Brother Sergeant Excerpt

 

PROLOGUE

I know my Christian name to be Thomas.

Of that I am fairly certain but, to be honest, that is only because it is the first word I can remember speaking. I uttered that name to a stranger in a frozen, one-room hut in a world so distant from the one in which I now reside I sometimes have doubts it ever truly existed.

But I suspect it did, for I can still hear the sound of the old trapper’s boots scraping snow and ice from the threshold beyond the stout, wooden slabs of the door I cowered before. I did not know it was a well-intentioned man come to check on me. I saw and heard only ungodly creatures, snow demons, clawing their way through wood and ice, desperate to get inside and devour the long-still forms of my parents entwined in each other’s arms. They lay on the tree-bough bed we had all once shared. I know trees were used in its making because I can still smell the green of the needles and the pungent sap of the wood, the likes of which I have not encountered since.

When the trapper’s axe banged against the door to free it from ice, the otherworldly noise tore at my heart and froze me too in place. I could move only my eyes, which strayed against my will to the fragile light of the single tallow candle flickering on the table. I remember praying for my parents’ souls, and I begged God to preserve us all from the darkness beyond. But when the door flew open, to my surprise, only blinding light poured into the room. Looking back on it now, I cringe at the foolishness of my thoughts. I have learned a hundred times over that true darkness is more often found within than without.

But I am getting ahead of myself. My name is Thomas. I am confident of that, although when I close my eyes I cannot recall either my mother or my father addressing me as such. That does not surprise me, for their faces have blurred over the years to such a degree that I am sure I would not recognize my mother if she were to walk onto the deck of the ship on which I now stand.

The Wyvern. That is her name, this war galley. A mythical creature not of this world. And I, Thomas Schwyzer, am her captain. She is my mother now, and I am one of her one hundred and ninety-three children. When we are upon her back, whether under power of oar or sail, there is not a ship on the Mid-Earth Sea that can catch us. Or escape our pursuit. Although the thought borders on blasphemy, there have been times I wished she were not so fast.

Forgive my clumsiness in this accounting of events. Setting quill to parchment with the goal of recording my own thoughts is something new to me. I am no poet, nor even a scribe with ink-stained sleeves skilled in the recording of events. My sleeves are indeed stained, albeit not with ink.

I am a soldier of Christ. But one taught to compile lists and ship manifests in the three great languages of the world. Though I can tease the meanings from another three if given more time than those who assign my tasks usually have patience.

I began this telling in Arabic, a language I love to read due to its flowing and descriptive script. But I found myself changing to Latin mid-thought. Perhaps due to a Christian sense of duty? Or, more likely, a realization of my own inadequacy in Arabic’s use? Likewise, my attempt with Latin also resulted in a smudged mess of crossed-out words and incoherent ink splotches that ruined half a sheet of parchment.

I am no monk, though some will tell you otherwise. My friend, Pirmin, the first amongst them. But no, any telling of the events of this short period of my life should most definitely not be written in the language of God. It had been foolish to try.

So I am left with the terse and succinct words of the Franks. And this feels right. Crude and swift, like life itself. My thoughts are laid bare before me in ink before I have even formed them fully in my head.

Yes, this is what I need to make sense of those months in the year of our lord one thousand three hundred and ten.

But where to begin? I suppose the day I died is as fitting a point as any.

 

— Thomas Schwyzer
Brother-Sergeant of the Order of the Knights of Saint John

 

CHAPTER ONE

The wind clawed at my brown Hospitaller mantle, threatening to tear it from my shoulders as the floorboards of the Wyvern’s upper deck pulsed beneath my feet. She cut through the shining waves with her hardened keel and left the water foaming and white in her wake, her sights set on a plume of smoke rising against the horizon.

I let one hand relax its grip on the railing and signed to the helmsman twenty feet away to take us in even closer to the wind. The Wyvern had more to give and we needed it all. The deck angle shifted ever so slightly and I met the helmsman’s eyes. We were there, now, he said. We dare not ask for more. I listened.

The helmsman was a Rhodes man, as was the seasoned pilot who stood next to him. Most of the crew manning the sails and yards were, in fact, Rhodians. The Mid-Earth Sea and especially the Aegean, along with all those waters that flowed into them, had long ago surrendered their secrets to the Rhodians. It was said their blood had more salt in it than any other people could tolerate, and if they were away from the sea for too long their veins and arteries would dry up and they would crumble like wheat in drought. Of course this is nonsense, but I cannot help thinking on it every time I see Rhodian blood. A far too common sight, if truth be told.

Although good Christians now, their pagan roots were still visible in many parts of the islands. A man once showed me a rock the size of a horse that he claimed was part of one foot of the Colossus of Rhodes. His ancestors had erected a statue over a hundred feet tall of stone and metal in honor of their sun god. It stood over the harbor entrance and every visiting ship had to pass beneath it.

Of course, God could not let it stand for long. It eventually collapsed. Perhaps from an earthquake, most likely under the very weight of blasphemy itself. Theophanes the Confessor told how its remains had long ago been scavenged and sold to Jews, so there was no longer anything to see. However, that did not stop me from visiting that large rock from time to time. I would have liked to have seen such a thing.

As for the rest of us on the Wyvern? Well, of course there were the slaves who toiled below-deck on the rowing benches. But other than those poor souls, there were us. God’s soldiers. Placed on this earth to do His work and protect the faithful. It was a task nowhere near as straightforward as it seemed.

Through spring and summer, my brethren and I spent twenty-five of every thirty days at sea patrolling the waters of the Aegean and the Sea of Crete. We preyed on Mohammedan merchants occasionally, but mostly on pirates and slavers of any faith who crawled amongst the hundred-plus Dodecanese islands. These islands were close together, and fertile enough in both wine and people, to make themselves tempting targets. It had been this way for hundreds of years. Perhaps longer. But this was about to change now that the Order of Saint John had fortified Rhodes.

The people of the Dodecanese Islands needed our protection. And we desperately needed to give it to them. Since losing Acre to the Mamluks, we had floundered without purpose. The Crusades were over. The Franks had fled back to their cold homes in faraway lands that few of them remembered. The Templars were disbanded and the Teutonics were at war in Poland, a place so distant I knew it by name alone. Only the Hospitallers remained within striking distance of the Holy Lands. Rhodes was the logical base from which to launch the next crusade, but how and when were questions for kings and popes.

As a sergeant-at-arms and simple soldier of Christ, I have learned to live in the moment and direct my care to those I can see and touch. And at that moment, I saw a round ship flying Venetian colors with black smoke billowing from her deck. Sitting along her port side was a sleek Turkish galley.

“Faster!” Brother Dieudonné de Gozon shouted at the helmsman, as though he alone held power over the wind.

I was captain of the Wyvern, the commander of brothers and sailors, but I was not the ship’s true commander, nor would I ever be. For the Order’s ships were always led by a knight. To become a true Knight of Saint John only blue-bloods were eligible, and all applicants were required to serve two years at sea aboard one of the order’s galleys. And at some point, at least two more years for those with ambition to rise higher than Knight Justice.

“You veer away,” Gozon said. “Hold the course!” Gozon was on his fourth year at sea. Thankfully, he had been on the Wyvern for only one month. “Back to the right.”

The helmsman neither acknowledged nor acted upon any of the knight’s commands, but he risked the occasional glance at me. He knew his task. There was no need for me to tell him otherwise. And he certainly did not require the constant administrations of a man who had set foot on fewer ships than the Rhodian’s youngest child.

“They are calling him the Dragon Hunter,” came a bass voice. I started at the sound for the speaker’s tone had a way of shaking men, and women so he claimed, from the inside out. It was Pirmin. He towered head and shoulders above me at my side. I should not have been startled, for he had been there for as long as I could remember.

“There are no such beasts,” I said.

“Dragons or dragon hunters?”

“There are lion hunters who have never seen a great cat. A man can claim to be a hunter of any beast he wants. Even fanciful ones that do not exist. Such as dragons.”

“You sure on that, Thomi? What of the men who have gone missing south of Rhodes? And the villagers before them? The ones who Gozon has been telling not to worry. That he is going to kill the dragon for them. Saying it good and loud too.”

Of course I had heard. A deaf man could not have escaped it. “God would not suffer the existence of such a beast.”

“Sounds like you are the one suffering. Something gnawing on you?”

I had lost count of the knights I had served under during my time on the Wyvern. There were all types of men in that number. Many were good, pious brothers eager to learn and experience what it was we did upon the seas. More than a few spent the entirety of our patrols with their heads hanging over the side emptying their stomachs into the swells. And some were the pompous sons of rich men who felt their talents wasted and unappreciated.

Brother Gozon fit into that last group. I tried to pay him little heed, for I knew in time he would move on and leave the rest of us to our work. He was a squall and, in his passing, would leave us all a little wet and annoyed but other than that, unharmed.

Pirmin had already donned his blood-red war tunic. He would have worn it every waking moment if the Order’s rules permitted. I found them conspicuously gaudy in appearance, with the large, gleaming white cross splayed so openly upon the chest. It was meant to be a symbol of unwavering faith, the white cross of peace upon a field of war. I cannot imagine Jesus would have approved. I myself preferred the wooden crucifix hanging from my neck by a worn leather cord. But Pirmin dearly loved his tunic.

As with most of the clothing and armor of the brother-sergeants, Pirmin’s first war-tunic was well-worn before he received it. His face had beamed when he took that red cloth in his over-sized hands for the first time. He held it with all the care due a newborn lamb. Then he strutted like a peacock. Until, of course, he dropped it over his head and attempted to pull it down over his mail. At the first sounds of the linen garment tearing, he pulled it off with a horrified look on his face. After shrugging out of his mail hauberk, he once again attempted to worm his way into the cloth. He succeeded, in a way. But the tunic had been designed for the common man. Something Pirmin was clearly not, so it encased him as tightly as the intestinal skin of a sausage.

Pirmin was crestfallen when Grandmaster Villaret, still Commander Villaret at that time, refused to let him fight in his new battle dress. Not because he looked like a sausage, but because he could wear no armor beneath it. Ever resourceful, Pirmin slit the garment up both sides with the edge of his axe and tucked the tails into his belt.

That tunic had long since been replaced. The most recent incantation still had to be slit up the sides, even though it was made from the widest bolt of cloth available in Rhodes, but Pirmin had charmed a seamstress into adding eyelets so the sides could be laced together with leather ties. So now he looked like a giant Roman sandal, something the Colossus might wear.

“I suppose I should go get my spot before Urs takes it,” Pirmin said. “See you on the other side, Thomi.”

Our brethren-at-arms were assembling on the rambades, the platform in front of the main mast from which we began every boarding attack. Like the Rhodian seamen, they needed little direction in their duties.

Fighting ship to ship was not so different than fighting on land for us. We used the same formations, the same weapons, sword and shield, mace and dagger. In many ways it was simpler. There were no cavalry charges to coordinate and limited flanking threats if you kept a rail at your back. The only chaotic moments of taking control of an enemy’s ship were in the the crossing. After we rammed their vessel and dropped our planks, the boarding frenzy began and would not end until enough of us had boots on the enemy’s deck. Then, standing shoulder to shoulder, we simply advanced and cut down any resistance we encountered. Often there was very little, for there were not many on the Aegean who had the stomach to face a Hospitaller battle formation. In the close confines of a ship, where there was no possibility of retreat, it was terrifying.

I know this because I have seen it in men’s eyes as they throw their weapons away and drop to their knees to plead for their lives. Fortunately for them, we have an insatiable need for slaves to work on the never-ending fortification projects on Rhodes.

One day, the Mohammedans will come for us. We know that. They are a lumbering bear and we are dogs, harrying them at sea whenever they turn their back. When they whirl to catch us with their claws we are never there. If they are ever to be rid of the unyielding Hospitaller threat, they will have to confront us in our den. God willing, we will be ready.

As I donned my battle tunic, Pirmin strode to the front of the rambades. He would lead the way across the largest of the planks. With his axe clearing all obstacles, he took great pride in being the first brother-sergeant to stand upon the enemy’s deck. I would be the first across one of the five other, narrower planks, with my whistle-man close behind ready to relay instructions as needed.

We were now near enough to the burning ship that I could see men moving about her deck. The smoke was thick and black, which made it difficult to see particulars. Between the Wyvern and the Venetian ship was a war galley flying Turkish colors. Thick ropes tied the two vessels together.

Gozon came to my side. “Get the men in position, Brother Thomas.”

I should have acknowledged his command but I saw no need. A simple glance at the rambades was all it took to see all were ready.

“Ram them midship, helmsman. Then we shall grapple the rear half of their ship to ours and board her there.”

Both of our ships were less than forty paces long above the water line. I considered suggesting we ram their prow so we would have the full length of our ship to launch our attack from, but in the end I said nothing. I counted heads aboard the Turkish vessel as they took cover behind the railing boards and anticipated little resistance. An attack from aft would suffice.

“Why have they not hoisted their sails?” I asked. “They have the wind to make their escape.”

“Because they think they stand to gain two ships. There must be more Turks on the burning ship then we can see.”

Even with all the smoke, I could tell there was no movement aboard the Venetian vessel. No Turkish reinforcements would come from that deck.

“Lower the sails,” Gozon instructed the pilot. “We go in by oars. And not too hard. I want that ship as undamaged as possible.”

“Perhaps we should spill the wind from the sails but not lower them,” I said. Gozon saw a prize worth capturing. I saw a ship that should have been running from us.

“Lower them,” Gozon repeated. “I want our speed checked.”

I could feel both the helmsman and pilot look to me, but I avoided their eyes. I drew my mace and proceeded to take up my position with the rest of the men.

Fifty-seven men were arranged in a square on the rambades. The front row held full-length shields to ward off the inevitable missile attacks as we closed alongside the enemy. I took my place behind one of the shield men in the middle of the formation and felt my whistle-man place his hand on my left shoulder.

We waited in silence. Each man reigning in his breath, using it to control whatever emotion it was that coursed through his thoughts. Our speed halved, and continued to decrease until the sound of drums began to beat from deep within the belly of the Wyvern. We leaned down and wrapped the bracing yards around our forearms. A single splash as fifty oars hit the water, and the ship lurched ahead, clumsily at first, but then as the drums sped up, she settled into a rhythm and found her gait.

Seconds later, the steady beating of the drums was drowned out by the sounds of splintering wood and screaming men. Chaos had arrived and we welcomed her with open arms.

 

CHAPTER TWO

The missiles came in the form of Turkish arrows shot from powerful bows of wood and horn, and like the Devil’s own, were curved and sinister in their form. The arrows were shorter and more slender than the English used in their war bows, but they came on faster and hit almost as hard, every shaft threatening to tear the shield from a defender’s arm.

“Crossbows,” I said over my shoulder. Before the word was free of my lips, Lucas’s whistle sounded one long note. Half of the brothers hunched behind the foreword rail raised up and launched a volley of crossbow bolts in the direction of the enemy archers. As they ducked back down the second line stood and released a volley as the first reloaded. The rapid succession of bolts tearing into the enemy ranks gave the impression there were far more crossbowmen than there really were, and the Turkish archers scrambled for cover.

“Advance planks!” We moved to the rail as one. The planks were hinged to our own ship and it was an easy matter for two men to flip the free end high into the air and let it fall under its own weight.

This was the quiet time for a sea battle. I found it almost peaceful. There was very little shouting, no screams yet. Those would come when the melee began in earnest. But for now, I heard only the hum of arrows, the shuffling of boots, and the anxious breaths of my whistle man as he prepared to relay my commands.

“Hold and span,” I said as the free end of the first plank began drifting up to its maximum height. The whistle sounded and all the crossbow men ceased firing and busied themselves reloading their weapons. One by one, the planks were in the air. I counted and let out a breath. All five being airborne at the same time was a good omen. I try to be a dedicated man of God, but I am also human. We will always have a need for omens and superstitions.

Four loud crashes shattered the illusion of peace as the planks fell one after another. But the largest central one, the one Pirmin would cross, began to fall back toward our own ship. The men had not pushed it up forward enough for it to gain its own momentum. They realized their mistake quickly enough and with grunts and shouts managed to catch it before it hit our own deck. They relaunched it quickly back up into the air and seconds later it too came down with a thunderous force.

“Crossbows!” The whistle sounded even though the crossbowmen were well within earshot of my voice.
Two volleys cleared the enemy deck and I gave the command for Pirmin’s group to board.

“Planks one and five.” I watched Pirmin charge across the short gap between ships, the heavy plank bouncing beneath his weight. He yelled and leapt the last five feet with his axe raised high in the air. Some mad defender moved to intercept him, raising a small shield to ward off the unstoppable force about to sweep him from this world. More brothers ran across the plank, obscuring my vision of Pirmin and his adversary. Men were streaming across the other planks now and several from each had gained the enemy’s deck. I waited a few moments more to make sure no one needed last minute reinforcements, then turned to Lucas.

“Two and four, now!”

The whistle sounded clear and strong. I gave Lucas a split-second to catch his breath and when I felt his hand touch my shoulder I stepped up onto my plank.

Unlike Pirmin’s bridge, the hewed wood under my boots did not notice my presence. In fact, it seemed no one did. Not a single Turk defender greeted me as I stepped onto their deck. As my group assembled at my side, I took in the situation.

A wind rose up and swiped away the smoke from the decks of both ships. Several Turk defenders were engaged in combat with the other Hospitaller groups. However, the bulk of them had retreated and formed a defensive formation on the far side of their ship. They numbered less than thirty warriors, but appeared seasoned and were well-equipped with sword and shield. They would put up a fight, but we had them in number. The Turks had put themselves between us and access to the French merchant ship, aboard which I could still see not a soul moving. Nor were there any bodies.

A helmeted figure moving in the wrong direction caught my eye. A solitary Turk was running hunched over toward the fighting from the bow of their ship. At first I thought he must be preparing to enter the fray and attack one of my brethren from behind, but he was still too far away from anyone to present a danger. Then his burden became apparent. Slung over a should was a long coil of rope. Chain made up the last few feet and a heavy metal grapnel dangled off its end. He stopped at the rail, dropped his heavy load on the deck, and began swinging the barbed hook in a few lazy circles at his side and then let it fly. As my eyes followed the grapnel on its path through the air toward our ship, I glimpsed two sets of sails coming around a small island that should not have been inhabited. Their approach was shielded by the sun at their backs, but even so, I could tell they had the wind. They would be on us in minutes.

“Lucas, sound the retreat.”

“Captain?”

I turned to him. “Listen carefully. Sound the retreat. Go back to our ship, inform Commander Gozon it is an ambush. Show him those ships.” I pointed and Lucas squinted until he saw them. Then his eyes went wide. I prayed Gozon would not be foolish enough to stay and fight. This encounter was too well-planned. At that exact moment I saw two cargo hatches of the French roundship thrown open from below and well-armored Turks bearing axes and curved blades began climbing up on deck. And they kept coming, as though my thoughts themselves had pulled them into existence and my fear was providing the sustenance to create more. There could be no denying the danger we faced.

“Go now!” Lucas hopped up onto the plank but before he was able to begin the crossing I caught him by the shoulder of his mantle. “And Lucas. Be sure the pilot sees those ships as well.”

Choices needed to be made if the Wyvern had any chance of a successful retreat. The ship would need to be turned with oars, propelled as quickly as possible into the path of the wind, and then she must bear away at precisely the right time if she were to fill her sails. It was doubtful Gozon would make the right choices that would allow the Wyvern to escape. Only the pilot would have a chance. I prayed that being unencumbered by a Hospitaller’s vows, the Rhodian would not hesitate to follow his instincts when Gozon failed us. It was a strange prayer, I admit. But it was all I had time for.

As Lucas sure-footed his way back to the Wyvern I instructed my small group to do the same. I saw Pirmin standing at his plank, looking at me. Most of his men had heeded the whistle and already crossed back. I went to him, on the way stepping over several bodies, one a Turk with both shield and skull split in two. The deck was slippery, but this was only a hint of what was to come if we could not get the Wyvern in motion.

Pirmin pointed at the Turks on the French merchantman, who were now crossing to join their comrades on the deck of the ship we stood upon. They were forming a long battle line. At my feet a dozen planks were tucked in tight against the railing, waiting to be deployed.

“It was a trap,” Pirmin said. His face contorted as he said that last word.

“They mean to hem us in and board us,” I said, pointing at the ships in the distance. They were closing fast and Pirmin had no trouble seeing them.

“Pirates,” Pirmin said, hefting his axe in defiance. “Probably Berbers. I hate pirates.”

I looked again at the ships. I had failed to notice their markings before. Or rather, their lack. Pirates flew no colors except when it suited them. And although I too despised them, I must admit that on many occasions we ourselves were nothing more. We had claimed our own share of enemy merchant ships.

The retreat was well under way. My brethren were a disciplined lot and knew well how to follow orders. Two of the five planks had already been reclaimed by my shipmates, when I saw the Wyvern shudder. Oars were in the water. Just as the last of Pirmin’s men was on the plank, an arrow whistled past my head. A few of the Turks in the battle line held bows and with this first arrow showing them the way, several more nocked shafts and let them fly at us and the last few brothers still on our side.

“Time to go, Thomi!” Pirmin hopped atop the plank and bounced his way across. I retrieved a nearby shield and waited for the wood to regain its composure. As I huddled there on one knee, I checked both directions along the deck. No red tunics were still visible and, thankfully, I could see none among the bodies scattered here and there. I heard the beating drums of the Wyvern’s oar master and felt relief. This could be a good day, after all.

Then I saw the taut line of the grapnel. I had completely forgotten it. The thick rope ran the breadth of the deck and was wrapped around a drum pulley the height of a man. The wicked end disappeared below the head of the dragon adorning our bow, where the prow was reinforced with armored plates. I could not tell what it was attached to, but lodged where it was, it would not even be visible from anyone on our ship. And securely attached it was, for the rope was taut along its length and beginning to quiver. It was of a sufficient diameter that the Wyvern could very well end up towing the ship I stood upon. But even if the rope did eventually break, it would impede our ship’s maneuvering long enough for the enemy to be upon us. There was no choice in the matter.

I slipped my arm through both shield straps and positioned it against my side, sheltering the area from just below my helmet to hip bone. Both dagger and mace hung from my belt and I left them there for the time being. I sprinted toward the rope tethering the Wyvern in place.

My sudden movement attracted the attention of some of the archers and they loosed their arrows. Most of them hit somewhere behind me or flew overhead. One slid across the slick deck two strides ahead and rattled through a gap in the rail. They were leading their moving target, now, and the thought made my feet pound harder. Suddenly the rope was there, but so intent was I on the arrows that I almost tripped over it. I hopped it at the last instant and had to reverse my direction. Stretched tightly across the deck, it disappeared over the side of the ship. It was difficult to see and if I had not noticed the man when he set it, I doubt I would have known of its existence. On my knees, I now faced my attackers and brought the shield to bear. I drew my dagger across the rope again and again. An arrow glanced across my shield, rattling my arm. Another penetrated the wood but did not protrude through to my side. Fiber after fiber of the rope stretched and snapped under my efforts. I rotated my dagger to cut with the fresh edge. Many men preferred to sharpen only one side of their daggers but thankfully I was not one of those. Both were shaving sharp, though getting duller with every stroke. Trying my best to ignore the missiles clattering around me, I worried my way through that rope like a rat through a snare. Finally, when only two strands remained, it gave way and snapped. The tension suddenly relieved, both ends scurried away across the deck.

That much tension on the rope could mean only one thing: the Wyvern was on the move. Wasting no time I hefted my shield and ran back the way I had come, toward the closer of the last two remaining planks that would lead me home. An arrow slammed into the side of the shield, half spinning me in place, but I continued on. Two paces before the plank, I threw the shield around to my back, carrying it in place with its straps around my shoulders, then stepped up onto the railing.

It was too narrow to comfortably traverse for more than a step or two, but that was all I needed to gain my plank. Arms waving for balance, I celebrated when my feet hit the wider walkway by taking in a ragged breath. But I was not home yet. The plank’s angle had changed and where there had been a ten foot overhang, there was now only three. When the Wyvern got too far away, the free end of the plank would drop, but it would still be held to the Wyvern by its hinges. I resolved to flatten myself to the wood and hold its sides as best I could should that happen. In the meantime, there was nothing to do but run.
One step later, an arrow slammed into the shield on my back, causing a stumble, and a split second later another one hit even harder, once again spinning me in place. This time though, my feet could find no recovery, for there was simply nothing beneath them. Reaching out as I fell, my hand scraped past rough-hewn timber and then, after an eternity of helplessness, cold water closed over my head.

Training had already taken over. My belt was almost off before my feet hit the water. Once it was gone, I thrust my arms as high over my head as possible, allowing the sea to do the heavy lifting of removing my mail hauberk and tunic. When exactly the shield left my back I cannot say. It may have fallen off in mid-air during the long fall, or when I hit the water. All I know for sure is that neither it nor my helmet were there when I shrugged out of my mail. I took my time, for in a way the peace of that cold, quiet darkness was alluring. There are not many places in this world a man can be truly alone with his thoughts, but under water is one and unlike some people, I have never found it to be a source of panic.

If taught properly, it is possible to swim wearing a full set of mail. But not far, and not at speed. I suspected I would have need of both. I gained the surface gradually, like a man emerging from a warm bath, for it would not do to bring attention to my location with wild thrashing. I had no desire to give the archers more practice. The quilted material of my gambeson was water-logged and heavy so I slowly removed the garment as I checked on the whereabouts of our ship.

Upon seeing the Wyvern’s progress, I was at once gladdened and dismayed, for the ship was fifty yards away, her bow swinging in a ponderous circle away from me to gain the wind. One sail blotted out the sky, the others climbed steadily. I could see Pirmin leaning over her side, jumping up and down, pointing in my direction. Due to his bellowing, I am sure, a half-dozen ropes snaked through the air off the aft of the ship. The time for stealth was over.

I put my face in the water and swam as though the hounds of hell snapped at my heels. Four strokes, one breath. After ten of these I dared to look up. The Wyvern was even further away.

Three full sets of sails came into view, one more than I had spotted in the beginning. They ran before the wind on a direct course for the Wyvern. Pirmin had been right. They were sleek Berber vessels, from the coast of North Africa I suspected. A long way from home, but not an uncommon site in these waters. We had dealt with their kind on occasion. They were most likely on a slave run, the last of the year before winter hit. And now they had their sites set on claiming the flagship of the Order of Saint John as an addition to whatever human cargo they carried in their holds.

I kicked to raise myself in the swells and afford a better view of the Wyvern. Her sails were up and filled. The pirate ships looked to be fast and well-built, but they were in our waters, chasing a crafty Rhodian pilot. I had no doubt the Berber jackals would go home hungry today.

Taking great comfort in that thought, I turned onto my back and floated with my arms outstretched. The water covered my ears and drowned out the sounds of men shouting and water slapping wood. The Wyvern and her children were safe.

All but one.

 

CHAPTER THREE

Only two of the three ships pursued the Wyvern. The largest one lowered its sails and proceeded to drop oars and make its way toward the two bait ships. There was already a large skiff in the water from one of those ships with six men in it. They had spotted me from above and since I was not dodging arrows, I suspected they meant to capture me alive. They would be disappointed, for I was no one of value, especially compared to all that they had failed to gain. But my survival hinged on being able to convince them otherwise.

Cold and weak, and with my teeth chattering, three men heaved me over the side of the boat and dumped me on the floor like a bag of eels. Despite being relatively cooperative, I received a few kicks as they bound my hands before me. They mocked and insulted me in a mixture of Turkish and Arabic, so I understood most of it, except for some of the more colorful colloquialisms. But I held my tongue and kept my eyes to myself, for these were crude mercenaries and I suspected none of them held any authority.

They took me to the newly arrived ship and forced me to climb a rope wall on her port side. My hands remained bound and my muscles were still lazy after the cold water so this was no easy task, but my captors encouraged me with slaps from the sides of their curved blades and the odd nick here and there that tore clothing and drew blood. Breathing heavily, I was once again deposited on the deck with not a great deal of tenderness.

As I lay there coughing, men began to gather to get a gawk at their meager catch. And once I regained my air, I glared back. The ones who had pulled me from the water were Turks, perhaps one or two Arabs from what I could tell. But the leering faces that met my stare now were Berbers all right. Some were pale-skinned, lighter than me, a few were as dark as obsidian that contrasted with the whites of their eyes, but most were somewhere in between. Hailing from the north coast of Africa, the people we grouped together and called Berbers were made up of dozens of different tribes. From what I understand, they never referred to themselves as “Berbers” for that word was coined by the Romans, and meant “barbarian.” They were the people of the “Barbarian Coast”. But, I reminded myself, the Romans called everyone outside Rome barbarians.

The Arab scholars say the Berbers were Canaanites, descendants of Goliath the Philistine who had immigrated to the region. Looking at that sampling of faces looming over me, they could have come from anywhere and everywhere. But there were common threads that tied them together: the bright, gaudy clothing with an over indulgence of the color red, the many facial piercings supporting chains and other trinkets, and of course, the malice in their eyes, no matter if they were blue, brown, black, or blood-shot.
Their faith was as confusing to look at as their clothing, I imagine. As a people they had been in the Maghreb, those lands touching the southwest coast of the Mid-Earth Sea, for time immemorial. They had practiced some form of paganism but eventually, like so many others, Allah found them and tried to kill all the gods that had come before. Long-held ideas are slow to die and the conversion of the Maghreb did not come easy for the Mohammedans. But come it did.

“Kneel before the Prince of the Berbere,” came a voice in broken French. Apparently I was hasty in assuming the barbarians did not refer to themselves as such.

Rough hands pulled me to my knees. A tall, thin man, his skin glistening black like burnt wood smeared with fat, stepped forward and grabbed me by the hair. Several rings dangled from the side of his bulbous nose. With a strength that belittled his frame, he promptly whiplashed my forehead to the deck. When he brought me upright I was face to face with a different man who smelled not unpleasantly of lavender oil. His dark eyes narrowed at me and the birds’ feet at their corners lengthened and scattered, like their invisible owners were running away.

“Ho, what have you brought me, Ziri?” He spoke in Arabic, but it was not for the thin man’s benefit, for he answered with sharp words unintelligible to me. Though I formed a semblance of their meaning by the way he spit on the deck.

One of my Turk escorts spoke up. “He is the captain of their ship. I have had dealings enough with him in the past.”

Something about the Turk was familiar. Perhaps I would have recognized it sooner if I was not preoccupied with what this “prince” was going to do with me.

“Captain, you say?” His thick eyebrows knitted into one and his lips spread to reveal gleaming white teeth almost as dazzling as the diamond studs adorning each earlobe. He had smooth, leathery skin that had no facial hair, not even stubble, as though the sun had parched it dry and rendered it incapable of growing a beard. His charcoal-black hair was pulled back tightly and bound, which emphasized the ear jewellery, and it also shone, but with oil not precious stones. One thin braid hung down to brush his left shoulder, and weaved into it was a bit of red and gold cloth.

“Bring him to his feet. I cannot speak properly to a man on his knees. For, besides all your other faults, you are that are you not?”

I tried to get my feet under me as best I could and stand erect, but my legs were still weak and the two men assisting me did not have my dignity in mind. I had no choice but to lean on them.

The Berber stepped in, his eyes doing a thorough excavation of the childhood scar that ran from the corner of my eye all the way down to my jawline.  “You are hideous.” He slowly traced a line along his own face with one finger. “What happened here?”

He spoke to me in French. Very good French. To become that proficient in a language a man must like to hear the sound of his own voice.

“I do not recall.” Of course I remembered. How could I not? But as unpleasant as it was, the memory was mine to hoard and I was not about to share it with the likes of him.

“Do you have a name, Hospitaller? Or only a title for the task you perform for your masters?”
“Captain Thomas Schwyzer of the Order of Saint John of Jerusalem.”

“Jerusalem? You are far from home then, both in distance and time. How is it that I find a captain of a Christian war galley alone and afloat like dung in a village pond?”

Curiously, he had switched to Arabic, the language of medicine, poetry, higher learning, commerce, pirates, and torturers. Was he testing my knowledge? I could read and write it, and understand someone’s speech well enough, but the words never came easy to my own lips. At any rate, I said nothing for I refused to surrender any more knowledge to him than I already had.

He addressed his men. “Perhaps the Christians threw him overboard as an offering to save themselves from our wrath.”

This elicited laughter and some animal calls. Still, the Wyvern’s escape from such a carefully constructed trap must have left a bitter taste in the Berber’s mouth.

“And who is the man brazen enough to attack the Order’s flagship in our own waters?” I asked in French.

“Your waters? You said you were from Jerusalem. Do you now lay claim to the Aegean as well? You may ask anything you like, Hospitaller. Until I cut out your tongue.”

“I have the right to know who my captor is.”

“Any man who must tell others his name, has not done nearly enough in this world to justify his own existence.” He paused and flashed his teeth at the crowd. Changing to Arabic, he said, “The Christian captain demands to know who I am!”

The Berbers began to chant. “Prince, Prince, Prince!”

“Show him who we are! God is great!”

A frenzy crept through the crowd. I did not like where it might lead. Curiously, my Turk escorts did not participate to the same degree. In fact, they shifted their feet and looked over their shoulders at the leering faces with almost the same concern in their eyes as I felt. The Berber captain had spent a lot of time and resources on a plan that had ultimately failed. These men were pirates. They did not operate out of a higher purpose. The only reward they were interested in was that which they could take from others. The captain knew this. To maintain control of his crew, he had to give them something. And the only thing he had gained in his disastrous raid was me.

“I am one of the highest ranking brothers in the Order of Saint John. They have spent a considerable sum in my training and will want me back. A good ransom for my release is quite probable.” I spoke loudly, with my chin held high. I knew how to sound like a noble, like a knight, for I had been around them my entire life. Of course, I did not believe a word I said. There would be no ransom for someone like me. It was a stall tactic, nothing more.

“Oh? He claims to be an important man to his people! One worth ransoming. But I do not care if he will be missed, no matter the price the rich Christians offer. What say you, my faithful? Gold bezant?” He looked at me and smiled, his teeth shaming the sun. “Or sport?”

There were far more cries for sport than I was comfortable hearing. But looking at the captain I was not overly concerned for he seemed to me like the kind of man who did not let others make decisions for him. Even if they thought they were.

“Forgive me, Lord Hospitaller, for not immediately recognizing your worth. I will have Ziri take you below and give you our best quarters. I apologize in advance if it is not what you are accustomed to, but we are a humble people with little to offer someone as important as yourself.”

“Hold on, Usaden.” The speaker was the Turk I had recognized earlier, but I still could not place him. “The terms of our bargain have not been met. The guild will require a refund of your payment. We bought a ship. If I cannot return with that, I must insist on taking back at least a hostage and concessions.”

Ah, a guild man. I must have seen his face on the docks in Rhodes. Trade was a balancing act in the Aegean and the Levant. Christians, Muslims, and Jews traded with one another in a complex web of commerce that defied borders and the terms of war. Frankly, I did not understand merchants and their ways. I was a soldier. I went where the Wyvern carried me and did as my superiors bid. The Order had brothers who dealt with these things, and I was glad to leave them to it.

The Berber captain, Usaden, turned away from me and I hated the way I was instantly relieved to be out from under his scrutiny. He walked a slow circle around the Turk. The merchant turned with him, as though he was caught in the clutches of a lavender-scented dust devil.

The Turk swallowed, but his throat fought against itself, like his saliva had turned to sand. “A partial refund, of course. We understand you have incurred expenses.”

Usaden stopped moving and the Turk found he had to spin faster to catch up and face the Berber captain.

“The upkeep of our ships is expensive,” Usaden said.

“I understand. And we paid you handsomely. But the guild will—”

“My people need to eat. Would you take the food from their mouths? From the mouths of their women and children?”

“Of course not. But you must understand my position.”

“I need to understand nothing. It is they you must convince.” With a magnanimous cast of his arm, Usaden indicated the two dozen men edging closer to the speakers with every word. A violent crowd shares a single heartbeat, and I could hear this one quickening with anticipation. “Even if I wanted to return your money, I could not. For it is in their hands now. Perhaps you should ask them?”

At the beckoning of one haughty nod of Usaden’s chin, Ziri, the tar-skinned skeleton, stepped forward and held a long knife under the merchant’s chin.

“I always pay my men first.” Usaden raised his voice. It was obvious he no longer addressed the merchant. “If there is not enough to go around, I go without. If those under my protection are to go hungry, I go hungry. That is the pledge I have given my people!”

There was a roar of approval from his men. Some of them drew weapons. The Turk’s companions huddled together in a small herd. They felt what I felt. Minus the relief I was not one of their number.

“My prince?” Ziri asked. The point of his dagger quivered under the merchant’s chin and forced his head back.

Usaden rubbed his hands together, like he was washing them, and finished the motion with a flick toward the merchant. “I will leave you alive. To carry a message.” He raised his voice. “But your men I give to my own. Please accept my meager gift!”

Someone screamed and the very air crackled like lightning had struck the main mast. Usaden’s men clambered over one another swinging swords and daggers with reckless abandon. There was nowhere for the merchant’s men to retreat to so they dropped to their knees and cowered there on the deck as the Berbers cut and pierced their bodies in a horrible frenzy. And when all lay dead and unmoving, in spreading streams of blood, the Berbers did not stop. They waded in and stripped the bodies and then cleaved and sawed at their victims until the men had been reduced to torsos, arms, legs, and heads. These they heaped up into one neat mound with all the clothing and other possessions placed into another pile.

I have experienced more war than most, and although I have seen the violent deaths of more men in a shorter amount of time on countless occasions, that one incident stands out as the most vile demonstration of the lack of humanity I have ever witnessed.

Usaden retrieved a head from the pile of body parts and holding it away from him so as not to drip on his boots, he tucked it under the speechless merchant’s arm. “There you are my friend. Something to remember us all by.”

The merchant fell to his knees, his face slack. He had the look of a man not sure if he was alive or not.

Two Berbers stepped forward and clapped irons around my ankles, while a third came up with a large hammer and drove in the fastening bolts. They led me away.

A length of chain between the shackles reduced my walking speed to a shamble. Not that it mattered, for despite the captain’s lofty words, I knew there would be no need for walking where I was going.

 

CHAPTER FOUR

The moment they threw open the door, the dark gloom of the interior revealed only a worn stairway leading down. But the smell told me where I was headed. The stench of shit and sweat that assaulted us was nothing compared to the waves of fear and despair that floated up from below, threatening to overtake every fiber of my being. A few steps later, the guts of the beast were laid bare.

Stretching from aft to prow was a narrow walkway and on either side were wide benches worn smooth. In total, I estimated there were just shy of two hundred oarsmen seated four to a bench. The seats were partially covered in tattered sacking or, for the more fortunate slaves, vermin-infested scraps of fur. Hunched over the loom of their oars, the ghastly rowers made not a sound save the occasional groan. The ship was not in motion and so neither were they. The only movement came from one skeletal slave who stumbled amongst them all with a bucket of sea water in hand. His task was to sluice away any excrement built up at the feet of the rowers. A filthy beard stretching over his bare chest was the only semblance of clothing he wore. In fact, most of them were as naked as the day they were born. Those more recently arrived still wore the remains of tunics or breeches, but these were torn regularly with the whips of the officers stationed at the aft, midship, and prow ends of the walkway.

“What did you bring me?” the aft officer asked.

“A Christian knight. The prince says he is worth something, so keep him alive.”

The officer used his coiled-up whip to jerk my chin high. “A knight you say? Then I will put him up front where we can keep an eye on him. Until he is gentled.”

We made the slow walk along the corridor and I bore witness to a level of misery I had not yet known in my life. The slave officer’s head turned side to side and he frequently lashed out with his whip for no apparent reason other than to satiate the cruelty in his soul. He struck his targets on the back, arms, or head. Some flinched on their bench and howled, others groaned and tried to hide under their oar. As we proceeded down the walkway, we elicited a tide of pain and loathing that flowed around us with every step.

The officer did not seem to particularly care where he struck his hapless victims. He was judging how they reacted. Eventually, and this was inevitable, his beating of one man seated nearest to the walkway did not elicit a scream or a groan. So he whipped him again. Still, not a flinch. He let loose with a flurry of lashes, some of which hit the man’s bench mates and sent them scurrying for cover as best as their chains would allow. Eventually, the officer stopped swinging his whip.

“This will do,” he said. “Give me a hand with this one.”

The officer unlocked the chain tethering the four slaves together at the feet like mules and the two of them squeezed between the benches and dragged the unconscious man into the walkway. At the point of a sword I was forced onto the bench next to a naked, heavily bearded man hunched over his piece of the loom. Every bone in his spine was visible. The coldness of the bench seeped into me through my still-wet breeches. I doubted the wood had felt the warmth of life for quite some time.

My new home was the port side of the sixth bench counting from the prow end of the ship. As the chain rattled through the eye of one of my leg irons, despair welled up and I feared I would never know another. I was no stranger to the rowing deck of a war galley. I had even chained men to similar benches myself. Perhaps this was why the despair was so keenly felt.

A drainage track ran along the outside edge of the benches and ended fore and aft in front of heavy doors that led to nowhere. Exchanging banter about whores in Tunis, my captors dragged the man I had replaced to the nearest door. When they threw open its locking timber, I caught a glimpse of a gently swaying sea and the tiniest piece of a perfect blue skyline. They unceremoniously pushed him out, slammed the door shut, and then took turns washing their hands by dripping water into them from a gourd hanging on the wall nearby. All the while, they laughed and reminisced about what they had done to that poor girl in Tunis.

“Keep your head down,” came a raspy voice from the man at my elbow.

On their way back, without breaking stride, the officer raised his whip and beat me three times across the back and shoulders. It happened so fast there was no time for the pain to register until he and his companion were past. I clenched my eyes shut and gritted my teeth when it did come. Saliva dribbled at my mouth and I quickly wiped it away. The thought of how I fought so hard to not let that first bout of agony get the better of me makes me smile now. I had no idea what was in store.

“Never look at them. Especially when they are giving you the leather.” He spoke French but with a strong accent I knew very well.

“You are German,” I said, in his own language.

He responded in like. “Tyrolian. My name is Geder.”

“Thomas.”

“Where are you from?”

“Rhodes.”

“I mean before.”

“Schwyz. I believe.”

He nodded knowingly. “You have been away a long time. Perhaps too long to yearn for home?”

Having given the matter very little thought over the years, there was no suitable answer to give. I felt a tentative tap on my arm. The prisoner on the far end of our bench stretched over the lap of the man between him and Geder and held his hand out to me. The inconvenienced man, who wrinkled his nose and leaned away, cursed Mary in Italian but his demeanor shifted when he saw the small crust of bread his bench mate clutched in his fingers.

“Bertie! You are awake. Here. I saved this for you.”

The speaker was no man. He was a boy, younger even than Lucas my whistle man. His once-blond hair was shoulder length and its tangles were blackened with grime. His pale blue eyes were heavily glossed and moved lazily around his surroundings. I knew this vacant look only too well.

The Italian spoke without his eyes leaving the piece of bread. “The boy is pissing himself again, puppet master.”

“Wenzel. Wenzel, listen to me,” Geder said. Once he had the boy’s attention, he continued. “Bertold is too tired to eat right now. You should eat the bread and we will get Bertold more when they come around again.”

Wenzel’s eyes slowly dropped to regard the mouse-sized piece of bread in his fist. “I think I will just keep—”

The Italian’s hand snaked out and snatched the morsel from Wenzel’s hand. He popped it into his mouth and swallowed it without chewing. The look Geder gave the Italian could have withered a freshly picked fig and left it squirming with worms.

“And this fine example of a man is Magno,” Geder said.

“Why should the newcomer get our bread?”

“Wenzel needs to eat his own bread. He rows as hard as both of us.”

“I have seen him forget. Sooner or later, the strings you pull on the boy will no longer work, puppet man. And I will have to tell them.” He nodded his head at a slave officer standing in the prow. “I kept silent about Bertold and the extra work almost killed me. I will not do it again.” He gave the boy a shove. “Get back on your side.” Then, with a groan, Magno placed his arms on the oar and dropped his head onto them. He went silent as though he could waste not a fraction more of his strength on speaking with anyone.

After a time, I asked Geder how long he had been a captive. “Four years. No, perhaps it is five already.”

My heart dropped below my stomach. “How many others have been slaves here for such a time?”

He turned his head on a neck so thin it was a wonder it did not snap under the burden. “Now? Only three. This morning there was one more. Though he died two days ago, so I am not sure he should be counted.” He flicked his eyes to the bench I now occupied.

“You sat next to a dead man for two days? Why did they not remove his body?”

“No one told them he was dead.”

“Why would you do that?”

“I was not ready to say good-bye. He was my brother. And Wenzel’s as well.”

“The boy is also kin?”

“The youngest of four boys and one girl. He put the heels of his palms against the sunken sockets of his eyes. “This is not how the world is supposed to work. I am the oldest, yet I am still here.”

I resisted the impulse to cross myself when I remembered how callously the Berbers had mistreated this dead man’s kin. “I will pray for his soul.”

His head popped up and he held me with his eyes. Just moments before they were bleary and moist. But now they were clear, and as active as a tide pool in hollowed out rock after a storm.

“And my other one? How about my sister? She was the first to die at their hands. She received an introduction to womanhood Satan himself could not have conceived. One we were all made to watch.”

“Of course. I will pray for them all. I am not ordained, but I have studied the Lord’s passages in depth and have performed last rites more often than many a priest.” Perhaps I answered too quickly and gave the impression that I believed I was someone who could take away all his pain. Someone with the power to provide comfort for the souls of his loved ones.

“Save your prayers, Schwyzer. Save them for yourself. You will need them in the days to come.”

 

CHAPTER FIVE

Unlike on the Wyvern, we rowed to no drum. Two off-key bells, one hanging above the aft platform and the other at the foreword one, ruled our lives. When it was time to drop our oar in the water, the aft bell rang out. It was not a pleasant sound, being more akin to a gate watchman’s rattle warning of approaching raiders, or a fire on thatch, than a church tower’s signum calling worshipers to matins. In fact, the first time it cried out I sniffed the air and looked for signs of smoke. But Geder, my bench mate, wasted no time in setting me to task.

“Help us, Schwyzer, or we will all pay.”

The other two, Magno and Wenzel, stretched their arms forward and flexed their fingers over the handle of our oar. Geder and I did likewise. He gave me no instruction on the proper technique to use in the push-pull motion, but since proficiency in any skill begins with the purposeful mimicry of a master at work, I thought it best to copy that of a man who had survived five years of it. Anyone who still lived after that long on the bench no doubt had a thing or two to teach. Like him, I placed one foot against the seat in front. It was wide enough that my foot did not touch any of the men sitting on it and since they were naked and encrusted in filth, I was thankful for that small blessing. Of course there was no relief from the sour smell of them, which only increased with their exertion.

Suddenly, the bell clanged with an even greater frenzy and we were in motion. The oar fell forward so quickly I was caught off guard and feared we were about to slam it into the backs of the men in front. However, because they doubled over at the waist as they pushed their own loom forward, our oar was able to invade their space with mere inches to spare. This meant that if a rower did not commit fully to the forward stroke, he would surely receive a painful battering from the oar in back. This realization made me cast a nervous glance to the rear.

“Pull!” Geder said.

This instruction I could have done without. I could not see the blade of the oar in the water for the loom, the long portion between handle and blade, disappeared through holes in the hull. But we knew when the blade was out of the water and especially when it was beneath it, for the backward stroke was like heaving a man up the side of a cliff. Bracing with my one leg against the bench in front, I pulled for the little I was worth. After a single stroke I was breathless. I attributed this to poor technique and endeavored to do better by watching the others. After only a dozen strokes my back was on fire and my shoulders throbbed in protest.

“It will get easier,” Geder said. “If your body lasts.”

“How do we maintain our rhythm?” I asked. Thankfully, the awful clanging of the bell had stopped. It was eerily silent, save for the heavy breathing and grunts of hundreds of men in a space meant for half that.
“Oh, you will know if you fall out of time with the others,” Geder said on the forward stroke. On cue, one of the officers shouted, his words punctuated with the crack of leather and two voices cried out in pain. “And most likely, so will we.”

At least three men constantly patrolled the walkway doling out beatings with whips or thin flexible rods. Anyone who broke rhythm received a lashing until they either picked up their speed or died. I have no idea how Geder managed to hide the death of his brother for two full days.

That first rowing session lasted for what I imagine was at least twelve hours straight. Being a newcomer to the bench, I still had an attachment to the meaning of time. I would like to say I improved my technique during that time, but truth be told I slipped into a semi-conscious state so often that if I learned anything I could not remember it. I am, however, proud to say I received only one beating. And that I remember. So much so that when an officer appeared at my side and began fumbling with the chain at my ankle I did not look down but continued to row with all my might. Until I could no longer pull back at all. When I chanced a sidelong glance at my bench mates, no one had a hand on the oar.

“Time to give up our pew for the next group of worshipers,” Geder said as I marveled at the source of energy he drew on for speech. He nodded toward four men huddling behind the officer unlocking the chain that tethered us together and in turn bound us to our bench. The Berber yanked me out into the walkway and I promptly fell to my knees as my legs had forgotten their role in my old life. One by one, Geder, Magno, and Wenzel crept out of their holes. Then the officer threaded our replacements onto the tether chain like beads by their ankle irons and locked them in place.

“Move!” The guards were an assortment of man-like creatures. They spoke Arabic to us and mostly to one another as well. Occasionally, I would hear the unintelligible “bar-bar-bar-bar…” of a Berber language. I understood there were many different dialects, one no more comprehensible to a man of God than another.

Geder led the way to the prow to a small open area in front of the first rowing bench. We collapsed onto the floor which was strewn with a thin layer of dirty straw. It was there to absorb excrement, not to provide comfort. Nevertheless, Magno rolled in it like it was a feather mattress, threw one arm across his eyes, and immediately fell asleep. I fought the impulse to do the same and instead took the opportunity to lean and twist at the waist to stretch and inventory what the labor had done to my body. Geder sat next to Wenzel rubbing his wrists above and below his shackles. The boy stared ahead, immersed in a world I found myself wishing I too could access.

“These cuffs are too small for you,” Geder said. “I will try asking again to have them replaced.”

“What time does the show begin?” Wenzel asked.

“Soon,” Geder said. “We must be ready. How are you feeling?”

“Oh, I am a little tired today. I fear my voice will crack.”

“Close your eyes, then. We have time for a sleep.”

The boy nodded and slowly slumped over into the straw. He curled up into a half-moon with one arm under his head and his breathing slowed.

Geder saw me looking at them. “We come from a long line of meistersingers.”

“You were troubadours?”

“I suspect we started off as troubadours and love-singers, but each generation built upon the last. My father took up puppetry, so in addition to song and dance we added that to the mix while I was still a child.”

“You all traveled together and performed?”

Geder reclined on the straw and propped his head up with his palm. “Sometimes even more would join us. After my parents died the five of us were always together. My brothers and sister were the talented ones. They all loved to sing and dance, and although I was the oldest and my father tried to teach me puppetry, I shied away from the crowds and performing.”

“You must have had a purpose.”

He squinted through me like I was a cloudy window into his past. “I suppose I was their glue. I stopped them from fighting amongst themselves. And I could could fix anything, be it puppet, wagon, or lute. But I always envied them their time on the stage.”

“We cannot choose the gifts God gives us,” I said.

“Or His curses.” Geder looked down at his brother sleeping and put a hand on his head. “Wenzel had a golden voice that never failed to still a crowd.”

“But how is it you ended up here?”

“Ambition. Or perhaps it was greed. Does anyone really know the difference?”

I found the distinction to be simple. “If you strive for something for the benefit of someone else, that cannot be called greed.”

“We all craved fame for the family name. That way of thinking was bred into us, as it is with all meistersingers. But it was I who convinced my siblings we had to leave German lands and seek fame in France and then, eventually, Spain. It was there, in a tiny coastal village that Usaden and his Berbers found us. Along with many others.”

“What village?”

“Does it matter?” Geder shook his head. “I doubt it exists now. The Berbers descended on us like locusts and feasted on that village for two full days. Anything they did not carry off with them they destroyed so no one else could ever enjoy it.” He closed his eyes. “Many did not survive those two days. My sister amongst them.”

I allowed Geder space for his memory, even though it could not have been pleasant. Once someone is gone we do both them and ourselves a disservice by closing our mind to them. Do so too often and they will cease to visit entirely.

Geder wiped a calloused hand across his face and he looked at me. “She had no sins. And even if she did, God be damned, no one deserves what she went through.”

It is hard for me to watch a man struggle with his faith, for it is always a private battle. One that he must fight alone and little anyone else says or does will factor in the outcome. I turned my thoughts to the Berber captain. It was a brazen man who would seek out slaves so far from the safety of his homeland.

“Who is this Prince Usaden?”

“Pah! A title of his own making. He is no prince!” Geder caught himself, and after looking left and right, continued in a much quieter voice. “He was nothing then. A violent man serving others. He killed his own captain and took control of this ship shortly after my brothers and I were brought aboard. I keep waiting for someone to do the same to him but he is crafty, that one. He is good with his words and poisons men against one another as easily as others sharpen an eating knife.”

Geder screwed up his face and tried to work enough saliva around in his mouth to spit. When he did, nothing came out. Exhaustion found me and I lay on my side supporting my head on one arm, carefully avoiding the cold metal of the wrist shackles and chains.

“How often do they feed us?”

Geder shrugged. “There was a time when I tracked such things. I am sorry, Schwyzer. I should pay more attention. For Wenzel’s sake, at least.”

He turned his back to me and curled up into a ball like an injured dog. I would like to think we both slept.

An hour later, two at most, our masters waded amongst us kicking and yelling until we scrambled to our feet. My back and legs were seized, so I received my second good beating then. I lost count of them after that.

The guards ushered us to a new pew to continue our worship. I did not bother to discern the exact location of this one, but if pressed, I would say we were seated somewhere near the very center of hell.

 

CHAPTER 6

The routine remained unchanged for three days. Or that was my estimate. By that I mean my bench mates and I were escorted to the filthy straw purgatory two more times. I determined that was the most accurate method I could come up with for measuring time. Water came frequently but I saw food only once in that same time period and what little I received did nothing but transform my niggling hunger pains into an uncontrollable raging tempest. Those days taught me that it is better to feed a man of labor nothing at all than a few scraps of bread.

Some time after that third period of leisure, the officers came for me and me alone. As I was half-carried down the walkway guilt consumed me. I knew what it felt like when one of your four did not pull his share of the loom. I may even have mumbled a command for my captors to take me back. At the time, I did not recognize those for what they were: the first ramblings of a mad man in the making.
As my escorts dragged me up the stairs I did passably well in keeping my legs working and my feet beneath me. The chain linking my ankles together made this no easy feat. But once we gained the top deck, the last rays of a dying sun hit my face. Unaccustomed to the light, I clenched my eyes shut against the glare and promptly fell to the deck. The wood was still warm from a day in sunshine and I spread my fingers and pressed my palm flat to capture as much of that warmth as possible.

The men left me there and for that I was grateful, until they picked up buckets of seawater and proceeded to dowse me down. The cold water chased every last bit of the sun’s warmth away and left me shivering half-naked at their feet. One of my guards squatted down and unlocked the length of chain between my hands.

“Put this on.”

He threw something at me. When my vision cleared from the stinging water, a red tunic covered my legs. But not just any tunic. It was my very own Hospitaller war tunic. They must have fished it out of the sea at the same time they did me.

Being cold I did not protest, though my fingers struggled with the task. The guard then promptly re-attached the chain, grabbed it in its center, and used it to haul me to my feet. My escorts took me the length of the ship to the aft cabin. The door was open and I could see a glow within. I ducked my head through the entrance and the man leading me by my wrist irons threw me to the ground. Another man slipped a leather collar around my neck and buckled it tightly in back. I fought against a wave of hysteria as I thought I could not breathe, but this was partially due to the dryness of my throat. I ceased my struggles and air found its way once again into my lungs. I became aware of laughter filling the room.

“Our guest has arrived. Welcome, knight of the cross!”

French. The speaker was the Berber captain, Usaden. He was one of a half-dozen men sitting behind a skinny table running the full width of the room. Several others stood nearby. The lantern light glistened off Usaden’s oiled hair and his too-white teeth drew my eyes. He repeated his words in Arabic for the benefit of his men. More laughter. They had wooden bowls of food and drink before them. He called me his guest but I and everyone there knew the proper word for me was entertainment.

We were in the captain’s quarters, most likely the only private room on board. It was of a good size, three times that of my own quarters on the Wyvern, which I shared with three others. To my left a hammock hung from hooks in the wall and on the opposite side was a short, wide table with cubbyholes built into the wall behind it. Crammed into the holes were rolled up parchments and writing implements. A single chart was spread upon the table and held in place with clamps at its edges. Two shaped stones and one brass marker sat in deliberate locations upon the map. With surprise, I recognized the land masses as islands belonging to the Sporades, a group in the far northwest of the Aegean. About as far from Rhodes as one could manage and still be in the Aegean. I had assumed the pirates would have headed south, back towards Africa, not north. But upon consideration, it made sense. Failing to capture the Wyvern they were still on the hunt for treasure enough to make their trip worthwhile. And now that the Order was aware of their presence the pirates knew they could not risk staying anywhere near Rhodes or the Dodecanese islands. They knew we would be hunting them. Or rather, they would be. I should no longer count myself as one of their number.

“I apologize for not inviting you to dinner sooner, Captain. I see you have dressed appropriately for the occasion.” Again, he spoke French and promptly repeated himself in Arabic. But the French was rushed, glossed over. As though he was not particularly concerned with whether or not I understood him. He used the language to gain prestige with his men. I refused to give him that. I sat as upright as a man could bound hand and foot in chains and addressed the room in my best Arabic.

“Thank you for the invitation, Captain. It is good to see a man who understands the civility of making a gesture of respect to an equal.”

It was a foolish thing to do. Up until that moment, he may have suspected I could understand Arabic, but he did not truly know. I gifted that knowledge to him with my head bowed and I regretted it immediately.

My guards went tense and there was more than one sharp exhalation of air throughout the room. A dog had spoken. Ziri, the thin, charcoal-skinned man seated beside Usaden, made to stand but Usaden restrained him with a hand on his chest.

“You are welcome, Captain,” Usaden said. “Civility, I agree, is an under-appreciated virtue in our world. A rare currency that few can afford to deal in.” He pointed at the wooden cross hanging from my neck which I had foolishly left exposed. “Such a simple trinket. Is it true you Hospitallers must give up all that you own to be granted membership?”

“The less a man possesses the more he can focus on what really matters,” I said.

“May I?” Usaden gestured again at my pendant. “Ziri, fetch the captain’s trinket so we can have a better look.”

With a guard on each of my arms and one working the tether on my collar, there was little I could do but watch as Ziri yanked the cross from my neck, snapping its leather thong.

Usaden dangled the cross before him and shook his head. “It is lopsided. But I think I can fix it.” He began to whittle away at my cross with his eating knife. Laughter drained the tension from the room like a sharp poke with a needle could do to a cow’s stomach. I looked away. A few moments later he returned it to Ziri. “That is better. Give this back to the captain. For a man who has so little, I imagine it may carry some importance.”

Ziri pulled it around my neck and re-knotted the thong. I avoided looking at the misshapen blob but I could feel its weight burning against my upper chest.

“Now, captain. Dine with us.” He used the same eating knife to spear a piece of mutton gristle from his bowl and flung it at me. It bounced off the white cross in the center of my tunic and came to rest on the stained floorboards between the two of us. As unappetizing as that may sound, I could not stop a thin stream of saliva from dribbling through one corner of my lips.

“Go ahead, Captain Hospitaller. Eat. Drink. Forget your woes for a time. We are all equals here!” His men showed their approval by banging on the table.

It was at that moment that I understood my place in Usaden’s plans. He wanted his followers to be constantly reminded that I was a captain of the Order of Saint John. Hence the tunic. He had to show his men that I held a place of power in this world. And yet he could bend this Hospitaller to his will and humiliate me at any time of his choosing. Usaden knew the Order was unlikely to ever pay a worthwhile ransom for me. I was no blue-blooded knight with rich kin willing to buy my freedom. But most of his men did not know this. A one-time payment for whatever I was worth could not rival the value of my everyday humiliation and the elevation of Usaden’s authority in the eyes of his men. I was to be a constant reminder of Usaden’s power.

I sat on the floor and did my best to ignore the taunts and laughter. I sat upright until my back ached and then burned. My shoulders eventually slumped. Despite being the guest of honor, I was offered no further food or water. The nearby aromas of bread, cheese, and mutton made my head swim and though I fought the impulse, I could not stop my eyes from straying toward that single piece of gristle laying a man’s length away. It was only as long as a child’s little finger.

The room erupted in cheers when I scrambled forward on hands and knees, snatched up the fatty morsel, and swallowed it whole. When it was gone, I could not stop thinking about how Magno had eaten Wenzel’s bread. I hated myself. But I was not foolish enough to swear I would not do it again.

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