The squat one called Mehmi curled his lip in sneering distaste at this overt sign of the infidel religion, though Skiouros noted out of the corner of his eye that the man also tugged at his earlobe, spitting and then sucking in air in an ancient Turkish gesture to ward off evil.
Superstitious? Good. That could be useful.
Hassan seemed to be less affected by this credulity. His gaze simply intensified as his eyes dropped momentarily to the rope and then rose once more to the young priest.
"You are shaved" he said simply in Greek. Skiouros felt his heart skip a beat. God in Heaven, but the man was quick - not only to spot the mistake, but also to switch languages so smoothly.
"Lice" Skiouros said quickly in Greek, his mind racing ahead.
"Lice?"
"With no wild nept, capsicum or quicklime aboard, all I could do was shave it. God in his infinite compassion will forgive the transgression, I am sure."
He kept his face carefully neutral, though deep inside he congratulated himself, not only on the timely lie that had leapt to mind, but also on the fact that he had automatically placed a verbal emphasis on the word 'God', as he'd so often heard the Greek priests of Istanbul do when speaking to a Muslim. He'd never been sure whether it was supposed to draw a deeper division between the two or to highlight the connection, but that mattered not, so long as the Turk felt it came naturally.
Hassan narrowed his eyes as his piercing gaze peeled back layers of truth and lie from Skiouros, but eventually he nodded and looked back down at his ledger.
"You have some rich cargo, captain Parmenio" he said, returning smoothly to Italian as he paid no further heed to the monk. "You are to be congratulated on your former fortune." He snapped the book shut. "Sadly, that fortune has now come to an end. While I value some of your cargo, it pales beside the silver, gold and other sundry treasures I already hold."
He turned to Mehmi.
"Check on the space we have below - I am sure the past week's voyage has cleared out some of the supplies. Make sure there is room for three persons. Any extra space you find, you may fill with any of the goods from the top six lines of the cargo manifest. Select well, Mehmi, for it is our future we buy with it."
Skiouros felt his blood run cold. Three persons. It was hard to picture a stray priest numbering among those three. As he began to sweat uncontrollably, his eyes locked on the Turkish corsair, Mehmi leaned close to his captain, a worried look crossing his face, and muttered something too quietly to be overheard. Hassan straightened and glared at his right hand man.
"He will be flayed, salted, gutted and drowned as all infidel priests deserve" the captain informed Mehmi in Turkish, loudly enough to be overheard. Of course, Hassan would have no reason to believe that any of the captives spoke his language.
Skiouros felt the first wave of panic wash across him, as there was absolutely no doubt in his mind about whom the captain was speaking. Two of the Turkish sailors nearby paused in their work, tugging at their ears to ward off evil. If Skiouros wasn't busy pissing himself and panicking, he would have noted their reaction with interest.
Mehmi, his face a mask of panicked misery that probably matched Skiouros' own, started babbling quickly at his captain. The words were too quick, quiet and indistinct to make much sense of, but Skiouros heard the word 'dervish' - a form of Turkish monk, and something about corpses and ghosts. As he finished, Mehmi began tugging on his ear so hard he was making it go a sore red, spitting until his mouth was dry.
For a long moment, Hassan stared at his man, then noticed the sailors nearby, the worried expressions on their faces, and took a deep breath, casting a look of utter disgust at Skiouros.
"It appears that today is your lucky day, priest, as my crew have petitioned me for your life."
Skiouros almost collapsed with relief, aware of the warm, damp feeling in his trousers and the faint aroma of ammonia rising through his vestments to compete with the lingering scent of vomit. A quick glance at Mehmi told Skiouros that the squat man was almost as relieved as he.
Curious.
"Go to work, Mehmi."
The second in command grinned his missing-toothed grin at his captain and bowed his head before stepping across the gap and onto the Isabella.
"Master Orsini, you will accompany your friends aboard."
Cesare stepped forward. "Respectfully, captain Hassan, you will no doubt be aware of my family. I can offer you a considerable reward should you find it in your heart to deliver me to the coast of Sicilia. Indeed, I feel certain that I can arrange enough of a ransom to make it worth releasing all four of your prisoners."
Skiouros blinked as he turned to his fellow traveller. It had not occurred to him that the Orsini might be rich enough to make such an offer. Given Cesare's somewhat disenfranchised status, there was always a possibility he might be refused, of course, but such a magnanimous offer went beyond simple generosity.
There was only a moment's pause before Hassan shook his head.
"It is truly a shame, lord of the Orsini, but the simple fact is that while I could always use a little more money - even the stinking currency of your vile nation - I have no wish to endanger myself by entering into dealings with the families of Italia."
He straightened again, rocking on the balls of his feet.
"You will all live as long as it pleases me to see you do so. I suggest you put your minds to thinking how you might please me and my crew, or of what benefit you can be."
Hassan turned his gaze to Skiouros for a moment, apparently weighing something up.
"You disgust me, priest. All of your kind sicken me, but there is something about you specifically that sets my teeth on edge. Had I the leisure to follow my whims, I would tip you over the side tied to one of the great gold crosses of Zakynthos that reside in my hold, and see whether your precious God would help you float."
Skiouros felt his shaking intensify once more. "But," Hassan said, straightening and folding his arms, "my crew are superstitious, as is the nature of sailors, and I would not have them fear ill luck brought on by your death. You will accompany the others."
"As God wills."
"No" Hassan said flatly. "As I will. You will join your fellow infidels below and prepare to sail. And I give you this one warning only: if at any time I hear your spiteful pleas to your vile God, I will have your tongue torn out and tossed in the sea."
Skiouros nodded meekly and tried to stand quietly and control the trembling as he pondered on the possible fates that awaited he, Parmenio, Nicolo and Cesare. Half a minute later Mehmi returned to the deck and began issuing instructions to the Turkish sailors before striding over to his captain and the four Christians standing by the rail.
Captain Hassan gestured one of his sailors over and rattled something off to him in Turkish before turning to the prisoners.
"This man - Kadri - will take you below to your accommodation for the journey. It is a little cramped, but I see no need to bind your limbs unless you prove to be troublesome." He gave them a pointed look, which seemed to be mostly aimed at Skiouros. "Do not prove to be troublesome."
The Turkish crewman gestured to the gap between the ships and beckoned the four men. Skiouros fell in at the rear of the group, as he felt would be appropriate and fitting for a monk. As they crossed, slowly and carefully, trying not to lose their footing over the dangerous two-foot precipice with the roiling foamy carpet below, Skiouros became aware of two things:
Firstly, the sound of screaming and staccato splashes as the condemned sailors were kicked over the far side of the Isabella, roped to one another, and ultimately to a cannon ball.
Secondly, the one called Mehmi stepped close to his captain and asked a question that Skiouros couldn't quite hear, in a whispered, almost conspiratorial manner. Hassan frowned and leaned towards his second before answering in a similar voice. The conversation, whatever it concerned, seemed to be intense and secretive, and Skiouros found himself hurrying the prison party forward so that he could get clos
er to the pair, casting his signet ring into the sea between the ships unnoticed and with no small regret.
As the four captives were led towards the hatch that gave access to the hold, Skiouros listened as carefully as he could to the whispered thread of conversation, his excellent hearing managing to blot out the sounds of shipboard life, the sailors' grumbling, and even the executions, and focus purely on the one thing he needed to hear. It was a talent he had nurtured during his time living solely off his wits in the greatest city in the world.
Filing away the titbits of what he heard for further consideration later, he concentrated on walking in a monastic manner and not falling over. Soon he was past the pair and being urged on towards the hatch by a second Turk with a curved blade. As he moved reluctantly forward, Skiouros continued to strain his hearing to catch the last echoes of the conversation.
And then he was stepping down the ladder, following Nicolo into the gloom. Though he'd spent time below decks on the Isabella, this was an entirely different proposition. The hold of the caravel had been high-ceilinged and subdivided with bulkheads, creating individual spaces for different cargoes, some areas for the slinging of hammocks for the sailors not currently on duty above deck, a rudimentary sick bay and an area for the preparation of the crew's food and the distribution of same and their rations of drinking water. The Yarim Ay's hold, however, consisted of one huge compartment the length and width of the ship and only a head taller than the tallest man, the only subdivision being the posts and struts that supported the deck above.
What was more impressive than the hold itself, though, was its contents. The entire vessel was packed with goods. Skiouros could recognise the stores by their shapes and containers, even if he could not read the Arabic script on their labels. From just an initial glance, he could see enough supplies here to keep a ship afloat for more than half a year, a fact that seemed to confirm what he'd heard above.
A narrow alleyway had been left down the centre of the hold, which smelled of wood, grease, sweat and spices, and a space had been cleared somewhere at the very centre of the ship.
The Turk in front of them gestured to the area and pushed them past to sink to their knees on the timber, not bothering to waste words on these human cattle. As soon as the four men were in their 'accommodation' the two Turkish sailors left, threading their way back aft and then up into the sunshine.
Below, all was gloom, lit only by the feeble sunshine that crept in through the tiny apertures along the hull below the main deck.
"Do you think they'll leave us un-roped?" Skiouros asked quietly, aware that the warning against trouble had been aimed at him for some reason.
"I imagine so" Parmenio sighed. "What harm can we do? We are at the mercy of that madman. Even Master Orsini's offer of boundless riches couldn't sway him."
"Perhaps we could make it on deck at night and attempt to purloin a boat?" Orsini mused, his eyes gleaming.
"We would be dead before we struck a blow above deck" Nicolo stated, shaking his head. "These are not gullible men. They're corsairs, used to dealing with prisoners. Be damn sure that if they've left us unchained it's because they have nothing to fear from us. Dark in here, though" he added. "Do you think we could persuade them to let us have a lamp or a candle at night?"
"Not likely," Parmenio replied, "with the black powder that has to be stored in here somewhere. They had cannon and other guns."
Skiouros shuddered at the memory of the huge stores of powder he'd seen as they travelled the cargo hold, and then at the more distant recollection of chunks of the Nea Ekklesia raining down from the sky during a torrential storm.
"Maybe we could find the powder and detonate it?" Nicolo shrugged. "If the store's small enough and localised enough we could blow it and try getting to safety in the confusion while they attempt to save the ship?"
Skiouros swept the monk's hat from his head and scratched his scalp.
"I saw the kegs on the way down here - supplies I'd say for more than one ship. With the stores of powder in here, you don't want to even think about lighting a flame. If just one should catch, pieces of the ship will be coming down like rain as far away as Istanbul, and bits of us with it. Trust me - I have some experience in this area."
Parmenio and Nicolo turned surprised expressions on him, but he seemed not to be inclined to elucidate further, and now was probably not the time for such tales of Skiouros' youth.
With a quick glance aft to check the ladder was empty and the hold clear of eavesdroppers, Parmenio leaned forward and lowered his voice.
"I saw you listening in to the captain as we were brought aboard. What did he say?"
Orsini smiled curiously. "I should have guessed that you spoke Turkish, my friend. Monks' robes and gunpowder and now multilingual. You are a constant stream of surprises."
Skiouros gave another conspiratorial glance about at the packed yet silent cargo hold, the only noises coming from above as goods were ferried across from the Isabella and the Yarim Ay was brought down from a war footing.
"It appears the crew are a little jumpy after some trouble they had when they left Greece - I think that's the only reason Hassan didn't have me flayed and left on the Isabella to drown. Didn't hear much about that, but it sounds to me very much as though there is a level of friction between this Hassan and his superior, a senior captain called Kemal. We're sailing west to join up with a fleet of two more kadirga near somewhere called Jebel Tariq. Not sure where that is, but it must be some distance away, as they're concerned about the possibility of Spanish ships intercepting them before they arrive."
"That gives us plenty of time, I suppose" Nicolo sighed. "Best get used to our quarters for now, and hope that Fernando and Isabella's navy find us as we close on Spain."
"Not likely" Skiouros said, his mouth a grim line. "There's to be a detour before the main voyage, to the Suq-al-Birka at Tunis."
"Tunis" mused Parmenio thoughtfully. "The Suq-something or other, you say?"
"Suq-al-Birka" repeated Skiouros. "The slave market."
Chapter Seven - Of disguises and superstition
It had been a cramped, sweaty and extremely uncomfortable night, and Skiouros had lost count of the number of times he had woken, disorientated and stiff, panicking at his unfamiliar, Spartan surroundings, only settling into the disconsolate realisation of his situation as he picked out the shapes of Parmenio, Nicolo and Cesare in the tight confines of their prison.
For Skiouros the morning was announced rudely as hands gripped him by the armpits and dragged him upright, jolting him jarringly from a pleasant dream in which he and Lykaion had been racing around their father's farm's perimeter fence, back outside the walls of Hadrianople, pretending to compete for the ancient Olympic wreath.
Blinking crusty sleep from his eyes in yet another confused panic, he fought his captors for a moment, elbows and feet jabbing and kicking, before remembering where he was and - more importantly - in what guise.
Settling, he allowed the two Turkish sailors to lift him to his feet. As he held up his hands in a gesture of calm and acceptance, the other three prisoners stirred from their uncomfortable slumber at the scuffling interruption, Cesare coming to his feet quickly with the look of a man about to react to the rough-handling of a servant of God. As the nobleman sprang upright, both Nicolo and Parmenio reached up and grasped his arms to prevent him doing anything foolish.
"Leave it be, Orsini" Parmenio hissed, and Cesare held his arms out, stepping back. Neither of the Turks was armed, but any move against them would bring the prisoners into direct conflict with dozens of men above who were.
"What is the meaning of this?" snapped Cesare at the two Turks, who simply shook their heads in incomprehension at the Italian tongue and began to manhandle Skiouros along the narrow alleyway of the darkened deck towards the stairs. Again, behind them, Orsini made to follow, but his companions grasped him and held him back.
"Now is not the time" Parmenio said. "If you interfere, you might just get
him - and the rest of us - killed."
Skiouros turned his head as he was pushed roughly at the steps, and cleared his throat.
"The Lord will protect me" he said loudly, aiming it at his three friends below deck, yet announcing it more for the benefit of those who waited on deck.
As he was urged into the light above, Skiouros realised that the morning had progressed further than he had suspected from the tiny light sources below. The sun was well above the horizon and the crew were already busy at work, performing the arcane tasks required of a sailing vessel, the oarsmen waiting miserably for the command to begin rowing.
The stern platform of the kadirga was set up in much the same way as most Ottoman galleys, an ornate wooden rail - this one carved with beautiful images of Anatolian birdlife - around the periphery, a framework forming the bones of a small wooden structure occupying much of the stern section of deck. The captain's house was covered with a decorative, rich fabric roof, its tasselled edges secured to lines that allowed it to be hauled back to open the structure to the fresh air, removable screens of light decorative latticework allowing for the room to be fully enclosed or opened up, even to become bare deck, as it was now.
Standing proud and unyielding at the rear of the vessel, Etci Hassan seemed almost like some ancient Emperor or despot - or perhaps a daemon of Biblical lore - as he watched the approach of the prisoner. He stood calm, his arms folded, the squat ugly shape of Mehmi lurking by his side like some sort of homunculus. A number of the Turkish sailors - the ones not currently required to deal with the sails and ropes - stood around the rail, looking for all the world like some sort of court awaiting the arrival of a criminal.
The morning sea breeze wafted across the deck, cooling the ship's occupants, taking some of the heat out of the already blazing southern Mediterranean sun.
Priest's Tale Page 9
