City of God

by S. J. A. Turney

  Arnau smiled as he followed Ramon, both knights now carrying their gear over their shoulders, the rest of which was already strapped to the horses. Sebastian, still weak and grey, was therefore unburdened as yet. As he set foot on the jetty and took his first tentative step in this new world of the East, something made Arnau shiver with discomfort, and he frowned. His gaze turned to meet that of Ramon, and the older knight’s expression suggested that he felt it too.

  Walking slowly, leading the horses, Arnau peered around him as he went, trying to discern what was making him uncomfortable. It took some time for him to realise what it was, and his boots had alighted onto the stone of the dock proper before it struck him. Few of the folk in the port were looking at them. One thing that Arnau had come to realise over the recent years was that the Order inspired a certain level of awe in most folk. Just as Arnau had gawped in that dreadful skirmish by the Ebro River when the glorious Templar had sung his way into battle, so most people looked up in either fear or respect, or both, when the white and red of the Templar knight passed by. Not so, apparently, in Limassol. Moreover, he was astute enough an observer of human nature to see that it was not that they were raising no interest, but rather that the people were deliberately averting their gaze.

  And along with that near shunning came an unexpected undercurrent of anger.

  What was going on?

  ‘Note the discrepancy,’ Ramon murmured as they walked.

  ‘Discrepancy?’

  ‘The only ones looking at us are the sailors – men from the West mainly, or from the Holy Land, perhaps. The islanders who work the dock will not meet our gaze.’

  Arnau nodded with growing unease. That was most certainly the case. What was turning the locals so against them? The new arrivals bore the symbols of the Western Church, of course, but there had always been a grudging acceptance of their schismatic brothers in Greekland, or so he had heard. Why, then, this enmity for the red cross? His gaze slid up from the unfriendly dockside to the white walls and tiled roofs of the city beyond, and to two structures in particular that rose above the surrounding buildings. Just as with most cities: the castle and the church.

  ‘Do we visit the church?’ Arnau said. ‘Find our bearings a little?’

  Ramon shook his head. ‘Pious as we must be, it is wise to remember that we live in a temporal world. The fathers in their house of God are wise in the ways of the soul, but if you want to know the workings of the world, visit a tavern.’

  Without another word, Ramon angled off towards a low building with a courtyard displaying a sign of three wine barrels above the gate. Arnau followed, as did Sebastian, looking greener than ever, probably at the thought of drink. Sitting at the edge of the port where the streets of the city began, the tavern was a sprawling, single-storey affair, comprised of three wings arranged around a courtyard filled with tables and benches beneath a vine-covered trellis. Wary eyes watched as they approached.

  ‘Yassas,’ Arnau said amiably in reasonable Greek to an old man with a sour face and a mug of something sitting on a bench by the gate. The man gave him an acidic glare, and Arnau shuffled past, frowning deeper. As they entered the courtyard, Ramon paused and pointed up at the wall. By the entrance, a stone had been mortared into the surface – a flat, white marble stone carved with a stylised lily.

  ‘Franks,’ Ramon noted. ‘Good. If the locals have some reason to distrust us, at least the Franks do not.’

  Leaving Sebastian with the horses outside, Arnau followed Ramon past the tables filled with diners and drinkers, and into the shadowy interior of the bar. The thrum of conversation dropped to a low murmur for a moment as the two Templars entered, but soon rose once more. Good, Arnau thought. At least these Franks seemed comfortable with the Order’s presence.

  Despite the fleur-de-lys, though, the tavern seemed relatively cosmopolitan. He could hear Greek and French, Italian and English all being spoken in the general hum. Ramon crossed to the bar, where a sweaty man with a shining bald head and a stained apron leaned on the counter and cocked an eyebrow at them.

  ‘Not seen a brother of your order for a while, good sir knight,’ the man said in French. Arnau took a moment to adjust his linguistic thinking. French was, of course, the universally accepted court language, and so like any nobleman young Vallbona had a good command of it, but he had been so prepared for Greek that it took a moment to realign his thoughts.

  ‘We are en route to Acre,’ Ramon replied casually in good French, ‘to join the armies of Christendom as they bring the hammer down upon the Egyptian caliph. Though I fear we will be caught on Cyprus for the winter, if sailors’ tongues are true.’

  Arnau nodded beside him. Whatever troubles might exist between the islanders and the Order, surely everyone was united against the Saracen, especially this close to their centre of power in Egypt.

  ‘You might be waiting a while, then,’ the man said, with a twinkle in his eye and a strange grimace of a smile. ‘You’ve not heard recent news?’

  Ramon shook his head. ‘We have been aboard ship for some time, with only overnight stops in out-of-the-way places where our captain could avoid expensive port fees. There are important tidings of the army of the Franks?’

  ‘You have been out of the way, haven’t you?’ the man said in surprise. ‘It’s the talk of every city from here to Paris, and not universally welcomed among my countrymen, I might add.’

  Arnau shivered. Was this what was at the root of the anger in the port? He’d assumed it had been something to do with the brief rule of the Order here, but perhaps it was something connected with the new Crusade.

  ‘Tell us, sir,’ Ramon said, ‘I beseech you. We are starved of news, and this sounds important.’

  The innkeeper nodded. ‘Very much so. The army of Christendom only reached the Adriatic coast before trouble started. They besieged and sacked Zadra, or so the common tale goes.’

  ‘Zadra?’ Arnau asked in confusion.

  ‘A city on the Adriatic coast,’ Ramon said knowledgeably. ‘Part of Byzantium’s empire, nominally, with fealty upon a time to Venice too.’

  Arnau shook his head. ‘That cannot be. A Christian city?’

  Ramon flashed him a look that told him to hold his tongue, then turned back to the barkeep. ‘There must be some mistake or misunderstanding. Perhaps the news has been corrupted in transit. If Zadra is an imperial city, then it is true to Christ and part of the Byzantine bulwark that keeps the West safe from the heathen. The Pope would never allow such a thing, I’m sure.’

  The man snorted. ‘The Pope gave no such order. I hear the doge of Venice was behind the attack. If Count Thibaut had lived to command the Crusaders, he’d never have gone along with it, but the armies of France are led by an Italian now, Boniface of Montferrat. Never trust an Italian statesman, and two of them now lead the Crusade. The Pope has already condemned it all. It’s even said that the entire army and its fleet face excommunication for their acts.’

  Arnau was still shaking his head. The barman, his grave tidings given, offered them drinks, and Ramon distractedly purchased two cups of wine, then nodded his thanks and urged Arnau along the bar into the western wing of the building and the quietest corner of the room, where he handed one cup to the younger knight.

  ‘This is dreadful news,’ Ramon said quietly. ‘Absurd. Zadra? What was Dandolo thinking?’

  ‘Dandolo?’

  Ramon took a sip of his wine, giving it an appreciative look. ‘The old master, doge of Venice. A true political changeling and every bit the untrustworthy Italian statesman the barkeep suggested. You think our friend della Cadeneta was trouble? He was an innocent babe in arms compared with the machinations of the doge of Venice. He is infamous.’

  ‘I’ve never heard of him. But why would he want to sack an imperial city? And why would the Frankish army support him?’

  ‘To the former, I have no answer, other than to point out that Venice once paid homage to the emperor, and not so long ago at that. To the latter,
bear in mind that the doge’s ships are vital if the Crusade is to hope to ever reach Egypt. It might be stupid and short-sighted, but I can imagine why the Lord Boniface and his council supported Venice in this. That sea city is a rising power – mark my words, Vallbona. Where only generations ago she was a vassal of Byzantium, now she begins to pull strings in the courts of Europe.’

  ‘No wonder the locals are wary of us, if news like this sits in their hearts. What does it all mean for us, though?’

  Ramon shrugged. ‘I doubt the army will be sailing on now, after Zadra. Winter is too close, and with what has apparently happened, the leaders of the Crusade will want to smooth things over with Rome before they travel further. What use is it engaging in a blessed holy war when the Pope himself turns his back on you? I do know one thing though: if the Pope condemns the Crusaders, then our order will join him and similarly have nothing to do with them. I fear that unless the doge can heal the damage he has apparently caused, we will not be lending our sword arms to the defeat of Egypt after all.’

  ‘Then what do we do?’ Arnau said in a worried breath.

  ‘What can we do?’ Ramon shrugged again. ‘We have no master to report to here. We can hardly just sail west once more to Rourell. I was hoping to move on to Acre before the winter tides made it troublesome, but if the Crusade is delayed, perhaps we are better here after all. If we winter on Cyprus, we will receive all the news of the Crusade before even the masters in the Holy Land. And when the weather changes and sailors once more ply the lanes to the Levant, we can journey on to Acre. Depending upon the tidings of the winter, we can either head home or go on to the mother house and present ourselves as ordered.’

  Arnau nodded, though he was less than content. Their entire plan had been overturned with that momentous news so casually delivered by a French tavern owner. The sword of Christendom had been unsheathed, but instead of cleaving the Saracen, it had been wielded against the lands of Byzantium. Against Zadra, a city of God.

  Worse, perhaps, was the idea of spending the winter on the island. He had been looking forward to that as they docked, but their reception in the port had changed all that. If the dock workers’ attitude was any indication of what they might expect from the island as a whole, the coming months could be less than comfortable.

  Arnau took a swig of his wine. It was unlike the brews he was used to in Iberia, much thicker and sweeter and headier, yet somehow it tasted like ash now.

  Chapter 2: The Broken Island

  Lefkosia, Cyprus

  Late November 1202

  Arnau whistled through his teeth. The number of travellers on the road throughout the day had hinted at the size and importance of Lefkosia, but it was larger still than he expected. The island’s capital lay in a wide, flat agricultural basin, bordered to both north and south by mountains that rendered it more or less protected from the coastal region. Its seeming isolation from the vulnerable coastline had not inhibited the city. Indeed, it seemed to be a boon. Lefkosia displayed no sign of walled defences, the city sprawling far and wide, its only nod to security being a small fort poking up from the roofs near the centre.

  As they moved closer in the last light of the day, Arnau began to make out things that surprised him. The churches and chapels they passed were nothing like the grand edifices down in Limassol, and far removed from those of Iberia and France. Rather than a belfry and somewhat austere stone walls, these buildings were all apses and windows, and domes with golden crosses surmounting them. They were formed of neat brick that had itself been designed to be aesthetically pleasing as much as stable. They were, in effect, beautiful. And, perhaps more surprising, between and beyond them he could see mosques. They were disused buildings now, or often repurposed as markets or homes, but Arnau had seen enough such examples across Catalunya and Mayūrqa to know what he was seeing.

  Lefkosia was the most varied and architecturally fascinating place he had ever laid eyes upon.

  As they moved through the town, Ramon continued to annoy Arnau on a selfish, personal level by asking locals, in better Greek than he could manage, the way to the palace. They were guided by a variety of surly locals to a wide square at the heart of the city. Another of the graceful curved churches with their high windows stood on one side of the square, a squat crenelated tower formed of heavy golden-coloured stones facing it – the fortress Arnau had seen over the roofs from a distance. Between the two, standing on the northern edge of the square, sat an odd building. At first glance, Arnau couldn’t decide whether it was another form of strange Eastern church or a very decorative fortress. High windows seemed incongruous with what appeared to be thick defensive walls, yet those walls were picked out with marble decoration and strata of red brick that seemed to serve no purpose other than to be pleasing to the eye. A colonnaded balcony overlooked the square, and a huge red banner bearing a rearing golden lion hung above a grand doorway atop a small flight of stairs.

  As they were directed towards it, Arnau realised this must be the palace. Its form was old, though, and certainly predated the rule of Western lords. This was almost certainly the old Byzantine palace from when the island was part of their empire. He shivered as he took in the imperial architecture. It was humbling to think that back in Tarragona and Barcelona he had walked amid the shattered ruins of ancient Roman cities, and yet here that same empire continued to exist and rule, for all the odd changes it had experienced in between.

  The three men dismounted now and approached the palace. Before they had even reached the base of the steps, the great studded doors opened in response. Two men in mail hauberks displaying the same lion emblem, only in red upon white, stepped aside to flank the open doorway as a third figure emerged.

  This man, swarthy and bearded and with a sour expression, wore a long white tunic embroidered with red and gold decoration, and green hose tucked into soft boots, all accessorised with a thick belt of gold and green. His hair was layered and wavy, and shone with a greasy sheen in the late afternoon sun.

  Arnau realised that while he was staring and taking it all in, Ramon was bowing, and he swiftly followed suit.

  ‘Templars? Curious,’ sniffed the nobleman in perfect French, gesturing absently for them to rise.

  ‘We are en route to Acre, to our mother house, sir,’ Ramon replied. ‘Seasonal sailing times resulted in us putting ashore on Cyprus, where we may be forced to winter. It seemed appropriate to make our presence known to the king. Might we request an audience?’

  The man frowned and pursed his lips, fingers drumming on his hip. ‘His Majesty will most certainly make time for the men of the Order, if only to discover why you are truly here.’

  ‘As I said—’ began Ramon, but the nobleman was already ignoring him, turning away and gesturing for them to follow. Ramon and Arnau shared a look. ‘Friendly sort, isn’t he?’ Arnau sighed. Ramon handed his reins to Sebastian. ‘I’m afraid you’ll have to wait here until we return, after which we will secure lodgings.’

  The squire bowed his head and took Arnau’s reins too, and the two knights adjusted their salt-stained white surcoats and set off up the steps in the wake of the supercilious nobleman. The interior of the palace continued the architectural theme as they entered a corridor with doors leading off, high windows and a grand staircase. Its design fell somewhere between religious and military, with a leaning to the sumptuous in an understated way.

  Already the nobleman was some way ahead and waiting at a doorway. As the two knights appeared inside the building, he gestured to them and then disappeared through that door. They followed, entering a wide hall in which two more lion-emblazoned guards stood silent and hard-faced. ‘Wait here,’ the nobleman said, and disappeared through a large ornate door covered with red leather. From seemingly nowhere a servant appeared with a wooden tray laden with fruit, which he proffered to them. Arnau peered at the gleaming delicacies, half of which he could not identify and, being somewhat unadventurous, took an apple. Ramon simply waved the boy away.

 
; They stood in silence for a while, the guards watching them carefully, hands on swords. The only noise was the constant crunching of Arnau’s apple. He had finished the fruit, and was wondering what to do with the core, when the door opened once more and the nobleman emerged.

  ‘You will, of course, leave your weapons here. The king will see you for a few moments.’

  The two knights bowed again and unbelted their swords, handing them to one of the guards, who regarded the pair with inscrutable eyes. Unarmed, they followed the man through the door and into an even wider room. Once more those great windows that seemed ubiquitous cast the room into a great golden glow from the late sun. A red and white carpet ran the length of the room from the door to a dais at the far end. Four more soldiers in lion tabards stood near the throne, and half a dozen courtiers stood in two groups at the periphery.

  The king of Cyprus sat upon an ornate marble seat, padded with red and gold cushions and draped with the emblem of the lion once again. The man who ruled this island wore a red cote, threaded with gold, and a white surcoat with the lion rampant over his left breast. His shoulder-length hair was dark and his beard neat and pointed like a blade. He did not look happy.

  Ramon stopped roughly halfway along the rich carpet and bowed deeply, and Arnau followed suit once more.

  ‘I do not like Templars,’ said the king suddenly, in an unpleasant drawl.

  ‘Majesty?’ prompted Ramon, straightening with a furrowed brow.

  ‘Wherever the Order goes, they leave others to clean up their mess. With their failures at Cresson and Hattin, they effectively handed Jerusalem to the Saracen and lost my brother his throne in Outremer.’