by Tony Roberts
“You’re really the foul and ugly Beast we’ve been told all along, Longinus, aren’t you?”
“You’d better believe it. Now come with me to Raymond and play the part of a mad cleric; it should be easy for you.”
Bartholomew’s reply was brief and crude. He did, however, accompany Casca to the camp of Raymond, located on the slopes below the citadel. Raymond had taken it upon himself to bottle up the garrison above them all, just in case they sallied and made life difficult. Casca’s insistence that they saw both Adhemar and Raymond got them to the Count’s quarters fast, and the Count was intrigued enough to have both standing before him in a very short time. Adhemar entered, his curiosity piqued.
“So what is this extremely important matter you wish to tell me, priest?” Raymond asked, slumped wearily in his cushioned chair.
Casca coughed and leaned forward, whispering in Bartholomew’s ear. The priest stared at Casca for a moment, then snorted. Whether it was in amusement or frustration, Casca wasn’t sure.
Bartholomew bowed. “My lord, I have had visions these past few days. They are getting more frequent and lucid.”
“Indeed?” Raymond permitted himself a wry smile. “And what form do these – visions – take?”
Bartholomew looked at Adhemar. “Your eminence. Please know I do not blaspheme. I have long wrestled in my mind whether to speak of them with you, but the Baron here insisted I do.”
“What visions, my son?” Adhemar asked, interlacing his fingers.
“That St. Andrew himself came down from heaven and showed me the location of the – the – Holy Lance that pierced the side of Christ on the Cross!”
Casca began sweating. The Brotherhood man had actually said it. He’d wondered whether he would. It must be like pulling teeth. Bartholomew must be hooked well and good to go this far. He really must have wanted to see this spear and whether he thought it to be real or not.
Raymond looked doubtful. He looked at Adhemar. “The True Lance? Bishop, what do you know of its veracity?”
“The scriptures and writings of the Apostles only say so much. The Roman centurion who did the deed was supposedly converted to Christianity. What happened to the Spear is unknown, but we are told that it was taken from Jerusalem by the Persians nearly five hundred years ago, and recovered by the Emperor Heraclius.”
Casca bowed his head. He didn’t want any expression on his face to make the Count and Bishop suspect anything. Centurion? Promotion. He’d been a mere grunt.
“So it should be in Jerusalem?” Raymond pushed the bishop.
“Perhaps – but nobody had said it is, since a few years after it was supposed to have been taken back. It may be in Constantinople.”
“Or here, Bishop?”
Adhemar looked doubtful. “It would be a surprise, Count Raymond. Whereabouts in Antioch, my son?”
Bartholomew looked at Casca before replying. “Your eminence, it lies under the floor of the Cathedral of St. Peter.”
“Oh it does, does it?” Raymond said in surprise. “A rather public place to hide something as valuable as the Holy Lance.” He looked as doubtful as his voice sounded.
“Ah, Count Raymond,” Adhemar intervened apologetically, “but the Muslims have defiled the cathedral. I’m afraid we discovered they were using it as a stables.”
“They were what?” Raymond sat upright in indignation. “Sweet Mother of God! Those barbarians! Why did you not mention this to me before, your grace?”
Adhemar spread his hands in apology. “I have set some followers of Jesus to clean the place up. Once it is suitable for worship, I was intending to hold a service there in thanksgiving for delivering Antioch back to the One True Faith.”
“Hmmm, very good. Now, whereabouts in the cathedral is this relic buried?”
Bartholomew looked at Casca once, then smiled. “St. Andrew showed me in a dream. I shall know once I enter the cathedral.”
Raymond exhaled loudly. He was exerting a great deal of patience. “I trust you are not taking me for a fool, priest.” He looked at Adhemar. “With your permission, your grace, I think this worth investigating. We need some good news.”
“Count Raymond, I have great reservations that the Holy Lance is actually here in Antioch.” Adhemar gave Bartholomew a long, searching examination. Nothing he saw in the thin, wild-haired man reassured him. “If you are taking God’s name in vain He shall surely punish you, Father Bartholomew.”
Bartholomew inclined his head. “He shall judge me accordingly, your eminence.”
They made their way to the cathedral, a looming, monstrous edifice of stone, seated along the western side of the main street. Along with the four came a whole collection of lesser priests, nobles and guards. All were eager to see for themselves whether Peter Bartholomew’s visions were true. Nothing travelled like a juicy rumor.
As they pushed into the dark, gloomy interior, opening the thick, immense wooden doors, Bartholomew leaned close to Casca. “So where did you bury it, Longinus?”
Casca stood in the aisle, stunned at the transformation in the time since he’d last been there. His memory of the church had been of a smaller place; big enough but not this big. It would seem that there had been a lot of rebuilding. He hoped to hell that some workman hadn’t dug up the damned thing some years before. He looked at the altar. It was in the same place. That was a relief. He’d made a careful note in his mind when he’d buried it so that he could recall it.
The entrance, the altar. It was in a line between the two underneath the point where the two apses intersected the main aisle. He stepped over to the point and tapped his foot quietly. Bartholomew stood close, his hands folded before him, head bowed. Casca moved off nonchalantly.
“It is here!” Bartholomew suddenly shouted, flinging himself onto the floor, fingers hooked, grasping the flag stones.
Raymond looked at Adhemar, sighed deeply, then nodded. “Very well. Remove those stones,” he ordered to a couple of his men, big guards with beards who looked as if they could rip up the entire building.
Casca stood a little distance off, recalling the moment he had buried the Spear. It had been night, and the church had been deserted. In those days people were too afraid to stray too far at night. The war with the Persians had caused so many deaths and so much damage and many who had lived in Antioch had been taken away to captivity. The city still hadn’t recovered fully and Casca had sneaked into the church, as it had been then, without being seen. He was carrying two spears, almost identical to each other.
He also had been carrying a shovel, a piece of kit he had been used to. In the Roman army most legionaries had one, and were expected to use it regularly. Digging camps or latrines or merely digging to satisfy a centurion was an everyday occurrence. Picking up one in the city hadn’t been difficult.
The church had been unlit but Casca had brought a torch and hung it from one of the stone pillars close to his chosen spot. The floor had been stone flagged even then, but the stones had been smaller and he’d managed to lever up enough to get going. The shovel had dug into the stony soil easily enough. It had taken an hour or so, but once buried he’d repacked the soil and replaced the stones. They hadn’t been as tight or even as before but he didn’t think anyone would worry unduly.
As the stones were dragged up, revealing the dark, flat soil, Casca stepped forward into the torchlight. The soil was the same color as far as he could recall. He wasn’t sure whether they had dug up the old floor or merely put the current one on top of the old.
The digging went on, with men being rotated by Raymond. Partway through Godfrey and Bohemond with their supporters turned up, annoyed. “What’s this I hear about the Holy Lance being here?” Bohemond demanded. “Why wasn’t I consulted?”
Raymond took the Norman aside. “The priest there came to me. I do not know whether it is genuine. If it is then all will hear of it.”
Godfrey stood at the lip of the widening hole. The soldiers burrowing away were down to their knees no
w. “If it turns out nothing is here this is desecration,” he said sternly.
Heads turned in his direction. Casca wished the man would shut up. Bartholomew, on his hands and knees, scrambled to his feet. “God is directing us, my lord. Do you wish us to ignore His word?”
Godfrey frowned, then looked at the bishop for help. He was never comfortable in dealing with the clergy. Adhemar, stood in the background, took a deep breath. “In time we shall see whether Father Bartholomew is right, and whether St. Andrew indeed has guided him.”
Godfrey grumbled and stepped back. Bohemond, together with Tancred who had returned from his separate expedition, were arguing with Raymond. Adhemar decided to intervene, not wishing to see dissent between the various leaders.
Casca left them to it; they weren’t really interested in the spiritual side of the Crusade, anyway. He exchanged looked with Bartholomew who was beginning to look harassed. He nodded slightly and looked into the pit. The soldiers there were taking a rest. Without a leader to encourage them, they were taking advantage and slacking off.
Bartholomew jumped in and scratched at the soil. It was loose and coming away fairly easily. Suddenly his fingers struck a solid object. He stopped, gasped, and then with his palms slowly peeled the earth aside. A small straight hard edge came into his vision. His heart began beating faster. His fingers dug underneath it and he pulled. Suddenly it came free, an iron object, tapering to a point, about a foot in length. Pieces of rotting wood fell away from the thicker end.
Casca squinted at the filthy object in the priest’s hands. The wood had perished. Pity. Still, the head was there, an iron spear head. It was the same. He breathed out and leaned back.
“I have it!” Bartholomew screamed, thrusting the spear head up in triumph. He saw Casca, and looked into his eyes. He saw recognition and something else in his stare. Familiarity? To Bartholomew it was a defining moment. There was no doubt that Longinus believed this to be the one true Spear.
The rest came gathering round in an instant. They all wanted to see it. A dirt-encrusted piece of iron, much smaller than they had envisioned. It was slightly disappointing. Adhemar frowned. He was extremely doubtful. The soldiers though fell to their knees, hands clasped in prayer. Raymond looked stunned. “It is true!” he gasped. “The Lance!”
With those words most of the remaining people there sank to their knees, thanking God. Bartholomew had that hot, fanatic look in his eyes that disturbed Casca, but what else could he have done? What he’d hoped he’d done was to give the Brotherhood a headache, one that would take up their time rather than pursue him and Giselle. The news of the discovery of the Lance would spread like a plague throughout the region in no time, and the Brotherhood would soon want to see for themselves whether it was a fake or not.
Soon the news was all over Antioch. People came from all parts to see the Holy Lance, which was on view for all to see, despite Bartholomew’s initial objections. Raymond, Bohemond and the other leaders insisted all should see it, cleaned up and presentable. After a quick clean that got the dirt and a few rusty flakes off, it was placed in a tent in the middle of Raymond’s camp, heavily guarded. Bartholomew, as the man who had ‘found’ it, after receiving ‘visions’, was permitted to be the Holder of the Holy Lance. He was, however, not going to partake in the coming battle. He had been given little choice in that matter.
Casca stood back from the furor. He had no wish to become involved in the excitement, preferring to remain in the background. He left the tumult at the camp and returned to his temporary home, where Giselle and Mehmet were awaiting him. They asked what had happened and he brought them up to date. Giselle wished to see it but Mehmet wasn’t that interested.
Later there was a great meeting of all the leaders at the palace, located closer to the Gate of St. George. Casca attended, and although he didn’t make too much of a contribution, he was interested to hear what the trapped and starving Crusader army was to do next. There were few arguments. They had to attack. With the discovery of the Lance the rank and file now beseeched their leaders to use it to guide them to victory.
The Turkish army outside was huge; there was no doubt of that. Casca expected them to win, but he’d seen some odd things in his life and maybe the fanatical belief of the Christian troops might help. There was one other piece of news that Mehmet had given Casca, and the eternal mercenary made his one contribution to the discussion. “My lords. I am reliably informed that the Turks are riven with dissent. They do not wish to see this Kitbugha gain Antioch as it would mean he would become too powerful. They would rather he lose than defeat us.”
“And how do you know this, Baron?” Bohemond challenged him.
“My retainer is a Turk and knows the politics of that people.”
“He could be deliberately spreading false hopes,” Tancred said, standing next to Bohemond.
Casca shrugged. “I doubt that. But what difference does it make anyway? You’re going to attack, no matter if the Turks are united or divided. My piece of information is to be borne in mind, not to be used as a tactical or strategic factor in deciding whether you attack, or attack.” He folded his arms across his chest. His gaze forced Tancred to look away.
“Very well,” Bohemond said, wishing to stop his nephew being made to feel uncomfortable. “We will attack through the Bridge Gate tomorrow. The citadel garrison needs to be watched, so if Count Raymond would be so kind as to block any assistance they may make, the main attack will go through the gate. The good Bishop here,” he nodded to Adhemar, “will swing right to attack the main camp while Reynard,” and he pointed to a dark haired, tough looking Frank, “will command what is left of our cavalry and counter attack any move by the infidels. I shall command the reserve infantry and move out once Hugh de Vermandois and Godfrey have cleared the way in front of the gate.”
The nobles all nodded. Raymond was not present, having fallen ill yet again. He was in his camp directing the troops still surrounding the citadel.
“And you, Baron, what will you do on the morrow?” Bohemond asked.
“Partake. There is nothing to lose. We need every man to take part if we are to have any chance of success. What are you going to do with the Lance?”
“It shall lead the attack. Our historian Raymond of Aguillar shall carry it into battle. Every man of the Crusade will know that God’s instrument is leading the way, and that he should follow no matter what.”
With that the assembled group agreed. Even Adhemar nodded, still showing signs he didn’t entirely believe the Lance was genuine. It was decided. They would charge out through the gate and put everything into one desperate attempt to defeat the enemy. Either they would succeed, or the Crusade would be over. Everyone knew it.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
The dawn came and the streets of Antioch leading to the Bridge Gate were crammed with soldiers, priests and followers. The sound of their voices rose up above the buildings and filtered outside. Nobody, within or without, was in any doubt that the trapped army was about to sally. The Turks in the citadel would have seen them from their vantage position and relayed the news to Kitbugha at once.
Casca checked over his equipment once again. It must have been the twentieth time. Mehmet was alongside, his Norman helm seemingly at odds with the face coif he wore. His eyes were watchful, the only part of his face that was visible. Casca flexed his left hand and gripped his shield once more. All was well. Giselle was by his side, a cloth bag draped over her shoulder. Inside rested the relic of Syagrius. She wasn’t leaving it in the house.
It was almost time. Prayers could be heard being muttered, whispered or spoken aloud all round. The sense of something unstoppable was almost overpowering. The smell of unwashed bodies was concentrated down in the narrow streets, hemmed in by the buildings. Mehmet wondered why the Christians neglected baths so much; did they not know that they soothed the mind and were restful, as well as providing cleanliness?
The gate stood ahead, barred, guarded. Men were on the rampa
rts, peering over the top at the Turks who were forming up in their regiments, ready for whatever was to come out at them.
Bohemond climbed the steps to the rampart that ran alongside the gatehouse and faced the sea of expectant faces. Since he was not in the first wave of attack, he would give the speech. Godfrey was on his horse close to the front, fighting to keep his mount under control. Its ears were pricked, nostrils flared. It, too, sensed that something was about to happen.
Casca snaked an arm round Giselle’s waist and hugged her to him. He smiled down at her. He knew he would be fine, but she was feeling extremely nervous. He kissed her. Then Bohemond raised his arms and addressed the crowd. “People of God, soldiers of Christ,” he boomed. “We stand on the edge of a miracle. Today we shall show these infidels that they cannot stand against the will of God, the true Faith. Today they shall see that against the power of God there is no defense!”
The roar from thousands of throats washed over the ramparts and carried clearly to the waiting enemy. Casca squeezed Giselle once more. “You’d best find a place away from this street. In a moment we’ll all charge out and unless you want to be swept along with us all, you’d better be up out of the way.”
“I’ll watch from up there,” she said and kissed him again, deeply, lovingly. Casca grinned and pushed her away gently.
Mehmet’s eyes crinkled. “A woman to fight for and return to after battle, effendi,” he said softly.
“True, Mehmet. And for you, what is it you will fight for today?”
“Honor, pride. Valor. And if it pleases you, to fight alongside you.”
Casca clapped Mehmet’s shoulder. “Good enough for me, Mehmet. Let us show all, friend and foe, that we are not to be trifled with.”
“May Allah protect you,” Mehmet bowed briefly.
“And Jesus protect you,” Casca replied, looking briefly up at the sky. If the Jew was listening, he hoped that the prophet’s power that had given him immortality would extend to protecting the man by his side. A small thing to ask for, but after all the grief Casca had been given all these years, perhaps it was only a little thing in return. The sky was still half dark, clouds raced across the sky, but gaps were appearing and soon the sun would break through.
