as soon as we get back from eating at the tavern – and you want to see every Marine with his bow on a peg next to his bench and a shield and sword under his rowing seat; and that those who don’t have them under their seats when you look won’t be getting a shore leave to drink too much ale and dip their dingles in the local girls.”
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Three days later we’re fully resupplied, the rowing drum begins its beat, and we slowly row out of Lisbon’s great harbor bound for Gibraltar, Ibiza, Crete, and Rome. The sea is calm and the wind and weather look favorable. Even so, the Templars are already getting seasick and crowding the deck railings to the loudly announced disgust of the Marines whose oars are below them and will sooner or later have to be shipped.
All goes well until we reach the city of Bonifacio in Corsica. It is my first time in the city. It is a Christian city with a Byzantine governor and quite insignificant because Corsica is insignificant. Then everything changes - for the very first thing the Templars do upon entering the city is provoke its citizens by attacking a Byzantine priest in the market.
Jeffrey is with me and I am just coming out of the tax collector’s office inside the city walls when one of Jeffrey’s sergeants, the one in charge of his sailors, rushes in all out of breath to report big trouble. He’d been in the city market buying supplies and seen it all.
“Just walked up to the priest and cut him down with his sword. That’s what the Templar done. Never seen the likes of it in me whole life. The priest was just walking past minding his own business. Didn’t say a word, did he, the Templar, I mean. He just ups and cuts the poor sod down?”
“Back to the ship” is my immediate response as Jeffrey and I look at each other in amazement.
“This is no quarrel of ours.” … “What’s our water and food situation, Jeffrey?” Then it strikes me. My God. We brought the Templars here. The Byzantines will blame us.
We can hear a loud and growing rumble of noise behind us as we walk rapidly back toward the dock. People on the street are alert and become fewer and fewer as we hurry past them. Window shutters are being quickly closed and doors locked.
Some of the men we see as we hurry along the narrow street are putting on helmets and arming themselves to protect their properties and a few of them are carrying weapons and moving towards the growing noise. So are a large and rapidly growing number of young boys. Obviously most of the people on the street are like us – we don’t know what the hell is going on and don’t intend to wait around to find out.
Suddenly the noise increases and here come the Templars hurrying down the street behind us toward the city gate that opens on to the city’s dock – and behind them there is a huge mob of rock throwing and shouting young men and boys. They’re very angry and out of control.
“Hurry. Run for the ship goddamnit. Run. This is no place for us.” What the hell is going on here?
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We reach our galley and I literally jump aboard without breaking stride as Jeffrey heads straight for the fore and aft mooring lines. The first of the Templars jumps on right behind me and joins me in taking a tumble as he does. It’s a pity he didn’t break his goddamn neck; I’m angry about being made to appear to be involved.
Jeffrey throws one line off and then runs down the dock and throws off the other. Then he jumps on to the deck of his galley as it slowly drifts away from the dock – and drifts far enough out away from the dock to leave about half of the Templars unable to jump aboard. We watch as they turn to fight the mob and our men pour on deck with their arms. Well hell; we can’t leave them even if I’d damn
Learning to Kill: Stories