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  “I speak some words of it. That is why I say we are lost.”

  “Can you not ask for water? Without it, we shall be dead by dawn.”

  “We shall be dead by dawn,” the captain agreed. “Or soon after.”

  His pessimism was most depressing, but John quickly understood his reluctance to beg for water. When one of the other seamen rashly did so, he was promptly beaten about the head and shoulders with a cane.

  The night drifted slowly by, and while their thirst, hunger and discomfort of their bonds grew more taxing, the wind slowly began to abate. Had they delayed their departure from Galata by only a few hours they might have avoided the worst of the storm, and thus the shipwreck. It seemed as if a malignant fate was haunting their every movement, determined to bring them to destruction.

  This came closer at daybreak, which was heralded by the cry of a muezzin summoning the faithful to prayer. The call was swiftly obeyed by every man in the camp, who knelt facing to the south — the direction of Mecca.

  Now the captives could look around them at the elaborate tents above which green flags floated in the dawn breeze. Each skin hut was large enough to contain several men, but equally capable of being quickly dismantled, and a rapid glance around informed John Hawkwood that this was very much the temporary encampment of a patrol. That the carrack should have been cast away at the sipahis’ very feet was another example of the bad luck that seemed to have been following his family for some time.

  The surrounding country was brown and arid, with nothing better than a few stunted trees to break the horizon, save to the south-west, where the waters of the Sea of Marmara moved restlessly.

  John then studied the Ottoman soldiers who, having finished their devotions, ate and drank with great gusto, ignoring their captives’ misery. Despite his fears and his physical discomfort, John Hawkwood’s practised eye could not help but admire his captors for their sense of martial spirit and their confident demeanour, but also for the quality of their equipment. Each man wore voluminous blue breeches tucked into soft kid boots beneath a long-sleeved white tunic. Their headdress was a round steel helmet with a steel spike to turn aside a blow, and over the tunic they wore a loose chain-mail cuirass which fell to the thighs; the garments beneath were of thick felt, and would prove difficult to penetrate by any but the sharpest sword. The sipahis’ own swords certainly looked as sharp as razors, and were curved; these were soldiers who slashed rather than thrust. They were also armed with lances and with bows and arrows, and in every way bore out the Emperor Constantine’s description of them as being the best light cavalry in the world.

  But there was no evidence of any firearms; so even these fine soldiers would be unable to stand up to cannon fire.

  There was a sudden drumming of hooves as some more men rode into camp, escorting a splendid figure. Like the sipahis, he wore a chain-mail cuirass and a domed steel helmet, but his white tunic was heavily embroidered with cloth of gold, and he carried a horsetail wand with a single knot tied in it.

  “Their pasha,” the captain muttered dolefully.

  The new arrival dismounted and strode across to gaze at them, while his officers stood to either side, grinning and making comments. Their fierce eyes, strong features and curling moustaches gave no indication of the least pity for the plight of the people they had dragged from the beach.

  The pasha was a man of harshly aquiline features, only half concealed by his beard and moustache. He gave an order, and his men strode amongst the prisoners, swinging their canes and whips. Still bound together, and suffering from cramp as well as exhaustion and hunger, there was no possibility of the Christians offering any resistance, and they allowed themselves to be formed into a rough line, whereupon they were stripped of their clothing, the offending cloth being cut away where necessary.

  “By God!” John growled. “What devilry is this?”

  “They but wish to ascertain whether any of us are worth saving,” the captain said.

  To John’s relief the assault did not include his wife, who was quite ignored. But the men’s genitals were now examined by eager fingers. He could not bring himself to look at Anthony, who was clearly as dumbfounded as himself.

  “If you were circumcised,” the captain said, “you would have a chance of survival.”

  “By God!” John muttered again. It had never occurred to him that life or death could depend on a sliver of skin.

  While the examination was going on, the pasha walked slowly up the line of prisoners, and now he arrived in front of the two Hawkwoods, frowning at them as he took in their great height and red hair. Then he turned his head and barked a command.

  The soldiers parted to make way for another man, much older than themselves, who carried a staff rather than a scimitar, and wore a round white felt cap rather than a helmet. His equally white beard reached to his waist.

  The pasha addressed him, and he in turn looked at John and Anthony. Then he spoke in Greek. “Halim Pasha asks you this,” he said to John, his voice high and inclined to quaver. “Are you the man called Hawk, who serves the Byzantines?”

  John hesitated, surprised by the Turkish knowledge of what went on inside the city. Presumably the Ottomans would regard a Byzantine general as even more of an enemy than a Genoese sailor. But according to the captain they would be killed anyway.

  “I am John Hawkwood,” he replied. “But I have left the service of the Emperor.”

  The mufti translated for the pasha, who was stroking his beard.

  “And this is your son?” the mufti asked.

  “And my wife,” John said.

  “She is of no account,” the mufti said.

  “On the contrary,” John said wearily, “she is of every account to me.”

  The mufti gazed at him for several seconds, then nodded, turning to confer with the pasha. The pasha also considered for a few moments, while Anthony found himself holding his breath — was there a chance of reprieve or merely an agonising death?

  Suddenly the pasha gave an order, and the ropes binding the three Hawkwoods to the other sailors were cut. Other bonds were immediately attached to them, and they were led away from the Genoese seamen.

  “Farewell,” the captain called to them.

  “What is to become of us?” John asked.

  “I do not know, my friend. I do not know.”

  John addressed the mufti. “I beg of you, sir, my wife can hardly stand. A cup of water…”

  The mufti gave orders, and to their amazement food and water were immediately produced. The food was very dry, some kind of cereal in which a few pieces of stringy meat were buried, and they had to eat it with their dirty fingers, but it was none the less like a feast to them. None was offered to the Genoese sailors. That would have been a waste.

  For the pasha had remounted his horse, and so had his soldiers. Now the sipahis began to gallop around the group of seamen. Taking their bows from their shoulders and drawing arrows from their quivers, they began firing into the throng of naked men. The first arrow struck home, and a sailor screamed and fell, pulling one of his comrades with him. The victim did not die immediately, but continued to scream and writhe. His fellows insensibly turned away from the horsemen to form a huddle, and a larger target. Uttering cries of pleasure, the horsemen drew further arrows from their quivers and fired into the mass of naked flesh now presented to them. They needed little accuracy; every shaft struck home. Blood spattered and pooled on the ground as the Genoese shrieked their agony and begged for mercy. The huddle soon collapsed to its knees, several already dead, and then subsided further until it was merely a sprawl of dead and dying humanity. And still the sipahis fired, until there was no movement at all.

  The Hawkwoods watched the destruction of their companions in horror, Anthony vainly tugging at the ropes on his wrists.

  “My God, but what manner of men are these?” he gasped.

  “They are certainly devils,” John Hawkwood said in awe.

  But superb horsemen and
superb archers as well, he realised. The massacre of the Genoese had taken only a few minutes, so accurate was their shooting. Now the sipahis had dismounted and were stamping about amongst the dead to reclaim their arrows.

  “Then what is to become of us?” Anthony asked.

  “As that poor captain said, who knows? You’ll die like a man when the time comes, Anthony.”

  When the time comes, Anthony thought. Alas, I am but nineteen years old. But, then, William was only twenty-one. And he would have been dying about the same time as these sailors…

  But perhaps they had been the lucky ones. For now the sipahis were mounted again, each with a full quiver again, and whips were snatching at the prisoners’ shoulders as the end of the rope binding them was tied to the saddle of one of the horsemen. The pasha was soon leading his men away from the camp and over the stony countryside — and behind him the Hawkwoods stumbled, naked and bleeding.

  *

  In the heat and misery Anthony lost track of time. The sun burned his shoulders, arms and back; the stones cut his feet, his knees and belly when he tripped and fell, dragged onwards by the relentless movement of the sipahi’s horse, trying desperately to protect his genitals from permanent injury.

  But he worried more for his parents, who were so much older than he. Mary kept stumbling also, but always jerked back to her feet by the cruel rope dragging on her wrists, while her clothes were slowly torn to ribbons. Her head drooped and he knew she was all but unconscious, even though she kept moving.

  John Hawkwood’s head also drooped, but Anthony sensed it was more from despair and horror than from exhaustion.

  The day grew hotter, until at last the cavalcade stopped in the shade of a clump of trees. Once again the Hawkwoods were fed and given more water to drink; their tongues were so swollen it was painful to swallow.

  “At least they seemed determined to keep us alive,” Anthony ventured.

  “Where are you taking us?” John asked the mufti when at last the holy lawyer came to inspect them.

  “To the Emir,” the mufti replied curtly.

  “But the Emir is dead,” John said without thinking.

  “The Emir is never dead,” the mufti told him. “He is eager for information concerning Constantinople. You will please him if you talk straight to him.”

  “And will he spare our lives?”

  “The Emir obeys the law,” the mufti said enigmatically, and walked away.

  “How far away, do you think, is this Emir?” Anthony asked.

  “God knows, boy.” But John was thinking. News of Murad’s death had arrived in Constantinople only a few days ago. But already it appeared that there was a new Emir, and already he was close to the Bosphorus. Something remarkable must have happened within the Ottoman enclaves, and very suddenly.

  *

  All afternoon the sun remained breath-searingly hot, but the country through which they stumbled improved: from stones and dust to cultivated fields; then trees, mainly cypresses, became more common. Men were working in the fields, together with veiled women, who were totally concealed behind their haiks and yashmaks so that only their foreheads, eyes and feet were visible. They ceased their labour to stare at the two big naked white men, and clapped their hands with pleasure.

  But the Hawkwoods were past caring.

  *

  Dusk brought the cavalcade to the castle of Anatolia-Hissar, which the prisoners had first beheld on their voyage up the Bosphorus two and a half years earlier, and from where the lights of Constantinople could clearly be seen scarcely a mile away across the strait. So, Anthony thought, they were going to die within sight of that accursed city after all.

  But here there was nothing less than an army. For, stretching away from the castle on the landward side, could be made out, even in the darkness, an immense encampment of tents glowing with light within and without, as the Ottoman troops cooked their evening meal.

  The castle itself, with its inner and outer walls, its crenellations, dry moat, keep, high towers, approach ramps which could be commanded by a handful of men, and its portcullis in the gateway, was clearly modelled on those built by the crusaders in the Holy Land three centuries before, many of which, John Hawkwood knew, were still standing. He found the design fascinating, as indicating that, far from being a savage horde from Central Asia, as they were generally regarded by the Byzantines, the Ottomans were clearly willing to learn from their enemies.

  By the time they arrived before the open gates, even the two men could hardly stand. Mary had collapsed more than an hour earlier, and had been since carried by her husband, a double burden because of the rope constantly biting into his wrists. Now he and Anthony were cut free of her, and she was left to lie in the courtyard of the castle, while they were driven forward by the whips of their captors. Even in their distraught condition, they could not help but look right and left at the men who crowded forward to peer at them. These were garishly uniformed in dark blue cloaks over red tunics; their pantaloons were red, and over them they wore heavily embroidered white skirts. Their caps were yellow with white horsehair plumes. Their appearance might even have seemed effeminate, but both Hawkwoods knew that they were now in the presence of the most feared soldiers in the world: the Ottoman Janissaries.

  Given some water to drink, they were then thrust up stone steps and into a large chamber on the first floor of the castle. Here were drapes and carpets of the richest design and material, luxuriously soft divans and low tables decorated with inlaid designs. The cool splendour of the apartment left the Hawkwoods breathless, even as they realised that their true ordeal might be only beginning.

  For here, too, were a good score of men staring at the two naked, dust-covered, sun-burned and bloodstained captives. John and Anthony had been thrust through the doorway with such force that they fell to the floor, and were for some moments unable to regain their feet. But their guards were also prostrating themselves before the men who sat at the far end of the room.

  Slowly Anthony raised his head, and his eyes met those of the man seated on the divan exactly opposite him. He was somewhat old — older than Father, Anthony thought — but dressed with extravagant richness, his green tunic laced with gold and his pantaloons clearly made of silk.

  Their captor, Halim Pasha, was now kneeling beside this resplendent individual, whom Anthony assumed had to be the new Emir, speaking very rapidly to him. The man’s gaze drifted over the pair of them. His eyes were black, deep and fathomless, his expression almost mild. Was this truly the lord of all the Ottomans?

  Anthony endeavoured to look away, and his gaze moved upwards. High on the wall of the chamber there was a gallery, but entirely closed off from the lower floor by an intricate trelliswork screen through which anyone standing there could look down into the room without being seen.

  And someone did stand there, he was certain. He caught the merest flutter of material as it pressed too close to the trellis.

  Halim Pasha had now finished his explanation, and was bending low. Anthony looked past the Emir to the men around him. Those seated on the divans to either side were imams and muftis, he estimated; their dress resembled that of the mufti who had first interrogated them. Behind these were grouped several soldiers, clearly of high rank; their tunics were laced with gold thread and their helmets were worked with the most intricate designs.

  The man in the green tunic spoke up in Greek. “You are the one called Hawk?”

  Anthony swallowed, and he half-turned his head.

  “I am Hawkwood,” John said, rising to his feet boldly.

  The man looked at him in surprise, and Anthony suppressed a shiver. But John Hawkwood remained standing, foursquare to the Ottoman.

  The lips parted in a gentle smile. “You are a fighting man, Hawk, so I have heard. Now I see this with my own eyes. Why were you leaving Constantinople?”

  John Hawkwood hesitated only briefly. “I have been dismissed.”

  The man raised his eyebrows. “Constantine is so rich
in soldiers?”

  “There was a quarrel, between myself and the Grand Duke Notaras.”

  “I have heard of him,” the man said.

  “He has executed my brother, and ravished my sister,” Anthony blurted, instinctively feeling that they might have discovered an ally here.

  The man gazed at them for several seconds more. “Then he is indeed your enemy,” he remarked. “You are from the West. Are you Franks?”

  “We are English, my lord.”

  “English?” interrupted a quiet voice, and both the Hawkwoods turned their heads sharply. Anthony found himself looking at a man seated on a divan to the left of the room, so far removed from their interrogator and his counsellors as to have escaped notice to this moment. He was a distinctly handsome man, of no more than middle height, but with a long aquiline nose which overhung thick red lips partly hidden by drooping moustaches, while his thrusting chin was also partly concealed by the merest down of a beard. The most amazing thing about this man, Anthony realised, was his obvious youth; he did not think there was much difference in their ages. He wore the plainest of white silk robes, and a plain white cap on his head; but for the silk, he could have been another mufti.

  And this boy had interrupted the Emir? Or had Anthony entirely mistaken the situation from the start? And as the older man in green now remained silent, he realised that he was at last truly looking at the new ruler of the Ottoman Turks.

  The young Emir’s right hand drooped beside the divan on which he sat; his horsehair switch contained five knots. This he now flicked as he stood, and the pasha who had first interrogated the Hawkwoods rose from the central divan and stood behind it, allowing his youthful master to take his place.

  The Emir seated himself before them and spoke, to Anthony’s amazement, in Latin. “The English are famous warriors. You know, of course, of Great Harry?”

  John Hawkwood had also realised the young man’s identity. Now his chest swelled. “I served under Great Harry, my lord, at Agincourt.”

  “Agincourt,” the Emir said. “I have heard much of this. And now you stand before me — that is a pleasure. But if you are English, you must be of the Roman persuasion.”