behind the fighting step and snatched up rocks and stones to hurl over the wall. With shrill cries of hatred they threw their missiles and Thomas saw them clatter off the helmets and shields of the enemy. But some struck home, striking men in the face, injuring many of the unarmoured fanatics who had joined Suleiman’s army to kill the enemies of Islam and find martyrdom for themselves. Then the Turks reached the wall and cut down the last of the defenders trapped there before they jabbed their spears at the faces looming above them.
Thomas saw La Valette lean forward and thrust his pike into the shoulder of a man below, then wrench the point back and thrust again. Richard cried out as a spear point caught in his sleeve and then cut into the flesh of his arm. His jerkin ripped as he tore his arm free and stabbed his pike into the man who had wounded him. For a short period the Turks were caught tightly against the base of the wall, easy prey for those above them who thrust and stabbed into the tightly packed mass of robes and armour. The first of the men carrying assault ladders forced their way through the throng and ran the ladders up against the wall. At once their comrades began to climb, desperate to get at the defenders of Birgu.
Thomas raised his dagger as a ladder clattered against the wall to his right, just between himself and Richard. It swayed a moment as the first of the Turks swarmed up. Thomas leaned forward and stabbed at his hand. The Turk seemed to ignore the pain; he hauled himself up and his wild eyes beneath the rim of his helmet stared at Thomas with hatred. He pulled his hand free with a rush of blood and drew his scimitar. His blade arced towards Thomas’s neck and he just had time to throw his weight to one side and duck the blow that would surely have struck his head off if he had not moved. The Turk shouted a curse and made to swing again. Before he could, a rock caught him on the bridge of his nose and blood spurted from his nostrils. He blinked and shook his head. Richard swung the butt of his pike and knocked him back amid the swords, spears and spiked helmets of his comrades.
Mustafa Pasha urged his men on, his sword punching out, his mouth stretched wide as he bellowed encouragement. Then he moved forward towards the inner wall, his bodyguard parting the press before him. For a moment Thomas could only follow his progress by the horsehair standard weaving above the sea of helmets, turbans, bare heads, points of spears and sword blades.
‘Sir,’ he shouted to La Valette and pointed out Suleiman’s standard. ‘Look there!’
The Grand Master followed the direction Thomas indicated and saw that the enemy commander was making directly towards him. ‘He means to kill me.’
Thomas nodded. ‘You must get off the wall, sir.’
‘No. Our fate hangs by a thread. I must stay here, where my people can see me.’
La Valette turned away as a spear thrust glanced off his shoulder plate. One of the Turks had climbed up on to the shoulders of his comrades to strike at the Grand Master, and now La Valette coolly turned his pike on the man and ran him through.
Thomas watched the steady progress of the enemy’s standard as it picked its way closer. Then the sea of faces before him parted and a squad of Janissaries pushed through, making space for their commander and his personal bodyguard, tall, well-built warriors, in fine armour and carrying heavy scimitars - hand-picked men from the elite corps of Suleiman’s army. Two of them grabbed a ladder from their comrades and placed it against the wall, directly in front of Thomas and the standard of the Order of St John. Now he could see Mustafa Pasha, his weathered face wet with rain as he shouted orders to his men and pointed at Thomas. The first of his men rushed up the ladder. Thomas stabbed at him with the dagger but the Janissary was quick and dodged the blow. He caught Thomas’s wrist in his hand and clamped tightly as he continued up the last rung and swung his muddy boot over the parapet. He reached for his scimitar. Thomas tried to pull himself free but the other man was too strong for him and his lips parted in a cruel smile.
‘Protect the standard!’ La Valette shouted in alarm.
Richard was two paces to Thomas’s right, thrusting a ladder back. The moment it fell away he turned and lunged at the Janissary. The man saw the danger and released his grip on Thomas’s wrist. He threw up his arm to ward off the blow and knocked the steel point aside. Thomas moved at once and stabbed his dagger into the man’s arm, and again. With a bellow of pain and rage, the Janissary thrust his sword hand out, smashing Thomas in the chest and unbalancing him so that he tottered on the edge of the fighting step for a moment and then fell back, the standard falling with him.
At once a groan rose from the lips of the nearest defenders, matched by a shout of jubilation from the other side of the wall. The Janissary swung his other leg over the wall and rushed at Richard, slashing wildly with his scimitar. Richard desperately blocked the blows with the shaft of his pike. Another Janissary came over the wall and turned towards La Valette, warily eyeing the lowered point of his pike as he closed. Two more men came over the wall and then a fifth, carrying Suleiman’s standard which he planted on the parapet and waved from side to side. Thomas scrambled to his feet and snatched up the standard of the Order in his good hand, leaving the dagger on the ground.
‘Stand firm!’ he bellowed to left and right. ‘Stand firm!’
‘Drive them back!’ La Valette yelled. ‘For God and St John! Kill them!’
Figures surged past Thomas and he saw a young boy, no more than twelve, pull himself on to the wall and throw himself at the Janissary attacking Richard. His puny fists clawed at the Turk’s face and he bit into the bare skin of his arm, above the gauntlet. The Turk glared at the boy, then grabbed his hair and wrenched him away before dashing his brains out on the parapet and flinging the wretchedly skinny bag of bones down beside Thomas. A shrill cry of grief and rage cut through the air and a thin woman stepped over the body and hurled a rock at the Janissary. The sharp-edged stone split his eyebrow open and blood coursed over his eyes, forcing him to pause and wipe them clear. The moment’s distraction cost him his life as Richard rammed his pike into the Janissary’s stomach, twisted the point to both sides and ripped it free. The Turk tumbled inside the wall and at once the woman leaped upon him, another rock in her hand, which she punched into his face repeatedly, pulverising flesh and bone as tears streamed down her cheeks and an animal keening strained at her throat.
More women and children charged forward, snatching and tearing at the Janissaries, pulling them from the wall and beating them to death. The enemy standard bearer on the wall looked down aghast as the Maltese slaughtered his comrades like wild animals. Then Richard cast his pike aside and rushed at the man, striking him in the face with his mantlet, the metal finger guards tearing into the Janissary’s cheek. He struck the man again and again and then seized the shaft of the standard in his left hand in a desperate struggle for its possession. There was a sudden lull in the fighting around the two men as the combatants on both sides watched the struggle.
The Turkish standard bearer clung on to the shaft as he endured Richard’s blows. He tried at first to ward them off with his left hand, and then suddenly thrust it forward, clamping his fingers round Richard’s throat. Thomas saw his son’s face contort in agony. Richard renewed his efforts, punching with all his failing strength. Then the man’s head snapped back with a deep groan and he staggered, dazed, his fingers releasing their grip on Richard. He stumbled and fell across the parapet and Richard tore the enemy standard from his hand before thrusting him over the side. At once Richard held the standard aloft and a wild cheer erupted from the defenders on and behind the wall. Richard waved it back and forth for a moment, taunting the Turks, and then contemptuously hurled the standard back towards Birgu where it landed in the mud.
The Turks fell silent. Then the first of them began to back away, and the motion rippled through the ranks as the rest followed. Thomas climbed up beside Richard and held the Order’s standard high in the air and added his cheers to those of the other defenders. Below him he saw Mustafa Pasha threaten his men with his sword as he screamed at them to continue the attack. Some stopped and turned back, and then a rock struck the enemy commander on the chin and he stumbled and fell to his knees, blood pouring from a deep gash. A wail of despair rose up from those immediately around him and the urge to retreat became unstoppable. Mustafa Pasha’s bodyguards hurriedly picked up their commander and bore him away, towards the breach. Around them the Turks fell back across the open ground to the main wall.
‘After them!’ La Valette commanded. ‘Drive them out! They must not be allowed to hold the wall!’
His order was repeated and the defenders slid over the parapet and began to chase after the Turks. Knights, soldiers, women and children all joined the pursuit, sprinting after the enemy and falling like wolves upon those that lagged behind their comrades. Watching from the wall Thomas felt sickened by the sight. This was not a war any more, but a savage, bloody massacre. Women and children attacked their prey with knives, axes and clubs, splattering blood and gobbets of flesh across the ground where the rain struggled to wash them away. An old woman hacked away at a fallen Janissary and then leaned down to clench his beard in her fist and raise the bloodied head aloft with a shrill cry of triumph.
