La Valette turned to Tannhauser. “Captain Tannhauser, what say you?”
Tannhauser sniffed. “Is a week’s resistance the best your men can do?”
Some among the grandees bristled with offense, but La Valette stilled them.
Tannhauser went on: “If so, evacuate them now. It will only give Mustafa a victory with which to stir the blood of his gazi—something you’d be wise to avoid.”
La Valette nodded, as if this reflected his own view. “Tell me then, how many days’ resistance would turn their victory to humiliation?”
“Humiliation they’ll never stoop to. Would dismay suffice?”
“Dismay will do.”
Tannhauser thought about it. Amongst its many other prodigalities, War demanded that the arts of mathematics, augury, and the reading of men’s minds be raised to their highest degree. Time, matériel, men, morale, corpses. It was an algebra that could only be attempted by groping in one’s gut and a gut, at that, which had itself roiled through eternities of violence and fear.
Tannhauser picked a target he considered impossible. “Three weeks.”
La Valette pursed his lips and raised his eyes. Watching him, Tannhauser recalled that the trials upon which La Valette’s gut could draw included the siege of Rhodes. Even among the janissaries of four decades thereafter, the primeval ferocity of Rhodes remained legend. At Rhodes, they said, the starving remnants of the Religion had risen from holes in the snow like fiends whose only nutriment was human blood. La Valette considered a pandemoniac vision known only to himself and lowered his eyes.
He said, “Twenty-one days it shall be.”
Before objections could be raised to this boast, Le Mas seized his moment. “Excellency, my men and I stand ready to hold you to your promise. The post of honor.”
The post of honor was the post of certain death and Tannhauser felt a constriction in his throat. He was fond of Le Mas, with whom he’d passed some riotous and less than monastic nights at the Oracle. As the leaders of the various langues competed to volunteer, Tannhauser quelled a sudden urge to join them. This was dangerous company to keep.
Tannhauser said, “I’ve seen the Turkish siege train. It’s enormous.”
The chorus of self-sacrifice was curtailed.
“A dozen eighty-pound culverins, basilisks that fire three-hundred-pound stones, forty-pounders by the score. And Torghoud will bring a siege battery of his own.”
“Torghoud is expected?” asked Le Mas.
“Any day,” Tannhauser replied.
Le Mas turned to La Valette. “Then I restate and redouble my claim. The post of honor.”
“They’ll pound Saint Elmo to rubble,” said Tannhauser.
“By God’s Grace,” La Valette said, “Saint Elmo will be defended to its rubble.”
“Then I won’t seek to dissuade you,” said Tannhauser. “But the Ottomans fight with the spade as much as the sword. You must do the same. The Borgo is weaker than you think.”
La Valette concealed a flicker of annoyance. “How so?”
Tannhauser indicated the chart spread out on the map table. “With your permission?”
La Valette nodded and the grandees gathered around as Tannhauser ran a finger along the line of the main enceinte. “Sandstone blocks, yes? Ashlar cladding filled with rubble.”
La Valette nodded.
“The Ottomans use a scientific system,” continued Tannhauser. “Iron shot to smash through the cladding; marble and stone in rotation to loosen the rubble. These walls are immense, but they will fall. When the Mamelukes arrive these bastions”—he pointed them out—“will be mined, despite the ditch. Mustafa’s engineers would dig him a tunnel back to Egypt if he so ordered.”
“This is no more than we expected,” said La Valette.
“If Saint Elmo can indeed buy you so much time, you must use it to build. You’ve a thousand slaves rotting underground. Here—at the post of Castile, a second wall—”
Heads craned forward to watch his finger sketch a line on the map.
“A second wall, invisible from the heights—with gun casements here, and here—to break their hearts when they come howling through the first.”
“Why Castile?” asked La Valette.
“Pride,” said Tannhauser. “Mustafa is galled by yesterday’s reverse. He is enraged. And Turkish rage is of a quality I’ve never seen in the Frankish soul. Moreover, if he attacks Castile, he can protect his right flank with batteries on San Salvatore. Further still, the plain is most narrow at that point, for his miners and engineers.” He indicated Fort Saint Michel. “If he then assaults L’Isola in concert—as I would in his shoes—your garrison will be stretched to either extremity of the enceinte. And if one or the other breaks, it will be all over, bar the shouting.”
La Valette glanced at Oliver Starkey, as if to convey that the benefits of Tannhauser’s recruitment had exceeded all expectations. Then he turned his sea-gray eyes on Tannhauser. They were the coldest Tannhauser had ever seen, and he’d seen them all. Even Ludovico Ludovici’s were more recognizably human; they at least had known love. Tannhauser formed the discomfiting impression that La Valette entertained an identical opinion of him. He blinked and turned back to the chart. He stabbed at the plan of Borgo town.
“These streets—here, here, here—more walls. A funnel. Demolish these buildings for a field of fire and when they come through, break them again.”
“The battle’s hardly begun,” said Le Mas, “and you already have the infidels in our midst.”
Tannhauser said, “In Mustafa’s mind it’s a certainty.”
“Captain Tannhauser is right,” said La Valette. “The work will help the people understand what lies in store, and what is demanded.”
The gaunt Castilian, Zanoguerra, spoke up. “Captain, our common soldiers speak of the janissaries as if they were demons. What can you tell us to allay their superstitions?”
“Superstitions?” said Tannhauser, miffed. “The janissaries are men of God, much like yourselves, and man for man the equal of any one of you.” He ignored the snorts, for they would learn soon enough. “But they’re lightly armored and Mustafa will waste their lives. This is his weakness. He is an Isfendiyaroglu, a blood descendant of Ben Welid, the Prophet Mohammed’s standard-bearer. He is fearless. He is feared. He is master of all war’s arts and siege above all. But he is intemperate. He is vain. He is proud. Break his pride. Husband your men.” He glanced at La Valette. It wasn’t done to criticize the Grand Master but if he couldn’t speak his mind he was of no use to them. “Yesterday’s sally outside the Provençal Gate was wasteful, rash—”
“We slaughtered them ten for one,” said Zanoguerra.
“You can’t afford to spend the one for the ten,” countered Tannhauser. “Mustafa can. Mustafa will. Bravado will seal your doom. Let the janissaries make the bold gestures. For although they are men among men, they are only men. They will tire of being squandered. They will tire of bad food and filthy water and brutal heat. Sap their faith in Allah’s favor, drop by drop. Undermine Mustafa’s pride.” He looked at La Valette. “But if you would break the Turkish heart—and I can name none who’ve ever done so—you must harden your own beyond measure.”
La Valette said, “You won’t be offended if I say you think like a Turk.”
“On the contrary,” Tannhauser replied. “They regard you as base barbarians.”
To the surprise of all gathered, La Valette laughed as if he couldn’t have been more flattered. It was at this moment that Nicodemus chose to fall headlong in a swoon, right before the crucifix hung on the wall and at which he had been gazing for some time.
Tannhauser strode to kneel beside him and rolled him on his back. It was not unknown for the Stones of Immortality to prove as good as their name; some never woke again from Infinity’s dream. But Nicodemus’s breathing was regular and on his lips was a smile. When next he made a batch of stones, Tannhauser resolved to be less generous with the opium. The knights, who had a
lso gathered around and who had no knowledge of the youth’s intoxication, read in his collapse a sign of religious rapture. Tannhauser didn’t disabuse them. With Le Mas’s help he hoisted the youth from the floor and over his shoulder.
“We will talk again,” said La Valette.
Tannhauser staggered forth, for the Macedonian was no midget, and carried him to the auberge. A few slaps roused him next morning and, still in a state of rapture, Nicodemus was baptized in San Lorenzo and the stain of Islam washed forever from his soul.
Tannhauser, still steeped in his barrel of brine, now detected wood smoke and the smell of coffee drifting from the open door. In the bazaar he’d secured a copper ewer and coffee set, some delicate cups from Izmit—in turquoise trimmed with gold—and two sacks of roasted beans. In Nicodemus he’d secured someone who knew how to prepare them in the necessary fashion. The Macedonian, who treated Tannhauser with the reverence accorded to a Magus, was now resident at the Auberge of England, and since—disappointingly, to Tannhauser’s mind—neither of the two women evidenced any great interest in culinary skill, he’d taken on the honor of cooking Tannhauser his breakfasts.
Tannhauser climbed from his tub of brine, cooled and refreshed, and let the air dry his skin before he dressed. While eating sheep kidneys, goat cheese, and fried bread, he pondered the conundrum of the contessa’s boy. They’d been on the island for almost three weeks and if the boy was here, they hadn’t found him. They still didn’t know his name. The baptismal registers of the churches in the Borgo had proved barren ground, and this despite the fact that the priests of twelve of the island’s outlying churches had brought the registers with them when they’d fled from the Turk. During his forays into the outlands Tannhauser had searched a further seven of the churches and chapels in which Malta abounded. He found a further five parish registers buried beneath the altar stones, but these too had produced nothing.
His design for finding the boy by this method—which had seemed so inspired while drunk on music, roses, and cleavage—had proved no less ridiculous than the endeavor as a whole. The urge to impress a woman had led innumerable men of good sense into disasters otherwise avoided. It was small comfort to think he was the latest in a line of fools that stretched all the way back to Eden.
There were hundreds of boys in the city. It was no easy matter to identify among them a bastard born twelve years ago on All Hallows’ Eve. It occurred to him now that such a foundling might not even know his own birth date. Illegitimacy was a touchy subject in this community, where a surly pride was ubiquitous among the Maltese and high reputations, especially regarding piety, were jealously protected among the knights. And in burying the sexual crimes of its celibate servants, the Roman Church enjoyed an expertise honed throughout a millennium of frequent practice.
“I will know him when I see him,” Carla had claimed. But if so, she hadn’t seen him yet. Tannhauser had searched every unwashed face for echoes of Carla and Ludovico. On one day he would spot half a dozen youths who appeared the very image of one or the other; on the next those very same physiognomies would mock his gullibility. He even saw boys who might pass for the fruit of his own seed. And all this was to assume that the boy was here at all, rather than long dead or at that moment being buggered in a Libyan brothel or a cardinal’s bed. Tannhauser had considered telling Carla that he’d found the boy’s tombstone in one of the remote country graveyards beyond the walls. How much grief could she feel for so abstract a figure? But it was not so much grief as defeat that would cloud her eyes and he didn’t want to dull their luster, especially with a lie. Carla seemed to view her life as a tale of surrender without resistance; the strong were ever reluctant to forgive or excuse their failures. Her search for the boy was Carla’s last battle; if she lost it he feared that she’d never have the heart to fight another, and that he would hate to see.
He washed down a mouthful of kidney with his wine. He contemplated an alternative deception, inspired by Amparo while he’d grappled with the buttons on her dress on his return from the midnight conference. This was to substitute an impostor from among the numerous orphans in the city. She’d befriended some such ragamuffin on the docks and had asked if she might introduce him. It would be easy enough to gain such a boy’s trust, educate him in the advantage of such a stratagem, and get him to claim the appropriate birth date, which could be validated by a simple piece of forgery in one of the parish registers he’d taken. All would be content, and they could make a prompt escape from this island of madness and death.
He found himself staring at the last morsel on his plate with a sudden nausea. Honor was a monstrous curse. It led more surely to destruction than any vice. Love and respect for women was even worse, being capable of spoiling an excellent breakfast among much else. He signaled Nicodemus for the coffee. He sipped the healthful brew and waited for his spirits to rally. He hadn’t yet been to Mdina, the island’s formal capital. La Valette was in contact with its garrison via his famous Maltese scouts, but the journey was hazardous. Nevertheless, the boy had been born in Mdina and it had to be done. If the trip proved as fruitless as the others, he’d persuade Carla that their quest was over.
He rubbed his face with both hands. His only present desire was to return to bed and Amparo’s arms, but it was some form or other of such desires that had brought him to this hardship in the first place. Carla had asked him to bring her to Malta and he’d done as much and more. He’d put some color in her cheeks. He’d given her a taste of adventure. They’d failed, but with honor. Surely she could lay her demons to rest on that basis. He’d brought lambs into a den of wolves and this weighed heavily on his mind. Surely his obligation now was to take them out again. Would she deny him his noble title by marriage? He’d neglected to specify this circumstance in the details of their bargain; more evidence of his witlessness when braced by a fine pair of breasts. He was uncommonly fond of Carla, more than he’d so far been willing to admit. A man could do much worse in the matter of a wife. Yet he’d muddied those waters too by giving in to Amparo’s charms. This had wounded Carla, there was no denying it, and a clawed fist squeezed at his entrails. If only the contessa had been a little more receptive. If he hadn’t bungled the kiss he’d tried to steal in the garden. In all truth he’d taken that as revulsion and hadn’t been surprised. And what of the powerful emotion he’d felt on watching Amparo sleeping not an hour ago?
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.”