Jerusalem

by Cecelia Holland

  They stopped at the edge of the water, and still neither of them spoke; Ali began to take off his clothes. His face burning, his hands trembling, Stephen kept his gaze on the water, and got out of his jerkin, his boots, his shirt, and his leggings; he took off his close-fitting lambskin drawers, part of his Templar vow, that he was never supposed to remove. Still without looking at Ali, still without speaking, he waded out into the water.

  Ali followed him. Thigh-deep in the water, Stephen reached his arms out before him into the dark and dove.

  The water enveloped him. Warm and soft, it rippled over his skin like a thousand playful fingers; he swam down into its embrace until his outstretched hands touched the rock bottom of the pond, and then he shot upward toward the surface, turning over as he swam, the water streaming over his chest and between his thighs and through his hair.

  A wild exhilaration filled him. He wanted to shout, to scream. His skin tingled; his blood pulsed like a hot wind in his veins. He broke through the surface of the pond, his mouth open, gulping air. Ali was beside him. They plunged under the surface again, side by side, their bodies coiling together like snakes, slick and taut. Stephen caught Ali around the waist and held him; they struggled together in a delicious combat, their arms wound around one another. With a low laugh Ali twisted away, and Stephen pursued him, caught him at the edge of the pool, and took him there, half in and half out of the water. Afterward, he held Ali pinned under him for a while, his chest against Ali’s back, and his face buried in the other man’s hair. His whole body sang.

  Ali murmured to him, and Stephen moved back, letting him go; as their bodies separated the air rushed in between them, suddenly cool on his skin. He wheeled back into the pond, diving into the deep caress of the water; he tumbled and twisted in the water, delighting in himself, in his body, in being only a body, soulless, guiltless, careless, alive. At the far side of the pond Ali caught up with him, and put one arm around him, and in his ear whispered, “Now it’s my turn.”

  Stephen pulled away, still caught in the giddy glory of release, but Ali held him, stronger than he had realized, and forced him down under him. Stephen flung his arms out, and got two handfuls of the tall grass growing at the edge of the water, and yielded, and the yielding was as sweet as the conquest.

  They lay side by side on the grass. Stephen was loathe to speak; he wanted to keep the purity of this moment, so edged with problems. Ali touched him.

  “Do you do this in Jerusalem?”

  Stephen laughed. He felt himself shrinking back inside himself. Rolling onto his side, he reached out and stroked the Saracen’s face. “No. My vow forbids it. If I were caught I’d be in a lot of trouble.”

  “Then—” Ali caught hold of his hand. “I am the first?”

  Stephen laughed at that, at the hopeful note in the other man’s voice; a rush of tenderness flooded him. He felt as if he had known this other man all his life. Had waited for him, all his life. He said, “No. Not the first.” He pulled Ali’s hand toward him and kissed it. “I should go back. I don’t want them wondering where I am.”

  He could hear Ali smiling, in the way his voice sounded. “My dear, they are busy until very late, and if all goes as it should, they will be in no way able to wonder about you.” He leaned over Stephen and kissed him. Stephen shut his eyes. In a few days, he would go back to the Temple, this would be over. He pushed that off the edge of the world. Bending his head, he kissed Ali’s shoulder.

  In the late evening when Rannulf and the other Templars finally staggered back to the house in the lemon grove, Stephen was already there, alone, and wearing one of the long Saracen robes. Just inside the threshold, Rannulf dumped Felx on the floor and left him where he landed. Bear had stopped singing, at least, but now he was crying, and he wobbled mournfully away into the next room, a flask of wine in each hand. Rannulf stared at Stephen.

  “Enjoying yourself?”

  “I felt sick, so I left the palace, and came back here,” Stephen said. “I was tired. There were all those women.”

  “Yes, women being a real weakness of yours.”

  “What exactly are you getting at?”

  Rannulf said, “Come out on the balcony, it’s hot in here.” He went across the next room, dark and empty, to the little overhang above the lemon grove. Stephen followed him.

  “What happened, after I left?”

  Rannulf leaned on the railing of the balcony; even in the dark he could see the men down under the trees, watching them. “Nothing much. They are trying to feed us to death, and with Felx and Bear, it may work.”

  Stephen said, “Well, maybe we should just relax and be raped, you know, Rannulf. They do say Eden was in Damascus.”

  Rannulf said nothing; his hands closed into fists. Whatever Stephen had done, it hadn’t been rape. He forced his hands open; keep your temper, he thought. Don’t think, just watch.

  “Who were you with?” he said.

  Beside him, Stephen shifted his weight, his foot rasping on the balcony floor. “What do you mean? I just—”

  “Don’t lie to me. You were with one of the Saracens.” He swung around toward the redheaded knight, pieces clicking together in his mind. “Ali.”

  Stephen jerked, as if a dart had hit him. Rannulf nodded at him. “Yes: Ali. I knew he was too smooth to be a servant. He’s a spy. You know that? Everything you tell him will go straight to the Sultan.”

  In the dark he could not see Stephen’s face, only his shape, indistinct in the flowing Saracen clothes. Stephen’s voice came harsh out of this shadow.

  “You see everything cramped and narrow and full of hate, Rannulf. Everybody is your enemy, or somebody to be used.”

  “Will you spy on him for me?”

  “No!” Stephen took a step away from him; he lifted one hand, fisted. “This isn’t that way, Rannulf. This has nothing to do with you, or Jerusalem, or the Temple, or the war. Stay out. Understand me?” He banged the fist lightly on Rannulf s chest. “Stay out.” He turned and walked back into the hot, perfumed air of the pleasure house.

  Rannulf watched him go, morose. The Saracens seemed one step ahead of him, and they were peeling away his men like husks; in front of him he saw nothing but traps. Standing in front of the railing, he thought of saying the Compline office, but the will to do it would not come to him. God would give him no help; God watched to see how he did. God perhaps had given him up. He was tired, but loathe to go inside the pleasure house, and instead he lay down on the balcony, pillowed his head on his arm, and went to sleep in the open air.

  Turanshah said, “The King of Jerusalem is sick, perhaps close to death. Sometimes blind. Yet he still commands these men, he still has power over them. He must be an amazing fellow.”

  The Sultan came back into the middle of the room, shedding his long coat and turban. A servant came up quickly with a cup of sherbet for him, and he sat down near the lamp and refreshed his mouth and tongue with the cool drink. “The King of Jerusalem is a great adversary, a sickly boy with the soul of a lion. May Allah rot his bones. What about the Templar?”

  “Aren’t you giving too much importance to this knight?”

  “Importance. The Templars are the firebrands of the Franks. I have seen, and you also, how a dozen of them will charge without any hesitation at thousands of our men, and how sometimes that charge puts thousands of our men to rout—as if they cast some spell over us! As if they were a black wind rising from hell. Yet I have met Templars, now and then, and they seem ordinary men, just ordinary men. This one is different. This one, perhaps, is the key, and I want to find out what that key opens.”

  Turanshah said flatly, “He was certainly unpleasant enough at the reception. He needs a whipping.”

  “Good. Let’s give him one. Ali?”

  Ali was standing on the far side of the room, half-turned away, as if he had no interest. He did not answer; the Sultan had to say his name a second time before he turned.

  “Yes, Uncle.”

  “You were
n’t at the reception.”

  “I hate crowds,” Ali said. He came into the middle of the room, his chin up, and his hands together.

  “How are the Templars behaving themselves? Are they accepting our generous hospitality in the proper spirit of not bothering to look deeper?”

  Ali gave a brisk shake of his head. His voice was crisp. “Not at all. Their captain is snooping all around. Clearly he means to get into the city somehow. I suggest you watch the wall.”

  “I told you he’s a spy,” Turanshah said, with satisfaction. “I hope he does go over the wall. We’re ready for him; we’ll give him a lesson.”

  The Sultan was still watching Ali, suspicious; in his nephew’s manner he saw that Ali was concealing something. Then another idea overtook him. He gave his attention to Turanshah.

  “Why wait for him to step into the trap? Surely we can lure him in.”

  “Oh, certainly.” His brother smiled at him.

  “Good,” the Sultan said. He remembered Ramleh, again, and the knight battering at him. “Let’s do that. Let him see we are not to be toyed with. Give him some room. Let him go over the wall. And then break him for it.”

  Chapter XVIII

  “Rannulf,” Odo said. “What are you doing here? I never expected to see you again.” He rolled over; when he moved, he dragged after him the heavy links of his chain. Yet he smiled as easily as ever, a gleam in his pale eyes. “Do the Saracens know they’ve let the snake into the fishpond ?”

  Behind Rannulf the door shut. At the sound of the latch closing on him, his stomach clenched. He crossed the rush-strewn dungeon, stooping under the sloping ceiling, and squatted on his heels beside his officer.

  “They are suspicious. They’re watching me every step.”

  “Don’t cross them,” Odo said. “I don’t want company.”

  The Master of the Temple of Jerusalem lay on a tick of straw, a blanket covering him. His hair straggled around his face and down over his shoulders, and his skin was pale as fishmeat; the bottom half of his body seemed not to move much.

  “Are you all right?” Rannulf asked.

  Odo lifted one shoulder. “I live.”

  Rannulf twitched the blanket back. Odo wore only a long shirt. On his wrists there were iron bracelets, and ropes of chain led from them, under the blanket, to a ring in the wall. His right ankle was chained, also, but his left leg Rannulf did not see at first.

  “What’s this metal?” He knew the other Frankish prisoners had been kept like guests, not criminals.

  “Oh. I annoyed the Sultan. Something about a nephew.” Odo pulled the blanket over himself again, but not before Rannulf saw that his left leg, half-hidden under the shirt tail, was withered and twisted like a dry stick, no bigger than the bones.

  “I broke it, in the battle,” Odo said. “It’s never healed. God’s will. You were right, Saint. We should not have charged them. I’m glad you got away, and I hope de Ridford died.”

  “No,” Rannulf said. “He’s back in Jerusalem.”

  Odo gave a shake of his head. He looked much older, the mass of his chest and shoulders sinking below his bones, his skin sagging from his neck; he lay there in the wreckage of himself. His face was clear and calm. “When we are all cold as stones he will be quick and making trouble.”

  Rannulf shrugged away de Ridford. He could not take his eyes from Odo’s face. “There’s some talk of getting you ransomed.”

  “No,” Odo said. “That’s why I am here. They wanted to trade me for some sprig of the Sultan’s, held hostage at Margat, and I refused. I am a Knight Templar and not a unit of exchange. I miscalculated. Now I am suffering for it. That seems fair enough to me.”

  “To me also,” Rannulf said.

  “And with this leg, I could not fight again, anyway.”

  “Probably not,” Rannulf said.

  “Say prayers for me. And before you go, Saint, shrive me.”

  Rannulf gave a slight start. He knew at once he could not refuse. He turned his head to one side, and put his hand up between them. “Confess, then, brother.”

  The Master spoke in a low voice. “Forgive me, Jesus, for I have sinned.” He gave a catalog of his slips and crashes, all as ordinary as any other man’s.

  “Are you contrite?” Rannulf asked.

  “I am heartily sorry for having offended God, who made me and deserves all my love.”

  “Then I absolve you.” Rannulf made the sign of the Cross over him. His mouth was dry. He felt like a thief, stealing into God’s place, hearing with God’s ears. Odo seemed to him already in a state of grace.

  He said, “Father, give me a blessing.”

  The Master of the Jerusalem Temple gave a growl of a laugh, and sank back down on the straw. “This is your blessing. Fight this bastard to your last breath. And tell my brothers how I have fared.” He turned his face away and shut his eyes. The chains clicked and ticked together. Rannulf got up and went to the door, and the turnkey, waiting on the other side, opened it for him at once.

  The dungeon was in a tower on the far side of the palace compound; three guards escorted him back to the pleasure house, walking him briskly along in their midst, letting him see nothing. The path crossed the brow of a slope, and from the top of it, for a moment, he could see down over the distant wall into the white clutter of the city; out of the sprawl of roofs and treetops rose the needle towers of the mosques. He stretched his neck, trying to see more, and the guard behind him put a hand on his back and pushed him on.

  “Keep going!”

  “A beautiful city,” he said. “I wish I could see it.”

  “Oh, certainly, certainly.” The guard on his left laughed. “You wish you could see Damascus. And it is beautiful, but not for you, faithless one.”

  They went on down through the lemon grove to the pleasure house. Rannulf s steps slowed; those white rooms were a prison to him. Music drifted out of the window, pipes, tambourines, a little drum. He heard Bear call out in a laughing voice.

  Two of the guards went off. The third, the one who had spoken to him, lingered by him. Rannulf stopped on the terrace outside the pleasure house, loathe to go in.

  The guard said, quietly, “You want to see Damascus?”

  Rannulf’s head swiveled toward him. “Yes.”

  “Do you have any money?”

  He had no money; but this was promising. “Yes.”

  “I will help you get over the wall,” the guard said. “For dinars.”

  Rannulf looked around them, to see if anyone was watching. He said, “How many dinars?”

  The guard said, “Bring me all you can. In a little while, go down to the wall, and wait there. I will find you.” He moved off at once, to join the other guards, sitting down on a bench by the door. Rannulf went into the pleasure house, excited.

  At once he knew there were women here. His senses quickened, every nerve stirring. He went into the big sunlit front room; the musicians were all women, wearing almost nothing, and two other girls were going around the place, putting out baskets of fruit and sweets. Felx van Janke stood by the door, smiling. When Rannulf appeared, he pulled the smile in, but the lascivious glint remained in his eyes.

  He said, “Did you see Odo?” But his mind was not on Odo. Through the corner of his eye he was looking across the room.

  Rannulf said, “I saw him.” He could hear Bear’s voice, in the side chamber, and in there with him a light laugh sounded.

  “Well, that’s good,” Felx said, not listening much.

  Rannulf said, “Who brought these women in here?”

  Felx shrugged. “I don’t know. What are you going to do about it?”

  “Me? Nothing.” Rannulf crossed himself. “I’m hot. I think I’ll change my clothes.” He went on across the sunny room to the far doorway.

  This led into the room where the servants kept food and drink and things to serve it all in, and where they had put the cotton djellabahs they had brought for the Templars to wear. At the far end of the long di
m room three or four Saracen girls were gathered, talking among themselves, and giggling. When Rannulf came in, they hushed, and stared at him.

  He ignored them, or tried to; they were soft, round-limbed, young and tender, they made his palms itch. He went to the cupboard, took off his Templar clothes, all but his drawers, and put on one of the soft clean white robes. He pulled his boots off, but he would not wear the slippers. He told himself he would walk his feet to blisters before he put them into shoes like that. Barefoot, he went out again to the front room.

  Felx was sitting on the cushioned couch, and a slender girl with long black hair was holding out a cup to him. The tall Saracen called Ali stood in the doorway. Rannulf went up to him.

  “We are sworn to avoid women.”

  The Saracen smiled at him, his eyes glittering. “They are merely servants. You must have servants to attend you.”

  “Then I am going out into the garden,” Rannulf said. “Am I permitted that?”

  Ali nodded with his eyes, looking down, then up; Rannulf had seen the Sultan do this; he saw much of the Sultan in Ali. The Saracen said, “The garden and the lemon grove are permitted you.”

  “Thank you,” Rannulf said, and went out.

  In among the lemon trees, he stopped, and looked back toward the pleasure house. No one was following him. Two of the guards remained in front of the door but the one who had spoken to him was gone. He rubbed his hands down the front of the djellabah and the soft touch of the cotton startled him: the cloth caressed his skin; it seemed sinful just to be wearing it.

  He stood under the lemon trees a while, patient, watching the pleasure house. They wanted him to go down to the wall, but he saw no purpose in doing what they wanted. They had given him some freedom, which he meant to use. He settled down on his heels beside the lemon tree, waiting for his chance.