The Black Rood

by Stephen R. Lawhead

  The sun blazed down on our naked heads with the heat-blast of a forge fire. Sweat streamed from us, stinging our eyes and dissipating our rapidly dwindling strength to the arid desert air. In this way, the decimated Christian army dragged itself across the scorching wastes staggering under the burden of its wounded. Muted curses and muttered Psalms ascended heavenward in equal measure, as the slow torture of heat and thirst began to exact a cruel tariff.

  When men fell, the nearest Seljuq guard would ride to see whether any purpose might be served in getting the man back on his feet. If the crusader had life enough in him, those nearby were ordered to carry him. If not, he was simply left where he lay, and the death march moved on. Often those left behind cried out for the knife to end their misery, but these, like all other pleas, went unheeded.

  The fourth day was the worst I have ever endured. Around midday, a badly wounded soldier collapsed directly in front of Girardus and myself, pulling down the man bound to him. The Seljuq guard rode up and, without bothering to dismount, commanded the three of us to get the unconscious man on his feet once more.

  For this, we required the use of our hands, and so our bonds were loosed, which was a mercy in itself. The three of us were able to raise the wretch, but it was clear he could no longer walk unaided. So, we took it in turn to help him—with two holding him up between us and all but dragging him along while the third rested. When one of us became weary, the rested one would take his place, and so on.

  Meanwhile, our suffering comrade drifted from bad to worse. After a time, he could no longer move his feet, and so we carried him, taking his entire weight on our shoulders. Damnably awkward it was, and it very quickly exhausted us. Soon it became a trial merely to put one foot before the other and remain upright.

  I set my jaw to the task, and trudged on and on through the interminable length of that endless day. After a time, the searing ache in my legs and arms eased as my limbs grew gradually numb. I could no longer feel the uneven ground beneath my feet, and this caused me to stumble over rocks. Each lurch and jostle brought a moan from our unconscious comrade, but his complaints grew gradually weaker and more infrequent.

  The land was a barrens of broken rock and thorns; gnarled trees, white with dust and shriveled by the merciless sun, twisted up from stony crevices. Everything in that godforsaken land was blasted, blighted and deformed. No less easy on the eye than underfoot, the harshness seared itself into the soul. Never did a scrap of green—or any other color—relieve the limitless sameness.

  Seeking refuge from the sun and blight, I turned in my mind to thoughts of Blessed Scotland, and the family waiting there; I brought the image of each face before my mind’s eye, and prayed for the soul of every one I could recall. In this way, I withstood the rigors of that inhuman day.

  When at last the sun began to fade behind the western hills, the Seljuqs stopped to make camp for the night. The three of us stiffly lowered our wounded comrade to the ground and collapsed beside him. We lay there panting like sun-scalded dogs, unmoving, sweat running in rivulets from our spent bodies to stain the dust beneath us.

  The sun was almost down when one of the Seljuqs brought a water skin and revived us with a few mouthfuls of water. After I drank, I drew myself up on my elbows to rouse our wounded comrade so he could get his share. It was then I discovered he was dead.

  When he died, and how long we had carried his lifeless corpse, I cannot say. All I know is that his life passed from him silently, and without so much as a sigh. He lay with his mouth open and eyes closed as if asleep—asleep forevermore.

  The guard noted the death with a shrug and turned away. We slept that night tied to a corpse and were only released the next morning when the guard cut us free so we could move on. I prayed I would not die like that wretch, unmourned, unknown, nothing more than an accursed burden to those around me.

  We were wakened the next morning to begin another hellish day. My arms and legs felt cast of lead; my head ached and my mouth was coated with scum. Those of us left alive were given a fair ration of water, which we gulped down quickly lest the guards change their minds. I thanked God for every mouthful. Many there were who could not face the day, and refused to get up. The Seljuqs killed two unfortunates where they lay, and the rest, faced with a spear in the gut and an agonizing, lingering death, found the strength to rise once more.

  The land grew rough and craggy; the trail degenerated into rugged little goat tracks through dry streams and over shattered hills, making the march yet more strenuous and difficult. Time and again the cry went up for water, food, or rest. We were given none of these things.

  I kept myself alive with Psalms and prayers, reciting “The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want…the Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want…he makes me to lie down in pastures green…beside the still waters he leads me…though I walk through the valley of the Shadow of Death…Lord, I walk through the valley of the Shadow of Death, yet I no evil fear…no evil fear…no evil fear…”

  Over and over and over again, I spoke these words and the rhythm of their speaking became a litany of life to me. For, as long as I could say them, I knew I would live—at least to the end of the Psalm.

  The searing, relentless heat and lack of water began to claw at our numbers. All around me men collapsed and fell, and as the eternal day wore on and on with no end in sight, I began to regard these as the lucky ones.

  Mumbling my Psalm, I moved in and out of dreams. I saw Padraig walking before me, and tried to hail him, but my throat was so dry I could not make a sound. When I looked again, it was just another captive crusader. I saw my father, Murdo, sitting on a rock beside the trail. He shook his head in pity as I passed, and I wanted to speak to him, to tell him how sorry I was to leave home without telling him, but he melted into the empty air before I could find voice to speak the words.

  I smelled the clean salt air of the sea back home. I smelled the water, and heard the restless sea waves slapping the rocks and tumbling the smooth stones on the shingle. I heard the shrill keen of the seabirds wheeling in the bold blue cloud-dazzled sky—a sky never seen in the desert wilderness of the Holy Land.

  The scents and sounds caused me to imagine the faces of those I loved, and I heard the babble of their voices filling my ears. I tried to make out what they said, but in their joy at having me among them once more they spoke over one another so that I could not understand them.

  Holding up my hands, I made to speak and forced out a ragged croak, and this made them excited. They rushed to me and I was pulled this way and that, and I realized they were dragging me down to the sea. Stiff-legged, I tried to resist. My strength was gone and I was shoved down to the water.

  I felt the blessed wetness lapping around my feet and legs; I heard others splashing in behind me, and turned to see the dusty faces of my fellow pilgrims floundering into the sea. How, I wondered, had they come to be in Scotland? Had they followed me there? Had we walked all the way?

  And then people began throwing water over me. The cold shock restored me to my mind. Water! I sank down to my knees and began scooping it up in my hands, throwing it into my mouth and gulping it down, choking on it, and gulping down more.

  The water revived me. I raised my eyes and looked around. Gone the cold ocean bay, and gone the prosperous holding snug amongst the dazzling green hills. Before me was a sunbaked settlement shaded by a few scruffy trees and forlorn palms on the bare earth banks of a muddy, but very real lake. The people there were not my beloved friends and family, but Muhammedan shepherds. My heart writhed within me as the dull realization seeped into my sun-dazed awareness: I was alive still, and far, far from home.

  We stayed there that night. Revived by the water, and blessed with a moment’s respite from the day’s heat as evening drew near, the captives began to appraise their chances of survival. And they began to talk.

  I soon learned what had happened after Padraig, Roupen, and I had fled Antioch. Commander Renaud had not allowed the Templar garrison
to be used to aid Prince Bohemond’s ruinous folly. In defiance of the prince, he had refused to send the Poor Soldiers of Christ into battle against other Christians. Opinion among the captives divided sharply over whether this was good or bad.

  “If the Templars had been with us, by Christ,” one soldier swore, “we would not have been defeated.”

  “That just shows how stupid you are, Thomas Villery,” growled the man next to him. “If the Templars had been there they would have been killed along with all the rest.”

  “Yes,” agreed another, “it is for the best. At least this way we have a hope of rescue.”

  “What makes you think anyone will rescue us? No one cares,” concluded another gloomily. His head sank onto his chest. “God has given us over to destruction. His hand is against us. We are dead men—each and every one of us. There is no hope.”

  “Has the turd turned philosopher now?” scoffed the soldier called Thomas. “When the garrison learns that Bohemond’s army has been captured, they will ride at once to the rescue.”

  “And who is going to tell them, eh?” demanded another soldier, struggling to rise. He had been slashed on the arm, and the wound showing through the blood-crusted rag of his sleeve was gray and watery with pus. “Idiot! Who is going to ride to Antioch to tell them? Eh?” He glared furiously around the ring of grim faces. “Gaston is right, we are all dead men.”

  “What!” demanded the one called Thomas. “When they learn the rood has been captured, they will come, by God.”

  “Do not speak to me of God, or the rood,” muttered Gaston. “If the rood goes before us, we cannot lose—so they said. It is God’s good pleasure to lead us to victory, they said. Where is the victory now?” He glared around daring anyone to challenge him. “Damn them! Damn their lies!”

  “Forgive me, brother,” I said, breaking into their conversation, “is it the Holy Cross you mean?”

  “Aye,” he agreed dubiously, “is there any other?”

  “The Black Rood,” one of them muttered, “taken by the cursed heathen Seljuqs.” He spat. “Much good may it do them. God knows it has done no good for us.”

  “Shut your stinking gob, Matthias!” charged Thomas. “Maybe it is for blasphemers like you that the Almighty gave us up to defeat. Did you ever think of that?”

  “How dare you come the high and holy with me!” snarled the offended Matthias. “I was well and truly shriven ere we left the city—we all were. You’ll not go laying the blame for this at my feet, so help me—”

  “Where is it?” I asked, interrupting their argument.

  “The rood? Why, the Turks have taken it,” answered Matthias. “They will have it with the rest of the plunder. Christ alone knows what they will do with it, the heathens.”

  “They’ll burn it,” suggested Girardus dolefully. “By God they will, for they are godless devil worshippers every hell-cursed one.”

  The discussion moved on to speculation about what would happen to us when we reached Damascus, but as no one had any notion, I turned instead to pondering what I had learned: the Holy Rood was here…somewhere.

  I determined then and there that if the High King of Heaven allowed me to remain alive, I would resume my quest: somehow I would find the Holy Rood, and I would save it. This I vowed to do.

  THIRTY-FOUR

  WE STAYED FOUR days at Kadiriq, a baked-mud settlement on the banks of the stagnant lake, regaining our strength for the days ahead. I suspect the march from Anazarbus had been made as tortuous as possible to kill off the weak and wounded. The Seljuqs wanted slaves to sell and only those strong enough to survive the ordeal would bring a price worth the trouble of keeping them alive.

  I slept nearly all of the first day, and the second I spent lying in the shade of a gnarled little tree beside the lake—I could not bear to be out of sight of the water, and several times went in swimming to cool off. The sight of this white-skinned foreigner thrashing around in the shallows produced great amusement for the children of Kadiriq, who had come out to examine the conquered captives.

  That night we were given food for the first time since the battle: flat bread—thin and dry, and tough as parchment—and lentils cooked in beef broth. The second night we were given bread and beans again, and some leathery scraps of goat meat.

  On the third day, Amir Ghazi arrived. He traveled in caravan—that is to say, with his entire retinue of advisors, liegemen, and a bodyguard of three hundred or more warriors—all mounted, and leading a long train of pack animals, mostly horses. However, moving with a strange, swaying gait, I saw the odd, ungainly desert creatures called camels. With their steep-humped backs, long necks and small, flat heads, they seemed to tower above the surrounding turmoil with lordly sufferance.

  The newcomers arrived leading a few dozen more prisoners. Rumors spread among the captives that the main Seljuq army had taken the town of Marash on the border, allowing the amir to enrich himself still farther with Christian slaves and plundered treasure.

  Ghazi set up his camp on the other side of the lake. I counted over a hundred tents before losing interest. The townspeople were overjoyed to have the honor of hosting the amir, and that night there was a feast in his name. A dozen cows were slaughtered for the spit, and a score of sheep and goats. The festive mood overflowed the town and even spilled out into the captives’ camp, to the extent that we were given a humble share of the feast. That night, along with our bread—a soft, thick flat bread flavored with anise—we were also given lamb stewed with figs. It was very good, and there was not a man among us who did not lick the wooden bowl clean. We were also given a drink of fermented goat’s milk—slightly salty, with a rancid sour taste which failed to seduce many to its charms.

  The next morning, rested, fed, and as hale as I could hope to be in the uncertain days ahead, I determined to try my luck with Amir Ghazi.

  The sun was high and the wind hot out of the south. I was bathing in the lake when two of the amir’s bodyguard appeared. They spoke to the Seljuq keeping watch on the bank, and I decided the time had come. Hauling myself from the water, I motioned for Girardus to accompany me, and came to stand before them on the bank.

  “What are you doing?” he whispered desperately.

  “Tell them I demand to see the amir.”

  He gaped at me in disbelief, and started to object.

  “Tell them.”

  The guards glanced at us with haughty contempt, but otherwise ignored us.

  “I do not think they speak Arabic,” Girardus concluded quickly. “Let us go before they make trouble for us.”

  “Tell them. Make them understand.”

  Rolling his eyes, Girardus spoke up, interrupting the Seljuqs, who were not pleased with our persistence. The guard shouted something, and waved his hands at us to drive us away. “They say to go away,” Girardus said, much relieved.

  “I demand to see the amir,” I said, holding my ground. “Tell them I demand it, Girardus. Use that word. I demand to see him at once.”

  After another shouted exchange, Girardus said, “They say no one can see the amir.”

  “Tell them I am a nobleman, and a friend of Lord Thoros of Armenia, and I demand to see Amir Ghazi at once.”

  To his credit, Girardus swallowed his fear and spoke up once more. In a halting and trembling voice, he told the guards what I had said. The Seljuq guard started toward us, waving his spear and shouting. But one of the amir’s men took him by the arm and pulled him back. He motioned me to him.

  Without hesitation, I stepped up. He gazed at me, his dark eyes searching mine. The second guard said something, and flapped a hand at me, but the first guard took me by the arm and turned me around, indicating that I was to walk before them.

  “God go with you,” called Girardus.

  They marched me around the lake to where the amir had established his camp. Upon arrival, I was brought to stand outside the amir’s tent, which was pale blue instead of the deep black-brown of all the others. I was given to understand th
at I was to remain there—a few score paces before the tent—and my two keepers spoke to a man who appeared briefly at the tent entrance, before retreating to the shade of a small date palm beside the tent where they could watch me. Thus, I stood, waiting for my audience and observing the commerce of the camp.

  Amir Ghazi was a very busy man, judging by the comings and goings of the amir’s many advisors, and subject lords. Few of the people who entered the tent stayed very long. I expect they were merely paying homage to the amir, or discharging some perfunctory duty. Indeed, the entire Arab race from the highest caliph to the lowest goatherd is hedged about with a veritable wall of duties and obligations, not one brick or block of which can be removed or altered.

  Surveying this continuous procession of lords and notables, I marked again how very splendid were these noblemen: arrayed in flowing clothes of the finest cloth and bedecked with gold and jewels, they wore plumes of ostrich and peacock, and carried jeweled weapons. They gleamed and glittered in the bright sun, astride their fine horses, and accompanied by their retinues.

  They all came bearing gifts, which they carried in boxes of carved sandalwood. Sometimes—depending, I think, on the rank of the guest—the amir met his visitor at the entrance to his tent, and welcomed him with a kiss. Most often, however, it was one of the amir’s servants who, bowing low, directed the guest into the great man’s presence.

  Not all of the amir’s visitors were men. Many of the nobles brought women with them, and these, from what I could see of them, were even more magnificently arrayed than the men—although they hid their splendor under long hooded outer cloaks or gowns which covered them head to toe, and they wore veils across the lower parts of their faces so that between hood and veil, only their eyes were visible. But such eyes! Almond shaped and black as sloe, with long lashes and brows thin and dark and delicately curved.

  It put me in mind of Sydoni and I spent a long time happily thinking about her—until I remembered my grave predicament. If I had not been such an impetuous fool I would no doubt be with her now. My thoughts grew so forlorn and pitiable, that I was forced to put them off at last. It does no good to wallow in regret. What might have been is as impossible as what can never be.