Knights of the Cross

by Tom Harper

  ‘It says we meet in the peace of Christ, and all weapons are to be left outside,’ observed Adhemar mildly.

  ‘And I say that famine has starved Bohemond’s mind,’ said Hugh. ‘“Take the city”, he says. Shall we knock on the gates? For six months we have tried to take the city, and—’

  ‘No!’ Bohemond thumped a fist into his palm. ‘For six months we have tried nothing. Now that ruin is upon us we may at last begin to try. Our stratagems have failed. The Greek King has proved a false ally, and his manless minion has abandoned us in our greatest need. Only if we unleash our desperation can we hope to escape this trap. In peace we esteem humility the only grace, but in war the truest spur is glory. Let the council agree that whoever takes the city, he alone will rule it. With such a prize to be had, we will break down those gates like clay.’

  ‘No.’ Old though he was, Adhemar’s voice rang above the clamour that Bohemond’s words had sparked. ‘The city belongs to no man.’

  ‘Except the Pope?’ Robert of Normandy did not bother to stand but stabbed a fat finger at the bishop. ‘We know that Rome allows no kings but her vassals, that she would extend her domain over realms temporal as well as spiritual. Will your master not be satisfied, I wonder, until his fiefdoms stretch from Rome to Jerusalem?’

  ‘Have a care,’ Raymond warned. ‘Do not rekindle long-forgotten feuds.’

  ‘My master the Pope does not covet this city.’ Adhemar’s sharp-eyed gaze swept across the room. ‘One city alone is in his heart, and we are still far from reaching it. As for Antioch, none shall have it outright, because none shall take it outright. We fight in the name and service of the Lord: only through Him shall we find victory. We march as the Army of God, and as the Army of God we shall claim the spoils. If Kerbogha does not destroy us first.’

  ‘You are also bound by oath to return it to the Emperor,’ Sigurd muttered. No one seemed to hear him.

  ‘I disagree with Bishop Adhemar.’ Still Bohemond would not yield. ‘We fight in the name of God, and with His aid, but we fight also as Normans and Lotharingians and Frisians – even, sometimes, Provençals. I demand to know the will of the council as to whether the worthiest of these should take the city.’

  Adhemar thumped his staff three times on the ground. ‘There is only one issue before the council: whether we fight or flee in the face of Kerbogha’s advance. We will know the will of the council on that alone. Who favours flight?’

  There was silence. Looking around, I could see the searching expressions on many men’s faces each trying to guess his neighbour’s intent. Some arms wavered in uncertainty, but none was raised.

  ‘Who favours battle?’

  Immediately, and in unison, Raymond and Bohemond showed their hands. With greater or lesser enthusiasm, every other man around the square followed their example.

  Adhemar nodded. ‘It is decided. We will face Kerbogha here.’

  ‘Nothing is decided – nor will be until you acknowledge the truth. Unless one man is assured of the city, none will hazard the risks needed to take it.’ Bohemond pushed through the corner between two benches and stormed out of the tent. Several of his lieutenants followed.

  ‘Bohemond does not care to be frustrated,’ said a voice. I turned and saw Count Raymond at my side. ‘He has seen off your emperor’s general, but still Adhemar checks his ambitions. For how long, I wonder?’

  ‘For as long as the Franks stand by their oath to the Emperor, and their God.’

  Raymond gave a rasping chuckle. ‘Their God will tell them that they honour Him best by preserving the lives that He has gifted them. As for their oath, who is now here to hold them to it? A company of Englishmen and a scribe? Do you feel safe, Demetrios?’

  ‘I put my trust in the Lord,’ I said instinctively.

  ‘I put my trust in stout armour and a sharp blade. You are isolated in your camp, I think – on the fringes of the siege and with none but Normans nearby. When Kerbogha comes, it will be from the north. Are you read to stand in the first line of defence?’

  ‘Would you rather have me flee like Tatikios?’

  ‘I would rather have you surrounded by the Emperor and ten thousand of his legions, but that will not happen. Thus, I offer you my protection. Move your tents within my encampment and I will assure your safety.’

  ‘Tatikios believed that we should not commit to any Frankish faction lest the Emperor lose the allegiance of the others.’

  ‘He has already lost the allegiance of the others – they merely wait for one of their number to be the first to repudiate him. As for Tatikios, this is no longer his concern.’

  ‘If we move now, men will see another instance of Byzantine cowardice. They will say we do it to escape the enemies approaching from the north.’

  ‘You would do better to fear the enemies camped to your south.’ Raymond stooped to pass through the door, and I followed him into the mild evening. ‘When the Turks come and find us trapped between the river and the city, it will not matter if you are in your camp or my camp or even Duke Godfrey’s camp.’

  He looked to the north, where the sky was firming into darkness. ‘There will be no escape when Kerbogha comes.’

  ι ς

  We moved our camp next day, squeezing our tents into the spaces left by Provençals who had died or fled. Every day, it seemed, the weather grew warmer and the skies bluer; trees blossomed and the earth hardened, but nothing could shake off the mournful cloud building over the army like a thunderhead. At night our campfires hissed with whispered rumours of Kerbogha, and each morning fresh patches of bare earth revealed where more tents had vanished away. Yet still the princes could find no way of cracking the city – nor even seemed minded to try. They garrisoned their towers and shot arrows at defenders on the walls, but they moved not an inch closer.

  One day, in the middle of May, I was sitting by the river alone, wondering how I might save Anna if Kerbogha overran our camp. Despite all my pleas she had refused to take ship to Cyprus, claiming that she would be most needed when the Turks attacked. I feared gravediggers would be more use. I buried my hand in the earth of the river bank and pulled out a fistful of pebbles, tossing them one by one into the green water. If only I could have cast my cares away so easily.

  The clash of metal rang out and I stared round. A little way upstream I could see a loose knot of figures standing near the bank. They carried a rustic armoury of axes, hammers and billhooks, waving them viciously above their heads. In their midst I could see the flashing blade of a lone sword.

  I scrambled to my feet and sprinted towards them. They were peasants, Franks, their ragged clothes scarce fit for rubbing down horses. By the turbaned head which bobbed between them, I guessed they had happened on a lone Turk far from his lines. They were baiting him like a dog, and if they did not disembowel him with their tools they would soon drive him into the river.

  ‘What are you doing?’ I shouted as I drew near.

  ‘An infidel spy.’ One of the Franks leaped back as the Turk’s sword swung past his chest. ‘The lord Bohemond will pay well for his corpse.’

  ‘Demetrios Askiates?’ With a ringing clang, the Ishmaelite parried a blow from a billhook and looked up. In shock, I saw that it was not a Turk but a Saracen, the swordsmith Mushid. ‘In the name of your God and mine, get these hounds away from me.’

  ‘Leave him alone.’ I drew my own sword, for in those days it never left my side, and jabbed it at the nearest Frank.

  The peasant, a gaunt and hairless man, spat at my feet. ‘His life is ours. No Greek will keep us from him.’

  ‘And no Frankish villein shall kill a man under my protection.’ I rolled my wrists and swung the sword. The peasant had begun to raise his sickle; my blade caught on its curve and tore it from his hands. As the other Franks stared, Mushid brought the flat of his sword down on the knuckles that gripped a hammer. They sprang open and the tool dropped to the ground. Before it landed, a kick in the belly had sent another of the Franks sprawling back, while
I reversed my blade and thumped the pommel into one more adversary’s face. Blood dribbled from his lip.

  ‘We will return here, traitor,’ the gaunt man warned me. His gaze darted to the fallen sickle, but two hovering swords warned against rashness. ‘I will come back with my brothers and I will rip out every inch of your entrails so that when I finally throw you in the river you will float all the way to Saint Simeon.’ He stumbled away, drawing his bruised companions after him.

  ‘You fight well, considering the poverty of your blade.’ Mushid wiped his own blade on the hem of his white woollen robe, squinted down it to check for cracks, then replaced it in its sheath. The iron barely whispered as it slid into the scabbard.

  ‘The Varangians have been teaching me. I fear I will have more than peasants and pruning hooks to fight before long.’

  Mushid’s dark eyebrows lifted. ‘Kerbogha?’ I must have shown some surprise, for he laughed. ‘You forget, Demetrios, that I travel widely in my trade. These past weeks the talk has been of little else.’

  ‘Do you know where he is?’ In the back of my mind, I wondered what other rumours this smiling, itinerant craftsman might carry, and to whom he might report them.

  ‘At Edessa. He thought to reduce the city first, but it has proved harder than he thought. I suspect he will soon abandon it and hasten on to greater battles.’

  ‘And easier pickings.’

  ‘Come, Demetrios: your swordplay is not so bad.’ He looked at the sky. ‘But I must hurry on, for the wars of this world need swords to fight them. Will you accompany me through the camp? I do not want to dirty my blade again on peasants.’

  As we walked north, through the Norman lines, a thought occurred to me. ‘You said you travel widely. Have you ever been to Persia?’

  ‘Often. It is said that the Sultan in Isfahan himself carries one of my blades.’

  ‘Tell me: on your journeys, did you ever encounter the worship of a Persian deity named Mithra?’

  Mushid looked perplexed. ‘There have been no gods save Allah in Persia for four hundred years – since the Prophet, praise him, converted its peoples to truth.’

  ‘You have never heard of this Mithra?’

  ‘Never. Why?’

  I hesitated. ‘You were friendly with Drogo. Did he ever speak to you of religion?’

  ‘A little. Our friendship was easier without it. He was very devout, I think.’ He paused, his smooth face furrowed in thought. ‘You ask about ancient gods, and then about Drogo’s faith. What are you truly asking, I wonder?’

  ‘I seek any thread I can grasp. Drogo’s murderer has still not been found.’

  ‘That is bad. The Devil draws strength when his deeds go unchecked.’

  ‘Then he must be strong indeed at the moment.’

  We walked on a little in silence, our hands ever on the hilts of our swords to discourage the hate-filled looks we drew. Eventually, Mushid said: ‘If a man in my village were killed, I would seek his murderer nearby, among his friends, his lovers, his servants and his master.’

  ‘Drogo’s friends were building the tower by the bridge, and it was his servant who brought us to the body. His lovers . . .’ I thought of the woman, Sarah, whom many had seen but none could find. ‘I do not know. As for his master, Bohemond—’

  I broke off in surprise as I saw where we had arrived. Even as I spoke Bohemond’s name, we had come into open ground, in the midst of which stood his huge, crimson-striped tent. A banner emblazoned with a silver serpent hung limp in front of it.

  ‘I must leave you here,’ said Mushid.

  ‘For Bohemond?’ Though I hated the memory, I thought of Tancred’s abomination with the Turkish prisoners. ‘You do not know what Normans will do to Ishmaelites like you.’

  Mushid smiled. ‘Even Normans can stem their hatred if there is gain to be had. Bohemond seeks a weapon to slice open the city. Perhaps I can supply the blade he needs. Thank you for guiding me here.’

  He inclined his head, then strode confidently into the tent. Neither of the guards challenged him.

  Two weeks later, at the end of May, Sigurd, Anna and I sat around our campfire, eating fish stew. Our provisions had improved immeasurably since we had moved to Raymond’s camp, for he controlled the supply road to the sea, but there was no satisfaction in it. In those days every meal seemed a last supper before the Turkish onslaught, and the bread was ash in our mouths. Nor did the coming of summer lighten our mood, for our armour weighed doubly heavy in the heat, and the flies which swarmed about the marshes near the river plagued us every hour. We no longer starved, but instead watched disease and pestilence slide their fingers ever deeper into the body of the army. And above all hung the black threat of Kerbogha, now – it was said – less than a week away.

  ‘To think that it has been a year since we left Constantinople,’ said Sigurd. He speared a lump of meat out of the pot and chewed it off his knife. ‘Your grandchild will have children of his own before you see him.’

  ‘If I live to see him, the delay will be worth it.’ If all had gone well, Helena should have given birth by now. Every night I prayed for their safety, imploring my late wife Maria to plead for them in the world beyond, but still there had been no word. It seemed there were none I loved who did not live in the shade of death.

  ‘I will be satisfied to live until next month,’ Anna declared. ‘If Kerbogha comes while the Franks still bicker . . .’

  ‘Do not say that,’ I snapped. ‘Too often, the fates hear our foolish hopes and honour them. Wish to live a month, and they may grant it too precisely.’

  ‘Superstition,’ scoffed Anna. ‘I am surprised . . . What is that?’

  She pointed through the fire, where some movement in the night had drawn her gaze. It came nearer, at last revealing itself as a child, barely taller than my waist. His hair and clothes were ragged, his face filthy, but his eyes were bright in the firelight and his voice was as clear as water.

  ‘Which one is Demetrios Askiates?’

  I rubbed my eyes. The surrounding smoke ringed him with a hazy nimbus, and his head seemed to burn out of the flames between us like some conjuror’s trick. Against the darkness beyond he was almost ethereally bright.

  ‘I am Demetrios.’ I touched my hand to a stone in the earth, its rough strength anchoring me to the world. ‘Why?’

  The apparition frowned, as if trying to lift phrases from his memory. ‘You have desired to speak with my lady.’

  ‘Has he?’ Sigurd’s ribald tone broke the illusion, and at once there was only a shabby urchin beside our fire. ‘You did not mention this, Demetrios.’

  I ignored him, and Anna’s angry glare as well. ‘Who is your lady?’

  ‘Her name is Sarah. She will see you alone,’ he added, as he saw Anna and Sigurd making to rise.

  The child did not take me far, but led me quickly through the camp to the river. Many who followed the army had abandoned us now, and the empty intervals between fires lengthened. Sometimes the boy disappeared completely, dissolving into the night like mist, but he always emerged to lure me onwards. At the river he seemed to stop, a smudge of white in the darkness, and I hurried to keep close.

  ‘Demetrios Askiates. You have answered me. Or perhaps I have answered you.’

  I halted. Where the boy had gone I did not know, but the shape I had thought was him now spoke with the assured, sweet cadence of a woman. My eyes strained against the veiling darkness, but apart from her white dress I could see nothing.

  ‘Are you Sarah?’

  She laughed – or perhaps it was a ripple in the river. ‘I have many names. You know me as Sarah.’

  ‘How did Drogo know you?’ I stretched out my hand, hoping for some tree or boulder to lean on, but there was nothing.

  ‘As a teacher.’

  ‘What did you teach him – other than to carve scars into his back?’

  ‘I did not teach him that.’ Her voice was clouded with remorse, and suddenly I felt an irrational urge to hug her close to c
onsole her. ‘There will always be men whose minds distort their learning.’

  ‘Were Drogo and Rainauld such men?’

  ‘It was not their fault. Drogo’s heart had turned to thorns: whatever tried to reach him was torn to pieces. As for Rainauld, he followed Drogo, perhaps too much.’

  ‘And what did you teach them?’

  ‘Faith in Christ. A purer path.’

  ‘There are enough priests and bishops in this army whose duty that is.’

  Again I heard her rippling laugh. ‘Priests and bishops. Their duty is to their masters, the princes of this Earth. They preach obedience, that by it they may have a share in the spoils of war. They care nothing for the souls they shepherd. Look about the camp, Demetrios – can you deny that the Lord has abandoned us?’

  ‘The Lord passes by, and we do not see him.’

  ‘If we are pure, he will restore us to happiness. For the moment, this camp is a wicked and dirty place, ruled by crows and beset by wolves. Only prayer and truth can free us. “God is with us,” the princes say, but even as they speak their doom marches on. They and their clergy, they are all corrupted. Only the righteous will escape this place. The rest will perish.’

  ‘To question the clergy is treason.’ The warmth of the night was suddenly gone from my bones.

  ‘You do not believe that. In your heart, you know that I speak the truth.’

  ‘I know that your adepts broke into pagan shrines and died murderously. Is that the purity you taught?’

  ‘No! I told you, they would not heed me. I thought Drogo sought salvation. In truth, he sought only revenge.’

  Though I could not see Sarah’s face, I sensed that at last I had cracked through her serenity. It left me feeling strangely soiled, as if I had broken something precious. ‘Revenge on whom?’