Chapter LXXXIII: Vera Cruz
3 January 1610
Months of intermittent siege had given its significant marks on the city of Jerusalem. Every day, more and more civilians marched out of the south gate at intervals permitted by the armed guards when scouts had delivered news that the Persians and Turks had retreated once more. Every passing sunrise meant another hopeless inevitability for the city to fall under the hands of the enemy and it was this thought that was ingrained in the minds of the people.
Flee to Alexandria many did despite the news of a Muslim uprising besieging that great city as well. It was better than here, many thought. When the Persians and Turks take control of the city, such a rigorous defense of those walls could only ensure that the city would be put to the slaughter for such defiance—or at least that was what lived in the popular imagination of these inhabitants.
For General Schenkhuizen, the mass exodus was a bittersweet affair. Glad that there was enough time to save more non-combatants, but with each passing day his dwindling troops received less militia aid and less supplies. Of the original six thousand he was down to three and a half thousand men with only five hundred horse among those left to him. Months of war had brought him both successes and failures.
It was lucky for him that the Persians and Turks had not the ability to bring proper cannons all the way from their far off cities but it did not stop the wily Jafar from constructing engines of war. And as a new dawn rose in the East, the whistle of rock descended upon the city. “Hold your positions!” General Schenkhuizen shouted despite half of his body covered with the fine dust of broken Jerusalem earthwork. “They will run out of boulders to lob at us soon enough!” he encouraged his men, “Hold your posts!”
With fresh water still entering the city from the complex labyrinth of underground tunnels, his small group of men were still relatively well fed and well nourished. The General had posted some of his grunts in the tunnels to start the work of sealing off the corridors and stopping any further infiltration by the Persians. Although there were safety devices imbedded in to the earthwork itself, he wanted to make sure that Jafar had no hand to play.
The bombardments ceased after a few minutes and the General surveyed the damage done to the city. “Casualties?” he called out to one of his lieutenants.
“Camarillo’s brigade took a hit on the north end and the militia is putting out the fires. We managed to avoid most of it, sir.”
“Ladders!” someone called out from far off on the parapet. It immediately accosted the General’s attention. “From the East!” was the clarification. Turning his head quickly northward, the General also spied similar movements by Turkish troops approaching the north face. Another assault had begun in earnest.
Quickly assessing both flanks of the attack from the North and East walls, he called out to his lieutenants: “Have the militia stationed on the north face and send the La Mancha detachment to support me here on the East wall.”
“Yes sir,” the lieutenants dutifully acknowledged. There was no time to ask for the tactician’s reasoning.
General Schenkhuizen looked off eastward and put an arm up against his face. For him, the reason why Jafar would choose to concentrate in the east was a simple one—the sun would be against the Spaniards. In between his thoughts, he stopped one of his lieutenants running past him on the parapet. “Lieutenant Benitez,” the General hurriedly said in a hushed tone, “I’m sorry to ask something of you so soon since you’ve assumed command of what’s left of the cavalry, but…”
“I am ready, General,” was the young man’s unwavering response.
General Schenkhuizen’s eyes pained considerably, but it was framed in the aged rigidity of his face. “I do not think the Eastern wall will survive this assault,” General Schenkhuizen said very quietly. “The only way to save this front from falling is to sacrifice our cavalry in a rear attack. If we can break up the infantry with the sun at our backs, this assault will fail and we would have bought ourselves a few more days… but.”
“I know, General, the cavalry would probably be decimated by the Persian and Turks horse following behind us.”
There was a hard glance between the two and both squinted against the morning light. Already, the upsurge of voices from the incoming Persians coming closer to the walls dominated even the howling of the desert wind incensed at the new heat from the rising day. “Then it’s settled… I will promote you to provisional commander of the forces here,” he said to his lieutenant, “Ready my horse!” he yelled out to someone below the parapet.
“But General,” Lieutenant Benitez immediately interjected stunned by what his commandeering officer was saying, “I thought I would be leading the charge, you cannot go.”
General Schenkhuizen laughed a little at him. “You are a good tactician, Benitez which is why I will leave Jerusalem in your hands,” the older one said as he donned a helmet on his head. “I know that you have family and children back at home, and since I have none and my friends have disappeared from this earth, this is my choice.”
“With all due respect, General!” Lieutenant Benitez approached his superior quickly. It was enough to freeze the sardonic smile on the weary Schenkhuizen. “With all due respect, sir” the man repeated but more quietly, “there is no need for you to go out there. You’re needed here to make sure the rest of the men get through this. And even if I have children and a wife at home, they and I knew full well what this post meant, sir. And I would be no coward for my country—no coward to my wife and children.”
“Benitez,” the General took hold of his shoulder again, “you are an honourable and brave man, but today that honour will compel you to follow my orders as you always have don—” he was interrupted by a firm hand grasping his hand and pressing it down against Benitez’s shoulder.
“At least let me ride with you. You know I’m the best cavalryman you have right now.”
There was a similar pause before the older one eventually nodded his head. “Then bring me Colonel Hidalgo—he’ll take command here.”
---
The shadow below Jafar had already shortened considerably as the sun reached its zenith. Before his eyes however, was another rout—another retreat. What kept him calm enough was the knowledge that General Schenkhuizen’s sacrifice was a heavy one. There would be no more need to fear the Spanish cavalry. However, the cross still flew above the city’s gates and citadel—another assault had failed.
Outnumbered nearly ten to one, Jafar could not help but be impressed at the resilience of the fighters within. Naturally, he easily understood how his fresh recruits could not hold out against veteran soldiers trained in the western style nor could he ignore how the string of recent defeats have demoralized his soldiers. All of this—another delayed week or so might have dampened his mood, but all he needed was to turn around at his grand tent surrounded by his personal bodyguard.
The man with the scars all over his face approached the ponderous Vizier. “He killed forty before we wore him down,” the croaked voice explained as he pointed a finger to the bound man sitting on one of the chairs inside. “The one next to him appears to be one of his lieutenants. We found them together when our horsemen broke them up.”
Jafar hid his hands at his back and his fingers writhed together in delight at his new prize like two spiders in a mating dance. There, within his tent was the source of many of his woes and behind the chairs the banner which sported the crowns of four princes of Europa. Stooping with head downcast in feigned reverence, Jafar made his way into his own tent at the salute of his men.
“General Schenkhuizen,” he said to the downcast soldier while a translator changed his Persian to Spanish, “we finally have the pleasure of meeting.”
General Schenkhuizen kept his bloodied face downward from fatigue. Only the restraints at his back tying his wrists and feet to the chair kept him aloft. Forty other cavalrymen tried to take him, but all were dead on the field. Another ten it took to finally disarm him and bring him to the Vizier’s tent. He could barely speak but even if he could, no words would be wasted on the other commander.
The scar faced one approached the taller Persian and mumbled in Jafar’s ear: “the chests you’ve requested are here.” Jafar nodded at the news and motioned for one of his guards to bring him a seat. A miniature thunderclap muffled behind clouds of fine robes erupted out of Jafar’s cloak as he tapered it behind the seat so that he could sit opposite his opposite. “General, I would like to offer you a deal. You and I both know that it will only be a matter of weeks before Al-Quds will be once again in the hands of its rightful owners.”
“With that,” coughed the Hollander after hearing the interpreter’s words, “I will agree with you.” Pulling his body upward with tired muscles, he gave his Persian counterpart a bloody grin. “The Armada will arrive soon enough and give us the reinforcements we need to hold out here.”
“I know about your Armada, General,” Jafar replied matter-of-factly. As he sat, the vizier watched the bruised soldier through the corner of his eye. “I’m afraid it won’t arrive for a while. The Turkish fleet will keep them busy and that’s all we’ll need to put all of your men to the sword.” General Schenkhuizen did not bother to answer those words but focused his energies in breathing—the ropes tying him to the chair made it hard to take in the hot air. “You could save your men, however, as well as all the people left in that city.”
“My men and I are ready to die in service to our country,” was the terse response, “and we have already begun evacuating the city. Those who do not wish to fight will not find any objection from us if they wish to leave.” The length of the reply elicited a small cough.
For a few seconds after there was no noise except the calculated breathing of General Schenkhuizen and the whispers of the desert wind. Like a viper uncoiling rapidly, Jafar dragged his chair forward and placed his face inches away from the other man’s. “I am offering you, your men, and your countrymen a way out of this massacre—a massacre that you know will happen,” Jafar spat at him as he spoke rapidly but softened his next few words, “a massacre that
I do not wish to happen.” Another quiet moment as the translator strained to hear his master speak. “You’re a smart man, General,” the Vizier said gingerly, “there are even reports that you already know how to speak Farsi.”
General Schenkhuizen gave him a bemused grin. “Maybe,” he said in Jafar’s tongue.
“Then use that intelligence to discern the reality of your situation. You and I both know that your fleet is still a whole month away… longer than even you expected. I also know that you have already secured the Scrolls and sent them off so there is no reason to stay here. Do you deny that I am right? Don’t wait for the translation, answer me now!”
Jafar’s dark eyes held his counterpart’s for a good while. It was as if an ocean was being held back by a dam that had as their end points the irises of these two steeled men. Finally, a crack in the composure and General Schenkhuizen sighed a tired breath and slumped his head out of Jafar’s sight. His words, however, were ironic to his demeanor: “Go home. There is nothing but death for you here.”
Jafar gave a similar breath of exasperation as he returned to a straight stance on his seat. Crossing his arms across his chest, he let hot air exit through his nostrils. “I also read that you were once known by the Spanish nickname of
Sucio.”
“No one has called me Grubby in a long while,” was the sardonic response.
“Nonetheless, you were well known for rewarding your soldiers well. I’d like to offer you a chance to do that again.” Jafar nodded his finger in the air and the scarred man signaled some soldiers to bring forward that which was prepared. A heavy thud accompanied them as chests dropped to the sandy floor and a glimmer of light entered General Schenkhuizen’s eye.
“A bribe won’t work either,” the Dutchman responded while keeping his head resigned to view the floor. He passed a glance to Lieutenant Benitez to see how that soldier was holding up.
He was surprised to see, however, that the man similarly tied up to his left beheld the caskets of glittering substance in a way that froze him like a statue and turned that man’s skin white enough that the crimson stains across his face became harsh punctuations. “General…” the younger man muttered.
“Don’t worry,” General Schenkhuizen interrupted him, “trust me when I say I’ve been offered a lot more gold than this for my honour.”
“Perhaps,” the Vizier chuckled lightly, “you should see what it is your friend beholds.”
Another sigh escaped General Schenkhuizen’s cracked lips but he did manage to turn his face in the other direction. His eyes beheld three crates filled with precious metals that outshone even the light from outside of the tent. However, his gaze eventually found that which held his lieutenant in place. Suddenly, his body quickened and his back straightened even as the ropes on his wrists chafed. “That is…”
“Correct,” the Vizier interrupted, “this is the treasure which Salah al-Din took as right of conquest; and it can be returned to you once more if but you save your men from my armies.”
The words faded from General Schenkhuizen’s hearing. All that consumed him was the strange golden ringing of a gilded cross contained in the second chest which, at its center, held a piece of wood.
“
Het Ware Kruis…” he said out loud, transfixed.
Lieutenant Benitez marked it in their commoner tongue: “
La Vera Cruz”
General Schenkhuizen turned his head still dazed at his Persian captor. The Vizier gave him a sidelong look. “This is your only chance to recover this relic,” the Persian told him. “So what will it be? Refuse and face decimation at Jerusalem, or agree to my terms and leave honourably for Alexandria with this as your prize.”
At that, even Lieutenant Benitez shifted his eyes to watch General Schenkhuizen.
“Shortly after the New Year of 1610, the siege of Jerusalem by the Persian and Turkish forces finally came to an end with the surrender of the city.” Dr. Alejandro lectured as he wrote down “1610” on the board. “Most sources of the time period tell us that unlike the siege of Rhodes nearly a century earlier, starvation was not the cause of the retreat of the small garrison, but rather that a large sum of money was paid and safe passage guaranteed for two months westward. A hand was immediately raised. “Yes, Asuka?”
“I don’t get it,” the young woman let out her exasperation, “why would the Spanish give up the garrison just for a sum of gold?”
Dr. Alejandro approached his podium calmly and gave his students a bemused smile. “If one looks at the numbers, it’s clear that the Spanish garrison was due to fall in the following weeks. The General at the time,” and here, Alejandro paused to walk up to his board and write the name he was about to say for all to be able to spell, “General Schenkhuizen that you all might remember from the Chinese campaigns a few weeks back was well known for his mercenary nature. Many modern historians would speculate that he was probably successfully bribed to quit the field early on. Needless to say, as Spain’s only top general in the continent at the time, he probably got away with it. Many speculate too that they would not have been surprised if Grubby would have served on the Persian side if it weren’t for the fact that Spain could pay a lot more in the long term.” He quickly checked his watch after his statement as the students wrote down their notes. “And I’ll conclude our lecture for today with this…”
Dr. Alejandro interrupted himself as he was swift to check the blinking light on his mobile phone. A short text message was received: “Taguchi’s dead and I’m about to get what you wanted. Make sure you have the money ready; I’ll tell you where I’ll be after I get them.”
“point…” he completed with a growing smile. “It was not uncommon for the military to be used by officers for personal gain and glory especially when they come from a poorer background and this can sometimes lead to money being a decisive factor in someone’s motivations. Sometimes that reduces some people to common thugs, but even thugs have their good uses.” Here, Dr. Alejandro was grinning wildly. “Class dismissed.”
Chapter LXXXIV: Thugs (coming soon)
