Priest's Tale

by Turney, S. J. A.

  Parmenio shook his head. "We wondered why you were eating in town and not with us."

  "I was beginning to become heartily sick of being pursued. Time to deal with the problem altogether. I'm pretty certain that we have them all here. We have been tracking them across the town."

  He opened his mouth to speak further, but at a command from one of the thugs, the eleven men of Sidi Najid's criminal enterprise rushed the pair, triggering a second charge from the locals behind them with their mismatched weaponry.

  Parmenio swung his heavy curved blade as they approached, more trying to keep them at arm's length and out of the way than to actually hurt one. He smiled in satisfaction as the blow caught an unlucky bandit on the arm and cut almost to the bone, causing him to shriek and drop back. A second swing claimed no such result and, had he been facing the men alone, he would soon have been lying a bloody hacked lump on the floor. However, as he pulled back to swing a third time, the thug closest to him, snarling and pulling back his blade to swipe, suddenly stopped, his eyes rolling upward to try and see what had arrested his movement.

  The dark skinned local farmer wrenched his sickle tip back out of the top of the man's head, bringing pink and red matter with it and swung the wicked implement again, this time low and facing upwards, where it disappeared into the thug's torso, the curved tip cutting up inside the ribs.

  Parmenio felt a sudden elation - a thrill he rarely felt without watching a sharp ship's bow scything through the waves. With a shout, he swung the sword again. Beside him, Orsini fought three men on his own, including the big half-naked bully. His heavy old sword danced and flashed through the air, already gleaming metallic crimson. A stray blow caught him in the leg and for a moment, Parmenio worried that his friend was done for, but Cesare staggered upright again, using his wounded leg to pivot instead of step, and his blade lanced out, taking the big thug through the neck, cutting windpipe and muscle, smashing bone and cartilage before ripping out below the base of the skull.

  Cesare laughed as he almost staggered.

  Chapter Seventeen - Of fever's grip

  Skiouros stood in the white marble and golden latticework room, at the centre of the decorative floor, almost as though on trial. For some reason, although the only light source he could determine was the triple arched window that looked out over charming gardens, the periphery of the entire room remained in gloom and shadow, even the window. Any doors or exits were lost to sight and he stood in a shaft of light with no apparent source, almost as though God was illuminating him for the perusal of a hidden audience.

  Curiously, even though he knew this was a dream, in the same way as he'd known the previous dozen horrible, peculiar experiences were flights of imaginative fancy, this one felt slightly different. It had the feeling of something that was at once total illusion and yet real and vital, akin to his conversations with the ghost voice of his brother in the church at Candia.

  But one thing he also knew from those other dreams - nightmares? - that had beset him was that he would not be able to drag himself from this until the story had played itself out, when he would briefly surface into a sweating, uncomfortable world of swirling agonies.

  He was dressed in his vestments. No surprise there. The monkish robes had become such a part of his life recently that they had figured throughout each and every dream-scene in which he had taken part.

  Gradually his eyes picked out some details of the audience in the shadowed edges of the room and he realised that each of the four sides was like some sort of court of a king, with its alcove or exedra containing a throne-like chair and an occupying figure.

  Sultan Bayezid the Second, 'the just', was familiar enough a sight that he could easily identify him, despite never having seen him except over the heads of a large crowd. The man at the opposite end, though, was similarly dressed and bore a heavy resemblance. There was no doubt in Skiouros' mind, despite his unfamiliarity with the figure, that this was prince Cem Sultan, the usurper and anathema to all things in Skiouros' heart.

  To one side, below the bright windows which cast no light, a man with a stretched aquiline face wore a beehive-shaped hat and a collection of heavy robes. Of the fact that he was the Roman Pope there could be no doubt.

  And opposite him…

  Skiouros' already laboured and tortured heart pumped all the faster as he saw the familiar shape of Etci Hassan Reis seated, watching him with something akin to disgust.

  The many other figures standing shoulder to shoulder about them were their courtiers - pashas of civil and military roles about the Ottoman brothers, officers of the navy around Hassan and robed priests about the Pope.

  "What am I to do?" Skiouros asked quietly. What was the purpose of this?

  He turned slowly in a circle, taking in each and every figure. Though too shadowed to make out, he could identify Mehmi standing beside his master, the squat homunculus form a giveaway. Not wishing to learn anything more than he already knew of Hassan, he crossed away from the captain, approaching the other shadows. The robes and cowled monks there were Catholic ones, not Orthodox in the manner in which he was garbed, and Innocent the Eighth watched him impassively as he approached.

  "Why?" he asked again. No sounds emerged from the room other than his own breathing, and nothing moved, even the various robes staying still in the slight breeze from the window, as though every figure in the room but him had been carved from marble.

  Irritated, particularly in the knowledge that this was a dream and therefore a situation of his own devising, Skiouros stepped into the edge of the penumbra, squinting, and reached out with a mix of panic and anger, grasping a monk's hood and throwing it back.

  The Rhodian Knight from Tunis simply stared blankly past him. Anger gaining the upper hand, Skiouros ripped the cowls from the heads of two more monks, finding only two tonsured men he did not recognise - one grey with wild hair and the other neat and dark, with a squared beard.

  "So what is this? Who are these people? Why? I don't understand."

  But somehow, somewhere deep in his soul, a small flicker of understanding had been lit. A fourth cowled figure among the many was of slightly below average height and thin bodied. Skiouros had a nagging, unpleasant feeling, and backed away from the shadowed monk.

  "So what? I'm no monk, and I know it. As soon as I can, I will stop wearing the robes, believe me!"

  Spinning, he scurried along the room's longer axis towards prince Cem Sultan.

  "The same here? I know what I'll find!"

  He stepped towards the men in their turbans, their faces hidden in shadow, and wrenched the first head-covering from its owner, prepared in advance and totally unsurprised to see Qaashiq the Mamluk, master of assassins and would-be killer of the great Sultan. His hand tore the turban from Hamza Bin Murad and he resisted the urge to spit at the man and punch his intolerant, hate-filled face. His hand hovered over the turban of the smaller man next in line, but he paused.

  "Ah no" he waggled his finger admonishingly. "You'll not make me play that way. Nor will I touch Etci Hassan's imp or his friends."

  Skiouros turned and strode purposefully along the room, footsteps rapping on the marble floor and creating the only sound in the chamber. Almost eagerly he approached the Pashas - the council members and generals and administrators of the Ottoman Empire - his hand coming up.

  "For I know where I am and I know who I am, and I know what needs be done. And I know that when I rip the turban from this head it will be me that…"

  His voice tailed away as his hand fell to his side, still gripping the turban, only to find Lykaion staring at him, a jagged red line drawn around his throat, marking the end an assassin had made of his life. The very fact of standing face to face with his brother - even recognising that Lykaion was dead and that this was in truth a fevered dream - almost unmanned Skiouros; it brought crashing in so many emotions he had kept buried.

  "Lykaion…"

  Somehow, he knew that Parmenio and Nicolo and Cesare would be in
this room somewhere, and probably other people he knew and cared about even as there would be more people he loathed like Bin Murad and Etci Hassan. But while he loved and trusted his three friends, he knew that in the end, when all of this was over, his place would not be amongst them, but by his brother's side, under the benevolent gaze of the great Bayezid the Just. He could play the Orthodox priest all he liked, but his real place was in Istanbul, and the further he got from that great city that had been his home, the more it became true. When he had been there in the wake of Lykaion's death, he had dreamt of Crete and foreign climes, but he had not realised that those dreams were only luring him out into a great circular route that would eventually carry him back. The time was coming when he could no longer endanger his friends and he must look to the future. He smiled at the two figures who stood beside Lykaion.

  Nodding his acceptance of what must be, he reached out and took the turban first from the old Romani who stood on the far flank and then - in the centre - his own head, experiencing a certainty and a feeling of peace that he had not known since the days he and his brother had lived beneath the walls of Hadrianople.

  He smiled.

  Blinding light struck him dazzlingly and painfully as he opened his eyes.

  "Shalom" said a friendly voice, and Skiouros felt his muscles melt in relaxation.

  Chapter Eighteen - Of the endings and beginnings of journeys

  It was with a certain mixed sense of relief and sadness that Skiouros eyed the crucial port city of Ceuta from the heights of the landward hills. Grateful that he had finally discarded the priests' robes he relished the sun on his face and arms, though the black garb remained bundled with his gear. It had saved his hide more than once now.

  Turning, he watched Parmenio and Nicolo bidding their friendly farewells to the latest in the chain of Berber trade caravans that had seen them safely over a thousand miles of African mountain, scrubland and wastes to the very threshold of the Kingdom of Portugal. Cesare Orsini had said his goodbyes earlier and was even now resting a little apart on a large grey rock, easing the load on his leg which, though he had managed to avoid the infection that had almost claimed Skiouros' life, was still weak from the wound he had received from the bandits in Miliana.

  Relief and sadness.

  The relief was palpable and obvious, and was shared by the other three friends. Though the caravan would turn south here and head for Tanjah or Fas, the defences below them marked the end of the Muslim world they had traversed - a world of wonders and greatness, and a place where they had found friendship in the most unexpected places, and yet still a world full of dangers for the four friends. His gaze returned to Ceuta. The city was crammed onto a narrow spit of land that marched out from the African coast to a large hill surmounted by a heavily fortified castle. The place seethed with life, hardly an inch of open space left within the defences.

  At the near end of the spit heavy, squat walls in the Arabic style marched from one side of the isthmus to the other, a powerful drum tower at each end and a crenellated gate in the centre. A narrow channel had been dug, effectively allowing the sea itself to create a moat, and the bridge showed signs of being capable of being drawn up to render the moat impassable. The entire perimeter could not be more than three hundred yards. A small force could hold the city against a land army for ever. Of course, the production of boats by that army would soon see the place fall. Even with the scattered towers and wall stretches along the sea front, Skiouros could not see how this place remained in Portuguese hands. It could only be with the blessing of the Wattasid Sultan for a determined man with a small fleet could surely take the city. Presumably a number of the ships wallowing in the water nearby were Portuguese warships determined to keep the Sultan's armies at bay.

  Suburbs stretched out beyond the wall, filled with souks and street markets, and Skiouros felt he could see further - perhaps earlier - defensive walls almost lost in the seething centre of the city.

  But despite its life, its defences, even its great castle on the hill, the sight that drew their attention and brought such relief was the port with its multiple docks housing cogs, galleys, caravels and carracks. The port meant safety. The port represented a means to finally leave Africa and return to the lands of Europe.

  Relief and sadness.

  Sadness likely for Skiouros alone. Turning back again, he watched the two former officers of the Isabella wave their thanks and then start down the slope towards him. Sadness because he knew that somehow he was going to be leaving his friends soon. Whatever path the future held for Parmenio and Nicolo, they would tread it together, perhaps seeking loans from the Medici bank in order to purchase a small Portuguese carrack and re-found their commercial 'empire'. There was no room in such a plan for Skiouros, though he felt sure they would offer a place anyway. That was what friends did. And Orsini had some - probably tedious and political - future in Genoa or possibly in the heart of the Papal lands. The nobleman would invite Skiouros to come along with him, he felt sure - their shared experiences had bound them as tightly as friends could be. He would try to help Skiouros, because that was what friends did.

  But the simple fact was that Skiouros knew his future, and there was no room in it for friends. He could invite Parmenio and Nicolo and Cesare into his vengeance and he felt sure they would take his task for their own, but to do so would be to place their lives in direct peril. And Skiouros could not in conscience lead the others into the kind of danger he would face. He would cast them adrift rather than endanger them. Because that, also, was what friends did.

  Somehow he would make his way from Ceuta to the states of Italia, preferably separately from Orsini to save further trouble, and there inveigle himself into the court of the Pope his friend so despised until he discovered the location of Prince Cem the usurper. Then, he would hunt down the vile enemy of the Empire and slay him, finally avenging Lykaion and the whole Ottoman world.

  And somehow, he knew he would live. Since he had first decided upon his path in Crete he had been certain that the task would also see him dead, though hopefully after completing his task. But that almost-real, prescient dream that had wrenched him from the grip of the fever in Miliana had changed things. He knew now that he would live, because he had seen his future in that courtroom vision. His future lay in Istanbul, along with Lykaion - albeit his ghost - and the great Sultan Bayezid the Just. But it did not lie alongside Cesare or Parmenio or Nicolo.

  Sadness.

  But also relief for, in parting company with his friends, he saved them from the terrible dangers that would await him in Italia, and freed them to rebuild their lives after the awful fate that had almost befallen them at the hands of Etci Hassan.

  Ceuta. Portugal. Europe. Safety.

  "Are you coming?" Parmenio grinned as he fell in beside Skiouros, slapping him on the shoulder in a friendly manner. Even Nicolo, who only ever seemed to smile when he was joking at someone else's expense, wore a wide grin.

  Relief.

  "Indeed. Do you think we will be able to secure passage with what we have or will we be forced to work a few weeks as dockers to raise the funds?"

  Nicolo snorted. "Dockers? You wouldn't last a day with muscles like early-picked peas in a stringy pod."

  "No" Parmenio smiled. "I've done a couple of deals with our friends back there and sold on most of what we took from the bandits. I've a purse of coin that should see all four of us back to Europe. Of course we'll be broke when we get there, but they say the world is full of possibilities in the new Spain of Isabella and Fernando."

  "Unless you're a Jew or a Moor" Skiouros noted archly.

  "Well we're not. We can sort something out once we're safely across, and we're hardly rich, so it might be a working passage, but I can talk some captain into taking us, I'm sure. Now come on. Let's get to that port and find ourselves a ship."

  Parmenio was the most animated Skiouros had seen him since their first capture and it occurred to him that the captain was only truly comfortable a
t sea. Two months of being trapped on land must be for him what two months at sea would be for Skiouros. Of course, the young Greek knew he had the worst record with sea travel, but the trip across the straits would be a matter of hours at most, and in relatively secure conditions.

  He began to relax a little as they strolled on down the slope, collecting Cesare where he reclined on the rock and helping him to his feet. The leg wound had ruined the muscle in his left thigh above the knee and the Jewish doctor in Miliana had shaken his head and told them that it would be months before he could expect full strength, and that he would need to rest it as much as possible while it healed.

  The four friends walked slowly down the slope at Cesare's stilted pace, gradually joining the coast road that led into the suburbs and towards the walls. A few locals - farmers, traders and the like - went hither and thither along the dusty road.

  Insects buzzed and birds chirped. The sounds of port life rose from the city ahead. Orange trees and eucalyptus provided a strange yet enticing scent to welcome them to the western terminus of their journey.

  Slowly but happily they strode down into the suburb and past markets, shops, gardens and houses, Parmenio and Nicolo stepping out ahead, deep in some sort of naval and mercantile discussion, presumably planning the coming journey.

  Skiouros was happy enough to amble along behind at Cesare's pace, as long as the others stayed close enough.

  He smiled.

  "You will not lose me so easily, you realise, Master Skiouros."

  The young Greek turned, frowning, to his friend. "Sorry?"

  "I can see the battle in your heart. It is as clear and as troubling for you as the war you fought against your fever. You would love to revel in our newfound security in the same happy manner as our friends, but you cannot. I have seen the way you look at them; at me. As soon as we cross the straits you will drop us all in the kindest fashion you can manage, and then rush off on your vengeful task."