The Simurgh and the Nightingale (Part 14)

Chapter 24 

Venice. 10th December 1634

The night was unusually mild for early December and the breeze coming through some of the half-open windows was not unduly cold. It was strong enough however to occasionally prise apart the heavy winter drapes allowing the sound of laughter and music to escape and drift from the first floor salon down to the waiting boatmen huddled around a charcoal brazier on the quay-side below. Inside the gaming room of the San Traveso casini, a number of cardgames were in progress with men and women darting from table to table. All were dressed in the finest silks, the women’s dresses particularly flimsy given the time of year. Anonymity was ensured with the fact that everybody was wearing their most elaborate masks. The atmosphere was heady and sparkled with the risks of the night.

“Signor Mocenigo do you enjoy the game of Basseta ?”

The tall dark haired wig-less man with a small black velvet mask covering his eyes turned to face a slim-shouldered woman. She had huge hennaed tresses of hair falling down across those shoulders to partially conceal full protruding breasts that were only just contained by the light silk dress she wore. Lifting his gaze from her breasts, deliberately slowly, he noted the fine jaw line and the flirting eyes framed by a jewel encrusted leopard face mask. She let out a purring noise as their eyes met.

“I enjoy a gamble, Madam, however you have me at a disadvantage. How did you know my name?”

She moved closer to whisper in his ear and at the same time lightly and quickly traced the old duelling scar that stretched across the lobe with her tongue. The hairs at the back of his neck bristled and he bent slightly, to be met by the rising aroma of her jasmine- scented perfume which drew him ever downwards to the welcome of her bosom. “The doorman could not resist my charms. I knew that you came here and asked him to point you out.”

Pietro Mocenigo was reluctant to break off his downward spiral. “Of that I have no doubt but you still have me at a disadvantage. Whom do I have the pleasure of addressing?”

She ignored the question by pretending to be interested in the current deal of cards. The game over she turned taking Pietro’s arm. Behind them rose the murmurs of disappointment as the fat banker raked in his profits at one side of the table. She led him to a darkened corner of the room. “How risky a zuogar are you prepared to take Seignor Mocenigo?”

Pietro brushed the back of his hand across her upper bodice as he stretched to pick up a glass of wine. He was pleased to see that her nipples became instantly erect. He held her unwavering gaze. “It depends on the game, Madam, that we are playing.”

She used the rim of her own glass to push up one of the erect nipples further. Taking his arm again she directed him out of the salon. “I have taken a room here. My own private ridotto as it were. You call the game.”

Pietro threw a quick glance back at the friends he had come with. They were fully occupied in their own pursuits and did not notice him leave the gaming room and follow the leopard woman up the stairs to the second floor. As she stopped in a doorway the flickering candles in the room beyond gave her an even greater feline presence. She entered and when he followed her, he saw that she stood beside an elaborately canopied bed. “Close the door, and get yourself a glass of wine.” She pointed to a corner table and he did what he was told.

Turning with the glass in his hand, he spilt some of its wine when suddenly surprised by a completely naked black girl crossing the room from the other side. He stood mesmerised as the girl proceeded to move behind the leopard woman and undo her dress and corset so that they slipped to the floor. Pietro watched as the small black hands pulled the long tresses of hair aside to liberate the thrusting breasts and then continue downwards drawing the leopard lady’s pantaloons over slim hips and down to the floor. The black girl did not move from her position behind and with her hands then began to massage the leopard woman’s body, starting with the breasts and dropping lower and lower with smaller and smaller circular movements to her pelvis twisting the tight curls of pubic hair in her fingers. Both women began to sway and emit a low pitched growl in unison. 

Pietro watched in silence as the leopard lady - her mask still in place - brought her arms behind to hold the black girl’s buttocks At the same time she arched her back and separated her thighs to allow the slim black hands delve beyond the pudendum to find her sex. Pietro found himself fully aroused as he watched the fingers expose the leopard lady’s own pink shaft and begin rubbing it gently erect. He moved forward but she shook her head to stop him. With that the entwined bodies recoiled towards the bed and spent, with Pietro still watching, the next half-hour pleasuring each other until both collapsed apart in mutual ecstasy. At that point, still panting heavily, the young black girl slid off the bed and came to stand in front of Pietro. She then proceeded to remove all his clothes. Fully naked with his erect shaft throbbing with small jerking movements he wanted to take her there. But before he could hold her she had placed a pigskin sheath over his penis and tied a ligature tightly around its base. With that she turned and with exaggerated movements of her hips walked back towards the bed. Stopping she bent forward and slid one hand between her legs to spread the gates of her tunnel. The bright pink hue of its engorged secrets undulated with each gyration of her buttocks. 

The leopard woman also slid off the bed and from a position on the floor beneath the young girl’s legs, beckoned Pietro on. “Come my brave gambler, its your game now.”

He moved forward and mounted the black girl from behind and it was only when he felt for and held her pubescent breasts that he realised she was so young. He thought of stopping but the leopard woman took hold of his testicles in one hand and at the same time pulled his buttocks forward with the other. For Pietro the agony of waiting was over and it was not long before he exploded with a force he had rarely felt before. With the release he collapsed to his knees, straddling the leopard woman below. The young girl stood up and smiled down at both of them.

“Thank you Sukema, you may retire now.” The leopard purred. As Pietro lay to one side panting watching the black girl leaving the leopard woman tightened the ligature ensuring that his cock remained erect. She looked into his eyes. “A pretty young thing. Don’t you think? So much skill and not yet fourteen. Now let me show you what an older women requires from a primed buck as yourself.’

It was much later when they both fell back, spent, on the pillows of the bed. The leopard woman loosened the ligature and removed the pigskin sheath emptying its contents into a nearby glass. “I hope you are not fully depleted. You have yet to meet Sukema’s sister. The three of us will roast those balls of yours.”

Pietro flushed slightly and with rising anger at being toyed with, reached over and pulled off the leopard lady’s mask. He was disappointed to find he still did not recognise her. She saw his distress but was not about to satisfy his curiosity.

“I am friend of both England and Spain and an enemy of Richelieu. I know that you are shortly to leave for the Court of Saint James as the bailio of the Grand Seignoria.”

Pietro looked at her, puzzled by her French accent, but said nothing. 

She continued, “I have contacts with the highest level in those kingdoms, which if cultivated properly could be enormously useful for your career.”

Pietro got up from the bed and going to the small cabinet basin washed himself down with a flannel towel. The base of his penis was hurting badly. He rubbed it ruefully as he turned to look back at her. “And why, my feline courtesan, would you do all this for me?”

The leopard woman drew up the bedclothes around her as the cold night air drove her body heat before it. She hissed at his none too subtle insult. This young man had a lot to learn about the ways of the world, she thought to herself. Time to begin his education. “I know that you are searching for the spy of the Sant’Iago order who covets the hitherto secret legacy of the Angelicks.”

Pietro was flabbergasted at her knowledge and did not try to hide it from the woman. 

She smiled. “I also know, my dear boy, that you are not a member of the Angelicks and that you are doing this as a favour to your uncle.”

The young scion of the Mocenigo family could barely stop himself from nodding his head in affirmation. “What concern of it is yours?” How his penis hurt.

“I know also that you are a pragmatic man and that your career is of more importance than the pursuit of some ancient legacy. The King of England is my confident and in return for me giving you the name of the spy I want your assurance that you will tell me what the legacy consists of.”

Pietro walked to the window and looked down at the canal below where the last of the night revellers were leaving. He did not look back at her as he spoke. “In all honesty I do not know. As you have rightly pointed out I am not privy to any of the Order’s secrets. But . . .” Pietro paused, “ I am sure I could find out if your offer of help is genuine.”

The leopard woman got out of bed and went to a small bureau. She brought a small glass container to where Pietro stood and gently rubbed its contents onto the base of his penis. The pain disappeared almost miraculously and he found himself getting erect again. He withdrew from the window and pulled her back to the bed and it was late morning when he awoke to find a clothed Sukema and an even younger girl serving them breakfast. After he had finished eating he allowed them to bathe and towel him before dressing to leave. He completed his disguise by donning the mask again and cloaking his identity with a tabarro and three-cornered hat. 

The leopard woman watched until he reached the door. “The spy’s name is Dom Djivo Slavujovic a Knight of the Sant’Iago Order. He is at present a captive in Algiers.”

Pietro digested the information realising that his uncle would be pleased with the news. He blew her a kiss from the doorway. “Until tomorrow then my hunter of the night. I will try and get the information you want.”

The leopard woman drew up the cat’s mask to her face. “I am sure you will, dear boy. My pride will be waiting for you.”

Chapter 25

Constantinople. 11th January 1635

They had arranged to meet Catherine at the famous Bedouin sherbet shop near the fountain of Mahmud Pasha. This would hopefully attract little attention due to the scores of veiled women who regularly visited the shop and the agreed condition that they would all come without their usual escort of retainers. Dermico O’Driscoll, the Patriarch Loukaris and another older man had made their way up from the quays where they had landed after the short trip from Pera. The weather was foul and the three were by now thoroughly wet as they had stood, shivering, for a good hour in the cold squalls that funnelled down the narrow street. The shelter provided by the overhanging second stories of the wooden houses was useless in the face of horizontal sheets of rain. The arranged meeting time had passed and they wondered whether Catherine would come.

“Dom Dermico, Patriarch Loukaris and I are going to get out of this miserable weather and have ourselves a sherbet. Would you like one?” The older man said in a very fed up manner.

“No thank you, Dom Miho. You two go ahead. I will wait a little longer here.” Dermico watched as his companions made their way across the roadway which by this stage was a torrent of mud and water. Loukaris in particular walked with a laboured gait. Although nursing a fever he had insisted on coming as Catherine had implied that the meeting would not take place if he was not present. The two old men were halfway across the street when Dermico saw the danger first and left out a shout.“ Dom Miho, watch out!”

The two had their heads bowed and covered as they walked against the stormwinds and did not seem to hear or see the troop of siphai horsemen approaching at speed. It was too late by the time a second shouted warning from Dermico finally alerted them to the danger. The older man could not extract himself from the mud quickly enough and Loukaris reacting quicker tried to pull him out of the way. The horsemen made no attempt to take evasive action and the flying hooves of their mounts appeared to pound both into the ground. Dermico ran to them. “Dom Miho, are you all right?” Dermico was relieved to see his friend move.

“I think so. No bones broken that I can feel although my left flank is hard hit.”

Dermico turned to the Greek Patriarch who was holding his arm. “And you Patriarch Loukaris. Are you injured?”

The monk stood up unsteadily. “I think my arm is broken but I’ll survive.”

Dermico helped Dom Miho to his feet and noticed the tear of his tunic where the hoof had impacted. There was no blood nor was the skin broken when he inspected his side although the hoof mark was clearly visible.

Dom Miho was relieved. “I think I will also live although it is very painful.”

Just at that moment three other horses drew up. Catherine was nearly fully veiled with a small dark-coloured peaked visor protruding from her forehead. She alighted easily but her two companion eunuchs, remained mounted although it looked as if their horses would welcome a respite from their weight. She came to where the men were standing. “Dom Dermico O’Driscoll is it? What happened here?”

Dermico immediately recognised the slight Irish accent. “And you must be Catherine Cullen. The famous woman surgeon. My friends here were knocked down by - ” He was surprised as Catherine ignored his greeting and brusquely pushed past him. He turned to see that she was rushing to help Dom Miho who had suddenly collapsed to the ground again. All colour had drained from his face and he was clutching his side. Catherine lifted his tunic and inspected his side. Dermico rushed to him and knelling down cradled his friend’s head. “Dom Miho. What ails you?” He looked at Catherine and was not relieved by her urgent expression. 

“We do not have much time,"she said quietly. "He is bleeding internally. Where can we take him?” Catherine shouted over another squall.

Dermico was unsure. “I . . . I do not know.”

Kyril Loukaris stepped forward and it was only then that Catherine noticed his broken arm. “We will take him to the Patriarchate. Surgeon Cullen send one of your eunuchs to warn them.”

Catherine moved to inspect his arm but Loukaris shook his head, looking down at the stricken man on the ground. Catherine ordered one of the eunuchs to dismount and help her lift Dom Miho onto his horse. She dispatched the other as she pulled roughly at Dermico’s sleeve. “Come on O’Driscoll, help me, if I am to save your friend.”

The nuns of the small Monastery of Saint George in the grounds of the Patriarchate were waiting at the door when they arrived. They had prepared a small room to which Dom Miho was carried. They were dismayed that Loukaris was also injured but he reassured them that he was all right for the present and insisted that they give all their attention to Catherine in her work. Dermico was excluded and it was an hour before the door into the corridor opened. Catherine came out, no longer veiled. Her silk bodice and breeches were covered in blood. “He has lost a lot of blood and his fate is with Allah now.”

Dermico noted the Islamic appeal and tried looking into the shadows of the room. “What happened in there?”

Catherine was cleaning her arms with a moist flannel. Her reply was clinical. “The trampling had ruptured his spleen. That is why he was bleeding internally. We had to remove it to stem the flow but he has lost too much blood I fear. He is unconscious.”

Dermico slumped forward on the narrow corridor bench. He buried his head in his hands shaking it from side to side. “I tried to warn them.”

Catherine took pity on her fellow Irishman. “I am sorry I could not do more. The next few hours will be critical.” 

Dermico looked up at her a hint of accusation darkening his features. “Should you have taken the knife to him?”

Catherine smarted at the words, regretting her earlier feelings of sympathy. “Ruptures of the spleen are common in lands where tertian fever is present. They are usually enlarged and it often takes less force than a flying hoof to cause it. Indeed as has been the custom from Bysantium times the elite personal palace guard of axemen of the Sultan the muteferrikas, have their spleens removed deliberately to prevent such an occurrence. The surgery involved is straightforward but in your friend’s case it was too late. I think O’Driscoll that our meeting is now over. Good day to you. The nuns, I am sure will show you the way out.” She gathered her outer garments and was making for the cell door. 

Dermico rushed to block her. “I am sorry Miss Cullen. Its only that Dom Miho is the father of a friend of mine. Somebody we both know.”

Catherine stopped. She wasn’t sure whether Dermico was being truthful or not. “Who might that be?”

Dermico paused for a moment knowing the probable impact of what he was going to say. “Djivo Slavujovic. Dom Miho is his father. I travelled to Constantinople from Italy on one of his ships.”

Catherine suddenly went pale and visibly shook. Dermico stood up and led her - without protest - back to the bench. “I am sorry Miss Cullen. I should have told you earlier. I know of your relationship with Djivo. Very little escapes the notice of our spies.”

Catherine collected herself quickly. She immediately regretted her obvious response to the mention of Djivo. She had been right to mistrust O’Driscoll and moved away from his side. “Yes. You should have. Why was he with you today? What possible interest could he possibly have had in the fate of the Baltimore captives?” Catherine’s tone became sarcastic. “Was not that the reason for our intended discussion today O’Driscoll?”

“Yes. But Dom Miho wanted to come. I had told him about Djivo and - ” Before Dermico could fully explain one of the nuns came out into the corridor and whispered in Catherine’s ear. She left him and went inside the cell, reappearing a few minutes later. “You will have to wait here a little longer. I must attend to the Patriarch’s arm.”

It was some time before she rejoined him. Dermico had winced at the muffled moans of Loukaris as his arm was reset. Catherine was visibly angry. “Your spies. What did you mean by that?”

As Dermico answered he watched her face very carefully for any flickers of recognition, “Like Djivo, I am also a member of the Sant’Iago Order. Did he ever mention me or his mission for the order?”

Catherine forced a puzzled frown on her face. “Mission. What mission? What do you mean, O’Driscoll?” She knew for her own safety that the next few answers were crucial and despite the isolation she felt she would have to remain resolute for Djivo’s sake. The conversation lasted for the best part of an hour. Catherine told O’Driscoll of the conditions of her release and the fact that all being well Djivo would join her in Constantinople in about three years. 

Dermico cursed to himself and muttered under his breath about this delay being ‘too long’. He accepted the confirmation of what he had already heard from Algiers and satisfied himself that the Cullen woman appeared to know nothing of Slavujovic’s mission. She was therefore of little use, or threat, to him. As he stood to leave his voice was cold and formal. “I have to thank you for all your help, Miss Cullen. Be assured that I will endeavour to bring Djivo safely to you. Do you want your family in Ireland informed of your safety?”

Catherine although relieved that the interrogation was over recognised that O’Driscoll’s demeanour had changed. “No. I am here as a free woman and I will wait. Ireland is a fading memory. Thank you.”

With that O’Driscoll started towards the small wooden door at the end of the corridor. He stopped as he heard one of the nuns rushing out of the cell and shouting for Catherine. She rushed into the room but came out again soon after. She looked at him. There were tears starting to form beneath her eyes.

“I am sorry. Dom Miho has just died. There was too much loss of blood. I could do very little for him.”

Dermico sighed but did not come and comfort her. “I will come to pick up his body tomorrow and arrange for its transport back to Ragusa. Good afternoon.”

With that O’Driscoll was gone and Catherine felt more alone than at any time in her life. The searing tears cascading down her cheeks washed the blood that stained her neck onto to her cotton shirt.

©R.Derham 2001,2009

Rihla (Journey 3): Iran – Ghayb on my Mind

Rihla (The Journey) – was the short title of a 14th Century (1355) book written in Fez by the Islamic legal scholar Ibn Jazayy al-Kalbi of Granada who recorded and then transcribed the dictated travelogue of the Tangerian Ibn Battuta. The book’s full title was A Gift to Those who Contemplate the Wonders of Cities and the Marvels of Travelling and somehow the title of Ibn Jazayy's book captures the ethos of many of the city and country journeys I have been lucky to take in past years.

This rihla is about Iran.

After 4,000 kilometres of travelling the high plateau and even higher mountains of Iran and touching ever so briefly on invasion and erosion-spared remnants of 4,000 years of history that is Persia my overwhelming sense of the place and the people, beyond the enormous impact of the physical and socio-economic geography, is that of ghayb, the unseen. (I am enormously grateful to Jason Elliot’s evocative and provocative book on Iran, Mirrors of the Unseen for introducing me to this concept and encapsulating what I could feel but not vocalise adequately while there. This is a book worth reading!)

Beginning with the descent into Imam Khomeini International Airport and the chaos that is the traffic and smog-enshrouded hell of modern Tehran and ending by interrupting my journey home to spend an equally chaotic Sunday afternoon at the Shah ‘Abbas Remaking of Iran Exhibition at the British Museum I am left with an overwhelming sensation of hidden voices whispering in my ear. Voices that are in equal amounts welcoming, exciting, colluding, revolutionary, sensual, and yet so pragmatic that any previously held perceptions of Iran are, at this point, spinning in a dust devil somewhere on the outskirts of Yazd.

Arabic poetry and theology has a word for these voices – hatif – yet in older Persian literature the equivalent concept is soroush, which has its origins in the Sraosha divinity of Avestan and Zoroastrian traditions where he is associated with ‘good words’, the standard-bearer of truth, and the guide who accompanies the soul across the Chinvat bridge of judgement. I dwell on this concept a little as when travelling with my not-so-silent Shirazi guide (his pet-dislikes in descending order were non-engineered roads, mullahs and Turks all of which appeared to loom larger in his perceptive landscape the further north we travelled from Shiraz!) on the road to Takht-e Soleiman he began reciting Hafez,

Biyaar baadeh keh doosham soroush-e aalam-e ghayb


Navid daad keh: ‘aamm ast feize rahmat-e ou



He translated,

Bring wine, for the soroush of the Unseen world


Brought me the news that His mercy is all-encompassing.

The next time I heard these same words explained to me was at a No Ruz (New Year) party on March 20 in Tehran, but this time from a pirated video version of Iranian Fusion music from Los Angeles. I also saw on television Barrack Obama’s welcome but conditional No Ruz message, and regretted enormously the lost opportunity of good will being enough in itself. The West should dismiss any concerns about Iranian nuclear or anti-Zionist intentions and instead listen to the poetry. Poetry is the lifeblood of Iranians, where those secret voices guide the soul. Given the resources at their disposal, the present leadership I fear, in maintaining a privileged elite (such as the children of mullahs and martyrs of the Iraq-Iranian war), have lost the support of the common man and are but a punctuation in a long history of the Persian people searching for the Truth.

The Simurgh and the Nightingale (Part 13)

Chapter 23 

Constantinople. 24 November 1634

The two men, dressed in the simple monk’s garb of the Eastern Church, had arrived from the seat of the Patriarch riding on pure white asses. The Patriarch's residence was situated in the ancient 11th region of Constantinople on the lower slope of the city’s fifth hill. It had taken much longer than usual to travel the distance of two miles to the Seraglio palace as the narrow streets of the bazaar quarter had been thronged and waiting for the monks in front of the Imperial Gate, somewhat impatiently, were the French and English Ambassadors, the Venetian bailio and their huge respective retinues of servants and chaush guards. 

The Ecumenical Patriarch of Constantinople, and head of the Eastern Orthodox Church, Kyril Loukaris, dismounted from his ass and greeted the English Ambassador warmly. He then threw a curt bow in the direction of the French and Venetian envoys before turning back to introduce his own companion. “Excellencies. May I present Patriarch Theophanes of Jerusalem.”

Most of the diplomats gave the elderly priest, who after dismounting his own ass leant heavily on a strangely patterned stave, a formal if frosty greeting. They were all annoyed at this unscheduled early morning summons bringing them from the comforts of Pera to the Seraglio and were in no mood to be civil. The French Ambassador, the Comte de Cesy, in particular made least effort in trying to hide his contempt. Kyril Loukaris pretended not to notice and passing between the two lines of kapiji palace guards made for the first court of the Seraglio. “Let us not delay here then,” he said curtly.

As the monks passed through the archway the sight of a severed head set in a niche to one side unnerved them somewhat. Theophanes asked Loukaris about it once they were through. The cautious Patriarch of Constantinople looked around before replying, “Three years ago there was a military revolt in the city and the soldiers turned on the palace killing the Grand Vizier, the Grand Mufti and fifteen or so other advisors, ripping them to shreds. Six months later with a new Grand Vizier in place, a man you will meet shortly, the Sultan took his vengeance. He rounded up the mutineers and by killing, it is rumoured, upwards of 20,000 soldiers, vented his rage in a sustained bloodletting. The Sultan also banned coffee, tobacco and boza and that head you see belonged recently on the shoulders of one of the lesser viziers who was foolish enough to be caught with tobacco. By the way Theophanes, do not mind the cold reception of the Frenchman. The French nobility all suffer from folie de grandeur.”

The ambassadors in contrast remounted their respective horses and with their whole retinue of about two hundred people followed the walking monks through the archway into the First Court. Loukaris pointed out to his fellow prelate the hospital on the right and the Church of Haghia Edrine and the hazineh or Imperial Mint on the left. The distance to the second gate was about a quarter of a mile and as they walked they were astounded by the enormous number of people and horses moving in all directions. When they finally reached the second gate of the Seraglio - called the Gate of Salutations - it was also guarded by a company of kapiji. Here the Ambassadors dismounted and with the two Patriarchs were shown into a small room built into the wall on the right side of the archway. As they entered they had to step aside for a fierce-looking and elaborately dressed Turk who then crossed the portal and disappeared into a similar room on the opposite side. The French ambassador bristled.

“Who was that?” Theophanes asked his colleague as the Frenchman bundled past him.

Loukaris smiled. “That was the head gardener of the palace.”

Theophanes was puzzled. “No wonder the Comte was angry. Why should we show such a menial person such deference by stepping aside?”

Loukaris winked at the English Ambassador, Sir Peter Wyche, who had overheard the enquiry. “Because he is also the Chief Executioner. A sample of his work you saw earlier.”

Theophanes suddenly felt less confident about his mission and keeping a wary eye on the opposite door for any movement turned to Loukaris. “What happens now?”

The French and Venetian envoys were huddled in deep conversation in a far corner. Loukaris and Theophanes sat down on one of the benches. The English Ambassador approached them. “May I join you. My colleagues have made it clear they do not wish my company.” Both of the Patriarchs nodded and made room on the bench for Sir Peter, who then continued. “In answer to your question, Patriarch Theophanes, we are likely to be here for some time. It is the custom of the Turks to let us stew here awhile. Showing us our place in the scheme of things, as it were. Although with such a high powered delegation I suspect that at most it will only be an hour and we can look forward to a better table than we might expect when presenting ourselves alone.”

It was nearly two hours later - with the watery November sun reaching its zenith - when a commotion could be heard in the passageway and somebody shouting, “Let the dogs be fed and clothed!” The ambassadors stood up as one. They took no real offense at the by now customary insulting summons for foreigners presenting themselves to the Divan of the Great Turk. They removed their swords and handed them to their pages who remained outside the gate. They were joined at this point by two younger men clothed most elegantly in the Italian fashion and an elderly cleric dressed in the habit of the Franciscans. Around the neck of the first rider to dismount was a golden collar formed of laburnums and from which hung a figure of the Cross and Saint George. He was greeted warmly by the Venetian ambassador, who then introduced him, “Gentlemen this is Marco Angello Comneno, Grand Prior of the Constantinian Order in this city. He has been asked to represent the Ethiopian church in this dispute.” The young knight bowed to the other envoys but then went up to Loukaris and kissed both his cheeks.

Loukaris’s response was warm. “Grand Prior Marco it is good to see you. How is your brother?”

Behind them the Venetian envoy seemed puzzled by the familiarity between the Patriarch and the young Comneno. “Very well, your eminence. He sends you his best wishes. He has been very busy since my father Giovanni Andrea’s death.”

The second younger knight and the priest had by now dismounted. Marco Comneno turned to introduce them. “Gentlemen this is Bishop Denis O’ Driscoll, Bishop of Siguenza and representative of the Franciscans in this dispute. He is accompanied . . ." Comneno pulled the other young man forward,  “...by his cousin and soldier of Spain, Dom Dermico O’Driscoll. They only arrived yesterday from Genoa and bring news of an important defeat of the Dissenting Forces by the Spanish and Imperial Armies at Nordlingen.”

The reaction to this information was very mixed. The English Ambassador was obviously disturbed by the news but restrained his initial urge to enquire further while shooting a quick glance at Loukaris to see his reaction. None was discernible. De Cesy seemed happy but his enthusiastic interrogation of Dom Dermico was soon interrupted by the approach of a troop of soldiers. The Ambassadors, the Patriarchs and the younger knights were then escorted by a detail of the Janissaries, led by the muhzir aga, across the second courtyard. The sight of gazelles grazing amongst the magnificent cypress trees and fine shrubbery plots gave a parkland air to the area. In contrast, the massed ranks of about 2000 Janissaries, sipahi and chaush which stood out from the galleries on either side of the inner wall of the gate made a splendid and yet intimidating sight in their immaculate and detailed uniforms. As the ambassadorial retinue passed between the rows they were greeted by low bows. Every now and then one or two of the soldiers would suddenly break ranks and rushing furiously to a large soup kettle would start to consume the food with feverish intent before rejoining their comrades and becoming stationary once again.Theophanes remarked on this and Loukaris whispered back to him, “For some reason the Janissaries promote this display of frenzied eating as a sign of their contentment. We are expected to notice and to be wary of the cohesion and purpose within the army. Indeed if they remain sullen and immobile there is trouble ahead for both the Sultan and the people of the city.”

After a short walk they reached the covered walkway which surrounded the Chamber of the Divan. On entering the outer room, the Ambassadors were presented with silk kaftans. Twenty four in total were given to de Cesy, and as dictated by protocol, sixteen and twelve for the English and Venetian envoys, respectively. After this ceremony they were ushered into the presence of the Grand Vizier, Beiram Pasha, who sat on a low bench with his other viziers sitting on his right. On his left-side he was attended by the two kadiaskers of Rumelia and Anatolia. Standing to one side were the three Revenue commissioners, known as the deftendars. The nisaaniji or keeper of the seal was also present as was the secretary of the divan who stood in close attention at the Grand Vizier’s side. In addition there were various Aga’s and scribes all resplendent in their elaborate and splendid regalia. 

The Grand Vizier lifted his head slightly to survey the envoys, and uttering a few words he then dropped it again as if annoyed by the interruption. To his left the chief dragoman or interpreter, the terjumanbashi, translated. Unknown to most of the envoys he was also a Greek Phanariot and cousin of Loukaris. He spoke in a loud voice, “You are welcome. What is your business with the Gate of Felicity?”

At this point Loukaris prodded Theophanes and pushed him forward. The Jerusalem Patriarch spoke in Greek, “Your excellency there is great conflict in Jerusalem among the Christian brethren as to who controls the Holy Places, particularly the Church of the Holy Sepulchre. I wish to assert the rightful pre-eminence of our Greek Church.”

The Grand Vizier waited as his dragoman made the translation then lifting his head slowly, studied all of the faces of the delegation carefully for some time, before speaking again. The terjumanbashi waited until Beiram Pasha had finished and then translated, “Have you proof of this?”

Theophanes reached into a shoulder bag and pulled out a silver cylinder. Removing its lid he extracted with great ceremony, and deference, an ancient rolled parchment. Kneeling down he placed it in front of the Grand Vizier’s feet. “That is a letter from the Caliph ’Umar to my predecessor Patriarch Sophronius in the year of Our Lord Jesus Christ six hundred and thirty eight - six years after the death of the Prophet Muhammad - granting the Greek Church control of the Holy Places.”

At this point the French envoy de Cesy could not contain his restraint any longer. Puffing his chest out as much as his confined arms would allow he tried to place himself between the Patriarch and the Grand Vizier. This necessitated a great deal of manoeuvring given his close attendant escorts. “Your Excellency. I must protest! That document is almost certainly a forgery. The Holy Places must remain the responsibility of the Pope’s representatives, the Franciscans, in Jerusalem.”

Theophanes however was not to be deterred. Stepping to the side of de Cesy he produced more recent documents from the reigns of the Sultans Selim I and Suleyman which also supported the Greek rights. In the next half-hour each of the envoys present made their position clear. Sir Peter Wyche, the English ambassador was the only one who supported the Greek position with all of the others siding against them. Loukaris took very little part in the debate, content in the knowledge that he had laid the ground well with suitable and well placed bribes to various members of the Divan as well as a direct contribution to the Sultan’s Treasury. He watched, with amusement, the spectacle of Europe’s powerful envoys squabbling with each other like children. 

Beiram Pasha did not share the Greek Patriarch’s amusement and standing up, suddenly, spoke in perfect French. It was nearly noon. “Enough. The Divan will discuss your petition and because today is a Tuesday we will later place your arz or petition before the Sultan. In the meantime please partake of the light refreshments provided.”

The meal lasted about one hour and it was notable for the complete absence of conversation and the chaotic way in which the plates were suddenly cleared by the ajemioglans or officers of the kitchen. When it was over a tall white eunuch appeared in the chamber with a silver stave in his hand. First the kadiaskers stood up and filed out of the Divan chamber followed by the deftendars and then the viziers and Grand Vizier. The envoys retook their seats to wait, their goblets refilled with rosewater and sherbet from a servant carrying a large goat skin luthro.

The awkward silence persisted until at last they were summoned to an Audience with Sultan Murad IV. After donning their kaftans they were led by two eunuchs from the divan chamber and escorted to the Third Gate, the Gate of Felicity. There they were met by the kapi agasi - the Chief white eunuch - who had appeared earlier in the Divan chamber with the silver stave in his hand. He led them through it to the Throne Room or what was paradoxically called for such an inner sanctum the Public Divan. The Sultan dressed in black and amber silks with a magnificent bejewelled turban atop his head sat on a low golden stool. To the side of the room stood the viziers and kadiaskers all with their heads bowed. Behind the throne were crammed the stern-faced soldiers of the Sultan’s elite personal bodyguard the muteferrikas. The Ambassadors were frog-marched into His presence and after bowing low three times were encouraged - as was the custom - to kneel and kiss the hem of the Sultan’s kaftan. They then had to stand stiffly with their hands held rigid by their sides.

Sultan Murad IV, although surrounded by the throng of his praetorian guard, the audience agas and other agas of the Stirrup - as the palace functionaries were known - appeared to attract what little light there was in the room. He was a young looking man, fit and battle hardened. He appeared taller than they expected with a broad face and eyes of cold steel. He looked directly at the envoys, his mood difficult to ascertain masked as it was by his impassive countenance. “I Sultan Murad, son of Sultan Ahmed, son of Sultan Mehmed, who am the Sultan of Sultans, the Shadow of God upon the Earth, the Sultan and Padishah of the White Sea, the Black Sea, Rum, Anatolia, Dulkadir, Kurdistan, Damascus, Cairo, Jerusalem and all other countries of my ancestor’s conquest, have today issued a firman in favour of the Greek petition. They are to have control of my favour in the Holy Places of the Christians in Jerusalem.”

The terjumanbashi completed the translation and almost immediately before any debate could be entered into, the escorting soldiers forced the envoys to retreat backwards through the connecting door and into the second courtyard once again. The light was startling bright after the dense darkness of the Sultan’s throne room.

Behind them the Grand Vizier was ushered into the presence of Murad. “Beiram Pasha, your final thoughts on this matter?”

The Grand Vizier knelt before his Sultan. “My Emperor. I have cast the yoke off my neck. On the day of judgement henceforth you will answer. It is a good decision, my Sovereign Lord. The Christians are best kept at each others throats. The Venetians have already intimated that they would be prepared to offer a substantial sum to procure the Holy Sites for themselves. This will be a good source of bloodless income for your treasury if your divine favours are judiciously granted.”

In the courtyard de Cesy stormed ahead with the Venetian Ambassador and Marco Angello Comneno in tow. He stopped suddenly and turned to look at them. Seething with rage his voice crackled, “We must try and neutralise Loukaris. He has far too much influence.”

On reaching the second gate and retrieving their swords Comneno leant forward to whisper in the Comte de Cesy’s ear. “Leave it to me to formulate a plan. I have other business to conclude with the Patriarch Loukaris.” The young Grand Prior of the Constantinian order then turned to watch as the two Patriarchs walked slowly, accompanied by Sir Peter Wyche. They all appeared to be in animated conversation. 

Loukaris caught Marco looking at him and placing his hand on the Englishman’s sleeve drew him to a stop. They were still out of earshot. Loukaris kept his voice low, “Thank you for your support with the Sultan. As agreed with your predecessor Roe and as a token of my continued desire for a closer communion between the Eastern Church and your reformed church, I have made arrangements for an ancient commentary on the Codex - the famous fifth century Greek bible given by Loukaris to Roe - to be delivered to your residence in Pera.”

Sir Peter Wyche gave a slight but grave nod of acknowledgement. He knew from his correspondence with Bishop Laud that the Codex Alexandrinus had been an invaluable acquisition and the commentary could be of equal importance. The credit would probably go to Roe but there would be enough reflected glory for him as well. He hesitated briefly before replying, “Patriarch Loukaris we are most grateful. There is another matter however that my King has instructed me to sound out with you. If you could spare me some time?”

They had just caught up with the others when there was a sudden shout of warning as three horses sped through the archway sending the de Cesy sprawling against the wall. The Frenchman immediately drew his recently donned sword but was set upon and restrained by the nearby Janissaries. The horses crossed the courtyard and made for the entrance of the Imperial harem which was in a recess behind a corner of the Divan Chamber they had been in earlier. They watched as a eunuch passage guard rush out to take the reins. Recovering his composure somewhat and shrugging off the attentions of the scowling soldiers de Cesy blustered. “I am certain that one of those idiots was a woman. She rode saddle like a man, however. Who is she?”

Kyril Loukaris attention was fixed on the now dismounted figures. They were hurrying to enter the harem through the Courtyard of the Black Eunuchs. “That person, excellencies . . .” Loukaris spoke, without once averting his gaze from the distant group. “. . . is the female surgeon appointed by the Valide Sultana Kosem. I hear she was a Christian captive in Algiers and is here as a free agent. From Ireland . . .” He looked over to catch the attention of the O’Driscoll cousins who were in deep conversation. “. . . I understand.”

De Cesy was still fuming, his face crimson with anger. “A female surgeon! How preposterous. Whatever next. A witch more like. The heathen Turk are welcome to her spells. Ignorant imbeciles that they are.”

Loukaris looked at the Frenchman as he waddled his way towards his horse lashing out sideways to strike one of his nearby retinue for their perceived failure in failing to protect his dignity. “I also hear she has a great skill with eyes. Perhaps Comte de Cesy, she could help with your vision.”

The Frenchman bristled at the sarcasm but ignored the Greek Patriarch. By now all the others were shaking their heads in bemusement as they mounted their own horses. They then rejoined their own retinues and began making for the Imperial Gate. The French Ambassador turned to look down at the two Patriarchs. Fixing Loukaris with an evil sneering gaze he rasped, “Patriarch Loukaris you have not heard the last of this. I would advise caution in challenging the wishes of France.’ De Cesy then pulled at the reins so fiercely that the ornamental bit cut into the horses mouth. A few drops of blood dropped to the ground. Loukaris stretched out a hand towards the poor animal to try and relieve the pressure but the Frenchman pulled again twisting the horses head away. At the same time he dug his spurs into the stallion’s flank forcing it to rear up and just miss the Patriarch’s head with flying hooves. Loukaris did not flinch. The Frenchman without a look back then cantered away towards the Imperial Gate followed by most of the others at a gentler pace. 

The two Patriarchs walked beside their asses. As the dust laden haze thrown up by de Cesy's departure settled a single horseman could be seen to have remained behind. Loukaris recognised him. “Dom Dermico, what holds you back? Is there a problem with your horse?”

The Spanish envoy shook his head and then swung down from his saddle with a lithe grace. “That woman surgeon from Ireland. You did say that she was once a captive in Algiers?”

Loukaris looked at passive face of the younger man trying to discern a reason for the enquiry. The intensity of his eyes was the only clue. “That is my information. Is there a specific reason for your enquiry?”

Dermico O’Driscoll had prepared himself for this response. “No, not really. Only you said that she was Irish. I know that about 100 people were taken captive by Algerian corsairs from a small fishing village in my family’s lands in Ireland about three years ago. I would welcome news of their well-being. Do you know where I can contact this female surgeon?”

Loukaris was still a little guarded. “At the women’s hospital attached to the mosque of Haseki Hurrem . So my informants tell me.”

O’Driscoll looked pleased. “Thank you Patriarch Loukaris. I am most grateful.” He then remounted and made to spur his horse off, but stopped. “There is one other request, you might grant me.”Loukaris waited, saying nothing. “Apparently it is common knowledge that you are giving a valuable commentary on the Codex to the English. Might I have a look at it before you do so?”

Loukaris was surprised by the question and uncomfortably searched for a reply. He decided not to deny the fact. “I did not think it was common knowledge. You are remarkably well informed Dom Dermico. Why would you want to see it? Are you a scholar?”

O’Driscoll’s eyes were jewels of practised innocence. “Yes , in a small way. Would it be possible?”

Loukaris treaded the moment as if he was in water. “Of course.”

“That is most kind of you. Where and when might I be able to view it?”

Loukaris drew a breath. “Tomorrow at the Patriarchate. Noon. Would that suit you?”

O’Driscoll made a show of turning his horse towards the gate. He leaned back to look down at the Greek and asked in a nonchalant tone. “Do you have a big repository in the Patriarchate? I would be most interested.”

By now Loukaris was concerned. The conversation was almost echoing the one he had just had with Wyech. It was too much of a coincidence. “No. Not really. Because of the ever-present threat of enforced moves within the city and the small size of the Patriarchate most of our most valuable manuscripts are scattered in several locations. Perhaps Dom Dermico, if there were documents of specific interest to your studies, the Protosyncellus, Nathaniel Canopuis might be able to track them down. Was there something specific you wished to see?” 

Dermico O’Driscoll shook his head. ‘No. It was just a thought. Do not put yourself to any trouble Patriarch Loukaris. A look at the commentary would be fine. I do not have much time before returning to Spain.”

Loukaris stroked his long beard, his thoughts clearer. “I am sure Dom Dermico that this dispute is not the only reason you are here. Not implying any offence, but you made little or no contribution in the Divan.”

O’Driscoll realised he would have to be as direct as possible with a plausible answer. “You are right Patriarch Loukaris.” He looked first at the Jerusalem prelate and then back at Loukaris. “With apologies to your sensitivities Patriarch Theophanes, the King of Spain has few cares in regard to who has the keys to the Holy Sepulchre in Jerusalem, as long as it remains in Christian pockets. By accompanying my Franciscan cousin it has provided me with a good cover to sound out the Divan on a sensitive matter. The King’s concern and that of our allies, the Republic of Ragusa, is the amount of forged silver Turk coin that France is producing to de-stabilise the Sultan’s economy. As silver is the major export of our Mexican Territories we are anxious that its value is maintained. I am here, on the orders of Olivares, to appraise the Divan of the threat. Given the success of your business today, against the odds I might add, you Patriarch Loukaris would be a valuable ally to have.”

Loukaris relaxed with the compliment and put aside some of his previous doubts about the young Spanish Knight. In any event the information was valuable and he would have to analyse the impact of this new threat for the Sultan on his church’s well-being and safety in Constantinople. “Thank you for your candour, Dom Dermico. I will be happy to try and help. Until tomorrow then. At noon!”

©R.Derham 2001,2009

Goodbye John . . .

John, my next-door neighbour, died today. A 51 year-old father of three he had been an instigator and beneficiary of the ‘Celtic Tiger’ development surge both at home and abroad over the past 10 years. I can only suppose that with the financial and credit implosion caused by the worldwide recession he must have come under enormous personal pressure in trying to uphold his commitments. I wish I could have helped in someway but I had no idea that the pressures that must have been applied were so severe as to exhaust his coping mechanisms. We were not extremely close personal friends, in that we did not socialise together, but for 14 very happy years in our home he and his wife were the best neighbours you could ask for, a life-journey of association that had been marked at the beginning with the privilege of my delivering their youngest child. With a presumed suicide death that is not perceived as heroic people often cruelly comment that it is an extremely selfish gesture, an abrogation of responsibility, on the part of the deceased. John was one of the least selfish people that I have known. I fully understand that others may have had a different perception, a different encounter with John but I can only speak for myself. The abridgement of his life is a terrible waste. 

May he rest in peace . . . now! 

The Simurgh and the Nightingale (Part 12)

Chapter 21 

Windsor Castle, England. 5th November 1633

The Knights had all gathered, as directed, at the Hour of Tierce on this the eve of the prorogued Grand Feast of the Order of the Garter. Dressed in full regalia they greeted each other in the Prive-Chamber of Charles the Ist, King of England. In silence thereafter they waited for the king to complete his robing. They watched as he positioned the eponymous Garter with its motto of HONI SOIT QVI MAL Y PENSE - shame on him who thinks ill of it - composed of over four hundred diamonds, a little below his left knee. Charles appeared agitated as he then stood upright to allow a servant place a surcoat of crimson cloth - which was lined with white taffeta - around his shoulders. His attendants then brought forward and placed about his neck the blue silk ribband to which was attached the gold mounted medal known as the lesser George. It had been cut in onyx and sparkled with numerous diamonds. This was then followed by the great purple velvet mantle with its arms of Saint George set within an embroidered Order of the Garter ensigna on the left shoulder. The large terminal knots of the Venetian gold and silk robe-strings attached to the collar nearly reached the ground. Finally the large gold collar with the heavily jewelled depiction of Saint George killing the dragon dangling from its middle - this was known as the greater George - was brought out and placed about his shoulders.

One of the servants struggled as he brought forward a large mirror. Once satisfied Charles donned his plumed cap, straightened his ear-rings and turned to survey the assembled Knights. He noted that not all were present, the Stranger Knights abroad having being excused. “You are welcome, companion Knights. Because of pressure of time I plan to proceed to Chapter the private way rather than by Public Procession. There are a number of items to discuss before Vespers. Let us proceed.”

Charles did not move but watched as Sir William Segar gave a signal at the door of the chamber. Outside in the Presence-Chamber much activity was taking place. As the Sovereign and the Knight Companions prepared to file out two rows of Pensioners took guard with their pole-axes. The gentleman-usher holding the Sword of State brought it to the Earl of Danby, who had been delegated by Charles to carry it. The Yeoman Guard went ahead to clear the passage.

At this moment all of the Knight Companions turned back to look at Charles and simultaneously removed their plumed caps as a sign of reverence. He slowly removed his own to return their salute and then put it back on. The Garter Knights followed suit and this was the signal to start the procession. Ahead of them their attendants - all of whom had lined the stairs awaiting the signal - formed up behind the Yeomen and led off the procession. Behind these came the lesser officials such as the Alms-Knights, the Vergers, the Prebends and the Officers of Arms. The Knight Companions then filed out, some side by side and some in single file depending on whether their paired Knight Companion was in attendance. They were then followed by the officers of the Order and included the Black-Rod, the Register, the Garter, the Chancellor and the Prelate. Behind these came the Earl of Danby carrying the Sword of State and finally Charles himself with his train-bearers. Once they had cleared the Presence Chamber the Pensioners and their Captain fell in behind.

The procession wound down the stairs to the terrace and then along the walk on the north side of the castle to re-enter through a door in the Castle wall and into one of the canon’s lodgings adjoining Winchester Tower. On entering the cloister passage between the Tomb House and the chapel they turned to enter the chapel by its east door. All of the attendants then fanned out to line the north aisle as far as the west door. The Knight Companions, on entering, turned sharp right to enter the Chapter-house on the north east corner. Followed by the officers of the Order and Charles all others remained outside, including the Earl of Danby with the sword. The door was then closed by the Black Rod.

Charles was in good spirits. Since suspending Parliament for their treasonous mutterings one of his only ways of gauging public opinion was the advice he received from his fellow Garter Knights. He took his place at the north end of the table where his chair, cushions and cloth of state had been prepared. The Knight Companions whose designated position or stall in the Chapel were on the Sovereign’s side sat to his right and those who were designated stalls on the Prince’s side sat on his left. The Prelate - Nele, Bishop of Winchester - came and stood at Charles right side and the Chancellor Sir Frances Crane stood on his left. The Register Dr Matthew Wren, Dean of the Chapel of Windsor - and successor to de Dominis - and the Garter Sir William Segar stood at the end of the table. Wren recorded the names of those present and proffered the excuses of those missing.

The Chancellor Crane - in his peculiar high pitched town-criers voice - then recounted the achievements and life events of each of the Garter Knights since the last Chapter. Much time was taken up with the details of the coronation of Charles as King of Scotland. He then went on to recount what had been discussed in the last Chapter and gave a summary of the various outcomes of their deliberations. With the satisfied smile of a smug servant creasing his face he announced that despite the difficult travelling conditions abroad he had ensured the successful delegation of William Boswell Esq - the Sovereign’s Agent in Holland - and John Philpot Esq - the Somerset Herald - to deliver the ensigna of the Order - the Garter and greater George - to the Order’s newest member Charles, Prince Palatine of the Rhine. Finally finishing, to the relief of all present, Crane passed a bound sheaf of letters to the King who placed them on the table in front of him. 

Charles rested his hand on these for a moment before looking up at the Knights. “I have received a dispatch from Marie de Rohan, the Duchess of Chevreuse and wife of our fellow Garter Knight Claude de Lorraine. She, as you know, was a good friend of my beloved Buckingham and writes from Touraine having been recently expelled by Richelieu from France for stealing state secrets.”

One of the Knights on the King’s side leant forward. “It is said that they were extracted in the bed-chamber from the Marquis de Chateauneuf, keeper of the French seals.”

Charles frowned slightly at the interruption but then continued, “That may be the case Hamilton. Nevertheless de Rohan has always been a friend to England and the letter contains some interesting gossip.”

One of the Knights near the head of the table began laughing but stopped just as suddenly as Charles glared at him. “I am sorry for my outburst Sire. I was just wondering how long my poor Lord Hamilton would last in the company of the bold Duchess. I had the pleasure of meeting Marie de Rohan when Claude was invested with his Garter and methinks the struggle would be short-lived.” Robert Barty, the Earl of Lindsay, continued to smirk and even Charles had difficulty suppressing a smile.

“Indeed Lindsay. In any event she relates that one of the Spanish Orders has been actively pursuing the suspected but heretofore, secret legacy of our brother Order, the Angelicks. We, in Chapter, have been aware of the possibility of such a legacy but are not sure exactly what it comprises. The Duchess reports that the Grand Master of the Angelicks, Dom Giovanni Andrea, was foolish enough to let the legacy out of his control and that it is currently in the possession of the Patriarch Loukaris in Constantinople. I have instructed Our ambassador to try and determine what exactly the legacy is and to retrieve it, if possible, for our Order.”

Most of the senior Knights were stunned at the significance of this report and nodded their assent. Some of the younger ones looked bemused. 

Charles then continued. “I know that some of you are aware of this legacy and its possible significance. However as they have not been discussed in Chapter for some time . . .” Charles looked at Matthew Wren - the Register - who stood opposite him at the end of the table. 

He sprang to attention. “Sire. My searches show that the first mention of the supposed legacy is in the French Language in the Registrum Ordinis Chartaceum which is stored in Whitehall. The next mention is in the Black Book, page one hundred and sixty-one, and again in the Blue Book, page seven, both of which are available here in Windsor if any of the Great Knights wish to consult. There is not, I fear, much information and thus we are little the wiser.”

“Thank you for your due diligence Doctor Wren. Noble Knights you may consult at your leisure.” 

Charles then grew sullen as he detailed the other important news from the Duchess. This warned Charles of Richelieu’s plans to have France enter the war in the coming year. The information was met with a grave silence before a heated debate on the implications began. It was some time before Charles suddenly stood up bringing instant silence. “Enough argument, my brother Knights. Chancellor Crane will provide a detailed report with Our possible response. The Chapter is now closed. Let us proceed forthwith to the choir. The Earl of Dover will act as proxy for the Prince Palatine.”

The Knights watched as the door opened. The Earl of Dover entered and on receiving the missing Prince’s mantle at the door turned to walk - bareheaded - back into the chapel carrying the mantle on his right shoulder. The Knights and Charles followed.

Chapter 22 

Nordlingen, Germany. 7th September 1634

The thanksgiving mass held in the Church of Saint George was over and the officers of the combined Imperial and Spanish forces were filing out into the square. The ‘Daniel’ clock-tower rising high above the church roof chimed the hour. To the watchman perched in his turret at the top of the tower, it appeared, as he looked south over the covered parapets and battlements of the city walls, that the floor of the Reis valley - in which Nordlingen was centred - was smouldering like a volcano about to erupt. Some locals believed that the valley had been formed by a giant throwing a large boulder at a rival and that this rival lay crushed beneath the ground waiting to be released. He knew of course that on this day the putrid smoke drifting over the town, borne on a freshening south-westerly wind, came from the hundreds of makeshift pyres burning some of the battlefield dead. He could also see, scattered at intervals across the valley, work details of peasants and townspeople digging large communal graves in which to hurry the disposal of the mounting piles of lifeless corpses.

The watchman had been told by people coming back in to the town that it was estimated that somewhere between six and ten thousand men had died in the battle that had raged over the previous two days. In the distance the waters of the Eger river ran blood red as it meandered for its meeting with the mighty Danube. It had been a dry summer and the low level of the river meant the waters were likely to do so for many days to come. He could hear far below him the pitiful cries of injured and dying men as they were still being brought from the battlefield to the hospital in the city. As he looked down he watched the groups of Spanish soldiers descend the steps of the church and begin crossing the square. 

Most appeared to be in good spirits, talking animatedly with each other still excited at their victory over the Swedish army. Some even responded to the demands of the begging women and children who approached them on the steps. These were the camp followers whose dead husbands’ and fathers’ ashes now floated down to cover them in a fine layer of dust. The majority of the older and hardened officers knew that these creatures would now have to fend for themselves and they ignored their pleas.

In their anxiety to move away quickly from the begging crowd the exiting officers did not stop to notice a small group of uniformed Spanish soldiers remaining behind in a small side-chapel of the church. They waited patiently for the Bishop and his priests to disrobe and leave the sacristy. This they seemed anxious to do as if somehow concerned about being in a church that had up to very recently been a Protestant sanctuary. After an arrangement with the sacristan the Spaniards then barred the doors to ensure privacy. The smell of wax hung in the vaulted vessel and aisles.

Dom Diego de Cardenas, the Grand Commander of the Montaluan in Aragon detachment of the Sant’Iago Order, looked at his officer Knights. The Imperial army’s great victory at Nordlingen had been achieved at some cost to themselves. About 80 of their Order’s number had died in the battle, including two council members. Asking the assembled soldiers to kneel he offered a private prayer for the repose of their comrades departed souls. The chapel remained silent until all had finished and were sitting back in their pews.

Dermico O’Driscoll was the first to speak. “A good victory Dom Diego. Don Fernando will be pleased.”

The Grand Commander sat down wearily on the steps of the chapel altar. “Yes Dom Dermico. However I think we were very lucky. There appears to have been a disagreement on initial tactics between Horn and Saxe-Weimer and although they had the best of the early fighting Horn allowed his cavalry to become separated from the infantry when attacking the hill. It also appears that he lost communication with Saxe-Weimer’s troops at a vital time. This confusion precipitated a retreat right into the path of our troops and the subsequent carnage.” The older man hesitated, wiping the perspiration from his forehead. “The absence of the veteran Protestant regiments -dispatched to the Polish front - also worked in our favour. The Cardinal Infante Fernando and his cousin Ferdinand of Hungary were right to make a stand and although I am not an ardent supporter of Matteo Gallas his handling of the tercios was masterful.” 

They all nodded in agreement. There was silence before Dom Dermico spoke again, “I understand that Horn and about three thousand of his men have been taken prisoner. Gallas will be well rewarded.”

“I hear he has already laid claim to some of Walleistein’s estates,” One of the other Sant’Iago Knights near the back rasped resisting the urge to spit.

Dom Diego looked up at the altar and then back at the others. “The Aulic’s will do everything in their power to prevent that but it is a lesson for us all.The balance of power, gentlemen, is passing from the nobility to men of courage and arrivistes who can marry economic might to military strategy. Almost like the dreaded corsair captains of the high seas, their landlocked warlord counterparts like Walleistein and now Gallas, will bring a far greater influence to bear on all our destinies in years to come.” He paused for a moment. “They will as a matter of course, aspire to the prestige and entitlements of established nobility but these privileges will be gained by force and not birthright. We in the Order must recognise this change and be prepared to adapt. We will only survive as a credible force by constantly harvesting the energies of the moment. History, as we know to our cost, has the ability to await the return of its gifts to any one generation or people.”

All of the Knights grew pensive at these words but just as quickly the senior officer broke the spell. “Dermico. Your musket men were magnificent! You are to be congratulated. Did you lose many?”

O’Driscoll smiled wearily at the compliment. “Unfortunately yes. About 300 all told, mainly the remainder of my Irish troops. I am afraid that the initial attack on the enemy hill ordered by Don Fernando was not in enough force nor well enough supported. We were very exposed and the tactic that we have developed of kneeling between enemy volleys is not very effective when climbing a hill.”

The older man pursed his lips as he nodded his head slowly. “I understand that Juan de Necolalde, our brother Knight and the charge d’affaires in London has arranged for the recruitment and transfer of six thousand Irishmen to Flanders. This was achieved with the help of Sir Thomas Wentworth. He also reports, however, that many of the English, particularly the Londoners, are beginning to object to the passage of armed Catholic soldiers through their territory. I would hope to replenish our tercio with some of these when we arrive there. In addition most of the soldiers taken prisoner today will be conscripted into the Imperial Army.”

Dermico O’Driscoll delighted at the news of possible replacements stood up to congratulate the Grand Commander but the older man held up his hand with a resigned shrug of his shoulders. “It is only a possibility Dom Dermico. The supply of Irish recruits is sure to dwindle as I have no doubt that France is preparing to enter the war soon. Indeed our spies report active recruitment on their part in both Ireland and Scotland.” He paused for a moment, composing his thoughts. “If France does enter the war, we will have Catholics fighting Catholics. The days of Imperial allegiances and wars based on religious divides is waning. You all heard our troops on the field today, in their moment of victory calling out ‘Viva Espana’. Increasingly there are going to be well demarcated national entities and wars will be fought to protect those interests and nothing else. Spain will have to go it alone. I believe . . .” He looked up, interrupted by a loud pounding on the Church door. One of the Knights went to investigate and soon returned accompanied by another. Dom Diego de Cardenas smiled at the latecomer. “Dom Salvador you are most welcome. Give us your report.”

The tall bearded man hesitated for a second as he looked at the gathered Knights before approaching the Grand Commander and to place a small object in his hand. “I was unable to communicate with you before you left on campaign and when I arrived here the battle had already commenced. I can now confirm that the traitor, council member Dom Diego de Haro, is dead. That in your hand is his Calatrava ensigna.”

There was a murmur of surprise from one of the younger Knights present. One, whose rank in the Order, had excluded him from the internal politics. Dom Diego was quick to explain. “Dom Luis. You were not privy to some of our secrets but from this point on, you and Dermico are to be Chevalier Fiscaux and council members of the Sant’Iago Order. I must have your oath of loyalty and silence.”

Both men hastily knelt and vowed their loyalty. The Grand Commander then placed the blood-stained ribbons and ensigna of the rank of Commander of the Sant’Iago Order - taken from the council members who had been killed in the battle - around their necks. 

Dom Diego de Cardenas continued to speak as he lifted Dermico and Dom Luis gently from their knees, “It was the report from Algiers documenting the redemption attempt and subsequent botched assassination on Dom Djivo Slavujovic by the Calatravans, that alerted us to the possibility of such a traitor being in our midst.” He held his Irish commander by the shoulders. “Dermico. Is Dom Djivo still alive? Is there any further news of the search for the Scrolls?”

Dermico tried to compose his thoughts and the others became uneasy at the undue delay. “I am sorry Sir. Dom Djivo has not been seen in Algiers since May when the Galleys put to sea. I do not know whether he is alive or dead nor do we have any further information on the Scrolls whereabouts.”

Dom Diego released his hold on Dermico and shrugged his own shoulders in a resigned fashion. “We will pick up their trail again once this war is over. That is our immediate priority. For my part, I am returning to Spain. The Order must be protected from its enemies within the corridors of power, particularly Calatrava. Remember my brave brother Knights, we must learn to bend with the winds of change. Dom Salvador you will take command of the tercio.”

The bearded tall knight bowed deeply. “It is a great honour you bestow on me. I will not fail you.”

The Grand Commander smiled benignly before continuing, “Dom Dermico I have a special mission for you. Please remain behind. To you others I offer my profound appreciation for your endeavours. Return to your troops. Reorganise and serve Dom Salvador as well as you served me. May God and Saint James protect you all.” De Cardenas embraced each man warmly before they kissed his ring and left the church. Dermico remained seated and silent, wondering what was in store for him. Once everybody had departed the older man closed the doors and came and sat down beside him. They both were looking at the altar. “Dermico, I did not want to say it in front of the others but there is a possibility that we may have another lead to the Scrolls. The Emperor mentioned the name of a man who might be of some help. I need you to go to Constantinople to follow through on this matter and have arranged for you to be attached to a papal delegation that is leaving from Genoa on a Ragusan vessel in three days. . .” De Cardenas was suddenly distracted by a pigeon landing on the altar.

Dermico waited. 'Who is this man?' he wondered.

©R.Derham 2001,2009