THE SPEAR OF LEPANTO
A Renaissance Adventure
Featuring the early exploits of Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra
Book One – The Papal Prize
Book Two – The Beast Comes Forth
by Leon J. Radomile
The Spear of Lepanto is an epic two-part tale of adventure, romance, and heroism, vividly bringing the distant past to life. Set in the 16th century, the story is about a quest for an enigmatic relic (the Spear of Longinus) that Saint Pope Pius V believes will decide the fate of Christian Europe. Only a brokered alliance forced by the Holy See between Spain and Venice can give Europe a fighting chance against the invincible Ottoman Turks, who plan to seize Rome as a stepping-stone for the total domination of Europe. One of the novel’s central characters is a youthful Miguel de Cervantes, who joins a special group formed by Saint Pope Pius V and the Knights of St. John to recover an ancient relic of great power from the Turks in Constantinople. The group sets out aboard a stunning new sailing vessel built from a recently recovered design by Leonardo da Vinci. On the way, they confront blind ambition and savagery far beyond any they had ever imagined. Fasten your seatbelt and take a deep breath, you are about to enter the year 1570.
Smashwords Edition
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Expanded & Revised Second Edition
Published on Smashwords by:
Vincerò Enterprises
490 Marin Oaks Drive
Novato, California 94949-5667
www.myheritageculture.com
e-mail – heritage1492@earthlink.net
The Spear of Lepanto
Copyright 2011 by Leon J. Radomile
ISBN 978-1-4524-9114-1
Cover design by Greg Brown
Abalone Design Group
abalonedesign.com
Greenbrae, California 94904
Art illustrations by Greg Brown
All rights reserved. Brief quotations may be used in critical articles and reviews. For any other reproductions of this book, illustrations and photographs, including electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or other means, written permission must be given by the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. All the characters in this book other than those recorded in history are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
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About the Author
Leon J. Radomile has had a life-long love of history and his Italian heritage. His family genealogical research was the spark that propelled him forward to write this renaissance period adventure based on the momentous 1571 Battle of Lepanto. A graduate of the University of San Francisco with a degree in history, Radomile resides with his wife Lanette in Marin County California. Married since 1975, they have two daughters, Lea and Alexandra and two granddaughters, Ashlan and Stella.
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Other books by Leon J. Radomile
Heritage Italian-American Style 1st Edition
Heritage Italian-American Style/Patrimonio Italo Americano Bilingual 2nd Edition
Heritage Hispanic-American Style/Patrimonio Hispanoamericano Bilingual Edition
www.myheritageculture.co
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PRAISE FOR: THE SPEAR OF LEPANTO
“The book contains all the elements of a great epic. If the book were written in the 1940s, surely Hollywood would have made it into a matinee movie starring the likes of Tyrone Power or Errol Flynn.”
PRIMO magazine, Truby Chiaviello
“Historical fiction the way it ought to be! If you have tired of run-of-the-mill fiction and light, low calorie, actioners, then you should pick up The Spear of Lepanto - it might just be the best read you’ll have all year.”
Nicholas Prata, author of Angels in Iron and Dream of Fire
“Religious turmoil, savagery, violence and deceit, all contribute to an exciting and fast paced tale. A great book for history buffs and fans of historical fiction.”
Shirley Roe, Midwest Book Review
What readers have said about The Spear of Lepanto:
“When I finished The Spear of Lepanto Book One, it was exciting for me to hear that author Leon J. Radomile was working on Book Two. I had made such a connection with all of the characters and I wanted to see more. See is the operative word as Radomile’s writing style allows the reader to see the characters in action; to visualize the drama as it unfolds; and to imagine life as it may have been from 1570 to 1580.
“The voyage and the intrigue that surrounds the effort to recapture the Spear was compelling to me. As an avid reader of historical fiction, I was unfamiliar with this time period turmoil and clash of cultures that threatened Europe. It was a joy for me to get a second chance to switch on my imagination with Book Two and revisit this fascinating story and the author’s unique and very believable characters.
“Word on printed page is one of life’s most wonderful treasures. Radomile’s ability to use the written word to transport the reader to these various locations with his captivating characters and incredible plot, while keeping true to historical fact is a gift. I enjoyed both Books One and Two immensely and would be happy to recommend it. I hope that he continues to write and share his gift with the world. I’d love to see more coming from him.”
John Williams, Novato, CA
“This book is just dripping with character and history. The legendary writer, Miguel de Cervantes was vividly portrayed. His exploits leading up to and during the Battle of Lepanto were memorable. For me, the Cervantes character became a kindred spirit. It was one of those books that I kept finding reasons to wander out on my porch to keep reading - a true page turner.”
Greg Brown, Greenbrae, CA
“A soaring tale of epic proportions, The Spear of Lepanto is a fascinating look at the struggle between Christendom and the Ottoman Empire. Whether the major protagonists including a young Miguel de Cervantes are battling Barbary pirates, or running a clandestine intrusion within the walls of Topkapi palace in Constantinople, the reader will be glued to each action packed page of this engrossing adventure.”
Terri Castelan, Novato, CA
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Table of Contents
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21 | 22 | 23 | 24 | 25 | 26 | 27 | 28 | 29 | 30 | 31 | 32 | 33 | 34 | 35 | 36 | 37 | 38 | 39 | 40 | 41 | 42 | 43 | 44 | 45 | 46 | 47 | 48 | 49 | 50
•
BOOK II: THE BEAST COMES FORTH
51 | 52 | 53 | 54 | 55 | 56 | 57 | 58 | 59 | 60 | 61 | 62 | 63 | 64 | 65 | 66 | 67 | 68 | 69 | 70 | 71 | 72 | 73 | 74 | 75 | 76 | 77 | 78 | 79 | 80 | 81 | 82 | 83 | 84 | 85 | 86 | 87 | 88 | 89 | 90 | 91 | 92 | 93 | 94 | 95 | 96 | 97 | 98 | 99 | 100
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King Philip II of Spain
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Western Europe/North Africa – 1571
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Ottoman Sultan Selim II
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Eastern Europe/Asia Minor/North Africa - 1571
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Don Juan of Austria
* * * * *
Miguel de Cervantes
* * * * *
Jean Parisot de la Valette
* * * * *
Battle of Lepanto
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Admiral Ali Pasha
* * * * *
Uluch Ali aka Ochiali
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Saint Pius V
Church reformer and architect of the Holy League Alliance
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1909: The Spear of Longinus, a legendary spearhead reputed to have pierced the side of Jesus on the cross (John 19:31-37) has been on display for many years at the Hofsburg museum in Vienna. A twenty-year-old aspiring art student is often seen, transfixed for hours on end, in front of the enigmatic exhibit. The young Austrian’s name is Adolf Hitler.
October 12, 1938: Hitler orders Heinrich Himmler, head of the SS to seize the Spear from the Hofsburg museum and take it to Nuremburg, where it is stored at St. Katherine’s Church. (Schutzstaffel [SS] was formed in 1923 as Adolf Hitler’s elite personal bodyguard.)
1944: Construction of a top-secret and heavily fortified vault built into the bedrock beneath St. Katherine’s is completed for the safekeeping of the relic.
April 30, 1945: American forces discover the vault containing the Spear. Within hours after American army officers take possession of the Spear, Hitler commits suicide in his secret bunker beneath the chancellery building in Berlin.
1946: Supreme Allied Commander General Dwight David Eisenhower orders General George Patton to return the Spear and other Austrian imperial regalia to the Hofsburg museum in Vienna, Austria.
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Final Stanza
Cervantes on his galley sets the sword back in the sheath
(Don John of Austria rides homeward with a wreath)
And he sees across a weary land a straggling road in Spain,
Up which a lean and foolish knight for ever rides in vain,
And he smiles, but not as Sultans smile, and settles back the blade....
(But Don John of Austria rides home from the Crusade.)
•
All that is necessary for the triumph of
evil is that good men do nothing.
― Edmund Burke (1729-1797)
•
Every production must resemble its author.
― Miguel de Cervantes (1547-1616)
•
For the seven women in my life:
My best friend and wife Lanette,
my daughters Lea and Alexandra,
my mother Emma and mother-in-law Eleanor
and my granddaughters Ashlan and Stella.
To the good sisters, brothers, priests, and lay teachers who guided me into the intellectual and spiritual paths during my school years.
St. Vincent de Paul 1964
Sacred Heart High School 1968
University of San Francisco 1972
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Leonardo Radolowick
Papal emissary, Bosnian aristocrat in exile
Miguel de Cervantes
Student and adventurer
Lanette Louise de Alzamora
French wife of the Spanish ambassador
Lea Linda de Alzamora
Daughter of the Spanish ambassador
Michele Geraldi
Papal agent, comrade of Radolowick
Saint Pope Pius V
Head of the Church of Rome
Don Juan of Austria
Holy League fleet commander, half brother of Philip II of Spain
Federigo Colonna
Dominican priest, abbot of Santa Croce monastery, scholar, confessor of Pius V, brother of Marcantonio Colonna
Marcantonio Bragadino
Venetian Governor of Famagusta, Cyprus
Alexandra Maria Agathias
Agent for Knights of St. John in Constantinople
Jean Parisot de la Valette
Grand Master of Knights of St. John
Muhammad Sokollu
Grand Vizier to Selim II
Richard Brouillet
Knight of St. John, commander under Radolowick
Francisco D’Avalos
Knight of St. John, musketeer commander
Gavino Poliziani
Captain of the papal ship, Santa Maria
Gregory McCollum
Scottish master shipwright in the employ of Venice
Aydin Kudu
French renegade Pierre Dupre, Barbary pirate
Marcantonio Colonna
Papal general, confidant to Pius V
Donello Trotta
Helmsman of the Santa Maria
Shahram Parvin
Persian guide of Radolowick
Lala Mustafa Pasha
Ottoman commander at Cyprus
Francesco Passaglia
Venetian aide-de-camp to Governor Bragadino in Famagusta, Cyprus
Ochiali (Uluch Ali)
Italian renegade and Barbary corsair. Ottoman fleet commander under Ali Pasha at Lepanto.
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For eleven years I have crawled out of a warm bed before dawn to satisfy my desire to write a historical novel. Today, I put a period at the end of the last word. For all those years, Necia Dixon Liles has been my rudder, keeping me on course while refining my thoughts and words. Her dedication, reliability, and work on my behalf are debts I will never be able to repay.
I would also like to acknowledge my long-departed paternal ancestors who immigrated to Italy during the 16th century from the region of Bosnia across from the Italian peninsula. They were the sparks who lit the fires of my imagination to write this ancestral adventure. When delving into genealogical research, one cannot avoid musing and speculating over the many what ifs that are shrouded in times past. My fanciful what ifs inspired me to involve my forebears in a strategic event of the real time in which they lived. The dates are taken from historical archives, and many ship names and characters included here are known to historians. And maybe—just maybe—Leonardo and Lanette have been trying to find someone to tell their story for centuries. I hope this is what they want.
There are valuable lessons in writing—and reading. I have learned much from this process, but the one thing I am very sure of is: never discount the power of prayer or dreams.
I hope this book will inspire you to research your genealogy and fill the gaps of your own family history. Someone who lived a long time ago, and who looked a little like you, may be waiting for your voice.
Leon J. Radomile
April 2010
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THE PAPAL PRIZE
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Algiers - September 1580
The sun blazed down on the courtyard of the Kasbah, high above the bay and city of Algiers. There, a prisoner stood chained between two wooden posts as a whip stung his flesh with masterful precision.
His chilling shriek pierced the ears of the silent prisoners, many bearing scars from the same leather. Until this moment, the man, bound at his wrists and ankles, had not believed this could happen to him. He lunged forward in a hopeless effort to break free from the coarse bindings as a second strike tore into his flesh just above his right buttock. The thick straps, like the earth between the two heavy posts, were black with the blood of those who had been there before him. He knew this was only the beginning.
Shock and despair gripped the proud Alonso Quixote as he resigned himself to the whip. The irony made him grimace as scenes of home in La Mancha flashed through his mind. How many times had he ordered floggings for peasants on his own Spanish estate for the slightest offense?
Now it was he who was tied down, experiencing the searing strikes opening row after row of bleeding rivers on his back. For the first time in many years, he recited a prayer he remembered from his youth, and tensed for the next staggering blow.
The Kasbah’s majestic architectural design inspired respect and obedience from the people living below it. The imposing structure served as the administrative headquarters for the Pasha of Algiers and provided a prison for those unlucky captives deemed to have ransom value.
Hassan Pasha, a large man with a finely trimmed beard and a body that resembled a ripe pear, thought of himself as an enlightened viceroy. He treated his valuable ransom prisoners as his guests. He fed and clothed them humanely, and furnished medicines when they were ill. He also supplied them with writing materials so that they could correspond with their families across the Mediterranean. Communication with home was accomplished through a network of Christian missionaries, Trinitarian monks in particular, who carried letters throughout Europe for those imprisoned. Noted for their austerity, the Trinitarians also devoted one-third of their revenues to the liberation of Christian slaves.
The pasha was well aware that the families of his guests would pay ransoms as high as 1,000 gold ducats for their safe return. The guests in his honeycombed citadel included the sons of many of Europe’s most noble families; the majority from France, Italy, and Spain. Other unfortunates who became entangled in the corsairs’ Mediterranean webs included members of Europe’s powerful mercantile class who could afford to pay the pasha’s price. If a newly acquired prisoner was deemed to have little ransom value, he was either sold through a network of slave auctions that spanned the North African coast from Algiers to Cairo, or simply released to seek his own way home. A preponderance of those sorry souls commonly perished from starvation or disease.
As the region’s supreme administrator of Islamic law, Hassan Pasha enforced laws with varying degrees of severity, but at the top of his personal list was one rule that he enforced to the letter: do not insult my generous hospitality by attempting to escape. It would make him look foolish, and that he would not tolerate. A first offense would bring the bastinado, a painful beating with a stick, usually on the soles of the feet. A second offense would earn a public flogging, with salt poured into the lacerated wounds to increase the pain if the pasha were especially angered.
When Hassan Pasha assumed his post as the Turkish viceroy of Algiers in 1575, he inherited a difficult problem that his immediate predecessor had refused to address: Italian Jesuit missionary, Enrico Bassi.
After granting the Christian holy man an audience, he concluded that the strong-willed Italian was determined to trick or outwit him into granting far too many liberties for the small Christian minority of Algiers. Rather than slaughter thousands to make his point, he simply had the Jesuit seized and buried alive. All rumblings of discontent among the Christian population came to an abrupt end.
Conditions had softened since the Spanish had been driven from Algiers and the Barbary Coast in 1529 by the infamous Khayru d-Din, better known throughout Europe as the ruthless pirate Barbarossa. With Turkish financial and technical assistance, Barbarossa had overseen the construction of the Kasbah and positioned its 127 long-barreled cannons in such a precise manner that it was suicidal for any invasion fleet to attempt a landing at the city. For the past 51 years, the Spanish had not dared to test the cannons of the Kasbah that guarded the bay of Algiers.
Kareem Ben Ali took great pleasure in his work and smiled broadly as he drew back his whip for a second strike on the bound Quixote. He felt smug and proud to have been chosen by the pasha at the tournament held to select the most skilled in the use of whips.
Not bad, Kareem thought, for a bastard son of a drowned corsair and a mother whose short life had been spent on her back, dragging coins from faceless sailors. Orphaned at the age of ten, Kareem managed to survive the streets of Algiers for two years before he joined a band of street performers and learned to handle the whip, under the tutelage of a distant uncle that elevated him to a prized station in the household of the pasha.
There, in the middle of the main courtyard, Kareem — vain about his long, oiled mustache — looked upon himself as an artist as well as a dispenser of justice. He always performed before an audience. The pasha made certain that all his guests witnessed such punishments; sure it would discourage other escape attempts.
Kareem began at the prisoner’s upper buttocks and systematically worked up his back, with special care to hit the tight flesh of the rib cage. He had no sympathy for those who broke the laws of Allah, but always saved his best work for Christian prisoners. For them, he used a special whip with tiny shards of metal laced into its three tips; an ingenious innovation he was quite proud of. Kareem took great satisfaction in the placement of his strikes. Each would be precisely one inch apart and, by working from the bottom up, he could see each mark, unobscured by blood running from above. It delighted him to know that the designs he created on the flesh of his charges were indelible. Those who survived would never forget him.
Had the pasha known about the metal tips, he certainly would have one of his less dedicated floggers to lay a less artistic pattern on Kareem’s back. The pasha would not have wanted his valuable merchandise damaged beyond repair.
From a third-story cell overlooking the main courtyard, another prisoner - or guest, as the pasha preferred to have them called - peered through an iron-barred window. He could see the entire courtyard and the main gate that led directly to the docks nearly two miles away. He could smell the sea air and hear the song of the seagulls as they freely soared in all directions over the prison compound, his home for the past five years.
Though he had witnessed the brutal punishments many times, his eyes began to water as every muscle in his body grew tense. He well knew the agony in store for his compatriot at the whipping post, for on more than one occasion he had tasted the sting of Kareem’s whip. The scars on his back were proof of that.
Over the last five years, he had endured Kareem’s lash on three separate occasions. But every time he was released from his bindings and dragged back to his cell, he managed to give Kareem a wink and a smile of defiance. Kareem, for his part, returned the smile, acknowledging his victim’s bravado.
Now, by the mercy of God, this horrible nightmare seemed finally about to come to a conclusion. A ransom of 1,000 gold ducats, raised by his family, the Trinitarians, and an old comrade had finally been paid to the pasha. The comrade, who had only recently gotten word of his friend’s imprisonment, contributed the bulk of the ransom and virtually saved the man’s family from destitution.
As indifferent guards took the unconscious Alonso Quixote down from the whipping post and carried him away, the man in the cell reached over to his crude writing desk on which lay a tattered book. The journal, bound in worn leather, had been his salvation and only companion during his long confinement. Though most of the book was written in ink, he had used a special lemon juice solution to conceal the most sensitive entries from unwanted scrutiny. If the pasha knew the hidden secrets the journal contained, it would be the writer’s severed head, detached by the pasha’s own scimitar that would be returned to his family in Spain.
The man pressed the journal to his chest, treasuring the chronicle of events that now seemed so far away, events that rocked the world and finally stopped the dreaded Turkish advance on Europe. Without the journal’s constant reminders of past glory, he surely would have perished into a world of madness. It would be the only thing of value he would take home with him.
On the cover of the journal, a treasured gift from a friend — that same friend who now had come to his aid — was inscribed the date and the name of its author: September 1570, Miguel de Cervantes.
He secured the journal under his nearly useless left arm. A gunshot wound received nine years earlier had permanently maimed his left hand, “to the greater glory,” he had written in his journal, “of the right.”
It seemed that, at last, he was, going home. Please, God, he prayed over and over, let this be true.
•
Hassan Pasha’s term as Ottoman magistrate had come to an end in Algiers, and he looked forward to the pleasures of his home and family in Constantinople. His share of ransom, after five years in Algiers, had earned him more than 27,000 gold ducats from the families of his European guests, a sum that would ensure a princely lifestyle for the rest of his life.
As was his custom, Hassan sent two armed guards to the departing prisoner’s quarters to bring him to the banquet room. Before his release, Cervantes would be the pasha’s guest one last time. After all, Hassan seemed to recall, the rules of hospitality as put forth in the holy Koran called for a gesture of kindness to an enemy whose family had paid such a great sum for his release. Even the Prophet himself had said: “Though the captive in your charge be an infidel, treat him with respect if his family meets your terms of release.” But Cervantes, long unwashed, must be bathed and given suitable clothing for their last meeting and for his journey home.
Cervantes was taken down into the deep bowels of the great fortress where the pasha’s baths were located. Countless centuries before, the Romans had discovered the caverns beneath the bluff overlooking the city of Algiers and had constructed a labyrinth of chambers to serve as their bathing facility. Arab hordes that had swept across North Africa in the eighth and ninth centuries had lent their influence to the baths, but it was the Turks who transformed the caverns into magnificently tiled chambers with an art form they inherited, copied, and added to from centuries of Byzantine refinements, as demonstrated in Constantinople and throughout Asia Minor.
The major bathing pool featured a miniature waterfall that drew water from a natural hot spring in an adjacent cavern. Surrounding the great underground cave were various steam and relaxation rooms. It was customary, after sitting in the purifying mineral steam, to submerge oneself into the cleansing mineral waters of the massive pool in the main chamber.
As he entered the subterranean baths, Cervantes was given a towel and a pair of leather sandals and told to disrobe. After quickly discarding his tattered garments and wrapping the towel around his waist, he followed an attendant into the next chamber. He had never experienced the rituals of the Turkish bath or hammamas, as the Turks referred to it.
As he entered through the arched entry, Cervantes glanced back in bewilderment at the two guards who had escorted him. Abdul and Ali smiled as Cervantes disappeared through the door. They were simple men who followed their orders, but they viewed Cervantes with unusual admiration because he had never stopped his attempts to escape, even though it meant torture and possible death. They respected his tenacious spirit, as did the viceroy, Hassan Pasha, who uncharacteristically had spared Cervantes’ life on three occasions.
Eight months earlier, Cervantes had plotted to secure a small coastal sailing ship in an attempt to escape and had been betrayed by another prisoner. Hassan Pasha, for a third time in his tenure as viceroy, had made an exception to his strict rule and refrained from taking Cervantes’ life. In doing this, he had declared that so long as he had the maimed Spaniard in safekeeping, his Christians, ships, and city were secured. Such was Cervantes heroic bearing in the eyes of his captors.
Cervantes entered a large room with beautiful multicolored tiles covering the floor, walls, and ceiling. In the center was a circular fire pit with bushel-sized granite stones piled up into a mound. Please, God, he prayed again, let me be really going home.
He was told to lie down and stretch out on the marble slab, called the belly stone, to work up a sweat. The attendant took a bucket of water and poured it onto the red-hot rocks, producing a tremendous cloud of steam.
Cervantes began to sweat in the moist heat, and felt an overwhelming sense of serenity as every muscle in his body relaxed and seemed to melt into the hard marble slab as he lay prone on a thick, soft towel. The steam cleansed every pore and he closed his eyes to enjoy the moment.
Maybe, he thought, it is possible that I will soon be a free man, reunited with my family and friends.
Cervantes wept. Questions raced through his mind in an uncontrolled torrent. So many questions with no apparent answers. Why had he been lost for the past five years? Why had God not answered his prayers sooner? These five years may have stripped away his dreams, but he was more determined than ever to survive. He had sworn on the memory of a sacred relic he had once held in his hands that he would not perish in this godforsaken land. The power of that relic had given him the strength to go on living.
As the heat in the chamber intensified, his mind began to doubt. What if this is a hoax? Is my desperation playing cruel games with my mind? Is this intense heat causing me to ramble and crash out of control? Is this a new form of torture? Will the heat become unbearable? Am I meant to die here?
Cervantes jumped up from his dream-like state, took a wooden ladle of water from a nearby bucket, and poured it over his head. As the cool water revived him, he remembered a favorite quotation from his school days, uttered by the great Roman statesman, Marcus Aurelius: “Shame on the soul, to falter on the road of life while the body still perseveres.”
With renewed vitality, he repeated over and over, words that would give him comfort and strength: Calm yourself, Miguel. Have faith. You are going home. You are going home. Please, God....
He sat down on the hot wooden bench, placing the water bucket next to him for periodic splashes of water. He remembered the day, five years earlier, when his ship, El Sol, had been captured only nine days out of Naples by three Turkish galliots off the coast of France near Marseilles. Because of his role at the battle of Lepanto, he had received letters of commendation from the supreme commander at Lepanto, Don Juan of Austria, Pope Pius V, and the Spanish viceroy of Sicily. Finally, after four years of military service, Cervantes and his younger brother, Rodrigo, were returning home in glory and honor. The Turks had found the letters and believed him to be a person of great importance, worth a valuable ransom. His family in Spain had been able to raise only fifty gold ducats, which had been enough to ransom only Rodrigo. Thus had begun Cervantes’ five-year ordeal.
An attendant entered the steam room and gently tapped Cervantes on the shoulder. In Turkic he told Cervantes to follow him into the bathing pool area. After five years of captivity, Cervantes had become proficient in both Arabic and Turkish. He dove into the refreshing mineral waters of the great pool, and swam and rested in intervals for the next half hour. He had not experienced such physical joy in such a long time, and had almost forgotten what it felt like.
As he floated and played in the pool, he remembered his happy school days in Madrid — the scent of orange blossoms in the garden of his professor, Juan López de Hoyos, and poems he had written that had brought him to the attention of the respected Spanish author.
He remembered the day that de Hoyos appeared as a surprise guest lecturer to discuss the writings of Fernando de Rojas and his masterpiece novel, La Celestina. Cervantes was so enamored by de Hoyos’ presentation and so passionate about de Rojas’ work, that he followed the professor after his lecture to a small cafe where he boldly introduced himself. Not only did he engage the amiable professor on alternative aspects of de Rojas’ work, but took the opportunity to recite several of his own poems to the surprised but very impressed professor.
One poem in particular was later chosen by de Hoyos for publication. How proud Cervantes had been to see his work in print. Slowly, he voiced each word of his loved Maiden of the Sea, as if it were spoken for the first time from the lips of a child.
The Maiden of the Sea chafes under the weight
of her anchor.
But behold, the chains of contrived dreams lay
heavy on
Her shoulders. As the desultory waves crash
against the
Barren rocks, the maiden’s song resonates
through the depths.
The song purges the sea of its pungent solitude.
Hence, the sea
Becomes one with man and the maiden’s tribute
is fulfilled.
How he longed to return to that heavenly environment. Even the face of his beloved Dulcinea ran through his mind — the lost love he had eliminated long ago from his memories because of its hopelessness. She was of noble birth and had been promised in marriage to the son of a prominent family while she was just a child. When Miguel accepted the fact that they could never marry, he had briefly thought of ending his life or entering a monastery, but finally decided to devote himself to the pursuit of knowledge through his studies. He would prove to Dulcinea’s family, when he became Spain’s leading poet and a court favorite throughout Europe, that they had made a serious error in shunning him.
An attendant motioned to Cervantes to get out of the pool and gave him a large, cotton towel. Cervantes was led to another chamber with a long wooden table at its center. Here, the attendant put several towels on the table to make a comfortable mattress, and gestured to Cervantes to lie face down on it.
The attendant applied lavender-scented oil to his scarred back. Another attendant, this time a lithe, strong woman, entered the chamber and moved silently toward Cervantes’ prone body. She proceeded to exert a series of high-pressure circular strokes to his back, arms, and legs. Painful at first, his muscles loosened within minutes and the discomfort faded away.
What glorious heaven was this, Cervantes thought. Let it be true. Though his eyes were shut, he sensed the feel and scent to be that of a woman. He had not felt the touch of a woman since he left Naples with Rodrigo. Quickly subtracting his departure date from Naples, to what he believed was roughly the present date, he came to a staggering total: one thousand seven hundred and forty-nine days. Dear God, he thought, for a Spaniard — or any man — this was indeed an eternity.
But as the woman’s small, powerful hands gently stroked his neck and back, he again entered a realm of unfettered relaxation. Even the scars from Kareem’s whip seemed to dissolve, as if they had never existed. Cervantes closed his eyes and drifted off into a world high in the clouds, gliding carelessly over a great sea. He saw his mother, Leonor, and his father, Rodrigo, at the familiar family table with his six brothers and sisters. Had it been ten years since he had last seen them? He felt like a modern day Odysseus, whose odyssey was finally coming to an end. Let it be true... The Penelope who would be greeting him would be his beloved family. How he had dreamt of that day from his cell in the pasha’s stronghold.
Images of his family faded and Cervantes envisioned four ships on a horizon of misty clouds. Three of them flew the flags of Spain and Philip II; the fourth flaunted the papal flag of Pius V, its white and gold colors emblazed with the miter and keys of St. Peter. What kind of dream is this? Cervantes asked himself. Have I been transported back in time ten years to begin my odyssey again?
Suddenly, Cervantes found himself on the main deck of the papal galley. Walking toward him with a smile was his beloved friend and brother in arms, Leonardo Radolowick. “Oh, my dear God!” he whispered in disbelief.
* * * * *
Venice – May 1570
Pietro Loredan, Doge of the Most Serene Republic of Venice, was a remarkable eighty-five years old when he succeeded Girolamo Priuli in 1567. In a hotly contested election that stretched over fourteen days and seventy-seven ballots, Loredan had been selected as a compromise candidate to break the stalemate between the two major rival groups in the Venetian senate.
A member of one of Venice’s most prominent families, Loredan’s career serving the Venetian state had been long and notably undistinguished. His selection was considered safe by both factions until three months into his new administration when he had pushed through several reforms that angered a small but influential minority group within the senate. The old man, they mumbled, was acting like a rooster instead of the old hen they thought they had elected.
•
After years of playing cat-and-mouse with the Turks in the eastern Mediterranean, the day of lethal confrontation seemed to loom like an approaching storm on the horizon for Venice. It was no secret that the Turkish Sultan, Selim II, nicknamed The Drunkard, coveted the island of Cyprus. It was also no secret to most of Europe that the Turks frequently referred to Rome as The Red Apple, the ultimate prize in their grand scheme of conquest.
Cyprus was the jewel of Venice’s Mediterranean possessions and one of its major trading colonies. The Sultan, who had succeeded to the throne upon the death of his father, Süleyman the Magnificent, was nothing more than a depraved drunk who enjoyed the pleasures of his harem to the extreme. It was rumored that Selim’s main reason for wanting Cyprus was the unusually strong wines produced on the island. The sultan was obviously unable to lead, and, through close observation, Venetian and papal officials in the diplomatic corps had easily ferreted out the real powers behind the Sultan’s throne.
Within the palace raged a struggle between the Sultan’s grand vizier, Muhammad Sokollu, and Joseph Micas, a Sephardic Jew whose father, Samuel Micas, had been court physician to the Holy Roman Emperor, Charles V.
Micas was also the nephew of Gracia Nasi, whose business and bank dealings, centered in Antwerp, made her one of the richest women in Europe. Because she could not practice her Jewish faith openly, she had taken her great wealth and settled in Constantinople. There, welcomed by the Turks, she established her international banking business, at double the normal tax rate (cizye is a special tax imposed on non-Muslims), and sent for her nephew to head the operation. Both had played significant roles in elevating Selim to the Ottoman throne. Selim had rewarded Micas by naming him treasurer and Duke of Naxos, a small principality of islands in the Aegean. With the position came a seat in the divan. Micas’ ultimate goal was to rule Cyprus as Ottoman viceroy and to create a haven for displaced Jews from Europe.
The cunning grand vizier, Muhammad Sokollu, on the other hand, favored a direct invasion of Spain through Granada. He felt that Spain was politically isolated and, if invaded, would receive no help from any other Christian country. But Micas had won his argument in convincing Selim that Cyprus would be the most prudent first choice from which to launch the invasion of Europe.
“Secure Cyprus first, my lord,” he had told Selim, “and not only will the Venetians pay dearly for opposing you, but you will possess the finest wines our world has to offer.” This was a benefit Selim could not resist.
For the time being, Sokollu could only submit to the wishes of the sultan and wait for his chance to discredit Micas. He still hoped that his carefully laid plans would someday make Europe part of the Ottoman Empire - which, of course, he would rule through the Sultan.
Now that the Sultan’s government, orchestrated by Sokollu, had concluded a truce with the new Holy Roman Emperor, Maximilian II, the Turks could turn away from their stalemate in Hungary and focus their full attention on Cyprus.
•
Franco D’Ambrosio, a wiry, fifty-four-year-old native of Padua, ran up the grand stairway leading to the Doge’s apartments. D’Ambrosio had been Loredan’s secretary for the twelve years of his term as senator, and, since his surprise ascent to the ducal throne, had become his secretary and confidant.
D’Ambrosio knocked crisply on the large oak door that lead to Loredan’s sleeping quarters. He patiently waited, catching his breath, until he heard a tired voice grant him entry. The frail Loredan sat in a large cushioned chair by an enormous window overlooking Saint Mark’s Square.
D’Ambrosio entered the spacious apartment and saw, a few feet in front of the Doge, Venetian artist Jacopo Robusti putting finishing touches on Loredan’s official portrait.
Tintoretto, as Robusti was known at court and by his admiring patrons, was among the most famous portraitists of Europe, and renowned as a painter of mythological and religious works. He had recently been commissioned by the state to honor Doge Loredan’s 1567 election as Prince of the Venetian Republic. Affairs of state had been so hectic over the last two and a half years, with concerns over plague and famine, that this was the first opportunity for the old Doge to sit for his official state portrait.
“Ah, Franco,” Loredan murmured as he recognized his secretary. “Come and sit with me for a while.”
“My lord,” D’Ambrosio said in a hushed tone, “Ambassador LiSanti has just arrived from the Sultan’s court in Constantinople. He seeks an immediate audience with you. From his carefully chosen words, I’m afraid it may be troubling news.”
The pressure of office wore heavily on the shoulders of the aged Doge. Not only did he have to deal with the growing Turkish menace, but the Council of Ten was becoming increasingly difficult to handle. He sighed. “Bring him, then. And tell Signor Robusti he can finish his work tomorrow.”
After briefly speaking to the artist, D’Ambrosio left the room and returned within minutes with Giovanni LiSanti, the esteemed Venetian (bailo) ambassador to Constantinople and the Ottoman court, who had been waiting in the grand vestibule on the main floor in the Doge’s palace. LiSanti’s galley had docked less than an hour before, and though visibly exhausted from his journey, he carried the ominous news from Constantinople with the cool detachment of a seasoned diplomat.
“Ambassador LiSanti,” the Doge spoke formally to a man he had known and dealt with for more than twenty-five years. “What news do you bring me from the Sultan’s court? Does Selim accept our gifts to maintain the peace?”
“My lord,” LiSanti bowed his head graciously, “I was given this message by Grand Vizier Muhammad Sokollu, with strict instructions that I read it personally to you first.”
“Very well, then. Proceed.”
Loredan’s keen eyes scanned the face and demeanor of his negotiator to the Ottoman court for any hint of foreboding that might be concealed there. But the astute ambassador, hardened by years of pressure-filled meetings — abroad as well as with temperamental Venetian leaders — calmly took the parchment from its container, knowing that what he was about to read would signal an end to twenty-five years of peace between Venice and the Ottoman Empire. He pulled a soft linen handkerchief from his pocket, wiped a small bead of perspiration from his brow, and cleared his throat.
Selim, Ottoman Sultan, Emperor of the Turks, Lord of Lords, King of Kings, Shadow of God, Lord of the Earthly Paradise and of Jerusalem, to the Signory of Venice:
“We demand of you Cyprus, which you shall give us willingly or perforce; and do not awake our horrible sword, for we shall wage most cruel war against you everywhere; neither put your trust in your treasure, for we shall cause it suddenly to run from you like a torrent. Beware, therefore, lest you arouse our wrath…
Loredan rose from his chair and shuffled to the open window by his balcony. The blood had drained from his face. At that moment, his complexion seemed that of a corpse.
“Franco,” the Doge’s back had suddenly straightened and his voice was spiked with anger, “call a meeting of the Council of Ten immediately.”
He turned to the motionless LiSanti. “What else?”
“Distressing news, my lord,” LiSanti serenely turned to D’Ambrosio, “Some water, please,” then addressed Loredan.
“Every Venetian merchant in Constantinople has been arrested and imprisoned. All our merchant ships in their harbor have been seized.”
“Very well,” the Doge’s voice hardened, “we can play the same game. Franco, issue an order that all subjects of the Sultan in Venice shall be arrested, and all Turkish vessels in our harbor shall be seized. Do this immediately.
“Then bring me the Turkish ambassador so that we can make arrangements to exchange our citizens. We must inform the Pope and King Philip of this news. Have their ambassadors waiting for me.”
D’Ambrosio hurriedly left the chamber. “Giovanni,” Loredan asked, “is there any way we can buy our way out of this imbroglio?”
“My lord, if we were merely dealing with Selim or one of his corrupt advisors, my answer would be yes. Unfortunately the cunning men in power are eager to reap the spoils of war directly into their own pockets. The imbecilic Selim, who is more concerned with pleasures of the flesh than the welfare of his empire, is merely a puppet who dances to their tunes of unquenchable avarice.”
Franco stepped in to inform Loredan that the emergency council would convene in one hour, and quickly left the room.
“Giovanni,” the Doge sighed, “my thanks to you for your long and valued service to our republic is long overdue, but I must ask even more of you. I want you to attend the upcoming meeting with me. We must develop a strategy to contain the Turks while keeping our trading routes open and free from harassment, for they are the life’s blood of our republic. Then, tomorrow, you must return to Constantinople and try to talk reason to these madmen. Let us pray, Giovanni, that God will show us the proper path to take.”
Loredan, whose years seemed etched into his weary face, took a deep breath and rang for Franco to bring his valet. It was time to dress and prepare for the long session ahead.
* * * * *
Maltroppi’s reputation as a pastry chef was known throughout northern Italy. Such was his renown, in fact, that he recently had been hired away from the Florentines to create his culinary magic for the Doge and guests of the Serene Republic. For the Venetian court, he would become the Grand Master of Sweet Desserts.
But as the emergency council convened in Venice, Maltroppi’s portly little body was being rolled into an unmarked grave beside the ancient Roman road that led to Venice. His killer, who would present himself to the court as Maltroppi, took delight not in creating imaginative after-dinner pastries, but in depriving his victims of their lives.
He, too, was an artist, but his tools were not flour, eggs, and milk. His artistry was murder and his tools were the dagger, garrote, and poison pellets. His list of accomplishments were impressive, and included Count Dandini of Verona, Don Diego de Ulloa, the Spanish ambassador to the papal court, and his most recent victim, Archbishop Roberto Valentino of Ravenna.
His methods were quick and sudden: poison slipped into a chalice of wine or a sausage laced with flavorful, deadly pellets, the results of which mimicked a natural death and allowed him time to quietly disappear into the countryside.
This new Maltroppi disliked the term assassin, and fancied himself an actor as well as a magician. He played many roles to get close to his victims, and became deeply engrossed in each part. He took great pride in his ability to learn each role well, and felt his employers should always get their money’s worth. After all, he reasoned, it was a question of his professional honor. For this case, they would pay him dearly. This new challenge would be his crowning glory: the death of a Venetian Doge. He was confident that his work would be concluded within the week.
* * * * *
The Spanish Courts at Madrid and El Escorial — June 1570
The week-long wedding celebration had come to an end. His Royal Highness Philip II of Spain, three times a widower, had just remarried. His new bride was the beautiful Anna of Austria, his first cousin and the daughter of Holy Roman Emperor, Maximilian II.
For two years, Philip had grieved for his third wife, Elizabeth of Valois, to whom he had been married for nine years before her death in childbirth at age twenty-three. He had loved his child bride deeply, and those close to him knew that this new marriage was without affection and purely for political considerations — to produce a new heir to the Spanish throne.
His real love, Elizabeth, the daughter of France’s King Henry II and Catherine de Medici, had been promised in marriage to his son and heir, Don Carlos, who, like Elizabeth, had been born in 1545. In 1559, when the French finally gave up their claims in the Low Countries after being defeated by Philip’s armies at Saint Quentin in 1557 and Gravelines in 1558, a chance meeting with the fourteen-year-old Elizabeth changed both the king’s destiny and that of his son.
When the twice-widowed Philip saw Elizabeth at an official state reception, a week before the formal signing of the peace treaty of Cateau-Cambresis, he was smitten. Putting aside his son’s engagement, Philip insisted that a marriage between himself and the young Princess Elizabeth be part of the peace process that would end the sixty-year war with France. He would find another suitable bride for his heir, but Elizabeth must be his.
In his brief encounters with her before their marriage, he had found the young princess far more mature than her fourteen years. Philip was delighted by her cheeky wit, which he found amusing and penetrating, and by her flirtatious eyes. After their marriage, she proved a capable queen and an important confidante with whom Philip could speak openly with complete trust.
Elizabeth was fortunate to have had a mother who made sure her daughter had the finest tutors from France and Italy. Elizabeth was blessed with a quick mind and a gift for languages, and had become fluent in Italian, Latin, and Spanish, as well as her native French. She was also well versed in literature and poetry, and could play several musical instruments, including the flute, which Philip particularly enjoyed. Philip was often overheard saying at court that with Elizabeth, the fortunes of Spain would always be in capable hands if ill fortune were ever to befall him.
As a surprise birthday gift for her husband in 1565, Elizabeth had asked the renowned Sofonisba Anguissola to come to Madrid from her studio in Cremona, to paint both her portrait and that of the king. Anguissola had been one of the first women to gain a reputation as a painter throughout the courts of Europe. Michelangelo had been so impressed by her work that he had sent her several of his drawings so that she could further refine her innovative technique. Philip so loved the intimate qualities captured by Anguissola in his wife’s portrait that he refused to share the painting with anyone, and had it hung in his office for his private enjoyment. After her death in 1568, the painting became one of his most beloved possessions. A few weeks after her death, Don Carlos died while imprisoned, on order of the king, for behavior bordering on outright insanity. With the deaths of Elizabeth and his son, a heartbroken and disappointed Philip withdrew even further from his subjects and would not emerge from his self-imposed isolation until he was forced to consider producing a new heir for the throne of Spain. After two years of grieving, he made the decision to marry for a fourth time.
The wedding was held at Philip’s court in Madrid, but although he had enjoyed the festivities, his thoughts had been on Elizabeth and on his monastic palace at El Escorial, nearly two days’ ride northwest of Madrid on the slopes of the Sierra de Guadarrama. Philip had begun construction on El Escorial, which he dedicated to Saint Lawrence, five years after defeating the French on August 10th, 1557, the saint’s feast day, as a way of thanking God for his victory. He would oversee its shadowy magnificence until it was fully completed in 1584.
In a small austere office there, Philip often spent days and nights alone, going over reports submitted by his various ministers and ambassadors. During these marathon sessions he would see only his personal secretary, Antonio Pérez.
For the sake of his new bride and recently strengthened alliance with his uncle, Maximilian, Philip had reluctantly put aside his royal duties for a week. With those obligations met, he returned to his beloved sanctuary where he could devote his full energies to the affairs of Spain. Philip’s father, the late Emperor Charles V, had constantly impressed upon his son the importance of fulfilling the duties God had chosen for him when he became king. Yet Charles V made it clear to Philip that once he ascended to the throne, he could never put his trust in anyone. Above all, he warned Philip, he must never trust his advisors.
Philip, a devout and serious young man, took his father’s advice to the extreme. The responsibility of managing an empire that included Naples, Sicily, Milan, the Netherlands, and the Americas, as well as Spain, proved to be an almost impossible task for one man — especially one who put little trust in anyone but himself. Excessively conscientious, Philip’s over-zealousness to the finest detail hid his temperamental reluctance to make decisions and his inability to differentiate between the substantial and the trivial. So distant was most of his empire that one minister in South America was heard to remark, “If death came from Madrid, we should all live forever.”
“Antonio,” Philip said to his secretary, “I want you to send this message immediately to Ambassador Ortiz in Rome.”
Antonio Pérez hurried to a small secretary in the corner and sat down. Philip began to dictate:
“Ambassador Ortiz;
“I wish for you to assure His Holiness The Pope that Spain has every intention of supporting his efforts against the Turks. However, we do not wish to support the imperial objectives of Venice with Spanish lives or treasure. We must have the Pope’s assurance that Venice, as a full partner in our sacred struggle against the Turks, will not seek any separate accommodation with the Ottomans if hostilities should occur. Ambassador, I want you to emphasize our policy of a united front in the strongest possible words to His Holiness. Spain will not tolerate any Venetian diplomatic maneuvers once Spanish forces are committed. I will make this emphatically clear to the papal envoy Radolowick when I meet with him here at court. I leave it to Pius to keep the Venetians from straying from the alliance.
“Now that the Ottomans have declared their intentions to seize Cyprus from Venice, this may be our opportunity to engage them at sea and halt their aggressive naval activity, and that of their Barbary surrogates in the western Mediterranean.
“I also want to impress upon the Pope that any military Christian League action against the Ottoman Empire shall be under the overall direction of Spain and its admiral, acting on her behalf. Inform His Holiness that I have chosen Gian Andrea Doria, to assume this post. Tell him that I have the utmost confidence in Doria and that his support will be appreciated. As you read this message, our ambassadors will be informing other league members of my decision.
“I have given the order that sixty war galleys under Doria be dispatched immediately from Cádiz to our naval base at Messina to join our Sicilian fleet, and await our joint decision for further action.”
Before Philip could finish dictating his message, a court page entered the room and handed a note to Pérez.
“My lord,” Pérez announced solemnly as he read the note. “The Venetian Doge is dead, and, Your Highness, Doge Loredan was poisoned.”
* * * * *
Voyage to Rome — June 1570
After the royal wedding, Leonardo Radolowick, a special representative of Pius V, followed the royal party to the king’s palace at El Escorial. Radolowick had an appointment with King Philip, nuncio Bishop Castillo, and the king’s war and finance ministers at the palace following the ceremonies. It was Radolowick’s mission to update the Spanish monarch and his ministers on the Pope’s progress in solidifying the Holy League Alliance, and to carry back any requests the Spanish government might have concerning the alliance.
While awaiting his audience with the king, Radolowick renewed his acquaintance with Philip’s half brother, Don Juan of Austria. The young man was gaining an excellent reputation in military strategy and as a strong, benevolent leader. He and several Vatican officials were following his Excellency’s brief, meteoric climb to a position of leadership within the Spanish military.
In the summer of 1568, a reluctant Philip, who had hoped his younger half-brother would enter the Church, had assigned him to command a naval task force to battle Barbary pirates in the Mediterranean. Don Juan had acquitted himself well and, as a result, had been put in command of a Spanish army that had tried, without much success, to subdue the Morisco Rebellion of the Granada region of southeastern Spain.
The Moriscos — the Moor minority living in Spain — had organized under Muhammad ibn Umaiya, whose legal Spanish name was Hernandez de Valor. Descended from the ancient Moorish kings of Córdoba, the young man was proclaimed King of the Moriscos by the disenchanted rebels. He established his new kingdom in the mountainous hill country called Alpujarras, north of Granada. A rag-tag army of 40,000 men had formed behind the pretender and challenged the authority of King Philip.
Last month, after two years of sporadic, bitter fighting, the rebels were defeated by an army led by Don Juan. His Excellency brought the captured Morisco battle standards to Madrid as a wedding gift for his brother, who was quite pleased. The always-suspicious Philip was finally convinced that his half-brother was a man who stood by his word. Prior to his appointment, Don Juan had written Philip that he could be “trusted beyond most others, and no one will act more vigorously against your enemies than I.” Philip now felt he had a commander he could place some trust in.
Don Juan, at twenty-four, was seven years Radolowick’s junior. In renewing their friendship, Radolowick gained some valuable insights from him about his half-brother’s behavior and long-range political objectives — information he would include in his report to the Pope.