Authors: Martin Archer
Tags: #Historical Fiction
But what’s even more interesting is why the local prince would let the Roman priests do this. There is a lesson to be learned here but I’m not sure what it is. I wish Thomas was here to help me make inquiries and decide whether or not it is wise to carry refugees.
“But why would the local prince let the burning happen, let alone conduct it at the request of the Romans?”
That’s the question I ask the merchants the next morning when the market reopens; every one of them offers a different answer.
What’s so strange is not that they don’t know the answer to my question; it’s that they don’t seem to care. Or perhaps they are too afraid to share their real thoughts.
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A number of Roman priests are waiting on the dock when Helen and I and my rather substantial number of guards return from the market. So are a large number of refugees seeking passage and men seeking employment
. We took a lot of guards with us when we went to the market. This places feels like it’s about to burst.
The priests are Templars. I can tell because their robes have Templar crosses and are filthy with years of spilled food and unwashed shite. And they are pushy as Templars always are, even worse than the Hospitallers aren’t they? Someone must have told them that I’m in charge and will be back shortly.
It’s time to play the role Thomas suggested for us both.
A tall hawk faced priest addresses me in Old French – and is surprised when I reply in Latin; and even more surprised with what I say.
“You there, sailor. Who are you and why are you here with these ships?”
“Who are you to ask, Priest? And why do you ask since you’ve already spoken to my men and know who I am? Surely the Pope did not send a Templar priest with a poor memory to assist me.”
“Assist you. What do you mean assist you?”
Good. He’s surprised.
I didn’t answer. I just stood and looked him over for a long moment. Then I asked my own question.
“Who are you priest and why are you here in Cagliari and on this dock?”
You’re here to burn people to get control of their lands aren’t you?
“I am Father Antonio of San Marino, a Templar from Sicily and soon to be archbishop of Sardeenia. These are my brothers.”
“Greetings to you Father Anthony.”
Ah, being almost the archbishop means you or the Templars are just now buying the position, probably they’ve sent in the required coins and have not yet received the official proclamation from Rome.
“I am William, the Earl of Cornwall. I’m stopping here on my way to the Holy Land at the request of Pope Innocent himself – to carry Orthodox refugees away from Sardeenia so as to weaken their influence on the local people and increase the revenues they send to His Holiness.”
Such ox shit. But he’ll never know if it’s true, will he?
Mentioning the Holy Father does the trick. A somewhat subdued Father Anthony and I then nod our heads to acknowledge each other.
“Please let me know if there is any way I may be of assistance to you,” I say pleasantly with the most winning smile I can muster. “I will be sure to mention our encounter to His Holiness when I send my next tithe and report.”
I wonder why they came to see me? It certainly wasn’t to introduce themselves - to find out my intentions and take my measure probably.
“Are you sending coins to the Pope?” Harold asks incredulously as the priests turn and stalk away?
“Of course not, are you daft?”
Chapter Five
Cagliari is a foul and dangerous place. The city’s crowded streets are even dirtier and less safe than London’s. So it’s little wonder that people want to leave and large numbers of them are coming down to the dock to see if we will give them employment or carry them away as passengers.
Their anxiety to leave sounds encouraging - carrying refugees is what we do to enrich ourselves.
But why aren’t they leaving on fishing boats or the other ships in the harbor? Is it fear of Pirates or what?
“Harold, I would appreciate it if you and Peter would talk to the people who come to the dock seeking positions or passage – see if any of them are willing to pay ten gold bezants or the equivalent for passage to Constantinople or Antioch or five to Cyprus. We’ll leave a galley here to carry them if there are enough of them who will pay. They’ll have to help row, of course.”
“Oh, and Harold, please ask everyone who wants to leave why they have not gone out on one of the fishing boats or other ships that have called in here. Also ask them where else they’d be willing to pay to go. And one more thing – tell the sergeants to keep their men on the galleys as much as possible and to stay away from the priests; this place is becoming too dangerous for shore leaves.”
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Harold and Henry and I breathe sighs of relief when our cog enters the harbor two days later. It has a Marine company of sixty archers we’ll need for the next leg of our voyage and something in its cargo hold that is important to our immediate plans – bales and bales of additional arrows with iron tips. It’s the last of our ships to arrive. Unfavorable winds kept it away for days.
Surprisingly enough, the cog didn’t run into any pirates even though it was traveling alone. Lucky for them, the pirates I mean; the cog was carrying sixty archers and trolling for pirate galleys in addition to carrying our cargo.
By the time the cog arrives I know that Cagliari and its market are best seen from afar. The place is a tinder box ready to burst into flames; already two of our men have been killed walking in the dark and filthy alleys near the quarter where most of the taverns and prostitutes are located.
We need every man and we certainly don’t want to be caught up in some kind of religious fighting and chaos that delays our departure. Accordingly, Harold orders our men not to leave the dock area and Henry stations some of our steadiest men near the gate in the city wall to stop them from entering the city.
And, of course, a few of them ignore the order and leave the dock area for one reason or another; they’ll be stranded and good luck to them when we leave without them.
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Fourteen galleys will be sailing with me when we leave – which will be as soon as the time and weather are right for the next leg of our voyage. We had fifteen galleys but one left yesterday for Cyprus with a full load of refugees at the oars. It’s bound for Cyprus and Constantinople and Harold’s galley has a new chest of coins.
Most of the departed galley’s sixty or so archers were transferred to the other galleys to make room for more refugees. The half dozen or so longbow-equipped Marine archers who remain on board should be sufficient to see off any pirates – they are under a capable Marine sergeant, an archer who has been trained in organizing a galley’s defense using its desperate passengers and the swords and modified Swiss pikes our galleys always carry for our sailors and passengers to use.
These days the pirates rarely attack war galleys, and particularly English galleys with archers and rowers who can join the fight because they aren’t chained slaves. Indeed, if they aren’t facing a large number of pirate ships our galleys are more like to see a couple of pirate galleys as potential prizes and go after them rather than considering themselves victims and trying to escape.
Phillip’s experience is a good example. Last year he was carrying refugees from Acre to Cyprus when he came upon a fleet of a dozen or more pirate galleys. He continued towards them and passed through the entire pirate fleet with his archers raining a steady stream of death on everyone they could reach.
They scattered to get out of his way although to be fair he had passengers with swords crouched all along the deck railings to cut any grappling lines.
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While we wait for the right time and weather to sail the dock is a beehive of activity. Our men are no longer allowed to go into the city so the city comes to them - stalls for everything from women and strong drinks to cooked foods and clothes spring up almost instantly along the dock and the beach area next to it. It only takes an hour or so after the word goes out that our men are no longer able to enter the city.
Similarly stripped of archers is our cog. It will remain anchored in the harbor until the two galleys which have boarded its archers return them. The archers coming off the cog bring its entire cargo of arrow bales with them.
One of the galleys the cog’s archers and arrow bales join is Archie’s, the one on which Peter and I will be temporarily sailing. Harold and William will on other galleys. Our three galleys will each lead one of our attack groups.
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It’s just after dawn on a warm Wednesday morning, June 9th, in the year of our lord 1195. The stalls along the dock are deserted as they have been ever since our galleys and the cog moved away from the dock yesterday afternoon to spend the night at anchor in the harbor. The sky is clear and it’s time to go.
“Run the flag up to call the captains,” I order Harold.
Within minutes dinghies are pushing off from the galleys floating around Harold’s galley and rowing over to us. I shake hands and enthusiastically greet each of the sergeants as they come aboard. It doesn’t take long before the various sergeant captains are leaning against the deck rail or sitting on the deck in front of me with their legs crossed.
They’re all obviously excited and trying not to show it.
And so am I for that matter.
They know something’s up – and they’re right.
The sergeant captains cheer and clap when I announce our destination and the plan – and then again when I announce the prize money for each prize that reaches Cyprus and how it will be divided among the captains, sergeants, and men.
“We’re going to Tunis - and then we’ll go on to Malta to reorganize and reassign our men depending on the prizes that reach Cyprus. Most of our galleys and all our prizes will head for Cyprus in one great armada after their crews are reorganized and reassigned at Malta; a few will return here first in order to return the cog’s archers to the cog so it can again sail out again as a pirate taker.”
Our captains are experienced raiders. Every captain listening to the plan has been on at least three of our major cutting out expeditions into a big Islamic port and many on all four. The last time we went into Tunis it was with five galley and two or three hundred partially trained men; this time we’re going in with fourteen galleys, a thousand archers, and dozens of prize crews for the galleys and sailing ships we hope to take as prizes.
This, I tell them, is not just a cutting out expedition to cut out a few Moorish galleys as prizes and run off with them as we’ve done in the past. This time we’re going to try to take everything that floats - and even take the city if we can.
And this time everyone will share in the prize money according to his rank - because some of our sailors and Marine archers have been sent away to carry refugees and others will be fighting in defensive positions and not directly involved in the taking of prizes.
It takes several hours for Harold, Henry, and I to lay out the details of our plan and answer the inevitable questions. Spirits are high and the sergeant captains enthusiastic by the time they return to their galleys to inform their men.
From the sound of cheers that periodically come over the various galleys around us it would seem the sergeants and men like what they hear from their captains.
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We row out of the harbor and sail closely together all afternoon and the moonlit night that follows.
So close that there are several collisions causing minor damage and many near misses
.
Late the next morning our tightly grouped armada of galleys reaches the inlet we are seeking near the entrance to the Tunis harbor. That’s where our galleys split up into three separate smaller armadas. Harold and I shake hands and then I move to take command of our armada when Jeffrey’s galley comes alongside so we can climb on board. Helen comes with us.
I remember what happened to Richard’s woman; I’m not leaving her with anyone except Thomas
From his galley Harold and his second, Archie the miller who is a sergeant captain himself, will command one of our three armadas. Theirs’ is the one with five galleys that will try to take as many as possible of the Tunisian ships floating in the harbor.
Harold’s is the master sergeant of all our sailors so poor Archie’s been hovering in his shadow ever since we left England. Jeffrey’s in the same boat with me on board.
Three hours later and the wind is difficult but not impossible for taking sailing cogs out of the Tunis harbor. After everyone takes a last piss, wolfs down a loaf of the bread that was baked before we left Cagliari, and gets a mouthful of wine squirted from a wine skin - then we come through the entrance to the Tunis harbor with the rowing drum of every galley beating a fast and steady beat and two men at every oar.