Skiouros felt the blast as an almost unbearable heat on his back as he caught up with the others. Ahead other apparently friendly spectators had managed to fling open the wide cart-gate. The nearest guards were having trouble fighting their way through the crowd.
It was unbelievable. Skiouros had tried again and again to find a way out of their predicament. He had fought and struggled, planned and schemed and all to no avail, but the Lord had apparently provided.
He felt an almost overwhelming sense of relief as he passed through the gate and out into an alley, wide enough for a cart but little more. There were few locals about and they were content to watch with interest rather than embroil themselves in the action.
"This way" shouted the priest, haring off up the alley at a turn of speed that belied his age and physique. The three who had accompanied him to the table ran alongside while behind Skiouros four more left the slave market, slamming shut the large gate and rolling a heavy barrel in front of it before running after them.
"Shit!" bellowed Parmenio from the front, drawing Skiouros' attention ahead once more.
Etci Hassan and his pair of Turks had stepped out of the door they had been close to and ahead of the fleeing slaves, weapons at the ready. Skiouros felt a moment of panic. Hassan was a fine swordsman, as he'd displayed while executing one of his own men, and the pair of sailors with him were likely to be the best he had. On the other hand, Skiouros was unarmed, Orsini the same but also badly beaten, the other two still manacled, and the rest apparently Christian townsfolk with small knives at most.
A straight fight would be fatal for many people, and it was unlikely any of the Turks would be among them.
As he ran, Skiouros swooped his arm down and picked up a heavy stone from the floor. He hefted it for only a moment and then flung it at the three men. It was not aimed specifically, but it was not his intention to do specific damage with it. Instead it struck as he had envisaged, causing the men to turn aside, the stone glancing off one of the sailors' hips and spinning him around slightly.
Barely pausing to think, Skiouros reached out and grasped the knife on the hip of the man running beside him, wrenching it from its sheath.
"Take the left" he bellowed, at no one in particular, but fairly sure that Orsini would try to oblige. Paying no further attention, Skiouros ran at the quickly-recovering Hassan at the centre of the trio, whose blade was coming up to defend himself against this pitiful attack. What could a man with a knife do?
Skiouros had learned the use of the Spanish rapier from the expert Don Diego de Teba, and the standard moves of military sword fighting from Iannis of the Duke of Candia's staff. Both would be of use against Etci Hassan, had Skiouros a blade and plenty of room. But beyond the lessons of the former guard and the Spanish nobleman he had also had a few useful lessons from Draco, with his broken nose and brown stumps of teeth.
Skiouros hit the ground in a roll, angled past the captain's legs.
In a blur of movement his dagger came down in mid-roll, punching through Hassan's tough leather boots, plunging on through the flesh and the delicate bones of the corsair's foot and then the sole, driving into the ground. Skiouros rolled on, leaving the blade standing proud from the foot.
Hassan let forth a great bellowing cry of rage and pain as Skiouros came out of the roll another four yards behind them. The man with the bruised hip was still recovering himself.
Cesare and two of the Christians had kept the other sailor busy as the rest ran past, but Skiouros could see blood on them and realised that they had paid heavily for their passage.
Skiouros didn't linger to take in the situation but ran on, along with the others, attempting to put as much distance as possible between themselves and the Turks before Hassan managed to remove the blade and unpin his foot.
A dozen heartbeats passed and they rounded a corner into another street, the priest leading them, his companions herding them as fast as they could. Skiouros glanced back for only a moment as they turned the corner to see the three Turks struggling exactly where they'd left them. Skiouros wished for a moment that he'd had the time and leisure to do away with Hassan and it came as a sudden surprise to him to discover that the Turk who until now had simply been 'the enemy' had suddenly taken on as much a dark hatred in his heart as had the conspirators who had led to Lykaion's death. He would happily drop a heavy marble column capital on the head of this Turk too, now.
It was only as he turned back to run on that he felt his leg almost give way and looked down.
His vestments were glistening black and wet below a ragged hole that had been rent somewhere around his middle. He stared in shock as the pain in his waist blossomed, alongside the realisation that Hassan had been every bit as fast as he and had managed a counter-blow as he had rolled past, striking home with a far better accuracy than Skiouros' delaying blow.
How bad was it? A torso wound was never good, Lykaion had once said.
Skiouros felt the desperate grip of hands grabbing him as his world slid into blackness.
Chapter Eleven - Of the butcher's rage
Mehmi lurked outside the gilt door of the audience chamber. His squat, brutal frame had never looked more out of place than here in this vestibule of gold, blue and white, with its banners bearing the sword of Islam, the blue lion of the Hafsid dynasty, the three crescents on blue of Emir Zakariya the Second, the white-on-red crescent of the Tunisian Emirate and countless other decorative designs of peacock feathers and gilded fretwork. The diminutive, slope-shouldered pirate with his curled beard, Ottoman turban, salt-stained rough sailor's trousers and jacket and heavy boots, shuffled uncomfortably from foot to foot.
Not only was he extremely unhappy at simply being in the court of the Hafsid Emir, who had every right and every reason to execute them on the spot for making landfall in his demesne, but two other things were preying on his mind almost as much as their potential predicament:
First was the fact that they would already have to sail as fast as the Yarim Ay could manage - a killing pace for the galley slaves - in order to reach their rendezvous with the great commander Kemal Reis in the straits, and the delay caused by the side trip to the market in Tunis had stretched their schedule to snapping point, but now to further delay over such a lost cause as the four slaves was making him twitchy. The whole of Hassan's crew were loyal to the death to their captain, of course, but they also all knew that he rode a fine line of unpopularity in the fleet and that he could still theoretically be removed from command and sent home in disgrace by Kemal. Angering the fleet commander through further delay was ridiculous.
But the thing that was really making him twitch was the priest. Mehmi's mother - may the blessed nineteen keepers of the fires of the abyss spend the rest of eternity torching the flesh from the old hag's bones - had always impressed on her malformed child, in between beatings, that the Christian priests were not men of God. They were sorcerers and witches and purveyors of infidel, heretic, evil spells. Mehmi had never paid too much attention to the idea, despite his loathing of all Christians, but the journey from Greece had brought all those painful lessons flooding back.
Priests were magicians of the blackest kind. Abhorred by the prophet - may Allah protect and keep him - God had turned his back on these wicked black-robed creatures in a way he had not for the other peoples of the Book. Hassan himself had cut the throat of the Zakynthian priest on his altar, watching the red stain blossom on the ivory-coloured altar cloth. But it had been Mehmi who had nailed the man's wrists and ankles to the crossed benches while the sailors had systematically peeled away his flesh, leaving a twisted pink parody of the great Christian symbol.
Mehmi had thought at the time that this dishonouring of the prophet and Masih Isa - who the Christians called Jesus - could only bring them trouble, but Hassan had been adamant in his thirst for their blood.
And then they had compounded their sins and crimes by bringing the priest's corpse on board the kadirga! Madness.
It had come as
no surprise to Mehmi when Kepci the carpenter had suddenly collapsed the next morning, fountaining blood from his open mouth, gore flooding down his front - Kepci had been one of the men who had flayed the priest. A corpse brought inside meant three deaths, though, and after Kepci had been unceremoniously cast into the sea - Hassan was resolute that the death was an illness rather than a curse and he would not have the body kept among the living even for the appropriate rites a good Muslim deserved - Mehmi had spent the next two days checking his skin, his spit and his breathing each time he stood still, panicked that his part in the priest's death would make him one of the three.
It had come as an immense relief when over the following days Halil and Nebi had vomited their innards onto the deck, marking them as dead men and announcing the end of the curse.
But not the end of the troubles.
Yes, they had brought a dead priest on board, but beyond that they had angered God and the Prophet by their disrespect and in return he had sent them the Greek priest and his companions. Mehmi had pleaded with the captain not to kill them - and he had agreed - but where Mehmi had advocated they be dropped on the coast of Sicilia unharmed and free where they could end the curse, Hassan had instead seen them as an extra profit for the voyage and planned this diversion to Tunis.
Hassan Reis did not know that Christian priests were also witches - he had not the benefit of Mehmi's upbringing. But the priest had almost led them into chaos and a riot in Tunis when yet another of his accursed brotherhood had appeared from a side street and somehow his witchery had freed him and his companion from their chains. And then when the slaves were about to be sold and finally out of Mehmi's hair - such as that was - the priest had produced an explosion from nowhere and managed to escape, wounding the captain in the process.
As soon as the messenger had returned to the ship telling Mehmi that they would remain in port for a day, and that the second in command was to join his captain in the city, Mehmi's heart had sunk, for he knew that the priest and his cursed magick had struck again. As Mehmi had attended upon the captain, Hassan had been tending to his wounded foot with the aid of a local doctor - a Jewish one, no less; a son of fallen Granada, possibly rescued and transported to Africa in their very own ship these past two years.
The captain was renowned for his temper - cold and calculated as it was - and Mehmi had seen the man in moods that would make djinn and demons shrink away, but he had never seen Etci Hassan Reis as angry as he had been while his foot was being bound. Mehmi would swear he had seen the first real colour ever in the captain's eyes as flames like the very core of Jahannam - that the Christians simplified as Hell - burned in his eyes.
The captain had told Mehmi that as soon as he felt comfortable walking, they would be enlisting the aid of the Emir. Mehmi had almost fainted at the proposal, but the captain seemed unafraid of the ruler of Tunis - a man who was their enemy almost as much as the Mamluks and the Christians.
The guards who had accompanied them had been told to wait outside the palace gate, while Hassan alone would be granted an audience if it pleased the Emir to do so. Mehmi had felt panic grip him once more.
"What shall I do, master?" he had asked, hoping the captain would send him back to the ship where he felt relatively safe. Instead, Hassan Reis had given him very specific instructions, and Mehmi had left, with only one man accompanying him, and extremely unhappy, to carry out those instructions.
The task had taken him almost three quarters of an hour and he had returned to the palace to find with surprise that the captain was still in the Emir's chamber in deep consultation. He had half expected to return to find Hassan's head on a spear point over the gate, and when instead he had been invited into the vestibule to wait for his captain, he had felt fresh chills, but tinged with wonder and pride. Only the great Etci Hassan Reis could charm - or more likely frighten - an Emir into peaceful negotiation.
Ten minutes he had stood here now, waiting for his captain or for the Emir's guards with their beheading sword. When the door opened with a click, Mehmi almost urinated a little, but relief flooded through him at the sight of Etci Hassan, striding with purpose - and only a slight wincing limp - out into the corridor.
"Come, Mehmi."
"Master" he replied quietly as he fell in at Hassan's heel trying to get a glimpse through the doorway, but failing as it swung closed with another gentle click.
"Have you completed your task, Mehmi?"
"Yes, my captain. But, Lord…"
Hassan stopped dead, rocking slightly as he finished on his bound foot, and turned his head to regard the squat sailor.
"What?"
"With the deepest respect, Lord, we need to sail west at the first tide. The commander is waiting for us and…"
"I have been insulted, tricked and cheated, Mehmi."
"Yes, Lord, but the money we have…"
"Is as nothing weighed against our reputation and my personal honour. The Shaytan-born whore-fodder fake priest and his three djinn companions will die for what they have done. I would sooner throw the most holy Imam from the highest minaret than let that dog live free after what he has done."
"But lord we have enough treasure to…"
"Money is now immaterial, Mehmi. I have promised a chest of Zakynthian silver and gold to the Emir. In return he will seal the city gates against all unauthorized traffic. The cursed djinn" a pause to spit on the tiled floor "will not leave this city alive."
"The Emir's guards will help?"
"No. They will seal the city, but nothing more, though I offered further coin for further assistance. Now come. Show me the result of your task."
Mehmi fell in behind once more as his captain strode on. He wanted to beg Hassan to leave the matter and sail on. He wanted to tell him that the witch-priest had already cost them too much and to pursue him further was to cost them all the more, probably their lives, even. Perhaps their souls. He wanted nothing more than to get back aboard the Yarim Ay and sail for their rendezvous. He would even be glad to see the arrogant Kemal Reis and his pet captain, Salih. Anything other than pursuing this accursed slave.
But Hassan's mind was not for turning, and Mehmi could go no further - he knew how far he would be allowed to push before snapping the butcher's fragile patience and he himself becoming the target of the captain's rage.
All the way back through the palace, under the baleful eye of the Hafsid guards, he tried to think of an argument that would work, but failed and finally, as they stepped out into the dazzling, searing Tunisian sunshine, Mehmi knew that as long as those four men were trapped in the city, the captain would not leave.
"Where do we go?" Hassan said, quietly and with purpose, as his half-dozen sailors re-joined them and fell in behind, their hands on their weapons and eyes suspiciously dancing around the faces of the locals as they passed.
"There is a khave house a few streets away, where the man said he would meet us. He told me you were to come alone, barring me as a guide."
Hassan's expression did not change, nor did his pace falter, as he snapped "I will not be dictated to by an Arab criminal. Come - show me this khave house."
Mehmi, his short legs scurrying to keep the pace, led his captain around a few corners, where the locals backed away into shady doorways or alleys, keeping out of reach of this Turk and his men. Finally, a minute or two later, they came to a heavy, low white building with a single doorway covered with a colourful rug, and two arched windows that gazed out of the wall like dark, unseeing eyes.
"Here?"
"Yes, Lord."
Without preamble, Hassan strode through the door, pushing the rug aside with a negligent hand and pausing to allow his pale, strange eyes to adjust to the darkness within.
Mehmi followed in, nervously aware of the guards entering behind him.
The building consisted only of one low room, with small circular tables and heavy leather cushions for seating, a timber bench in the corner serving as a counter, while a raddled old woman in black sat
at a stone block with a shallow depression, grinding coffee with a single-mindedness of purpose. The level to which she was intent on her work may, however, have something to do with the khave house's occupants, which seemed also to be forcing the owner to take an obsessive interest in the cleanliness of his cups.
Mehmi looked around at the leather cushions, of which only three were free, and counted more than twenty men who, he would be willing to bet, had spent the majority of their lives raiding trade caravans and butchering the merchants. In short, they looked a lot like the crew of the Yarim Ay, but without the naval uniformity.
"I told your pet toad: 'no guards'."
Mehmi's jaw muscles twitched as his hand went to the pommel of his knife. Regardless of danger, witches and curses, he was not the sort of man to allow that kind of insult to pass easily. The captain's restraining hand clamped over the top of his own without Hassan's head even turning. Mehmi relaxed into a seething mass, glowering at the motley collection of killers and bandits around them.
"I am a captain of the great Sultan Bayezid's fleet. I go nowhere without my guard, thief. Are you interested in proper negotiation, or would you like to puff and bluster like a Christian for a little longer?"
The room fell into an unnatural silence as hands gripping small cups of strong, gritty khave paused halfway between table and mouth. The man who was addressing Hassan - an older man with white hair and beard and a dirty saffron-coloured turban - stared at the captain in stony silence for half a dozen heartbeats, then finally grinned and leaned back, sipping his khave and then folding his arms behind his head.
The tension dissipated in moments.
"You interest me, Turk. An enemy of my people, and yet you dock here and enter as though you owned the city, seeking an audience with both the Emir and myself. What could I possibly do for you that he cannot?"
Hassan strode across and dropped into the leather seat, almost completely suppressing his limp by sheer force of will, thought Mehmi saw the strain on his face.
Priest's Tale Page 16
