Shadow of God (13 page)

Philippe was Commander of Ships, by which was meant the sail-powered vessels. These larger vessels carried knights as well, but additionally were heavily armed with cannon. They had superior firepower, but were at the mercy of the winds. The oar-powered galleys could maintain their maneuverability in calm waters, but were handicapped in high winds and rough seas.

It was the difference between these two kinds of ships that brought the commanders into open conflict. The two met aboard Philippe’s flagship the night before the planned attack. Philippe was dressed for battle, his sword hanging as always within reach on a wooden peg near the door. The men were alone in the main cabin. Philippe sat at the side of the small table bolted to the wall. D’Amaral stood, rather than sit on the edge of Philippe’s bunk bed. D’Amaral was a large man, heavy boned and broad. He had a huge chest and arms, which he used to good advantage in battle. He was dark-skinned and had shining black hair that covered his ears and neck.

There was just enough room to move about the cabin, and d’Amaral kept pacing the entire time. The strain between the men was apparent even before d’Amaral had insisted on leading the attack into the protected harbor with his galleys. The argument had reached its second hour, and both men were feeling the strain.

D’Amaral spoke again, his voice weary and tense. His tone was that of an exasperated teacher lecturing a backward student. The implication was not lost on Philippe. D’Amaral said, “We can be in and out of there before the Turk knows we are upon them. We will row in under the cover of darkness and take them in the night. Why, my knights and guns will have it over in minutes. Your ships can bombard the shore and their ships, set fire to the land base, and destroy all the timber they have. We will be gone before dawn!”

Philippe let him finish and then said quietly, “And what of these capricious winds of August. They shift hourly. My ships could enter that harbor and be becalmed in a moment.” D’Amaral began to object, but Philippe raised his hand and went on. “Worse yet, we could sail in, and a change of wind could blow us into the range of their shore batteries. You would get out to sea, and my men would be slaughtered. I cannot allow the risk, and neither would the Grand Master risk our most powerful forces to the chance changing of an August wind.”

“Grand Master d’Amboise is in Rhodes, and I am here! In command!” D’Amaral was red-faced and furious. His fists were clenched and some spittle showed in the corner of his mouth. He could barely contain his fury, and Philippe thought for a moment that d’Amaral might actually attack him.

Philippe remained completely calm as he spoke, and this infuriated the angry d’Amaral even more. Philippe continued. “I will not allow the pride of our fleet to be jeopardized by an irresponsible attack on uncertain ground. My ships will not be allowed to fall under the shore batteries of the Turk and Mameluke!”

The argument raged for several hours more. Though d’Amaral was technically in command of the entire fleet, somehow Philippe prevailed in the end.

The very next day, the knights’ ships sat at rest outside the harbor, a decoy target too tempting to be passed up by the Turk and Mameluke commanders. They rushed out of the harbor at first light to meet the knights in open water. In moments, the battle turned to a one-sided slaughter.

The knights met the onrushing forces with a few deadly salvos of cannon fire from their big sailing carracks. Next, the knights’ galleys closed with their own cannon fire, and then moved in to grapple the enemy ships. Just before the knights boarded, the archers sent thousands of arrows streaking into the sky and down onto the waiting bodies of the Turks. Chain was fired from the cannons, shredding the rigging and sails of the Turkish ships. When the knights boarded, the fighting was fierce. But, the Sultan’s armies proved no match for the knights. After two terrible and bloody hours, the Turks surrendered eleven ships and four galleys. The survivors of the enemy were taken prisoner, and the Sultan’s nephew was killed while in command of one of his own fleets of galleys.

Then, Philippe’s ships closed upon the harbor. Just out of range of the batteries, they took all the time they needed to methodically level the fortifications and destroy the entire base with cannon fire. Finally, a band of knights went ashore where, after killing or chasing off the remaining defenders, they set fire to the Sultan’s large store of ships’ timber.

The knights then set sail for Rhodes with the newly enlarged fleet, manned in part by some of the captives chained to the oars. As they began the journey toward Rhodes, some of the Order’s spies in the area sent word of a large Egyptian fleet seen heading south from Gallipoli to try to engage the knights on the open sea. Though, again, d’Amaral wanted to stay and fight, Philippe prevailed, and chose to run.

“Andrea, we are in no position to engage a large fleet now. Our men are weary, and many of the ships have more prisoners on board than knights. They would betray us in a fight, or at best hamper us. Let’s just slip away in the cover of night, and return to fight another day.”

The knights had always preferred to man their own galley oars with free men upon whom they could depend. The Turks used slaves, and only the lash of the overseers’ whips and their manacles kept the prisoners at the oars.

So the knights returned to their fortress on Rhodes, and Philippe’s judgment was vindicated. Few knights had been killed,
and the Order’s fleet was enlarged in both ships and slaves. Philippe’s reputation for judgment and skill was greatly enhanced.

Only d’Amaral tasted the bitterness of defeat in Philippe’s victory. It was a taste he swore never to forget or forgive.

Philippe continued to stare into the darkness as his men rowed towards the waiting ship. Finally, out of the night, there appeared the outline of his great carrack, the
Sancta Maria.
Just off each side lay anchored two war galleys, their gun ports uncovered, and their knights standing at the ready. A platform on the outer decks was built over the rowers’ oars, providing a deck from which the knights could leap aboard the enemy ships. The knights were in full battle dress and armed. They stood atop the fighting platforms waiting for their new Grand Master.

Philippe was relieved as he boarded the ship that he would not have to face d’Amaral until he arrived in Rhodes. He needed time to think about Paris, to resolve his doubts and his sorrows. He could recover from his hard journey from Paris in this easy sail to his island fortress. So he thought.

The small flotilla weighed anchor an hour later. The outgoing tide sped them southeast on their course toward the tip of Italy. From there they would continue around the southern end of Greece to Rhodes.

Philippe stared into the darkness. The blackness of the sky merged with the surface of the water so perfectly that the ship seemed to float in a void rather than upon the sea. He felt a tightness in his chest as his mind drifted back to Paris. Had it been only five nights ago that he had said good-bye? So much had happened, so much distance traveled, that it seemed to have taken place in another lifetime. He ran his fingers through his beard, combing out the salty dampness that had already settled in the gray hairs.

He moved toward the rail of the raised afterdeck above his cabin, and stared out over the stern. In the silence, a small wake troubled the black water and reflected some of the receding lights of Marseilles. Within a few minutes, the lights flickered, dimmed,
and one by one extinguished themselves in the sea. Alone in the darkness, Philippe surrendered, letting his mind drift back to Paris. Try as he might, he could not find relief from the anguish that pressed upon his chest as if a boulder had been placed there. He took deep breaths of the salt air, consciously slowing his breathing, trying to lighten his heart.

He had known that the day would come. For years, while he was still Grand Prior of France, he lived with the knowledge that he was the most likely of the Knights of St. John to be called to the position of Grand Master. D’Amaral’s and Docwra’s names would surely be proposed. Others, too, would be considered. But, Philippe knew, his own election to Grand Master was almost certainly assured.

When the messenger came to his door, Philippe knew that his world was about to change. Long before he actually stepped into the role of Grand Master, he would confront pain such as he had never known; pain of which he never dreamt. Paris and all that filled his life there was now behind him and would never be the same again. Less sure was whether he could make amends. Would Hélène ever forgive him? Would he ever see her again?

Three days later, the little fleet was sailing the channel between Malta and Syracuse at the southeast corner of Sicily. The weather was deteriorating, and the ships had closed ranks for an approaching storm. Philippe stood next to his helmsman as they beat into the increasing easterly wind. His long, gray beard was wet and salty with the spray. His black mantle was heavy and sodden from the rain.

“It will be good to see our island again, eh?” he said to the helmsman.

“
Oui, Seigneur.
It has been too long. And this weather will worsen surely.” Though they spoke in French, the man’s accent was clearly Portuguese. It was not lost on Philippe that his helmsman was a countryman of d’Amaral. The old man gripped the long, wooden tiller lightly, his hands callused from years of holding the hard, rough surface. The long, wooden pole curved down and back to the stern, where it was hinged to the center-line rudder.

Philippe looked at the coming storm and said, “You’re right about that storm,
mon vieux
. My old bones told me of this storm many hours ago. And by the feel of them, it will be a strong blow. There is also a great deal of lightning in this weather. See there? Dead ahead of us?”

“
Oui,
I do my Lord. But, these winds and the seas give me no choice. We will have to run through it, and hope to be out the other side in good time,
grâce à Dieu
.” God willing.

“
Peut-être, mon ami, peut être.”
Philippe said absently. Perhaps, my friend, perhaps.

The storm strengthened, and the lightning grew closer, hardly an instant between flash and sound. Several shafts of blinding flame struck the water between the boats, and the noise made even the experienced sailors nervous. Most of the crews were on deck, so they could be available in the event one of the ships or shipmates needed help; and, so that they would not be trapped below in case their ship foundered.

The crew stood facing into the wind, as the old helmsman tried to hold his course. Philippe stood back from the helm, balancing carefully as the ship split the oncoming waves. Each crash of the hull against the sea shuddered through the wooden keel. The lightning kept intensifying. Suddenly, the blinding flash and the noise of one stroke of the lightning came simultaneously. The scotoma blinded most of the men for almost a minute, as the smell of ozone overpowered the salt air. St. Elmo’s fire lit the rigging of the other ships and danced in brilliant green flames around the spars and shrouds.

When his vision cleared, Philippe could not believe what he saw. He was surrounded by the dead bodies of nine men, including the helmsman, who had been talking to him just seconds before. The clothes of the men were charred black and still smoking. The smell of ozone now mixed with that of burnt clothing and flesh. Dark blood ran from the corner of the helmsman’s mouth, and the helm moved freely in the thrashings of the sea, bringing the ship into the wind. Neither Philippe nor the remaining knights could hear a sound, for the blast of the lightning bolt had temporarily deafened
everyone on board the
Sancta Maria.
No one spoke. The knights stood in a circle around Philippe and their nine dead comrades. Not a man moved.