The Religion (85 page)

Carla left the blind youth in his place and descended the stair. If she returned to the infirmary, or went to find Amparo, no one would have stopped her. Yet the tumult called and she had to take part. She didn't want to kill; yet, perhaps for the first time, she had some inkling of the bewitchment cast by war. She saw a bucket by a butt of water and ran toward it.

The mournful notes of the Moslem trumpets quavered through the smoke-dimmed gloaming and died. The vermilion decline of the sun cast doleful and elongate shadows on the Grande Terre Plein. The shadows were thrown by the dregs of the Turkish retreat as they trudged through the black and flyblown blood dust like hobbled refugees from some conclave of the deranged. They dared not turn to look hinder. Left unclaimed behind them were vast moaning piles of abandoned and slain, which shifted and heaved like fantastic multilimbed beasts brought down by disease. Women clogged with gore from hair to skirts rooted through the
charnel in the dying light, whispering vengeful maledictions and slitting throats. On the fractured ramparts above them no celebrants were found, but only human scarecrows yet too stunned to realize they were alive.

A chaplain rang the Angelus bell. It echoed across the desecration like the tocsin that will summon forth the guilty on the Last Day of Time. The haggard remnants of the garrison sank to their knees in the puddled gore. Scuds of acrid fog from the pools of wildfire drifted about them. They removed their helms and grounded them and made the sign of the cross. And in that hushed and haunted penumbra of rank enormity their hoarsened voices took up the chant and refrain.

"
Angelus Domini, nuntiavit Mariae
."

"
Et concepit de Spiritu Sancto
."

"Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee. Blessed art thou amongst women and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus. Holy Mary, mother of God, pray for us sinners now, and at the hour of our death."

"Behold the handmaid of the Lord."

"Be it done unto me according to Thy word."

"
Ave Maria, gratia plena, Dominus tecum, benedicta tu in mulieribus . . .
"

Favoring his bad knee, Tannhauser leaned on his sword and genuflected beside Bors, more from exhaustion than piety, though he guessed he wasn't quite alone in that. Bors prayed with closed eyes and Tannhauser held his peace as the
Angelus
proceeded.

"And the Word was made flesh."

"And dwelt among us."

Tannhauser murmured with the rest.
"Ave Maria, gratia plena, Dominus tecum, benedicta tu in mulieribus et benedictus fructus ventris tui, Jesus. Sancta Maria, Mater Dei, ora pro nobis peccatoribus, nunc, et in hora mortis nostrae
."

"Pray for us, O Holy Mother of God."

"That we may be made worthy of the promises of Christ
."

The prayer brought him comfort and for a moment he was glad to belong to something larger than himself. Yet he reminded himself that there was no virtue in belonging to a row of corpses, or to a community of the insane. His sojourn with the Religion was over. Tonight the Turks would sit by their watch fires and ponder without inquiry the inscrutability of Allah's will. They'd see to their hurting compatriots as best they could.
They'd eat and shun the darkness, as all men sorely dismayed are prone to do. And in that darkness would Tannhauser make his escape. The thought gave some sinew to his aching limbs. The
Angelus
concluded.

". . . Pour forth, we beseech Thee, O Lord, Thy grace into our hearts, that we, to whom the incarnation of Christ, Thy Son, was made known by the message of an angel, may by His passion and cross be brought to the glory of His resurrection, through the same Christ our Lord."

"Amen."

Bors opened his eyes and looked at him with a glazed bemusement, as if the rules of the Universe had changed in order to permit his continuing existence. He looked like he'd bathed in the runoff from a butcher's yard, but sported no mortal injuries. Tannhauser nodded.

Bors put a hand on Tannhauser's shoulder and levered his own armored bulk to his feet. Then he took Tannhauser's hand and hoisted him upright. He looked up and down along the dire and smoking battlefront. A dazed air attended the survivors as they rose from their knees, as if with no more killing to be done they were denuded of purpose. Some looked about for officers, in search of instruction. Some stared mute into the wasteland as if waiting for night to rob them of what they could see. Others stayed on their knees and wept, though whether from shame or relief, Tannhauser could not say.

"By God," said Bors. "By God. If there are more than four hundred men left standing I'll devote myself to Islam, circumcision and all. Heaven help us if they come again tomorrow."

Tannhauser looked over at the hills to the south, where the banner of the Prophet still waved above his broken legions. In the purpling sky overhead a crescent moon shone, as if the Cosmos sought to mock the symbol of Osman. He turned away and shook his head.

"I don't think they will," he said. "Sooner or later, yes, but not tomorrow."

"Why not? Look at them. They'd surely take the town by breakfast."

"They interpret blows of Fate such as this one in a singular fashion. It's not just a defeat. It's a message from Allah. They won't throw it back in His face." He peeled his gauntlets and strolled toward a water butt and Bors followed. "Besides, by tomorrow we'll be long gone, with no more daunting a fear than of getting seasick."

He shouldered his way through the crowd that had gathered at the
butt and filled his helmet and emptied it over his head. His armor steamed. He'd shortly jettison the cursed plate for good and the thought cheered him. He made a note to find the time for a dip in his tub. He filled the helmet again and emptied several pints down his throat. It was warm enough to brew tea but it was wet. He handed the remnant to Bors, who drank too.

"You're still for the road?" asked Tannhauser.

Bors returned the helmet and wiped his lips. "I never thought to say this, but I've had my fill. I'm with you in earnest."

"Good. Say no farewells. We'll collect our gear and our women and be gone. The moon will be down by midnight and the Bull's horns point the way. But first some food for I'm famished."

"There's a tub of slop yonder," said Bors.

"Thank you, I will eat at the auberge."

"If Nicodemus is alive and has claim to all his fingers."

"If not," said Tannhauser, "you can cook."

He glanced again at the slop tub and saw Carla. She was kneeling with her face in her hands, but it could be no other. She seemed unhurt. He hoped so. He hurried over and sank to his haunches beside her.

"Carla?"

She dropped her hands and looked up. Her face was smeared with grime. Her eyes were clear. Her hands were raw from the ropes. Tannhauser nodded at the tub.

"So this is a family occupation," he said.

She glanced at the tub with bewilderment and his quip went unappreciated. Tears welled in her eyes. She said, "You're alive."

"I've too many obligations to die just yet."

The tears spilled forth and she threw her arms around his neck. Pain lanced through his knee and he steadied himself on the tub to avoid collapse. He gritted his teeth and rose to his feet with her weight around his shoulder. He rubbed her back to comfort her. Her living flesh was such a rapture to his touch that he almost shed a tear himself.

"There now," he said, somewhat beflummoxed. "We're all of us amazed by this day."

She heaved out a few more sobs and he waited. He gestured with his head to Bors, who retreated to a discreet distance. Carla regained her composure and wiped the tears across the dirt on her cheeks. Tannhauser
pulled the red silk scarf from the cheek flaps of his morion. He squeezed out the sweat and wiped her face. She raised no protest.

"I see you ignored my advice," he said. "As I've come to expect. Did you accompany the wounded to the ramparts?"

She nodded. "Most of them are dead."

"Then we're in their debt and all the more reason not to mope. Where's Amparo?"

"The last I saw her she was going to the stables, to see to Buraq."

"Must I use shackles to keep you together?"

She managed a pale smile.

"I'll track her down," he said. "Meanwhile, Bors will return you to the auberge. We've a stiff walk ahead and you must recruit your strength."

"We still leave tonight?"

On whim he said, "Wear your red dress for the journey."

She blinked and looked at him as if he'd asked her to go naked, which wasn't far from the case. To ameliorate the eccentricity of his request, he added, "And a cloak against the chill of night, and some stout shoes, if you have them." He took her hand and led her toward the town. "I may not be worthy of the promises of Christ, but my promise to you and your son I've a mind to keep."

Sunday, September 2, 1565

The Kalkara Gate-The Guva

The eastern section of the wall overlooking Kalkara Bay was the least vulnerable of the whole enceinte and the garrison was so depleted by the day that their route to freedom lay unguarded. The blockhouse was empty and boasted no sentinel. By dint of accepting sentry duty on the bastion of England above, and then abandoning it, they ensured themselves a clear run at the hills. Midnight had passed-only a little later than Tannhauser had planned-and two hours' sleep had fortified the women and had given him the chance to advise La Valette of his expectations of the foe and thus diminish the chance of being summoned again before morning. Bors slipped into the chamber housing the winch and hoisted the iron portcullis aloft.

The stickiest aspect of their preparations had been persuading Amparo to abandon Buraq. Tannhauser had assured her that no living beast was safer. His manifest splendor and Mongol blood would ensure that no one of right mind would harm him, least of all the Turks, who would prize him far above any human being, Christian or Moslem. With a few last tearful hysterics he'd pried Amparo loose and carried her back to the auberge. She evidenced little interest in his own sorely mauled condition, but he'd learned by now that the tenderness of women was a patchy, if not entirely random, phenomenon.

They now passed into the gatehouse beneath the portcullis and Bors winched it down behind them, Tannhauser propping it aloft with his rifle until Bors ducked underneath. When he pulled the rifle away, there was a rumble of cogs and counterweights and the spiked feet of the grill crashed into the stones. It seemed loud to them, but the sound wouldn't carry far. Closing the portcullis relieved them of securing the wicket once they were outside. They looked at one another: there was no going back.

"
Jacta alea est,
" whispered Bors.

This uncharacteristic flourish of classical learning provoked an anxious glance from Carla. She looked gaunt in the torchlight, but was making a firm fist of controlling her fear. Tannhauser gave her a nod of reassurance. Amparo, reconciled to Buraq's fate, might have been on a Sunday promenade. He raised the torch, which they'd need to solve the riddle of the wicket, and flaring iotas of naphtha and pitch drifted down toward the flags. The broad passageway glimmered toward the bloody angle, where intruders could be pinned beneath the murder hole in the roof. Tannhauser led them on.

Despite all the hazard and slaughter that had marked his career, and not least the bloody japes of the long day ended, Tannhauser couldn't recall when his heart had beaten so like a drum. He was surprised the others didn't hear it. He could think of no sound reason for this portent and so it vexed him all the more. He checked on Bors to see if his sixth sense was tickled, but he appeared unperturbed. As they passed beneath the murder hole he couldn't help sniffing for wildfire or oil, matchcords or men, but the passage above seemed deserted and the drumbeat eased. Apart from two goatskins of water and the satchels on Bors's back, which were crammed with opium and enough precious stones to ransom an emperor's son, they traveled light. Carla, as a concession to his request, carried
her red dress in her poke, or so she assured him. Tannhauser, if no one else, had considered lugging the viola da gamba, but had reluctantly left it behind. They reached the outer sally port. The Kalkara Gate stood before them.

Tannhauser held the torch and helped Bors dismantle the profusion of bolts and buttresses securing the wicket. They were half done when Tannhauser grabbed Bors's shoulder to stop him and cocked an ear down the passageway. The portcullis winch was well-greased-they'd seen to it themselves that evening-but there was no doubt: he could hear the faint creak as it was cranked back open.

"Can you finish this in the dark?" said Tannhauser.

Bors took in the remaining bolts. "Count on it," he said, and set to.

There was a sentry's alcove built into one side of the sally port. Without ceremony Tannhauser herded Carla and Amparo inside it and mimed sealing his lips. He turned and threw the torch. It flew in a guttering arc and landed in a fountain of sparks beneath the murder hole. He returned and took up his rifle and went down on one knee. With the pistol in his belt and Bors's long gun they had three rounds. He didn't relish shooting some poor watchman who blundered in on them by chance; if the fellow kept his wits they could merely subdue him. Bolts clanked behind him. Bors grunted and the wicket creaked. A gust of brash sea air drifted in from the bay.