City of God

by S. J. A. Turney

  Suitably disguised, they moved on. A few minutes later, they crossed the Lykos River – a narrow stream that passed through the city down to the sea – via a narrow stone bridge. Here they passed a small party of monks fleeing in their rich gowns, clutching to their chests all they had of value as they fled their church, knowing what was coming.

  The two groups passed one another without a word, and the Templars moved on through alleys and narrow streets until the buildings finally petered out into an orchard. Taking a breath, Arnau and Ramon got their bearings, eyes falling upon the distant line of tower tops that marked the city wall off to their right. A small collection of close towers marked a major gate in the walls and, given the position of the Lykos, Arnau knew it for the Gate of Saint Romanus through which Alexios the Third had taken his army against the Franks only to flee with the job unfinished. The Romanus Gate meant they had come little more than a third of the way across the city in all that time. Even now the sun had finally disappeared, lending a growing inkiness to the world.

  ‘We’ve not come far,’ he said, disheartened.

  ‘Further than I’d thought,’ Ramon replied. ‘Remember we’ve passed through the most built-up area and the biggest street in the city. From here there’s a lot of open land until we’re nearly at the Golden Gate.’

  Arnau nodded. It would be a relief to cross arable land. They spent the next half hour moving, which was a blessing after their five-minute scurries punctuated by fifteen minutes of hiding from locals. Fields and animal pens, orchards and barns went by with the city walls always on their right, keeping them moving in the correct direction. The only buildings they saw were farms and occasional chapels or monasteries.

  Early on they moved through another suburban cluster and two more major roads, as they passed groups of subdued, desperate locals all pouring towards the Rhegium Gate, where Arnau knew well they would be turned away, the gate blocked.

  Finally, they began the descent of the last hill, the glittering waves of the Marmara Sea off in the distance. They passed through a final orchard and entered a narrow street between high houses. The built-up southern region of the city awaited now. There was no sign of activity in the narrow streets and it was only as they emerged out onto the southern branch of the wide Mese that they encountered another flood of humanity, though these were not making for the Circus Gate at the end of the road, since that gate had been sealed for more than a decade by imperial decree for some arcane reason Arnau could not recall. Instead they were now all flooding south, making for the Golden Gate.

  There were, in fact, so many of them that Arnau wondered whether the entire population of Constantinople was trying to squeeze through the one exit. Would the Franks find the whole place deserted when they moved further in the morning?

  They found none of the trouble here that they had encountered earlier. Their disguises helped them blend in with the crowd, but more crucially, the press of humanity was so tight that it was almost impossible to raise one’s arms to shoulder level, and nobody could possibly make room for a scuffle. After another ten minutes amid a dark press of miserable humanity, they found themselves on the Via Egnatia, herded slowly and uncomfortably with all the rest towards the distant sight of the Golden Gate, the huge, square white stone towers almost glowing in torchlight.

  They were almost there. Once through that double gate, they would have left the city and it was then just a matter of a two-mile walk along the coast to the hidden boat in the Hebdomon harbour. The human tide carried them closer and closer. Just inside the Golden Gate there lay a small square, surrounded by houses and shops and radiating streets. They had seen it from above a couple of times over the past year, and it had always looked spacious and pleasant. Now it resembled nothing more than a cattle market, filled with milling, lowing refugees all moving at the pace set by the narrowing chicane of the gate itself.

  ‘Trouble,’ hissed Ramon, just ahead, turning to look at Arnau and pointing over to their right. The younger Templar peered that way and his heart sank. A cart stood to the side of the square with several figures stood atop it. Amid the men-at-arms they could see a man in red and white. Franks. How in the world had they come here? He realised with irritation that while the four of them had moved slowly by necessity, the Franks could easily have come along the walls from the Blachernae at pace, for the garrisons on the wall tops had all either fled or been recalled to the seafront palace where the emperor rallied his remaining forces. It would have been very easy for the Franks to beat them here. And if for just a moment he wondered why they were here, it was quite simply the best place to be if you were looking for someone. It was the only feasible exit through the walls. Anyone they sought would have to pass through here.

  It was clear, when he considered it, who they sought. Red and white meant it was probably one of Bochard’s friends. They were not here for violence or looting, for they had taken a raised vantage point and were peering at the crowd. They had to be looking for Bochard.

  ‘Keep calm and keep your face away from them until we’re through the gate,’ Ramon hissed.

  Arnau nodded and they moved steadily forward with their herd, ever closer to the safety of the gate.

  ‘For why though I shall go in the midst of the shadow of death, I shall not dread evils,’ a voice suddenly shouted.

  Arnau turned wide-eyed disbelief upon the preceptor, who had thrown his arms in the air.

  ‘For thou art with me,’ Bochard bellowed. ‘Thy rod and thy staff; those have comforted me.’

  Arnau tried to reach him past the squire in the press, to pull his arms down. He’d picked a damn fine time to break his silence and find his faith again.

  Ramon was struggling with him now, but it was too late. One glance at that cart and Arnau could see men pointing. Suddenly, the press of humanity seemed not to be as close as it had been only moments before. As the Franks began to shout and brandish weapons, heaving their way with casual brutality through the crowd, the citizens pushed to be further and further away from these men, and the four Templars swiftly found themselves in a widening circle, facing the approaching Franks.

  Bochard was still shouting his psalm, arms raised, eyes darting this way and that.

  ‘And that I dwell in the house of the Lord, into the length of days.’

  ‘I’m not ready to dwell in the house of the Lord quite yet,’ barked Ramon, hand going to his belt and ripping free his sword. Arnau yanked out his mace, desperately hoping that Bochard wouldn’t try to take it this time, but the preceptor was off on another psalm now, preaching to the crowd.

  The Franks closed slowly in a line. Arnau was hardly surprised to see three nobles among them, men he now knew: Otho de la Roche, Geoffroi de Charney… and Almerico Balbi. Two Franks and a Venetian, then. And Balbi’s inclusion spoke of ill intent for sure. His eyes strayed across the men-at-arms with them, and he realised with a frown that only two of them bore the colours of the Frankish knights. The others wore the dark green of Balbi’s Venetians.

  ‘Hand over the relics and the preceptor,’ de Charney said in surprisingly reasonable tones.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Preceptor Bochard will remain under our protection, and the relics he has amassed will be kept safe, but none are to be removed from the city at this time by the command of Doge Enrico Dandolo and the lord of Montferrat. Hand over your relics.’

  Arnau snorted. ‘You might want to have a word with your Venetian friend, then. He’s been creaming off the best of Bochard’s shipments for his personal coffers for months.’

  The Italian’s face, usually bearing a pleasant smile, slipped into a mask of hatred for just a moment before the smile returned and turned upon his companions. ‘He lies, of course.’

  Arnau smiled now. The faces of the two Franks suggested that they were perhaps more inclined to accept Arnau’s word than their pet Venetian’s. He looked at Ramon, who shrugged.

  Bochard stopped his recitation and frowned at the men.

  ‘P
receptor?’ de Charney said, concerned.

  ‘He is not himself,’ Ramon replied. ‘An accident.’ He turned to the squire. ‘Give him the shroud.’

  The squire, wide-eyed, looked at Bochard, who seemed completely oblivious.

  ‘Give him the shroud,’ repeated Ramon.

  Arnau grimaced. ‘You know they have no intention of giving the shroud up to the authorities,’ he replied quietly, gesturing to the squire to stay back. ‘Such a treasure is worth a king’s ransom. De Charney and de la Roche might have more noble intentions, I suppose, but you know how the Venetians work. It will become Balbi’s price for his ships. The shroud will end up in a vault in Venice. I wonder how long anyone who knows its fate will last once the authorities begin to look for it.’

  Balbi’s eyes flashed dangerously, and now the other two Crusaders were glancing uncertainly back at their companion. It was a gamble, turning them against one another, but they had to do something, and if it was true that the two Franks had connections to the Order, then perhaps they could be brought into the light of truth.

  ‘Give them the shroud,’ Ramon said again.

  ‘Balbi will steal it for himself just as the Doge Dandolo has stolen a whole empire.’

  ‘I do not care right now,’ Ramon grunted. ‘Give it to de la Roche or de Charney alone, then. Whichever of them has it and for whatever purpose, the shroud will be safe, for everyone covets it. Give them the shroud,’ Ramon said a fourth time, and then to the three enemies, ‘Bochard stays with us, though. He needs help. The Order can look after him.’

  Hesitantly, unhappily, Hugues walked forward, holding forth the tightly wrapped bundle he had been clutching to his chest. De la Roche stepped out and took it, a look of reverence on his face. The squire flinched as he let go, and for just a moment Arnau thought he might just try to grab it back, but in the end, deflated, he stepped back to the other Templars.

  ‘And any other relics you took from Bochard’s room,’ snapped Balbi in a thick Venetian accent.

  ‘There are no other relics. We are not thieves.’

  ‘I do not believe you,’ Balbi snarled. ‘Separate and drop your weapons so that my men can search you.’

  ‘I give you my word,’ Ramon said, ‘which is my bond, and unchallenged as a knight of the Temple, that there are no other relics among us.’ Arnau winced, thinking of Sebastian’s icon in his belt pouch.

  The two Frankish knights shared a glance and nodded. ‘I am satisfied with his word, Almerico,’ de la Roche said, then turned to Bochard. ‘Will you come with us? You will be protected.’

  Bochard simply stared at them.

  ‘He stays with us,’ Ramon said firmly.

  ‘Search them,’ snapped Balbi angrily, waving at his men.

  Arnau hefted the mace. He had no desire to fight the Franks, especially now these two were seemingly being reasonable, but the Venetians were a different proposition entirely. Especially Balbi and his thugs.

  ‘No brother should keep company with an excommunicated man,’ Arnau said quietly. ‘Inviolable rule of the Order. So if you insist on pressing me,’ he snarled, ‘then I will show you the quality of my steel.’

  De la Roche stepped out between them all, turning to the Venetian nobleman. ‘That’s enough, Balbi. Let them be. A Templar’s word is good.’

  The Venetian snorted. ‘Did you hear him? He knows we have the shroud and he knows it’s not going to the doge or his friends. Did we not agree that there should be no witnesses? The shroud is too valuable.’

  Arnau took a step forward, and noted that Ramon had done the same. The other Frank, de Charney, now stepped out in the middle beside de la Roche.

  ‘Don’t push things, Balbi,’ the Frank said. ‘We agreed to remove certain things of value before the rank and file begin burning and looting monasteries. We never intended to keep it for ourselves, but to remove it from the city for safety. I have no quarrel with the Temple, and they are as relieved to see such treasures saved from the sack as anyone, are you not?’ he finished, turning a meaningful look on the knights. Ramon nodded.

  ‘Do not think you will secrete away such a treasure without my share being weighed,’ Balbi snapped. ‘Or perhaps I ought to take the whole thing myself. After all, without my ships and my men, you would all still be floundering about on the shore below the walls, burning with Greek fire.’

  ‘You overstep your bounds,’ de Charney snapped as Arnau’s prediction about the Venetian seemed to be coming true already.

  ‘Oh come now,’ Balbi laughed. ‘Did you ever think I would let you take one of the richest prizes in the world for yourselves and leave me with just a few coins for my troubles? “No witnesses” need not be limited to Templars, de Charney. We are already under papal excommunication. What harm might I come to in killing a few more renegade knights?’ He gestured at the Templars. ‘I should have let my men pull their triggers that night. How foolish. I shall not be so sentimental and short-sighted again.’

  Arnau felt an odd mix of emotions as de la Roche and de Charney suddenly backed towards them, drawing their swords and falling in alongside the Templars. Two men-at-arms came to join them as Bochard’s squire drew his sword. Ramon shook his head at the young man. ‘Just keep the preceptor safe.’

  Arnau chewed his cheek as he pondered. With the two knights and their men, they had effectively six swords. Balbi had more than a dozen with him. Undoubtedly at least he and Ramon would be better warriors, but they were also tired and bruised and outnumbered.

  He sighed. He’d thought it was over, yet here they were, only two dozen paces from freedom and still fighting Venetians.

  ‘To the Devil with you,’ he spat, and leaped. His mace caught the shield of a panicked-looking Venetian man-at-arms, crumpling the upper right quadrant. The Venetian made to counter with his drawn blade, but Arnau was already pivoting on the right foot he’d led with, spinning around the man’s shield side and moving on to another target. On the periphery of his vision, he could see the others leaping into the fray, but he had his eyes set on Balbi.

  A grey-clad fighter swung a sword at him and he had to lurch to the side to avoid it, throwing his mace up to block. Employing one of the more impressive moves Lütolf had taught him all those years ago, he rolled his wrist and turned, his arm following the fluid roll, his mace moving in a clean instant from a block into a strike. It was easier done with a sword, but he managed regardless and the Venetian reeled as his own blade was knocked to the side while the Templar’s mace hurtled up into his chest.

  There were a dozen or more cracking, breaking noises as the weapon struck the man’s breastbone and ribs, caving in his chest. Arnau moved on, leaving the dying man to collapse on his own.

  Beside him, Ramon sang his own song of battle, blade biting deep into a Venetian neck even as another of the enemy threw himself forward. They were neither natural swordsmen, nor well-trained, these men, but desperation and numbers still made them a fearsome force.

  ‘Mine eye is troubled of strong vengeance,’ Arnau bellowed suddenly, slamming aside a man-at-arms with a bruised shoulder, whereupon one of the Frankish knights dispatched him with a heavy blade. ‘I wax old among all mine enemies.’ His gaze locked on Balbi, who was watching him with a troubled yet spiteful smile, as he pulled another of his men in between them for protection. ‘All ye that work wickedness depart from me, for the Lord hath heard the voice of my weeping.’

  The Venetian swung a blade and Arnau dived forward, coming close inside the swing and smashing the butt-end of the mace into the man’s face at very close quarters. The man-at-arms’ teeth shattered under the blow and Arnau threw him roughly aside where he staggered and made a feeble attempt to cut at his attacker before Arnau’s mace smashed him to a pulp.

  ‘The Lord hath heard my beseeching; the Lord hath received my prayer,’ he snarled the words of the psalm. Balbi was running out of men, but at the last, as he backed up against a stone trough, he pulled his last man in the way, a big bruiser with a mail coat ove
r his green shirt and carrying a heavy sword.

  Arnau was beyond caring who he faced now, flooded with the unquenchable desire to send Balbi to his divine judgement. His mace swung hard. The big man deflected the blow with his sword and, while he recovered the weapon for another attack, swung a mailed fist. The blow caught Arnau on the jaw even as he tried to dodge out of the way and he felt the pain flow through his face. Refusing to be distracted, he threw himself at the man. The Venetian tried to back away, but Balbi was behind him, pushing him forward, and he took a shoulder barge from the Templar hard, spinning to the side. He lashed out in the press with the hilt of his sword, and Arnau yelped as the heavy iron thudded into his left shoulder, numbing the arm.

  He spun. The Venetian recovered in moments as Arnau pulled back, trying to right his sword for a more effective strike, but Arnau was fast. As he spun, his mace flicked out. It struck the recovering man-at-arms on the side of the head and filled the air with blood as readily as with screams.

  The big man fell away, gurgling in agony and Arnau tested his jaw and shoulder, reassuring himself that despite the aches neither was broken, before finding himself face to face with Almerico Balbi.

  In that sneering face, Arnau found everything he had learned to hate this past year. The Franks were misguided children, doing wrong because they were led to, for all they should have known better. In time they might regret what they had done and suffer for it, but they were at least redeemable. It was the Venetians who lay at the root of all the evils that had fallen Byzantium. Venetians who perverted the Crusade in the first place. Venetians who had led them to sack the city of Zadra. Venetians who had sunk the fishing boats on the first day they reached the city of Constantinople. Venetians who had twice engineered ways to take the walls. Venetians who had demanded sums that no emperor could readily meet in order to further the cause of invasion. Venetians who had cheated and miscounted the loot in order to continue their campaign. Venetians. All Venetians. And now it was Venetians who threatened Christian knights and brothers of the Temple all for the sake of avarice.