before their sweeping scimitars. The Frankish sword had the advantage. It had two edges. It bit back and forth. It could both slash and stab. But it was a heavy job. Hacking and slashing—and protecting the eyes. There was no protection under the helmet’s visor. They tried to strike there. And it was there that the sweat ran down from the forehead. It ran into the eyes filling them and hindering their sight.
He groaned and tried to dry his eyelid. He was conscious of the fact that he might not be there in another minute. Time had come.
“Luigi.”
“Your Eminence??”
A furrowed face looked in through the slit in the bed curtains.
“Tell the Prior that it is the time for him to come with the sacrament.”
“Yes, Your Eminence.”
Now he only had to wait. In a little bit, the great bell would ring in the campanile. All the knights would stream out from their auberges. The Prior of San Giovanni would hurry to put on his bishop’s garb. They would come in procession through the loggia into the courtyard, in front of the great stairs, and there they would stand and wait, all eight of the langues, each one led by its Pilier, the aldermen and as many knights as could be found in the city with torches in their hands while their Grand Master was prepared for death.
He began to thank God. What a life he had led . . . exciting years in the galley ships, the blue sea, sun-drenched islands, quick raids in between service in the castle with the smell of the pine forests around them, and the deep blue sea on the horizon. The great year 1480 . . . “Thanks, Lord, we held out. The Grand Turk was forced to retrieve his hundred thousand, filled with shame and disgrace. We were suddenly known and honored throughout all of Christendom. And then, Lord, you gave me these seven years as the Grand Master.”
They had been laborious and worrisome years. The Grand Turk had more than doubled his power and horrifying resources during these years. Now, he was not very far north, within sight of Rhodes, doing just as he had done over centuries. In a sweeping military expedition, he had taken all lands in the east and south, Syria, Damascus, Jerusalem, and all of Egypt. Rhodes was now in the middle of this world power, Christendom’s last and most defiant outpost. But for how long?
He had done what he could to prepare for the storm. He had built and built and built ramparts, walls, and defenses of a thickness and strength never before seen on earth. When it came to fortification, Rhodes was number one in the world.
It was commonly known that the Grand Turk, Selim, he who was called “The Cruel,” had prepped for an annihilating blow to this island where his grandfather’s armies were so ingloriously defeated. Everyone knew this. The Pope had sent help. King Francis of France likewise. Their ships were still in the harbor, a flotilla of twenty sails.
But then Selim suddenly died. Then, in Syria, his governor raised the standard of rebellion. The Grand Master saw a chance to get out of the deadly entrapment from all sides. He sent Gazali all the help he asked for, lots of cannons and ammunition. He had overwhelmed the Pope and the princes of Christendom. Now or never, now was the time to unite and finally make a real effort. If Syria and Egypt could be helped, if they could gain their freedom once again, then the balance would be recovered. He saw a great hope shining through. He celebrated the happiest Christmas in a long time. He would depart this life in peace.
Now the great bell rang. Now, they too came—no, it was he who would come, old weary Carretto from all his planning and accounting, the parades, and council meetings. He would come home to his Lord. There he would meet the holy martyrs, even those who shed blood by his side in San Nicholas among the piles of stone in the glorious year of 1480.
Shooter-Frans
Brother Françoise cautiously brushed the only black cloak he owned. It was so threadbare in the stitches that he had to brush softly. He was happy today, happier than he had been in a long time.
Really, he wasn’t ever called anything but Shooter-Frans. He didn’t think anything of it. It was a stamp of inferiority that he bore through life as if he didn’t have the strength to end it.
He belonged to the serving brothers of The Order of Saint John of Jerusalem—or “the Religion,” as they were always called on Rhodes. He would never be a knight because he was a commoner. He almost wasn’t allowed to become a frére servant, a serving brother. His mother was Greek, his father—whom he had never seen—was a French sailor on the Religion’s ships. They married at the last minute and with great haste. Then the men of San Giovanni—the flagship—suddenly had to go out on caravan, and all furloughs were ended. Brother Françoise met with both annoyance and trouble when he tried to be taken on as a serving brother. Essentially, a man had to be of legitimate birth—if he didn’t have a count or the like for a father. Luckily, the old priest Eusevio was still alive, and with his help he was able to prove that his mother was in a Christian marriage when he was born.
His father was always gone on caravan, and because of this his mom was among the poor, who ate in the hospital at the Religion’s expense. He had gone in and out of the hospital, the splendid sick house directly across from the great Church of Mary, ever since he was a boy. It was there that he began to help the serving brothers as an assistant, taking buckets out, sweeping the yard, and then gradually making beds and taking food to the sick.
So he developed the desire to become a monk. He never had any luck with the girls. He had no business sense. Always browbeaten, he couldn’t speak clearly. He always stammered and blushed. It wasn’t hard for him to promise obedience.
In the order, he was considered a Provençal, though he was born on Rhodes. However, the only language he was at home with was Greek. When he spoke French, it was a blend of Provençal and Italian, many different Italian dialects mixed with Castilian, Catalan, and Portuguese. Many spoke with the same blend of languages here, not the least the merchants. But no one laughed at them.
Why should they always laugh at him? He couldn’t help the fact that he walked with one foot out. That he was short and stout. That he easily blushed or that he lisped and sputtered when he talked.
He really wanted to prove that he was capable of doing something. So he tried to go from the hospital to military service. He was successful in that endeavor and it became his undoing. Had he stayed at the hospital at least he wouldn‘t be called Shooter-Frans.
They put him in the artillery. There it didn‘t matter that he was somewhat crippled: the pieces stayed right where they were. He slowly advanced in the common progression from the ammunition basket to the load pole and then to the match. It was a great day when he let loose his first shot. He had blundered, so it jammed and the huge twenty-four pounder hopped backwards. Then they laughed at him as usual.
Then he was commandeered to the Grand Carrack, the Religion’s pride, the Mediterranean’s biggest boat. And on the day of his misfortune, he stood a little proud, if still a little nervous, with the match at the culver furthest back on the starboard side. It was on the deck, in under the half deck. It was roofed and smelled of pitch, sweat, and dirty clothes. They had hunted a Turkish parandia, a wide freight ship, headed for Karpathos. They had gained on her, and now they were bearing down on her at full sail, hoping to board. It had been a little dot on the starboard tack. Now they were almost side-by-side. Yet the Turks didn’t want to heave to, so they were going to give the ship a broadside. Brother François stood there with his smoking match. He meant to lay it to the touchhole just a moment before the muzzle pointed right at the Turks. The sea was heaving high and the carrack dived, rose, and dived again. Then
