Shadow of God (70 page)

Piri rose from his
divan. “
Majesty, the city is in ruins, and the population is starving. Even the knights have been reduced to so few in number that they cannot man the breaches sufficiently to repel our attacks. At each foray, more of our men enter the city. But,” he said, spreading his two hands, palms up, “we have not yet made the massive decisive breakthrough in any one post. So, while I think our ultimate victory is assured by mere perseverance, the cost is going to be very high.”

Suleiman nodded and turned to Achmed Agha, now the Sultan’s
Seraskier. “
And what of our troops, how do they fare?”

“Majesty,” Achmed Agha replied with a deep bow, “things are not so bad among our men as they are for the knights. At least
we
have sufficient food and water, and by now the encampments have been reinforced to provide better shelter and warmth for the troops. But, still, we are in a sorry state when compared to the army that
disembarked at Kallitheas Bay over four months ago. They are battle weary and disappointed. Every man among them has lost many comrades dead, or wounded and dying. Sickness is spreading throughout the camp, and the doctors are unable to keep up with it. The Sons of
Sheitan
have thrown diseased and fly-blown corpses into our camp to spread contagion. The stench is terrible. We have done the same to the knights, but I don’t know if they can tell the difference up there. Still, in our camp there is the mud, the cold, the bodies of the dead, the awful smells. Even homesickness—for most of them are just boys—is taking a serious toll. They will, however, fight for you for as long as it takes.

“The slaves are more difficult. They look for any opportunity to flee. It is only the steel of our scimitars against their backs that drives them forward. But, it is always thus with the slaves. Majesty, the quicker this is over, the better.” Achmed Agha started to return to the
divan
, but hesitated.

“Yes, Achmed? Did you have something to add?”

“Majesty, it is not for me to say. But, I must speak my truth for the sake of the men I lead. These Janissaries—the Sons of the Sultan—are the world’s most loyal soldiers, and each would die a thousand times for you. But, if we could get the knights to surrender without further loss of life among our
yeni cheri,
it would be a blessing from Allah.” He bowed, and returned to his seat.

Suleiman seemed about to poll the Aghas, but then changed his mind. He called for no further comments. He sat forward in his high armchair, and said to all of them, “We will allow the knights one last chance. Achmed Agha, have your nephew brought here, along with our official interpreter. I want no mistakes made when the knights hear my ultimatum. Signal our intention by raising the white flag of truce from the tower of that church that lies within our lines. We will not send that Genoese fool again. Only
my
men will carry this message, delivered by mouth as well as in writing. Tell your nephew to bring these terms to the knights: they are to surrender
at once
. I will tolerate no delay. They are invited to stay on Rhodes and live in peace under Islam; they may retain their religion, or convert. They may stay or they may go unharmed. They may take
personal property if they wish, and the citizens will have the same choice; they can accept Islam, or retain their own religion. They, too, may stay or go, taking all their possessions with them.” Suleiman paused, wondering if there were other conditions that should be included. “But, tell them this: if these terms are not met with immediate and unequivocal acceptance, I shall massacre every man, woman, and child on this island. Now go.”

At dawn on December 10th, the sentries on the Tower of St. John looked out over the Turkish lines. There, in the morning gloom, they saw something new in the landscape. Above the tower of the Church of Our Lady of Mercy, the only church outside the walls of the fortress, was a large white flag moving in the gentle breeze. Word was sent to the Grand Master, who immediately sent for Tadini and Prejean de Bidoux. The two knights entered the palace within minutes, and confirmed that the Sultan was flying a flag of truce from the church.

Tadini and de Bidoux were shocked at the appearance of the Grand Master. Though his uniform was presentable, his eyes were red and the skin below his eyelids was puffed and purple. When he spoke, his voice was frail. The power of command was gone. “Good morning, Gabriele. Prejean. What word?”

Tadini spoke first. “My Lord, there can be no mistake. The Sultan’s cannons are not firing, and there is no movement in the lines. No trumpets, no drums. We have no reason to think there will be an attack today. I think he will be sending a message to us if we reply with a truce flag of our own.”

Philippe nodded slowly without looking up. “By all means. Raise the white flag over the Tower of St. John. We’ll see what the Sultan wishes of us.”

Tadini and de Bidoux bowed and left. They walked to the walls, de Bidoux carrying the folded white flag under his arm. The two knights left the
Collachio
and crossed the entire inner city to the Jewish Quarter and the Tower of St. John. Every step they took brought them past the bodies of the dying and the dead. Animals lay blocking several streets, forcing the men to detour around the swollen,
stinking bodies. Barely a house was left standing or undamaged. A few fires burned, fueled by the remaining sticks and scraps of their wrecked city. The excrement ran in rivulets through the streets and down the slopes to the walls, where it puddled and rose, until it found a crack to take it to the ditches. De Bidoux slowly shook his head at the awful scene, and said, “
Mon ami, c’est fini.”

Tadini didn’t reply. He thought he might cry if he tried to speak. When they reached the southern walls, they went quickly to the Tower of St. John to raise their white flag. Then, the two men stood at the edge of battlement and waited.

The envoy, Achmed Agha’s nephew, and his interpreter waited among the troops until the white flag appeared on the tower. They walked together through the lines and into the ditches. They, too, were horrified at the scene on the Turkish side of the walls. The could barely find a path that was not strewn with Turkish dead, soldiers and slaves. Neither man had ever experienced such carnage before. They had to support each other to keep from stumbling as they scrambled though the ditches now overflowing with bodies.

When they arrived at the gate, the interpreter called to the men standing at the parapet. Tadini waved them through, then he and de Bidoux met the emissaries at the door.

Achmed’s nephew repeated the Sultan’s ultimatum word for word, and the interpreter carefully translated each sentence into French. Then Tadini was given the parchment with the words written in both Turkish and French, and sealed with the Sultan’s own emblem, the
tu
ra.
The emissaries bowed, and left the gate to return to the Sultan’s
serai.

This time Tadini made no remarks or gestures of contempt. No gunfire hurried the Turks on their way.

December 11th, 1522: one hundred thirty-three days of siege. The two men were dressed in black robes as they made their way out of the city and into the Turkish lines. They walked to the walls at the Post of Aragon, then crossed the ditches to the pavilion of Achmed Agha.

Four Janissaries stopped the men and searched them for weapons. Then, with a guard on each flank, they were taken to Achmed’s tent. He kept the two men waiting for two hours while he dressed in his formal uniform and high-feathered turban. He finished his breakfast, and then sent for the envoys.

The black-robed men were led into the room. The Janissaries took positions on either side of the room, near enough to protect the Agha in the unlikely event of treachery. When the interpreter was ready, Achmed Agha began. “Who are you who brings a message to Achmed Agha?”

The taller of the two men stepped forward. “I am Antoine de Grollée, Judge of the Court of Rhodes.”

“Yes, I see you’re not wearing the cape of the Knights,” said Achmed. “And who is this with you?”

The second man stepped forward. “
Je m’appelle
Roberto Peruzzi, also a Judge of the Court of Rhodes,” he said in French. The interpreter translated into Turkish for Achmed, and added that the second man was not speaking in his native language. Achmed smiled at his interpreter’s skill, and went on. “What is your message?”

De Grollée answered. “I have a message from the Grand Master, Philippe Villiers de L’Isle Adam, to the Sultan, Suleiman Khan. Our message asks for a truce of three more days, to allow preparations for the surrender of the city, and to clarify the terms of the surrender.”

“Very well. You shall be taken to the Sultan, himself, to deliver your message.”

Achmed rose and motioned to the guards. The small group left the pavilion. They were escorted a short way to where horses were waiting. Achmed mounted his stallion, and the two envoys were led to theirs. The Janissaries and the interpreter walked behind the procession, with a small escort of mounted Sipahis leading the way out of the camp. The group wound its way through the troops, and then ascended the hillside to the west of the city to Suleiman’s pavilion.

The envoys said nothing on the journey, but both men were astounded at the conditions of the Turkish camps they passed on the way. Though in no way comparable to the usual discipline and cleanliness of a Janissary army in the field, when compared to the
conditions within the city, the differences were staggering. Not only was there the smell of real food cooking in the giant pots, but, after so much death and destruction, the sheer numbers of the Turkish soldiers seemed inconceivable to Grollée and Peruzzi.
We have made the right decision to surrender,
thought Peruzzi,
otherwise there is nothing ahead for us but death.

The party entered the encampment of the Sultan on the slopes of Mount Saint Stephen, where they were taken directly to Suleiman’s
serai
by his personal Janissary Guard.

The horses were led away, and Achmed led the envoys and the interpreter into the presence of the Sultan. Suleiman was seated on his throne. Piri Pasha and Ibrahim were seated on a
divan
to his right
.
Achmed bowed to the Sultan. Suleiman motioned him closer while the envoys were kept standing near the door. In a low voice, he asked, “Who are these men, and what word do they bring?” The Sultan wanted to know everything
before
the fact, to maintain the advantage over his adversaries.