Priest's Tale

by Turney, S. J. A.

  "I just want to get to Spain or Portugal."

  "Drivel. You have ever been a man of purpose, even though sometimes that purpose has taken a back place to current necessities. And since your fever broke, I have seen that resolve harden to a diamond. You are on task and with a goal in mind."

  "It is my goal, though. My task. My danger to face."

  "You can leave Parmenio and Nicolo. They'll argue and regret it, but they'll let you go, because they think that you have some great, glorious future planned. You and I know that where you go there is naught but peril and pain. No man worth his salt would leave a friend to that alone."

  "I cannot ask for help."

  "Then don't. Just accept it when it is offered."

  "You don't understand…" Skiouros said quietly.

  "I fear that I do, Master Skiouros. You hunt the one remaining man responsible for your brother's death. I do not know who that man might be, but he is powerful and well protected, else you would have gone for him long ago and not spent years preparing yourself."

  "How could you…?"

  "You are transparent" Cesare interrupted with a smile "to a man with keen eyes. You're a man who embraces an abhorrence of death and killing. You are no warrior, and we both know that. You fight when you must, but you take no joy in it, and you handle a blade as though it might bite you. And yet you paid good money to learn how to use one. So wherever you go, you expect a great deal of trouble. And a Greek living in the Ottoman Empire studies Italian, and maps of the peninsula, and even learns what he can of the Pope and his lands? I think we can dispense with the dissembling. Whoever you seek is in my homeland and tied up with the court of Innocent the Eighth, yes?"

  Skiouros sagged. He hoped it was only his intuitive friend who had pieced all this together and that he was less 'transparent' to others.

  "Yes, Cesare."

  "How do you plan to achieve your goals?"

  "That I must work out when I am closer to them."

  "And how much easier will your task be with a native nobleman who has access to wealth, transport and the ears of the powerful, walking the path by your side?"

  "Considerably" Skiouros conceded.

  "Then when we are safely in Cadiz, I will seek a banker, withdraw funds and we will take ship for Genoa. I have distant familial connections with the Visconti family on my mother's side, and they still maintain a palazzo in the city, despite having lost their rule to the Sforzas. The Palazzo Visconti will be a comfortable home for us while we plan your next move. I am in no hurry to return to the bosom of my sickening family, so a rest in Genoa would be most welcome."

  "I have nothing to offer you in return."

  "I was not aware I had asked for payment" Cesare smiled. "Money is one thing my family do not lack. Morals, yes. Piety, yes. Love, yes. Money: no."

  Skiouros smiled at his friend. "It is a shame Lykaion will never meet you. I suspect you would have liked each other."

  The pair lapsed into easy conversation as they passed beneath the gate in the city walls, Parmenio and Nicolo ahead having explained to the Portuguese soldiers on duty and gained entry into the city. Ceuta was a strange place - a mix of the Arabic and the European. Very ornate buildings that would not look out of place in the great cities of Spain or Italia stood to either side of souks with covers to shade them from the sun, dark skinned men of Berber descent selling their wares in the shadows and drinking khave. Lighter skinned men served wine in taverns - a sight unseen since they had left Crete and entered the Muslim world. With a great deal of relief the friends drank in all the sights, smells and sounds as they made their way to the port at the centre of the isthmus.

  "You said you'd been here before" Skiouros smiled at Parmenio. "I can see that now. You navigate the streets like a native."

  "I've done business here and in Melilla, and at Tanjah too. I've traded in Malaga, Cadiz and even Faro. Not been this way for a good seven or eight years now, but it feels a little like home."

  "I speak three languages" Skiouros laughed. "More than anyone I knew back home. And yet still we find ourselves in a place where I cannot communicate, for they all rattle on in Arabic and… Portuguese, I'm guessing that throaty language is?"

  "It's like a sharper Spanish, yes. You'll be alright with people in the port. Nearly any captain, ship's officer or trader out here has at least a little command of Italian. Between the Medici financial Empire and the traders of Genoa and Venezia, Italian is the international language of commerce."

  A few minutes later, as Parmenio chattered away on the subject of trade and Empires and languages - some parts of it fascinating, many altogether lost on Skiouros - they arrived at the port.

  Two wide arms of shaped stone reached out to embrace the sea, forming a harbour of calm water with gentle, lapping waves. Ships of all shapes and sizes sat at berth and Skiouros noted with interest the vast array of different colours denoting the nationality of the traders. He could see Venetian vessels as well as those bearing the infamous colours of aggressive, expansionist Spain. Others that were faintly familiar would be Genoese or Neapolitan or even Sicilian.

  "What is that one?" he asked, pointing at a large carrack as they passed.

  "That flag is England's. A nation of cold, hard men and frigid women forever warring amongst themselves. See also the French vessels and there: a Swede of the Hanseatic league."

  Skiouros narrowed his eyes as they strode across the dock.

  "If there are so many nations here, could we book passage elsewhere?"

  "Such as where?"

  Skiouros faltered for a moment.

  "Perhaps for Cesare to return to Genoa?"

  Parmenio laughed. "You've clearly never dealt with a Genoese trader. With apologies to master Orsini here, the Genoese are tighter than a mermaid's underwear. Their purses have three padlocks on them. Even their wives won't lift their skirts without a sign of coin! If we pooled all the money we have it would not buy passage for one of us to Genoa. No. Our best hope is for a cheap journey to the other side of the straits and see what we can do from there."

  Skiouros sighed. For a moment he had pictured Cesare and himself sailing out over the great sea towards that 'Palazzo Visconti' of which his friend had spoken.

  "This one" Parmenio announced, pointing to a carrack that had clearly seen better days, its hull peeling and discoloured and pock-marked with barnacles. The sails had been patched so often that there was little to be seen of the original material. Skiouros peered at the ship's name, the paint almost faded to the same colour as the hull.

  "Repolho?"

  Nicolo grinned. "Cabbage. Says it all. Think it reminds him of the Isabella!"

  Skiouros couldn't help but laugh despite the sharp irritated look Parmenio threw at them both.

  "Ho!" he shouted up, and a sailor with ridiculously wild curly black hair and a neat beard, naked to the waist, leaned over the rail.

  "O que tu queres?"

  Parmenio cleared his throat and began a brief conversation that flowed completely over Skiouros' head. A few moments later the curly haired sailor disappeared and then returned with a man in elegant red and gold doublet and russet breeches, his hair tied back from his eyes in a tail with a crimson ribbon.

  "O que voce gostaria?"

  "Do you mind if we speak Italian, Captain?" Parmenio replied. "So that my companions can understand, you see."

  "If you wish. What can I do for you? Danilo tells me you wish to book passage to Cadiz?"

  "That's right. We are not overburdened with funds, I am afraid, but two of us are professional sailors and even the other two are hard workers. We can supplement our payment with labour?"

  "That is not the issue, my friend. We go not to Cadiz, but to Palos. Is that of use to you?

  Skiouros shrugged and looked across at Parmenio. "Is it?"

  "Best part of twenty leagues further up the coast. Fine by me. I can always make my way back to Cadiz, or perhaps we can move round to Faro. That's another big port. Palos is big an
d busy enough, but it's too closely scrutinised by the authorities for my liking - favourite port of the Spanish crown."

  Skiouros rolled his eyes. The Isabella's captain would walk at least twenty leagues to save paying an extortionate berthing fee.

  "I see no problem. At least we're in Europe then. Cesare?"

  Orsini nodded with an easy shrug.

  "How much do you have?" The captain asked.

  Without replying - it would have been difficult to list the coins in his purse, given the varied nationalities and denominations - Parmenio simply unhooked the purse from his belt and tossed it up to the Repolho's captain, who deftly caught it and examined its contents. His face, for the briefest of moments, took on a disappointed cast, and then he smiled.

  "You'll have to work quite hard! Alright. Four men to Palos de la Frontera. We sail on the morning tide, which should see us in Palos for sunset. Get yourselves somewhere to sleep for the night. I would recommend the Plucked Chicken three streets along. It’s a little on the cheap and dirty side, but I figure that's what you need. Here" he added, flicking a coin back down. "You'll need this."

  Skiouros smiled. After the trade caravans, even a poor inn would be a palace to the friends.

  One more night in Ceuta and they would leave Africa for good.

  Chapter Nineteen - Of old adversaries

  Mehmi, son of Ibrahim the goat thief and a black-hearted motherless mother, lurched as the ship's boat bounced against the solid dock, shedding fragments of black and red paint. His eyes remained fixed on the curve of the wide river as it swept around the headland on which the town stood and out of sight, past the wide marshy land on the far bank. Somewhere, a mile and more back that way, lay the three kadirga galleys of Kemal Reis' fleet.

  His eyes swept slowly up from the broad expanse of water and the variety of ships that rode at anchor along its length, past the low cliffs and up the steep slope of brown, parched grass, past the great church of San Jorge, to the squat, russet coloured fortress that dominated the top of the slope and marked the summit of the town. Streets of low white buildings curved and wound about the hill below that weighty reminder of Spanish power.

  It should irritate him to be here, in the same way it was clearly irking the officers of the three boats. That castle was built in the Arabic mould, and would not have looked out of place in a good Muslim city - as one would expect, given that it had been built by the faithful and had remained in their hands for more than four centuries until the Christians had begun their scouring of the peninsula. The fact that a Moorish-built fortress dominated the sprawling, grand church beneath it was of no comfort. The very sight of the once important bastion of Islam that now lived happily under the rule of the heretical Christian church had set the captains Kemal, Hassan and Salih's teeth on edge, though clearly for different reasons.

  Mehmi knew the three men well after years of service. He knew that the fleet captain - his excellency Ahmed Kemaleddin Reis, most honourable Defender of the Emirate of Granada and representative of the Sultan Bayezid the Second - saw it with sadness as a sign of his failure to protect Muslim interests here; as a reminder that he was mopping up the mess of his own impotence and loss. Captain Salih Bin Abdullah saw it with some trepidation. The taciturn lesser Reis had voiced his unhappiness about all three commanders entering such a place with inadequate guard, and his concerns clearly still plagued him.

  But Mehmi knew Etci Hassan Reis best of all and, looking at him now, standing erect in the boat despite its bouncing and swaying, his ice-grey gaze razing the strongholds and churches as it passed, he could see the captain's nails biting into his palms. Hassan felt no sadness or loss; no trepidation or worry. Etci Hassan Reis felt only bitter, icy rage. To him the city represented a plague that had ruptured the skin of the world and which should be incised with the sterile knife of Islam.

  Hassan burned to fire the non-Muslim world and watch it turn to ash.

  Mehmi shuddered.

  Him? He felt some fear, for certain. No hate or sadness, but the very idea of setting foot in this place, which was beloved of the Muslim-hating queen Isabella, made his blood run that little bit colder. His eyes dropped back again to the headland that hid the distant ships.

  All three vessels had been left with almost full crews at anchor out near the river's mouth, in the narrow channel that separated the Isla de Saltes from the far bank, where they were out of sight - and therefore out of mind - of the Christian ships bobbing about in the river. Indeed, they were well positioned, under Kemal's orders, just so as to be out of sight of all shipping and yet ready to put to sea quickly and easily if placed under pressure.

  Even the cannon were loaded ready.

  Mehmi had felt a little better and that tiniest bit more relaxed every day since they had left Tunis and the cursed Priest behind, though his relief had been stunted somewhat by the captain's mood. Though the curse had apparently lifted from the ship and nothing untoward had occurred since Tunis, the events there had soured Etci Hassan to such an extent that he had begun to wake in the night, pacing the deck of the Yarim Ay and cursing the world for sending him Brother Skiouros and his companions. The captain's already infamous temper had amplified alarmingly, and no crewman now willingly approached their commander, generally fighting to stay out of his way.

  For Hassan had put to death three men in that first week alone for minor infractions of his rules that warranted no more than a slap on the hand. The captain had become a curse to his men with just as harsh effect as that which had taken three men near Greece. Hassan appeared - to Mehmi at least - to be on the verge of becoming dangerously unbalanced. The second in command gave himself a mirthless smile at that little private joke as he watched Hassan step up onto the dock, tottering for a moment on his still-weak foot.

  Even if Hassan's smashed metatarsals ever fully healed, which seemed unlikely given the absence of sympathetic medics along the African coast and Hassan's unwillingness to consult a Jew, Mehmi doubted now that the captain would ever lift his sights from the Priest who had so wounded him. The Yarim Ay had been in the straits of the Jebel Tariq for weeks now and still no word had come concerning the escaped slaves. Even Mehmi felt sure that unless the villains had managed to flee the net completely, Sidi Najid would have sent word to them by now.

  The meeting with the fleet commander and captain Salih had been smooth and remarkably quiet. Mehmi had expected some remonstrance over their delay, but had not really been surprised that the two other captains had seemed to have been happy with Hassan's prolonged absence. He himself would quite like to be out of his lord's company for a while.

  The supplies had been ferried between ships quickly and efficiently, even in the seething summer heat, and no hint of the small remains of their private treasure - little more than a pittance compared with that which they had carried before Tunis - had been uncovered by their counterparts on the other two galleys.

  Mehmi watched as Hassan righted himself on the dock and took stock of the city, and stepped forward resignedly to join his captain. His hand went reassuringly to the knife at his belt as his eyes scoured the Christian city above and before him.

  The blade was a beautiful piece taken from the body of a Mamluk sea captain some years previously. Damascus steel and with only a six inch blade, it was decorated in a Turkish twisting pattern and with a hilt and sheath of gleaming silver. A single emerald set in the pommel provided the only colour to a knife otherwise the hue of shimmering moonlight.

  A strange brick structure stood before them, close to the dock, and it took Mehmi a moment to notice the babbling stream of water that issued from beneath its quadrifon arch and down into a flat brick channel, where a drain emptied the overflow into the river next to the dock. There were fragments of stucco clinging to the brick with clumps of ruined paintings. This once rich decorative fountain held a prominent position and a number of sailors were filling small barrels and skins to transport back to their ships, while local women and urchins filled buckets and
old men dipped in mugs to recover from the sizzling early August sun.

  Behind the structure, an open area of flat ground and then grassy hillside ran up to the oppressive, almost featureless brick walls of the large church, though a market covered almost all the open ground. Presumably a permanent feature, given the state of the ground and the form of the stalls, this appeared to be the main mercantile meeting place of Palos' dock area. Behind the huge market and inland from the church, the town spread across the slope, shimmering in the blistering temperatures.

  Mehmi turned as he stepped fully onto solid ground, the six accompanying crewmen clambering ashore behind him. Half a dozen large ships sat in the wide open channel of the river - caravels, carracks and a cog, their numerous ships' boats intermingling with the local skiffs and fishing vessels to create a swarm across the river's surface that made it look as busy as the market ashore.

  Palos de la Frontera teemed with life.

  "Mehmi!"

  The diminutive Turk almost leaped from the ground at the sudden snap of the captain's voice. He turned and tried not to look panicked as his heart thumped fast and loud in his chest.

  "Lord?"

  "Keep your gaze on the crew. If a single eyeball strays to those infidel djinn-ridden stalls, I want it ripped out and pinned to the ship's hull as a reminder of what we are."

  Mehmi shuddered, but nodded and gave a half bow to cover his apparent weakness. Hassan seemed not to notice. Hardly a surprise. The captain spent most of his time these days wandering the corridors of his own mind, winding the cogs of hatred and bile and sinking ever deeper into a pit of violence and irrationality.

  Etci Hassan took a few paces and fell in beside the grey-bearded form of the great Reis Kemal and the genial face of the handsome captain Salih. The three men could hardly be any more different, and yet between them they represented not only Ottoman interests in the western sea, but also those of all Muslims in this particular place.

  Kemal had made sure they knew that in their last meeting the previous night, aboard the flagship. He had impressed upon his captains and their seconds that he would brook no failure in diplomacy or manners on this most delicate visit. The relationship between their Majesties Fernando and Isabella and the great Ottoman Empire were tense and not a long stretch from open war, and despite the provocation it might cause, it was quite conceivable that the local authorities might just decide to hang the entire Turkish party as pirates or coastal raiders without preamble. Ironic, really, in Mehmi's opinion, given that they had practiced piracy halfway across the great sea and only here, in these waters, had they fallen back into legality.