And what of my Turk? As I have mentioned, the Hospitaller knights had taken him aboard their galleys. We were on the beaches of Lesvos, the isle, I am assured, of a brilliant and beautiful poetess whose descendants Nerio was pursuing closely, when I had time to go visit my Turk. The Hospitallers were drawn up close to us on the long golden beach under a tall and equally golden headland. They had a number of brothers who were very good doctors, and Fra Jacob, an older German doctor, had taken him in hand. He spoke to my man for some time and then turned to me.
‘He’s not a Turk – did you know that? He says he is a Kipchak. Do you know the word? The Genoese sell them to the Egyptians as slave soldiers. Superb archers.’ He rolled back the sleeve on the man’s linen shirt to show me a host of tribal tattoos.
‘Moslem?’ I asked.
They talked in low tones. Eventually Fra Jacob shrugged. ‘More Moslem than anything else, though I think his notions of spirits would puzzle the Caliph.’
I told him of meeting the Kipchaks – the ambassador – at the court of the Emperor at Krakow.
Fra Jacob raised an eyebrow, said a few words to my captive, and the man groaned and then laughed. He was not dead, and that was something, but he could not be troubled long. I sent him fruit from the town, and a chicken, and some wine – which I should have known no Moslem would drink.
The town was crowned with a fortress so ancient that the peasants claimed it featured in The Iliad, and the hill was called ‘Watchful’ in the local tongue. The fortress at the top was commanded by an English knight who had served at Poitiers, and we had good cheer for three days while the fleet scraped their hulls and loaded water and food. I was surprised to find an Englishman on the coast of Asia – I began to think that we were everywhere.
Sir John laughed. ‘The Gattelussi – you know them? Lord Francis is prince of this island and a good friend of the Emperor.’ He nodded, enjoying his master’s reflected glory. ‘He hires us in Italy.’
Indeed, Sir John Partner had as many Genoese and Pisans and Bretons as he did Britons, but for all that his little garrison had an English air. There were men there I knew, at least by sight, and it was pleasant to speak English, although less so to climb to the fortress.
The last day in Lesvos, Fra Jacob led me to the man again. ‘He’s making a good recovery,’ Fra Jacob said. ‘Which I attribute to sea air and divine intervention. There should have been the usual sepsis followed by death, but in this case, a week on, and with the original lesion closing? I have to believe he may recover.’ Fra Jacob paused. ‘He has indicated to me that if he recovers, he will convert.’
I grinned. A soul saved is a soul saved, and it is always a benison to have a good deed rewarded.
‘Will you keep him?’ Fra Jacob asked.
I shrugged. ‘I assume he knows horses. I could use a page. So yes. I won’t make him a slave – I’m not a Genoese.’ I laughed.
Jacob spoke to the Turk – I thought of him as a Turk, and they were speaking Turkish. The man grinned and nodded at me.
‘He offers you two years and two days of his life as ransom,’ Fra Jacob said.
I gripped his hand.
Fra Jacob nodded. ‘I’ll keep him in this hammock until we reach Rhodos. We’ll baptise him if he lives, and by the time we raise the island, I’ll have taught him a little Italian.’ He nodded. ‘You are one of our volunteers?’ he asked.
I bowed and agreed that I was.
He smiled. ‘Enjoy Rhodes,’ he said. ‘You’ve had an encounter with Fra Daniele?’ he asked carefully.
I nodded.