Shadow of God (55 page)

“Thank you, my Lord,” Tadini said, and sat down.

“John Buck?”

“My Lord, I have little to add. I agree with Gabriele. I think they have seen the failure of intense attacks at one breach, and may try to divide our strength among many breaches at once. We have had to stop chasing the Turks when they retreat. Mustapha Pasha has dug protective holes along the trenches and manned them with
arquebusiers
and musketeers to cover their retreats. It is too dangerous for us to follow.”

Tadini interrupted. “My Lord, Jacques de Bourbon sends his apologies. He says that because he can no longer follow the enemy and change the retreat into a rout, he has captured no more Turkish standards since the attack on England.
Il est desolé
.”

Buck continued. “We continue to punish the Turks severely. I should think there are more than three thousand dead out there. But, we continue to take strategic losses we cannot sustain. Guyot de Marseille was the best of our artillerymen, and he is wounded so badly that he cannot return to action. Your standard bearer, Joachim de Cluys, has lost the eye that was injured at Provence yesterday. Though he rages to get back into battle, he will be too handicapped to guard your back. One miraculous occurrence was the survival of de Bidoux.” Prejean de Bidoux was the Prior of the
langue
of Provence, who successfully defended the observation post on the island of Kos, though he had his horse shot out from under him in the battle. “He had his throat cut nearly from ear to ear with a scimitar yesterday. But, he is alive and demanding to be released from the hospital to fight again.”

“As well as a miracle, there is also the skill of our surgeons,” said Philippe.

Philippe waited to see if any of the other knights wished to speak. When none did, he stood, leaned forward, and placed his fists upon the table. “One thing more. I have heard much talk of an insurrection among the people. Be on your guard, gentlemen. Report any such activity to me, and I will deal with it immediately. Severely. Any
traitors in our midst must be made an example to the others. They must fear
our
wrath more than they fear the Turks.”

As the knights were reviewing their losses and their options, and unknown to Philippe, Thomas Newport had been immensely successful in his request. More than one hundred English knights set sail from England at the very time the knights on Rhodes were conferring with Philippe. But, there his luck ended. After a few days at sea, while off the coast of France in the Bay of Biscay, a terrible storm drove his ship upon the rocks. He and all his knights and crew were lost. No great force of knights was coming to relieve the besieged Order of St. John.

Long after dark, Jean strode into the hospital to find Melina busy changing dressings and washing wounds with salt water. She saw Jean and called his name. He turned and made his way through the overcrowded ward. Soldiers and citizens were everywhere. All the hundred beds were full, and barely a place was left on the floor. Blankets served as mattresses for the wounded. Patients leaned like spokes of a wheel against the huge stone columns that ran down the center of the ward and supported the high vaulted ceiling. The air was dense and reeked with the sickly sweet smell of infection and gangrene.

Jean walked through the aisle that had been cleared for the purpose, and knelt down beside Melina.

“How are you?” he said.

“I’m fine, Jean. And the girls are fine. They feed as if it were their last meal, and I think they’re almost fat. Hélène is a godsend. She has become more brave than anyone, and never rests.”

She handed Jean some clean dressings, and said, “Hold these for me. You can talk to me while I work.”

Jean looked at the clean amputation stump and raised his eyebrows. “How long ago did that happen?”

“Three days ago.” Melina looked at Jean, and waited for the question she knew would come next.

“But, how? It’s too clean; no burns; it’s too well healed.”

“Amazing, isn’t it? Three nights ago, we ran out of oil for cautery. Doctor Renato was beside himself with worry. But, there
was nothing he could do. So he made an ointment with oil of willow and turpentine. He placed it on the wounds, with nothing else.”

“But, how did he stop the bleeding. And what of the sheep-bladder dressings?”

“Compression. We packed the wounds and held the dressing tightly. It hurt them terribly, but much less than the boiling oil. We have no more sheep bladders anyway—there are no more sheep—so we wrapped them in clean rags. Renato could hardly sleep with worry. He was sure that without the cautery, the gunpowder and the dirt would cause infection and the poor men would be dead by morning. But, instead, when we changed the dressing, we found them to be clean and even healthier than the ones we burned with oil. He could hardly believe it. So now every wound is treated with willow and turpentine, and I wash the wounds every day with salt water. Nothing more. It is all we have to work with anyway. It’s amazing. When I told him what a miracle his cure was, he quoted a French surgeon to me. Paré, I think he said. Ambroise Paré.
‘Je le pansay;Dieu le guarit
.’
”

“‘I dress the wound; God heals the patient.‘” Jean translated. “It’s amazing.” Jean looked about the ward, and said, “Where’s the doctor? It’s the first time I haven’t seen him here. Is he off getting some sleep?”

“No. He told me to carry on while he went to visit some of the patients in the city. He’s been gone for hours, now. He should be back any minute.”

“Good.” Jean shrugged and kissed Melina. He rose to go. “I’m needed at the Palace. The Grand Master summoned me a while ago. I sent word that I would be there in a moment. Here is my duty.” He kissed Melina again, this time on the lips, and long. “I’ll kiss the girls, too, and be back when I can.”

Melina touched Jean’s cheek and nodded. Jean turned and walked back down the ward, and out of the hospital.

Philippe stood behind his desk. His eyes blazed with a rage unknown to his knights. Never had they seen such fury exposed so openly by the Grand Master. His hand went instinctively to his
sword, his knuckles turning white as he squeezed the hilt. He could not speak for a moment, so seized was he by his anger and his shock.

Three young knights stood before him. They were frightened by what they saw in the Grand Master’s eyes. They had no idea what to expect. What would they do if he drew his sword? The three had seen him in battle, and marveled at the skill, strength, and speed of this gray-haired man, old enough to be their grandfather.

The knights suddenly released the man in the black cape. He fell to the ground, unable to stop his fall because his hands were tied behind his back with stout leather thongs. He had long since lost the feeling in either hand, so tightly was he bound. His face smashed into the cold stones and his nose cracked with the impact. A trickle of blood dribbled down from his left nostril and made its way around the corner of his mouth. His left lower eyelid began to swell from the small amount of bleeding that seeped under the skin at the site of a fracture. In a few minutes it would be purple, and his left eye would swell closed.

“It cannot be true! Not
you
. All these years? Tell me it’s a lie. A mistake.”

Philippe held the parchment in his right hand and the arrow in his left. “This is in Turkish. I do not read Turkish. What does it say?”

The man pulled himself painfully to his knees and struggled into an unsteady kneel. With his hands behind him, it was difficult to hold his position. The knights had not beaten him, nor had they abused him physically or verbally. After discovering the man as he tried to shoot a message on an arrow into the Turkish camps, they subdued him and brought him directly to the Grand Master. Their shock was as great as Philippe’s.

“Speak to me. What does this say?”

The only sound was the obstructed breathing coming from the prisoner’s right nostril. He held his mouth tightly shut, as if he were afraid that by opening it the words would pour forth.

Philippe looked at the knights. “Bring me a knight who can read Turkish. At once! There are several in the
langue de France
.”

“No.” It was the quiet voice of the prisoner. Devoid of feeling. No fear. No anger. No hatred. Just a simple statement.

“What?”

“I said, ‘no,’ there is no need. I speak Turkish. I’ll tell you what it says.”

Philippe handed the paper to a knight and said, “Here.”

“There is no need,” said the prisoner. “I wrote the letter. I know what it says.”

“Very well, then. Tell me.”

The prisoner looked into Philippe’s eyes for the first time since he was thrown into the room. “Fear not, my Lord. The time for lies is over. It is well past that hour, and I am already dead.”

Philippe sat down in his chair. He could barely define his feeling. There was sadness and fury; despair and betrayal; and a hopelessness if this man could turn on his brothers. He motioned to the knights. Two of them grabbed the prisoner by his elbows and pulled him to his feet. They dragged him backwards and dropped him into a wooden chair. He slumped awkwardly to his right, trying to make room for his bound hands. Philippe motioned the guards from the room. When he was alone with the prisoner he said, “Go on.”

Jean walked from battlement to battlement, and inquired about Renato. He was beginning to worry about him. Now that it was completely dark, he was always alert to the possibility that Turkish fighters might slip into the city under the cover of night. He worried too that the doctor may have pushed himself too hard for too long, and might, himself, be lying sick among the many wounded who were dying in the streets.

After an hour, he became increasingly alarmed and returned to the hospital. He ran up the stairs and found Melina feeding the twins. She sat on the floor of her little room, one set of tiny pink lips at each breast. In spite of her fatigue, and the dark circles under her eyes, to Jean she was as beautiful to him as that first day he saw her in the market. The same Rhodian sun seemed to shine on her in the dank gloom of the hospital. She looked up and beamed at him. “This is why God has given us two breasts,
n’est-ce pas?”

Jean laughed and pointed to the girls, “‘It’s best we stop with these two then.”

Jean slipped down onto the mattress, pulling the rough blanket aside and taking his place alongside Melina. He had taken off all his armor and was dressed only in his shirt and trousers. Melina finished feeding the babies, who were sound asleep now. She turned to her left and settled them down into their nest. She covered them, and smiled at the one sight left that would still take her, if only for a moment, out of this hell she lived in.

She was about to place her breasts, still wet with milk, back into her bodice when she felt Jean’s hand gently take her wrist and place it behind his neck. She pulled him down as he leaned into her body and began to suck on her breasts, gently at first and then with increasing hunger. Though the sensation of feeding her girls was always pleasurable for Melina, the pressure from Jean’s lips and tongue made her nearly crazy. She felt herself becoming wet between her thighs for the first time since this terrible war had begun. And it had been so long since she and Jean had made love.