Simon Scarrow: Sword and Scimitar

CHAPTER FOUR

The first priority was to deal with the men imprisoned below deck. He turned to the sergeant. ‘You and two others come with me. The rest are to dispose of the bodies. Make sure our men are set aside for a proper burial.’

He and Mendoza made their way over to the grating above the entrance to the main hold. As Thomas approached he could hear muttering from below and a terrified keening that was hurriedly silenced. A bolt fastened the grating in place and Thomas knelt down to draw it back, noting the thoroughness of the corsairs, who chained their rowers to their benches and then locked them into the hold for good measure.

‘Help me with the grating.’

With the sergeant’s help they lifted the grating and slid it on to the deck beside the entrance to the hold. Thomas peered over the edge and winced at the warm blast of the foulest stench he had ever encountered. There was movement below and the clink of chains as limbs stirred. Then he saw faces turning towards the pallid light entering through the hatch. Wild locks of filthy hair and straggly beards hung over their emaciated features. Most were white, but there were darker hues of skin there as well, though it was hard to tell for the filth that covered them. A ladder descended on to the narrow walkway that stretched between the lines of benches running along each side of the galley. He climbed down and saw a figure holding a small whip standing towards the stem, beside the pace keeper still chained next to his drum. Thomas and his men had to bend their heads as they strode aft, under the gaze of glittering eyes on either side.

‘Praise the Lord . . .’ a voice croaked. ‘They’re Christians . . . Christians! Come to set us free!’

His words set off many of his comrades who raised their hands imploringly towards their rescuers. Some simply hunched over the oars and wept, their shoulders wracked by sobs.

The overseer dropped his whip as Thomas approached and clasped his hands together, begging in French, ‘Please, sir . . . Please.’

‘Where is the locking pin?’ Thomas demanded.

The overseer jabbed a finger towards a ring bolt on the deck just beyond the reach of the pace setter. ‘Th-there.’

Thomas brushed him aside. He fought back his nausea at the overpowering stink rising from the bilges. How could any man endure this? he wondered. He reached the ring bolt and saw that the locking pin was just beside it. He took out his dagger and began to work it free. A moment later it fell out of its sheath and then Thomas fed the chain back through the ring bolt and laid it at the foot of the nearest rowing bench. He stared at the faces of the men sitting there.

‘Who amongst you is Christian, if any?’

‘Me!’ The nearest man nodded emphatically. ‘Me, master. I’m from Toulon.’

‘Set him free,’ Thomas ordered.

‘And me!’ said the rower’s neighbour.

‘Liar!’ the first man snapped. ‘You are a Morisco. The corsairs took you from Valencia.’

‘Sergeant, free this Frenchman. The other man stays in chains.’ The Morisco, descended from the Arabs who had once ruled Spain, opened his mouth to protest but then, seeing the implacable expression on Thomas’s face, he closed it and bowed his head over his oar in resignation. Thomas looked round as more voices called out, proclaiming their faith. If all were telling the truth, only a third would be left at the oars, too few to work the passage to Malta. As the tumult of desperate cries rose, he drew a deep breath and bellowed down the length of the galley, ‘SILENCE!’

The rowers, long since cowed by the whip of the overseer, obediently stilled their tongues. Thomas turned to his sergeant. ‘Set the Christians free, and only the Christians. Any man who claims the faith and is found to be a liar will be put to death.’

‘Yes, sir,’ the soldier replied tonelessly.

‘Carry on.’ Thomas could not bear the smell of these creatures and their surroundings any longer. ‘I’ll be on deck.’

‘What about him?’ Mendoza gestured at the overseer who was standing towards the stern, not daring to meet anyone’s gaze as he awaited his fate. Thomas stared at him briefly and noted the short length of whip still in his hand. ‘Him? Let the men you set free deal with him.’

Thomas turned away and strode quickly back down the narrow walkway towards the ladder, fighting the urge to run and escape from this hellish hole as quickly as possible. He climbed on to the deck and hurried across to the upwind bulwark and breathed as deeply as he could to expel every last tendril of the foul air in the hold. Although he had known what went on below the deck of a galley, he had only been below on a handful of occasions. What he had seen had disgusted him, but the men who crewed the Order’s galleys were criminals, pirates and followers of false faiths. As foul as the circumstances were on the Christian galleys, he had never before seen men as pitifully treated as here on the corsairs’ galley. He felt a deep rage as he thought of the enemy, a burning desire to wipe Islam from the face of God’s earth.

A splash close at hand made Thomas look round; some of his men were heaving the bodies of the dead over the side. The corpses had been stripped of their weapons and items of clothing that might fetch a decent price in the markets of Malta. Two more men guarded a handful of wounded prisoners sitting on the deck around the base of the aft mast. As he gazed at them, Thomas felt his heart harden like a cold stone in his breast. He turned away from the bulwark and strode towards them, gesturing to a handful of the other soldiers to follow him. As he reached the prisoners he stopped and stared at them with hatred. There were over twenty of them, most still wearing some armour, empty scabbards hanging from their belts and baldrics. Most had wounds which had hastily been dressed with tom strips of cloth. The wounds were superficial and they would recover, well enough at least to take their places on the galley’s rowing benches.

‘Leave the officers here. Take the rest down to the oars,’ he ordered in a flat tone. His men separated the prisoners, herding most towards the hatch while a handful remained sitting on the deck. Thomas stared at them for a moment before he spoke again. ‘Kill them. The bodies go over the side.’

One of the men who had been guarding the prisoners glanced at his companion before he cleared his throat and responded. ‘Sir? The officers are worth good money.’

Thomas felt a tremor in his hand and clenched it tightly. ‘I gave you an order. Kill them! Do it!’

Footsteps sounded behind him and then Stokely stepped between Thomas and the prisoners. ‘You can’t kill the officers. They are prisoners.’

Thomas swallowed and answered bitterly, ‘They are the enemy. They are Turks, infidels.’

‘They are still God’s creatures,’ Stokely answered, ‘even if they have not yet embraced the true faith. We accepted their surrender. We cannot slaughter them. It would offend any notion of chivalry.’

‘Chivalry?’ Thomas frowned and then smiled. ‘There is no place for it in the war against the Turk. Death is what they deserve.’

‘You can’t—’

Thomas raised a hand to silence him. ‘We’re wasting time. I want the galley under way as soon as possible. First, we get rid of these . . . vermin.’

He drew his sword and before anyone could intervene he ran the blade through the nearest of the corsairs, a youth in a finely embroidered jerkin, too young to grow a beard. The corsair gasped and slumped back on to the deck as a crimson stain quickly spread over the white cotton of his jerkin. He feebly clawed at the rent in the cloth and tried to press at the wound as if to staunch the flow of blood. Thomas stood over him, blinded by all but the desire to kill. He struck again, this time at the youth’s neck, cutting deep into the spine and almost severing the head. Thomas looked round at his men. ‘Now, carry out your orders! Kill them all. You first.’ He pointed at one of the men who had been guarding the prisoners. ‘Do it.’