“Still, those men were under your protection,” Mustafa declared. “Hence I put their death down to you.” The general had come so close to his adversary that he was almost touching him. One of the captains leapt to his feet and sent the word betrayal echoing around the tent.
At a nod from the general, the janissaries obstructed the Venetians and tied their hands behind their backs. Startled by the commotion, one falcon uttered a shrill cry. I observed the scene with astonishment, and when Lala Mustafa gave the order to take the captains outside, I clutched Ismail furiously.
“We’ve got to do something!”
Outside, an ovation welcomed the Christians in chains.
We hurried from the tent, just in time to see the prisoners on their knees, with their heads lowered to the ground. Bragadin was held apart from the rest, and one of the guards held his head so that he was unable to look away. The prisoners were panting and snorting like beasts in a slaughterhouse.
Ali and the Indian twins came up behind us, questioning us with their eyes, but we gave them no reply. We had no reply to give.
Another nod from Lala Mustafa. The janissaries raised their scimitars. The blades glinted in the sun, then fell quickly and solemnly, severing the heads of the captains one by one. The cheers went up, even louder than before.
I gripped Ismail with all my strength. “It can’t end like this. Not with violated agreements and the slaughter of men who have surrendered! Cyprus will be stained with shame for ever; this bloodshed will never be redeemed.”
Ismail stood frozen.
Lala Mustafa ordered one of the soldiers from Bragadin’s escort, who had witnessed the scene with horror, to be brought into his presence. He asked him which was the head of Astorre Baglioni, and the poor young man was forced to turn over the bloody remains to recognize his captain.
Lala picked up the head of the man who had been in command of the defenses of Famagusta and who had for a year opposed his desire for conquest. He held it aloft, so that everyone could see it, and then he approached Marcantonio Bragadin. The translator hurried over to him — carefully keeping his distance from the dripping trophy.
“Now look at your captain,” said Lala Mustafa. “Did you perhaps hear me give the order to kill him? No. My soldiers know what I want from them. But unlike you, I don’t hide myself.” He threw Baglioni’s severed head to the soldiers thronging around him. Then, with another gesture, he unleashed their fury against the Italian foot soldiers, who were overwhelmed and thrown into the dust. Severed heads rolled in all directions, kicked far from the general pandemonium. The earth turned red and then black, as blood gushed over it, then flooded it. I closed my eyes.
God.
My God.
When I opened them again, I saw it was Bragadin’s turn. The executioner brought his blade down close to the captain’s head, without cutting it off. A stream of urine ran into the dust. The janissaries sniggered. Another blow through the air, for the entertainment of the troops, and then two crisp blows close together. Off came Bragadin’s ears. Where they had been, two red gouts of blood ran down his neck. The captain fell to the ground, writhing.
I felt my gorge rising. I gripped Ismail’s arm again and forced him to look at me.
“Stop him! Talk to him! He’ll listen to you.”
He didn’t even seem to hear me, lost as he was in his own nightmares.
I cursed and moved off, trying to get to the general, but one of his guards obstructed my path, his lance held across my chest. “I demand mercy for the prisoner,” I said.
Lala Mustafa looked as if he wanted to incinerate me. For a moment I was worried that he would pass the same sentence on me.
“I represent Yossef Nasi, and I can guarantee that this man’s life will be redeemed in gold.”
Mustafa seemed amused by my offer and allowed me to approach him. “A ransom, you mean? How much do you think his life might be worth?”
I stood in front of him. “You set the amount.”
He laughed and clicked his tongue. “Inform your master that not everything can be bought with gold. There are prices that are paid in blood.” Before I could reply, Ismail’s voice came from behind me.
“Lala Mustafa Pasha, listen to me.” The old man stood firmly, almost without needing to rely on his stick. He had stirred himself and was coming to my aid. “Kill this man and he won’t be Vercingetorix, he will be Leonidas,” he said. “Do you want Famagusta to be the Thermopylae of the Sultan’s army? Remember that the Christian fleet might already be on its way. Don’t defy destiny. Send this wretch home and let the ships weigh anchor. The glory is yours.”
Mustafa remained silent for a long time, meditating on these words, and I convinced myself that we would move him. As a shepherd saves from the lion’s mouth only two leg bones or a piece of an ear, so will the Israelites be saved. The words of Amos rushed into my mind, loudly, and at terrible speed.
The general was about to utter his verdict when shouts and cheers rose up from the edges of the encampment. A little tide of men had begun to move toward the city. The looters had found a gap, and rumor of it was spreading rapidly. The janissary officer turned toward Lala Mustafa, waiting for orders, but the general said nothing.
“Stop them, my lord,” I pleaded. “You can do it. It will be a massacre.”
He, too, turned to look toward Famagusta. “A massacre, you say? Look down there. Fifty thousand Turks are lying on the battlefield because of this man’s pride.” He pointed to Bragadin, kneeling on the ground, drenched in blood. “He is to blame for everything.” He turned to Ismail. “You are right. I won’t kill him. I will go on making him die. He will never be a Leonidas, because I will make a puppet of him, a figure of universal mockery.”
The officer of the janissaries was still waiting for the signal to make the soldiers intervene, but Lala said not a word. He withdrew to his tent. It was more than a retreat; it was the clearest order to break ranks. Now anything could happen.
I tried to find a prayer, just to know whether I had one left in my mind.
Ismail gave me a shake. “You want to do something? Then run.”
“What are you saying?”
“Go on!” he exploded. “Fly to the Venetian ships. Tell them to set sail immediately!”
As he pushed me away, he whistled. Hafiz and Mukhtar came running, and kept running at my side. Because almost without noticing it I had started running with all the speed I had.
For the words of Amos.
For the Israelites, whoever they might be.
For those who could still be saved.
9
The dust rose up in the streets of Famagusta, stirred by the wind and by people’s footsteps. Only the blood-drenched ground was undisturbed by our passage. Ismail’s words rang in my mind. I prayed to the Almighty that we would get there in time.
Turning a corner, we bumped into the disorderly troops. They were dragging away a broken door, furniture of little value, brass candlesticks, pieces of cloth. We faced each other in silence. Two young women and an old man were being kicked out of the door, their pursuers on their heels. The hubbub of the soldiers died down when they saw us. I caught the eye of one of them. The looter pointed at us with the tip of a knife.
“You. Find another house, this stuff is ours.”
I trembled with rage and counted them in silence. There were more of them than of us. Hafiz touched my arm and gestured to me to go. We moved cautiously, giving them a wide berth, amid the sniggers and insults of the mob.
As we hurried toward the port, I trod in a pool of pitch. My feet stuck as I tried to run; I risked losing my shoes with every step. The ground, drenched in death, wouldn’t let me go.