Curious what this seemingly random cannon fire might be, the Turks sent down slaves to see, and minutes later they dredged from the waters of Marsa the eight tattered heads and brought them to Mustafa’s pavilion. He set down his cup and nodded. He understood.
La Valette further ordered there to be no public display of grief for the fall of Elmo nor for the mutilation of these knights. ‘Neither grief nor surrender,’ he said harshly to the captains of the langues, his fists clenched on the tabletop.
Since all proceeded as appointed by Heaven, why should they grieve? Their brother knights had done their duty, they had fought most valiantly, and died in the service of Jesus Christ. Grief and tears were a womanish insult.
‘Let the bodies be laid to rest with all due dignity,’ he said. ‘Then let us return to our posts, and be ready to fight and die as they did.’
2
The bodies of the unknown knights were placed in caskets and laid to rest in the crypt of the Conventual Church, to be properly buried at a later date. A less urgent time.
Meanwhile the Feast of St John the Baptist, the patron of the Order, proceeded with all due and solemn ceremony. No gunpowder was wasted in fireworks, but bonfires were lit and church bells pealed, and a general air of rejoicing began to fill the streets. For the Baptist had announced the coming of Christ, and with the coming of Christ they were saved.
Nicholas went out into the evening streets, wearing the fine sword of the Chevalier Bridier de la Gordcamp once more at his side, and gravely conscious of it. The little town was alive with light and life, and even though the vast Turkish encampment that now spread out threateningly across the whole of the heights of Santa Margherita was many times larger than Birgu and Senglea combined, and existed solely for the destruction of the town, hearing the distant shouts and sounds of rejoicing within the Turks must have wondered what these people under desperate siege were made of.
The Feast of St John, as La Valette intended, restored order and confidence after the horror of the crucified knights.
The indefatigable priest, Roberto di Eboli, preached a sermon to a packed town square, his voice even and resonant, his dark eyes burning with the faith, and his words put new strength into the people’s hearts. He spoke of the loyalty unto death of the Baptist himself, and of that evil eastern tyrant, Herod. He conjured for the illiterate people vivid images of how the Baptist had been captured by that accursed Oriental potentate, and mutilated and beheaded, and they felt how eerily full of meaning and symbol it all was, on the very night that the three crucified bodies had washed ashore from Elmo, similarly mutilated and killed by this new and godless eastern tyrant, Suleiman and his hordes.
Someone tapped Nicholas on the shoulder. He turned, a smile already spreading over his face, and there was Stanley. Pale and gaunt, but a bony, sinewy strength still in his tall broad frame. He was freshly bathed and his beard neatly shaven, and he wore the long black robe of the Hospitallers, emblazoned with a great white cross on the chest, that made him look startlingly like the monk he was. It seemed wrong to embrace a monk, so Nicholas seized his hand. Stanley clapped him on the back.
‘My one regret,’ he said, ‘is that though I am told you saved my life, I have no recollection of any of it. By the way, Dragut is dead.’
Nicholas looked startled.
‘His mortal remains gone to Africa, his soul down below. Apparently there was a hubbub at that battery on Is-Salvatur, as they tried to hit some impudent Christian swimmer crossing the harbour right under their noses. Dragut took charge, and in the haste their gun misfired and he was struck in the head by a piece of stone. He died soon after.’
Nicholas clenched his fists in front of him.
‘It could be said,’ Stanley whispered, ‘that the swimmer killed him.’
‘Well, I …’
‘But that seems an exaggeration, does it not?’ His eyes twinkled. ‘We should be listening to the words of Fra Roberto.’
Roberto di Eboli said, ‘The martyrs of Elmo too were beheaded for their faith, crucified for their Lord, on the very Eve of St John. In everything there is a pattern, to those that see with their eyes unclouded, and understand with their hearts. In everything there is the Hand of God.’
He spoke of how the Baptist today sat at the right hand of God the Father himself, as you could see in many of the paintings in the churches, his lean figure and coarse camelhair garment unmistakable. And most inspiringly of all, he reminded the people on this lonely and beleaguered island that all of Christendom this night was celebrating the same Feast with them. From Norway to Spain, from Spain to the borders of Russia, their fellow Christians were lighting bonfires in the streets to celebrate the Baptist, patron of the Knights Hospitaller. Looking down from the walls of heaven tonight, the angels would see all of Christendom as nothing but a great starry floor of bright and burning bonfires.
A new fire was kindled in their hearts at that wonderful image. The people cheered, their dread and loneliness falling away, the sound of their cheering like the cannon’s roar.
A French knight, the Chevalier St Aubin, out patrolling near the Barbary Coast, had tried to run the Turkish blockade recently and failed, and so fallen back after gallant engagement to harry the Turkish ships as best he could in a single galley. The Chevalier Romegas, too, still roamed the seas like a wolf.
So it was with surprise and delight that another Christian vessel managed to arrive in the Grand Harbour that night, flying the flag of St John. On board were a number of knights and soldiers come from Europe, including a young French knight, Henri Parisot, La Valette’s own nephew.
‘Reinforcements,’ said the Grand Master. ‘You are welcome, even at this late hour.’
To Sir Oliver Starkey he said privately, ‘Ten thousand are needed, and some seventy have come. Yet we should welcome them with grace. They have come here to die for us.’
Early the next morning, La Valette called his closest to him: Smith and Stanley, the captains of the langues, Don Pedro Mezquita, and young Parisot. Nicholas was permitted too, but not to speak. It was hard when another figure entered the room: Marshal Copier, now one-legged, but supported on a very fine olivewood peg-leg. He eyed Nicholas, seeing the boy’s pleasure at his appearance, and winked.
La Valette said it was as Mustafa Pasha had foreseen. ‘Despite the great spirit and faith of our brother Roberto di Eboli,’ said the Grand Master, ‘and his picture of all Christendom standing shoulder-to-shoulder, worshipping as one — you know this is not so.’
‘No relief is coming?’ said Smith.
La Valette shook his head. ‘Apart from the gallant few who sailed in last night — no relief is coming. Other kingdoms may burn bonfires like us, but they will send no ships. And we will hear from Venice sooner or later, I have no doubt, that the bankers who run that serene Republic’ — his voice was corrosive with bitterness — ‘ordered great celebrations when they heard of Elmo’s fall. St Marks’ Square will look like Carnival time.’
Nicholas looked baffled and agast.
Stanley said to him sotto voce, ‘To assure the many Ottoman diplomats and spies in Venice that the Venetians value peace and trade with the Empire above all else, and have no love for the Knights of St John. They say we are no more than troublesome pirates, causing wars and ruining Mediterranean trade.’