The Waste Land

by Simon Acland

  More rocks thundered against the superstructure. Their speed made the trajectory hard to follow, but I learnt to brace myself in readiness for the blow when the mangonel arm on the city walls kicked like a wild donkey to launch its missile. Then there would be a minute or so in safety before the arm could be winched back down, loaded up and thrown forward again by the ropes’ twisted power. If I could hear the air-rush of the projectile, I knew it was perilously close. Once, I heard such a whistle and ducked my head. My face was spattered with sticky liquid. I looked up and saw that the knight next to Godfrey had been struck on his head by a stone twice its size. His skull had pulverised, scattering blood, brains and fragments of bone over those nearby. In disgust, I tasted human remains on my lips, retched, spat, and tried to wipe the gore off my face and out of my beard. Beside, Godfrey was doing the same.

  “That was too close,” he said with a grim smile.

  The defenders did not have it all their own way, though. Their target was moving, albeit painfully slowly, but our artillerymen had a stationary mark. They were able to maintain an accurate bombardment of the top of the walls. Also, we had the advantage of three mangonels to the Saracens’ two. Our fire concentrated on the towers containing the enemy machines, and we roared a great cheer when we achieved a direct hit, silencing one of the threatening engines of war.

  The remaining mangonel now began to lob firebombs. These broke against the flanks of the tower, scattering burning pitch. But the carpenters had done their job well, and the flames could gain no purchase on the smooth water-soaked hides covering our front and flanks. The blazing material slid down and scattered harmlessly on the ground. More damage was done when a flaming missile burst on the platform, setting two men-at-arms alight like human candles. Quickly we swamped the flames in water. The platform was charred but safe. The two men, horribly burned, lay moaning and twitching behind me in agony. I tried to ignore their pitiful sounds.

  Now we were close to the breach in the curtain wall. The teams tugging us forward dropped their ropes. The enemy’s arrow fire had already depleted them so the tower’s progress did not slow much. The advantage was ours, for we had passed inside the closest range of the remaining Saracen mangonel, whose missiles whistled harmlessly over our heads. And now we could pour arrow fire downwards onto the infidel ramparts. In response came the weapons that had been so effective against Count Raymond. A volley of fiery nailed mallets thudded into the side of the tower. The knights pouring down water to put out these fires panicked to see that they were having no effect. Flames began to lick upwards.

  “Use the vinegar, for God’s sake,” roared Godfrey over the noise.

  I seized a wineskin. I squirted down, pissing the vinegar into the flames, which faltered and died. Now it was the defenders’ turn to be disconcerted. Their secret weapon had been countered.

  I scrabbled for my crossbow again. I fired a quarrel down into the face of one archer on the ramparts. I saw my unfortunate target fall back, clutching at the feathered end piercing through his cheek. Then I threw down my bow to seize one of the long spears. I began roughly thrusting at the figures behind the battlements. Others beside me used grappling irons to pull the tower the last few yards and secured it against the wall.

  Our mangonels had also been using flame as a weapon, hurling firebombs at the walls. The wood and bales of straw packed inside one of the towers to reinforce it had caught, and the hot wind began to blow thick smoke and flame out at the defenders in front of us. Temporarily they fell back, unsighted by the smoke, and Godfrey seized his chance. Hacking loose one of the protective wattles, he balanced it as a makeshift bridge to the ramparts, and waved to us around him to charge across. With a stentorian battle cry, swords and shields in hand, eager knights leapt over to seize a bridgehead. Godfrey himself followed, and I came close behind, wildly hacking and thrusting at any targets visible through the billowing smoke.

  In their dismay unable to withstand the ferocity of the assault, the Moslem defenders were forced back. I pressed one against the crenellations. A short spear pricked at me and I forced it aside with my shield, slashing again and again in a frenzy with my blade until the Saracen’s body was a mass of blood. It slid to the floor, leaving a trail of gore down the stone behind. In the heat of the moment I gave no thought to the horror of my action. Perhaps I was anyway inured by all the brutalities that I had seen. Instead I turned to seek out another enemy to hack down.

  Now our men held a section of wall and had cleared it of foes. Savage cheers went up as more troops charged forward with scaling ladders. They set them against the battlements, climbed up and began to pour over.

  I raced along the wall toward the tower to the left, ignoring the arrows that were still dropping from archers further along the fortifications, and scarcely noticing the deep scratch made by one along my cheek. We had taken the tower containing the second mangonel, and our soldiers were pouring down into the street. The defence had broken and was turning into a rout. Down below I could see a brutal slaughter beginning, as fleeing Arabs were hacked down from behind without mercy.

  In a crowd of knights I hurtled down the spiral stairway inside the tower, ignoring the fighting that was still going on in some of its rooms, and burst out with them into the lane. I slipped on the blood and gore which already smeared the street, and paused for a moment to catch my breath. I saw a savage glow in my companions’ eyes, lit by their eager anticipation of the slaughter, rape and pillage that was about to follow victory. Maybe they could see the same bestiality in my own face.

  Saint Stephen’s Gate had now been thrown open and the main body of our force was pushing towards the main thoroughfare that led to the Dome of the Rock. Most of the Saracen troops were fleeing south in front of them down towards the Temple Mount. Some, hoping to find refuge away from their fellows, scattered down the maze of small alleys. Few escaped. Their screams mixed with the higher, woeful cries of women and children, fleeing in desperation away from the ferocious tide of dreaded Frankish soldiers. Others hid in their dwellings, and their terrified laments rang out as the doors to their homes crashed down. They rose in pitch to earpiercing screams and then ended with abrupt silence as hidden steel flashed.

  I had to find one of the unfortunate inhabitants alive to tell me where in the city the House of Saint Anne might be. So I broke off down a narrow alleyway to find a dwelling whose occupants had not yet perished. The rule of right of conquest still applied throughout the army to noblemen and common soldiers alike, to prevent fighting amongst ourselves, so that whoever first entered and took a building and laid claim to it would have an unchallenged right to its contents.

  I had to go a long way down the maze of alleys to find a home without a shattered door, without the bestial sound of rape, crashing destruction or shrieks within. The first two entrances through which I burst led into empty, deserted hovels. In the third I found a family cowering, a young mother and two children, who wailed and screamed at my approach as if their end had come. On her knees, the mother grabbed at my arm. She gabbled in Greek that she would let me do whatever I wanted if I would just spare her children. Her tear-brimmed eyes pleaded, but were empty of hope that her entreaties would meet with success. I tried to calm her – hysterical she was no use to me – reassuring her that I intended no harm, that I sought directions to the House of Saint Anne. Had she heard of any such place in the city? Now faint hope did enter her eyes but it was some time before I could compose her enough to understand that she was talking of a Church of Saint Anne. “It is just in this corner of the city” were the words I made out, “just in the little square at the end of this alley. I worship there.” With a shock I realised that the woman was Christian, yet sheltering for her life from the soldiers of Christ. Then my mind turned back to my own concerns. Perhaps this church was indeed what I sought. Perhaps in ancient times a church had been erected in honour of the Virgin Mary’s mother on the site where she had lived. I resolved to investigate. Again in the poor woman’s eyes
I read terror, for now that she had given me her information she expected the worst. The terror turned to hope and surprise as I made the Sign of the Cross over the unfortunate family and turned out of their poor dwelling. I would have liked to have done something to help them but I had my own business, my own quest to solve.

  Out of the door, and a little further along the alley, the narrow way did indeed open into a small square, at one end of which stood an ancient church. I could see that it touched the eastern edge of the city, for the walls loomed up behind, with the Mount of Olives above across the Kedron valley over which I had gazed in the opposite direction two days before. To my surprise, the small postern in the main church door swung open at a slight touch. It was unbolted. Was it left thus by some oversight? Or was it fate? Or was I somehow expected? Suddenly uncomfortable, I shook off that impossible thought and entered. The cool gloom of the interior made such a contrast with the hot patch of noon sun in the square outside that I felt that I had entered another world. I pushed the door to and shot the bolt home. Deep silence fell. The violent sounds of battle were closed out. I became cold as my sweat began to dry. I shivered as I walked between the columns down the dark aisle of the church.

  SAINT LAZARUS’ COLLEGE

  The little column of mourners wound its way back towards the College from the nearby graveyard where Saint Lazarus Fellows were entitled to be interred.

  “It was sad that he had no family there, no friends even, no-one from outside. The College was really his whole life.” The Chaplain always felt a little low after presiding over a funeral, reminded of his own mortality, his faith briefly less secure. His eyes widened as he turned to the Master, walking beside him. “You don’t think, when you told him he was going to have to leave, that he…that he did it on purpose?”

  “Oh, don’t be absurd. What a ludicrous idea.” The Master resented the suggestion that his firm management action might have precipitated the tragedy. His mood was not improved by the two smallish boys who were running in front of the column of black-clad men, pulling faces and sticking out their tongues, before darting away out of reach.

  Behind them, the History Don was walking with the Classics Fellow. “I’ve been doing some background reading on the topography of medieval Jerusalem.”

  He perhaps looked a little more excited than was quite appropriate immediately after a funeral – and than most would have thought the subject deserved.

  “Once again, it seems our manuscript is surprisingly accurate. The north east corner of the city is known as the Muslim Quarter today. A Church of Saint Anne still stands there. But at the time of Jesus’ ministry this whole area was outside the city walls. It was largely occupied by the Pool of Bethesda, which as you may know was the supposed location for a couple of miracles. Traditionally, Saint Anne, the mother of the Virgin Mary, had her home nearby. The buildings around the pool were razed with the rest of the city by the vengeful Emperor Titus, probably except for their foundations and the drains underneath. Later on, a church was built on top to honour the mother of Mary and the whole district was enclosed behind enlarged city walls. Isn’t that interesting?”

  The Classics Fellow murmured his assent but had actually been thinking what a shame it was that the funeral service was not still given in Latin.

  The Professor of English was paired with the Best-Selling Author.

  “I just love the language of that service. The vocabulary is so moving, the imagery so evocative.”

  His companion looked blank. Slow and tedious were the words he would have chosen.

  The Research Assistant walked alone, trying to conceal his twisted face behind the upturned collar of his donkey jacket before those horrid little boys started making fun of him. He had not wanted to come to the service at all. He did not have the right clothes and was not sure how to behave. But he knew it would have looked odd not to be there.

  A little distance behind came the Oxford Detective. He always made a point of going to the funeral in these cases. Partly out of respect for the victim, of course. But also for the opportunity to discreetly observe the suspects on an occasion when they were likely to drop their guard. He always sat quietly towards the front, but well to one side. Then he could watch the whole congregation without drawing attention to himself. These little tricks – they just did not teach them to new recruits any more. And what had he learnt? Well, any one of them could have done it. The Vicar – or the Chaplain, rather, that was what they called him – his smooth bland face had mouthed the words of the service with no emotion whatsoever. Sometimes it was quite moving, poetic even. But the Chaplain had made it sound utterly banal. The top man – the Master – had looked impatient even before the service began – anxious to be off – that could have been a sign of guilt, about something anyway. He wouldn’t want to get on the wrong side of that one. Friends in high places, no doubt, and one of those cold, unforgiving tempers. Then the writer chappie, he’d obviously been uncomfortable in the church, an unbeliever almost certainly. That showed a lack of moral compass. And the other profs – English, History, Classics. Hmm. What a bunch of cold fish. Not a moist eye between them. Actually a couple of them had had their eyes shut for most of the service.

  And then the last one, the bloke with the terrible mark on his face. Wearing that workman’s jacket showed a total lack of respect for the man who, after all, had been his boss. And it was quite hard to tell with a mug like that, but he had looked very awkward. Very awkward indeed.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  WHAT THE THUNDER SAID

  What we search for is not always what we find.

  “So you have come.”

  I started violently at the harshly nasal voice. My eyes, not yet accustomed to the unlit interior, struggled to make out an ancient dark-cowled monk standing in the murk near the altar.

  “I have come,” I replied. “I want to see the library here. Where are the books kept?”

  In reply the shadowy figure cackled, and to my tautly stretched nerves there seemed something manic about that laugh. But I put it from my mind and struggled to catch the words of archaic Greek that followed.

  “Ah yes. The library here. It is full of rare and precious books. But why would they be of interest to a man of war?”

  Another cackle cracked from the cowled figure. I shivered again.

  “I was a man of God, a monk like you, before I was a man of war. I believe you keep a rare volume here that I have not read before. It is known as the Gospel of Lazarus.”

  Again a burst of harsh mirth echoed around the vaulted ceiling. By now I was standing in front of its origin. Under the cowl I saw hollow cheeks, and a livid red mark grotesquely disfiguring one side of a twisted face. The nose was half eaten by leprosy, and I started back. The leper’s pouched eyes glittered with amused malevolence and he chuckled again.

  My sword was still bloody and unsheathed. I brandished it angrily.

  “Show me where the books are kept, or you will be sorry.”

  “Shame on you, young man, waving your weapon in this ancient house of God. Put your sword away. I was once as handsome and tall as you, but you now have nothing to fear from a weak old man like me…unless I come too close.”

  He took a step forwards. I recoiled, prompting more wheezy laughter.

  “Very well, come, follow me.”

  The monk led me down a narrow curving stairway to the left of the altar. The steps were so deeply worn that in my agitation I stumbled and nearly fell headlong. At the bottom a smooth door of heavy stone stood ajar. My guide entered. I watched with suspicion as he took a tinderbox from beneath his robes and lit a wide church candle which stood on a stone table within. I had expected a crypt, but the room appeared to double as library and sacristy, for it contained vestments, chalices, reliquaries, monstrances, candles and all the paraphernalia of the Mass. One whole wall was lined with books. I looked aghast at the shelves of unmarked volumes, and my expression provoked that disquieting cackle again.

  “The
Gospel of Lazarus, yes, which one is it, I wonder? Oh dear, oh dear.”

  “You had better show me which it is, or you will suffer.”

  Threateningly I loosened my sword again.

  “Suffering, suffering, so much pain and suffering,” the monk crooned, “Now let me see…”

  He reached bony fingers up towards a volume bound in dark stained undecorated leather. He eased it from the shelf and laid it on the table.

  “There. Read for yourself and see if it is the one that you want.”

  Greedily I grasped the book. I opened it and made out the correct title in Greek. I saw that once it had been a scroll, but that at some point it had been divided into pages and bound between leather covers. With a shock I recognised the script. It was identical to the papyruses I had carried for so long. Nevertheless, I thought I should read further to check that there was no mistake. I did not trust the leper librarian. I turned the book’s stiff pages at random. The script was not easy to make out, but as I deciphered it I could detect that the volume indeed contained some sort of Gospel. Triumphantly I spelled out the name Lazarus again.

  Utterly absorbed, I had forgotten the monk. I failed to notice his slow crab-like shift towards the door, until, out of the corner of one eye, I caught a sudden movement. The old man darted out through the opening with surprising speed for one of his age. Frantically I jumped after him, but before I could do anything the stone door had swung smoothly closed in my face. It thudded shut with baleful finality.