by Tony Roberts
Bartholomew raged. Casca wondered about his state of mind. Perhaps being in constant contact with the Spear had altered his mind? He decided to quell any distaste he felt and went to see the mad cleric. Bartholomew was surrounded by the normal collection of pilgrims and believers. He looked like one of those crazy hermits from earlier times. He stood at the back of the congregation, and kept staring at the priest until he was noticed. Bartholomew waved him forward, like some oriental potentate granting an audience.
Casca stepped through the seated horde and stood over the simply dressed man. He had wild, straggly uncut hair, more so than before, and his eyes were pools of fire. Yes, he had gone mad. “No news, then, priest?”
Bartholomew smiled. Those next to him were clearly Brotherhood men. Casca could tell. The priest stood up, Spear in hand. “I do not need guidance from anyone else. I have the True Spear with me. I am the Elder!”
Casca rolled his eyes. “And Hasan?”
“To the flames of eternity with that heretic! He is a false leader with a false Spear!”
Casca wondered whether those seated behind him had any idea of what he was talking about. “So what are you going to do to prove it is the proper one? You don’t have much of a following.”
“Ah, you mock me, Longinus,” the priest hissed in a low voice. “Just like the northern Franks. They doubt my words and the veracity of this! I shall prove it. I shall walk through the fires of purification unharmed to show you all that this is the True Lance that pierced the side of Jesus!”
The word spread. People gathered to watch the ordeal. The leaders did nothing to stop it. Why should they? If Bartholomew was proved right then it would give everyone a huge boost in morale. If he was wrong, it would silence the irritating man.
Casca stood at the end of the row of fires. This he had to see, even if the thought of burning made his skin itch. Memories…… There were two rows of logs, soaked in oil, leaving a narrow path through which Bartholomew would walk with the Spear. Bishops blessed the logs, then they were set alight.
Casca stepped back a few paces. The thought of going too near blazing logs made his skin crawl. The nightmare of being burned alive was one of those memories that stayed with him, like all severely traumatic incidents of any life.
Bartholomew grasped the Lance, cried out that the blessed Lamb would protect him, and plunged through the flames. He staggered out on the other side, towards Casca and those waiting alongside, alight and screaming. Casca closed his eyes as the crowd rushed forward to beat the flames out. He knew full well what was going to happen. The priest was pulled to the ground and the burning tunic he wore torn from his body. There was no hope for him.
His blackened body lay twitching on the ground, and Casca only caught brief glimpses of him through the people. He was still alive, but burned beyond belief. The Lance lay a few feet away and one of Bartholomew’s assistants reached for it.
Casca’s boot crunched down on the man’s wrist and he hissed in pain. He looked up. Casca shook his head. “This is no longer to be in your hands. Let it be.”
The Brotherhood man reached for his dagger so Casca slammed down his fist into the man’s neck, stunning him. He carefully picked up the warm Lance and carried it away, leaving the injured priest to be tended by the crowd. He presented the spear to Raymond. “I think it best you keep this, my lord. It failed to protect the priest but perhaps it was never meant to.”
Raymond thanked Casca. “I shall keep it in my chapel. It is holy, no matter what the others say.”
They resumed the march south, with Godfrey and Robert joining the army. Only Bohemond’s men remained in the north. Bartholomew lingered on, wracked with pain, then a week or so after his ordeal, he sent for Casca. Intrigued, Casca made his way through the camp that evening and pushed past those on vigil. Although in many eyes he’d been discredited, there were still many who believed him to be a holy man and hoped that somehow there would be a cure.
Bartholomew was a hideous sight. His skin was blackened and his body misshapen. Casca gritted his teeth. He knew all too well what he was feeling. The smell of burnt flesh filled the tent. Two attendants stepped back, allowing Casca to kneel by the side of the man’s bed.
“He is here, Holiness,” one said reverently.
Holiness? Shit. Casca shook his head slowly, astounded at what some people were prepared to bestow on charlatans and hoodwinkers. He guessed it had always been so and would always be.
Bartholomew’s eyes flickered open. He was wracked with pain. Casca could see it in his dull eyes. “I wish to be alone with this one,” he whispered, his burnt face hardly allowing any movement of his mouth. His hair had almost gone, leaving an angry looking welt over his skull. Casca fought the urge to throw up.
The attendants withdrew, reluctantly.
“Longinus,” Bartholomew slurred. Casca had to lean forward to catch his words. “Bring the Spear to me, and the relic of Syagrius. I must be cured.”
“Neither will work, and even if they did, I wouldn’t bring them. You’re Brotherhood. You can rot in hell, or whatever is reserved for evil bastards like you.”
“So the relic is fake,” Bartholomew hissed.
“It’s real,” Casca countered, “the only fake around here is you. It’s Syagrius’ finger, at least as far as I can tell. The only thing is that it cannot cure, as you and I well know. It’s a finger, for heaven’s sake. What else?”
“And the Spear – is that a fake too?”
“No. It’s the one I buried in Antioch five hundred years ago, and is the one I took from Ctesiphon. That’s the real one. You maniacs have been worshipping a switch for all this time. Assholes.”
“Then why did it not protect me?”
“Maybe because you’re a fake and a mad bastard? Or maybe because all it is, is a damned spear head that I was using on that fucking day.”
Bartholomew gingerly licked his cracked lips. “But-but it touched Jesus. It must have power!”
“Maybe it only works on certain people, or maybe it’s been so long that all traces of the blood have long gone. I don’t know and I don’t care. It’s brought no end of trouble, and I’d smash it to bits but for the fact it causing you perverts all sorts of grief, wondering which one is real. It makes a nice change seeing chaos inflicted on the Brotherhood rather than you lot inflicting it on everyone else. Face the facts, priest, you’re going to die soon, and nothing is going to prevent it. I hope you spend eternity in torment. Good bye.”
As Casca got to his feet, Bartholomew gripped Casca’s thigh. It was a tough, painful grip and Casca went to pull the hand away but all he saw was a charred claw. Bartholomew must be in agony. “I’ve told some of Godfrey’s priests of the relic. They’ll come to destroy it.” He hissed and let go of Casca.
Casca brushed his thigh in distaste. “I’ll be ready for them. They’ll have to go through Raymond and his men first.”
Bartholomew said nothing. He merely glared at Casca with loathing. The eternal mercenary said nothing, and turned his back on the dying priest and angrily stamped out of the tent, pushing past the attendants and devotees. He would have to make sure the relic was on his person at all times now.
Bartholomew died a few days later, leaving the Brotherhood without a leader in Syria. Casca wondered what would happen now. They were clearly wracked with doubt as to which was the real spear, and perhaps Hasan al-Sabah was having difficulty in keeping the Brotherhood together. Good. Maybe the whole damned lot would end up killing each other off.
They continued south, receiving gifts and assistance from the Emirs of many towns and cities, all afraid of the army slowly pushing through their territories. The Egyptians had declared that the Dog River, just north of Beirut, was their border, and asked that the Crusaders not cross it. If they did, then a state of war would exist. They offered in return for the Crusaders’ agreement, free access to Jerusalem for all pilgrims, just as it had been before the Turkish takeover.
Naturally, this offer wa
s thrown out immediately. The Europeans hadn’t come this far for nothing. They were going to Jerusalem and that was that. They passed all the great cities of the coast and were unmolested, save for one small sortie that they easily beat off, and then turned inland as summer arrived and began to climb the hills towards Jerusalem. Casca knew this road very well indeed, and he felt almost as if he were watching himself from a distance, returning to the city where everything had turned sour for him.
They came to a town called Ramleh. It was deserted. Everyone had fled because, unlike the other places, the Muslims were the majority. The army gratefully occupied the place and rested, ready for the march to Jerusalem.
Casca and Mehmet took up residence in a small house near the outskirts, and made the place tidy. It had been abandoned hastily and much had been deliberately smashed to prevent these things being used by the Crusaders.
Casca sat alone on the roof, using the only stool that was still in one piece, looking over the rooftops of Ramleh. He sipped a beaker of wine he’d managed to procure, allowing the warm evening air wash over him. He enjoyed the solitude of such moments, letting the calmness seep into his mind. Sometimes the never ending fighting got too much and he needed these moments to heal his psyche. It did get to him at times, the conflict and battles. It wasn’t just the physical weariness, it was the mind, too.
He listened to the faint sounds of people moving around below in the streets. Some were leading horses or other animals, and the snorting floated up to him there on the roof. Every now and then a voice came out of the night, and he guessed that was when a couple of comrades walked past, discussing the campaign or the merits of the women in the camp or some other such subject. Casca grinned weakly to himself. When he was up to it, he’d be as eager as the next man to join in, but not at that moment. He felt out of sorts. Was it perhaps the fact he was going to Jerusalem? Or maybe he was waiting for the Brotherhood to do something. There again it might be the relic he had in his pouch. That preyed on his mind. He was taking it on, ironic really, since he’d not been part of the original couple who had brought it from Francia in the first place. It had sort of fallen into his hands by accident.
The sound of a door being broken into shattered his reverie and brought him upright on the stool. That had sounded very close. Maybe even right below him. He got up and put his beaker down, slowly making his way to the roof’s edge, a raised parapet six inches in height. He gripped the hilt of his sword and looked down. There were two people right below him, backs to the house, watching the street, making sure nobody came along. The doorway in between them was broken in, and was the door to this very house.
He turned and made his way rapidly to the trapdoor that led back into the house. Mehmet was down there and would be facing whoever had forced their way in. It wouldn’t be a small group either, if they could afford to leave two of their number guarding the street. As Casca slid down the ladder into the house, he heard sounds of fighting below.
He quickly ran to the top of the staircase and saw Mehmet retreating, battling with a knot of determined Crusaders. They were wearing the livery of Godfrey of Bouillon. Casca took two strides down and saw Mehmet run through by one of the three men battling him.
Screaming in fury, he bounded down the last three steps and hacked down at the head of the nearest man, who was pulling his sword from Mehmet’s fallen body. The blade ripped through the warrior’s neck and exited in a shower of blood. The Crusader spun around and fell into one of the others in a tangle of arms and legs.
The other Crusader stepped over Mehmet and swung at Casca. The eternal mercenary met the downward blow above his head and kicked hard into the guts of his opponent. The soldier doubled up and Casca slashed down at him twice, cutting into his shoulder and upper back as the man twisted as he fell.
The last man flung the first Casca had hit out of the way and now came at the scarred warrior, a steely determination in his eyes. Casca stepped over Mehmet and stayed there, guarding his fallen friend. The sword blades met and the house echoed to the metallic ringing. Casca was in no mood to play soft. He bludgeoned the man back with three rapid blows, high, low, high. Stunned, the Crusader staggered back, trying to block each blow, but he was out-matched.
Another hard slash caught the Crusader on the left upper arm and he shrieked in pain. The arm nearly fell off, cut to the bone. The man grimaced and slumped sideways, forgetting the battle, and ended up sitting against the wall, trying to stem the blood flow. Casca kicked his sword away and stepped past him.
There were no others immediately in sight, so Casca turned and Checked Mehmet. The Turk was dead. Casca’s jaw set hard. He stood up and strode into the dining area. A priest was rummaging through the room, and he turned in surprise as Casca appeared in the doorway.
“You will hand over the finger to me now!”
“Will I hell,” Casca replied, striding forward, sword raised.
“I’m a man of God!” the priest said, alarmed, grabbing his crucifix that was hanging from a chain around his neck.
“Then meet him, you bastard!” Casca snarled and slashed down, severing the priest’s head. The headless corpse fell in a heap to the floor, and Casca turned and made for the doorway, a gaping hole with the remains of the door on the floor. He sprang outside and swung with all his might at waist height to the left. The man on guard on that side was taken by surprise and took the blow through his midriff.
Leaving him to die doubled up, Casca swung round and slashed at the last man. This one at least had time to defend himself, but he was hammered back against the wall and lost his balance. As he tried to find his footing, Casca struck up under his guard and nearly took his arm off. He swung the sword one last time and with his downwards strike, tore a gaping wound into the man’s chest. The Crusader dropped his sword and fell backwards, arms upraised as if to pray for mercy. There was none.
Casca breathed in hard and looked round. Two men dead in the street. He lurched back into the house and pulled Mehmet away from the dead or dying Crusaders. He laid the man out neatly on the floor and looked sadly down at him. A man who hadn’t a home, and had no idea what to do with his life after falling captive. Casca shook his head, then looked over his shoulder at the corpse of the priest. If he was discovered to have killed a priest, then he’d be for it.
Only one thing to do. He dragged the two dead men into the house from outside, then grabbed what few possessions he had. Finally he took a torch and applied it to the furnishings and stepped to the doorway, watching as the flames took hold. He threw the torch into the house and walked away. Once the flames did their job nothing would be identifiable and as far as anyone was concerned, all would have gone up in the fire.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Casca had been to Jerusalem a few times before. When he’d been part of the Tenth Legion back in the good old days of mortality, that’s where he’d ended up serving. He’d thought, like all his colleagues, that Judaea was the armpit of the Empire and only badass legions like the Tenth would be able to handle the volatile situation there. Executing trouble makers had been a natural part of that and when he’d been detailed to take part in crucifying the self-proclaimed prophet Jesus, he’d thought nothing of it.
Nothing had been the same after that, and terms served in the slave mines of Greece and in the gladiatorial arena in Rome had filled his time right after that incident. Years on the slave galleys of Rome had further distanced himself from his former life and by the time he’d washed up ashore, the only survivor of the galley, all traces of his former life had gone, save for the memories in his head.
He’d not been far from Jerusalem, even serving in the legions once more in Mesopotamia, but he’d been too afraid to go back for a long time. It wasn’t until fate and the Brotherhood had intervened that he had to go there, some five hundred years later, and it had felt odd, but not as dreadful as he’d expected.
He’d returned a short while later with the Arabs as they flooded out of Arabia. There had been
changes in that time, and now he was going back for the fourth time in his life. He knew the area reasonably well and it remained more or less unchanged. The city may be a different matter. Would it have grown? Shrunk? What would four and a half centuries of Islamic rule have done to it? Would it be markedly different?
He followed in the wake of the army as it made its way to the top of the pass, making sure nobody saw him. He often left the road and loped through the countryside, picking up morsels of food here and there. Water would be vital and he made sure he refilled his skin from a spring he knew of. He approached the top of the last rise before the city and took a deep breath, then slid over onto his belly and looked down on the scene.
Jerusalem had changed. The walls were different, and were in places inside their old route. One of the old quarters now lay in ruins outside the new walls and it looked like it had been destroyed by an earthquake. There were signs of that. The huge cracks in walls, and the very foundations of houses and buildings told him of that. Rebuilding the walls in a much better location was a sensible course of action.
There was the usual single wall around the north, east and western sides but in the south there were two walls; an outer one encompassing a sprawling district and the inner wall much further in close to the Dome of the Rock.
The Crusaders were encamped around the city, mostly to the north and west. They weren’t bothering too much with the Mount of Olives to the east, nor to the south where the double walls seemed to present too much of a problem.
Casca studied the city and the besiegers. He thought the defenses looked strong and capable of resisting for a long period, and that would present Raymond and the others with a problem. It wasn’t beyond the realms of possibility that the Egyptians would send up an army to relieve the siege, and the Crusaders wouldn’t be able to fight both. Their numbers had dropped, too. To Casca it seemed there were no more than perhaps fourteen thousand of them left. The long journey from Constantinople had whittled their numbers down to around a third of those who had crossed the Bosphorus.
