Simon Scarrow - Sword and Scimitar

Richard nodded and dropped his pike as he ran across to the wounded soldier and took the weapon from him. On the other side of the barricade the Turks had begun to surge forward, sensing that the chance to overwhelm the defenders was within their grasp. Richard grasped the handles and hefted the bellows up on to the barricade, resting the nozzle on a flat stone that had been positioned there for the purpose. He pressed the handles together to prime the weapon and then again to pump the liquid out towards the enemy. It flared into a glittering arc as the taper ignited the mixture. Richard aimed directly at the mass of Turks surging towards the middle of the barricade and the fire burst upon them, lighting them up like walking torches that screamed and swirled as they burned to death. With a grim expression he worked the bellows, pivoting them from side to side, spraying fire into the terrified horde. Those at the back stopped advancing over the rubble, staring in fear at the horrific scene in front of them, and then they began to fall back, seeking shelter on the rubble sloping down into the ditch.

Their fear spread from man to man and soon even those who had reached the barricade fell back, until only an officer remained shouting his defiance at the defenders and contempt at his retreating men. He swung a heavy scimitar from side to side across the top of the barricade to drive his opponents back. Then he clambered up and stood, clearly visible to all, and waved his men forward. One of the Spaniards took up an arquebus, crouched down, took aim and coolly shot the Turkish officer under the chin. The ball burst through the top of his turban in a spray of blood and he stood for a moment, still as a statue, then fell back amid the scorched and bloodied bodies of his men on the outside of the barricade.

Thomas saw with relief that they had broken the attack.

‘Get under cover!’ he ordered, waving the men down on either side. ‘Richard, you too.’ He was still standing in clear view behind the bellows.

Richard lowered the weapon and crouched down behind the barricade to pinch out the small flame on the taper and make the bellows safe. If the enemy attacked again, the taper could be quickly relighted from one of the slow fuses used for the arquebuses.

Thomas cupped a hand to his mouth. ‘Sergeants, keep watch on the enemy!’

He made his way to the left of the barricade and picked his way along, counting the casualties and offering words of praise and encouragement to the Spanish soldiers whose grime-streaked faces cracked into grins at having driven off yet another assault and survived. Some had not been so lucky. Of the forty men who had held the position that morning, four were dead and another five wounded, three of whom were still able to bear arms and refused to quit their posts. The others crawled towards the stairs and made their way to the shelter of the infirmary.

When he returned to his place at the centre of the line, Thomas slumped down beside Richard with a weary sigh.

‘Water?’ Richard held out his canteen and Thomas gave him a grateful nod as he took it, removed the stopper and tilted his head back, taking a mouthful and swilling it around his parched mouth before he lowered the canteen and handed it back. He looked up at the clear sky. In a few hours the walls would be baking, with no shade for the men. He would have to ensure that there was plenty of water available to see them through the day. Now that the initial assault had failed, the enemy would take to sniping at the defenders, while their officers attempted to harangue them into forming up for another charge.

It had been several days since he, Richard and Colonel Mas had joined the garrison. In that time he had noticed the growing reluctance of the enemy to renew their attacks after each one had been thrown back. They had taken to sniping, and small rushes at the defences to try and hurl incendiaries in amongst the defenders. The garrison had once numbered eight hundred men. When Thomas had arrived in the fort there was barely half that number and now only three hundred remained. A handful of reinforcements arrived each night from Birgu, and it was clear to the defenders that the Grand Master was husbanding his resources for the struggle to come once St Elmo finally fell to the enemy. It would not be long now, Thomas reflected.

He looked at his son. ‘You should have remained in Birgu.’

Richard shook his head. ‘I didn’t have much choice once I found the document was missing. Someone has discovered more about me, about us, than is healthy. I have failed in my mission and I would not have been safe if I had stayed in Birgu. At least no one is going to come after me here.’ He chuckled drily. ‘The trouble is, if the Turks don’t annihilate us, and by some miracle we are relieved by Don Garcia, then it’s likely that I will fall into the hands of La Valette’s interrogators.’

‘I rather think that is the least of our problems,’ Thomas replied quietly. ‘The Turks have completed the battery covering the harbour. There won’t be any more reinforcements coming from St Angelo.’ He glanced at the soldiers slumped behind the barricade. Many were injured and wore soiled bandages, and their haggard faces spoke eloquently of their exhaustion and resignation to their all but inevitable fate. He turned back to his son and felt a great sadness come over him.

‘I should have escaped with Maria all those years ago and taken her back to England with me, whatever the risk. Then none of us would be here.’

Richard shrugged. ‘It’s too late for all that. Nothing can be changed. There’s no point in blaming yourself, Father.’

The word slipped from his mouth before he realised it and both men turned to each other.

‘I was hoping you would call me that, before the end.’ Thomas patted him affectionately on the arm. ‘Thank you.’

‘I am your son,’ Richard said simply.

Thomas smiled. ‘My son ... It has a good sound to it. I’m proud of you. I know your mother would be too.’ Thomas looked down at the ground between his boots and thought for a moment. ‘What a mess we make of life. We have but a short time in this world and this is the result. Such a waste ... I should have made a better life for us all. I am sorry.’

‘There is no need to apologise,’ Richard said wearily. ‘Besides, if we die as martyrs for the cause, then we are assured a place in paradise, eh?’

Thomas was silent for a moment. ‘Do you really believe in heaven, Richard? In God, our faith, the Bible?’

His son shot him a concerned look. ‘It is dangerous to voice such questions in others’ hearing. I’d keep them to yourself.’

‘We are beyond worrying about such dangers now.’

Richard puffed his cheeks out and thought briefly before he continued. ‘Are you saying that you don’t believe in the Church of Rome?’

‘No. Not the Church of Rome, nor any church or faith. It is all dead to me and has been for years.’

Richard stared at him and shook his head. ‘Then what is the point of this struggle? Why are you prepared to die in the service of the Order?’

‘I am here because I have nothing to live for. Maria is lost to me, and I cannot protect you. All that is left is to fight to prevent the tyranny of another false faith holding sway over the world. Suleiman threatens the world I know, that is reason enough to oppose him. Tell me, Richard. Do you believe in God?’

Richard was silent.

‘You are no fool,’ Thomas went on. ‘Surely you must have wondered why every prayer goes unanswered, why God stays his hand from preventing evil?’ He paused. ‘Have you ever read the Epicurean paradox?’

Richard shook his head.

‘I think it goes something like this:

If God is willing but not able,