EMILIA, OF COURSE, did not come with us; Othello had relented publicly for sport but called me to his quarters the next day to tell me the hard truth of the matter. I, with a confusing mix of emotions I was not proud of, informed Emilia that she would stay behind.
THE TURKS HAD taken Rhodes from the Knights Hospitaller back in 1522. Venice had briefly laid claim to some of its neighboring islands over the years, but Rhodes itself had never been a stronghold for us. Othello had convinced the whole of the government that the Venetian Empire was well defended from the Turks except for the threat of Turkish Rhodes, and thus by taking Rhodes we would become indefinitely secure. My own five years of idleness on Terraferma was an excellent example of why we did not need so much of our manpower to the west of Venice, despite the simmering resentment and envy of the rest of Europe. So the mass of the army was to be redirected toward protecting Stato da Màr, the maritime half of Venice’s great empire.
Besides which, ridding Rhodes of Turks was good for the whole of Christendom. Upon this argument, Othello and the Senate had already convinced the papal army, the French, and even the Holy Roman Emperor to send their forces too. By the time Othello had claimed me as his ensign, his plan was already in place, and we were waiting for the seasonal winds that would allow the plan to work.
His plan called for the Venetian navy to transport the Venetian army to the southern tip of Rhodes, the farthest point from the capital city and its impenetrable fortress on the barbed northern coast. The Turks, knowing we were coming, would send men both overland toward us and also in ships around either side of the island, to get us in a pincer either while we were still at sea, or just as we reached shore. At this point, most of the combined forces of the rest of Christendom would appear on the western horizon as our backup, with the exception of the Holy Roman Emperor’s fleet. This had already set sail and was traveling innocuously far to the south of Rhodes, under rumor they had Levantine scores to settle. Othello’s plan called for them to pass Rhodes entirely, then abruptly circle back and besiege the capital city up north, while it was conveniently underprotected because its garrison was mostly in the south fighting us.
WE HAD REACHED the southern tip of arid, rocky Rhodes and sent half the army to settle on a pedunculated islet attached by a land bridge to Rhodes proper. Othello took command of these forces, leaving the admiral of the navy to strategize the naval component of the fighting. From our camp we could be attacked from nearly every side, but in turn, we could attack easily with artillery through a full 360 degrees.
As Othello’s ablest gunman and his new right hand, it was my duty to establish where among the sun-bleached crags the guns should be set up, the gunners and cannons both, and then to see to it that appropriate powder, shot, and match went where it was meant to go. I did all this efficiently; Othello was pleased, and I delighted, that I seemed to have a preternatural ability to anticipate his next requirement or tactic. We worked together so well that he often entirely ignored his aging lieutenant, Zuane da Porto.
Zuane was the tallest soldier I had ever known. Long, lanky limbs, a mop of grey hair, and a nose as fierce as an eagle’s beak, he struck me as an aging wild feline who would sooner sleep than fight; but he had in his day been capable of impressive feats. I do not mean to question his honor or integrity, but I think he must have “fallen upward” into his position through family connections. He was competent but lacked all drive or ambition. Da Porto, from what I could tell, was looking forward to retirement more than he was looking forward to engaging with the Turks, and so he was just as grateful as I was that Othello and I seemed almost to share one mind.
BOTH TURKISH ATTACKS—naval and overland—came nearly within the very hour Othello had anticipated, in precisely the formations he’d predicted. The first thing you learn in the heat of battle is that nothing you learn outside the heat of battle, about the heat of battle, is worth a damn. In training you learn strategy and tactics; in real life, it is more about improvisation than anyone will ever admit. The improvisation may be informed by years of training, but it is improvisation all the same.
Our first round of artillery did astounding damage to the enemy, and for the first time in my life I saw what gunpowder and shot could do to human beings. Hardly one man in twelve of the Turkish infantry got as far as the land bridge, where our own infantry was waiting with bows and swords to prevent them coming closer.
In the sea we were not as effective: we wounded many vessels but did not destroy any; our navy set upon theirs but was rebuked in turn by their fire. This was not a great concern to us, for we knew France and the papal army were imminently coming to our aid. So focused was Othello on the ground warfare that it was not until nearly sunset that he realized how very tardy our backup was. The Venetian navy was nearing exhaustion for it.
AS THE HEAVENS darkened that first night of the siege, the Turkish ships backed away and headed slightly north. It was clear they would make anchor and then disgorge their manpower to meet ours on land; they had done enough damage to our navy. To my ears this was very bad news, but Othello fairly beamed with confidence when it was reported to him.
“The delay of the French and the papal forces will prove to our advantage,” he informed his captains (and myself and his lieutenant, the two officers who never left his side). We huddled together in the cool night, around a fire pit outside the command tent, where most of us would sleep. Evening insects of springtime sang and echoed all around us, indifferent to the havoc of war-crazed humanity. I found their presence oddly reassuring. “The Turk has now been conned into believing it is only us. They think there is nobody but us to vanquish. And so, when our allies surprise them—as I am sure they will at sunup—they will all be exposed and unready all along the shore, with no time even to set up their own defensive artillery. Our allies will annihilate what is left of their navy, which is now mostly unmanned ships. This is a fortuitous development.”
HE LIKELY WOULD have been right about that, if the French and papal ships had arrived. But they did not. Ever. In the ferocious fighting that followed all that day, I bitterly imagined them cheerfully snug at port in Marseilles or Genoa, their men all drunkenly toasting the demise of Venice’s navy. Perhaps some of them toasted also to the health of the Holy Roman Emperor’s army, should it indeed take Rhodes City. But in my enraged imagination, few of them cared much about that part of the plan: the important thing was that the armed forces of their powerful neighbor Venice would end up in tatters, having been gulled into a battle we could not win alone.
IT WAS LATE afternoon on the second day of engagement, and we were in trouble. We were nearly out of powder and completely out of arrows; what was left of our navy managed to protect the army from seaward attacks, but there were few such attacks anyhow, as now most of their fire and steel was attacking us on land. We had cornered ourselves on our rocky hillock, barely keeping the Turks from reaching the land bridge. The smell of blood and pus and oozing bone marrow, the mud that’s made of human innards being ground into grass and clay . . . there is no training to prepare anyone for this. The roar that never ends, that is both fear and ferocity, that is fire and steel and humanity and horses (the Turks had horses) and livestock—Othello was startlingly unmoved by these horrors, being used to them for many years. I was horrified for hours, then numb, and then enraged.
The general and I were in the command tent, on the highest crag of the islet. We were both covered in grime and dirt and dust and other men’s blood. The maps and charts were forgotten now; this was not the battle he had planned. “All those lives are on my conscience,” he said softly, without guilt, staring out the tent flap at the front. “Somewhere, if not here, we must have a victory that justifies all the tears that mothers and the wives will shed for this.”
“We must have a victory against our damned allies!” I hissed furiously, collecting the diagrams from the tactics table. Othello looked at me, the black eyes calm in their remarkably white orbs.
“Iago, we do not know that they are foresworn. You must not hurl accusations without proof. We have no proof. They may appear on the horizon any moment, although we shan’t assume it now. We must retreat while doing the greatest damage to the enemy on the way and preserving ourselves as well as possible.” He saw the color rise in my face. “Are you thinking, my young ensign, that you are shamed not to see victory in your first engagement as an officer?”
“I’m thinking many things,” I said tersely and placed the collected diagrams into a chest. “That is one of them.”
“I think rather you have learned more than most men do in a whole lifetime of soldiering,” he said, in an almost paternal tone. “When there is time for reflection, when we are safely aboard ship and bound west back to Venice, you and I will sit in my cabin and drink excellent wine, and you will tell me at least seven things you know now that you did not know three days ago.” He held out his hand. “Are we agreed?”
His calm and confidence were contagious. I took his hand. I would follow this man anywhere. “Provided we are both alive and there is a boat to carry us,” I said.
“Well now there must needs be, we have just shaken on it!” the general said, with something like a chuckle. He released my hand and patted my arm. “Come along, I will show you how to make a proper retreat.”