The Religion (32 page)

Damnation. He was shackled by invisible chains. Tortured by psychic instruments of fiendish manufacture. A shrewd man would arrange his own departure without further ado. But he was not a shrewd man, or so it seemed, and he concluded these futile ruminations with a weighty sigh.

"You are troubled, my lord," said Nicodemus.

Tannhauser grunted and lowered his hands. The Macedonian's looks were striking, with dark, intense features of perfect symmetry and proportion. His black, long-lashed eyes looked out on the world with the violated innocence of icons on the walls of the Aya Sofy. It was probably these qualities that had promoted him to Mustafa's personal guard, for old men find reassurance in the mirror of youth. They spoke in Turkish.

"I'm too easily given to introspection," said Tannhauser. "It's not a habit you should cultivate."

"You showed me the way back to Christ," said Nicodemus. His eyes shone with the idealism of one too young to know better. "My life is yours."

Tannhauser smiled. "I am not a religious man."

"You see to the heart of things as only a religious man could."

Tannhauser saw no reason to contradict him. Loyalty, whatever its basis, was a precious commodity. Nicodemus pulled up the sleeve of his shirt to reveal a bronzed and sinewy forearm, and around it a bangle of stippled yellow gold. He stripped the bangle off and held it out.

"Please," he said. "Accept this from me. It will ease your troubles."

Tannhauser examined it. It was an incomplete circlet and heavy, perhaps seven or eight ounces, and masculine in character. There were random variations in the metal's hue and the finish was not of the finest: the marks of the smith's hammer could be seen in the repoussage work and the symmetry was imperfect. Yet all the same it proclaimed itself superb. The gold was an inch and a half wide at its center and tapered to an inch at either end. The terminations were fashioned into the heads of roaring lions. He turned the bangle in the light and saw that it was inscribed in Arabic along its inner face. He read it out loud.

"I come to Malta not for riches or honor, but to save my soul."

He looked at Nicodemus. He wondered who'd given it to the youth, and why; but he wasn't sure he wanted to know the answer. Tannhauser wrapped the bangle around his wrist. He felt an inexplicable warmth flow through his chest. The inscription, perhaps, imbued it with some supernal potency.

"I will treasure it above all other possessions," said Tannhauser. He held his arm up and the bangle shone with a dull, almost ocher, glow. "It contains a power that the eye cannot see."

Nicodemus nodded, solemnly.

Tannhauser said, "Before he was crowned sultan, Suleiman Khan trained in the goldsmith's art."

"Yes," replied Nicodemus. "So did I." Tannhauser looked at him. "At least, I was apprenticed for five years. I was never admitted to the guild."

The bangle's minor flaws now made sense. "So this is of your creation."

Nicodemus nodded. "From forty-nine pieces of gold." He said this as if the coins had been in payment for something that should never have been sold.

"Then you transformed something base into something of beauty," said Tannhauser. "There is no higher magic."

A shadow of melancholy persisted in the Macedonian's face.

Tannhauser smiled. "Let me embrace you."

Nicodemus stepped forward and Tannhauser clasped him to his chest. "Now, go and rouse Bors from his pit." He let go. "And cook something tasty for the women while I'm gone. They eat like sparrows." Nicodemus turned to leave and Tannhauser stopped him. "Nicodemus. You have eased my troubles."

Nicodemus's face brightened with a smile. He bowed and left. Tannhauser went to the door and the sunlight struck bursts of radiance from the bangle. Only gold looked and felt like gold. All else was prone to deceive, which was why men loved it. He felt a faint tremor through the soles of his boots as the sound of dozens of explosions reached the auberge. The siege guns had opened up from the slopes of Monte Sciberras. Another day had begun at Fort Saint Elmo.

Friday, June 8, 1565

Infirmary Piazza-Castel Sant'Angelo

Bors swallowed his disgruntlement at missing a cooked breakfast and wolfed a round of bread and cheese and swigged wine as they walked across the town.

"The women are driving me mad," Mattias said.

Bors feigned surprise. "What have the fair and tender maidens done now?"

Mattias blew his cheeks. "Do they need do anything, other than breathe?" He spread his palms, as if the victim of forces mightier and more cunning than he. "I have the one but I want the other too."

"The contessa?" said Bors. "I'd have thought her too haughty for you."

"She casts a Fascination without even knowing it."

"Well, I daresay you'd find a torrid welcome in her arms-if you stopped swiving her dearest friend and abased yourself. By the look of her she hasn't been molested since her boy was born. Though, of course, they're much craftier in concealing these matters than we."

"If it were only a question of lust there'd be no great riddle. But I have affection for each."

"Hold now," said Bors. "Love at the best of times is a faithless pimp."

"I did not say love."

"Then let us argue the number of angels that may dance on the head of a pin."

Mattias said, "Go on."

"In war, love becomes a contagion," expounded Bors. "Much-loathed rivals become brothers, malice becomes firm fellowship, and strangers clasp each other to their breast. Look at La Valette. I'd wager that six months ago any number of the Spanish or Italian knights would've danced a jig of joy to see a knife between his shoulders. So at least I've heard. But the man now walks on water. But why?" He paused for drama. "Because Love is the horse that pulls the gut cart of War. Why else would we come back for more? As for women and war, never is their flesh softer or their virtues more bright or their gentleness more welcome to the soul." He looked Mattias in the eye. "And never is the hole between their thighs a deeper pit in which to fall."

Mattias was silent for a while as he took this in and Bors was gratified. In the normal run, Mattias had an answer for everything. "So what is your advice?" Mattias said.

"Advice?" A short laugh escaped Bors's throat. "There's a whore in the lee of Galley Creek that I can warmly recommend, though she tips the scales at not much less than I do. The sight of her naked is alone a marvel never to be forgotten."

"My question was in earnest."

"Then so is this answer. The only game here is to stay alive. And to be in love-or in lust-is to play with a dangerous handicap." He shrugged.
"But I waste my breath, for the game unfettered is no game at all, at least for the likes of you. My advice, then, is to swive them both and let the Devil take his due. It won't be until all this is over that you'll know what any of it means. And even then."

Mattias brooded on this as they entered the piazza outside the Sacred Infirmary. His attitude changed as he saw Father Lazaro come out and walk down the steps.

"Hold," said Mattias, "for I've a bone to pick."

He bowed to Lazaro, who gave a cautious nod in return.

"Father Lazaro, Mattias Tannhauser, late of Messina. I hope you won't find me insolent, but I've a boon to ask. Lady Carla is eager to bring some comfort to the wounded, a fact of which you are aware, yet she is denied any opportunity to serve. I was hoping you and I might reach some bargain in this matter."

"The care of the sick is the most sacred work of the Order, and is not a fit subject for bargaining," said Lazaro. "In any case, only we have the necessary skill."

"What skill does it take to hold a man's hand and whisper some words of hope?"

"She is a woman."

"The sound of a woman's voice will give a man better reason to live than all your elixirs and potions mingled together."

"Our men will survive through prayer and the Grace of God," said Lazaro.

"Then the contessa is sent by God. She's spent half her life on her knees."

"No laywomen are allowed in the Sacred Infirmary."

"The only thing that excludes them is your pride-or should I say vanity?"

The monk gaped at his effrontery. "Should we open the doors to every woman in the Borgo?"

"No doubt you could do worse," said Mattias. "Nevertheless, it can be no great feat to make exception for an aristocrat like her."

Lazaro seemed unwilling to yield. Mattias placed a hand on the monk's shoulder. Lazaro flinched, as if no one had taken such a liberty in his life. "Father, you are a man of God and, if you will forgive me, advanced in years. You cannot imagine what the sight-the presence, the perfume, the aura-of a beautiful woman can do for a fighting man's spirit."

Lazaro looked up into the battered and barbarian face looming over his own. "I'd hoped to avoid raising this objection, but I have heard that the Lady Carla is not as pious as you claim."

Mattias raised one brow in warning. "You have me at a disadvantage, Father."

"Is she not living with you in a state of mortal sin?"

"You disappoint me, Father," said Mattias. "Bitterly so, if I may be so bold."

Lazaro's mouth puckered into something resembling the anus of a sheep. Mattias glanced at Bors. Bors turned away to stifle a snigger.

"Such gossip is both idle and pernicious," Mattias continued. "Did not Moses himself list the bearing of false witness as a crime?" His eyes darkened. "I myself have no good name worth defending, but as the lady's protector I would advise you against such slurs upon her honor."

"Then it's untrue," said Lazaro, nervously.

"I'm shocked that the brethren should entertain such salacious tittletattle."

Lazaro, somewhat embarrassed, offered a feeble defense. "Perhaps you do not know this, but the lady left this island under a cloud."

"She told me so herself, for she's quite without guile. The shame you refer to-and there was plenty to go around-belonged to others more powerful than she and to her not at all. Besides, it was long ago. Is your piety so exorbitant that you've abandoned Christ's message of forgiveness? Would you banish the Magdalene from the foot of the Cross? Shame on you, Father Lazaro." As Lazaro reeled under this tirade, Mattias took a step back and softened his tone. "If you chose to be more Christian, a pound of Iranian opium might find a way of reaching your apothecary. Perhaps even two."

Lazaro blinked, by now quite confused. "You're hoarding opium? While the infirmary is filled with direly wounded?"

Bors recalled the weighty stash beneath the water tub. Mattias feigned a sad smile.

"Perhaps I've earned the low esteem in which you hold me, Father Lazaro, even though we were strangers before today. But hoarding opium?"

Lazaro retreated. "Perhaps the plight of my patients provoked too hasty a conclusion-"

"However," went on Tannhauser, hand palm-raised, "at great personal risk, and considerable expense, I might acquire said drugs on your behalf from the Turkish bazaar."

In a seizure of repentance, Lazaro grabbed his hand. "Forgive me, Captain, I beg you."

Mattias inclined his head in a gracious gesture. "Lady Carla will be honored to accept your invitation."

Lazaro's face corrugated with worry. "But will Lady Carla have the strength for such grim work?" Lazaro looked up the steps to the cloistered infirmary. "There are sights in there that would turn the strongest stomach-and break the stoutest heart."

"The contessa's heart is of gold. But if her stomach proves too weak, then your pride will be vindicated and hers justly chastised. You will find her and her companion at the Auberge of England."

"Her companion?"

"Amparo. If it's vulgar gossip you seek, she's the woman with whom I'm living in sin." Lazaro blinked. Mattias made the sign of the cross. "
Dominus vobiscum
," he said.

And off they went.

Dominus vobiscum
, thought Bors. To a priest. Only an ignorance of manners could produce such cheek; but ignorance played little part in anything Mattias did.

Castel Sant'Angelo rose above Grand Harbor like a huge floating ziggurat, its sheer walls descending in stepped sandstone tiers to the water's edge. From Sant'Angelo's roof, the view across Grand Harbor to Fort Saint Elmo was unequaled and as they ascended the last stone stairway Bors's heart hammered hard with more than just exertion. He'd been invited to the emperor's box and not even Nero had ever staged a circus as spectacular as this.

They emerged into the blinding sun in time to be deafened by a salvo from Sant'Angelo's cavalier. The great gun platform, whose timbers shook and creaked with the force of the blast, had been constructed to provide a better field of fire on the Turkish positions. Spouts of smoke barreled above the crystal waters far below and Bors shaded his gaze to watch the gunners. They fell upon the sixteen pounders as if upon dangerous animals
in want of restraint. They were stripped to the waist for all that the day was yet cool, their red mouths heaving in the sulfurous air and every inch of them painted black as tar with powder waste and grease. Their filthy hides were runneled with sweat and patched with weeping ulcers caused by the burns that went with the job. And all of them, nine to a crew, cursing God and the Devil and the dear old mothers who had borne them as they wrestled the great bronze beasts back into position, the whites of their eyes rolling bloodshot and their faces all covered in soot, as if this were a satanic
commedia
and they its minstrels infernal and deranged.