‘That,’ Dragi said with an infuriating half-smile, ‘is yet to be revealed. The time is not quite right, for other pieces must fall into place before its significance can become clear. I tell you this now in preparation. By the end of May, you will see everything clearly, and you will understand why I have chosen to reveal what I know slowly. If I tell you all I know straight away, you will feel the need to over-analyse like the two wise brothers, and we cannot afford such a thing – especially without the benefit of first-hand knowledge.’
‘You may be the most infuriating man I’ve ever met, Dragi.’
‘Then you have lived a sheltered life, Skiouros the Greek. Keep faith with me until the end of May and all will be revealed and resolved.’
The three men sat silent, shivering in the icy air, and Skiouros found himself gazing at the dark bulk of Sicily off the larboard bow, for behind that island, far away, lay the island of Crete, that the Venetians called Candia, where an exiled Spanish swordsman and a reliquary containing Lykaion’s head awaited. And past that, up to the left, far beyond the distant line that was the Italian coast, sat Istanbul, which had been Constantinople.
Crete by the middle of next month, and Istanbul soon after.
Skiouros was going home. What to, he couldn’t imagine from the tantalising esoteric hints Dragi kept throwing at him, but whatever awaited him, it would be good to be back.
Chapter one – Of familiar lands and unwelcome faces
Heraklion, Crete, March 19th
THERE was something indefinably warmer and more welcoming about the waters around Crete. The Ottoman galley was in truth no more than a couple of hundred miles more southerly than it had been at Sicily, and they were a mere three weeks later in the year, and yet the difference in weather was palpable. Almost overnight, as the kadirga of Kemal Reis had come within sight of the Cretan shore, the temperature had seemed to rise. Men stopped wearing cloaks and breath stopped frosting except in that chilled, gloomy hour when the sun was still just a gleam in the eye of God. The water was a more pleasant blue-green and the world just seemed more acceptable.
The morning sun glowed off in the direction of Rhodos – the home fortress of the Knights Hospitaller – still shining just above the horizon, and yet already Heraklion was clearly a hive of activity as the ship’s oars rose and dipped in perfect unison, sliding the elegant Ottoman galley through the waters of the harbour and towards the very jetty upon which Skiouros had alighted four years ago, following his desperate departure from Istanbul. Then he had come disguised as a priest and running from his past. Now he came as a seasoned traveller, welcomed aboard a vessel of the Ottoman navy at the behest of its pilot, and returning to his homeland with a straight back and a calm heart.
Full circle.
At a command from Dragi – Skiouros still could not comprehend how the Romani beggar had risen to become Kemal Reis’ second in that time he had been away evading the dreadful pirate Hasan – the oars rose and were shipped. The man at the steering oar expertly guided the wide, low vessel in alongside the jetty using just gentle momentum to settle it by the creaking wood. Instantly, men leapt ashore and hurriedly hauled ropes taut, tying them off to the mooring posts both fore and aft. Parmenio nodded at the professionalism of it all, finding only two faults with the whole process and leaning close to Skiouros to murmur them out of earshot of the Turkish sailors.
The flags snapped in the temperate breeze, making the muscles of the golden Venetian lions upon them bunch and stretch on their red backgrounds – a permanent, glittering reminder to the people of this wondrous ancient island that while they may speak primarily Greek – and many might still owe their allegiance to the Patriarch of Constantinople – the government, taxes, churches and all facets of power belonged to Catholic Venice.
While he felt for the locals, as a boy who had grown to manhood in a once-Greek land now dominated by the Turk, he noted that Parmenio’s expression was darker still. As a Genoese, the former captain probably held less love of Venice than anyone else present.
And they would be here for some time. It had come as something of a surprise to Skiouros to learn that. He had expected a quick layover for resupply and the few small pieces of work the kadirga could do with. He had not expected weeks. But as they had left the waters off Napoli at the start of their journey, the other two kadirga in Kemal’s fleet had been despatched by the Turkish Reis to gather the last of the refugees from Spain, who were apparently waiting somewhere on the northern coast of Africa. Kemal’s ship would wait at Heraklion for the other two to rejoin them, and then those refugees – mostly Jews and almost entirely learned men – would accompany them to Istanbul to settle there under the open acceptance of the great Bayezid the Second, while the commander and his three ships would be given new orders.
Skiouros wasn’t sure how he felt about the possibility of spending weeks on the island. Crete had been something of a second home to him for a while after his flight from the great city, but now he was itching to return to the land of his youth – not to lounge about, idling in this place. Still, it would be interesting to visit some of his old haunts. And he was more determined than ever to seek out his former sword-master. What he would do with Don Diego de Teba when he found him, he had no idea. But somehow he felt that things were unfinished there, especially with what he had learned of the Don’s lands and family during his stay in Spain.
And there was Lykaion…
That last troubled him a little. What he was going to do about his brother’s casket, which remained in the church of Saint Titus, he did not know. It was venerated by priests who coveted it, believing it to contain a sacred relic – the head of Saint Theodoros – and how he would retrieve it, he could not yet imagine. But he had achieved the unachievable so often in so few years that this was no more daunting than any other task, really.
As the sailors went about the busy tasks of finalising the ship’s berthing, Skiouros looked about himself. The great heavy harbour tower, of Byzantine construction so familiar from his homeland, began a line of fortifications that had been upgraded in the past half century by the Venetian authorities, turning an ancient system of walls into a modern series of bastions and thick, cannon-proof defences.
Those heavy fortifications sealed in a city that was as much Venetian as Greek – and even early Arab in places. A cultural melting pot that was slowly and steadily becoming more Italianate as the Republic of Venice continued to settle its own people here. His gaze moved across the roofs of the city and back down to the dockside, and his heart lurched.
Perhaps that was why Parmenio’s expression was so dark?
Beyond the end of the jetty, between the new arrivals and the great Arsenals of the Venetian fleet, a group of black-robed priests stood beneath a cross the height of two men, the joint between the horizontal and vertical beams reinforced with steel that flashed and gleamed in the morning sun like the eye of God roving across the port, seeking out sin.
What were they doing here?
Finally the sailors seemed happy with the securing of the ship and a boarding ramp was run out to the damp jetty’s boards. The officers and passengers of the kadirga were helped across to the timbers of the jetty where a diminutive man in red and gold livery stood with a ledger, accompanied by half a dozen guards in the uniform of the Duchy of Candia, as the island was known to Venice. Kemal Reis, stroking his voluminous white beard and narrowing his eyes suspiciously, stepped close to the passengers and addressed Dragi in his native tongue, quietly, such that no one else could hear, even Skiouros so close by. The Romani second in command stepped forward, clearing his throat, and then launching into passable Italian.
‘My captain, the admirable and honourable Kemal Reis, valued representative of Sultan Bayezid the Second and the Ottoman court and a recognised friend of the great lion of Venice, asks the reason for the presence of armed men at his disembarkation. Are we not allies, bound by treaty?’
The short, heavily-brocaded official looked distinct
ly uncomfortable and used a hooked finger to loosen the tight collar of his doublet.
‘My apologies if the noble Reis sees this as an insult or a threat. I can assure you that was never our intention. The city guard are here to escort your captain and to protect his ship, nothing more.’
There was a pause as Dragi relayed this to the captain, who looked less than convinced by the response.
‘The great Kemal Reis would like to know from what he might be expected to seek protection in an allied city.’
The official’s discomfort was becoming too much for him and beads of sweat started to run down from his hairline. Skiouros noticed the man’s eyes flash for a second to the group of black-robed priests and he could quite understand the man’s fears with the heresy-hunting Dominicans and the heathen Turk sharing his wharf.
‘Respectfully, sir,’ the man went on, ‘the Republic has recently signed treaties with Spain and the Kingdom of Sicily, supporting their war against the French invaders in Napoli. And while our treaty with the sultan remains firmly in place, the whole Mediterranean world is aware of the strained relationship between their Catholic Majesties Fernando and Isabella and those of an… Islamic nature. Moreover, the name Kemal Reis is synonymous with…’ he paused and the discomfort shifted up yet another notch. He wanted to say piracy, Skiouros realised. ‘Coastal raids upon Spanish lands,’ he settled for, weakly.
Kemal nodded a slow and forced understanding as this was relayed to him, and his response was measured in its nature.
‘Kemal Reis thanks you for such thoughtful provision and entirely understands the difficulty of maintaining alliances with two nations who distrust one another. It is the captain’s intention to remain in port until the other two vessels in our fleet rejoin us, and he would be pleased to accept the security of a port guard on his ship during that time. Our passengers will see to their own safety and quarters once they have disembarked, but the crew will continue to stay aboard the kadirga. The great Reis hopes that he might use his time in port to speak to the authorities in the city and secure an ever greater understanding between our nations.’
The little man, seemingly relieved, nodded emphatically. ‘I am sure the Duke and his court will be most grateful for such an opportunity, and accommodation for the Reis and his officers will be secured within the Palazzo Ducale at the Lion Square. And please, leave the low business of port bureaucracy to a lesser and I will see that all runs smoothly. As a gesture to our Ottoman friends, I am willing to waive all berthing fees and other sundry costs for the duration of your stay.’
Diplomatic, smiled Skiouros to himself.
As Kemal followed the eager, gesturing official, and half a dozen of his own men fell in with him in front of the city guard, Skiouros collared Dragi, who trailed along behind.
‘Weeks? In port with this lot?’ he gestured to the priests on the quayside.
Dragi nodded. ‘All will be well. By mid-May, my Reis will be in Istanbul. There is a festival planned that he cannot miss, and it will take several weeks to journey there.’
Skiouros blinked. ‘That’s two months, Dragi.’
‘All will be well,’ the Romani repeated with a reassuring smile. ‘I must accompany the Reis to the palace, as his second, so I cannot go with you, but remember what I said about staying in contact. Be ready for word from me at any time, and be sure that I will receive any message from you speedily. And be careful,’ he added, and hurried to rejoin Kemal as they left the jetty under escort and made their way into the city proper. More city guards tromped along the timbers, coming to form a protective barrier for the Ottoman ship, though Skiouros still couldn’t quite shake the impression that they were more prison guards than defenders. He and Parmenio hurried along the jetty behind them and realised that the organisation of the wharves meant that they would have to pass close to that towering crucifix.
He watched with a tight chest as the eight Turks were led under guard past the black-robed men, and the priests immediately dropped whatever they were doing and turned to harangue the new arrivals. Skiouros was far from surprised to hear the shouts issue in a thick Spanish accent, though he was taken aback by the bile, venom and vehemence in their cries, given the fact that it was their hosts who were escorting the Turks.
The new arrivals were agents of the Devil. No. The bearded one was the Devil himself, taken human form. Could the people of good, Catholic Candia not understand that the turban was a fiendish device designed to hide the horns of demons from good Christians? Could they not see that the cursed Turk were the enemies of Christ? That they chose not to drink alcohol so that no sacred communion wine might pass their lips? See how that Turk had a hooked nose almost as pronounced as the Jew? Because the devil was imperfect and so he could not perfectly recreate a human visage!
The insults and denouncements went on and Skiouros felt his blood first run cold at the presence of such blind hatred this far east – so close to his homeland – and then felt it slowly rise and come to the boil at the very idea that this kind of intolerance and stupidity could begin to encroach upon his own beloved world.
‘Don’t react to them,’ Parmenio hissed at his shoulder, and Skiouros realised with a start that he had his hand on the hilt of the sword at his waist rather provocatively. Carefully, he removed it. The black-clad priests had not yet noticed he and Parmenio, for they were still busy denouncing the bearded devil who had passed and was now on his way to the island’s authorities.
‘I can’t believe they’re this far east. I thought we’d left that sort back in Spain, or at least in Rome. How long before they’re knocking on the sultan’s own high gate with their crosses?’
Parmenio shrugged. ‘I can’t see this lot in Istanbul. But wherever their Catholic Majesties of Castille and Aragon get their claws into, they pop up,’ he replied. ‘Just hope this alliance is temporary and that they don’t get to set up here permanently. I heard horror stories when we were back in Italia. Once they insinuate themselves, the Inquisition is near impossible to remove. As soon as they get to read their Edict of Grace in the churches here, the troubles will start for real and then no one will be safe.’
‘Curse the whole damn lot of them,’ Skiouros snapped, glaring at the black figures. One of the priests turned at the words, narrowing his eyes at the pair, seemingly trying to weigh them up. They wore no turban, of course, but that did not make them friends in the eyes of these men – especially with Skiouros’ clear eastern Mediterranean skin-tone and appearance.
Parmenio was shoving him now, moving him on past the priests and into the press of people.
‘What now?’ the former captain asked.
‘Dragi said that he would be closeted away with Kemal for most of our stay, but he would leave messages at the Taverna di San Marco on the main port street if he needed to speak to us, and we could do the same for him. Other than that our days are our own, I suppose, until we’re ready to embark once again. I suspect we might need to take on a job in order to survive for weeks.’
‘Probably a good idea for us to stay at the tavern Dragi mentioned,’ Parmenio replied. ‘I rarely left the port and warehouse district when I was trading here. You know the tavern? Do they have rooms?’
‘I know it well. And yes they have rooms, but we have pitiful few coins, my friend.’
Parmenio gave him a wicked smile and hoisted up a purse that fair bulged with coin. As Skiouros stared, he opened the top and tipped a few out onto his palm. ‘I think we’ll manage.’
‘How did you get all that?’
‘Sailors like to play games. Few of them can play dice like a Genoese, though. You asked me where I kept going on board? A few games each evening, and a man can amass quite a pile without it seeming too much like he’s fleecing his shipmates.’
Skiouros boggled, and the captain chuckled in response. ‘Nicolo was a past master at it. Used to do it to me without even me realising it.’
‘Can we spend those here?’ the Greek enquired, picking up a Mamluk coin w
ith a lion on the obverse face and Arabic script filling the reverse. His eyes shot back to the black-robed figures nearby.
‘The Inquisition doesn’t rule here, Skiouros. At least not yet. And I’ve still to encounter a port where gold is turned away just over a little writing. A place like this would accept coin from the devil himself if it shone with the right colour. Come on.’
Chapter two – Of teachers and rogues
Heraklion, Crete, March 28th
MORE than a week had passed and the chill in the air had dissipated, leaving the island wallowing in early spring, temperatures gradually rising over the days as the flowers burst into multichrome life. Traditionally it was a time of optimism and good nature among the islanders, and this year was no exception but for the few who had cause to resent the presence of the Spanish priests. Those Dominican clerics daily traipsed through the streets of the city – a black stain on the brightly-coloured spring – chanting their liturgy of hate behind their great cross and casting hateful looks at those islanders whose ancient heritage had left them with dark skin tones or a Levantine facial cast.
For more than a week Skiouros and Parmenio had stayed quiet and unobtrusive in the tavern on the great street that led from the port up to the basilica and the city’s centre. Scant information had come down from the palace, and in this limbo of inaction ennui was quick to set in. Barring the Inquisition, nothing here had changed since Skiouros had last visited, and somehow it had become easy to sink back into that lifestyle, though both he and Parmenio were ever aware of the dwindling coin in the latter’s purse and the fact that they would soon need to acquire more funds somehow.
Pasha's Tale Page 2
