by Simon Acland
I racked my brain for any reference to the name of a ‘Mother of Mary’ in the Scriptures. I could not remember a single verse which spoke of the parents of the Virgin Mother of Jesus. Joseph, of course, was said to be of the House of David, but Mary’s lineage was obscure. Nor could I recall any reference to the parentage of Mary and Martha of Bethany, the sisters of Lazarus, and for that reason perhaps the most likely subject of the riddle. And the Magdalene similarly lacked family. I cursed my ignorance. My worries about how to solve the riddle rose like the seas around.
For after the Straits of Messina, our course led into the open, rougher waters beyond the heel of Italy. The tension amongst the crew rose. The height of the waves made it far harder to row and with our fear of foundering came the anxiety that out of sight of land we were more likely to encounter hostile shipping – pirates or Fatimids perhaps. A few years before, any Fatimid vessel from Egypt would have as like as not been friendly towards their Genoese trading partners; now I imagined they would do their utmost to prevent supplies from reaching their Crusader enemies.
Beside me on the rowing bench, pulling on the same oar, sat an excitable Greek by the name of Adelphos. He swore and prayed as the ship heaved in the swell, and his imprecations became louder the higher the sea rose. A week or so out from land, we encountered a squall of particular violence, and Adelphos began to declaim to every saint he could remember.
“Haghios Nicholaios, patron saint of seafarers, protect me! Haghia Thecla, they threw you in the sea to drown but you refused to sink. Grant your servant Adelphos the same buoyancy! Haghia Barbara, I have lit many candles to you. Now fulfil your promise that I should die a natural death! Haghios Christophoros, patron saint of travellers, you carried Our Lord Jesus across the water, so carry me. Haghia Sophia, patron of widows, do not destroy my poor old mother’s hopes; see me safely through this storm! Then like you I will give away all my worldly possessions.”
The words ‘Haghia Sophia’ and ‘my poor old mother’ caused me to miss my stroke, so that Adelphos broke off from his prayers for a moment and used his deep voice instead to heap me with insults. But I had been carried back momentarily to that great church in Constantinople. I remembered the boastful servant of Emperor Alexios showing me the relics in the cathedral. I remembered him telling me of the bones of Saint Anne, described as the mother of the Holy Virgin Mary. Now at least I had a name to go by. Perhaps inside Jerusalem there was a house, or a church, of Saint Anne.
The high seas subsided, and land came in sight at last. Adelphos loudly attributed his salvation to his devout invocations. I preferred to credit plain good Genoese seamanship. Captain Embriaco made for the nearest harbour of Jaffa. Whilst the town looked drab and down-at-heel, the harbour which gave it purpose was large and well-protected by a long mole. Four English ships, square-sailed like those that had alarmed Baldwin’s men at Tarsus, already sheltered in the haven, unloading on the quayside. The Genoese came alongside them and I shakily disembarked with the rest, to my surprise now feeling the land rocking beneath my feet as unsteadily as the sea. The experienced sailors around laughed as I tottered on the land; but it was not for several days that I wholly regained my balance.
I wondered how my former comrades had fared in the time I had been at sea. Perhaps Jerusalem was already taken. I hoped so. My shipmates did not share this wish, for their prosperity depended on the war being incomplete so that they could sell their materiel at an extortionate price. We set to unloading the cargo, unmolested for the town had been deserted by its Moslem inhabitants, perhaps scared away by the arrival of the English ships. My war-seasoned eye saw that the abandoned fortress that overlooked the harbour would anyway not have held out against assault for long, furnished as it was with just one broken tower.
Nevertheless, the Embriaco brothers were canny and experienced enough to post look-outs at the top of their galleys’ masts. After I had struggled in the heat through noon until the mid-afternoon heaving the cargo onto the dockside, I heard a warning cry from above. One of the mast-top watchers had spotted a cloud of dust rising behind the town, probably thrown up by the hasty arrival of a body of men. Orders were given to prepare for a fight. I hurried to don my mail and to strap on my sword. I felt some satisfaction at being dressed as a knight again after my long spell as a humble seaman, for all the weight and discomfort of the tight garments in the heat.
I relaxed again as the first soldiers spilled out from Jaffa’s narrow alleys onto the foreshore, for they wore the familiar cloaks with crosses at their shoulder, and the banners they carried proclaimed them as Christian friends. Amongst them I saw with pleasure the double armed cross of Lorraine. I hurried forward to make myself known and to learn the news of my comrades.
It was Geldemar Carpenel who led the small troop of Lotharingians – no more than twenty knights and fifty foot soldiers in all. I knew him from Antioch, and my gladness at seeing a familiar face after so long overcame the dislike I had felt then for his dumb soldierly arrogance. I approached with a friendly greeting.
“Good God, I know you. It’s Hugh de Verdon, isn’t it?” Carpenel responded, grasping my hand and slapping my shoulder. “Where in blazes have you sprung from? When our Duke found you gone from Antioch he took you for dead in the terrible plague that raged there. He was even sorry to have lost you – for a couple of days that is.”
He brayed with laughter, showing splayed teeth over his undershot jaw. Without making room for an answer to his question, he rushed on: “We had a close call on the way here, by Heaven. My little band rode right into a vast Moslem army. We were almost through them when a band of Provençals came up behind us led by that ass Raymond Pilet – there he is, that’s him with the face like a donkey over there – they are now saying that without their help we’d have been wiped out. Just like them – we do all the work and they try to take all the glory. But they’ve got their comeuppance now that all the other nobles follow good Duke Godfrey. They’ve shown that one-eyed lavender bag Count Raymond where he can stuff himself.”
He brayed again in delight at his own wit.
“By God though we are famished…haven’t eaten properly in days…or drunk. Do your Genoese friends have any provisions for us? I’d say a feast of celebration is called for.”
Guillermo Embriaco had anticipated Geldemar’s wish, for, good businessman that he was, he knew that it would be in his interests to give his customers a warm welcome before trying to fleece them by demanding outrageous prices for his precious supplies. And it did not need one as astute as Guillermo to see that the little Crusader band would welcome a square meal, for they looked as lean and mangy as any pack of hungry wolves. So the Genoese set about giving the Lorrainers and the Provençals a feast of greeting. They improvised long trestle tables on the quayside, and started fires to cook the fish that would anyway not last in the heat on the march to Jerusalem. They brought out loaves of bread, hard and stale from the long sea journey but edible by hungry men especially when dunked in the rich Italian wine, keg after keg of which they rolled out from the capacious holds of the galleys.
I stuck by Geldemar and his companions, eager to learn news of events since my departure from Antioch. Before the Genoese alcohol rendered them completely incoherent, I heard how finally Bohemond had achieved his ambition and thrown the Provençals out of Antioch, proudly assuming the title of Prince of that ancient city. Here there was much glancing and sneering in the direction of Raymond’s men further down the shore. The shameful rumours that I had heard in Genoa of cannibalistic savagery were confirmed – the outrage had taken place in a sad town called Marrat al-Numan – where the Provençals and some of Bohemond’s Normans, after brutally sacking it, had run amok.
“D’you remember how starved we were in Antioch? Boiling those roots and old leather to keep going. But we drew the line at human flesh, by God. In Marrat they did it for fun. They didn’t just eat the dead. God knows that’d have been bad enough. But they cooked the poor bastards alive, like bloody
lobsters. The old people, that is. They thought otherwise their flesh’d be too tough. The children – well – they were tender enough to be spitted and grilled.”
“It’s nice to see you eating fish instead of babies,” brayed Geldemar in the direction of the Southerners.
I saw my emotions of sorrow and horror reflected in the eyes of some of Geldemar’s more intelligent companions. At least a few of them were still human enough to feel regret that part of our so-called Christian army could have acted in such a shameful way.
“And what did Count Raymond do to make up for it? He took his bloody boots off for a couple of days and walked a barefoot penance at the front of the army. We stayed with Duke Godfrey in Antioch. Thought we might as well leave the hard work to them. Then Raymond got stuck at the great fortress of Arqa. He begged us to come and join him. He was scared shitless…right out of his pomaded head about some great Arab army coming and raising the siege,” snorted Geldemar, whose words were slurring more and more under the influence of the Genoese wine. “We’d helped Bohemond to heave the last of Raymond’s men out of Antioch by then, so why not?”
I asked about the fate of Peter Bartholomew, and felt some pity at the news that he had submitted to an ordeal by fire at Arqa to prove the authenticity of the Holy Lance.
“He was so badly burned, you see, that he died a week later. So the lance was a fake, a fake, all that time.”
Geldemar turned his glazed eyes towards me wide open in astonishment.
“How about that! Now we all follow good Godfrey’s golden cross…”
He took a last deep draught, breathed a great sigh and rested his head on his hands on the makeshift table in front of him. I heard him muttering, “It was a fake. A fake. All the time. Golden cross…” until rasping drunken snores took the place of his mumbles.
I moved away from the carousal to find a quieter place to sleep the night, hoping that the Provençals and the Lorrainers would not come to blows before morning. I thought this was happening when I heard cries of alarm and opened my eyes to see that it was dawn. Then I heard someone shouting over and over, “Enemy ships, enemy ships.”
I ran down to the water’s edge and saw beyond the mole a dozen galleys flying the Fatimid flag, plain green in honour of their Prophet. One of the English ships whose crew had been more alert than the others had taken advantage of a favourable wind to slip out of the harbour before the blockade was tightened, but the rest of the little fleet could now not hope to escape. Four of the Fatimid vessels were larger than the others, and fitted in the bows with mangonels. These now began to fire, crashing heavy missiles down into the harbour, interspersed by barrels of burning pitch. One trapped galley was already alight.
Ever the pragmatist, Guillermo Embriaco decided to cut his losses and to leave his ships in the harbour. We’d unloaded most of the cargo the day before, and certainly the more valuable items. So the Genoese piled it as fast as possible onto the few baggage carts and divided the rest into loads for the soldiers to carry. We fled the town, many in our little band cursing and swearing at their rude awakening and at their sore heads from the night before. I prayed that the Moslem army scattered by Raymond Pilet’s men had not regrouped to block our way back to Jerusalem, but we took a different route for the return journey and so avoided molestation.
On the eastward march, heavily laden through the summer heat, my excitement at nearing the Holy City lightened my load and gave energy to my steps. At last my long journey was nearing its end. My goal was within reach. The optimism of youth said that I would not suffer the same disappointment as in Antioch, that I would win through to Jerusalem. There I would find the House of Saint Anne, and return to Alamut to free Blanche from her prison. The realism of experience tempered my optimism when I breasted the final rise and saw the puny and ragged band around the walls of the Holy City. Scarcely fifteen thousands remained, perhaps a tenth part of the great armies that had reached Constantinople.
The Genoese sailors divided into two groups, some going with Raymond Pilet to join the Provençals to the South of the city to sell their provisions there, and others marching up to the north to join the bulk of the army where, according to Geldemar, Godfrey was now acknowledged as the supreme commander. As we approached the camp, I could indeed see the tall golden cross of which Geldemar had babbled in his cups, set up as a holy standard outside Godfrey’s tent. I had worried how to explain my long absence to the Duke, but now Geldemar’s beef-brained bonhomie came to my rescue.
“See what I have brought you, my Lord Duke,” he boomed as Godfrey issued from his tent at our approach. “Hugh de Verdon wasn’t dead of the plague in the fever-pot of Antioch after all. He took off to Latakia for the fresh sea air, only to be press-ganged into the galleys. After many adventures, sailing to Italy and God knows where else, he’s guided some well-provisioned ships to our shores. Now here we are with nails, ropes and tools for building siege engines, supplies. There’s even some wine which I can warmly recommend from my personal experience.”
I gave thanks for the simplicity of Geldemar’s bluff soldier’s brain, and went down on one knee in respect before Godfrey. The Duke raised me to my feet.
“Let me see. Look at me. It can’t be.”
I was delighted by the warmth of his embrace.
“Hugh, Hugh, I thought I had finally lost you. And now here you are again, with valuable provisions, in the nick of time to join in the last great assault of our campaign. How many more times are you going to come back from the dead?”
For the first time I was Godfrey’s equal in stature. The ten months that had passed since Antioch had stooped and grizzled the Duke further. He had still not shaken off the limp from his bear wound and the lines on his face formed deep canyons round his features. But some vigour and enthusiasm still remained, and these were now turned to directing the construction of the machines of war that were needed to reduce great walls. Hot-headed Tancred had already led one ill-prepared attack. This had come to grief for want of siege ladders, and had almost cost him his life.
First the supplies of wood had to be found on which the naval carpenters could work their skill. Anxious to redeem himself for his failed assault, Tancred welcomed the chance to set off with a caravan of camels which returned laden with timber. Now construction could begin. The carpenters’ saws and hammers were sped by the news that a huge army was on its way from Egypt to relieve Jerusalem. If they attacked us in the open before the city was taken their numbers would annihilate our meagre force. It was Antioch all over again.
SAINT LAZARUS’ COLLEGE
“Well, sir, I am very sorry to say that I have just had news that your colleague died this morning. For the week that he was in hospital they really did everything humanly possible, but in the end eighty percent burns for a man his age was just too much.”
“Especially for someone who had abused his own body for so long.”
The Master could not help insinuating that if the Modern Languages Tutor had smoked and drunk less he might have pulled through. He was only just over his appalling bout of food poisoning and still unusually choleric as a result.
“And in the end, smoking in bed…” The Master shook his head in disapproval. “I suppose we are lucky that the whole College didn’t burn down. We have the Chaplain’s piety to thank for that. One should not underestimate the power of prayer. Perhaps we should have another look at some of the passages in our book which are more critical of religion.”
The Best-Selling Author shifted uncomfortably and exchanged glances with the History Don and the Professor of English, looking for support. But before the argument could progress the Oxford Detective cleared his voice.
“Actually, sir, I think that there may be more to this death than meets the eye. As far as I am concerned we have a murder investigation on our hands. We already had one definite case of attempted murder. It is too much of a coincidence that we have now had a death in the College. And I would not eliminate the possibility that your recent
stomach troubles were due to something other than natural causes. If it was something wrong with the food, or a bug for that matter, isn’t it rather strange that you were the only one to suffer? I would not discount poison and foul play. I am sorry, but I am going to have to ask you all not to leave town until I have cleared this up. I shall want to interview you all again.”
The Oxford Detective looked sternly round the room, meaning to include everyone in this statement. Nor did he ignore the Research Assistant.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
FALLING TOWERS – JERUSALEM
O daughters of Jerusalem…
Godfrey and I stood watching the carpenters at their work. A battering ram was beginning to take shape. We needed it to break through the curtain wall. Nearby, the frame of a siege tower was being laid out, tall enough to surmount the main walls of the Holy City. But they were so high that this structure would use up all the remaining wood that Tancred had found.
“I don’t like it, Hugh, I don’t like it at all. We won’t have any element of surprise. They will know exactly which stretch of wall we plan to attack. They’ll only have to divide their strength in two, facing our tower up here and Raymond’s down in the south. They have more than enough mangonels and heavy bows to pour a devastating fire onto our assault. Even if we had more wood, I haven’t enough men left to attack in two places at once. The siege tower has to be so tall that it will be even more cumbersome than usual. It will move desperately slowly, however many men I have pushing it. And look how uneven the ground is. We can’t build it in one place and then move it under cover of darkness because we would never get it far enough to make a difference. Under the concentrated barrage we’ll face, it will stand little chance of reaching the main wall at all.”
