Skiouros kept his pace measured and careful, as might be expected of a monk. His vestments flapped in the breeze and he was immensely grateful that he had removed his expensive boots last night and hidden them among the cargo, returning to bare feet as an option less likely to reveal his true nature. The varnished boards seared the soles of his feet, having already soaked up an hour of sunlight.
The sailors at his shoulders let go of his arms and Skiouros wondered what he was supposed to do now. Unsure, he continued to walk for a few paces until he stood in the centre of the rough square of Turks, the nerves beginning to play up and down his spine as he tried desperately to keep the stately, measured stance of a man who knows that God will save him.
Even if it be only that insubstantial part of him that cannot be sliced, stabbed and burned.
Skiouros' relationship with God had been something of a rickety cart ride over the past few years - his whole life, if he was honest. While he could hardly deny the existence of the creator - and the verbose ghost of his brother clearly indicated that death was far from the end - he could not say that his faith in his mother church was strong enough to deny the possibility that the Muslims had the right of it. Or the Catholics. Or even the Jews.
Yet for the time being, he had to put aside his uncertainties and his confusion and focus on what he knew of the church of his youth, bringing it into play as though that were the pillar that supported the ceiling of his existence. His very real physical life depended upon it for now.
While he had been extremely uncertain of the value of Parmenio's idea and of the monk robes, and while it appeared that Etci Hassan harboured nothing but the desire to butcher each and every Christian he could lay hands one - particularly priests, the crew were for some reason extremely nervous about him, and it was that strange and unexpected aspect that had saved him from Hassan's blade. The robes had, despite everything, saved his life so far.
He thought of those who hadn't been as lucky as they; Parmenio, Nicolo, Cesare and Skiouros had been saved only because of their value as slaves - experienced navigators and traders, a nobleman and a priest would likely fetch a good price for Hassan, while ordinary ship-hands would not be worth the trouble and cost of transport.
Those other poor souls were currently resting on the sea bed some leagues to the east, roped to a cannon shot. Whether or not Skiouros liked the monk's robe, and whether or not he felt it was some kind of blasphemy to wear it, without these stinking, dusty vestments, he would now be one of those still, silent denizens of the deep instead of uncomfortable but alive aboard the kadirga Yarim Ay.
His attention was brought sharply back to his current predicament as something thudded into the deck little more than an inch from his feet. Staring down in panic, Skiouros' eyes fell upon his fine Spanish blade, point driven into the timber, rocking back and forth with a curious wobbling sound. His heart skipped a beat and he felt the sweat begin to trickle from beneath his veiled headgear. Later in the day, such perspiration would be brought on by the heat and the thickness of the robes, but for now it was clearly caused by fear.
His legs confirmed the diagnosis.
Suppressing the panic he felt rising, he raised his face and cast a calm, questioning glance at the Ottoman corsair captain, trying not to worry about the nervous tic he could feel jumping beneath his left eye. He remembered the superstition about that from his Ottoman-oppressed youth. A tic below the eye was a warning of impending death!
"Pick it up" Etci Hassan said quietly in Italian.
Skiouros felt his mouth opening to reply and forced it shut again, frowning and cocking his head to one side in feigned incomprehension.
"Pick. It. Up" Hassan repeated, slowly and this time in Greek.
"Such a tool of wanton destruction has no place in the hand of a servant of God" Skiouros replied flatly.
An uncomfortable silence settled across the deck, somehow emphasised by the crack, flap and thump of the sails, the creak of the wood and the splash of the waves below.
"PICK IT UP!" bellowed Hassan, still in Greek, spittle spraying across the deck. Skiouros noted with interest how the unpleasant gap-toothed imp Mehmi cowered slightly to the side at this outburst, and he remembered the unpleasant Turk's reaction to the arrival of a monk on board the previous day - hatred laced with fear that led to a warding off of evil. Was this cowering simply a response to his captain's anger - undoubtedly Hassan's anger would truly be a thing to behold - or something deeper-rooted, revolving around the danger of upsetting a man of God? If the latter, it could be played upon.
Slowly, as if handling something unpleasant - a gutted fish perhaps, or the unidentifiable detritus that littered the back alleys of Istanbul - Skiouros reached down and grasped the hilt of his sword. It had only driven into the deck by the slightest fraction - just enough to keep it upright. He would have no trouble removing it, though he made a show of yanking it from the timber with considerable difficulty, straining his reedy priestly arms. Hassan's expression did not change an iota, though Skiouros felt it already had the distinct impression of a sneer.
"Is this your sword, 'priest'?"
Once again, Skiouros felt the panic rising and had to fight it down, grateful that only his hands and face were visible and that the shaking and sweat were somewhat concealed by the robes - though such nerves would be fully understandable in a captive, even one with nothing to hide. He frowned in feigned perplexity.
"Captain?"
"Is. This. Your. Sword?" Hassan repeatedly slowly as though addressing a child - or an idiot.
Skiouros looked down at the blade in is hand, trying to let it dip and wave as though he was totally unfamiliar with its weight.
"I do not understand, captain. I am a man of God… I have no need for such a weapon."
Mehmi, Skiouros noted, nodded slightly, made the warding sign against evil once again, tugging his ear urgently and sucking through his teeth, and then looked askance nervously at his commander.
Etci Hassan merely straightened his back for a moment and then unfolded his arms, putting them behind his back and clasping them there.
"Curiously, during our inventory of the goods taken from the stern cabins of the caravel, this blade turned up with no clear owner."
"I have no knowledge of this thing" Skiouros replied, staring with distaste at the sword in his hand and wondering for just a heartbeat whether he would survive the four steps forward that were all he would need to plunge the tip into the pirate's black heart.
Hassan rocked back and forth a couple of times on his heels and toes.
"The two officers we have below surrendered their blades to me when they came aboard, yet this sword was found in the captain's cabin. It is, I note, a very fine blade of Spanish manufacture. Considerably more expensive than the captain would wield, judging by his rather poor appearance."
Skiouros shrugged.
"Perhaps it belongs to Master Orsini?" he hazarded.
"I think not" Hassan raised an eyebrow. "The Orsini's blade has already been located, identified by the family crest - the rose and stripes - stamped between the quillons. This blade appears to lack an owner - a wealthy one who is familiar with the martial skills - and that intrigues me."
He narrowed his eyes. "It intrigues me almost as much as the fact that when you gripped the blade to draw it from the deck, your fingers hooked through the side ring as though you knew precisely how to hold it. I abhor such decadent, womanish weapons, of course, but do not take me for a fool, priest. I have killed many a man as he affected that very grip."
Skiouros looked down at the hilt, mentally chiding himself for such a basic mistake, but simply shrugged and frowned as though the grip had been entirely accidental.
"Raise the blade" Hassan commanded.
Again, Skiouros looked up and frowned at him.
"I tire of repeating myself, priest. My revulsion at the very presence of your kind upon my vessel is almost unbearable, and the only reason I have not had you flayed to patch our
spare sail, salted and then strangled, is that Mehmi here and a good number of his compatriots feel that your death and torture may anger Allah - may he be praised - and bring about vengeful spirits and unpreventable deaths. I am less convinced, but as captain it is as much my duty to look to the welfare of my crew as it is theirs to obey my commands."
He glanced aside at the cowering homunculus. "In ten years of service, Mehmi has never seen me wrong, and so I am inclined to indulge his foibles."
The captain took a deep breath.
"However, I find you suspicious and troublesome, priest. There are too many infidel priests to my mind who hold ranks in military organisations founded with the simple intent of wiping my people from the world, and I cannot help but picture you in the garments of those cursed Rhodos knights. At this juncture it will take only a little more disobedience from you before I forget the respect in which I hold Mehmi and simply have you broken and quartered. If I have to repeat myself again, you will be able to confront your God in person with your complaints. Do I make myself clear?"
Skiouros nodded and bowed his head respectfully, suppressing the urge to point out that the Rhodos knights were in fact Catholic and a constituent part of those barbarian crusaders who had sacked Constantinople and ravaged the Orthodox church - a small piece of history drummed into the head of every Greek child by their priests at an early age. But then, what would a Muslim care about the divisions in the Christian world?
Slowly, he raised the point of the blade into the air as Hassan had commanded, allowing it to tremble and wave as though he were entirely unused to the action. He hoped the nervous sweat running freely down his face would be taken for a symptom of the exertion rather than fear.
"Halil? Kadri?" the captain said quietly.
The two sailors who had escorted Skiouros from the depths of the vessel stepped forward, coming to a halt beside of the prisoner. The young Greek allowed himself a quick glance to either side. To his left, the man was bulky and well-muscled - a warrior born, with a neat beard and numerous scars, he was dressed only in a white linen shirt and orange sash, baggy blue trousers and a conical hat, the tip of which had slumped forward. To the other side, the man was somewhat shorter, though displaying the physique of the long-term manual labourer, his shoulders bull-like. Wearing similar clothes, but with the addition of a pale grey jacket, he was lighter skinned and bore only well-oiled moustaches.
Skiouros braced himself, aware that something was about to happen and sure it would be something unpleasant.
"Halil and Kadri, retrieve your swords."
Skiouros stood perfectly still, the Spanish rapier wavering in his hand with his nerves as the two corsairs reclaimed their curved blades from their companions around the periphery before taking up position in front of and behind their prisoner.
"I have in mind a small test of your conviction, priest. I understand that an imam of your cursed faith is forbidden to take a life?"
Skiouros felt his blood begin to thump faster, the nerves getting the better of him. It was suddenly clear that sale into slavery was the very best Skiouros could hope for from this journey. He would be lucky to make it as far as the slave market of Tunis. Hassan's almost pathological need to humiliate, disprove and then execute him would not wane, and Skiouros would only be safe from the corsair captain's personal jihad when he had been enslaved by another. Hassan apparently cared not for the money his sale would raise - if he could prove Skiouros' lack of worth as a priest, he could execute him without the crew panicking. And the finding of the suspicious sword had given him that chance.
Clutching at any opportunity to bring the suspicious few of the crew back onto his side, Skiouros found himself saying in clear, loud Greek "I believe it is also forbidden in the Qur'an."
Almost kicking himself over his inappropriate outburst, Skiouros tried not to shake. Not only did the near-accusation sound incredibly confrontational - and he was fairly sure that pushing Hassan was not a clever move - would it not seem odd for an Orthodox monk to have any knowledge of the Muslims' holy text? Unable to stop it now, he dredged his memory for the line that Lykaion had pounded into him time and again to illustrate his faith's validity: "'Do not take life, which God has made sacred'. Is that not the word of your prophet?"
Hassan's mouth flattened into a hard line, his eyes becoming cold in their pale, almost-white eeriness.
"I believe Allah makes exceptions for those who do His work. The verse to which you refer completes: 'except though the law and justice'."
He straightened again. "The Qur'an also tells us to strike off the heads and fingers of all who do not believe. To 'slay them, wherever we find them'. Stick to your children's book of fables, priest, and do not befoul our holy text with your snake tongue."
He glanced down at the form of Mehmi, whose face displayed open shock at this exchange, and sneered.
"My patience is at an end, even at the expense of my crew's goodwill. Mehmi will forgive me eventually, I am sure. I give you a simple choice, priest: use the blade in your hand and strike down Halil who stands before you, or Kadri at your back will send you to your God in person. For I believe you are no priest, but a killer of men, merely in the guise of a dervish - an abhorrence in the eyes of Allah and the prophet. My faithful children here would not have me execute a priest, but you are no priest, are you?"
Mehmi's eyes rolled in the manner of a panicked horse and his gaze shot back and forth between his captain and the captive priest.
Skiouros felt the atmosphere thicken around him, tension running high in nearly every figure present. The sailors around the edge of the ship, standing by the rail, displayed a mixture of emotions ranging from distress and worry, through acceptance and interest, even to enthusiasm and ferocious hunger. Mehmi was almost vibrating with anxiety and Skiouros could hear Kadri behind him muttering a prayer under his breath with the vehemence of a man who is truly unsure of what he is about to do.
The only person who seemed utterly relaxed and unconcerned was Etci Hassan, his colourless basilisk stare fixed on Skiouros, displaying no emotion other than perhaps a mild curiosity tainted with disdain.
Skiouros looked up at the tip of his blade.
The big, bulky Halil, before him, slowly removed his shirt, displaying a bare chest coated with a thick rug of black curly body hair that was beginning to turn grey. The sailor seemed remarkably calm, given that he was being asked to offer up his life merely to tempt Skiouros into a blow, the only sign of his inner struggle a single tear that trickled down a cheek as he straightened and bared his naked torso to Skiouros' blade.
Almost immediately, Skiouros felt the tip of another sword tickle his vertebrae as Kadri raised his weapon in preparation.
Kill or be killed?
Skiouros hesitated, his bladder pulsing and threatening to relieve itself down his leg.
"Decision time, priest" Hassan said calmly.
Skiouros took a deep breath. He'd never been much of a gambler. He liked to have all the good cards in his hand from the outset - to know the outcome before making a play. To actually guess was anathema to him even in a friendly game of cards, let alone with stakes as high as this. And yet he was left with little choice.
Inaction or indecision would simply give the captain all the excuse he needed to have Kadri run him through - a choice that would require some fence-mending with his crew, but which hardly benefitted Skiouros. But then, striking down Halil would prove him either a liar, a bad priest or a weak man, and all of those would provide Hassan with just as much reason to do away with him and probably with the crew's blessing. The captain had placed him in a no-win position.
All Skiouros could do now was gamble blindly.
The only thing he had on his side was the superstition of Mehmi and his crewmates that still currently held some sway and the hope that it was a powerful enough force to protect him from the captain's hatred, although the reason they should be so nervous about harming a Christian priest still escaped him.
&nb
sp; Skiouros took a deep breath and cast his sword across the deck to one side with a clatter, stepping forward just a half-step, away from the tickle of the sword point, his hands clasped together in prayer.
"Forgive them Lord, for their mercilessness" he said loud enough to carry to every ear in the court-like square.
He dropped his face to the deck, hunched over his clasped hands and rattling off the one hundred and fifty first - the only psalm he could remember from the services of his youth - mumbling through the parts that evaded his memory, sure that the Turks would not notice.
He squeezed his eyes shut, awaiting the next move, his blood pounding, skin cold with anticipation.
"I was small among my brothers and the youngest in the house of my father; I would shepherd the sheep of my father."
Hardly an appropriate incantation, given the circumstances, but to the uninitiated - many of whom would have no command of Greek - it would sound thoroughly spiritual, especially since he could remember the melody and had always been able to carry a tune quite well.
"My hands made an instrument… (mumble, mumble) harp. And who will report it to my lord? The Lord himself, for it is he who listens."
Silence reigned in the space surrounding his words - the silence of an execution being carried out. But Kadri's blow never came.
The darkness behind his eyelids became an orange glow as the hulking figure of Halil moved out of his way and the sun blazed down on the praying monk. Falling silent, Skiouros unclasped his hands, allowing them to fall to his sides, and straightened, opening his eyes and blinking in the light. Hassan had folded his arms once more, Memhi beside him, wide-eyed and clearly relieved beyond imagining.
"It was he who sent his messenger and took me from the sheep of my father and anointed me…"
"Cease your prattle!" snapped Hassan, turning to regard Kadri only momentarily before returning his eyes to the prisoner. "Take the priest back below."
Skiouros held Hassan's blood-chilling gaze for a moment before nodding a curt bow and turning towards the cargo hatch from whence he'd emerged. Kadri, his sword still out and looking almost as relieved as Mehmi had been, gestured to the ladder with the weapon. Back across the deck, Halil hurriedly retrieved his shirt and dressed once more. Skiouros eyed with regret his expensive sword, lying gleaming on the timbers, and stepped onto the ladder, disappearing into the gloom once more.
Priest's Tale Page 10
