Altai: A Novel (32 page)

18.

On deck they were flaying a sheep, because the crew needed meat, especially the oarsmen, who had for many hours been helping the wind to spur us on our way. I was watching the blood forming a puddle and the flies swarming, when a voice shouted that there were sails in view. On the horizon, the fleet was a long black line.

Takiyuddin’s optical instrument allowed me to review a whole side of the formation.

Western galleys, some Genovese, others Tuscan, many Spanish. There were also thin Venetian vessels. There was a huge galleass, pulled by other galleys, foists and galliots.

The galleass bristled with guns. They covered the whole of its perimeter—the bows, the sides, the high poop deck. I pointed the tube farther away and saw the Turkish ships advancing. A little beyond them, toward the coast, I could make out the bluish outlines of Oxia.

The Ottoman fleet looked like a forest emerging from the Gulf of Corinth. Closer to us, the Christians were beginning to maneuver. I had the sense that one flank was retreating, or else preparing for flight. I asked the captain his opinion.

Mimi Reis peered awkwardly through the tube. He looked up and returned his eye to the lens a number of times. “God is great,” he murmured. Then he looked for a long time. At last he handed the instrument back to me. “Flight? They’re getting into battle formation.”

“Then let’s go up to them. We can still do it.”

He nodded and gave the order.

Under full sail, with all the oarsmen on their benches, the
kalita
started speeding toward the Ottoman fleet, passing beyond the right flank of the Christian forces.

“They’re aiming at us. We’re too close,” I said.

“They’re too busy looking at what’s right in front of them, and even if they see us, they don’t know who we are. And even if they do know, they’re not going to break formation to follow us.”

I heard a cannon shot. It was a signal from the Christians.

Mimi Reis ordered food and weapons to be carried on deck. Pikes, bows, arquebuses, leather corsets and helmets were piled up and arranged neatly along the whole of the ship, ready for use. So were biscuits, oranges, cheese, dates, dried figs, barrels of fresh water: Fighting drains the strength; you need to have food and drink within reach. Then Mimi Reis hoisted a long black standard, Moorish characters embroidered on it in gold.

“What does it say?” I asked.

“
The Christian religion is a false religion.
But I would need to write it in Italian for that lot to understand.”

He pointed to the left wing of the Ottoman fleet, and the closer we got, the wider Mimi’s smile became. “Chin up, my friend.” He extended his hand toward the open sea. “You see? All the best captains are over there. There’s Ucciali, from Calabria. There’s Caracoggia, and Commander Scirocco. There’s the Muezzin’s son; he’s certainly no coward. And Mimi Reis will be there, too,
all’anima di chi v’ha mmuerte.
”

I pointed Takiyuddin’s instrument at the Christian ships. The galleasses advanced first. They were allowed to advance on their own, far ahead of the rest of the fleet. Six fat morsels, bait to excite Muezzinzade Ali’s thirst for victory.

A wave of unease surged through me. Now there was no way to reach the Ottoman flagship and warn Muezzinzade of the imminent danger to his fleet. I was late once again.

The sun was high in the sky by the time we found ourselves on the line that divided the fleets and saw the Turkish ships launching themselves forward. Clearly Muezzinzade’s plan was to pass between the boats that seemed least threatening, and attack the heart of the Christian fleet. The Venetians’ trap was about to snap shut.

Beside me, Mimi was waving his arms around as if he could be seen from the Ottoman flagship. “Head for the open sea, Muezzinzade!
Vattinn’!
”

I held my breath.

The ships of the first Turkish line arrived between one galleass and the other. The burst of gunfire nearly deafened us, the first shot immediately followed by a second, and shortly after by a third. The cannons on the sides of the galleasses crushed lifeboats, felled masts, smashed decks and gangways. I had never seen anything like it.

Mimi Reis spewed a stream of insults at the Venetians, calling down the rage of God and Saint Nicholas on them. I imagined the Turks’ surprise, their grief, their rage. We were too late, we had to go on, leaving the most battered ships behind.

The Turkish ships that, however damaged, still managed to get through tried to ram the galleys in the first rows of the Christian fleet.

The galleasses floated lifelessly, slow and funereal, impossible to board, after imposing the first devastating blood tax on the enemy.

19.

The noise and the smoke extended all the way to us, far from the fray that had flared up in the middle of the lines. The right Christian flank and the left flank of the Muslims had begun to part, as if fearing a frontal collision. We saw the Turkish armies approaching and heading toward the open sea. Mimi Reis gave orders and commented out loud.

“Muezzinzade set them out badly. The right flank is too close to the coast. If things go wrong, the crews will desert to dry land, and who’s going to stop them? I bet these boats you see here are Ucciali’s galleys. He has something in mind. He plans to give them a wide berth, and take them from behind.”

He turned around, and his face said more than words could have done. He ordered a break as soon as we were out of range of the Christian cannon. The oars were lifted, and preparations were made for prayer. The men performed their ablutions and spread out their mats. A young Albanian took charge of the prayers and the recitation of the Book.

No one paid any attention to me, as I clung to the parapet gazing with astonishment at the ships colliding at the heart of the battle. The noise of the cannonades was echoed by the sound of wood smashing and men shouting. Clouds of arrows flew from one deck to the other, while the arquebusiers fired from the sides. Smoke from a fire rose up in the middle of a floating forest of mainmasts. The water around the big ships filled with corpses, like the moat of a besieged fortress.

When the prayer was finished, Mimi Reis yelled at the top of his voice, “Let’s go!” He commanded that the vessel veer to starboard, and then turned toward me. “Make sure you do your bit, because Saint Nicholas is with us here.”

We headed for the meeting point of the fleets, where the tumult was being unleashed. Before us was a tangle of oars and lifeboats, two Christian galleys, a big Ottoman
kadirga
, one tiny hull wedged beneath the bow of the first, and other Turkish ships. I recognized them from their outlines, as one might in deep fog, because the colors of the standards were erased by the smoke from the cannon fire.

The hulls of the vessels had come together, forming an island of boats. A terrestrial battle was being fought beneath a vault of deafening noise.

A little Tuscan frigate obstructed our path, sweeping our deck with arquebus fire. The damage was minimal, but the crusaders had let a dinghy down into the water, in exactly the right place. It slipped below our oars on the starboard side of the hull, and the ship halted its course and suddenly bore toward port.

We couldn’t go on. Mimi Reis cursed in his dialect and gave orders to the whole crew, oarsmen included, to shift to that side. The ship swayed and its bulk loomed over the dinghy, which sank, by the will of God.

Our oars were free. Cries of excitement rose up from the crew. We made straight for the wooden island in front of us. I picked out a leather corset and a helmet a size too small. I unsheathed Ismail’s dagger.

We were now within range, the bow cannon fired, but aimed too high. Our ship joined the confusion of hulls at a reduced speed. Its stem entered the knot of vessels, and we began to wheel to port, impelled by the movement of the other vessels.

The crew of what looked like a papal galliot was busy defending itself on the other side, where the Christian ship had fastened itself to its Ottoman neighbor, firing off a cloud of arrows. Some of them, shot from too great a distance, embedded themselves in the side of our ship. Only a few of the men on the Christian deck noticed our arrival, and even fewer worked out that we were about to board, taking advantage of the fact that our hulls had lined up side by side. Mimi Reis waited for the pope’s arquebusiers in the gangway to discharge their arms, so that he could board the vessel under cover of the smoke.

The salvo went off. Mimi Reis grabbed his scimitar. “God is great!” he shouted.

He was the first to hurl himself forward, almost severing the head of the first adversary who came within his range. “
E iune!
”
he cried, “One down!” as his men ran forward. I saw him running ahead once more, shouting like a man possessed, and threw myself after him. It was pandemonium; I found myself surrounded by gunfire and a universal thirst for blood. I ran in the wake of the charging men ahead of me. Fear, excitement, intoxication: We routed the enemy, the gangway turned red. From the other Ottoman ship, soldiers armed with maces and sabers emerged shouting. Attacked on both sides, the soldiers of Pius V surrendered. The field was ours, but we had no time to enjoy the fact.

A call went up. From our boarding side, past the
kalita
, the smoke dispersed and we were able to make out a big
bastarda
advancing towards us. The bow guns fired, the
cannone di corsia
fired directly at the deck, scattering debris all around me and throwing our barricades into utter disarray. The wreckage knocked me down and I fell. I got up, surrounded by corpses and the cries of the wounded.

Venetian cannons. By now the big galley was close enough for me to make out its standard; the maned lion held its closed book and its sword above our heads.

Mimi’s broad face brightened: “At last.” He turned to us. “
Uagliò!
”
he shouted. “Lads! The Serenissima Repubblica is paying us a visit. Let’s give her the welcome she deserves.”

We started piling up rubble, bodies, barrels, gun carriages to form new barriers. Mimi looked like a wild cat, he darted with great agility from one side to the other, belying his stocky physique. By the time the fusillade began, the men were already in shelter.

Then the Venetians boarded.

As the first attackers climbed onto the deck, we fired and then immediately counterattacked with pikes and swords. A Venetian hurled himself at me. I merely held my arm outstretched. I felt the dagger plunging into him up to the hilt and the blood running through my fingers.

“Good man, Cardoso,
si fatte la fegura to’!
Nicely done!” Mimi Reis observed.

I hadn’t even noticed that he was nearby. He had a word for everyone. He led us into the attack again, and we quickly crushed a unit of arquebusiers.

We fought for ages, acrid smoke and the smell of death filling our lungs. Mimi Reis’s crew had mingled with the
sipahi
. True to their code, the
sipahi
went into combat with short swords, something that the Christians tried to avoid. The crew of the Ottoman galley, also under arms, had started hurling cooking pots and fireworks to make up for our lack of cannons.

The clash dragged on in a hideous balance of death, attacking, retreating, gaining a few feet of ground, with shouts, curses, prayers, insults, music, hissing arrows, roaring arquebuses, the smell of combusted bodies, of burnt wood.

I was caught up in a kind of dance. We had to come out of our shelters, seeking contact with the enemy, to take refuge again when the barrage resumed. We came out, we tried to get to the enemy, a salvo was fired, some of the men on our side lost their lives, sometimes we ended up hacking away in close combat.

The Ottoman archers had been fighting for over two hours by now. They were exhausted, in a terrible state. The Turkish bow is a fearsome weapon, but firing it many times takes a huge effort. Weariness fills your limbs, clarity of mind flees, a man becomes a coward. Fewer and fewer arrows were raining down on the Christians. More and more projectiles, fired from arquebuses, were striking our ranks.

I looked around for Mimi Reis: I missed his words of instruction. I saw him standing on a barrel, his left hand, held aloft, gripping a hawser, his right still clutching his sword. I couldn’t make out what he was saying. Smoke engulfed the scene, but I could still hear him spurring on his men and railing at Venice. His voice came and went, according to the wind and the fluctuations in the battle clamor.

Close to me, a young sailor spoke. His face was stunned, his skin drenched with sweat, his eyes like lanterns. I thought I caught him saying that just as we’d left Lepanto, the Ottoman fleet had been marked by a bad omen. Crows. There had been a flight of crows.

A shot from a falconet shattered the wooden planks that sheltered us. The ball struck the young man in the throat and tore off his head. Blood gushed over me, and I instinctively rose to my feet. I felt a very sharp pain in my leg and fell to my knees.

That was my salvation. I heard another bullet whistling where I had held my head a moment before. I looked at my calf; it had been pierced by a shot. The blood formed a little stream. I rested my back against the ravaged planks.

Cries of rage and desperation and insults rose from our ranks when we saw how the Christians were treating their prisoners. We peered out from above the ruins of our shelter. Blood formed pools on the deck.

Mimi Reis led the final sortie, followed by those few who were still able to fight, who were launching any missile that came to hand: pieces of wood, shoes, broken pikes, oranges and lemons. He had taken off his shirt, and you could make out the marks that etched their story on his skin even though it was blackened with smoke. The Muslims were fighting furiously. There were more Venetians, and they had more arquebuses. We began to lose our impetus. Mimi Reis waved his sword, disappeared amongst the bodies of his attackers, re-emerged, railed, gripped the throat of a Venetian seaman and yelled in his face. There was another salvo, aimed directly at us, a prelude to the final assault. The pirate was hidden by smoke.

Then I saw his face, twisted into a grin, high above the bodies and the drifting smoke. His severed head, dancing on a pike.

I don’t know where my strength came from. I got up and dragged myself toward the side of the ship behind me. I heard cries and words of encouragement in Venetian, coming closer and closer. I rested my backside against the wall. With my hands, I lifted my injured leg over to the other side, along with my good leg. I dropped into the water.

When I resurfaced, I saw the gray mass of a galleass, in the distance, amid the fire from other ruined ships. It sailed slowly, like a massive turtle, indifferent to the slaughter.

Behind me I heard a cry of victory, and a chorus of voices giving thanks to Saint Mark.