"The man is a fox," said Le Mas, with no small admiration. "Little takes place in Messina that escapes his notice. He has a way with men, too, and would surely make a stiff companion in a fight, for he was a
devshirme
, and spent thirteen years in the Sultan's corps of janissaries."
La Valette blinked. "The Lions of Islam," he said.
The janissaries were the most ferocious infantry in the world, the elite of Ottoman arms, the spearhead of their father the Sultan. Their sect was composed entirely of Christian boys, raised and trained-through a fanatical and unforgiving strain of
Bektasi
dervish Islam-to crave death in the name of the Prophet. La Valette looked at Starkey for confirmation.
Starkey rifled his memory for the details of Tannhauser's career. "The Persian conquest, Lake Van, the crushing of the Safavid rebellions, the sack of Nakhichevan." He saw La Valette blink a second time. A precedent had been set. "Tannhauser gained the rank of janitor, or captain, and became a member of the bodyguard of Suleiman's firstborn son."
La Valette said, "Why did he leave the janissaries?"
"I don't know."
"You didn't ask him?"
"He wouldn't give me an answer."
La Valette's expression changed and Starkey sensed that a plot had been born.
La Valette embraced Le Mas by the shoulders. "Fra Pierre, we will talk again soon-of the post of honor."
Le Mas understood he was dismissed and walked to the door.
"Tell me one more thing," said La Valette. "You said Tannhauser had a way with men. How is his way with women?"
"Well, he has an admirable bevy of nubiles working for him." Le Mas colored at his own enthusiasm, for his occasional lapses into debauchery were well known. "Though I hasten to add that they're not for hire. Tannhauser hasn't taken Holy Orders and in his shoes, well, if the man has a taste for women-and good taste, mind-it's not something I'd hold against him."
"Thank you," said La Valette. "I won't."
Le Mas closed the door behind him and La Valette took to his chair and tented his fingers. "Tannhauser. It's not a noble name."
To be considered for entry as a Knight of the Order of Saint John, a man had to prove sixteen quarterings of nobility in his bloodline. It was a concept in which the Grand Master placed great faith.
Starkey said, "Tannhauser is a nom de guerre-borrowed from a German legend, I believe-which he took while serving Alva in the Franco-Spanish wars."
"If Tannhauser spent thirteen years in the Lions of Islam he knows more about our enemy-his tactics, his formations, his moods, his morale-than anyone in our camp. I want him here in Malta-for the siege."
Starkey was taken aback. "Fra Jean, why would he care to join us?"
"Giovanni Castrucco sails for Messina at noon, on the
Couronne
."
"Tannhauser will not be persuaded by Castrucco."
"Quite," said La Valette. "You will go with him. When Castrucco returns, you'll bring this German janissary back to Malta."
"But I'd be gone for five days-I have innumerable duties here-"
"We will survive your absence."
"Tannhauser wouldn't join us if we dragged him here in chains."
"Then devise another way."
"Why is he so important?"
"Perhaps he is not. But even so."
La Valette stood up. He walked back to the map and scanned the terrain that thousands would soon contest with their lives. "This battle for our Holy Religion will not be won or lost by some great stroke," he said. "There will be no brilliant and decisive maneuver, no Achilleus or Hektor, no Samson with the jawbone of an ass. Such tales are constructions of hindsight. There will only be a multitude of smaller strokes, by a multitude of lesser heroes-our men, our women, our children-none of whom will know the final outcome, and few of whom will even live to see it."
For the first time Starkey saw something like dread in La Valette's eyes.
"The flux in God's crucible is infinite in possibility, and in that final outcome only God will know who it was that tipped the balance: be it the knight who died in the breach, or the water boy who slaked his thirst, or the baker who made his bread, or the bee that stung the foeman in the eye. That is how finely the scales of war are weighted. That's why I want Tannhauser. For his knowledge, for his sword, for his love of the Turk or his hatred, either one."
"Forgive me, Fra Jean, but I assure you, Tannhauser will not come."
"Does Lady Carla still plague us with her letters?"
Starkey blinked at this non sequitur and at the triviality of its subject. "The Countess of Penautier? Yes, she still writes-the woman doesn't know the meaning of refusal-but why?"
"Use her as your lever."
"Against Tannhauser?"
"The man likes women," said La Valette. "Let him like this one."
"I've never met the countess," protested Starkey.
"In her youth she possessed a great beauty, which I'm sure the years have done little or nothing to dim."
"That may well be, but at the very least she's a woman of noble birth and Tannhauser is, well, a near barbarian-"
La Valette's expression forestalled all further discussion.
"You will sail on the
Couronne
. You will bring Tannhauser back to Malta."
La Valette took Starkey's arm and walked him to the door.
"Send in the Inquisitor as you leave."
Starkey blinked. "I'm not to be privy to your conference?"
"Ludovico will be faring with you on the
Couronne
." La Valette observed his confusion and essayed a rare smile. "Fra Oliver, know that you are dearly beloved."
In the antechamber outside, Ludovico Ludovici, judge and jurist of the Sacred Congregation of the Inquisition, fingered his rosary with the blameless impassivity of an icon. He returned Starkey's look without expression and for a moment Starkey found himself unable to speak.
Ludovico was in his forties, Starkey's own age, yet the bristles of his Pauline tonsure were crow-dark and had not retreated a fraction from its widow's peak. His forehead was smooth, his face was beardless, and the overall impression of his skull was of a huge stone sculpted by primordial forces. He was long in the torso and broad in the shoulders and he wore the white scapular and black cape of the Order of the Dominicans. His eyes shone like spheres of obsidian and lacked any trace of either menace or warmth. They regarded the fallen world about him, as if they'd regarded it since Adam, with a frankness of perception that excluded the possibility of joy and horror both, and with an extraordinary order of intelligence that sought to breach the inmost core of whomsoever he subjected to their gaze. And behind this dwelt the shadow of a fabulous melancholy-of a regret that evoked some notion of perpetual mourning-as if he'd seen a better world than this one and knew he'd not see it again.
Make me the guardian of the secrets of your soul
, said the fathomless black eyes.
Lay your burdens upon my back and life eternal shall be yours
.
Starkey felt both an urge to confide and an ill-defined anxiety. Ludovico was Pope Pius IV's special legate to the Maltese Inquisition. He traveled a thousand miles a year in search of heresy. Amongst other noted exploits he'd sent Sebastiano Mollio, renowned Professor of Bologna, to the flames of the Campo del Flor. He'd guided Duke Albert of Bavaria in his brutal restoration of the One True Faith. During his cleansing of Piedmont he'd dispatched an entire train of prisoners bearing burning tapers of penitence to the autos-da-fe in Rome. Yet Ludovico's humility was profound, too profound to be an act. Starkey had never seen so much power worn so lightly. Ludovico's function on Malta was to seek out the Lutheran heresy amongst the brethren of the Order of Saint John, yet he'd made no arrests. If anything this inaction had made him all the more feared. Did La Valette want Ludovico safe in Sicily? Or were there other intrigues in play? Starkey realized he'd been staring for an unseemly time.
He bowed and said, "His Excellency, the Grand Master, awaits you."
Ludovico rose to his feet. With a swift movement and a rattle of beads he tied the rosary around his waist. Without a word, he walked past Starkey into the office. The door closed. Starkey's relief was tempered by the thought of two days' voyage in the Dominican's company. He headed for his quarters to prepare for the trip. He did not excel at subterfuge and dishonesty; but in these modern times only a fool confused devotion to God with morality. He loved La Valette. He loved the Religion. In the service of either one-and no matter the cost to his soul-Starkey was prepared to do anything at all.
Tuesday, May 15, 1565
The Villa Saliba-Messina-Sicily
. . . In short, military considerations continue to prevent me from authorizing your passage to the island of Malta. However, I am able to suggest other means by which your most earnest ambition might be realized
.
In the port of Messina is a man called Mattias Tannhauser, whose origins are far too raveled to illuminate here. Suffice to say that he marches to the beat of his own drum. While he is a denizen of the
lower orders, has little respect for the law, and is rumored to be an Atheist or worse, I can warrant he is a man of his word and have no reason to believe he would do you any harm. Neither do I have any reason to believe he will help you. At the same time, I cannot predict the power with which a gentlewoman of your grace and beauty might appeal to such nobler instincts as he may possess
.
I will not deceive you, my lady. Captain Tannhauser's presence on Malta would be to our advantage in the fight against the Grande Turke. To date, owing us no loyalty and being cognizant of the dangers, he has shown no inclination to join us. If you were to persuade him to make the voyage on your behalf, I would be in a position to grant your passage as his escort. The
Couronne
leaves Messina at midnight, tonight. If the most recent intelligence proves accurate, it will be the last Christian ship to beat the Turkish blockade
.
You will find Tannhauser at a tavern, at the southern end of the waterfront, called the Oracle. I can hardly bring myself to recommend that you visit such a sordid establishment in person, but you will likely find him unresponsive to the usual couriers. How you approach him, then, depends upon the urgency with which you wish to press your suit
.
Conscience obliges me to repeat my previous warnings: that a state of war exists upon the island and the danger of death or enslavement for all those there resident during the coming days is grave in the extreme. If I can offer you any further help or counsel, you will find me in Messina, until the
Couronne
sails, at the Priory of the Knights of Saint John of Jerusalem
.
Starkey's handwriting was the most beautiful Carla had ever seen. She wondered how many hours he had spent as a boy perfecting the graceful curves, the elegant transitions between the broad downstrokes and fine upstrokes, the unvaryingly accurate spacing between each letter, word, and line. It was writing as emblem of power. Writing to make a king mark exactly what was said-as indeed kings did, for Starkey drafted the Order's diplomatic correspondence. Carla had never met him. She wondered if he was as polished as his calligraphy, or if he was a dusty, withered monk bent over a desk. She thought of her own boy and wondered if he could read or write at all. And at yet another such reminder of
her failure in her duties as his mother, her stomach clenched with pain, and her desire to return to Malta-and her fear that she'd never do so-climbed a new pitch of urgent intensity.
Carla folded the letter and squeezed it in her hand. She'd been corresponding with Starkey for six weeks. His previous prohibitions of her return had been the replies of a busy man dealing with trivia and making the effort only out of respect for her noble origins and family name. Over the same period, she'd asked many of the sea captains and knights passing through Messina if they'd take her to Malta. She'd been heard with the utmost chivalry, and the occasional promise of action, yet here she remained, watching the rise of the sun from the Villa Saliba.
Grand Master La Valette had decreed that anyone unable to contribute to the island's defense was a "useless mouth." Hundreds of pregnant women, the elderly and infirm, plus an unspoken number of the dwindling Maltese aristocracy, whether infirm or not, had been shipped across the Malta Channel to Sicily. Any native Maltese who could hold a pike or a shovel remained on the island, regardless of age or sex. Carla-in their eyes a feeble noblewoman they would feel obliged to protect-was deadwood. Furthermore, all space on the galleys returning to Grand Harbor was reserved for fighting men, materiel, and food, not for idle ladies with an inexplicable wish to die. Carla despised idleness and certainly did not consider herself feeble. She managed her own modest estate in Aquitaine alone. She was under no man's authority or sway. She and her good companion, Amparo, had ridden across the Langue d'Oc under the protection of nothing more than God's Grace and Carla's wits. The recent Huguenot war had left scars and a modicum of peril in its wake, but they'd reached Marseilles unscathed and shipped for Naples and Sicily without disaster. The fact they'd come so far unaided and unaccompanied had shocked many they had met, and, in retrospect, Carla admitted an impetuous, perhaps even foolhardy, aspect to their journey, but once she'd made the decision the thought that they might not get at least this far had never crossed her mind. For a woman long resolved to dictate her own existence, then, the weeks spent sweltering in Messina had been infuriating. Starkey's letter was her first intimation of hope. She now had potential military value. If she could get this man Tannhauser on the
Couronne
, by midnight, she'd be allowed to travel with him.