The Forging of Fantom Read online

  It was a masterly piece of seamanship and one which merited heartfelt thanks both to God and our rescuers. But the fact of my companions still showed nothing but despair. And beside me Priuli uttered a word even more fearful than bora. Uskoks!

  These Uskoks were the most feared gang of sea-brigands in the Adriatic. Though some of them claimed to be servants of Christ in His war against the ungodly and even had priests fee’d to bless their expeditions (and share their booty!), yet they showed little religious discrimination in their pillaging. Indeed since the Serene Republic had made its peace with the Ottomans, these Uskoks were as ferocious towards Venetian merchants as they were to the Turks.

  But the peril I had been saved from was still hot in my mind and that which I approached had not yet begun to burn, so all I felt as the galley drew us into the lea of a small island was a mighty relief. I watched with grateful admiration the manner in which the Uskok captain, a tall blond man with a huge tangle of reddish beard, managed his ship. His lieutenants called him Godislav and obeyed his sharp, precise orders instantly. I was well satisfied to have fallen into the hands of such a saviour.

  Not until the ship was safely hove to in a sheltered cove did Captain Godislav pay the slightest attention to Papa Priuli and his crew who, to tell the truth, behaved as if hobgoblins had boarded their craft, not pirates. Not a weapon was drawn. None of them showed even the courage of despair, but scuttled into dark corners like wood-lice whom the peasant’s matlock has exposed to the bright sun. Only Mustafa Aziz stood unchanged and defiant before these newcomers, and I felt at the same time proud of him and ashamed that it was a heathen who was showing Christians how to behave. But here if anywhere, I believed in my childish innocence, was the example to follow. I drew myself up alongside Hassan and together we emulated his father’s pose.

  This seemed the right move, for the blond Godislav, taking his ease now against the ship’s mast, smiled on us as if in approval then addressed himself to Mustafa.

  ‘Old man,’ he said courteously. ‘This is your lucky day. Will you take this chance to embrace the true faith, kiss our Saviour’s cross, and die like a Christian in the happy surety of God’s grace and the life to come?’

  ‘There is one God, Allah is his name and Mohammed is his Prophet,’ intoned Mustafa magnificently.

  ‘Is it so?’ said Godislav. ‘None the less, I shall baptize you. Repentance may come beyond human hearing, and I should hate you to be unprepared for it. Pastor Jaraj, will you take this child to the font?’

  Grinning broadly, there stepped forward a huge fellow who had seemed to be Godislav’s chief lieutenant in the attack. As black as his captain was fair, he must have weighed another five stone, and he seized Mustafa like a sack of wool, hauled him to the edge of the deck and bound a length of rope round his legs.

  I begun to feel distinctly uneasy. This was the oddest looking pastor I had ever seen.

  Now Black Jaraj measured the rope carefully before tying the other end to a stanchion.

  ‘Tell me, old man,’ said Godislav. ‘By what name would you like to be received into the bosom of Holy Mother Church? How about John?’

  ‘Let me cut his balls off and call him Joan!’ suggested Jaraj. The crew roared with laughter. Mustafa screwed his head round and spat into the tangle of black beard which almost hid the lieutenant’s face.

  ‘Thou swill of defiled flesh,’ the old man sneered. ‘What can such a thing as thou art do to a man? I defy your worst. Look on and marvel, Christian curs. For now you shall see how the Faithful die!’

  It was still magnificent, but it was beginning to dawn on me that imitation was a most arrogant form of applause. It would be more fitting for one so young to clap politely, at a distance. I tried to take a step back but Hassan seized my arm most powerfully just above the elbow and I knew he would break it if I moved.

  For a moment Godislav’s response sounded more hopeful.

  ‘So, you are obdurate,’ he said. ‘Well, I know how to respect one who has the courage to die in his faith, however misled. Let him preserve the trappings of his revolting creed!’

  ‘Are we not to remove his turban for the baptism, captain?’ demanded Jaraj.

  ‘Nay, you heard me. Show him respect. His turban is a mark of his religion. I would not have it come off, not for the world,’ proclaimed Godislav. ‘I will flog the man who unseats that turban!’

  To my surprise this most liberal of sentiments was greeted by mocking laughter from his crew. I soon saw why.

  ‘Then let us fix it!’ cried the sailor. ‘Master carpenter!’

  Forward stepped a long, thin blackamoor, his teeth gleaming white in a fearful smile. In his right hand he held a huge mallet, in his left a long metal nail. I knew what he was going to do but I could not believe it. Towering over Mustafa, he placed the nail against the peak of his turban and with one mighty blow drove it through the folds of cloth and the calpac into the top of his head.

  Mustafa shrieked. The blackamoor struck again. Again the shriek. Now I believed, and would have leapt over the side of the ship had not Hassan’s grip still held me like a vice. I guess the poor fellow was petrified with fear and hardly knew what he was doing. How I longed to be back on land and bothered by nothing more than his lecherous caress!

  The mallet was up again, but Godislav raised his hand.

  ‘Be careful, carpenter! He must not die before he has been baptized. Slay the flesh, but do not destroy the soul. Into the font!’

  Mustafa must have had two inches of steel in his brain, but still he lived, though no sound now came from between those twisted lips.

  Jaraj picked him up like a baby, blasphemously intoned, ‘In nomine Patrii, Filii et Spiritui Sancti’, and tossed him over the side. The length of the rope had been judged so that the dying man’s head was just at water level and as the ship rolled in the still turbulent seas, he was now plunged beneath, now dangled above the surface.

  ‘Well, that’s the slimy bullfrog back in his element,’ said Godislav. ‘What shall we do with these tadpoles?’

  I did not wait for suggestions but with one convulsive heave dragged myself free from Hassan, tore my turban from my head, hurled it over the side and dropped on my knees before the blond Uskok.

  ‘Sir,’ I cried. ‘God be praised for my deliverance and for his mercy in making you His instrument!’

  ‘Hear this, lads!’ shouted Godislav. ‘Was there ever before so rapid a conversion? Nay, I swear Damascus road itself never saw one so rapid!’

  His infamous crew all hooted with laughter and I had to wait till it began to fade before saying indignantly, ‘No conversion, sir! I am no heathen, but a Christian born and baptized and as sincere a member of the True Church as any here assembled!’

  If ever I spoke truth, that was it! I thought as I looked around this motley gang of cut-throats. They all had that air of wildness, of excitement, of gaiety almost, which I have come to recognize as the mark of fighting men who have passed beyond profit into pleasure. God preserve me from such!

  God preserve me from noble Turks, too, for suddenly my loving friend Hassan stuck his heathen oar in.

  ‘Cowardly wretch!’ he cried. ‘Will you betray your God through base fear? Think of our father’s example and show these Christian swine how men die!’

  ‘You please yourself, Hassan,’ I screeched at him. ‘They’ve seen how men die. I’m going to show ’em how men live!’

  Unfortunately, without thinking I had replied to Hassan in his own language which, as I’ve said, I now spoke so idiomatically as to be indistinguishable from a native. I could see that Godislav had spotted this too, for now he leaned forward and said quietly, ‘Well, boy, tell your story swiftly or I shall swiftly find a new turban for your miserable head.’

  ‘Sir!’ I cried. ‘Believe me, I am a Christian child, one of those taken by the tyrant Turk as part of the devshirme, to train as a janizary and force into their foul faith. But, praise God for his mercies, I was devout beyond my years a
nd, while out of fear for my body I pretended to be converted, out of fear for my soul I secretly carried on all the inward observances of my faith and the dear Lord rewarded my piety by letting the heathen advance me to a position of trust which I was able to use to escape from that dreadful academy. I made my way to Zara where I found employment in the household of that miserable creature who now dangles over the side of this ship. This service I used in order to obtain passage to a Christian country. Once safe in Venice, I would have cast off these polluted garments, as now I do’ (here I removed my cattan to the accompaniment of much lewd mockery) ‘and sought absolution for the grievous sins I have committed by simple association during this dreadful time.’

  I thought I’d put my case well and so did Hassan for suddenly he burst out in a tirade of abuse which smothered all other noise till the blackamoor clapped his huge hand over the youth’s mouth. Unfortunately by then Hassan had said enough to call my whole story in doubt. So furious was he at what must have seemed an unprincipled betrayal of his faith that he embellished the story of our acquaintance, now claiming that I was in fact a member of the family, a cousin with whom he had been acquainted for years! I was shocked beyond belief by these fabrications. It struck me then, as before and since, that these Turks do not hold anywhere near to the same standards of truth as we Christians.

  ‘So, boy,’ said Godislav. ‘Who am I to believe?’

  It seemed to me to be no-contest, but before I could urge my case again, he held up his hand and, smiling broadly, said, ‘If you speak truth and were one of these devshirme children trained up as a janizary for their heathen army …’

  ‘By the Holy Cross, I swear it!’ I cried.

  ‘… if this be so,’ he continued, ‘then you will be expert in their arms, for they put these recruits at exercise from an early age, do they not?’

  ‘On arrival, almost!’ I agreed, eager to display my totally spurious familiarity with the system. ‘Oh monstrous! to train Christian souls in arms for use against their fellows!’

  He seemed pleased by this pious sentiment and, nodding approval, went on, ‘Then the solution is clear. This man, though you be in his company and in his garments, is no relation of yours, nor even of your faith. And though he is somewhat larger and stronger than you, yet he lacks your training in the art of weaponry. So on no count should you be either unwilling or afraid to fight him. Am I right?’

  What could I say? I looked into Hassan’s eyes which glared at me fiercely over the blackamoor’s fingers and then at the mallet which dangled loosely from the blackamoor’s other hand. Dumbly I nodded my agreement.

  ‘Release him!’ commanded Godislav. ‘Bring forth such weapons as this boy will be familiar with.’

  Rapidly two huge and ornately wrought scimitars were produced. I shuddered to think of the fate of their previous owners. Then I saw Hassan’s face as he picked up and balanced his weapon and I had no time to spare worrying about others. I had seen his prowess with the scimitar and knew that he would have one of my limbs off within a minute of the fight starting.

  ‘Take your weapon,’ Godislav commanded.

  ‘Nay,’ I said. ‘I will not.’

  ‘What?

  ‘I swore an oath to God when I fled that place, that never again should these hands touch this unclean metal,’ I declared.

  It was weak, but the best I could do. Godislav grinned.

  ‘Most pious,’ he said. ‘Then here, you shall fight the heathen with a Christian weapon.’

  And so saying he drew his own sword and put it into my hands.

  It was a typical sailor’s weapon, a kind of cutlass, short, broad-bladed, made for hacking rather than stabbing, and no match against a scimitar wielded by an expert.

  But there was no time for further protest or trickery. The blackamoor shoved Hassan towards me and the battle was on!

  The full scimitar is a two-handed weapon and requires great strength in the forearm and particularly in the wrist to wield it. The basic pass is a simple scything stroke moving obliquely down from shoulder-height across the chest and upper abdomen. Here, in the hands of a novice like me, the sheer weight of the weapon carries it still further, often dragging the user with it and leaving him completely open to counter-attack. Hassan, on the other hand, was strong and expert enough to be able to turn the downward swing at hip-height and use the impetus to carry the blade back to shoulder-height and then repeat the pass along the other diagonal. This figure-of-eight action performed at speed creates the impression of a continuous band of sharp and shining steel spinning between you and your antagonist.

  My only hope, non-existent if I’d been lugging one of those huge swords around with me, was to keep out of his way till he got tired and then hope to get one clean thrust with the cutlass.

  With just the two of us, fighting in an open field, I might have managed it, but here on a small deck, made even smaller by the press of spectators eager for blood, it was clearly impossible. I dodged to left and to right; I jumped, I scampered, I crawled; I ran backwards at great speed; but there was nowhere to hide. Every time I reached that tight circle of bellowing Uskoks they pushed me back towards Hassan with murderous glee.

  Finally I was trapped. The scimitar whirred. I parried the stroke with my cutlass, but only at the expense of having that poor inadequate weapon dashed from my hand. The scimitar rose again and I closed my eyes. What the future might have held for me, I did not know. I had never aspired to ambitions beyond my next hot meal! Naturally during my time with Mustafa I had not touched pig and now absurdly the image which filled my perilous soul was of a shank of pork, succulent and aromatic from the spit.

  I waited for the whirr of the descending blade.

  ‘Hold!’ cried a voice.

  I opened my eyes. The blade still hung above me. But Hassan was regarding Godislav who had produced a large flintlock pistol.

  ‘The child must not die without making his peace,’ said the captain sternly. ‘Boy, to your prayers!’

  I dropped on my knees and addressed myself to the Almighty, begging forgiveness for my sins. The list was not long, in all conscience, but I span it out as best I could, partly to postpone the descent of the scimitar, I confess, but also because it seemed foolish not to pare purgatory down as much as possible while I had the chance.

  But all bad things come to an end and eventually I dribbled into silence.

  ‘Finished?’ said Godislav. ‘Then the Lord have mercy on your soul.’

  If I had been in a fit state to say what I expected next, I suppose it would have been something like a blare of trumpets and a terrible blinding light. Instead my entrance to the next world was heralded by a huge explosion and a splatter of warm liquid across my bowed head.

  Then my arm was seized and I was dragged upright.

  I opened my eyes. At my feet lay Hassan with a hole in his chest. By my side was Godislav with a smoking pistol in his hand. I touched my face. My fingers came away bloody, but I knew it was not my own and I felt weak with gratitude.

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ I stammered to Godislav.

  ‘Thank your stars, or your wit, that you prayed to the right God in the right language,’ said the Uskok.

  When he released my arm to go about his business, I slumped down to the deck once more beside the body of my former friend. I was shivering violently at the thought that, had it been a Turk instead of a Christian holding the pistol, I would still have prayed as I did.

  I learned two things that day: that a man is lost only when he admits he is lost. And that blood is terrible only when it is your own.

  3

  DURING the next few weeks I began to realize how fortunate we had been to fall into the hands of this particular Uskok band. The important thing was that Godislav was not, like most of his band, an exiled Bosnian, but of some other nationality, I knew not what. But I gathered from various hints that he had been a passenger in a ship taken by Turkish corsairs and had spent over a year chained to a galley oar before being
rescued in his turn by a Uskok raid. So strong had his desire for vengeance been that he had joined the Uskok band and rapidly risen to its leadership by virtue of his courage, skill in arms, and the ferocity of his hatred.

  Fortunately Godislav did not share the other great Uskok hate, that against Venice, though he observed the forms of it and had no compunction about attacking Venetian (or indeed anyone’s!) shipping. So instead of sending Papa Priuli to join poor old Mustafa, Godislav merely made him pull on an oar till we reached their land-base where he was locked up with another two or three Venetian prisoners. The crew, Black Jaraj in particular, grumbled at this clemency, but Godislav pacified them with promises of the large ransom he would demand for the return of his captives to their families.

  There were many other foreign mercenaries amongst the Uskok force, but few had arisen to such a position of leadership as Godislav. I was as grateful as Papa Priuli for his protection. Not that anyone existed who would pay a ransom for my poor body, but Godislav seemed amused by my presence and seemed content to let me act as his personal cabin boy.

  The main Uskok land-base was the area round the Croatian port of Senj. There were several thousand of them and on occasion they would fight as a single body under a single leader who at this particular time was a Serb, known familiarly as Majmun or Monkey. I saw him once in the city and recognized how apt was the name. But this little wizened-faced man with the melancholy expression had a reputation to make even Godislav bow out of his path.

  For the most part, however, the Uskoks plundered and pirated in small individual bands, living apart and regarding each other with fraternal distrust.

  Godislav’s band occupied a small settlement to the north of Senj. Built overlooking the ocean, in a cleft of the Velebit where spinneys of dull cypress seemed bright against the grey of the mountains, it combined the advantages of defensibility and access to the sea. A sheltered cove with a sandy beach permitted the shallow-draughted Uskok craft to be run ashore, while only a few metres out a sudden shelving of the seabed gave depth enough for ships like Papa Priuli’s to be anchored while their goods were discharged.