Deus Militis - Soldiers of God

by Jonathan A Longmore

Deus Militis

  Soldiers of God

  Table of Contents

  Part One

  Part Two

  Epilogue

  Historical Note

  Deus Militis

  Copyright 2015 Jonathan A Longmore

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  Part One

  Kingdom of Jerusalem

  1263 AD

  Chapter One

  Standing in the desiccated dust at the bottom of the high sided gully through which a river had flowed a million years before, the armoured man, blood dripping from his gauntlets stared vehemently at his beaten enemy and spat into his face. Most of the spittle never reached its target and he wiped the excess off his shaggy, grey flecked ginger beard with his mailed sleeves and spat again, this time striking the head of the man kneeling in front of him. His victim did not flinch but stared stoically at his abuser, his pride evident in the way he kept his back straight and shoulders firm.

  Reynaud de Chauvigny, Chevalier of France and Master of the Imperial order of Jerusalem spoke in accented Arabic, his eyes gleaming with an evil that could not be quenched with the mere death of his enemies, ‘I ask again, how many more of you are coming this way?’

  The man stared past de Chauvigny as if the question had not been spoken. The inert act of defiance resulted in the French knight kicking the man in the face which sent him sprawling onto his back. The man made no sound and de Chauvigny kicked him once more before casting his eyes across all the men who were on their knees before him. They were in pain, and he knew it, not just physical pain from the thongs that cut into the flesh of their wrists, but the pain of being beaten by men they considered inferior.

  As the sun beat down onto his mail covered head and cast a shadow that was short and wide, his thickset middle aged frame shuddered with anger at their passive resistance, but he still managed to smile coldly at the thought of what would happen next. The black cross he wore was splattered in blood, merging with the red of his surcoat making the symbol of his order jagged and uneven. With a face that was ruddy and burnt from the constant battering of the sun he stood like Goliath and surveyed his victory, another triumph that endorsed the existence of his order and their holy war against the heathen.

  The men on their knees were Saracens, warriors of the Mameluk Sultanate under the rule of the Sultan Qutuz, and despite the agony of kneeling on the hard ground with their hands bound tightly behind them, they refused to be shamed into asking for mercy or showing their pain. The fight they had lost had been short and vicious because they had been outnumbered by the men who now stood and looked at them mockingly, men with bearded faces blistered from hours in the searing heat and covered in mail and plate that was hot to the touch.

  De Chauvigny was proud of his men, not once did they flinch from their duty of killing the enemies of their God. This was not their land, the countries they came from were as different to this as the sea was from the desert, but for two hundred years they, and others like them had claimed this land as theirs in the name of their Pope and their Kings and Emperors, and in the name of their God. They believed this was theirs by right of holy conquest and they came and took it using the power of the sword and their own brutality. They had no compassion or humility, and the only mercy they knew or understood was that of the blade.

  It was a barren, sand covered land, parched of water for centuries with rocks bleached white from the constant battering of the sun’s rays, but despite the aridness, the unbearable heat and the illogical insanity of their beliefs, men still fought and died for possession of it. Over the centuries it had been called many things and the blood that had been spilt seeped deep into its core. Violent death had been its companion for so long that most men could not imagine this land as anything but a place to kill and be killed. The victors of this small and bloody fight called this land the Kingdom of Jerusalem and their holy men preached war, and prayed for victory knowing that peace and forgiveness should have been their goal, but those things would not give them the power and riches they craved.

  The Mameluk warriors on their knees before de Chauvigny waited for a death they knew would be long and painful. Their faces betrayed nothing to their captors and they would bite out their own tongues before they betrayed their comrades by talking to the infidel, or giving them the satisfaction of crying out in pain. The attack had surprised them for they had been returning from the great battle against the Mongols where the armies of the Mameluk Sultan Qutuz had been successful. An agreement had been made between the Sultanate and the Kingdom of Jerusalem that they could pass through the Christian lands without fear of attack. That agreement had been broken by this act of savagery, and despite being outnumbered they would have fought better if the element of surprise had not been against them.

  De Chauvigny, despite his hatred for these men, had a grudging respect for their bravery and passion, a respect he would never admit to anyone except God, and only then in the privacy of his quarters, a cross in one hand and his sword in the other. He considered himself and his men the ultimate Holy Warriors and despite his respect for his enemies, that respect did not countenance mercy in any form.

  It was a satisfying fight for although some of his men were injured, none were serious and none had been killed. In contrast, Saracen dead lay scattered across the small battlefield, their bodies mutilated by decapitation for his men took no chances with those that claimed to be corpses. Experience had taught them that men faked death in order to kill just one more of their enemy and these men would not be fooled. The wounded had met the same fate, and the headless bodies lay in patches of darkened earth where the blood had seeped into the ground to join the blood of thousands who had perished over the centuries in this Holy Land.

  De Chauvigny’s men stood around talking amongst themselves, drinking from leather water skins, cleaning weapons and pointing out prisoners who were their chosen victims for the tortures to come. Others wandered through the headless corpses looting the bodies for anything of value, while several others stood near the prisoner’s horses and inspected which animal they would take as their prize. The weapons and shields had been dumped in a pile and would be taken back to Acre to be shipped to Messina in the toe of Italy and sold in the markets, Saracen swords, forged in Damascus Steel were highly prized in the markets of the Franks, as the Christians were collectively known.

  De Chauvigny approached another prisoner, a youth of no more than seventeen years and asked him the same question, ‘How many more are coming this way?’ The young man blinked rapidly and licked his parched lips, the first sign of fear and de Chauvigny grinned maliciously, ‘You answer that question and I will let you live!’

  Movement to de Chauvigny’s right made the prisoner glance upwards and stare at the man standing next to the Frenchman, the fear in his eyes evident as he licked his lips again and looked down at the ground. De Chauvigny turned to his right and grinned at the man beside him, ‘Your looks have been greatly improved,’ he said in the lingua franca, the common language used by his men, ‘you should thank the man who did that, there are women who prefer their men scarred!’

  Robert de Balon, de Chauvigny’s lieutenant and like so many of his
peers, an English knight, dabbed with a cotton cloth at the wound on his face, a deep cut caused by the curved sword of his opponent, a cut that started above his right eye, crossed the bridge of his nose and down the left cheek to stop at the base of his left jaw. The wound was starting to congeal and would leave a frightening scar, a reminder of that days fighting. His beard was matted with his own blood and he gritted his teeth as he replied, ‘I’ve already thanked the bastard, I allowed him to live while he decorated the ground with his guts.’ He nodded towards the figure of a man hunched over on his knees. His intestines had spilt from his stomach and rested in a scrambled heap in front of him.

  De Chauvigny watched with interest and squinted in the hazy sunlight as he saw movement, ‘He’s still alive?’

  ‘Aye,’ de Balon grunted, ‘but he’ll die soon enough.’

  De Chauvigny grunted his appreciation at his lieutenant’s brutality, ‘Which of these is their Amir?’

  De Balon shrugged and shook his head, ‘They all look the same to me.’

  Looking back down at the prisoner de Chauvigny jabbed the young man in the side, ‘Tell me who your Amir is,’ he said in Arabic, ‘and you will be freed.’

  The prisoner lowered his head and de Chauvigny grimaced at the refusal to speak, ‘The choice is yours boy,’ he said gruffly, ‘you answer the question….or you will eat your own balls!’ Refusing to reply, the prisoner hunched his shoulders and kept his head low as de Chauvigny stepped to one side of him, grabbed his hair, yanked him backwards and pulled him onto his back. He landed with a thud and groaned at the unexpected attack, eyes staring fearfully at the knife de Chauvigny pulled from the scabbard at his side, ‘Your choice,’ the French knight snarled as he placed a heavy, steel plate covered leather boot in the centre of his chest to prevent him getting up, ‘Henri!’

  At the sound of his name being called, Henri, one of the youngest knights in de Chauvigny’s command ran forward and grabbed the prisoners legs, holding them still while his commander pressed down hard on his chest, ‘You wanted to see a man scream as his balls were removed,’ he laughed, ‘now is your chance to cut them off!’

  ‘ENOUGH!’ The word was shouted in Arabic.

  ‘ENOUGH!’ The second time in the lingua franca of the Christians. De Chauvigny stopped and looked in the direction of the voice, his eyes narrowing as he spied the prisoner twelve paces away staring at him with hatred in his eyes, ‘I am their Amir,’ the words were heavily accented but easily understood, ‘and if you wish to cut someone then begin with me.’

  De Chauvigny smirked, waved a hand to Henri to release the legs and both men rose to their feet leaving the young Mameluk warrior sprawled on the ground breathing heavily, his body trembling with fear. As Henri and the other knights watched with interest, de Chauvigny approached the man who spoke. There was contempt in his eyes for the man who massacred his comrades and would now murder those still alive, and he struggled to kneel up straight as his bonds continued to cut into his flesh. Beneath the mail that was covered by a cloak, now grimy with dirt and blood, his slim, muscular body was taught and firm. A handsome man in his late twenties, his black hair was pulled back and tied in a tail, his beard short and trimmed accentuating the strong jaw line. His nose was prominent but not excessively so and his eyes were the dark brown of his race. With a clean complexion his face glistened with damp from the perspiration caused by the extreme heat and lack of head protection from the blazing sun.

  ‘Your name?’ De Chauvigny demanded.

  ‘My name is not important,’ replied the Mameluk defiantly, ‘but I will tell you what you wish to know….the Mongols are beaten.’ He smiled to let de Chauvigny know the impossible had been accomplished. The undefeated Mongol armies of the Khan had been crushed, ‘Now we look towards our other enemies!’ The inference was not lost on de Chauvigny who scowled at the comment, ‘By tomorrow morning,’ he continued, ‘there will be thousands of the faithful passing this way.’

  De Chauvigny looked contemptuously into the face of the Mameluk commander and sneered, ‘Then they will find you and your men waiting for them,’ he sneered, ‘you failed your men this day Saracen, and for that you will all die.’

  ‘On this we agree,’ the Amir said bitterly as he tried to find a way to ease the pain in his bound hands, ‘we were foolish to believe the promise your King made.’

  De Chauvigny grunted, ‘Whatever my King promised you was not my promise, the only promise I give to you is the promise of death because you and your men came through this land without fear,’ he shook his head and spat into the dust in front of him, ‘I cannot allow that to happen.’

  The Amir held his head high, ‘Tell me Christian, why should we fear those we are not fighting?’

  ‘You should always fear those who kill for their God,’ de Chauvigny replied arrogantly.

  The Amir nodded in understanding, ‘To kill for your God is an honourable thing but a wise man once told me our Gods are one and the same.’

  ‘And you believed him?’

  As he tried to focus on his tormentor, the Amir licked his parched lips as the merciless sun beat down into his face. His voice was hoarse as he replied arrogantly, ‘I cut out his tongue and burnt out his eyes for blasphemy.’

  De Chauvigny mumbled an acknowledgement as he signalled to one of his men for a leather water skin. He raised it to his mouth and drank copiously before replacing the plug and handing it back. Wiping his mouth and beard with the back of his hand he looked down at the Amir who watched through squinting eyes as the precious liquid was gulped by his captor, ‘You know who I am?’

  The Amir shrugged, he knew there was no escape. They were trapped in the rock lined gully with the heat rising from the white stones, shimmering as it rose into the air. He spoke without fear, ‘You are the infidel Christian my people know as The Butcher, you kill without mercy and ransack villages and holy places,’ he spluttered a dry laugh as he continued, ‘some people believe you are a demon and cannot die.’

  De Chauvigny grunted and looked round at his own men, ‘I cannot die because my God protects me, because he is stronger than the weak offal you fall on your knees to, otherwise it would be me on my knees waiting to die, and my men lying in the dust waiting to be eaten by the scavengers.’

  ‘It is the will of Allah,’ croaked the Amir.

  ‘Allah has no place in this land,’ de Chauvigny snarled at the prisoner who stared arrogantly back, ‘and neither do you…. now you will watch your men die by the spike!’

  ‘Death is a blessing to the Muslim,’ the Amir retorted with a wry smile, ‘so speaks the prophet Mohammed, peace be upon him!’

  De Chauvigny glared at the warrior, angry that he could not force this man to show any fear, ‘Then you will enjoy it all the more.’ He walked away and shouted orders to his men, ‘Prepare the spikes…..Henri, the boy goes first…..and I want to be out of here before the sun goes down.’

  Chapter Two

  Kneeling behind a cluster of rocks on the summit of the ridge, Ralf de Capo, Knight Commander of the Holy Order of St Peter stared angrily at the scene in the gully below him. With the sun beating down onto his bare head he wiped the moisture from his eyes and watched with growing rage at the slaughter. A handsome man in his early thirties, his sunburnt face seemed to glow exponentially as the scale of what had happened became clear.

  The man next to him shared his anger and shook his head at the sight before them. ‘De Chauvigny!’ Thomas of Frant, best friend and lieutenant to de Capo snarled.

  ‘Aye,’ De Capo scratched his beard, a source of constant irritation for him in the heat, ‘the bastard cannot stop killing.’

  ‘He seems to kill for pleasure,’ Thomas said as he wiped the sweat from his face, ‘what are your orders?’

  De Capo sighed and looked behind him at the two columns of mounted knights waiting listlessly in the baking heat. It had been a long, boring patrol and he knew how demoralising it was to ride for days in this arid land without incident. Th
ey had been riding for nearly two weeks and the sweat that ran down their metal clad faces and stung their eyes was exacerbated by the physical act of wearing heavy mail and plate in the heat.

  Their white surcoats were a grimy grey colour, ingrained with the desert sand and dust after their long patrol, but unlike other knightly Orders in the Kingdom of Jerusalem who displayed only a cross in one form or another, these men had a crest on their surcoats of three fishes entwined around a boat, depicting St Peter’s origins as a fisherman and the three fish being the number of times he denied Christ. In the middle was an inverted cross signifying St Peter himself was crucified upside down.

  Raising his hand, de Capo tapped the top of his head three times, a simple signal that informed his men they were to prepare for battle. There was a flurry of movement along both columns as the knights of St Peter replaced their helmets, a conical design with thick nose guards in the Norman fashion, tightened straps on plate and livery and loosened weapons. Some of the horses became skittish at the movement, their fear and adrenalin coursing through their bodies at the preparations. De Capo cut his hand rapidly through the air in front of his mouth, a command to control the beasts and keep silent.

  He had been ordered by his Grand Commander, Osmond le Vicomt, to ensure the soldiers of Sultan Qutuz’s army were unmolested as they passed through the Kingdom of Jerusalem. The agreement was that right of free passage would be allowed for the Sultan’s army to attack the Mongols who were sweeping through the land. In return, the Kingdom of Jerusalem would remain unmolested for a period of five years. The intimate details of this arrangement were unknown and many believed Qutuz would not keep his word, but until proven, his soldiers would not be attacked.

  Looking back down into the gully before scanning the ridge on the opposite side, he thought about his next move. They had been this way on more than one occasion and they were familiar with the landscape, but he had not expected to find this carnage in the middle of the desert. It was only because they had found a Saracen horse wandering alone with dried blood across its shoulders that they had retraced the horse’s tracks, now he had found what he most feared he had to act. Breaching the agreement like this put the entire kingdom in jeopardy and only swift action now could prevent a massacre on an unprecedented scale.