“We come for your blessings, my lord patriarch, and to invite you to join us as we ride to glory everlasting. You, too, lord.” Father Jerome included Balian with obvious reluctance. He believed those who’d fought at Haṭṭīn were tainted by their defeat, having been judged and found wanting by the Almighty, all save Reynald de Chatillon, who’d died for Christ in Saladin’s tent.
This was to be one of the rare times when Balian and Eraclius were in complete harmony. Exchanging a quick glance to confirm that they had the same opinion of this vainglorious suicide mission, they shocked the men by rejecting it out of hand. Balian thought the patriarch’s objections would carry more weight with them, so he confined himself to just one question. “What of the thousands left behind as you ride out to seek martyrdom?”
Eraclius was even blunter. “I could never bless such a selfish undertaking,” he said coolly, evoking a chorus of gasps and indrawn breaths. “For every able-bodied man in the city, there are more than ten women and children, as well as the elderly and the ailing. If we could save them by offering up our own lives, I would approve. But once we are dead, they will be at the mercy of the Saracens. Whilst we embrace salvation, they will be slain or enslaved and, worst of all, many will be forced to renounce the faith of Jesus Christ, especially the children, and their souls will be lost to God.”
Not all of the men were willing to give up the intoxicating appeal of martyrdom and they continued to argue for dramatic battlefield deaths. But in reminding them of the most vulnerable, many of them their own families, Eraclius had forced them to see their intended action in a harsher, less heroic light. Eventually a blacksmith posed the question that signified the patriarch had prevailed. “I’ll die defending my woman if it comes to that. But is there no longer any chance of avoiding a massacre?”
Eraclius and Balian had asked themselves that, too, in the four days since the siege resumed. Neither man had much hope, for they could think of no way to persuade Saladin to disavow his oath to take the city by the sword. But if there was even the faintest chance, they had to try. As all eyes turned toward Balian, he got to his feet. “On the morrow,” he said, “I will ride out to Saladin’s camp and do my best to convince him to accept our surrender.”
* * *
Soon after sunrise, Balian rode out of Jehoshaphat’s Gate. He was alone, protected only by a flag of truce, and had no idea what to expect from the Saracen soldiers. Saladin’s command tent was pitched on the Mount of Olives, so he guided Bayard in that direction.
Some of the most popular pilgrimages were to sites on or near the Mount of Olives: the cave of Gethsemane, where the Lord Christ has been betrayed by Judas, the chapel built around the rock where Jesus had prayed before his arrest, the tomb of the Blessed Virgin in the church of St. Mary, now enclosed within a Benedictine monastery. Balian assumed that Saladin would destroy the abbey, but he hoped the sultan would spare Mary’s crypt, for she was beloved by many Muslims, the only woman to be mentioned by name in the Qur’an. The True Cross had been lost because of the blunders of their rulers, yet surely their ancient holy sites would survive the death of their kingdom? As he rode toward the Saracen camp, Balian sought to keep his thoughts upon the fate of these sacred shrines, for then he could avoid thinking of the thousands of men, women, and children under sentence of death and dependent upon him to save them.
To his relief, he encountered no open enmity. The Saracens merely glanced at his flag of truce and then moved aside to let him pass. He wondered if they’d been told to expect an overture from the Franks; if so, did that mean Saladin was willing to listen to what he had to say? He was nearing the sultan’s camp when a man rode out to meet him. Mounted on a chestnut stallion that reminded Balian of Khamsin, al-‘Ādil reined in beside him. “I was hoping you’d come.”
* * *
As they rode toward the camp, Balian was greatly encouraged by what al-‘Ādil told him. He wanted Balian to convince his brother to accept the surrender of the city. Many of their amirs did, too. Their reasons were pragmatic ones. If al-Quds was taken by storm, it would be plundered by their soldiers. If it surrendered, the city’s riches would go into the sultan’s treasury. He needed the money, al-‘Ādil admitted, for his generosity was as lavish as it was legendary.
This made sense to Balian and he decided to stress the practical benefits of allowing the city to yield. “It gladdens me that you and I are in agreement about the wisdom of a peaceful surrender,” he said, and the sultan’s brother shrugged.
“We’d rather avoid any more deaths.” He paused before adding very dryly, “Had the sultan known you’d be so good at commanding their defenses, I think he’d have insisted that you honor your vow to depart the city with your family.”
“We want to avoid any more deaths, too,” Balian said, so fervently that the other man gave him a searching glance and then an unexpected smile, one that held something almost like sympathy.
“It cannot have been easy, being acclaimed as a savior by a city of terrified people.”
Impressed by his insight, Balian confessed that it was an experience he could have done without. As their eyes met, he offered a heartfelt thank-you, a bit embarrassed by the emotion suddenly surging into his voice.
Al-‘Ādil seemed to understand, for he responded with surprising candor. “You owe me no thanks. I want this for my brother. If he insists upon honoring his oath to take al-Quds by the sword, I fear that he’ll come to regret it. He does not like to shed blood unless he deems it absolutely necessary, as with the Templars.” When he smiled again, this one was more familiar to Balian, for it was flavored with ironic amusement. “Nor would history treat him kindly for a slaughter of thousands of women and children, and like all great men, he cares how posterity will judge him.”
By now they’d reached the sultan’s command tent. After they dismounted, al-‘Ādil handed his reins to Balian, telling him he should wait there until summoned. Once he disappeared into the tent, Balian found himself the focus of hundreds of eyes, some angry, others challenging, all curious. Studying the faces of these Saracen soldiers, he decided that many of them wanted a peaceful resolution to the siege, too, and for the first time, he allowed himself the luxury of hope, allowed himself to believe that Jerusalem would be spared the carnage promised by Saladin.
He was not sure how much time had elapsed since al-‘Ādil had entered the tent, but it seemed a long while. He was mentally rehearsing what he would say when the sultan’s brother finally reemerged. One glance at his face and Balian went cold, an icy shiver shooting up his spine as if it were the dead of winter, not a day of summery September warmth.
“I am sorry,” al-‘Ādil said softly. “He refuses to see you. He says there is nothing to be said.”
CHAPTER 51
September 1187
Jerusalem, Outremer
Balian had become the most recognizable man in the city and as soon as he rode through Jehoshaphat’s Gate, people flocked to him, begging for salvation. He could only shake his head and had to watch as understanding dawned on their upturned faces, as hope died. By the time he reached the palace, word had spread, and when he was ushered into the queen and patriarch’s presence, they remained seated, staring at him in shock. Trying not to sound defensive, he told them of the sultan’s rebuff. It was not easy, for he felt that they were blaming him for his failure. And why not? He had failed them, after all.
“He would not even see you?” Sybilla’s chin trembled as she sought to keep her voice level. Never had she felt so overwhelmed, so utterly alone. She knew she should address the people; that was what queens did. But what could she say to them? Baldwin would have known. That thought was both unexpected and insidious, for it led her dangerously close to a conclusion she could not live with—that although her brother had been stricken with the most loathsome of all diseases, he had held their kingdom together and kept the Saracens at bay for nigh on eleven years, whilst her husband
’s kingship had not even lasted a twelvemonth.
As Balian turned to go, Eraclius found his voice. “What are you going to do now?”
Balian glanced back at the patriarch. Eraclius had done his share to bring them to this. But what did it matter now? “I will try to keep them out of the city as long as possible.”
* * *
By day’s end, they still controlled the breach in the wall, gaining one more night’s reprieve. As the sky darkened, Renier came over and put his hand on Balian’s arm. “Go home. Try to get some sleep. I’ll make sure we keep the fires burning.”
Balian was too tired to argue. As he started for home, he was not surprised that the streets were still so crowded. All day long, priests had led penitential processions around the city, most of the people barefoot and some in sackcloth and ashes to show the Almighty the depths of their remorse for past sins. Looking at the bloodied footprints left by women unaccustomed to going without shoes, Balian felt an overpowering weariness, both of the body and soul. But when he approached his town house, he paused only briefly before continuing along St. Stephen’s Street. Despite his exhaustion, he was sure he’d not be able to sleep, and he did not want to lie awake in the bed he’d shared with Maria as time ran out for the Holy City.
He’d not realized he had a destination in mind, not until he turned right when he reached the Street of the Holy Sepulchre and began to walk beside the wall bordering the church. He attracted glances from passersby, some of them hostile, for they’d anointed him with their trust, to no avail. One woman with a baby in her arms and a toddler clinging to her skirts cried out when she recognized him, asking why Saladin would not show mercy. He had no answer for her.
The main entrance into the Holy Sepulchre was through two bronze-covered double doors on its south side. There was a closer entrance from the Street of the Patriarch and Balian headed toward it. When he descended the stairs into the rotunda, he was not surprised to find the church packed with people wanting to feel closer to God in the hours they had left.
As always, there was a long line waiting to get into the Lord Christ’s tomb. Only five at a time could fit into the small space, so the priory usually had porters there to keep the crowd from becoming unruly. There were none in sight now, and there was some pushing and shoving as people waited their turn. Balian detoured around the sacred sepulchre and into the southern transept, where their kings were buried. Baldwin’s tomb was flanked on one side by his father’s sarcophagus, on the other by the pitifully small tomb of his nephew. Reaching out, Balian rested his hand upon the smooth marble. In a life of great suffering, at least Baldwin had been spared this. Yet Haṭṭīn would never have happened if Baldwin could only have lived a few more years.
Acceptance was so much more difficult without understanding. How often had Baldwin asked why? Had he finally realized that all he could do was to echo the anguished words of the Lord Christ in the garden of Gethsemane? The words came unbidden to Balian’s lips, for he’d often heard William quote them, the only answer the archbishop could offer when despairing men and women came to him for spiritual comfort. “‘Father, if Thou be willing, remove this cup from me: nevertheless not my will, but Thine, be done.’”
“Forgive me, my lord. I . . . I did not know that you were praying.”
Balian spun around at the sound of a female voice. A woman was standing beside him, a stranger clad in black, her clothes threadbare, her hands so reddened and rough that she was likely a laundress. “Forgive me,” she said again. “When I saw you, I . . . just had to ask. This is my daughter.” Only then did Balian notice the girl. She was easily overlooked, reed thin and sallow, as timid as a fawn. Balian guessed her to be about nine, the same age as his Helvis, and was surprised when her mother said that she was twelve before saying softly, “If I cut her hair short and dress her as a lad, would . . . would that spare her from shame when the city falls?”
Balian looked at the trembling girl and for a dreadful moment, she was Helvis. Knowing that the only comfort he could offer was a lie, he said, “It might,” and winced as he saw her smile. She was still stammering her thanks when one of the priory canons strode over. Paying her no heed whatsoever, he urged Balian to follow him, saying his help was greatly needed.
Balian was irked by the man’s officious attitude. He recognized him as one of the church porters, though, so he asked what was amiss. The canon was steering him toward the stairs leading up to the chapel of Mount Calvary and when he glanced back, the woman and her daughter had vanished. As they climbed the stairs, they heard the muffled sound of wailing and the cleric launched into a bizarre rant about women carrying cauldrons into the chapel and setting them up before the rock where the Lord’s cross once stood.
“I tried to stop them, my lord, but they would not listen. They lured me away from the vestibule so they could bring the cauldrons up the outdoor stairs into the Chapel of the Crucifixion. They insist they are doing penance. It is most inappropriate, though, to have female nudity in so holy a site.” Flinging open the door to Mount Calvary, he said indignantly, “There, see for yourself that I spoke the truth!”
The sight that met Balian’s eyes was one that he knew he’d never forget, however long the Almighty allowed him to live. Large iron cauldrons had been dragged toward the altar of the Lord’s Suffering and filled with cold water. Frantic women had then forced their daughters to strip and climb into the tubs, where they crouched, shivering, their teeth chattering, some weeping, others enduring the ordeal in silence, their faces streaking with tears. A few tried to protest as their mothers hacked away at their hair, cutting it down to the scalp and then flinging the shorn hair onto the floor in front of the altar as if it were an offering to placate their wrathful God. It was a scene that sickened Balian, for the girls were obviously terrified. If they survived the city’s fall, their last memories of their mothers would be the madness of fear. He would have stopped it if he could, but he knew his interference would only make it worse.
“See their shame!” the canon hissed. “Naked in God’s house as if it were a bordel, exposing their daughters to the eyes of strange men. And look what they have done to this holy chapel. They have scratched the marble floor with those cauldrons and soaked it with water! Can you not halt this sacrilege, my lord?”
There were screams from a few girls as they saw the two men standing in the doorway, although most were too numb to react. Balian jerked his arm away when the canon grabbed the sleeve of his hauberk. “You’d do better to worry about the blood soon to be soaking these floors,” he snapped. He at once regretted it, for the cleric’s face turned a sickly shade of grey. Balian did not apologize, though, turning toward the stairs. But if he could no longer see those quaking girls, he imagined he could still hear their sobbing even after he’d gotten out of earshot.
Moving into the canons’ choir, he stood, irresolute, not knowing where to go. The Holy Sepulchre might be the most sacred church in Christendom, but it was no place to pray, not tonight, not when it was more crowded than the busiest market, not when it had become a flooded receptacle for the city’s fears. He supposed he could go in search of another church—if he had the energy. Before he could decide, he heard a familiar voice call out, “Lord Balian!”
Anselm was hurrying across the choir toward him. “You came, too, to bid farewell to our king,” he said gratefully, then confided that he’d just sprinkled holy water over King Baldwin’s tomb. Seeing Balian’s puzzlement, he smiled. “I wanted to give him one last gift. I usually bring flowers, but all I could find were some wilted Michaelmas daisies.”
Anselm actually sounded cheerful and Balian found himself returning the other man’s smile. “I wish I knew your secret,” he confessed. “You may be the only one in the city who seems at peace tonight.”
“I am an old man, am ready to be reunited with my young king after my stint in Purgatory.” Glancing around, Anselm lowered his voice when he saw se
veral children close by. “I do not fear dying, have been shriven of my sins. But I do dread having to kill Cairo. I cannot leave him to fend for himself, though, for all know the Saracens have no liking for dogs. I’d not have him starve. Am I doing right by him, you think, giving him a quick death?”
Balian nodded, and his gaze rested for a moment on those nearby youngsters. Were there parents in the city who’d want to spare their children suffering, like Anselm and his dog? Could any of them commit so grievous a sin, one that would deny them salvation? Horrified by his own thoughts, he shook his head as if that might somehow banish them to the back of his brain, and bade Anselm good night, saying he needed to find a quiet place in which to pray.
“I know one, my lord.” Anselm beckoned for Balian to follow. The chapel was tucked away in the far northeast corner of the church and Balian stumbled as they entered, for it was a few steps below ground level. It was very small and dark. It was also deserted, which seemed almost miraculous when every nook and cranny of the church was filled with repentant sinners and fearful supplicants.
“Wait here, my lord. I’ll be right back,” Anselm promised, returning with a lit candle. As he set the candle upon the small altar, Balian realized where he was, in the Prison of Christ. It was here that the Savior had been held with the two thieves as their crosses were being prepared for their crucifixion. It was usually a popular pilgrimage site, but Balian understood why it would now be shunned. Tonight of all nights, desperate Jerusalemites would not want to be reminded of their Lord’s suffering as he awaited one of the most agonizing deaths known to the Roman world. They needed hope, preferring to flock to the tomb where the weeping women had been told, “Why seek ye the living amongst the dead? He is not here. He has risen!”
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