Shadow of God (71 page)

“These are two Judges of the Court of Rhodes. Perhaps the Grand Master felt that they might be more believable than an envoy of knights. In any case, Majesty, the Grand Master requests a three-day truce to prepare for the surrender and a clarification of the terms.”

Suleiman considered for a moment, and then waved Achmed Agha to the side. He nodded to the Janissaries, and the envoys were led toward the throne. The two men stood before the throne, hands folded in front of their robes. Suddenly, they felt their legs buckle as they were forced to their knees by the Janissaries. They held their positions with equanimity, but both men wondered if they were to be slain on the spot in a display of the Sultan’s power over them. Finally, the interpreter told them to bow and then rise, maintaining their distance from the Sultan.

Both men complied, but both refused to touch their heads to the ground. The Sultan had made his point, and so had they. The men rose to their feet and waited for permission to speak.

In an unexpectedly pleasant voice, Suleiman said, “
Salaam Aleichum.
You are welcome to my camp. What word do you bring me from your Grand Master, Philippe Villiers de L’Isle Adam?”

Grollée stepped an inch forward and looked up into the eyes of the Sultan. He had heard about this man for so long that it shocked him when he finally saw Suleiman in person. The power of the Ottoman army and Empire had led Grollée to picture a man of massive physical proportions; a deep stentorian voice and bush-black beard. Instead, he found a slightly built man almost effeminately dressed in robes of white silk brocade with gold patterns stitched into the hem. He wore a high white turban with a gold crown. His slippers were embroidered, and as the envoy glanced about him, he was astonished by the opulence of what should have been an austere military camp. This was a different man than the envoy was expecting, and it unnerved him.

Suleiman’s dark eyes never left Grollée’s, as he waited for his reply.

“The Grand Master bids you good day and good health,” Grollée said, clearing his throat.

Suleiman seemed pleased with the tone of the message. He had expected a preamble of extensive haggling, and was prepared to reply with an instant assault upon the city. Instead, he turned to his interpreter and asked if there was any problem in the translation.

“No, Majesty. There is none.”

“Very well, tell the envoy this: I will accede to his request for three days of truce to prepare his city for surrender.” Grollée and Peruzzi were surprised at the Sultan’s immediate accession to the request. Suleiman continued, “There must be no work on any of the defenses of the city during the three days, nor any preparation of cannons or weapons. If there is any deviation from these conditions, it will be followed by a massive assault, which will not cease until every person within the walls is dead.”

Both envoys bowed. Suleiman turned to Achmed and said in Turkish, “Send that man,” pointing to Peruzzi, “back with my reply. The other you will keep with you as a hostage.”

Achmed bowed to Suleiman, and then spoke to the interpreter. The interpreter walked up to the envoys. He turned to Peruzzi and said, “You will return to the city escorted by the Janissaries as far as the walls. You,” he said to Grollée, “will remain as the guest of Achmed Agha until the surrender is agreed upon.”

Grollée recoiled at the news that he was now a hostage, no matter how nicely it was worded. There was no doubt in his mind that should the surrender go awry, his head would be displayed upon a pike at the vanguard of Suleiman’s assault wave.

Grollée nodded to Peruzzi, and was led, backing away, by the Janissaries.

Outside the
serai,
Achmed Agha ordered the Janissaries to escort Peruzzi back to the city. He smiled at Grollée and motioned him to the horses. The two men rode out behind the Sipahi guards, back to the Turkish lines and Achmed’s pavilion.

Antoine de Grollée was shocked at his treatment by Achmed Agha. He was taken by horseback down to the Agha’s pavilion. They spoke little along the way, and Grollée was nervous at the way the Sipahis kept such a close guard.
Why,
he thought,
should I be under such tight surveillance by these guards, unless I have something to fear at the hands of these Turks?

When they arrived in the camps, he was led directly into Achmed Agha’s personal tent. Achmed motioned him inside, and then apologized. “I must spend about an hour inspecting my troops and the lines. I will return as soon as I can.” With that, he turned and left.

Grollée was alone for only a few minutes. He paced the tent, not knowing whether it was permitted for him to sit. Before he could make any decisions, a servant entered the tent. In his arms he carried clean undergarments and a brocade caftan. He placed them on a low table, and motioned for Grollée to undress and put on the clean clothes. Slippers were traded for Grollée’s tattered boots, and a small tray of food and wine was set down near the
divan.

Grollée washed his hands and face, and settled down on the
divan
in his new clothes. His diet of stale bread and water for the past weeks had begun to sap his strength. The aroma of the fresh food set him salivating.

He ate part of the meal and then waited, for he didn’t know whether this food was to be shared with his host. The wait was torture.

After about an hour, Achmed returned to the tent. He ordered the interpreter to stay. “Ah,” he said in Turkish, “ I see my servants have taken good care of you,” he said, as if it had been the servants’ idea to clothe and feed the hostage. “Good. Good. Eat up. That’s a small meal, all for you. We will have a proper dinner when it grows dark.”

Grollée could hardly believe his good fortune. He immediately finished all the sweet meats and fruit on the table, and, a little guiltily, washed it down with some red wine. Achmed changed out of his uniform in a side room and dressed in a caftan and undergarments similar to those of his guest. “Well,” he said finally, “with any luck, this siege will end before your Christmas, and by your New Year some of us might be on the way home as well. And,
Inch’ Allah,
the death and the dying may be over.”

Grollée listened with interest as Achmed spoke. The Agha certainly seemed keenly aware of the Christian calendar and holy days. Was this some way to test the determination of the knights? Surely not, he thought, as the battle was already conceded.

“Our armies and the people have suffered terribly since it all began,” Grollée volunteered in French. “It has been a trial for everyone”

“Indeed,” said Achmed. “Both armies have suffered. We have spent lives prodigally these past months. My officers have estimated that we have nearly sixty-five thousand dead, and another fifty thousand wounded or dying. More than one hundred thousand casualties in only four months!”

“
Mon Dieu!”
Grollée replied. “More than one hundred thousand casualties! It’s hard to believe. Not, that I doubt your word,” he said carefully, “but so many lives. Then, one only has to look in the ditches to see that this is true.”

Grollée shifted uneasily. “Why,” he asked, “was the Sultan so determined to destroy us that he would sacrifice thousands of men to do so?”

“We are here,” Achmed replied, “because the Sultan—as his father and his grandfather and his great-grandfather—sees the Knights of the Order of St. John as an island of trouble in an otherwise tranquil Ottoman Sea. Surely, you must realize that the
Ottoman Empire surrounds you on every side for thousands of miles. We control the law, trade, everything but this Island of Rhodes.”

Achmed paused, and reached for a sweet. Then, when Grollée did not reply, he went on. “The knights have been pirates here for more than two hundred years on this island alone. The Ottoman Sultans have driven them from one fortress to another for five hundred years. The Sultan is determined to be the one who rids the Empire of this nuisance once and forever. I, for one, am surprised at his offer of honorable surrender. Up until yesterday, I would have sworn that he would not be content until every last one of you were dead.
Why
he has changed his mind, he has not shared with me. But, if your Grand Master is as wise as his knights think he is, he will capitulate quickly and decisively. The Sultan could just as easily change his mind again.”

Grollée pulled his caftan closer around his body. Suddenly, even with the coal-fired warmth in the tent, he was beginning to shiver.

Rhodes
Christmas, 1522

The weather was still wet and cold as Philippe rode through the Gate of St. John. He was wrapped in a fresh scarlet battle cloak, with the white, eight-pointed cross. He wore no helmet, but his broadsword hung on his belt at his left hip. His white horse was adorned in gold ceremonial armor. Eight Knights Grand Cross rode at escort before and after him.

The Grand Master and his small procession followed a path that had been cleared through the trenches, and then turned west toward Mount Saint Stephen. Janissaries and Sipahis lined the route, and assured Philippe’s safe passage. Though the wind cut through his garments, Philippe kept his back straight and his head up. He resisted the temptation to tuck his chin down into his surcoat to keep the wind from his neck.

The Turkish soldiers along the wayside stared at the figure now ascending the slopes. This was the man who had led the slaughter of their comrades for one hundred forty-five days. Now, he rode through their lines to a meeting with their Sultan, Suleiman.

Suleiman and Ibrahim sat in the
serai
warming themselves in front of the coal brazier. The heat had permeated the rock structure of the house, and warmth radiated from the walls and the ceiling.
The men were alone in the room. Servants and guards waited just outside the doors.

“So, he is on his way?”

“Yes, Majesty,” Ibrahim answered. “The messengers say he will be here within the half hour. His party is already climbing the slopes of the hillside.”

Suleiman said, “I will admit to you, my friend, that I never anticipated such fierce resistance from these knights. I knew when we came here that my cavalry would be useless for most of the battle; that when winter came, the horses and the men might as well be at home for all the good they could do in a siege. But, just think of the numbers of Janissaries and Azabs that I threw at them. Just think of it!” He shook his head in disbelief. “Nobody could have predicted such a battle, even if they did have the world’s best fortifications. I expected my artillery and the miners to reduce them to rubble within days. Amazing.”

Ibrahim sat silently, allowing his Sultan to continue the monologue. Suleiman seemed to need the moment to reflect on the war. “I think,” Suleiman went on, “that the Grand Master would have fought to the death of every last man. I can despise his beliefs and his piracy, but I cannot demean his bravery.”

“Majesty, how shall we receive the Grand Master?”

“We shall receive him as we would any head of state. With courtesy and dignity. Of course…he might be made to wait upon me…perhaps only a few hours.”