8
The sun was already high when a janissary presented himself before the captain of the ship, asking for us. The pasha wanted us to join him at his headquarters, he said. I couldn’t imagine the reason, but I was happy to get the request. I had had enough of watching from outside, and I couldn’t wait for it all to be over.
In the morning there had been rumors of another band of irregulars attempting to sack the city. Again the janissaries had had to intervene to hold off these jackals, who were wandering around the city in little packs in search of easy pickings. Luckily, the embarkation operations were almost complete, and soon the ships of the evacuees would weigh anchor for Candia.
We followed the janissaries through the trenches and the Turkish encampment. The soldiers played music and danced. The raki passed from hand to hand in terra-cotta flasks, and the scent of hashish floated in the air. I saw tired men, happy to be alive, celebrating victory and the end of a life underground.
We reached the pasha’s big tent. Once again, only Ismail and I were admitted into his presence. The others had to wait outside.
Lala Mustafa was washing his hands in a copper bowl, while the servants hurried to clear away leftover food. When he became aware of our presence, we greeted him with a half bow.
“Ah, here you are. You know, with all this business I almost forgot about you.” He wiped his moustache with a cloth and combed it, looking at himself in a mirror held up by a servant. “Sealing the peace is much harder than making war.” He seemed to be trying to find the right words. “It takes much greater skill.” He dismissed the servant and threw out his chest. “Anyone who maintained that Cyprus would be a second Malta was mistaken,” he said.
The reference to the Grand Vizier was obvious to everyone. Perhaps even to the two janissaries who took care of the general’s safety. Lala Mustafa’s aversion for Mehmet Sokollu was well known, and reciprocal.
“Nasi Bey,” the general went on, “was one of the major supporters of this campaign. So I want his guests to witness the surrender of Vercingetorix in the presence of Caesar. Marcantonio Bragadin is coming here to hand me the keys of the city, before setting sail.” He gave us a hint of a smile. “It seems that I will soon be able to put on the armor you brought me, and make my triumphal entrance into Famagusta.”
At that moment an officer came into the tent and told us that the delegation was arriving. He said the commanders of the fortress were there in force. Bragadin walked at the head. A servant walked beside him and shielded him from the sun with a red parasol. His escort consisted of 300 armed foot soldiers, with the wicks of their arquebuses lit.
Lala Mustafa exploded: “What do you think you’re doing? You’re coming to surrender, not to wage war on me. Disarm all these men and let only the captains step forward.”
The officer stepped forward to execute the order. Lala Mustafa gestured to us to stand aside, on the edge of the tent, along with the orderlies and the guards. We found ourselves close to the falcons again. They were busy cleaning their plumage, heedless of events in the world. One of them met my curious glance for a moment before returning to its occupation.
The general’s mood had darkened. It was clear that he was displeased by the information. The Venetian captains came in at last, escorted by a dozen janissaries. There were seven of them, and the one at their head must have been Marcantonio Bragadin. He was wearing a purple cloak and the hat of a city magistrate.
Lala Mustafa confronted him, and the captain-general of Famagusta bowed slightly. He was tall, with a gaunt frame. The most striking thing about him was the austerity of his face, tested by long months of hardship and by the gravity of the moment.
I saw Lala Mustafa’s expression darken still further at the sight of Bragadin’s bright clothes and haughty attitude. “I am pleased to meet at last the man who withstood my army for so long,” he said. “People will talk of this venture in times to come, you can be sure of that, and I will be sure to recall the bravery of you and your men.”
He waited for his words to be translated into Italian. Bragadin’s reply came quickly.
“Our bravery, Signore, is born of our devotion to the Most Serene Republic, to the Doge and our Lord Jesus Christ. I received the order to save the city with all effort necessary, just as you received the order to conquer it. If I now yield Famagusta, it is because your forces are superior and it is impossible for us to resist you.”
When the translator finished speaking, Lala Mustafa nodded. “Very good. Everything is ready for you to leave the island. But there is one point that hasn’t been discussed.” He waited for the translation and noted uncertain looks from the Venetians. “I have made my ships available to you so that you can reach Candia. What guarantee can you give me in return?” Bragadin exchanged a glance with the other captains before replying.
“You have my word.”
Lala Mustafa took a half step toward them, his hands behind his back. “But give me a hostage. One of your captains.”
His request was uttered nonchalantly. The glances exchanged by the Venetians began to look more anxious. My throat was dry, and at the same time I felt the sweat trickling down the back of my neck and under my clothes. I wondered if Ismail, by my side, was also aware that there was something wrong with this discussion.
“Signore,” Bragadin replied, in a tone extremely calm, “nothing in the agreement that we signed allowed for anything of the kind. Not a single chapter spoke of hostages.”
With a brisk gesture, Lala Mustafa dismissed the objection and gestured to them to sit down on the carpets at the end of the tent. The Venetians sat down hesitantly, very close to the janissaries. “What the devil is he thinking of?” I wanted to whisper to Ismail, but didn’t. Judging from his face, the old man wasn’t happy about the turn things were taking, either.
“You want to split hairs?” Mustafa went on. “I know my agreement, Captain, and I can tell you that many things were omitted to ease your surrender and your exit from the city.” The translator was in a cold sweat; he spoke quickly, but was careful to make no mistakes. At that point everyone had understood that in this confrontation there could be no misunderstanding, not of a single word.
“I don’t know what you’re referring to, Signore,” Bragadin replied drily.
The pasha looked at him for a long time. Then he said, “For example, the two hundred Turkish prisoners who are still unaccounted for.”
A deathly silence fell. Bragadin looked quizzically at the other captains, but none of them spoke. “I still don’t understand, Signore.”
His obtuseness irritated Mustafa even more, and he raised his voice. “We have the testimonies of three survivors who escaped the city at the moment of the surrender. They maintain that the Turkish prisoners have been massacred.”
After listening to the translator, Bragadin turned pale. “That is incorrect, Signore. I have never given an order of that kind.”
“So you will be courteous enough to tell me what became of those men,” the general pressed.
“I have no idea, Signore. I spent the last days of the siege locked up in my rectory. I can tell you only that I never gave the order to murder the prisoners.”
“And yet they were killed,” Lala Mustafa shouted, “and thrown from the ramparts at night, is that not so?” He had risen to his feet, and his bulk loomed over the captains. “You didn’t want to go on feeding ‘useless mouths,’ did you? You decided to eliminate the prisoners and keep the little remaining food for yourselves.”
The silence that followed was thick with embarrassment. The captains looked at the ground. Only Bragadin met the pasha’s fiery gaze. “I repeat that I never gave that order.”