Beloved Pilgrim

by Christopher Hawthorne Moss

  Elias had expected the desolation of unending desert once outside the immediate environs of Constantinople. Instead, he beheld wide grasslands on either side of him as he rode. It was beautiful, if strange to his eyes, more accustomed to dense German forests. The distant hills were gently rounded and dotted with clumps of trees. The higher hills were sometimes completely forested. Sheep grazed in peace until the pilgrims reached Seljuk territory. Then the grasslands, though they obviously were used as pasture, were empty. The people who lived in the small, mean villages had advance warning of the pilgrims’ approach. The livestock was concealed in unseen glens. All but the oldest women were also missing. Eyes both hostile and curious followed the horde as they traveled to Ancyra.

  Elias felt excitement and dread as the first sight of the walls of the city appeared over the horizon. It took his mind off the pain of parting so soon from Maliha and Tacetin. It was, however, his first battle. Like any other soldier or knight, he was aware his days on the earth might be few in number. He suddenly realized he did not know if his beloved was Christian or Muslim. He prayed the former was the case, so at least they would be reunited in heaven. Then it occurred to him that, while he himself might be forgiven everything for making his way to Jerusalem, the Almighty might not be so sanguine about Maliha’s part in their illicit lovemaking. His fear grew more intense as the consequences overtook his imagination.

  With the hundreds of other knights, he pressed toward the command tents the leaders of the force occupied at the encampment thrown up out of arrow’s reach of the battlements of Ancyra. Though he was unable to get close enough to hear what they discussed, others passed back at least reasonably credible versions of what those who could hear told the rows of men behind them. Learning that the commanders were surprised to see so few men on the palisades, Elias peered up at them, his hand shading his eyes. He could pick out individual figures in onion-shaped helms. He was unsure, due to his inexperience, how many he should see, but it did seem few. They stalked about their fortifications, carrying their spears upright.

  Raymond, still vexed at the change of plans, nevertheless dominated the discussion of strategy. It was to be an all-out assault, unless, of course, the garrison rode out to attack. No one seemed to think that likely. Even if it was fully garrisoned, the pilgrims outnumbered them at least three to one, including Tzitas’s mercenaries. If no reinforcements came from Kilij Arslan, the self-styled sultan of the Seljuk, this stronghold would certainly soon be back in the hands of the emperor.

  Nothing had changed when, not long after, Elias found himself fully armored and fully armed in one line of pilgrim knights. He thought he saw Gerhardt’s and Black Beast’s mounts, one in the line to his fore and one in his own line. Alain must be in there somewhere, but the mercenaries with Ranulf were no doubt each with their respective troops, swordsmen Ranulf and Leif and pikeman Sebastiano with the infantry, Thomas with the crossbowmen.

  Elias knew the two weapons implicit in siege warfare were intimidation and starvation. Neither seemed likely to have an impact with Ancyra. However frightening the horde of pilgrims, militant and otherwise, might appear to the occupants, it did not take eagle eyes to see they were utterly without siege engines. Without something to smash through stone, all they had to shoot at the wall were crossbow bolts.

  Starvation was left, but Elias wondered now if that would be a two-edged sword. No longer in Byzantine territory, the pilgrims’ own access to supplies was limited. He thought of the packet of dried bread and lentil paste he carried in his saddlebag, so lovingly prepared and packed by Maliha’s hands. The force had provisions, but for how long? The countryside was rich with crops, undisturbed as yet by the Turkish armies. Foraging parties would find the food and livestock hidden by farmers and villagers eventually, but it would run out just as surely.

  There was a shout from a distance. His gaze shot to the battlements. If it had come from any of the men there, now running to the south ramparts, he could not interpret the meaning. Then he heard a chorus of shouts nearer the ground, and he learned one way a siege became a pitched battle.

  The Pecheneg were deployed nearer the city walls on the south. Elias could see that they were, as a mass, riding full tilt toward a stream of horsemen and men on foot who appeared to be spilling from that side of the town. Even from this distance, he could see they were Turks. The colors, the armor, the trappings of the horses told the story. Faced with the might of the pilgrims and the prospect of unendurable hardship, or perhaps in an attempt to leave a doomed city and join their sultan in a more honorable contest, the armed men of Ancyra were making a run for it. He looked from side to side to learn what the commanders would do.

  Conrad rode forward, and, with one raised arm, sword in hand, signaled, “Advance!” Gauner, though drawn to chase the horse’s tail in front of him, waited for his knight’s command. At last, the work he was trained to do. The work that Elias, had made his brother teach him as well. With a lump in his throat, he drew his sword, joined the battle cry, and rushed forward to chase the deserters.

  The Pecheneg were already on them by the time he and those in his column overtook the runners. They cut them down to a man, the horses negotiating the bloody bodies scattered about. The mercenaries from north of the Black Sea paused very little in their chase during the slaughter and poured down on the hindmost Turkish cavalry moments later. Some of the mounted Turks turned to face the attackers, while others sped forward. Tzitas waved his men onward, leaving the pilgrim knights to face those who held their rear.

  Elias braced himself, angling his body forward and down toward Gauner’s neck. He kept his eyes on the men in onion helms and watched as the first line of knights crashed into them. Some of the knights held lances, and those they opposed went down with futile slashes of their swords against the long weapons. Only a heartbeat later, Gauner’s forward rush hurled him toward one man in chain mail just like his own, but with a hood that covered all his face except his eyes under his helm. He was on a nervous horse that seemed as intent on Gauner’s huge bulk and fiery eyes as the Turk was on him.

  Elias had learned well. He watched his opponent’s eyes, not his sword arm, and saw instantly what he meant to do. It was straightforward, nothing fancy, simply a slice down to dislodge his weapon from his gauntleted fist. He tapped his horse’s flank with one foot, and he swerved to the left just enough to distract the Turk. With a wild backhand, he swung as he passed, catching the man on the back of his sword arm, driving it forward and loosening his grip. The sword flew up and over the horse’s head to land somewhere on the other side. The Turk screamed in pain and rage. As they turned their mounts to come together once more, Elias saw the man’s fierce eyes and marveled at how little fear he saw in them. He heard him cry out the name of his God as he rode directly at Elias and threw his horse to cross his path with its body.

  Elias realized the man’s intention was to cause him to swerve again, so he would be unbalanced as they passed and he could crush his skull with the mace he had pulled from somewhere about his person. Instead of swerving, Elias pulled back on Gauner’s reins and kicked him forward, causing him to jump and kick to the front and rear at the same time. He heard the snaps as the full force of Gauner’s kick broke the Turk’s leg and his horse’s ribs.

  As Gauner hit the ground, he turned slightly and kicked again at the falling horse’s head, just as he had been trained. His rear hooves also struck another Turk, who had come around the man Elias was fighting to close on him from behind. Gauner must have sensed him just in time to defend them both as their foes, front and rear, fell in pain, blood, and screams. Elias settled Gauner after a couple more kicks, which was just enough time for the second man to slip off his dying horse and charge the two or three steps toward him, swinging his sword at his waist. His first kill in battle, only his second and third ever. It had gone just as his brother had taught him, with Black Beast’s tireless tutelage adding the rote reaction he’d needed to develop.

  Elias did not
have time to consider the significance, however, as another Turk with a pike shot toward him. The man was covered in blood, whether his own or a pilgrim knight’s, Elias could not know. He danced Gauner sideways to escape the path of the pike, whose point drilled directly to his chest. As he passed, he saw a mace swung at the Turk’s head, its deadly points smashing and piercing the gleaming helm. It was Black Beast, roaring as he came down on his victim. The man fell from his horse, which panicked as its rider hung from where he was caught in part of the saddle. It sidled away in fright. The Turk’s body shook loose and thudded to the ground. Black Beast whirled his horse, rode to the Turk’s mount, and claimed its reins.

  Elias recognized his right to take the prize and remembered his own kills. He looked around, peering as best he could from the eyeholes of his helm, and saw that the battle was over. Up ahead, the Pecheneg milled about the dead, prodding bodies with their weapons. Some hopped down from their horses and started to remove armor, swords, anything they could take from the dead. Some held the leads of two or three horses.

  Elias realized that by killing both his opponents’ horses, he had left himself with no prize. He looked back at Black Beast, who dismounted and started to rifle the dead just as the Pecheneg were doing. Black Beast reached up to hand Elias his horses’ reins. “Hold these for me, will you?” he asked, his voice hoarser than ever from screaming war cries.

  Elias took the reins and watched as Black Beast removed everything but the helm from the dead man’s body, then kicked the helm so it came off the man’s head and skittered, bouncing away over the other bodies. The head underneath was dented and bloody from where the mace’s sharp steel thorns had crushed the skull. The Beast moved to another body. He looked up and growled, very much like a beast, when another pilgrim tried to assert his own claims. The man backed away for easier booty. Now that the deafening screams and cries of battle were silenced, Elias could hear the boasts of other knights intermingled with moans from the wounded and dying. The man Black Beast was searching made a sound.

  “Not dead, you bastard?” the big man said. His heavily booted foot stomped down hard on the man’s throat. The moans stopped.

  ALBRECHT FOUND Elias as he rode exhausted and in shock toward the city. Its gates were wide open, and pilgrims of all types streamed through the gap. Some knights on horseback attempted to control the mob, with some success. Once the people were inside, however, they seemed to dash every which way.

  Albrecht rode up alongside him. “Are you all right?” The squire reached up, pulled off Elias’s helm, and pushed back his hood. His dark hair was plastered to his head with sweat.

  He nodded. “No prize, though.”

  Albrecht smiled grimly. “You made a kill?”

  Elias looked at him. “Yes, two, for Elias.” His eyes shut and then opened. “They ran. They left their people and ran.”

  Albrecht shrugged. “Not much other choice. It was that or get captured and tortured or savaged.”

  Elias’s face was unreadable. “By us, tortured and savaged by us. Another thing the troubadours don’t sing of. That no killing is ever clean and noble.” He thought, And I shall have to do it again and again.

  “They left their families to face that instead.” Albrecht’s disgust showed on his face.

  “No, I don’t think so. I think Raymond will be merciful. They will give the city back to Alexios, as intact as possible. What happens later, when we are gone and he decides what to do with the Muslims… that I don’t know. Cast them out, I suppose.”

  Albrecht grimaced. “If they are lucky.” His hand flew across his chest as he made the sign of the cross.

  Chapter Eleven

  Ancyra

  COUNT RAYMOND of Toulouse dispatched a number of knights to patrol the city in order to prevent looting. “This is the emperor’s fortress now,” he urged. “It must stay as it is. He will not thank us for a sacked city.”

  Elias and Albrecht were among those on policing duty. It was no easy task. The Lombards in particular would not heed the instructions. Throughout the city, small bands could be seen taking goods of more portability than worth from shops, homes, and even churches, or what had been churches before the Turks came. Elias found two men who were harassing a woman and her nubile daughter. Around the corner were several Lombard children lying in wait for an old Jew who tried to make his way unmolested through the quarter. Albrecht pointed to a trio of Austrian soldiers who toted a chest down the street as a frail old man chased after, pleading.

  Elias tried to reason with them at first, but soon realized that only force would make an impact. He set men-at-arms on the groups of looters and had them hauled away to meet harsh judgment. As he found he did not have the personnel to keep the pace up, he began to deal out the mortal justice himself. Finding a small troop of Frankish men-at-arms dragging hysterical women out of a gated house and raping others, he commanded his men to rush in and kill the attackers. He himself rode in, letting Gauner trample one, leaning down to slice at others.

  In an encounter with Lombard peasants running out of a small mosque with its meager treasures, he picked out their leader and personally swung his sword to slice off his head. It became easier and easier, the more resistance he met, and the angrier it made him. After hardly being blooded in the battle against the Turks, Elias found his sword, horse, and himself covered with blood splatters from his own countrymen and from other pilgrims.

  Returning to the command, where it was entrenched in a stone building, he discovered virtually all the others who were sent to quell the looting had repeated his acts. A few more hardened and seasoned knights had taken no prisoners, but simply hacked away at any trespassers on the people and goods of Ancyra. Elias’s one unique act, it seemed, was when he had his men pull soldiers off a holy man they were beating to death.

  Elias kept to himself an encounter with two of Ranulf’s mercenaries who were carrying hangings and other items from a house. They stopped when they saw him, noted the blood on his sword, and set the things down and bowed. Leif’s quick grin assured Elias he would not put him to the test. Not this time. Thomas stood and stared at him. Elias leveled a glare at both and gestured with his drawn and bloody sword. Leif gave him a quick, sardonic bow, and he and Thomas left the goods where they lay and ran off.

  Any hope Elias had of getting clean was dashed quickly. While Raymond and Blois parlayed with the commander of the emperor’s own troops for the garrisoning of what was again a Byzantine fortress, he and other knights found places in the courtyard, and some in houses, to bed down. No one seemed to have thought of how they would feed the pilgrims, and the more resourceful either co-opted cook shops and kitchens or simply moved in with residents and demanded to be fed. By the time Elias and the others who had policed the looting realized the latter was happening, they were too tired and demoralized to lift a finger. He and Albrecht bedded down in the porch of the mosque he had protected, pieced together a brazier, and cooked pigeons Albrecht had caught, plucked, and cleaned.

  “Leif told me what you did.” Ranulf stood at his shoulder as he picked the meat out of his teeth with a snapped pigeon bone.

  “You mean got in the way of their rampage?” Elias snapped ill-naturedly.

  Ranulf shook his head. “No, spared their lives. I thank you. If they know what is good for them, they will do so as well.” He looked about at the ruined square. “I don’t know what got into Thomas. He’s not like that. Leif is a Viking at heart and is almost impossible to control.”

  Elias put his elbows on his bent knees. “I would invite you to have some food, but we ate it all.”

  “No matter,” Ranulf said. “I got some grub earlier. And honestly,” he added, holding up his hands, palms toward Elias, to ward off any impression to the contrary. “May I at least sit down for a while?”

  Elias slid over to make room for him. Albrecht sat on a lower step and watched them both. Elias reached for a waterskin and offered it to Ranulf. “Only water. Sorry.” He shrugged.


  Sitting, Ranulf replied, “Better than the dust that’s in my mouth and throat now.” He took a swig, then glanced around at the mosque. “This looks like it was a church once. Any idea who it was dedicated to?”

  Albrecht replied, “No. The place where it might have been carved was smashed with what must have been a hammer.”

  Elias asked, “What day is it? We could dedicate the church to whatever saint’s day this is. Is it St. John’s Day, midsummer?”

  The mercenary thought for a few moments, his chin in his palm. “I think it is the twenty-third of June. That would make it St. Etheldreda’s Day. The Franks say St. Audrey.”

  “How the hell did you know that?” Elias asked, his eyes wide. “Were you a priest at some point?”

  Ranulf grinned back at him and winked. “Something like that. Let me think. What was he patron saint of?” He scratched his chin. “Oh, that’s right. Appropriate enough. The throat.” He lifted the waterskin and held it aloft. “Blessed be thee, St. Etheldreda, for quenching my thirst, both bodily and spiritually.”

  “Amen!” chorused Elias and Albrecht.

  After some companionable silence, Ranulf spoke. “Have you heard anything about what comes next?” His question was directed at Elias, who sat with his forehead pressed onto bent knees.

  Elias looked up and yawned. “I should go find Conrad and see what he says. I suppose we will continue north. Hope the next fortress falls as easily as this did.”

  Ranulf indicated his blood-soaked tabard. “That from the battle or the looters?”