Simon Scarrow - Sword and Scimitar

‘Where did the shots come from?’ La Valette demanded, straining his eyes as he looked towards the open sea. Beside him Thomas was also scanning the strip of horizon that was visible between Gallows Point and the tip of the Sciberras peninsula. As yet there was nothing to see, just the flat line separating the sea from the sky.

‘It came from beyond St Elmo,’ decided Colonel Mas. ‘The signal guns at one of the observation stations.’

Even as he spoke there was a flash from the keep of St Elmo, and a jet of smoke and flame ripped through the morning air. A second cannon was fired and a moment later the sound of the first echoed off the walls of St Angelo. As the third gun fired, there was no longer any doubt about the reason for the firing of the signal guns. La Valette drew a deep breath and continued to stare out across the harbour as he addressed the members of the war council. ‘The enemy has arrived . . .’

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

By the time the five men had climbed to the top of the signal tower of St Angelo, the streets of Birgu were filled with people running for the walls of the town and any natural vantage point to see the approach of the Turkish fleet for themselves. Thomas was the first to reach the platform and saw one of the younger knights in the company of an elderly-looking soldier staring intently towards the eastern horizon. A faint dawn haze still lingered out to sea, concealing the separation of sea from sky.

‘Do you see them?’ asked Thomas.

The two men looked round and then stood to attention as they spied the Grand Master and the other senior officers emerging from the staircase behind Thomas, breathing hard.

‘No, sir,’ the knight replied.

‘Then where did the signal fire come from? Which direction?’

‘Further up the coast, to the north.’

Thomas raised his hands to shield his eyes against the glare of the low sun and tried to pick out anything in the haze, but as yet there was nothing, just the dull gleam of a gentle swell and the specks of gulls swirling above the surface as they fed on a shoal of fish. La Valette and the others joined him along the waist-high wall and stared into the distance. In the background the same pattern of signal guns rumbled as the warning spread along the coast and inland. Besides the occasional sound of cannon, a hush had descended on the island. The usual hubbub rising from the narrow streets and the faint sound of picks had died away and there was a stillness as the men of the Order and the islanders waited for the first sight of the enemy. It felt to Thomas as if the world around him was holding its breath, waiting for the sign that would forever change the lives of those caught in the thrall of that moment.

Sir Oliver hissed, ‘If some fool has raised a false alarm I’ll have him flogged . .

‘There!’ The old soldier thrust his arm out and pointed to the north-east. At once the other men’s heads turned to stare in the direction indicated, trying to pierce the haze for a sign of the enemy ships.

‘Where?’ La Valette growled. ‘I see nothing.’

‘I see it now,’ said Thomas. ‘There, just beyond the end of Gallows Point. A sail.’

Stokely muttered, ‘Just as long as it isn’t a single ship, or even a flotilla of corsairs setting out on a raid.’

‘We’ll know soon enough,’ Romegas said, then looked towards the old soldier with an openly impressed look. ‘Your eyes are keen. Especially for one of your age. What is your name?’

‘Balbi, sir.’ The man bowed his head. ‘Francisco Balbi.’

‘Italian, eh?’ Romegas sized him up. ‘One of the mercenaries recruited by the colonel then?’

Mas glanced over at Balbi. ‘Yes, you were the one claiming to be a poet as well as a soldier of fortune.’

‘That’s right, sir.’

‘A poet?’ Romegas chuckled. ‘Well then, Balbi, I’ll wager you’ll find enough material for an epic in the days to come. Make us all famous, eh?’

‘Enough!’ the Grand Master snapped. ‘I can’t see any damned ships. Where are they?’

Thomas was surprised by the anxious tone in La Valette’s voice and deliberately responded as calmly as he could. He raised his hand and pointed directly towards the single vessel that was visible. ‘There, sir . . . And there . . . Oh . . .’

As if a fine silk veil had been stealthily drawn aside, the first sail was suddenly joined by others, one by one, until scores of them appeared on either side, spreading out along the edge of the fading haze.

‘Good Lord,’ Sir Oliver muttered.

The others kept their silence, as did the knights, soldiers and civilians pressed together along the walls of St Angelo and every vantage point of Birgu. Across the harbour Thomas could see the heads and shoulders of men lining the walls of the fort. Several had climbed up on the parapet for a better view.

It was La Valette who broke the spell on the tower. He lowered the hand that had been shielding his eyes and turned abruptly towards his advisers. ‘There’s no question of it. That’s the invasion fleet. It’s too big for anything else. We must not tarry. The first enemy troops could be ashore well before nightfall. Every civilian has to be safely behind walls before then. Sir Oliver, you will take charge of that with respect to Birgu and Senglea.’ He turned to Romegas. ‘You will ride to Mdina and inform Mesquita of the situation and ensure he clears the centre of the island. Colonel Mas, take a party of horsemen and see to it that as many of the wells are spoiled as possible. And fire any farms or buildings you encounter, anything that can provide shelter to the enemy. Be back here by nightfall.’

‘What of the estates?’ asked Sir Oliver. ‘Surely you can’t mean to destroy them as well?’

‘The estates particularly. Would you want to return to your home after it had been despoiled by some Turkish officer and his companions?’ La Valette did not wait for a reply and turned to Thomas. ‘You will take a boat across to St Elmo and ensure that the garrison is ready to fight. Also, there are bound to be many islanders who make straight for the fort. I gave orders for all to make for Mdina, Senglea and Birgu, but some will panic and make for the closest shelter. There’s no space for them at St Elmo and they will need to be ferried across the harbour before the Turks make that impossible. See to it.’

‘Yes, sir.’ Thomas nodded.

La Valette took a last look at the horizon, squinting as he struggled to make out the vast force bearing down on the coast. Hundreds of vessels were now visible: galleys, galleons and many smaller cargo vessels, a clear sign of the Sultan’s determination to take the island and obliterate the Order of St John that had plagued the Islamic world for the past three centuries. The Grand Master took a deep breath.

‘You have your instructions, gentlemen. May God have mercy on us all. Now go.’

The garrison of the fort were still standing watching the approaching fleet when Thomas and Richard entered St Elmo. The small courtyard was piled with baskets of apples and oranges, sacks of flour, roundles of cheese and kegs of gunpowder just arrived from the powder mills on Senglea. Thomas’s brow furrowed as he beheld the disorganised scene and he stopped a small party of Spanish troops crossing the courtyard to get a better view of the enemy from the keep.

‘You there! Why are all these supplies still left out? Get them into the storerooms at once! Where is your commander?’

One of the sergeants who was with the party pointed towards the keep. ‘Up there, sir. I saw Don Miguel on the tower.’

‘Right.’ Thomas gestured towards the kegs of gunpowder. ‘Start with that before some panicky fool sets the lot off.’