Shadow of God (40 page)

“What’s happening out there,
Chèrie
?” Melina asked after a few minutes.

“Not good. Not at all. The Turkish cannons are firing without stop. We destroyed many of them today, but they just replace them as fast as we destroy them. This hospital is going to be filled with wounded by tomorrow morning. And we have not even begun to fight. When their soldiers try to enter the city—as they surely will— there will be more wounded and dying.”

Melina cuddled closer to Jean and held her babies tighter. They had stopped feeding, and were now fast asleep in her arms. Still she did not put them down, but contented herself to hold them while Jean held her. She would hold onto this tiny island of comfort. If only a few minutes of peace and warmth could be hers that night, she would gladly embrace them.

Rhodes
July and August, 1522

Suleiman struggled to contain his anger. The losses of his cannons and so many of his finest artillerymen was staggering. Though he could not blame his Aghas, his frustration and rage needed an outlet. Though the knights were the obvious target, his Aghas bore the brunt of his anger as they stood before him.

“
This
is how I am greeted?
This
is what you have to show me? My best artillerymen slaughtered at their guns? Half my fine cannons lie shattered and melted in the sands of this accursed island?”

Nobody answered. Not even Piri Pasha could bring himself to meet the Sultan’s eyes. This was what he remembered so well from the days of Selim. Was this Selim’s blood boiling in the veins of the son?

Suleiman stood with both fists clenched upon the desk top, elbows locked, supporting his rigid body as he glared at each of the men in turn. He breathed deeply several times, and then, incrementally, began to relax his muscles. Slowly he regained control; his face began to soften, and the tight string of muscles in his neck disappeared. His fingers uncurled and he pushed himself away from the table.

Piri looked around the tent. The eyes of the other Aghas would not meet his. All of the Sultan’s generals were backed up to the wall. They stood with their hands folded in front of them, eyes cast down to the carpet. Each stared at his folded hands. Still nobody spoke.

“Well, it seems as if our mighty cannons are little more than thorns in the sides of the knights. Pinpricks! We cannot count upon them to bring down these walls. Mustapha, what is the disposition of our miners and sappers?”

“Majesty, we have begun to dig. I have directed the miners to run their ditches straight to the walls. It will move more quickly, this way, than having to run angled ditches. They have dug deep trenches, and we have covered them with wood and shields to protect the men from gunfire from the walls and the turrets. But, it is very slow going. I have poured thousands of slaves and even some Azabs into the work.”

“And how are they progressing?”

“They are almost through the first, the outer ditch. They have to cross a high escarpment and then the second, inner ditch. But, as they get closer, they also get within range of much more accurate fire. Much of the time they are exposed, and the losses, I am sorry to report, are heavy.”

“How many dead?”

“More than five hundred dead and wounded in this first week of digging, Majesty.”

Suleiman recoiled at this information, and turned his back. After a few moments, he returned to the table. He motioned the Aghas closer. They approached with care, finally gathering in a tight knot around the battle plans. Bali Agha took over the briefing.

“Their most powerful battery is here,” he said pointing to the charts, “at what they call the Tower of St. Nicholas. The knights’ cannons are deadly accurate, and can reach in any direction. I have moved twelve of our best cannons to the shore across the Galley Port from the tower, and have been bombarding day and night. We have had no success, Majesty. The massive reinforcements to the fortress have swallowed our cannonballs as if they were pebbles hurled from a sling. In the daytime, our cannons can only fire for an hour before the counterfire makes it impossible to remain at the site. We have to move our batteries and reestablish our firing patterns. We’ve tried night attacks, but with no more success. They see our muzzle flashes and our fuse fires and are able to silence us.”

“And?”

“So, we have given up on this tactic and moved the batteries back. Our greatest strength is the fighting skills of the Janissaries. We absolutely must make a hole large enough to use our overwhelming numbers of men against their few knights.”

“Where would this be?”

“We have reason to believe that there are weaknesses at the Posts of Auvergne, Aragon, and England. Here, Sire, opposite Achmed Pasha and Qasim Pasha’s sectors.” He pointed to the south and southwest corners of the fort. “We are moving fourteen of our heaviest cannons to this sector, for in a few days—a week at the most—our earthworks will overtop their battlements by at least ten or twenty feet. Once we have mounted our cannon atop the earthworks, we will be able to fire down directly into the city. A breach there or the weaker Post of England could be our way into the city, Sire.”

“Very good. Keep at it, and tell me what progress is made. I want to be there when the bastion falls and our men enter the city.”

The spirits of the Aghas lifted a bit, for it seemed that Mustapha had managed to give the Sultan some hope. Murmuring could now be heard around the table, as the Aghas pointed and discussed the plans. Suleiman turned to Bali Agha and said, “And what of the sorties? Have we captured or killed many of the knights?”

Bali Agha moved to the front of the group and looked directly at Suleiman. “No, my Lord. There are no captives, and no dead knights that I know of. Each day and night, they have sent out small raiding parties of five or ten knights. Occasionally, as many as twenty. These knights know the terrain, and have been able to move undetected into our lines. There are many houses and stone walls behind which to hide, and they are very successfully ambushing our working parties. I’ve had to send my Janissaries out with the work details building the ditches and the earthworks to provide protection. But, each time, these devils strike where the parties are unguarded. We have thousands of miners at work, Sire, and I cannot provide a Janissary for each of them.”

“What losses, then?”

“Many, Sire. I would say at least two hundred killed in these sorties and night raids.”

“Two hundred! And not a single knight slain?”

“No, my lord. And…”

“And?”

“And we have word that three of my Janissaries are missing.”

“Deserters?”

“Oh, no, my Lord. These were fine young soldiers, and they would gladly have died in your service. No, if they are missing, I can only assume they were killed in ambush. They were off duty at the market and never returned.”

“And their bodies?”

“Not yet found, my Lord.”

“Then surely, they are dead. Or worse, they might be captured. May Allah have pity on them.” Suleiman rubbed his eyes and squeezed the bridge of his hawk-like nose. Ibrahim moved to his side and whispered in his ear. Suleiman nodded. He walked to a
divan
and sat down. He appeared to the Aghas weary and depressed. The siege had barely begun.

The sea was roiled with white foam as the northwesterly winds of August played upon the surface of the Mediterranean. The winds were steady, the sky clear. July and August were the rainless months of sun and fair breezes. For the navy, it was the time of the
Bel Tempo,
the good weather. The winds scoured the air clean. The visibility was limited only by the height of the vantage point or eyesight.

Cortoglu stood by the helm of his galley and surveyed the sea. This famous pirate manned the Sultan’s fleet, blockading the island to interdict any resupply the knights might try to achieve. Though generally despised by the Turks for his cruelty, his presence freed up other of the Sultan’s officers for more vital duties.

Cortoglu’s fleet rowed north and then turned and ran south before the wind, plying the waters just out of range of the guns at Fort St. Nicholas, blockading the two ports. His orders were to board and destroy any ships attempting to depart or land at
Rhodes. Suleiman wanted no reinforcements of either knights or provisions to reach the island.

Cortoglu was dressed in his own non-military uniform, baggy pants and high leather boots. He was a big man, and obese. His skin was dark and heavily wrinkled from years of exposure to the sun and the sea. He wore a long, black mustache and a beard. His shirt was open-necked, and he wore no hat. His sword was the curved scimitar of the Ottomans, and he carried a jeweled dirk in his belt; a gift of war from the Sultan.

From the raised afterdeck of his flagship, Cortoglu’s eyes continuously scanned from the horizon to the shore. Hour after hour, he patrolled his beat. Heading north into the wind, he made use of his oars. Coming about and heading south, he hoisted his lateen sails while the oarsmen rested. He shouted the occasional order to his crew to correct their heading or to change the cadence of the oars; otherwise he spent his days in brooding silence, for the knights had given him little to do. He sorely wanted them to come out upon the sea and fight.

Below decks, the slaves were chained to their posts. They sat naked, six to a rough hewn wooden bench less than four feet wide. In the Muslim ships, nearly all the oarsmen were slaves, chained to their places by one ankle. They rowed with one foot on the ground board and the other pushing against the bench in front of them. Sometimes they had wool padding covered in burlap as seats. Most of the time the benches were bare. The wood was darkened with the deep penetration of the blood of the many oarsmen who had labored there over the years.

Cortoglu stood next to the helm at the afterdeck, his first officer at his side. As he turned back into the wind, he gave the command to row. The officer signaled the slave masters below with the silver whistle chained around his neck. Two officers below decks gave the commands to the oarsmen, and the cadence began again. Slowly the galley accelerated as the oars dipped in unison. The slaves strained at the massive oar-looms, pushing with one leg against the benches and pulling with both arms on the rough oars. The handles were dark with the sweat and blood of the slaves; the
bilges stank from the excrement that sloshed about with each surge of the galley. The holds were never cleaned or washed while at sea, and the filth could accumulate for months. The slaves, too, never washed, nor were they ever allowed to leave their benches or their oars. The width of the rowing bench was their world until they died in the service of the Sultan.

The cadence increased as the galley picked up speed and the water resistance lessened. Soon they were cruising at an easy three knots. In battle, when rowing with the wind at their backs and the sails raised, Cortoglu’s galleys could, for a time, make six knots.

As they approached the northernmost end of their patrol, word came up to the helm that two slaves had fallen unconscious over their oars. Cortoglu ordered them whipped back to work. The slave master uncoiled his long, leather whip and began to beat the two men across their backs. After ten or more lashes, there was still no movement. The second-in-command below decks put a hand on the slave master’s arm and stopped the whipping. He pointed to the lash marks on the backs of the two men. There was no bleeding. The slave master bent down and pulled the oarsman’s head backwards by he hair. He looked into the glazed eyes and saw no moisture. He unchained all the men at the bench, and shipped the large oar to get it out of the way of the others. Then he ordered the two living slaves to drag out the naked bodies of the dead men. They were hauled up on deck and, without any delay, thrown overboard into the sea. Two more slaves were released from a locked holding room and brought to replace the dead men at the oars.

As the day grew hotter, two reserve slaves were sent aft to fetch provisions. With the boat heading south under sail and the oars at rest, the two slaves walked among the oarsmen and placed winesoaked bread into their mouths. The bread would provide just enough nourishment to keep them alive, while the wine would dull some of their pain.