Read The Last Crusaders: Blood Red Sea Online
Authors: William Napier
The Last Crusaders: Blood Red Sea
‘William Napier tells the bloody and moving story of how its young hero witnesses the collision of two worlds with real style and panache’
Sunday Times
‘A tale jam-packed with epic set pieces, bloody battles, a fair bit of history and the requisite lusty interludes . . . gripping’
Daily Mail
‘Rumbustious and gripping, this story places the reader at the centre of an unforgettable struggle’
Good Book Guide
‘He brings the fifth century back to horrible life and convincingly sets up the major players of the time for the turmoil that will have the world rocking on its axis . . . a winner’
Sunday Sport
‘William Napier’s rattling good yarn . . . tells a great story, complete with smells and sounds, and lots of gore. The battle descriptions are particularly good . . . I couldn’t put it down’
Big Issue
‘Blood-soaked and rip-roaring historical trilogy’
Scotland on Sunday
‘If you think you don’t like historical fiction, you haven’t read William Napier’
The Times
‘Napier has a genius for making the blood-dimmed chaos of ancient history the very stuff of thrilling narrative’
Tom Holland, author of
Rubicon
and
Persian Fire
To Ann and Iona
CRUSADERS
BLOOD RED SEA
William Napier
Since the Dark Ages it had been called the Mediterranean: the sea at the centre of the earth. The Romans had called it Mare Nostrum, Our Sea, and such arrogance was no more than the truth, for it was Rome alone that ruled her
.
Now, in the sixteenth century of the Christian era, the Papacy still called her the Roman Sea, but it was wishful thinking. There was only one great power in the Mediterranean, and it was no Christian power. In its relentless conquests it carried the rayat al-sawda, the black war-banner of Islam. It was the Empire of the Ottoman Turks
. . .
Spring, 1571
A hush fell upon the gilded audience chamber of the Topkapi Palace in the heart of Constantinople. Every head bowed. There came a swish of silken robes over the polished floor, and then a herald declared, ‘Bow knee and head for the Sultan of the Ottomans, Padishah of the Black Sea, the Red Sea and the White, Guardian of the Holy Cities of Islam, Lord of the Lords of this World, son of Suleiman the Lawgiver: Selim.’
But first appeared a tall, lean man in a plain dark robe, striding swiftly, his broad forehead and keen eyes betokening the highest powers of observation and intellect. Behind him waddled a much shorter man in gorgeous golden robes and a huge silk turban, beneath which showed puffy eyes, a round nose and plump, sagging jowls. His feet slapped the marble-tiled floor with a sound like a duck on wet flagstones, then he shuffled over the priceless carpets of Tabriz like a slippered octogenarian.
All eyes followed the commanding figure in the dark robe. His footfall made no more sound than a cat’s. He halted before the Imperial Throne. His plump follower hitched up his skirts, and made his way laboriously up the seven steps to the throne as if ascending Mount Ararat. Thus symbolising his perpetual elevation seven planes higher than the world of mortal men.
A monkey in a tree sat higher, thought Sokollu Mehmet.
At the top, Sultan Selim turned and sank back into the throne in an unregal slump. His doughy complexion shone with sweat and he breathed hard. You could smell the wine on his breath at five paces.
Sheitan, ruler of the seven hells, thought the Grand Vizier, bowing before the panting sultan. Was this truly the sole surviving son of Suleiman
Kanuni
, The Law Giver, whom even the Christians called
The Magnificent?
What in the name of Azrael had gone wrong?
He stood upright again and regarded his Sultan directly, as Ottoman court etiquette expressly forbade. Never in his life had Sokollu dared to look into the eyes of Suleiman the Law Giver. But Selim’s he held steadily, until the Sultan’s own bloodshot, bulging orbs dropped away. Sokollu nodded and stepped back, and Selim took a roll of paper from his inner robe. He unfurled it with pudgy, shaking hands, resting it on the tight little mound of his belly. Sokollu bowed his head to listen to the address along with the rest of the assembled dignitaries. The delivery was hopelessly weak and hesitant, but the meaning strong and clear, as Sokollu knew it would be. He had written every word.
‘It has long been Our Duty to carry the religion of the Prophet to the farthest corners of the earth,’ declared Selim in his reedy, diffident voice. ‘Beneath the benign shelter of a single world empire, an Islamic Caliphate, we are called upon by the Just, the Merciful Himself, to save all primitive peoples and idolaters from the error of their ways. To bring mercy, peace and the heavenly law of Sharia to reign from the mountains and deserts of Asia to the Straits of Gibraltar, and from the heart of Europe to the sands of Africa.’
The court murmured polite assent to this noble plan.
‘Muslim merchants, eager to spread their wealth over the globe, have already carried the word of the Koran with them on their voyages to the farthest east, to the ports of Goa and Jakarta and the Spice Islands. We have even heard that there are records of Chinese voyages a hundred years ago, which discovered a vast new continent in the southern ocean, the antipodes.’
The Lord of the Lords of this World had a sudden attack of coughing, and reached out for a cup. He always drank from a beaker of dark red glass, so that the more orthodox among his courtiers should not see that it was wine rather than water. But everyone knew. The wine-loving Sultan. Selim the Sot.
‘The antipodes,’ he resumed waveringly, eyes scanning the page to find his place again. ‘Er. Ah.’ He coughed once more. ‘The
greatness of the world, and of our task in bringing light to its darkest corners, is a heavy burden of responsibility upon Our Shoulders.
‘And in addition to that, the Truth has many enemies.’
There were angrier murmurs.
‘The Empire of the Persians claims to follow true Islam, although Shia is mere mockery and heresy. The many kingdoms of Mughal India, although its Emperor Akbar claims to be a true Muslim, allow the worst idolatries of Hinduism to flourish, in the name of tolerance. And in the west, most implacably of all, are the Christians. They have conducted brutal Crusades against Islam and its holy places for centuries, they continue to lord it over lands once and forever rightfully Muslim, from Cyprus to Sicily to Spain, and at the forefront of their aggression have ever been the Crusading Order of the Knights of St John, may their name be accursed.
‘The Sultan will not divulge His plans further, for as you know there are spies and deceivers everywhere.’ Selim swallowed at these words, and for one painful moment Sokollu thought he was going to stare around with those bulging hare eyes of his, as if expecting to see a couple of Knights of St John, maybe, standing at the back of the hall in their red surcoats, listening to his every word. But he controlled himself and resumed.
‘Yet the Sultan knows that, in his Grand Vizier and closest advisers, he has the wisest counsellors any ruler could wish for. And so it is with them, his admirals and commanders, that he will discuss further plans. Know that the holy war continues. And that the shame of Malta will soon be avenged.
‘In the name of Allah, the Just, the Merciful, I give you good day.’
Then Selim was helped down from his throne by a bodyguard and shuffled from the chamber.
Sokollu followed close on his heels.
As darkness fell that day, two of the three most powerful men in the Ottoman Empire met to discuss strategy. Selim was not among them.
The absent third was Lala Mustafa Pasha, Commander of Land Forces, currently away planning for the coming Cyprus campaign, much to Sokollu’s satisfaction. Both men were ambitious, ruthless,
immensely talented, and inevitably the bitterest enemies.
Grand Vizier Sokollu Mehmet, supreme intelligence and manipulator behind all the doings of the Sublime Porte, was born into a Bosnian Christian family. Taken as a young child into Ottoman service, he had risen to the top by supreme ability. Though never a military commander in the field, yet he could master any discipline he set his mind to.
With him sat Muezzinzade Ali – Ali, ‘son of the muezzin singer’, born into a humble family in the ancient Ottoman capital of Edirne. Like Sokollu, he too had risen by sheer ability alone. Turkish and Muslim from birth, Muezzinzade was devoted and loyal, with the simplicity of true greatness, and recently appointed
Kapudan Pasha
: Supreme Commander of the Ottoman Fleet. He was of slight, wiry build, yet powerful enough still to draw the compound bow. Many times Muezzinzade had fought in the forefront of battle – and would once more.