by J A Deriu
“Saint Hilarius,” one of the Templars said, “not a friendly man, was he?”
They settled into the harsh existence. The only food was stale bread tossed into the room. They could drink from the leak of a pipe. The Templars seemed unperturbed by the austerity. “They are used to this type of crap,” Ernest explained.
“Join with us and pray, brothers,” a scrawny Templar said. “God will save us out of this helpless situation.”
Pierre looked at him and then settled back into some oily rags. He listened to Ernest speaking to the Templars. The scrawny Templar was named Helias Aymery. He did all of the talking for them. The other two were a pudgy fellow called Salvatore and a boyish one who had a pair of eyes that could not be kept still and a chin that looked like it had not met the blade of a razor yet.
“What do you think they intend?” Ernest asked. Pierre was not sure whom he was talking to. He stared up at the porthole, his arm tucked behind his head. The sky was dark, and he could see the stars as though they were the lights of a ballroom. There was some meaning in them, he was certain. Every answer he wanted was among their blazing voices.
“Whatever it is, it will be nothing to us,” Helias Aymery said. “We welcome misery, harsh rules, and discipline. It is an act of love to suffer.”
“These are pirates,” Ernest said. “Why they take captives could only be a handful of reasons. Most likely, it is for ransom. I have heard of it. It is quite a business in these lawless seas. Otherwise, it could be that they intend us to be part of their crew. I have heard this too.”
“You know a lot, little man,” Aymery replied. “I can see why the Lord Commander was determined for your safe travel. I hope you are right – the first thing you said, not the second. Did you hear, brothers? This is good news for us too. The Order of the Temple will not forget us.”
Pierre groaned. Fugger Corporation would pay. Ida would make certain of it. He continued to look at the stars through the dirty window.
The cramped space was made more uncomfortable by the rough seas. Pierre tried to close his eyes to sleep, thinking that the current predicament was no worse than what he had found himself in before. And he was still coupled with Ernest – his lucky charm. He could not sleep so he listened to the chatter of Ernest and the Templars.
“There is a plot of land there.” Aymery was talking. “I have grown cabbages and beans. That is what I will return to. A narrow strip of dirt and the joy of seeing vegetables grow. What about you, little man? You seem the educated type. The type that would write a book or have some large enterprise at your behest.”
“Ha.” Ernest giggled. “I serve my master, wherever that takes me. I think little of myself.”
“Maybe so, but in truth, when we first met, I thought you were the lord and Master Pierre was the manservant.”
Ernest was silent for a long moment. “You have a generous heart, my friend, but no, Lord Pierre is Pierre, and I am his manservant.”
A clamor came from above deck – the sounds of activity, boots purposefully hammered against the planks, the crude shouts of impatient men, and the creaking of the vessel as it hastened its pace through the uncompliant waters. Ernest stood and looked out of the porthole. “Land.” Pierre grimaced and willed himself to think that the danger was coming to an end.
It was hours before they were disturbed. Ernest, looking out of the porthole, gave a commentary as they docked. He could not name the city, but it was a city, he said. “Buildings into the distance, across hills. Oriental in style, I would say. Large trees, hanging down, the type that grow in tropical climates.”
The pirate who had menaced them before returned. He stood in the doorway, his maroon shirt freshly cleaned, his whiskers tidied. He spoke in a peremptory manner with the stance of a born fighting man. None of them understood the language. His skin was sunbrowned and he had cunning eyes and the grin of a skull. He signaled for them to move, a pistol and cutlass within easy reach hanging from his belt. They were seized by more pirates when they stepped out. Their arms were grabbed, Pierre winced as his arms were pulled painfully behind his back and his hands lashed together. He heard the ominous sniggering of the pirates but kept his eyes low. He remembered an adage: to steer clear of a fight, avoid eye contact.
They moved along a narrow passage and then up a set of stairs to the deck. He smelled the air of a seaport and felt a warm sun against his face. They were led along a gangplank, the green of the water underneath. Yelling came from the shore, and he breathed in the stink of dead fish.
He put his feet on firm ground and was assailed by noise from all sides, human, animal, and machines. He only looked at the stones under his feet and the wide back of the pirate in front. They moved slowly through a series of darkened passageways at first. Then he could feel the sun on his head and sense they had moved into a larger area. He was shoved in the back, and he looked up. He was in the thick of a crowded market. Pirates escorted them on both sides. The crowd parted as their group passed. Some looked at them for a moment. Most were indifferent, too focused on their stalls and those inspecting the goods stacked atop.
The people were like none whom Pierre had seen before. They wore a medley of head coverings. He saw bright fezzes, hard-knotted turbans, and flowing Arabian headdresses. The men were old and young, busy and idle. He saw women, their dark-brown eyes gazed at him through the face slits of their veils and their bodies covered by the loose cloth of the clothes. A woman was feeling an orange. She stopped to look at him. Her face was interested. She wore no head covering. Her long black hair, caught in a sea breeze, danced behind her.
He turned to Ernest. “Where on earth are we?” he whispered.
Ernest creased his eyebrows, strained his eyes to observe, and twisted his neck to both sides. “Malacca, I’d say, or somewhere thereabouts.”
One of the pirates looked at him. He said nothing. Instead, distracted, he aimed an angry grunt at one of the locals who was holding an armful of colored cloth in front of him.
“Is there Fugger here?” Pierre asked.
“I’d wager there is. Fugger is everywhere,” Ernest answered. This time, he was forcibly shoved by the pirate, and the little man missed a step before straightening himself. The pirate glared at them both and fixed the golden and silver bangles dangling at his wrists before returning his attention to the course they were following.
Pierre covertly looked back. The woman had continued to watch him. She had golden-olive skin and telltale eyes. He wondered if they would meet again. He must have looked like a wreck, with his unwashed hair and dirt-smeared face.
The market abruptly ended, and they arrived in a courtyard surrounded by thick-stoned walls. Suddenly, it was quiet. The noise of the market had died in the background. Pierre could feel terror squeezing his throat. His body tensed as his mind tried to convince himself that the danger would pass and he would soon resume his journey back to Ida. An iron gate was in front of them. The pirates greeted the men guarding it in jesting voices. The men wore somber-colored leather jerkins and did not smile back. The pirate with the cunning eyes spoke to the guards in his measured voice. Pierre looked through the bars of the gate to the sinister building standing behind. It had drab flags. With no wind, they were hanging limply from its walls. One of the guards stepped forward. The cunning-eyed pirate pointed at the five of them. The guard seemed to study the tattered gray tunics of the Templars, which had the black Christian cross emblazoned across their fronts.
Pierre looked at the faces of the pirates and the guards for some spark of what was going to happen to them. The sun caught his face, giving him the hope that Fugger Corporation, Ida, and their reach would be enough to find him here and lift him away from this menace. Their faces were foreign to him in more than their looks, but also their expressions, which he could not read like those of the common faces of the Metropolis.
The gates clanged open, and a robust man in a t
ight, showy uniform strolled out with his hands clasped behind his back. He nonchalantly inspected the group, lifted his chin, and spoke slowly to the cunning-eyed pirate.
The head guard had a thick cigar between his teeth, and a veil of smoke cloaked him for a moment. He chewed on the cigar as he spoke. He cleared the air by a lazy wave of his fat hand. Pierre could feel the sweat dribbling from under his hairline, down over his forehead, and dripping at his eye.
The fat man paused to look at them. He folded his arms in front. He focused on the Templars and spat out quick-fire words to the pirate. He shook his large head. The pirate shrugged. The gates opened again. The pirate pleaded something. The big man was indifferent. They bickered as if they were negotiating. The Templars placidly watched on.
Ernest looked at Pierre, his eyes pleaded for him to do something. Pierre could not think of what to do. It looked like they would be safer in the hands of the pompous guard than the cunning-eyed pirate. Abruptly they ceased talking. The guard chewed on the cigar and grunted to his men. They shoved Pierre and the others through the gate. They had long canes strapped to their belts, which they menacingly fingered.
He watched the cunning-faced pirate look at them mournfully as they were pushed away from him. He remained at the gate, his arms tense. Something had not happened as it was supposed to have happened – of this, Pierre was certain. He was wary.
They were led without words across the wide, paved square through the doors of a stone fortress. The Templars were at the front with armed guards each side. The young-looking Templar was shoved to the side and pointed down a dank passageway. The others were motioned to follow. Other guards idly stood nearby, barely noticing the new arrivals. They passed steel doors that were bolted shut. There was the restless noise of people behind.
They were pushed into an open cell, and the door was quickly locked behind them. Pierre and Ernest were alone with the three Templars again. Pierre collapsed to the ground. It was hard stone covered with grime. He felt any energy he had drain out of him, as if he had been cut and it was seeping into the dirty ground.
“I will be able to look out.”
Pierre heard the voice of Ernest.
“If I can get onto your shoulders, I will be able to see out.”
He lifted his head to see Ernest talking to the Templars. They were looking up at high windows that were barred by steel. Pierre looked back down, impassively inspecting his dirty and grazed hands. He heard grunting and shuffling. The Templars had hoisted Ernest to stand on the shoulders of Helias Aymery. “What can you see?”
The little man was gripping the bars of the window and pulling himself higher. His legs wobbled underneath. The Templars reached up to hold him steady. “I can see to the gate,” Ernest panted. “There are walls all sides. Guards. We are in a prison.” He lifted himself higher and looked to a side. “Oh, look at that. That is where we came in. I can see that chap, the pirate.” Ernest was silent for moments, his heavy breathing competed with that of the Templars. He was wearing his high-waisted pants, the same that he would be wearing in the Metropolitan office. They were dirtied and stained, and there was no belt, meaning that they hung low at his hips, showing his undershorts. Their belts had been taken by the Templars when they had kept them imprisoned in the desert Qing fortress. They had not returned them, and anxious to be away, they had not asked. Pierre had purchased a cord in Port Shanghai that did the task but made him look like a vagabond. “It looks like he is being paid,” Ernest described. “I see the fat man giving him a pouch, and the pirate is counting coins.”
“What does that mean?” one of the Templars asked. It was the boy-looking one, whose hair had become like a rat’s nest.
“I think we have been sold.” Ernest gulped.
“Saint Hilarius, that can’t be. The devil himself,” the pudgy Templar said and completed a sign of the cross in front of himself.
“What do you think, boss?” Ernest asked as he was being lowered to the ground, taking the last step clumsily and landing on a knee.
Pierre sighed. “Sold. How could we be sold? It is ransom they are looking for. Soon enough Fugger will become involved, and we will be out of here.” He looked up. They were all looking at him. “Get some rest. It will be sorted out.”
“I pray to the Blessed Virgin Mary you are right,” said Aymery.
They sat in the corners of the piss-smelling cell. Pierre lay underneath the window. His head rested on his folded jacket and clumps of hay that he had swept underneath. No one came to see them. They could hear guards clattering outside and jovially hollering to each other. The Templars and Ernest continued to chatter. At the angle he had lain his head, he had a view of the sky.
He tried to clean his head of everything except Ida. The sky was clear, and he watched as nightfall had made the outlines of all objects disappear with the darkness, except the stars, which only livened. He imagined her beautiful face, but it was not enough to replace a sickly feeling beckoning him, as if a siren, and singing to him that luck was only given in meager supply and his had been exhausted. His body was spent, but it was impossible to sleep. One of the Templars snored like a jackass. He thought of the family estate, the lushness of the green land, the sweetness of the air. How he would spend more time there and help his hapless mother save the ancient family lordship.
The morning sunlight illuminated the gruesome surroundings. A bell rang, and guards took it in turns to yell out their presence. Ernest’s stomach made a starving sound, and the manservant looked at it helplessly. They listened silently to every skerrick of sound from outside. The Templars began their quiet prayers huddled in a corner, with their knees compressed at their chests and hands clasped in front of their bent-forward heads.
Movements and voices were heard from the courtyard. The clash of languages they did not understand. Something was happening. Tools clanged. Birds circled in the gray-blue sky. They waited, nervous to see how they fitted in with the activity. The iron door was shoved open, and the muscular guards came into the room. The chubby head guardsman moved to the front of the group. His eyes swung across the cell and stopped on the three Templars, who were still on their knees, looking helplessly up at him. Without words, the guards seized them by the arms and yanked them to stand. In the same action, they pulled them out of the room, ignoring Pierre and Ernest. The last they saw of them was a confused look back at them by the boyish Templar.
Both of them stood without moving, reclaiming their breathing with long breaths. “What do you think that was about?” Ernest asked.
Pierre shrugged.
The noise from outside suddenly increased as if the stands of a game had been filled. “I can see what is happening,” Ernest said. “I will need to stand on your shoulders.” He looked up at the high windows. They struggled clumsily for the next minutes. Pierre barely had the strength to lift the light weight. The boot of Ernest painfully dug into his thigh – he pushed it higher with his hands, and then his chest, and then onto his shoulder. Pierre squeezed his teeth together and braced himself against the stone wall as the little man took hold of the bars. “I can see,” he advised. “There are people everywhere. They are crowded. Oh goodness, that doesn’t look … as the Templars say … Saint Hilarius.”
“What? What is it?” Pierre asked between his heavy breaths. The noise of the crowd livened.
“I have a bad feeling.”
“Describe what you are seeing.”
“There are platforms. A lot of people standing, watching. There are men standing on the platforms. They are wearing black, all black, hoods too … oh no … look … the guards, they are bringing men through the crowd.” Ernest made fearful noises.
“What’s happening?”
“The men are being dragged to the stage … oh goodness … it’s the Templars.” Ernest gasped as if sobbing. “Their heads are being held down. The crowd, it’s hostile, angry. What have they done?”
“I don’t know. This is a strange land.” Pierre grunted as Ernest moved his footing and the little man’s boot roughed the side of his face.
He could not understand Ernest. His words sounded like yelps. “I can’t watch.”
“What is it?”
“The hooded men – they have swords. The Templars are being forced to kneel. I see Helias praying. The others are scared. I can’t watch.”
The noise from outside increased to an excited pitch. The legs of Ernest wobbled, and Pierre held them to avoid the little man toppling. The noise reached a crescendo. Ernest screamed and fell down, hitting the stone floor hard. Pierre was propelled to land on his backside, an elbow scraping along the wall. Ernest was on his back, his feet in the air. He looked across at Pierre while grabbing his shocked face. “All three of them. They cut off the heads of all three of them,” he said, before lurching forward as if he was to be sick. He retched and spat spittle across Pierre.
Pierre grabbed his head. “What nightmare have we landed in?”
They sat for a long time, both of them shaking. The noise from outside died. The crowd left calmly like a sated carnivore.
“Those poor men,” Ernest said to end the silence. “What is to happen to us?” He shook his head.
“They were Templars. These lands are ruled by the Mughals, who are allies of the Ottomans. The Templars are enemies of all of these people. We aren’t Templars.”
“Those men were enemies of no one. They couldn’t shoot a gun or swing a sword.”
“You saw what the Templars did in the Qing. They were guilty because of the uniform they wore.”
He heard Ernest swallow, and he thought of his own rough throat and his hunger for the dried meat. He sat with his arms resting on his knees, his head bowed. He had no sense of time. Ernest tucked himself into a ball, and his heavy breathing echoed from the stone walls.
