Shadow of God (64 page)

“But, Philippe,” she said, interrupting him, “our people suffer, too. The hospital is full; we have no real doctors anymore; the people
are frightened and they, too, are exhausted. The dead are piling up around us as well. It is not only the Turks whose bodies lie outside to rot. Could we not leave this place and find another home? Your knights have moved so many times. Is it not better to flee with most of your men and pick a better place to defend?”

Philippe did not react, but seemed to stare past her. Hélène fell back upon the pillow, her fire gone. She had pleaded her case for all the people on the island. And still she had no idea what Philippe would do. His knights, she was sure, would do whatever he said. They would never betray their oaths.

When Philippe woke, it was still dark. Hélène was gone, a bedside candle guttering. He rose and pulled on his boots. Then he went to his dresser and washed his face with a few drops of precious fresh water. There had been no bathing for anyone for several weeks now, and Philippe felt as if he wanted to take off his filthy skin.

He lit a new candle and walked into his main room. He still had to have a final word with the man he had condemned to death, and witness the execution. He rubbed his eyes and ran his fingers through the tangles of his white hair. Overwhelmed by his exhaustion, he finally laid his head upon the hard oak table, and again fell into a deep sleep.

Philippe sat quietly in d’Amaral’s cell in the basement of the Tower of St. Nicholas. This fortress was set off on the northernmost spur of land between the Galley Port and the Mandraccio. Its cannons covered both harbors, and could reach out to the west nearly into the camps of the Janissaries.

Philippe pulled his robes tighter about him in a vain effort to keep out the dampness and the cold. The room was barely big enough for the wooden bed and a chair. It smelled of urine and sweat. Dried food was left uneaten on a pewter plate on the floor by the bed. The jailers had placed a lighted candle on the floor, so that Philippe would not stumble in the darkness.

Philippe had been sitting in the cell for almost an hour. Word had been sent to the Palace that d’Amaral was now conscious. But,
by the time Philippe arrived, the Chancellor was asleep again. Philippe waited.

Finally, d’Amaral stirred and reached for his drink. But his arm would not obey his commands, and he sent the drink spilling across the floor. His moments on the rack had assured that none of his limbs would ever function effectively again. This was the price of his silence.

Philippe ordered more water. When the jailer returned, he took the flagon from him. He knelt down at the side of d’Amaral’s cot and held the water to Andrea’s cracked lips. D’Amaral drank too fast, and coughed most of the water up onto Philippe’s cloak. Philippe wiped himself with his handkerchief and held the flagon to d’Amaral’s lips once more. “
Doucement, Andrea. Doucement.
Do not hurry. You will choke.”

D’Amaral opened his eyes and stared at Philippe as he drank. “Yes,” he rasped, “I will choke soon enough.”

Philippe finished feeding d’Amaral the water, and then moved back to his seat. “Andrea,” he said, “we have known each other for more than forty years. You have served the Order in battle; at my side; on land; at sea. What happened? What’s made you betray your brothers? Surely, it is not that I was elected Grand Master and not you? There is always a loser in an election, yet none before you have gone to such extremes as to betray the Order; to betray the oath you swore before God Almighty.”

D’Amaral stared at Philippe, but said nothing.

“Andrea. We are alone now. Diaz is dead. He was hanged this morning, and even as we speak, his quartered parts hang from the battlements. Speak to me, for this might be our last chance. Tell me why you have done this.”

D’Amaral licked his lips. He looked up at the ceiling. Then in a calm but hoarse voice, he began. “We quarreled at the Battle of Laiazzo. And, yes, I thought it was my destiny to be the Grand Master of Rhodes. You French have dominated the post for far too long. I was angry, yes. I was hurt. But, I’m a grown man, and know that such defeats are not grounds for treasonous acts. When I was heard to say that you will be the last Grand Master of Rhodes, I was not
speaking of treason. I was speaking my truth, as I saw it. The Ottomans have grown too strong for us. We are a small island manned by a small force that cannot expect to remain here forever. The Sultan is determined that we will be destroyed. And, so we shall. We cannot succeed. The Sultan grows stronger and richer every day.”

D’Amaral paused, and motioned for the flagon of water. Philippe reached down and helped him to another drink. Then Philippe sat back again and let his comrade continue. “Suleiman now holds Egypt as well as parts of Europe. It is only a matter of time. And, we have lost all our support from Europe. The Pope ignores us; Spain and France are too busy slaughtering each other to send us help; Italy cannot even govern itself, and is crushed by its civil wars. And as for our old friend, Venice….”

Philippe waited for d’Amaral to continue. He knew what Andrea said was true. But, he would not let the knights capitulate to the Muslims. The Order had been on Rhodes for more than two hundred years. They had stopped Mehmet the Conqueror in 1480, and they would stop his great-grandson now.

“What would you have us do, Andrea? The Muslims will slaughter every living person on this island. Not just the knights, but the mercenaries, the citizens. Those they spare will be slaves; the men to row their lives away in some stinking Ottoman galley, the women to be whores in the harem. Is this what we have sworn to Jesus to do? Is this how we are to keep our oaths to protect and to heal?”

D’Amaral closed his eyes. He squeezed his lids shut tight as spasms of pain lancinated through his legs. When the spasms had passed, he said, “Philippe, you have failed to learn about our enemy. So great is your contempt for the Muslims that you refused to know them. Your stubbornness has caused unthinkable suffering for the knights and the Rhodians as well.” Philippe began to protest, but d’Amaral continued without pause. “What is driving you, Philippe? Is it your duty to God and Jesus? To the Order? Or are you making up for your sins in Paris? Your broken vows?”

Philippe stiffened in his seat. His fist tightened around the hilt of his sword until his hand hurt. But, he said nothing. D’Amaral
went on. “Hasn’t the Sultan offered us the opportunity to surrender with honor? With the choice to remain Christians? Have we not been given the chance to stop the slaughter and live beside the Muslims in peace?”

“And you believe this from the Infidel? You’ve seen our brothers slaughtered. You know what happened at Jerusalem. At Krak de Chevaliers. At Acre. Every remaining person was killed when the Muslims entered the cities. Their promises were lies. Damned lies. It is only by the grace of God that a few knights survived those massacres for the Order to survive with them.”

“That was centuries ago, Philippe. Look to Istanbul. Now. The Jews and the Christians live in peace with Muslims there. What will you accomplish by sacrificing all those who still remain alive on Rhodes? For what? The end is already ordained.” D’Amaral began coughing and stopped talking while Philippe helped him to some more water.

Philippe slammed his right fist into his left palm. “It is
not
ordained. It is
not
over. Jesus will carry our banner, and we
will
drive the Infidels out of our home.” D’Amaral closed his eyes against the verbal onslaught. Philippe stood and said, “Andrea, your treachery is greater than that of Judas; at least
his
resulted in the ultimate greatest good to mankind. But,
yours,
yours might yet cost us Rhodes!”

D’Amaral tore open the remains of his tunic, exposing the red raised scars on his chest. “See my wounds, Philippe. See them? These are my gifts from forty years of service to my Order.”

Philippe looked down at the old battle scars spread out across the naked body. D’Amaral licked his lips and caught his breath. His voice was now just a croak and a whisper. “Am I then, now, to tell a lie and sell my honor to save my old limbs from the mere pain of the rack?”

Without another word, Philippe turned his back on d’Amaral and stormed from the cell.

Judge Fontanus stood in the doorway to d’Amaral’s cell. D’Amaral was dressed in simple prison attire. His robes and his
badges of honor had been ripped from him. He was helped to a chair by two guards, for he was unable to stand on his own. His arms hung limply by his sides. D’Amaral looked directly at the judge.

“You have been found guilty of treason by a Military Tribunal of the Order of the Knights Hospitaller of St. John. You have failed to make any defense or statements of mitigation. You have refused the solace of a priest of the Holy Roman Church. If you have no further statement to make, it is my duty to order that your execution proceed at once.”

D’Amaral stared at Fontanus, but said nothing. Fontanus said, “Very well. You will be hanged by the neck until dead. Your remains will be displayed upon the walls of the city. May God Almighty have mercy upon your soul.” With that, Fontanus led the way to the gallows. Two knights carried the broken body of the once powerful Grand Chancellor Andrea d’Amaral from his cell.

In front of a gathering of two hundred knights, Rhodians, and mercenaries, Andrea d’Amaral was hanged. When he was dead, his body was quartered and his head removed. The pieces were taken each to a separate battlement and set upon a spike, where they were left until nearly completely devoured by hungry ravens. After several days, what little remained of Grand Chancellor Andrea d’Amaral was placed in a catapult and hurled from the battlements into the camps of the Turks.

Rhodes
November, 1522

The weather on Rhodes had been deteriorating since the middle of October. By November, the prevailing easterly winds brought bitterly cold wet gales across the water from the direction of the Turkish mainland. The rain rarely let up long enough for the Sultan’s troops to dry out before being soaked again. It was difficult to keep the fires going, for there was little dry wood to be found.

The ditches around the city had filled with water, and the resulting mix of mud and blood made movement within them all but impossible. The bodies of the dead lay unburied, swollen and stinking in the rain. Attempts at digging graves were hopelessly inadequate, for the water and mud filled the graves before the bodies could be set down and covered.