The Mongoliad: Book Two

by Neal Stephenson

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Text copyright © 2012 by FOREWORLD LLC

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by 47 North

  P.O. Box 400818

  Las Vegas, NV 89140

  ISBN-13: 9781612185606

  ISBN-10: 1612185606

  to the spirits of Charles Dickens and Robert E. Howard

  Contents

  Dreamer

  Verna, 1224

  Damietta, 1218

  Verna, 1224

  Damietta, 1219

  Verna, 1224

  Damietta, 1219

  Verna, 1224

  The Mongoliad: Book Two

  Chapter 1: Quod Perierat Requiram

  Chapter 2: Boy Meets Gruel

  Chapter 3: Thirsty Work

  Chapter 4: Prisons within Prisons

  Chapter 5: Custodi Animam Meam, Quonian Sanctus Sum

  Chapter 6: An Affable Excursion

  Chapter 7: A Knife in the Dark

  Chapter 8: Naked Upon the Steppe

  Chapter 9: Enter the Bear

  Chapter 10: Into the Land of the Khazars

  Chapter 11: A Good Strategist

  Chapter 12: Preparations

  Chapter 13: Signa Hodie Lumen Vultus Tui Super Me

  Chapter 14: The Quartermaster’s Tongue

  Chapter 15: Tündér Magic

  Chapter 16: Exterge Lutum Oculorum Meorum, Ut Videam

  Chapter 17: Rumors of My Demise

  Chapter 18: To the Place of the Cliff

  Chapter 19: Grave Gravatae

  Chapter 20: A Simple Plan

  Chapter 21: Quod Debuimus Facere, Fecimus

  Chapter 22: An Afternoon at First Field

  Chapter 23: Servus Servorum Dei

  Chapter 24: The Knife Edge

  Chapter 25: Decipies, Et Prævalebis

  Chapter 26: Rædwulf’s Bow

  Chapter 27: Come Blood and Fire

  Chapter 28: Pillow Fight

  Chapter 29: Deus Iudex Iustus

  Chapter 30: Waiting For the Storm

  Chapter 31: Freedom Lost

  Chapter 32: The Night of Steel and Fire

  Chapter 33: Lucerna Corporis Est Oculus

  Cast of Characters

  Acknowledgements

  About the Authors

  Dominus det tibi pacem.

  —personal greeting of Francis of Assisi

  Verna, 1224

  The oratory and two other buildings of the hermitage were built along a ridge of mottled rock near the peak of La Verna. The upthrust of smooth basalt served as the back wall for one of the two dormitories. A small garden was delineated by a hedge of jumbled stones, a makeshift barrier that mainly served to keep the capricious wind from stealing the soil. Several goats and chickens wandered aimlessly about the grounds—the goats, with their thick coats, were not terribly disturbed by the wind that blew through the rocky terrain of the mountain top.

  The hermitage was home to a half-dozen lay brothers of the Ordo Fratrum Minorum—Fratricelli, as they referred to themselves. The mountain had been a gift from the Count of Chiusi, who had, some years prior, been witness to one of the spontaneous sermons offered by the titular head of the order, Francis of Assisi. So impressed by Francis’s rhetoric, he had bequeathed the territory on the spot. It is a barren place, La Verna, he had said to Francis, and once you climb past the thick forest that cloaks the lower portion of the mountain, there is little to sustain a man among the naked rocks of the peak.

  To many, this gift would have been an insulting bequest, but Francis of Assisi and his Fratricelli had a relationship with God that eschewed property and goods—in that sense, the hermitage atop La Verna suited them perfectly. Other than the buildings themselves, which had been constructed by local tradesmen at the command of the count, there was nothing of value atop the mountain. The view—a dizzying panoramic of the Tuscan countryside—was impressive, and a constant reminder of the sublime beauty of God’s handiwork, but it was ephemeral. Pilgrims marveled at the vista, and some even attempted to capture the enormity of the landscape in song and art, but for the local people who lived down in the valley, a hike to the top of La Verna did not aid them in their daily labors. They might return refreshed of spirit, but their hands would be empty. Unlike the Fratricelli, they did not seek out such austerity; rather, they struggled every day to escape from it.

  The Fratricelli did not go down into the valley very often, nor did many visitors brave the long hike. The only one who came with some regularity was Piro, a wiry goat herder who habitually brought a meager assortment of supplies. The odd time when Piro brought someone else with him was a cause for celebration among the lay brothers. Simply because the monks eschewed owning property and goods did not mean they did not enjoy a decent meal now and again, and an increase in visitors meant a commensurate increase in fresh supplies from the village below.

  There were several holy days that the monks celebrated, and around those days, the Fratricelli looked forward to Piro’s visit. On the morning before the Feast of the Exaltation of the Cross, the monks began to find excuses to wander close to the old pine tree that clung to the edge of the bluff. The upper half of the tree had been blasted by lightning years before the monks had arrived, and it had never offered them any shade, but it was both a notable landmark and a convenient vantage point from which to observe the trail.

  Brother Leo, having been at the hermitage since its buildings had been erected, no longer paid much attention to the younger brothers’ eagerness, but on this warm September morning as he worked the hard scrabble of the garden, he gradually realized all of the monks were clustered around the tree. Brother Leo set aside his hoe and joined the group, where he learned not only had Piro been sighted, but that he had a companion. The monks were engaged in a frenzy of speculation as to the identity of the other visitor. Listening to them, Brother Leo was reminded of the flocks of starlings that used to chatter in the shrubs around the decrepit old building near the Rivo Torto, where he had first become one of Francis’s followers.

  The sharp-eyed lay brothers—Cotsa and Nestor—had already determined that both pilgrims carried satchels.

  Brother Leo listened to the prattle of the others with detached amusement. He had grown accustomed to the serenity afforded by the seclusion of the hermitage; he did not yearn as readily as these youngsters for these passing dalliances with the decadences of civilization. Most of the lay brothers had only been following the letter of Brother Francis’s Rule for less than a season. The mystery of an unexpected visitor—and the possibility of extra rations!—made them unbecomingly giddy. He could not fault them, however; he remembered the first few years in the order—back before it had been officially recognized by the Pope—and how any respite from strict piety was eagerly embraced.

  “There,” said Brother Cotsa. The tall monk pointed over the heads of the others, and all chatter ceased as the Fratricelli turned their collective attention to the path.

  Piro emerged from the cleft first, and he smiled and waved at the sight of the clustered monks. “Ho, Piro,” Cotsa called down to him, and Brother Leo frowned at his lay brother’s casual disregard for the order’s traditional greeting. Some of the o
thers shouted down to the pair as well, asking questions that could not be readily answered before the two men arrived at the hermitage.

  The stranger paused as he emerged from the rocky passage, taking a moment to stare up at the monks. A large hat, floppy from age and the heat, covered his head, and his tunic and pants were equally simple and unadorned. His boots were worn but solid—well-formed to his feet and legs. The man carried a sword on a baldric, and he stood with the practiced ease of a man used to the presence of a scabbard against his hip. His skin was darker than Brother Leo’s, and his face was adorned with a neatly trimmed beard. Brother Leo estimated he had not seen more than two dozen winters, but there was a cant to his carriage that suggested he carried both wisdom and pain beyond his years.

  “May the Lord give you peace,” Brother Leo called out to the stranger in Latin. He glared at the Fratricelli next to him, silently admonishing them for their failed courtesy.

  The stranger looked up, raising a hand to shield his eyes from the sun. “And may peace be upon you as well,” he replied.

  Brother Leo scratched the side of his neck. The man had replied quickly and surely—his Latin graceful, yet touched with an accent Brother Leo could not place. He spoke as if the greeting of the Ordo Fratrum Minorum was familiar, but his response was not quite in keeping with tradition.

  Piro reached the plateau and dumped his satchel on the dusty ground. “Ho, holy men,” the young goat herder called out. “I bring one of your brothers.”

  “One of us?” Brother Mante asked. He was the tallest of the group, and oftentimes his height made him the spokesperson. “How can that be, Piro? None of us carry a sword.”

  “He has—” Piro offered a steadying hand to his companion who was struggling with the last few steps up the steep path, “—what do you call it?”

  The young man seized the offered hand and hauled himself up. “An Ordo,” he explained. He fumbled with his satchel for a moment as if he wasn’t quite sure what to do with his hands. “I am Raphael of Acre. Forgive my unexpected arrival. Piro here said he would show me the way, and it would appear that he did so. Quite successfully.” The young man was slightly out of breath, but he hid it well.

  “Which order might you be a member of?” Brother Cotsa inquired, still brusque with an indelicacy born of excitement.

  “Perhaps we might wait to interrogate our visitor until after he has rested from his climb,” Brother Leo pointed out, mortified by the lack of decorum on the part of his fellow Fratricelli.

  “No, no. It’s fine,” the young man said. “You are the Ordo Fratrum Minorum, are you not? Followers of Francis of Assisi?” When several of the monks nodded in response, he continued, “I belong to the Ordo Milites Vindicis Intactae.”

  “See?” Piro said, proud of his command of Latin. “Ordo.”

  “No, Piro,” Raphael said, laying a hand on his guide’s shoulder. “It’s not the same thing.” He looked apologetically at the monks. “I am sorry for the confusion. Piro has been very helpful, and I fear I may have inadvertently taken advantage of his enthusiasm.”

  “Milites,” Brother Leo explained to Piro. “It means fighting men—soldiers.” He translated the name. “Knights of the Virgin Defender,” he said, pointing at the blade hanging off Raphael’s hip. “We are not Crusaders. We have no use for a sharp tool such as that.”

  Piro scratched his head. “Crusader?” he asked, jerking a thumb at Raphael.

  “The Fifth?” Brother Mante blurted out.

  “Aye,” Raphael said. “That is the one.”

  The last Crusade, the Fifth, had ended a scant few years earlier. Already the word from Rome was that it had been a failure and that another would be called soon. Rome had no appetite for the continued presence of Muslim infidels in the Levant. Raphael’s acknowledgment released a flood of questions from the monks, and even Brother Leo found himself leaning forward to hear the young man’s answers. The Fifth Crusade! Could he have been in Egypt at the same time as...?

  Taken aback by the Fraticelli’s enthusiasm, Raphael held up his hands to quell the torrent of voices. “Yes,” he said, ducking his head in mild embarrassment at the mix of confusion and fascination offered by the group of monks. “Yes, I was at Damietta,” he admitted. “I was there when Francis came on his mission to convert the Sultan, Al-Kamil.”

  Damietta, 1218

  “Pull!”

  The crier was a haggard Frisian named Edzard, a bald man with a tangled beard and a voice that reminded Raphael of surf battering against a cliff. He limped, and sitting on a horse pained him, but aboard a ship, he moved with a supple grace. He stalked up and down the line of the massive raft, howling at the men.

  “Don’t stop, you miserable sons of tavern wenches,” Edzard shouted at them. “This river hates you. The infidels hate you. God even hates you for being weak. Pull!”

  The company—three hundred strong, a mixture of Frisian crusaders, Templars, Hospitallers, and Shield-Brethren—huddled beneath a canopy of waterlogged skins, their only protection from the Greek fire hurled at them from the walls of Damietta. Their vessel, a ponderous construct created by lashing two boats together, moved sluggishly in the violent waters of the turbulent Nile. The sheer size and weight of their floating siege tower was the only reason the river had not already claimed them.

  The city of Damietta sprawled to the east of the eastern fork of the Nile. Seizing the city was a critical goal in the conquest of Egypt—it would give the Crusaders a much needed stronghold in Muslim territory—but the assault was complicated by the difficult terrain that surrounded the city. From the north, east, and south, Damietta was protected by the sprawling salt-water lagoon of Lake Manzala—an impenetrable maze of shallow pools and shifting mud. Attacking from the west was the most prudent route, but any force had to cross the Nile in order to assault the thick walls. In the past six weeks, the river had gone from a turgid impediment to an inchoate elemental fury.

  The Crusaders were not without means. They had crossed the Mediterranean to assemble an army on Egyptian sand, and they had a number of boats at their disposal. The captains of the boats were loath to brave the river, though, for not only was the channel treacherous and mercurial, but they also had to weather a storm of stones and fire from the mangonels and trebuchets atop the walls of Damietta.

  As a final deterrent to any crossing, the Muslims filled the river with a swarm of their own rafts and boats and barges. This argosy was restrained by a number of heavy chains strung from the walls of the city to the foundation stones of a narrow tower that squatted on a spike of rock jutting from the river. The islet stood close to the western shore, though not close enough to effect a crossing from the western bank. The only way to reach the tower was by boat.

  The Crusaders had already lost several ships in an effort to storm the river-based citadel. The boats were too exposed out on the treacherous river as they struggled to maneuver into a position where they could mount an assault. The defenders of the tower had a ready supply of Greek fire, and the catapults atop Damietta’s walls had a seemingly endless supply of heavy rocks.

  After battering themselves against the stronghold for two months, the Crusaders had finally devised a new solution—one that was either more catastrophically foolhardy than their previous efforts or a stroke of divine inspiration.

  The floating siege tower had been the idea of Oliver of Paderborn—a slender man who was more a scholar than a soldier. He had been quietly observing and recording the previous efforts, and it was his opinion that the crux of the Crusaders’ trouble was the upper level of the tower. When the boats off-loaded their assault force at the base, the defenders simply poured Greek fire and a rain of arrows on the men below. In order to give the men on the ground a chance, the Crusaders had to take the upper floor first. Oliver’s solution was a two-decked raft—a floating siege tower that could be grounded against the islet. The force on the upper deck could lower a makeshift bridge and attack the battlements directly.

 
“Port oars back!” Edzard screamed, and the men on that side strained with all their collective might to shift the boat. They were floating sideways in the river, a wallowing pig carcass caught in the heavy rush of the Nile. They had to get the boat turned or the bridge on the upper deck would not reach the tower. And in order to do that, they had to hit the tiny spire of rock head-on; otherwise, Oliver’s design would be a deathtrap. Those who weren’t burned outright by the Muslim’s liquid fire would likely drown in the raging river.

  The last time Raphael had been in water this tempestuous had been during his order’s initiation trial. The Ordo Militum Vindicis Intactae, the infamous Shield-Brethren, remembered their Grecian origins. They still held dear the symbol of the shield and the goddess whom they protected with the same. When the young initiates were ready to prove themselves worthy, they were taken down into the stone caves beneath Petraathen, the order’s mountainous fortress. Handed an aspis—the heavy shield of their forebearers—and directed to swim in a swift underground river, they were presented with a choice.

  The ones who chose swiftly and without fear became knights of the order.

  Many of those who failed to decide drowned. A stern reminder of the swift brutality of the battlefield.

  Raphael and two dozen of his fellow Shield-Brethren had been chosen to lead the initial assault on the top of the tower. As soon as their floating barge struck the islet, the pair in front were to cut the ropes holding the bridge upright. The bridge was a series of planks lashed together. Two men, crowded together, could go abreast. They would have very little room to swing their swords. Once the boat grounded against the islet, they would have to rush across the bridge quickly. They had to reach the tower before the defenders could knock the bridge away. Or burn it.

  There were gaps in the hide cover on either side of the bridge, and as the barge turned laboriously in the river, Raphael saw the mottled stone of the tower swing by.