful castle sat wallowing by the shore in the late evening gloom, off to the ship's starboard side. The great Venetian fortress marked the far south-western point of mainland Greece's Morea peninsula and projected out into the sea, providing a point of shelter and protection against the pirates and corsairs - both Ottoman and independent - who plied the waters looking for easy prey. Lights flickered along the battlements and in windows.

  "Are we far enough away, Lord?"

  Etci Hassan, captain of one of the most feared and powerful Kadirga galleys in the Ottoman fleet, peered into the gloom at the twinkling lights of the Venetian defences. Soon. Soon that great monolithic structure would fall to the ever-advancing armies of the Sultan, and good Turkish sailors would not be forced to take such pains to stay out of the castle's reach.

  "They are entirely unaware of us, Mehmi, for they are complacent fools. We could sail up to their walls and piss on their fortress and they would not notice us. In some ways I feel it is a pity that they cannot see. It would make such a glorious display for them, but we shall have to rely on the currents to do the job for us."

  "Now, Lord?"

  "Now, Mehmi."

  Hassan stood at the rail, his arms folded, peering with distaste at the Christian fortress looming in the evening gloom. It had been a long journey from Avlonya, and there was a long sail ahead of them to meet up with Kemal Reis' fleet, but this trip had been worth the detour. Three unauthorized, but very successful, surprise raids on the island of Zakynthos had filled the few spaces in the kadirga's hold with a great deal of valuable loot that would buy Hassan the goodwill of the Sultan when all of this was over - gold and silver crosses, reliquaries, coins and sundry treasure from the villages, churches and even a monastery. The great Kemal Reis could do what he liked with his honour and his respect, but when he stood before Bayezid, he would likely be torn and burned for his failure. The same fate would not befall Etci Hassan and his crew.

  The resupply mission had been the perfect opportunity to leave the noble lord's side long enough to fill his coffers and slake his thirst for infidel blood. They would be cutting it fine taking so much time to skirt the Greek coast before heading west, especially if they tried to keep the coastline in sight as they sailed, but the chests of gold and silver in the hold made every extra moment worthwhile.

  It had been a troublesome day's sailing from the island of Zakynthos to the very edge of the Morea and the cursed Methoni castle. The captives had been no trouble, of course - how could they be after their throats had been slashed in honour of the great Jihad? But still, Hassan's crew had become increasingly nervous at their continued presence on board the Yarim Ay. After all, it was one of the great taboos of the Ottoman world: to bring a corpse into a house was to invite a visit from death, and a ship could be counted no different to a house. So what trouble was their captain inviting when he brought two dozen stinking bodies aboard, and one of them a Christian priest, no less!

  Such superstitions held no fear for Etci Hassan - beloved of Allah and the Prophet - of course. God kept him for greater things. But no matter how strong a captain might be, without a crew he was just a man.

  Even Mehmi had been twitchy around the dead priest.

  But now it was time to unburden themselves of their grisly cargo.

  Time to pay the accursed Christians back for their temerity.

  The smell of fresh meat assailed his nostrils and he breathed deep, savouring the odour. The two hastily constructed rafts were being lowered into the water and Hassan listened with satisfaction to the splash as they touched down.

  Calmly, fingers resting on the rail, he watched with a nod of approval as the bodies of the men, women and children of Zakynthos, flayed and eviscerated and with the ridiculous three-barred cross of the Greek Church carved into their foreheads, were dropped unceremoniously into the rafts and then cast adrift.

  The morning tide would bring them washing up on the beaches of Methoni, where they would horrify and frighten the cowardly infidels.

  And as the charnel vessels bobbed off with their stinking, white-pink cargoes, Hassan turned his gaze west. That
was it, now. Barring the loot hidden deep in his hold, the last evidence of his raiding that defied Kemal's orders was busy drifting away toward the shore.

  Mehmi, nearby, stood, watching the bodies float away with a tangible sense of relief.

  And at the rear, where he worked at fixing a broken oar, the ship's carpenter, already pale and wan, coughed and looked down at his hand, registering with dismay the blood clot that had spattered it.

  Chapter Five - Of inevitable encounters.

  "Ship ho!"

  Skiouros turned from his conversation with Nicolo to peer up at the lookout who sat precariously on the mainmast yard, legs dangling and one arm wrapped around the spar for safety. Concern flooding through him at the news, Skiouros turned to the stern, where Parmenio stood in deep discussion with Cesare Orsini. The captain was also peering up at the lookout.

  "Details?" he bellowed.

  "Not sure sir, but she's low and flat. Can't see oars yet, but she looks galley-style. Lateen sails… two masts."

  "Colours?"

  "Blue and black, I think, captain."

  Nicolo, next to Skiouros swore under his breath and muttered "that rules out most friendly nations."

  "Can you see the stern? Or how the sails are rigged?"

  "Stern's low and square, cap'n. Could be a Turk. Could be Venetian, mind, or even something else."

  There was a pause.

  "Overlapping lateens, sir. A proper big overlap, too."

  Skiouros frowned, unfamiliar with sailing terminology, and turned a questioning glance to Nicolo, whose face had set grim.

  "Turks" he said in explanation. "Unusual sail configuration with a heavy overlap."

  "Have they seen us?" Parmenio shouted.

  "Don't think so, sir. No change, so if we drop the sails…. Wait!"

  The crew collectively held their breath, each man pausing in his work, looking up expectantly at the lookout aloft. After a pause that felt like an eternity, the young man leaned down again.

  "She's turning on us!"

  "Shit!" snapped Parmenio. Still the crew paused, awaiting the command of their captain. Parmenio shielded his eyes with his hand and squinted over the rail - somewhat pointlessly, given that the enemy vessel was little more than a dark blot on the horizon from the deck, repeatedly lost behind the rolling waves.

  "They'll come fast."

  Nicolo dropped the rope he'd been coiling and paced across the deck to his captain, Skiouros, unsure of what to do, scurrying along behind.

  "Can we outrun them?" the purser asked as the two pairs of men met at the rail.

  "Only if the galley's damaged or over-laden or their captain's a dolt. An Ottoman kadirga in full sail's a match for a good caravel on even terms, but with us so weighed down and them having oars to help close…"

  Parmenio turned to the crew, who were still watching him expectantly.

  "What are you waiting for?" he snapped irritably. "Bring us around south by southwest and rig the sails for maximum speed."

  Nicolo nodded, but Skiouros frowned in incomprehension as the crew suddenly burst into life and the Isabella lurched and began to turn.

  "I thought you said we couldn't outrun them?"

  Parmenio tapped his lip with a twitching finger. "We can't. But there are only a few places on the African coast where a Turk is welcome, and most of the Hafsid rulers are well-disposed towards Venezia because of the trade benefits. It's a small chance and it depends on how fast they're coming, but if we can get close enough to the coast before the bastards close on us, we might find a friendly Arab ship to help."

  Skiouros peered out at the dark blot over the waves as Parmenio and Nicolo turned and made their way back across the deck. To Skiouros' inexpert eye the ship looked considerably larger already, and larger meant closer.

  "Parmenio fools only himself" the young Orsini murmured, coming to stand next to him.

  "How far are we from the safety of that Hafsid land he was talking about?"

  "Days."

  "And we don't have days?"

  "We might have hours if we're lucky - I've seen Venetian and Genoese galleys at full pace and they would easily outstrip this old girl. And we're a long haul from Africa too. Must be fairly close to the southern coast of the Italian peninsula by now."

  "Then why go south and not north?"

  "You're not a sailor, are you" Orsini smiled grimly. "The wind is with us as we head south. If we went north we'd be into the wind, and the Turks' oars would soon close the gap."

  "Seems like we're in the shit both ways" Skiouros sighed.

  "Indeed. I know little of the Ottoman navy. Will they attempt to board us or just sink us? You're from their lands."

  Skiouros pursed his lips. He had little experience of the Turks' navy himself, but numerous times he'd seen their ships in the surrounding waters and harbours, and it was impossible to spend a decade living in the capital without hearing a thing or two and coming to understand a little of how the great captains of the Sultan's fleet worked.

  "If he's a senior reis, he's likely to be politic. Since we're not at war, they will likely demand some sort of 'compensation' for the inconvenience of stopping us. They'll find some reason - checking for stolen cargo or Turkish slaves or some such. Senior captains have nothing to prove, but they do like to throw their weight around sometimes and make a little profit."

  "Otherwise?"

  "If it's a junior captain with a lot to prove? To be honest, from what I've heard we might be better scuttling the ship ourselves and trying to swim to Africa."

  Orsini showed no sign of nerves, simply nodding to himself as he pondered the matter.

  "Then might I suggest this would be a good time for you and I to go below and retrieve our blades, master Skiouros, and we shall see which one of us is condottieri material."

  Five minutes later, as Skiouros and his companion emerged from the doorway, their sheathed blades swinging at their sides, Parmenio, Nicolo and the steersman were in deep hushed conversation. The two armed passengers strode across to the senior crewmen, nodding their greeting.

  "Skiouros' opinion is worth noting. No one here knows the Turkish mind like him" Parmenio said, gesturing at the arrivals. The other two turned to look at him.

  "Sorry?"

  "There is some division of opinion" Nicolo explained carefully, "as to whether we would be better surrendering than fighting."

  Skiouros peered past them. Clearly any hope of flight or evasion had been abandoned, as the Ottoman kadirga was now near enough to make out details. They would close far too soon. Parmenio's jawline hardened as he spoke again.

  "I believe that my fearless crew are suspicious of my motives. They put my urge to fight and not surrender down to the fact that the cargo we stand to lose is my livelihood, and not to an understanding of what it is that we actually face. Tell them what will happen if we surrender, Skiouros."

  The young Greek took a deep breath. It was hard to deny the validity of the crew's point of view. The preciousness of the ship's cargo would certainly have figured in the captain's decision making but, regardless, he was almost certainly still correct in his conclusion. The fact that the Turk was so doggedly pursuing them suggested this was no mere 'bribe-and-run' situation.

  "This hunter is intent on his target" Skiouros replied quietly. "A legitimate Ottoman captain would have given up by now, seeing how determined we were to get away. For most of them a difficult prey is not worth the effort. Which means that, no matter how official his command, this one's a corsair."

  "And that's bad" Parmenio added, somewhat unnecessarily.

  "Very bad. A corsair is only barely legal even in Ottoman terms so, unless they're preying on a nation they're at war with, they try not to leave any evidence. That means stealing the most valuable cargo, enslaving anyone they think they can make something from, killing the rest and then sinking the ship. Very bad."

  "Does the Isabella have any weapons?" Orsini asked quietly, peering at the approaching galley. "I've seen
none."

  "Clubs, swords and the like" Nicolo replied. "A few bows."

  "And them?"

  Skiouros shrugged. "Never been close enough to one to find out, but the Ottoman army prides itself on its guns. My brother used to enthuse about them no end."

  "It'll likely come down to hand-fighting in the end" Orsini nodded to himself, peering with interest at Skiouros, perhaps wondering why his brother would have intimate knowledge of the Ottoman military. "They will not wish to hole the ship before they can examine the cargo. Will they try anything before boarding, do you think?"

  "Arrow storm, probably" Parmenio sighed. "Only a few shots, though - maybe three or four. They won't want to risk too many random deaths in case they happen to hit something valuable, but they'll want to thin the opposition, I'm sure. It's a play off. All depends on how greedy or violent the bastard who runs the ship is."

  Orsini squinted across the water at the ever-closing enemy galley. "Turn into them, then."

  "What?" Nicolo, Parmenio, Skiouros and the steersman all stared at the Italian noble.

  "If the biggest threat we face before combat is their arrows, run them down. The sooner we close on them, the less chance they get to fill us with arrows."

  Nicolo nodded slowly. "Captain?"

  "Do it."

  Skiouros watched in impotent dismay as the officers and crew suddenly burst into a fresh frenzy of activity, bringing the ship about in as tight a turn as they could manage in order to minimise the missile danger.

  Orsini tapped him on the shoulder. "Walk with me, master Skiouros."

  The young Greek, his hand resting on his sword hilt, shuffled across the deck after his fellow traveller, trying not to let the pitch of the timber floor unfoot him as he walked. The nobleman reached the rail and leaned over as though examining the sea that roiled beneath.