Shadow of God (63 page)

The senior knights stood in a line against the damp stone walls of the torture chamber. There were no windows, the only light coming from the candles placed along the walls. The orange flickering threw a pattern of light across the room, mixing the shadows cast by the structure of the room’s only piece of furniture: the rack.

The rough-hewn wood was stained and dark with the sweat and blood of its prior tenants. At one end, a huge cogged wheel stood attached to the main frame. Its spokes radiated from the circumference, and its axle was ratcheted with a metal hinge.

The prisoner was stripped to the waist, shivering in the cold wet air. His wrists were separated now, each bound with a tight leather thong and stretched overhead to a wooden bar at the top end of the rack. His ankles were similarly bound, and fastened to a bar below his feet. In the middle of his body, an angle in the rack pressed upward into the small of his back, so that he lay like an inverted V on the instrument of torture.

In spite of the cold and the shivering, sweat trickled down his body onto the floor. He strained to look up over his head and scan the upside-down faces of the knights. As his eyes moved around the room, he regained his orientation and identified each man, name by name. Finally, his gaze stopped at the foot of the rack, where he found himself staring into the eyes of the Grand Master.

Philippe never took his gaze off the prisoner. “Who wrote the letter?” he asked in the same slow monotone.

Silence.

Philippe nodded to the man tending the wheel, all the while fixing his eyes on the prisoner. The man leaned on the long arm of the turning mechanism, and the wheel moved clockwise a few degrees. The thongs cut deeply into the prisoner’s ankles and wrists, and his arms and legs straightened under the strain. The force of the torque pulled the man’s back down into the angle of the bench, his spine pressed against the wood. The pressure was unrelenting, but the pain continued to escalate long after the ratchet had caught and the wheel ceased to turn.

The prisoner screamed on the very first turn, and spittle accumulated at the corner of his mouth. Still he did not speak the required words.

“Who wrote the letter?” Philippe repeated, nearly in a whisper now. When he received no reply, he nodded to the torturer again.

Again the lever was moved, the wheel turned, the thongs tightened, the body stretched, and the ratchet set.

Several of the younger knights looked down at their feet. This was the first time they had seen the rack in actual use, and the reality was far more fierce than the lighthearted banter of the stories told around the dinner tables of the
Auberges
.

Again, a scream filled the small room and resounded off the walls. But, this time, there were words in the screams, though no one could understand their meaning. Philippe raised his head a fraction, and again met the eyes of the prisoner, who was gagging from the intense pain.

Philippe nodded to the torturer, and the ratchet was released. The wheel moved back, and the thongs relaxed an inch. Now the prisoner was able to speak.

“Who wrote the letter?” Philippe asked.

The prisoner muttered three words. His voice was thin and his words garbled by his gasping. Philippe leaned forward, as did all the knights. Only the torturer kept his place at attention near the wheel.

The prisoner licked his lips, for now his tongue was dry and his mouth the consistency of sand. It was all he could do to utter the words.

Softly. Falteringly. The prisoner spoke the name again.

The thongs were cut and blood seeped from beneath the leather still tied to his ankles and his wrists. Three guards pulled Blasco Diaz, Servant-at-Arms to Chancellor Andrea d’Amaral, from the rack and dragged him to his cell.

Philippe and his knights returned to the Palace of Grand Master. They convened around the great oak table, awaiting in silence the arrival of d’Amaral.

Four knights raced to the Inn of Castile where d’Amaral was known to be sleeping. Though most of the knights lived in their own homes outside the
Auberges,
d’Amaral’s house had been destroyed in the bombardment. Throughout the siege, he stayed in one of the small rooms in the Inn of Castile.

The knights burst through the front door and ran up the one flight of stairs to the Chancellor’s room. The door was unlocked, and the four knights pounced upon the sleeping man. D’Amaral struggled at the attack, but in a few seconds he was pinioned beneath the strong arms of the knights. His sword and knife were kicked out of reach, and leather thongs tied his wrists.

To their surprise, the Chancellor did not struggle once he saw who the men were. The knights released his feet, and d’Amaral was helped into his boots. Since the start of the siege, all the knights had slept in their clothes, so d’Amaral was spared the indignity of being dragged through the streets in his nightshirt. He was helped into his boots, his hands rebound, and was marched directly to the Palace of the Grand Master.

Philippe and his knights sat without moving as d’Amaral was thrust into the room. A wooden chair had been placed between the table and the door. D’Amaral was roughly led to the chair and released. He stood facing the Grand Master. After a minute of silence, during which time the two men kept their eyes locked,
Philippe said, “Unbind the Chancellor.”

The guards hesitated and looked at the Grand Master for affirmation of what they thought was a mistake. “I said, unbind the Chancellor!”

The guards stepped quickly to d’Amaral’s side and cut the leather thongs. D’Amaral removed the leather wristlets and dropped them to the floor without taking his eyes from the Grand Master’s. Slowly, he rubbed each wrist, and then sat down on the chair behind him. He sat straight in the chair, feet squarely on the floor. His head was erect, and never once did he take his eyes from Philippe.

Philippe began without preamble. He spoke slowly in the same monotone that he had with the prisoner, Diaz. “Your Servant-at-Arms, Blasco Diaz, was caught tonight attempting to send this message into the camp of the Turks.” Philippe shoved the letter across the table, turning it around so that d’Amaral could read it. D’Amaral did not look down, but continued to stare at Philippe. Philippe went on, “Diaz confessed that he has sent many of these letters to the Turk, and that he was acting on your orders; that you wrote the letters in your own hand.” Still, there was no reaction by d’Amaral. The other knights were beginning to stir in their places, looking from Philippe to d’Amaral.

“You are charged with treason. We shall gather the witnesses against you and convene a Military Tribunal at the earliest moment.” D’Amaral remained mute.

“You will be taken under guard and confined in the Tower of St. Nicholas. Prepare your defense well, Chancellor, for if you are found guilty, you will, I assure you, hang.”

Philippe waited two full minutes for d’Amaral to respond. During that time their eyes were locked, the hate between the two old colleagues palpable. When d’Amaral did not respond, Philippe waved his hand toward the door. The guards stepped forward, each holding fresh leather restraints in his hand. Philippe shook his head and nodded toward the door again.

The guards moved to take d’Amaral by the elbows, but the Chancellor stood quickly and turned to go before they could grasp
him. The guards hurried alongside as d’Amaral strode out the door and down the stairs of the Palace.

Philippe was alone in the planning room for the first time in many weeks. It was late, and life had been an unending round of battle and battleplans. The treachery of d’Amaral had completely absorbed him. So much remained unexplained, incomprehensible. He had known Andrea for decades, had fought together, had lived life as brothers-at-arms. No matter the jealousy. No matter the enmity. It was beyond Philippe’s imagination that a hatred could run so deep as to betray the entire Order.

But, of d’Amaral’s guilt, Philippe had no doubt. In the mind of the Grand Master, the witnesses and the evidence at the trial were overwhelming. D’Amaral was a traitor, and for this he would die.

Philippe was excruciatingly weary, but sleep would not come. He sat down at his desk and thought he might compose a letter home to his family in Paris, though God alone knew when a ship might be able to leave Rhodes to deliver it. There was a light tapping at his door. He looked up to see Hélène move into the room, wringing her hands and shaking her head.

“The news is all over the city, Philippe. It’s not to be believed,” she said. “That d’Amaral could have done this…”

“Yes, it’s true enough. Andrea was—is—a traitor. He’s been spying for the Turks, or at least sending messages for some time. And he has been hiding stores from us. It’s unbelievable. But it’s true.” Philippe motioned to Hélène to come to him.

Hélène nearly tripped on the torn hem of her now-ragged dress. She hugged him tightly to her, her small arms barely able to reach around his large chest. She breathed in the smells of war and death that still clung to his hastily cleaned cloak. As the two stood in the room in silence, her eyes went to his sword and scabbard; his helmet; his armor. All lying in a neat pile, ready for the next attack. How far they were from Paris now, she thought. And she wondered whether they would ever see her city again.

Philippe took her arms and moved her away from him so he could see her. He looked at her in her disheveled state and smiled
for a few seconds, when a sadness came over him that he could not control. She, too, had been working unthinkable hours. He also found himself overwhelmed at the thought of all the young knights who had died under his command; of Jean and Melina and their twin babies; of his loyal friend, Henry Mansell; and all the families who would never see their young men again.

Hélène saw the tears forming in Philippe’s eyes and pulled him back to her. She felt his body start to shake and heard the beginnings of his sobs. She drew him away from his desk and the room filled with battleplans and weapons. Finally, she took him by his hand and led him to his bed. She gently pushed him down and helped him off with his boots. Then she lay down beside him and held him.

An hour passed in silence. Philippe had dozed briefly, but Hélène remained awake, her mind teeming with questions for Philippe. Finally their eyes met in the dim light.

“Philippe,” she said softly, “you must consider surrendering this island to the Sultan.”

She could feel Philippe stiffen next to her, but he did not move, did not take his eyes from her. Then, after a long exhalation of breath, he began to speak to her in a voice she had never heard from him. There was no authority, no command. It was as if he were exploring an internal conversation, and she were eavesdropping.

“We still control the city. We hold the walls, and all their military machinery is limited to their cannons and their Janissaries; a few sappers. Their cavalry sits idly by, useless in the face of our walls and our ditches.

“My men are tired; exhausted; but, so it is in every siege. The whole object of siege warfare is to wear us down, and our only chance is to hold off for one more day. Each day, we must live to see still one
more
day. The weather is going to deteriorate soon. His men will be wet and sick and dispirited even more than they are now. You’ve only to look into the ditches and see the bodies rotting there to know how his armies are suffering…”