by Tony Roberts
Raymond’s army was below him, to the west of the city. He didn’t want to go down there. He’d be recognized and his plan to remain anonymous would be ruined. Better to join one of the other armies and be just one of many. He was fortunate that he could speak Frankish pretty well. He could slot into any of Robert’s, Tancred’s or Godfrey’s group. However, he’d need to lose his imperial apparel. That made him stand out like a sore thumb. He’d have to find accoutrements that made him look like those he intended mixing with, and it’d have to roughly fit.
His shield would have to go; it was clearly non-western European. The sword was fine. Since they’d been in this part of the world, many of the soldiers and even knights had started using weapons utilized by the locals. Maces were seen in increasing numbers, and more than a few carried the curved swords favored by the Muslims. A few were even wearing the face cloths and turbans, mostly to keep the sun and sand out of their faces. Practicalities rather than aesthetics.
Casca made his mind up. It would be Godfrey’s army he sneaked into. The irony of it made him smile to himself. Carrying the relic his men had sought to destroy right into their midst. Up their asses.
He crawled back and made a circular route away from the hill, down to the bottom and then north and then north-east. He judged by nightfall he was close to their rear lines. A single man may be able to sneak in, but he needed to lose his imperial regalia. His shield was gone and now he discarded his cloak. The night was cooling down rapidly and he shivered. He’d steal something and see if it fitted. His tunic would go, too, but only when he found something suitable.
The pickets at the rear of the camp were not keeping fully alert and he ran at a crouch into the baggage area, slipping under the wheels of the wagons. He had to go carefully as some of the camp attendants were going to sleep under these for shelter and warmth. There didn’t seem to be much around at first, and he moved from wagon to wagon, looking at the supplies and equipment piled by the sides. There were barrels, boxes, chests, saddles, weapons racks and all kinds of accoutrements one found with any army.
A few camp fires helped to light the way and he finally decided to slip into a tent. He’d noticed a few soldiers of roughly his build settling down for the night across from the wagons, and he waited in the shadows underneath the closest one until all went quiet. He then slid out and crept over to the tent and peered in. Three occupants, all asleep.
He glanced to the right. The nearest man had thrown his belongings in an untidy pile and it was easy for Casca to pick up a helmet and shield. Putting the conical helm with its nasal guard on, he then moved deeper into the tent, sliding the shield onto his back. He needed a tunic or gambeson without an insignia.
He found one, and carried it out back to the wagons, sliding in underneath them. It was an easy job to take his old one off and put the new one on. It was slightly tight, but an adjustment with the hooks would take care of that. He’d been around long enough to be able to repair and make do with army clothing.
Throwing the useless imperial tunic into the back of a wagon, he made his way through the camp, no longer trying to be furtive. Walking openly made it look as if he were part of the camp. He went as far as he could from the tent he’d stolen from, and sat down by a camp fire, warming his hands.
After a few moments a man carrying a bow came by and stopped. He looked at the resting Casca in curiosity. “I haven’t seen you before,” he said. “Who are you serving with?”
“Nobody,” Casca said. “I’ve arrived today from the coast. Came by ship from Italy. The others stopped some days ago waiting for supplies. I’ve come on alone. You need help?”
The bowman shrugged. “If you can fight then I suppose we could do with you.”
Casca waved for the man to sit opposite him. “So what’s happening?”
“We attacked today but the walls are too strong. They’re going to try again in a few days as far as I can tell. Where in Italy are you from?”
“A village in the hills of Tuscany. Do you know Tuscany?”
The bowman shook his head. “I’m from Flanders. I’ve never been to Tuscany, although we marched through Italy on our way here.”
They talked further, and Casca managed to get a sleeping place in one of the tents close by. There had been a few deaths that day and Casca was welcomed as a needy replacement. Over the next few days the army got ready for another assault. Weapons were sharpened, squad leaders drilled the men in climbing ladders, priests urged the men to embrace greater Christian zeal and purge the city of pagan and infidel influences. Casca didn’t like the sound of that. It seemed they were spoiling for a massacre. He’d seen it too many times before already.
Wood arrived from the coast. Ships had, much to Casca’s surprise, arrived in a port named Jaffa and the sailors were using parts of their ships to build siege towers and other machines. Casca looked at the walls. They were pretty high and looked fairly well defended. It’d take something extra special to batter through that.
A few days later there came a call for all the soldiers to march around the walls in a procession. Casca thought this dumb but went along for appearances’ sake. The leaders went barefoot. They made their way to the Mount of Olives where a special mass was said. Casca stood – or knelt – at the back but saw, to his surprise, that one of those who gave a sermon was none other than Peter the Hermit. He was surprised the old man was still there; he’d fully expected him to have deserted by now, which went to show just how badly mistaken he could be at times.
The attack was planned. The towers were wheeled into position. The men shivered in the early dawn or with anticipation. Raymond’s men had moved south to attack through the double walls, allowing Godfrey and Tancred’s armies to attack from the north while Robert of Normandy’s men went for the north-east corner. It would be a three-pronged assault.
Casca took up his place in the center of the mass of men. They were praying under their breath, all desperately hoping to take the city. They all believed they would be blessed and purified if they succeeded. Casca put more faith in his sword and his ability. That would see him through rather than praying to the latest in a long line of gods that had been worshipped in his time.
The light of the new day grew and the trumpets blared. The attack had begun! Casca moved forward, following the multitude of backs before him. Stones were hurled at the walls, and many came back at them. Men screamed as the projectiles hit, and arrows began to fall. Ahead was one of the siege towers, propelled by the efforts of dozens of men, and it inexorably closed in on the northern wall.
Arrows struck the ground and the shields of the soldiers advancing. Men fell, transfixed by the missiles. Many crawled back to safety, but some lay there, never to move again. Casca gritted his teeth and plodded on. Now the tower was at the wall and men began to scale the ladders inside it. The front and sides were of animal skins, soaked in water, to protect from the effect of fire arrows. Casca pushed eagerly at those ahead of him, wishing to be inside the tower out of the way of the arrows and stones hurtling down on the men milling at the foot of the walls.
Crusader crossbowmen shot at the archers on the walls, keeping them ducking for cover. A few fell backwards and one toppled over the battlements to plunge to a bloody heap at the base of the wall. Casca stepped onto the floor of the tower and gripped the lowermost ladder. He started to climb, slowly following the man above him.
The sides of the tower shook from the blows of rocks but held. Shouts filled the air, and the interior of the tower smelt of cured animal hides and human sweat. He reached the first platform and stood for a few moments with the others who had got there, then began the ascent to the next level.
There were three ladders and halfway up the last the daylight began to grow. He grabbed his sword and continued climbing one-handed. Then he was on the last platform, a square floor of around eight feet from side to side. A roof covered it and the front was open. The trapdoor at the front had been lowered to enable the attackers to cross onto
the battlements. He tapped the pouch that had the relic in it for luck.
Bodies lay everywhere. Crusaders on the platform, and both Crusaders and Egyptians on the battlements and walkway. Casca slipped off his shield and slid it onto his left arm. This was it! He stepped over the dead and dying and jumped down off the bridge onto the stone walkway. To either side people were fighting. The walkway was five feet in width with turns every ten yards or so. Doorways and staircases allowed plenty of defenders to reinforce any threatened area, and here more Egyptians were coming to try to stop the threat.
Casca saw two men waving curved swords appearing from a dark doorway to the left. It was probably the exit of a guardhouse. He slashed at the first. The blow was blocked but the man was pushed off-balance. The second dodged around his comrade and tried to cut at Casca’s head. The blow bounced off his new shield. Casca’s riposte ended up with the first two feet of steel sinking into the man’s stomach.
Leaving him to fall to the stone walkway, Casca went at the second man. Slash, push, slash, push. The Egyptian tried to block each blow but was outclassed. He was pushed up against the wall of the guardhouse and stabbed through the heart. As he sank to the ground, Casca slipped into the relative darkness of the guardhouse. A staircase ran down ahead of him. He took this route and found he was on the first floor of the building. The floor was of rough wooden planks. Beds lined the walls to either side. The sounds of fighting floated down to him and footsteps from behind alerted him. He spun. Two Crusaders, following him down.
“Come on,” he waved to them to follow him out of the room.
They passed into a corridor. The walls were of thin wood and dried mud. One end was an opening that led to another stairwell, while the other seemed to go deeper into the building. Casca took them to the stairwell and they went down to the ground floor. People could be seen outside running, screaming in fright.
Casca led the two others out into the daylight. They were close to the Gate of the Column. He ran towards it. It wasn’t long before they were seen. Shouts went up. A squad of Egyptians on guard by the gate turned and came at them. All three Crusaders met them in a flurry of steel. Casca blocked the initial attack of the one taking him on, and struck back hard. The sword thrust bit through chain mail and flesh. Crying out in agony the warrior fell back, holding his wounded side, and fell to the ground.
Two more came at him. He fought them off with one wild swing. Now he used his shield. One was knocked back while the other tried to skewer him but the blow was knocked aside, and then Casca was inside his guard. One swift stab and the Egyptian folded over in pain.
The second hammered down at his shield. Casca stepped sideways and the next blow missed. Off-balance, the defender staggered two steps past Casca and got a down slash across his back. The man jerked upright, then fell to the ground.
One of the two Crusaders fell, cut down, but the other dispatched his opponent and now took on the one who had felled his comrade. Leaving the two to fight it out, Casca ran for the now unguarded gate. He flipped up the bar and hauled on the huge iron ring. An arrow thudded into the door close to his head but he carried on pulling. With a groan the gate began to open, and suddenly the Crusaders were flooding in with roars of triumph, knocking Casca aside.
Cursing, he dusted himself down and got back to his feet. Only the dead now remained on the ground. Casca stepped back as the men poured through the gate.
There was now no stopping the city from falling.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
The screams of the terrified populace filled the air. Casca could almost taste and smell the fear. The Crusaders were going mad, killing everyone they came across, men, women, children even. Muslims or Jews. They made no difference. Casca stood in the blood-soaked street and screamed in agony. This is not what the Crusade was supposed to have been about.
The crying came from the windows and doorways of the houses. Armed warriors were smashing their way into the homes of the citizens and slaughtering all they found. People were streaming towards the places of worship, hoping these would provide a refuge.
Casca stumbled along the street, stepping over the butchered corpses of people. Tears blinded him, but he instinctively knew which way to go. Stumbling to a corner, he leaned against the stonework and wiped his eyes. He looked up the narrow, twisting street, punctuated with steps. He must go up there.
As he painfully made his way up, a woman came screaming out of a house, pursued closely by a wild-eyed knight, dressed in chain armor and a padded gambeson. He was one of Godfrey’s men. The woman fell and the knight raised his sword to impale her. Casca raged. The killing of helpless women and children was not what war was about. Something snapped inside him. He drove his sword up through the man’s throat, the blade exploding out of his neck, showering the wall with blood.
The knight sank to his knees and Casca jerked the sword free and looked in contempt at the man. “Murderer. Die.”
The Frank tried to say something, his mouth filled with blood, but no sound could force its way through the thick, cloying lifeblood filling his lungs. Choking, he fell onto his face at the feet of the sobbing woman. Casca looked at the terrified woman. She was Arabic, judging by her appearance. He spoke to her in that language. “Are you hurt?”
The woman shook her head, too afraid to speak.
Casca sighed. Yet again circumstances had put him in a position he felt morally bound to follow. He offered her his hand. “Please, take my hand. Others will be here soon and they shall be as he was,” he nodded at the dead man. “You will not survive their attentions. Remain with me and I shall protect you.”
The woman sobbed and allowed herself to be pulled up onto her feet. She had a simple one-piece outfit that reached the ground. On her feet she wore leather sandals. She had olive skin and dark eyes. She looked about thirty.
“Do you have family?” he asked, glancing up and down the street. Shouting was coming from further down around the corner. It sounded as if a squad of Crusaders were coming their way.
“No,” she said with a shuddering breath. “The Turks killed them a few years back. My husband died at the walls two weeks ago.”
“Then you must come with me now. They are nearly here.”
“Where are we going? You may merely kill me yourself when it suits you.”
Casca began walking up the steps. The woman hesitated, then, hearing the voices of the Crusaders nearing, set off after him, hitching up her robe. He began to hurry, guiding her upwards. At the top of the hill stood a church. The door was open. He turned to her. “My name is Casca. I’m a mercenary but not a Crusader. This campaign had ended for me. I wish to leave Jerusalem. Before I do, though, I must place something I have on me on an altar of the church that stood at the site of the Crucifixion. Is this it?”
The woman shrugged. “Perhaps. This is the place of worship the Christians say, as you call it, the site of the Crucifixion. I do not know. My name is Rachel.”
“Jewish?” he asked, stopping in surprise.
“My family used to be, but converted to Islam a few years ago. I still worship in the Jewish tradition. It was a cause of conflict within the family. Why are the Crusaders killing Jews?”
“Madness. Ignorance. It does not matter. The thing is to get away from here. They will impose their will upon the city, and nobody will be able to argue.” He led her into the coolness of the interior, lit by the occasional candle and oil lamp. The floor was of bare stone, and pillars held up the high roof. A few small windows stood high up, allowing the sunlight to filter in.
At the far end was a stone altar, covered in white cloth. Casca reached into his pouch and brought forth the relic of Syagrius. He didn’t know whether putting it on the altar would make a difference, or whether some Crusader would come across it and smash it to pieces. So much was destroyed all in the name of someone’s belief.
He put it in a niche above the altar and slid the letter he had written as to its identity in with it. It was in Latin, so a pries
t would be able to read it. He hoped it was someone like Adhemar had been who found it.
“Congratulations, Longinus,” a voice came from behind him.
Casca whirled. Four men stood at the back of the church, all armed. One was holding the frightened Rachel. “Let her go,” Casca pointed at the man with his sword to her throat.
“As you wish,” he said, and slid the length of steel into her. Rachel shuddered and slipped out of his hands to fall lifelessly onto the ground. The man chuckled. “Sometimes it is too easy to take a life. No matter, she is but one sacrifice to the chaos that will bring Jesus back.”
Casca stepped towards the four. Clearly they were Swords of God, the Brotherhood elite military arm. Casca hadn’t seen any before, or so he thought. They had been waiting for this moment, obviously. “So now what? You’re going to take me captive and drag me back to Castle Alamut?”
The leader shook his head. “No, Longinus. Thanks to you the Brotherhood is undergoing something of a civil war. Those who support Elder Hasan al-Sabah and their Spear are fighting those who support the Spear found under the floor of the cathedral in Antioch. Both groups insist they have the one true Lance. You have caused a great deal of trouble, and we are here to punish you for it. We are merely here to cut you up into pieces.”
“What – and then walk away? I don’t buy that.”
“Perhaps we are just going to do it for fun and a sense of revenge? The Crusade has achieved its purpose. We are no longer required to hide within its ranks. We must attend Brotherhood matters, but before we do we shall punish you, as says the Book of the Beast.” The man stepped forward, clad in chainmail, flexing his arms. He carried a longsword and shield. The three others had a variety of armor and weapons. They were all attired well. They looked as if they had been with Robert of Normandy’s force.
