Ludovico had seen Tannhauser on the night of his arrival in the Borgo. That the German was still alive didn't alarm him. The Grand Master valued his military skills and in this respect Ludovico was as grateful as the next man for all the help they could get. But why had the man returned at such risk and to such a high likelihood of death? Tannhauser was sexually embroiled with the Spanish girl, Amparo. Carla had claimed she and he intended to marry. It was an odd arrangement, yet by no means without precedent, and in love all things were possible. Ludovico's own return to Malta had at least in part been influenced by the knowledge that Carla was here. Yet surely the barbarous German was beyond such chivalry. Tannhauser might fancy he could save the women should the Turks overwhelm them. Or he might plan to take them away, out of the Borgo. How this might be possible, Ludovico couldn't imagine, but he didn't underestimate the German's guile. He'd seen, too, the way that Tannhauser had taken both women to his breast, and how they'd sobbed with relief to see his face.
The day now ending was a holy day, the feast of the Assumption of the Blessed Virgin Mary into Heaven. Its celebration comforted the townsfolk,
not least because so many had joined Her and so many more expected to do so. A chaplain from Valencia, with the help of some
tercios
and a boy to play the role of
Nuestra Señora
, had crudely staged a mystery play, which portrayed the death of the Virgin and-after a struggle between the apostles and the Jews for Her mortal remains-the transportation of Her soul to the Gates of Paradise on the wings of five angels. There She was crowned Queen of Heaven, to a fanfare of bells, trumpets, and firecrackers. That grizzled Spanish soldiers played the angels did nothing to diminish the awe and enjoyment of the crowd. This peasant devotional, of which he'd seen many, would've had little effect on Ludovico had not Carla provided a musical accompaniment on her viola da gamba. Carla had played with extravagant passion and had transformed the primitive ritual into something he would never forget.
Ludovico rested his arms on the stones of the ramparts and his head on his arms. He was exhausted. So was every man in the garrison, except perhaps La Valette. Physical fatigue was natural; Ludovico had courted it for years. But he'd found the mechanisms of his brain slowing too and this for him was something new. Thoughts came with difficulty and proved banal when they arrived. He went about his recruitment of political allies, within the Religion, with the enthusiasm of a man consulting the surgeon for the lancing of a boil. He slept poorly. Despair lurked about the darker labyrinths of his mind. Where his wit had always skipped, it now crawled. He could have put all this down to war, for many were affected in this fashion, but he was victim to a much more potent malady. He ruminated helplessly on Carla. His yearning for her ate at his spirit. Even his appetite for prayer was dulled and the solace it provided thin. Her sublime performance in the mystery play had triggered his present melancholy. He missed the music she and her Spaniard had played down by the rocks. He'd gone to listen to them every night and their harmonies had transported him and he'd read into Carla's performance a poem of love. So extreme-so contemptible-was his folly that, at moments, he'd allowed himself to imagine that she played for him.
Despite such absurdities, discipline had kept his passion-and his presence-invisible to Carla. Invisible to all but Anacleto. Ludovico was no expert in the field of love but knew that it was the ultimate realm of intrigue, the most intricate of human games. Like any expert in one realm, he recognized his weaknesses in those in which he had scant experience.
Logic and instinct both assured him that he wouldn't win Carla while the siege endured. He would have to wait on Peace. The love poem of her music had, for a while, given him strength: the strength to endure, to fight, to husband the fire of his own love into a glowing bed of inextinguishable coals, rather than a fiery blaze. Then Tannhauser had returned, and she'd embraced him by the rocks, and a great draft of rage and pain had blown through his heart, for he'd known that in fact she'd played for him.
Carla played still, he'd been told, but now at the Auberge of England, and still for Tannhauser. For him and his criminal companions. Ludovico raised his face and stood tall and turned away from the vacant battlefield.
"Anacleto," he said.
Anacleto turned at once. His face in the moonlight seemed sculpted from ivory. Ludovico's association with the Spaniard was the closest and most lasting of his life. They'd shared a thousand roadside camps. Together they'd watched thousands die, in the Waldensian purges. Here, on the ramparts of Saint Michel, they'd fought shoulder to shoulder. Their relationship endured because it was without perceptible warmth. It was untrammeled by sentiment and was therefore free of lies. In a world of ceaseless perfidy, Anacleto's fealty was precious. Ludovico loved him. Like a son. Yet now Ludovico knew that he had his own son. Orlandu. The boy was alive, among Moslem devils. Tannhauser had usurped that role too. Ludovico counseled himself to patience. In time he would reclaim son and mother both.
"You have known love," said Ludovico.
Anacleto had stabbed his father and strangled his mother. His sister, Filomena, had been hanged for the crime of incest. The lands to which he'd been heir had been confiscated. Before Ludovico had found him, he'd been put to the torture by the zealous and still had refused to repent. Anacleto nodded, his eyes wary.
"It cost you a great deal," Ludovico went on.
Anacleto looked at him for some time. He had as true a heart as any Ludovico had known and he was moved by the turbulence in his eyes.
Anacleto said, "To not have known it would have cost me more."
Ludovico understood. He wished his own courage had been as great. He nodded.
"And Filomena and I will meet again," said Anacleto. "Be it in Heaven or the Whirlwind of Lovers."
That Anacleto would endure Hell for his passion, Ludovico understood too. He said, "You have my assurance it shall be the former. The Church has forgiven you your sins, as it belatedly forgave Filomena's, and Christ is all-merciful."
As if reading his thoughts, Anacleto said, "Do you want me to kill the German?"
Ludovico's mood suddenly lifted. The younger man's fortitude had stirred his own. He'd mope like a girl no more. He smiled. "You're a pillar to my strength," said Ludovico. "To answer your question, no. The time is not right. And Tannhauser may yet serve us."
"How so?" asked Anacleto.
Ludovico kept his own counsel. "God will answer that question in good time."
Saturday, August 18, 1565
Bastion of Germany-The Tub-Bastion of Castile
Of the many trials and riddles that had vexed him since his return, one had preoccupied Tannhauser above all others: namely, how to get back out again-with Carla, Amparo, and Bors in tow. His pleasure in being reunited with his companions would be short-lived if their destination, as seemed likely, were a mass grave. Yet a thing does not come about just because one ardently desires it, and even a man as intrepid as he could find himself victim to circumstance.
The mild euphoria that had attended his return had been banished by the state of enfeeblement which the ague had bequeathed him, and which had been revived with a vengeance by the rigors of his journey from Mdina. To provide acceptable accommodation, Bors had evicted several injured troopers from Starkey's rooms, and Tannhauser had set himself to eating well, to reading the works of Roger Bacon, of which Starkey had a fine edition in Italian, and-armed against the bombardment with beeswax earplugs-to sleeping as much as possible during daylight. This enlightened and restorative program had been interrupted by calls to a series of tedious conferences with Grand Master La Valette.
These were held at La Valette's headquarters, which had been relocated
from the fastness of Sant'Angelo to the town's central piazza. Although this had been widely interpreted as a gesture of camaraderie with the ravaged population, it soon became clear to Tannhauser that La Valette simply wanted to be closer to the action. Almost alone of the entire garrison his vitality was undiminished-if anything he looked like he'd shed ten years-and he subjected Tannhauser to long discussions about the Turkish losses, their morale, supplies of ammunition and provender, the condition of their cannon, the techniques of the Mameluke engineers at that very moment burrowing mines toward the city walls, and Mustafa's tactical intentions. These last seemed fairly clear to Tannhauser: Mustafa would continue to fling shot and bodies at the walls until either he ran out of both or the walls came down. The dispatches that Gullu Cakie had carried included a letter from Garcia de Toledo in Sicily. In it Toledo promised to send ten thousand men by the end of August, but since a similar promise concerning the end of June remained unfulfilled, neither La Valette nor anyone else believed a word of it.
"Toledo's prestige would survive the loss of Malta," said La Valette, "but not the loss of Spain's Mediterranean fleet." He added, without discernible regret, "We are alone."
On the twelfth of August La Valette had revealed to the public the papal bull promulgated for their benefit by His Holiness Pius IV. This document assured one and all of forgiveness of their sins and immediate transit to Paradise should they die in this Holy War. The vellum was on display in San Lorenzo, where the faithful could stare in wonder at the gorgeous Latin script and the silk-veiled red wax seal with its imprint of the Fisherman's Ring. The results had been quite remarkable, but Tannhauser didn't intend to be buried in this mausoleum with the faithful.
He could think of no good reason why the boat he'd stolen and concealed at the hamlet of Zonra two months ago should not still be where he'd left it. The problem lay in reaching it. The circle of Turkish steel around the enceinte was tighter than he'd foreseen. He still hadn't worked out how to get through the Kalkara Gate, and no other route was feasible. A guard was usually on duty at the inner blockhouse; a night watchman stood on the bastions of England and Germany high above; and though his willingness to serve the Religion was reaching its limit, he didn't want to leave the wicket gate open to the Turks when they left. These conundrums he hoped to solve by the wane of the moon.
Bors alone was privy to these affairs. Tannhauser was by no means certain that Carla would be willing to leave at all. She was devoted to her work. There was no trade more compelling than that of heroism-not even debauchery-and Carla had proved herself heroic. Many regarded her as not far short of a saint. They lit candles to her deliverance in the church of the Annunciation and blessed her when she passed in the street and kissed the hem of her dress. Knights pledged their lives to her protection. Men without number attributed their survival to her care; even more had passed into the hereafter with lighter hearts and gentled minds.
Tannhauser had seen these things with his own eyes and they had done little to diminish his regard for her or to leaven his own yearning. The other day Father Lazaro had sought him out to thank him for introducing her, and had made a rueful joke at the expense of his own initial reluctance to employ her. But the joke might fall on Tannhauser too. Heroism and saintliness led all too easily to martyrdom; and neither her death nor his own played a part in his plans.
Time would tell.
Amparo, he was sure, would agree to go. As far as he could tell she maintained the indifference of a holy fool to the chaos around her. She'd taken him to the stables to visit Buraq, who was in finer fettle than he could have hoped, and who threw such a fit of equine happiness on their arrival that the other war-frayed beasts almost staged a riot. Buraq would not be leaving with them. With luck a Turkish general would claim him and he'd live like a king. Perhaps even Abbas. Leaving Malta was an irksome business. There was no sense in alerting either woman before it was necessary.
He often dwelt on Orlandu. The boy had lodged himself deep in Tannhauser's heart. Yet Orlandu enjoyed a safer haven than any of them here, and that was a source of contentment. Nicodemus, fine fellow and excellent cook though he was, would have to take his chances with the garrison.
"A posset of brandy and opium," said Bors, as they handed over the watch on the Kalkara Gate. "That would give the blockhouse sentry a fine night's sleep."
"I don't know how to extract the quintessence of opium and bind it to a tincture," said Tannhauser. "Petrus Grubenius went to the stake before
he could teach me the method, which is intricate. But brandy in the posset and the opium in a cake-a honey cake, say-would give as good a result. If we feed him such delicacies every second night, but without the poppy, he won't suspect when the right moment comes."
Bors said, with callous curiosity, "I wonder if they'll hang the fellow for it."
For a moment Tannhauser wondered if he were the one deranged, if his godlessness, his contempt for mindless sacrifice and blind loyalty both, his determination to care only for those he cared about, and by whatever treacherous and sordid means necessary, were not indeed as wicked as they sometimes seemed. It was not a form of nobility anyone hereabouts would easily recognize.
He said, "It's a queer thing to be the Devil's man, when all else about are for God."
Bors said, "I've told you many times but you never listen: philosophy is bad for your health. But this talk of cakes has whetted my hunger. Let's to breakfast."
Along the bastion of Germany they passed two Scandinavian brethren from the last Baltic priory to survive Lutheranism. Bors waved cheerily. Neither waved back.