by Tom Harper
A fit of coughing overwhelmed the bishop. At his side, I could see Bohemond with an ill-tempered scowl on his face, despite the battle he had won. Raymond, by contrast, wore a strange smirk.
‘Truly, we have tried God’s indulgence. Some have hidden themselves away, deserting the just battle from craven fear. They tremble to become martyrs to Christ. Some – many – have worked evil pleasures with the pagan women of Antioch, and the stink of it has reached even into Heaven. A few have forsaken God in their hearts. He has made our camp a barren wilderness; He has filled it with scorpions and serpents, and left us to be preyed on by wolves.’
Some of the men around me looked sullen – they could not have expected such a harangue in victory – but many more seemed abashed and afraid. Doubt had fallen over them, and there was a desperation in their gaze which hungered for solace.
‘Yet do not fear.’ Adhemar’s voice rose, carried on a new strength. ‘Our Lord is a merciful god, and He listens to the saints who intercede for us. He has sent a token that He keeps faith with His pilgrims.’
A murmur of wonder rippled through the crowd, and they pressed in closer.
‘Last night, this priest was granted a vision.’
The priest, Stephen, stepped forward. His arms were rigid by his sides, though his left hand flapped involuntarily against his thigh; he looked like a mouse before a flock of hawks. He looked at the ground, and spoke so softly that Adhemar had to urge him several times to raise his voice.
‘It came to me last night. In the fire and the panic, I took refuge in the church of Saint Mary. Many terrors assailed me and I prayed to Christ, imploring His mercy. When I raised my eyes, three figures were before me.’
‘Describe them,’ Adhemar ordered.
‘Two men and a woman.’
‘Did you know them?’
‘Your Grace, I did. But they were not of this Earth.’ He hesitated, as though even he faltered before the wonder of his vision. ‘They were wreathed in a cloud of gold, which shimmered behind them so that they stood out from the darkness. They had the form of humans – but no substance. To the right stood a man, very old. His beard was white. In one hand he carried a staff mounted with a cross, while in the other he bore a ring of keys that jangled as he moved. He was Saint Peter, the prince of the apostles and guardian of Antioch.’
At a little distance from the priest, Bohemond stood fidgeting with the hem of his tunic. One of his red eyebrows seemed inclined upwards.
‘To the left was a woman. Her robe was blue, trimmed with gold, and her face looked as serene as the stars. In her arm she cradled a child, whose countenance radiated the light of heaven—’
‘The mother of God,’ Adhemar interrupted. ‘And the third?’
‘He stood in front of his companions and his face was solemn, though beautiful beyond all men. He clutched a Bible to his heart, and when he spoke it was with the sound of many waters. He asked if I knew him, and I answered no, for I feared to lift my thoughts to such presumption. But even as I denied it, a radiant cross appeared above his head. Again he asked if I knew him.’
There was something pedestrian, almost rote in the way Stephen recited the words, but his speech had drawn in every man among the Normans. They were held rapt by his performance; Count Raymond, standing before us, looked as though he himself could see the vision at that very moment.
‘I replied: “I do not know you, but I see a cross like our Saviour’s.”
‘“I am He,” He answered.
‘My Lords, I fell at His feet and beseeched His mercy, and the loving Virgin and the blessed Peter fell at His feet also, praying Him to aid us in our distress.’
‘What did He say?’
The memory of the miracle, or the attention of the crowd, had filled the priest with confidence. He crossed himself, turned his face to the heavens and closed his eyes.
‘He said, “All along the length of your journey, through every toil and peril, I have walked beside you. I broke open the walls of Nicaea, and I held your lance at Dorylaeum. When you suffered torments before Antioch I grieved, and when you strayed like lost sheep I lamented your wickedness. It was I who brought you safe into Antioch, rejoicing as you drove the pagan host from my house. At that hour, the angels sang in Heaven, and my holy father was well pleased.”
‘Then he opened his book, and it seemed it was written in letters of fire so that I could not read its words. “Tell my people,” He said, “that if they are with me, I am with them. They will fast, and offer penance, and in five days I will grant a miracle that all will see. I am with you, and none in Earth or Heaven shall stand before me.”’
Stephen’s head slumped forward. ‘He closed his book, yet the light did not dim. Indeed, it grew brighter, and brighter still. I lowered my eyes; I closed them, and covered them with my hands, but still I could not shut out His divine light. When I looked again, He was gone, and I was alone in the church.’
The priest stepped away, shrinking back into himself, and the spirit which had animated him departed. It was as if the sun had retreated behind a cloud, though the sky was immaculately clear. A wondrous silence gripped the mountain top.
Adhemar sat still on his rock, his back straight and his hands folded together. ‘Amen.’
His word was like a pebble cast into the middle of a pond, rippling out through the crowd. Amen. Amen. Amen.
‘And you will swear that all you have said is true?’ Adhemar asked the priest.
‘Before God and all His saints.’
Adhemar waved his hand, and two more priests emerged into the centre of the circle. One held a book bound with silver; the other an ornately jewelled golden crucifix. Adhemar stood, took them, and passed them to Stephen. His hands, I noticed, were shaking again.
Stephen lifted the book.
‘This is the gospel of Christ,’ said Adhemar. ‘Do you swear by its truth the truth of your vision?’
‘I swear it.’
‘This is the cross of Christ. Do you swear on the pain of our Saviour the truth of your vision?’
‘I swear it.’
Adhemar turned to take back his holy artefacts. But the priest was not yet finished.
‘I will swear by whatever oath will satisfy you. If there is any man here who doubts me, I will climb to the top of that tower’ – he pointed to the tower in the wall, where Bohemond’s banner flew – ‘and throw myself down. If I speak truly, surely I will be borne up on the hands of angels, so that not one toe touches the ground. Or, if you prefer, I will suffer the ordeal of fire. The truth of God’s righteousness will guard me from the flames. Does any man ask it?’
He spoke with fervour, though there was a nervous reticence in his eyes which was at odds with his words. I saw Bohemond open his mouth as if to speak, but he closed it again as Adhemar calmly answered: ‘You have sworn on the gospels. That is enough.’
A murmur of assent rumbled through the crowd.
‘We will—’
Adhemar was silenced as a man broke free of the crowd and ran towards him. He fell to his knees at the bishop’s feet and – in a braying voice which Kerbogha himself must have heard in the citadel – declared: ‘Mercy, your Grace: I too have received a vision of the Lord.’
Confusion and consternation erupted from the massed Franks, but if Adhemar felt any surprise he mastered it quickly. He stooped down and raised the man to his feet, then turned him to face the crowd.
I had thought that I recognised the voice, the self-righteousness and wheedling. The face I certainly knew. His hair had been combed since the night before, and a new tunic put on him, but the crooked nose and sneering lip were the same. Truly, it seemed there was nowhere that Peter Bartholomew might not appear.
‘I have beheld His glory too.’ He thrust out his chest like a cockerel readying its crow. ‘In dreams and in visions, Saint Andrew the apostle has visited me.’
I sensed a certain hostility among the throng. Perhaps they did not like Bartholomew’s sudden arrival, or were
unimpressed by the lesser saint he had seen. Perhaps they knew him as I did.
Adhemar, though, was indulgent. ‘How often?’
‘Four times.’
The crowd stirred. This was better.
‘Did he speak to you?’
Peter nodded greedily, then remembered his humility and bowed his head. ‘He did. With words so wondrous that I scarcely dared believe them.’
‘What did he say?’ called a soldier from the crowd.
‘He said: “Know my words and obey them. When you have entered Antioch, go to the cathedral of Saint Peter. There, hidden, you will find the spear of the centurion Longinus, the holy lance which pierced the side of our Saviour as he hung on the cross at Calvary.’
I felt warm breath against my ear as Sigurd leaned close. ‘I have seen the lance of Longinus. It is in Constantinople, in the Chapel of the Virgin at the palace.’
‘I know.’
Peter Bartholomew did not think so. ‘Suddenly, it seemed that the saint led me through the city and into the church of the apostle Peter. He reached his hand into the ground – stone and earth were like water to him – and drew forth the lance and gave it into my hands.’
Reliving his vision, Peter had stabbed a fist down and then raised it above his head, brandishing his invisible relic to the crowd. All stares were fixed on it.
‘The saint told me: “Behold the lance which opened Christ’s side, whence has come the whole world’s salvation.”
‘I held it in my hands and wept. I asked to take it to the Count of Saint-Gilles, for at this time we were still hard pressed outside the city walls, but the saint said, “Wait until the city is taken, for then your need will be greatest. At the hour I appoint, bring twelve men to this place and find it where I have hidden it.”
‘He plunged his hand back into the ground, before the steps which lead to the altar, and the lance was gone.’
I looked around. Whatever his failings, Peter Bartholomew was a convincing preacher. His vision seemed to have surpassed even the priest’s in the crowd’s estimation.
‘You said this happened while we were still camped before the walls,’ Adhemar probed.
Peter tilted his head defiantly. ‘It did.’
‘Why, then, do you only tell us now?’
‘Because I was afraid. Because I was poor and you were mighty. “Counts and bishops will not listen to a humble pilgrim,” I told myself. “They will think I tell lies to win favour, or food.” But the saint persisted. Twice more he visited me, commanding me to reveal this miracle, and each time, after he had gone, fear restrained me. Then, yesterday, he appeared again. His eyes flashed, and his red hair burned like fire. “Why do you contemn the Lord your God?” he demanded. “Why, when Christians suffer, do you hold back the words of salvation?”’
Peter’s head was bowed in shame, his hands clasped penitentially before him. ‘As soon as I could, I came to you, my lords, and confessed all. And I will swear it,’ he added, ‘by any holy relic or ordeal you demand.’
If Adhemar was tempted to demand such proof, he did not show it. ‘It is not necessary,’ he declared. ‘Yesterday, in the depths of our distress, as the city burned’ – he glanced significantly at Bohemond – ‘and the Turks assailed us, our Lord granted two visions to the faithful. Hearing them together, we cannot doubt His divine purpose. To this pilgrim He promised the great gift of the holy lance, and to Stephen relief four days hence. This is how it will come to pass. We will wait three days in fasting and prayer. On the fourth day, in accordance with Peter’s vision, we will take twelve men to the cathedral and open the ground where the saint prophesied. There, if we are true, the Lord will fulfil His promise and grant us His miracle.’
‘What if they find nothing but earth and stone?’ Sigurd whispered in my ear.
‘But first,’ Adhemar continued, ‘this holy revelation should rekindle the flame of God’s purpose in our hearts. Who can doubt that the Lord is with us? Though we are bloody and embattled, besieged by enemies and beset by suffering, He shares our torments and sustains us. We are His people, the sheep of His pasture, and He does not forget us. Therefore let every prince and noble, and every knight, pilgrim and servant, reconsecrate himself to our holy cause. Swear by the sacrament of Christ that you will not leave Antioch until we all leave Antioch together, in triumph or defeat as Christ wills it.’
Bohemond stepped forward, drew his sword, and held it before him with the hilt upright like a cross. ‘I swear by the cross, by the sacraments and by the saints, that I will remain in Antioch until death takes me or victory is assured.’
Count Raymond, eager to match this piety, knelt behind his own sword. ‘We are the fellowship of Christ. By one bread and one blood, we are made one with Him. I will not forsake Him.’ He rose and put his arm around Peter Bartholomew’s misshapen shoulders. ‘As for the herald of the Lord, I will take him into my camp and honour him.’
One by one, the other princes sank to their knees and made similar vows. Then Adhemar turned to the massed army and had them do likewise.
‘Our three days of fasting and penance have begun,’ he said. In the middle of the kneeling hordes, he alone remained standing. ‘Confess your sins, make clean your hearts, and prepare your souls for the eternal victory.’
A chant rose from one of the priests behind him. ‘Tradiderunt me in manus impiorum, et inter iniquos proiecerunt me . . .’
‘Congregati sunt adversum me fortes et sicut gigantes steterunt contra me . . .’ the army answered.
Sigurd and I slipped away, back down the mountain.
λ β
For three days we suffered fasting and penance as Adhemar had ordered. It needed little effort, for there was not a crumb of food to be had in Antioch. And although it was a time of prayer there was no respite from fighting. Each day Kerbogha attacked the Frankish defences, and each day Bohemond repelled him. At night I could see the watchfires burning on the mountain, and during the day the plumes of smoke where they cremated the dead. I did not return to the battle but spent my days pacing my short stretch of wall, looking out over the plain and the river, though I knew that no help would come.
On the third night Sigurd and I sat with Mushid on the top of our tower. The swordsmith was a curious presence who came and went to his own inscrutable schedule, but he had become a frequent guest during our time in the city. It was one of the few places where he could be safe, and I enjoyed his company. Though Anna thought him unsettling, I found that his talk diverted me from the evils which surrounded us. And I valued the morsels of information his travels occasionally unearthed.
‘All is not well with Kerbogha’s army,’ he was saying. ‘For almost a week, he has poured out his troops against Bohemond. Many Normans have died, but even more Turks have perished and the city has not been taken.’
‘It can only be a matter of days.’ Sigurd was in a foul humour, as he had been since we had returned from the mountain. ‘Our army is besieged by Turks on one side, and famine on the other. They cannot fight two enemies for long.’
Mushid nodded. ‘But Kerbogha has his enemies too. Thirst, for one. He has ten thousand men camped on that mountain, where there are no springs or streams to feed them. It is a week until midsummer, and every day they fight another battle. Each day they lose diminishes their strength.’
‘Each day we win diminishes ours.’
‘But Kerbogha’s army is a fragile creation. The Emir of Aleppo will not fight with the Emir of Damascus, because they have had their own war too recently. The Emir of Damascus looks over his shoulder, because in the south his lands are under attack from the Fatimids of Egypt. The Emir of Homs and the Emir of Menbij have a blood-feud, so they do not speak. The Saracens despise the Turks: they ask why they should fight so far from home when it is the Turks who will claim the spoils. And Kerbogha, whose rank is not so great as his reputation, must yoke these unruly beasts together to pull his chariot. If they continue to bite each other and pull apart, soon the axle will snap a
nd the charioteer will be left helpless.’
‘That is not the Ishmaelites you have described,’ I said. ‘It is the Franks. Bickering princes jealous of each other’s glory; different races divided against themselves. If Kerbogha’s army thirsts, it can retreat to the Orontes to drink. In our hunger, we can do nothing but starve.’
‘And why does an Ishmaelite care so little for the fate of his brethren?’ Sigurd asked. He did not dislike Mushid, but he did not trust him. He preferred the lines of battle to be clearly drawn; the presence of an Ishmaelite who was not an enemy unsettled him. ‘Whose side do you take?’
‘The side of war.’ Anna had climbed the stair below and emerged onto the tower, her pale dress stained with blood. ‘As long as nobody wins, his swords will keep gobbling up lives.’
‘How is the patient?’ I tried to deflect the conversation from the awkward direction she had sent it. ‘Has Quino spoken yet?’
Anna sat beside me. ‘Nothing has passed his lips save air – and little enough of that. He is dying quickly.’
‘He would be dead already if you didn’t waste your time on him,’ Sigurd complained. ‘Why should a murderer and a heretic live when worthier men die?’
Anna did not answer but looked at me for justification.
‘Because every life is precious to God.’ I glared at the others, trying to mask my discomfort. The truth, as they perhaps suspected, was that everything which mattered was beyond my grasp. My life was balanced on a sword-edge, whose hilt was in the hands of Franks who cared nothing for me. I would survive or fall as an unthought consequence of their destiny. Only in pursuing the truth of Drogo’s death did I have any mastery of my fate. Or perhaps I deceived myself.
‘Look there.’ Mushid had leaped to his feet and was pointing at the stars like some magus of old. ‘There – in the north.’
I stood. For a moment I saw nothing but the constellations, as fixed and immutable as ever; then, following Mushid’s outstretched arm, I saw a new star imposed on the heavens. In brightness it dimmed all the others, and its light seemed to grow broader and brighter as I watched.
