Sword and Scimitar

He passed the last of the grisly trophies and rode into the fort, followed by his men. The clop of the horses’ hooves echoed off the pitted walls surrounding the courtyard.

Thomas cleared his throat. ‘Who has the standard?’

‘I do, sir,’ one of the sergeants replied.

‘Then dismount and follow me.’ Thomas released his reins and slid from the back of his mount. He looked up at Richard. ‘Send two men with good eyesight to the top of the ridge. I want to know what Mustafa Pasha is up to. He can’t have finished embarking his men already. Also, they’re to look out for any sign of the relief force. Is that clear?’

Richard nodded.

‘Then search the fort. They may have left someone behind, their wounded, a prisoner perhaps. If so, we might gain a better grasp of what the Turks are up to.’

Thomas gestured to the sergeant to follow him and then made his way across the courtyard to the entrance of the main tower. Behind him he heard Richard giving his orders in a muted tone. It was understandable. Both of them had seen the full horrors of the bitter fighting for possession of St Elmo and it was as if the ghosts of all those who had died here were looking on in silence. When Thomas reached the top of the staircase and emerged on to the tower he saw at once that the flagstaff raised by the enemy had been stripped of the Turkish ba

‘Raise our colours, Sergeant. If there are still Turks on the island then let them know that St Elmo is ours again.’

‘Yes, sir,’ The sergeant took the tightly folded flag from his haversack and approached the base of the mast. He worked quickly to attach the Order’s standard to the halyard and when all was ready he raised it up the pole. The light breeze that blew across the harbour caused the red cloth to billow slightly. A moment later Thomas could hear the faint sound of cheering from across the water and saw the garrison of St Angelo waving their arms in jubilation. Already, boats were setting off across the harbour, loaded with men, their equipment and a few days’ rations to sustain them through the endgame of the siege. He turned to look down at the comer of the fort where he and his men had endured the bom-bardment and faced the fire and steel of the enemy day after day. He felt a stab of pain as he fixed his attention on the spot where Colonel Mas and Captain Miranda had faced the last assault, propped up on chairs, holding true to their promise to defend St Elmo to the last.

‘Sir, look there.’ The sergeant was shielding his eyes and squinting to the north. Thomas joined him. In the shimmering haze of the distance a cloud of dust hung over the dry countryside in the direction of Mdina, stirred up by the passage of a large body of men. ‘Who are they?’ asked the sergeant. ‘Ours, or theirs?’

Thomas clenched his jaw. ‘It’s the Turks. They’re moving against Mdina.’ He tried to gauge their numbers from the cloud of dust that surrounded the main column. ‘They must have every available man under arms. It looks like the Grand Master might have been mistaken about the relief force.’

The sergeant spat over the side of the tower. ‘If Don Garcia hasn’t landed, the enemy will take Mdina, sir. There’re no two ways about it. The food supplies there might be enough for them to return to Birgu and starve us out.’

‘Then we’d better hope that Mdina holds out,’ Thomas said. The hope that had been building inside him began to fade. He turned his gaze away from the dust cloud and stared out to sea. A faint haze covered the water a mile offshore but he could just make out the masts and sails of the Turkish fleet steering towards the northern tip of the island. ‘They’re making for St Paul’s Bay. We shall know the reason for it soon enough. Stay here and keep watch. If the enemy column changes direction then come and find me in the courtyard. If the Turks decide to re-occupy St Elmo then we’ll need to quit the fort in good time.’

The sergeant nodded and Thomas left him on the tower and descended to the square. As he stepped out of the tower and into the glare of the sun, he shielded his eye and glanced round. Two of his men were holding the reins of the horses and had retreated to the narrow strip of shadow along one of the walls. Richard emerged from the chapel and Thomas beckoned to him.

‘Remove those.’ He pointed up the ramp at the impaled heads. ‘Take them down and place them in the chapel for now. They can be given a proper burial later.’

Richard did not move but stared at the heads for a moment before he turned back to face his father. ‘We should let them stay there. So that our people understand the true nature of the Turks.’

‘No,’ Thomas said firmly. ‘We must remove them. They are an affront to humanity.’

Richard laughed bitterly. ‘This entire struggle is an affront to humanity. Let the heads act as a reminder of that for now. They are the real fruits of war. Let that be the lesson for all those who see them so that they know what war has made of us.’

Thomas paused before he replied gently, ‘You think to teach our men the terrible cost that has been paid here? They already know,

my son. Their hearts are filled with the tragedy of it. What is the purpose of letting them see this fresh atrocity? It will only inflame them further. They will thirst for revenge and their violence can only beget more violence.’

‘Then let it be so. Until the world is purged of Islam.’

A leaden despair weighed Thomas down as he beheld the disfiguring, dark rage in his son’s expression. ‘Richard, at some point we must put an end to such conflict, else it will put an end to us. Can you not see that?’

Richard looked down and responded in a strained tone. ‘I can see it right well but I ca

‘Don’t waste the rest of your life hating. There are better things to embrace. It has taken me too long to learn that. I would not have you repeat my failings, Richard.’ He rested a hand on his son’s shoulder. ‘Help me to remove them, please.’

Richard’s lips pressed into a tight line but when he looked up, he nodded. Thomas ordered the other men to continue searching the fort and then the two of them made their way up into the breach to the first of the heads. Thomas paused in front of it briefly and waved his hand to ward off the flies, and the air filled with a disturbed droning. Now, at close quarters, he could recognise enough of the features to know who it was.

‘Captain Miranda

For a moment his mind filled with an image of the lively Spaniard who had inspired his men to fight on against impossible odds: Miranda, sword in hand, sun glinting off his blade and armour as he shouted his defiance at the enemy. Then the image faded and there was nothing left but the shrunken discoloured remnant in front of Thomas. He took a deep breath and reached out with both hands.

A clatter of hoofbeats caused him to turn and he saw one of the men he had sent up to the ridge riding hard across the open ground towards the fort. Temporarily abandoning the unpleasant task he was about to perform, Thomas strode down the ramp with Richard at his side. The rider reined in at the last moment, spraying grit and dust into the air. He thrust his arm to the north as his report spilled from his lips.

‘The relief force has come, sir! There, towards Naxxar. They are deploying to give battle.’

Thomas felt his pulse quicken at the news. ‘How many men?’ The soldier estimated quickly. ‘Seven, perhaps eight thousand.’

‘Eight thousand?’ Thomas’s brow creased with concern. ‘And the enemy?’

‘Twice their number, sir.’

Still the odds favoured the Turks, Thomas reflected anxiously. But set against that, the men in the relief force would be fresh, unlike their weary, famished enemy.

‘There are boats putting out from St Angelo,’ he said to the rider. ‘Ride down to the shore and take one back across the harbour and tell the Grand Master all that you have seen.’