by Mark Butler
"I am leaving," Olivia said. "There are things to do in the city, and I don't want or need to hear this."
"Be careful," Francois said. In many respects, Olivia was safer now that the war had started and the men were busy with preparations, but there were still a pitiably small number of women compared to men. And of those women, Olivia was the most alluring.
The sun was baking Francois' skin. Sweat pooled on his hairline and ran down his sideburns. The desert smelled like burning feces and dirty sand. Francois wondered, not for the first time, why he had not stayed in Troyes.
"It's my turn," Henry said.
He strode up to the platform and bowed to the judges.
"I am Henry of England, senior army surgeon and lifelong healer. I examined Makel after his commander brought him to my medical tent."
"And what did you find, doctor?"
Francois had heard it all before, of course. He was present at the initial exam and saw the tearing and tissue damage while Henry described it. He had listened to Henry coax the information out of the boy with leading questions and uncommon kindness. It had been a masterful performance, and Francois prayed he would be as skilled as Henry one day. Of course, he hoped to never do another rape exam, either.
Henry told the judges exactly what he had found without being crude or evasive. He could have been reciting words from a text, and he kept his voice even, his expression calm. Disturbingly, Francois noticed that Christof was paying special attention to Henry's words, like he was reliving the experience. When Henry finished, a disgusted hush had fallen over the desert tribunal. The three judges conferred among themselves, and they reached a verdict and sentence within a minute.
"You are guilty and sentenced to die by soldier's execution. The time of your death shall be at sundown," the center judge proclaimed. Christof fell face first into the sand and rolled back and forth, trying to stomach the news he just heard.
"He deserves no better," Raul said, turning away.
Soldier's execution was perhaps the most attractive death available to convicted criminals. It was meant to simulate a death in combat, and consisted of a clean strike to the heart or spine, killing instantly. A man could be beheaded, too, if the victim requested it. Makel had been silent throughout the brief trial and everyone understood he wished to be left alone, to heal his body and mind.
The execution site was the same place as where the trial was held. A grave was dug at the spot where Christof had been sentenced, and it would be his eternal resting place. The hot sun was lowering in the sky, and the desert's temperature dropped dramatically, chilling all in attendance. Christof's battle mates and shipmates were present and in formation close to Christof, standing absolutely still. They were partially to blame for Makel's suffering, and they needed to see the wages of vile sin. Lizards skittered from rock to rock on the desert floor, and cacti stood at awkward angles, casting shadows that looked like demons and sorcery. The people who wished to watch Christof's death were on a nearby hill, for better viewing, and they talked and laughed, while children darted to and fro through the crowd. For some, the occasion was a time to socialize and network with their neighbors, and a few stalls were even set up to sell fresh fruits and meat.
The executioner entered to the sounds of drums beating. He was a massive man, almost as big as Artois, and carried a magnificent battle axe. Thick, ropy veins writhed under his skin, stretched tight over beefy muscles and old scars. He approached Christof and stared at him for a long moment, perhaps contemplating his own fate one day. Without delay, the executioner raised his axe high.
Trumpets blared across the desert. The men were up in arms at once, fearing a surprise Ayyubid attack. But the trumpets were not those of sentries, but of royal procession. They could only mean one thing: King Louis was going to attend the execution. Sure enough, Louis' bodyguards created a commotion as they batted aside the common people, to make a path for the king to the front. Louis was a small man and difficult to see behind the massive bodyguards, but he strode through the crowd with a smile on his face, completely confident in the safety provided by his men. When he reached the front, Louis signaled that the executioner should wait until he was done speaking.
"What has this man done?" Louis yelled loudly. A senior aide whispered in his ear and Louis' face became one of disgust. He looked at Christof the way a man might look at a diseased dog. "Then I say he shall be killed in accordance with God's law! Who would contest that?"
Everyone was dead silent. He's only saying what's already been said, deciding what's already been decided, Francois thought. But Louis was not there for Christof or for the execution. He was there to make a friendly, popular public appearance and make some kind of connection with the common men. It was a calculated move, one to endear him to them, and Francois saw that it had worked immediately. He could hear men whispering all around.
"That Louis is a proper gentleman."
"Even the king knows what to do with garbage!"
"He should kill the bastard himself! Louis has the balls!"
Francois shook his head in exasperation. Just kill Christof! he thought. There was no need to make his death a spectacle, his execution an opportunity for good public relations.
"AAAHHH!"
Christof took the opportunity, when all eyes were on Louis, to stand up. He rushed the king, his mouth wide open as if he hoped to tear the man's throat out with his teeth. He nearly reached him, too, but powerful arms caught Christof in mid-sprint and lifted him into the air, his legs still kicking. The crowd gasped when Christof had screamed, and they now cooed in admiration at the burly bodyguard, holding the captive like a man might hold an errant juvenile.
It was Artois, bear-hugging Christof tightly.
"Grab him! Hold him down!" that was Trunk, reaching Artois and Christof after the struggle was clearly decided. Trunk grabbed the kicking legs and they held Christof to the ground. Jean approached and took one of Christof's wrists, bending it at an unnatural angle behind his back.
"Can we kill him now?" Trunk asked the king, who nodded his assent. The executioner nodded at the quick exchange and raised his axe, while Christof struggled in the bodyguard's grip. It was a bizarre development, though, and Artois held his hand up.
"No! This is not how this should be done! He should be on his knees, in regret."
"The king has spoken," Trunk said, his face red from the strain of holding Christof still.
"He did not speak!" Artois yelled, eliciting a few laughs from the crowd. "The king only meant for us to carry on, not to execute my uncle like this, like a rabid animal!"
The crowd, shocked again, took in a deep gasp. The entire ceremony was quickly becoming riotous, and Louis needed to restore order. He raised his voice over all present.
"Be still! Trunk, knock that man unconscious!" Trunk slammed his meaty fist into the back of Christof's head once, twice, three times. Christof stopped struggling and Louis nodded sharply. "Kill him now, I command it. And you, bodyguard, will speak with your betters very soon. I hope you can account for countermanding my clear orders!"
Francois watched with sadness at the subsequent proceedings. Artois was bodily hauled away, following a scowling king and embarrassed bodyguard chief. He held his head high, though, and Francois was proud to be his brother. So what if he wanted Christof to die in the position of penitence? It was a surprising thing to hear from Artois, but was it so unseemly? And the king had not actually spoken; he just nodded his head.
The sharp blade fell on the neck of the unconscious Christof. His body jumped a little when his head detached from it, and a youth kicked the skull toward one of his friends, who kicked it through a patch of dirt and right onto a short, dark-green cactus. The boys squealed in delight and Francois looked over at Raul, who managed to keep his face cold and detached. It was a huge dishonor, a shameful scandal, to have known Christof or be related to him. All of the Coquets would feel the sting of public ignominy in the coming days.
Chapter Twenty
-One
"HAVE YOU COMPLETELY LOST YOUR WITS MAN? You could have been just as easily executed! Held down, gawked at by a ravenous crowd, and decapitated! You fool!" Trunk was raging at Artois, who stood as still as a statue, his hands behind his back. "What have you to say for yourself?"
"He was my uncle."
"And that's even worse! This is a scandal! A miserable, evil pedophile is rooted out of the fabulous ranks of the glowing Seventh Crusade, and you, a bodyguard to the king himself, are related to that filth! Why couldn't you just stay out of it?"
"I did stop him from touching the king. You seem to be forgetting that, while the rest of you were distracted, I was doing my job," Artois said stoutly, refusing to cow to Trunk.
"Yes, you did your job . . . but it's not enough. The king can't have you around him anymore. Public appearances, speeches, and meetings with dignitaries, they're all gone. The king can't have you stealing attention from him, with this notoriety you've achieved. I'm sorry Artois, but you can't be a bodyguard anymore."
"Good," Artois replied. Inside, he was fuming. He had saved the king from being knocked over by a bound criminal in front of everyone! All he wanted was for Christof to be properly executed, not held down while they hacked him to pieces. And so what if Christof was his uncle? That wasn't his fault! "Where will you send me?"
"My informants tell me that your father is here, too, along with another brother. I want you to be with your father's division, to replace your uncle. You will be paid as a common soldier, and all your allowances from working for the king are gone. But you will live, and you will be with family," Trunk said, his face tight. Artois knew that Trunk had spoken up on his behalf, maybe even saved his life. If this was the last time they ever spoke to each other, Artois wanted to be more than an ungrateful curmudgeon.
"Thank you for everything, sir. I will never forget the lessons I learned here, nor will I forget the generosity of the king. Thank you," Artois said, surprising Trunk. The two men took each other's forearms in a firm grip, in the soldier's fashion, and that was it. Artois was dismissed and he gathered his possessions without speaking to anyone else. The bodyguards were watching him, though, but none would risk further association with a relative of Christof. If only they knew that we're Cathar, Artois thought.
Chapter Twenty-Two
"I HAVE A TERRIBLE FEELING."
That's my father's voice, Francois thought. But it was the middle of the night, and he was in his personal tent, cuddling tightly with Olivia. His head was heavy on the medical pack it was resting on, and his blankets were drawn tightly around his shoulders. Olivia was breathing rhythmically, and her small body shook from the desert cold.
"You must wake. I have a terrible feeling."
It was Artois' voice this time. Francois recognized the deep rumble of words, the simple declaration of simple thoughts. But what was Artois doing in his tent? He was supposed to be with the bodyguards, far on the other side of Damietta. Francois exhaled and his breath became a frozen cloud that hung in front of his face, and Francois let his arm free of the blanket to touch the cloud. It disappeared before he could make contact.
"Wake up."
That was Francois' own voice, the deep part of his mind that told the rest of him what to do. Francois rolled and shook his head. He kicked his legs and squinted his eyes. He tried to breathe, but couldn't. After a minute of struggle, Francois' eyes snapped open. He was awake.
The tent was empty. Olivia was not sleeping with him tonight; she was spending the night with one of the women who was sick. Raul and Artois were not in his tent. He kicked off his blankets. He had to pee.
Francois relieved himself outside. The stars were bright and burning over the dark desert. Francois could see small orange circles, brighter white ones—arrangements of stars of different sizes. He saw a streak of light cross the great darkness, and then it was gone, leaving a trail of brown debris in its wake. Francois was done urinating, but his penis was still hanging out while he stared into the sky, mesmerized. He felt as if there was a voice up there, something telling him that there was work to be done, work that was not for King Louis.
Cold and achy, Francois went back to his tent and put on his boots. He dressed in two tunics and placed a warm cap on his head, and then grabbed his marching pack. He had water, food, his bow and arrow, and basic medical supplies: clean bandages, a saw for amputations, and three tourniquets. With his things gathered, Francois set off across the camp, not completely sure of where he was going.
"Francois."
The voice was real this time, and it belonged to Artois. Francois spun and saw his older brother there, dressed for a night of adventuring. A wicked, plus-size battle axe was strapped to his back. They made eye contact, unsure of why the other was there, but at the same time, no explanation was needed.
"Boys," Raul said, emerging from the darkness. He was dressed for light traveling, with a black cloak and bow and arrow on his back. A rucksack hung off his belt, as well as a sword, and his eyes were bright. "The night is dark, but the stars are bright," Raul said.
"I heard a voice in my dreams," Francois said.
"I heard yours," Artois answered.
"I heard the voice of the desert," Raul said. "It sounds like the voice of the dragon of the French woods. I do not know, but it calls to me, it beckons."
"Let's be off then. We should go southeast, into the deep desert. There will be no crusaders, no Ayyubids; no one with good reason is out there."
Leaving Damietta was disturbingly easy. The trio walked out the front gate, and the sentries on duty let them go, either not noticing or not caring about three random, desert wanderers. They walked past the outer villages, where streams cut through sparsely cultivated fields of wheat and barley. The cottages were all dark and quiet, with only their cows and horses stirring in the twilight. A stray dog worried at a corpse in a ditch, and Francois pinched his nose as they passed the ugly scene. In France, dead people were buried or burned within a day, not left to rot where mangy dogs could gnaw on the bodies.
The boundary between desert and civilization was not a marked line, where men with faint hearts could check their fears. One moment there was a clear dirt road, with ditches and irrigation fields on either side; the next moment, they were in the wastelands. The wind blew mightily for just a moment, obscuring everything from sight and sound. The trio pinched their noses and closed their eyes, waiting for the windstorm to pass. The whining died down as quickly as it had begun, and they resumed their trek.
Cactuses, bones, hyenas, vultures . . . the desert was not empty. The sand was softer away from the constant stomp of men's boots and the muddiness of the rivers, and Francois' feet kept plunging calf-deep into the brown-yellow powder.
"We need to find shade before the sun comes up," Raul said, peering toward the horizon. Blue and purple clouds were appearing in the distance, their presence marking false dawn. But false dawn is only a warning that dawn is coming, and the sun rises early, burning the land with the vengeance of an evil warlord.
"There is no shade out here, unless we crouch beneath thin cacti," Francois said.
"We can survive a day in the sun, but no more," Artois said. Of the three, he alone wanted to face the harsh desert conditions for at least one day, confident in his body's ability to withstand dehydration and exhaustion.
They did not find any shade. The sun came over the horizon slowly, letting its girth fill the blue sky. In the glaring sunlight, Francois could see farther than he ever imagined, and the rolling sand dunes filled him with despair. The ever-shifting mounds of sand were larger than most buildings, and they made the desert into an impossible labyrinth. One could walk for two miles and turn around and see terrain that was nothing like that which had been crossed; such was the power of the wind to manipulate the Earth.
"Find me some tracks, boys. Dog, rat, snake . . . anything that will lead us to water."
"Suppose we find tracks, but they take us back to Damietta?"
"Th
en that is the will of the gods," Raul responded.
Just as the wind moved the sand, it moved the footprints of all living creatures in the desert. There were no tracks, no indications of which way to walk. The men just stayed on a southeastern course, while the sun hung like a bauble over their heads, evaporating the sweat on their faces as soon as it appeared.
The sun left as abruptly as it appeared. It was with a strange sense of sadness that Francois saw the ending of another day and the beginning of another night. It had been a day of slogging through the desert, following a feverish voice that had come from far away. Francois knew that he must follow the voice, though, or it would never let him rest.
They camped around a cactus grove, hoping the harsh, thorny plants would deter any large animals from bothering them at night. They did not set a watch; each man was too exhausted. They did not say that they would look like deserters if they ever returned to serve under King Louis; they were men associated with a vile criminal and had decided to quit the Seventh Crusade.
The next morning was overcast. Dark, grey clouds obscured the blue sky, and a slight breeze chilled the men's bones as they woke up.
"I am so thirsty," Francois said, as soon as he rose. Raul nodded and stared at the cacti, wondering where their water came from. They grew, therefore they drank. With a flash of inspiration, Raul hacked a leaf from a large cactus and saw precious water pouring from the opening, dissipating when it hit the sand.
"Open the cacti. We need the water more than they," Raul said.
They cut the cacti open with their blades, and drank and licked the plants until they sucked out of every drop of moisture they could. Francois couldn't explain why, but he felt like they were angering the Earth, inviting the wrath of nature.
Southeast was the direction. They walked and talked, discussing everything that had happened since they left Troyes. The dragon, joining King Louis' forces, Christof, Cyprus—they were exhausted just thinking about it all. Each man was soon lost in his own memories, and they almost missed the oasis in the middle of the ocean of sand.
