by Tom Harper
His smooth features creased with concern. ‘What has come over you, Demetrios? Are you unwell?’
I jabbed the spearhead at his belly, and he jumped back in alarm. Fixing his stare on mine, he laid the sword on the ground with great deliberation. As he straightened, his face was clear and guileless as the sky.
‘Have you joined the Franks in their hatred of my race and my faith? Will you kill me in the name of your god?’
‘If I kill you, it will be your own doing.’
He held out his arms, like a priest administering a blessing. ‘I will not provoke you.’
‘You killed Drogo.’ The spear twitched in my hand as I said it.
‘I was Drogo’s friend.’
‘Then you betrayed his friendship.’
Mushid shook his head in slow sadness. ‘I honoured it to the end. I grieved for his death. Why do you accuse me, Demetrios?’
‘Quino. He has few breaths left in him, but there were enough for him to name you as the one who led them into sin and idolatry.’
Everything in the room seemed suddenly very still: Mushid, my spear, the light which pierced the slit window. When the swordsmith spoke again, his words were sharp and finely crafted. ‘You believe the single, dying word of a heretic Norman? A man from a race so full of hate for my own? The thought of an Ishmaelite left alive in Antioch must have tormented his soul, and so he has sent you, his willing accomplice, to finish the murder his countrymen have committed. Nor can I answer his charge, for doubtless if we go down he will be dead.’
‘He has not seen you, Mushid. He did not know you were here, or even alive. What would it profit him to name you?’
‘He knew I was Drogo’s friend. He hated me as an infidel. I am easy to blame – especially if he wished to hide his own guilt.’
‘He was about to die. There was no gain in deception.’
Mushid allowed a smile to break the tense set of his face. ‘There is much difference between dying and death.’
‘Not for Quino. You may say what you will, but you will not keep me from believing him. You befriended Drogo when his soul was troubled, and you offered him secret knowledge of ancient evils. You led him to the cave at Daphne, and you introduced him to the rites of Mithra.’
‘Mithra?’ Impatience began to rise in Mushid’s voice. ‘I have never heard of this Mithra.’
I remembered Quino’s words on the mountain. ‘You named him Ahriman.’
‘Ahriman, Mithra – I am a Muslim. It is forbidden to worship any god but Allah.’
‘As you yourself once told me, your faith permits things in war which are not otherwise allowed. Passing as a Christian among your enemies, for example.’
‘Only to a purpose. How would I gain if I introduced Drogo and Quino and their companions to the worship of false gods?’
Mushid was mocking me – I could hear it in his voice, see it in his sneering eyes.
‘How would you gain?’ I wondered. ‘You found them wandering in the wilds of heresy and doubt. Their friends and brothers had died; disease and famine ravaged their camp. The army faltered before Antioch, and so – it seemed – did their God. You came among them as a wolf among sheep; you preyed on their thirst for salvation. They were lost, and you promised them a way home. Instead, you took them over the precipice, into the abyss of apostasy whence they could not return. Once they had bowed down before Mithra, or Ahriman or whatever evil name you worshipped him by, they were beyond all hope of redemption. They were chained into sin, and you held the key.’
The sneer was gone from Mushid’s face. His gaze flickered past me, as if looking at something over my shoulder, but I did not turn to follow it. The door was shut behind me and I had not heard it open: there was no one there. Nor did I doubt that Mushid, the maker and wielder of swords, would be past my guard in an instant if I ever relaxed it.
‘Why did I do that?’ he asked. It was not a taunt this time. Perhaps he was curious to hear his deeds recounted to him, or to test my skill at guessing.
‘I do not know. I do not know who you serve. You are an Ishmaelite, yet you worked to betray the Ishmaelites who held Antioch, to their ruin. You are a Saracen, yet you mingle freely with Franks and Romans. Whose side do you take, Mushid?’
He laughed softly. ‘You see much, Demetrios – but only with the eyes of the Rum. When you look west, you see Franks and Normans, Provençals, Lotharingians, Bulgarians, Serbians and English. A man drops one word from your creed, or bakes his bread differently, and he is of a different church. Not one detail is missed. But when you look east, you and all your people, you see only dark faces and turbans. Turks, Arabs, Egyptians, Persians, Berbers – you do not care which we are when we cross your path. You do not care whether we are of the Ahl al-Sunna or the Shi’at ’Ali, whether we obey the Caliph in Baghdad or in Al-Qahira, because you do not understand why it should matter.’
‘What is your faith?’ I asked.
‘It does not matter. I am of the minority – indeed, even in the minority I am of the minority. We are the few in the midst of the many. We walk in shadows and meet in secret and whisper in men’s ears. Yet our faith is pure.’
‘You oppose the Christians?’
Mushid rolled his eyes. ‘I am like you: I oppose whoever does not believe. I told you once that when you came into Asia Minor you blundered into an ancient game. Did it not occur to you that I too was part of that game?’
‘And Drogo and his companions? Were they part of it too?’ There was so much that I did not know, so many tangled questions, but at last my mind began to cleave a path through them. ‘Did you hope that by leading them into this unspeakable sin you would gain a hold by which you could govern them? That they would be your spies and agents in the Christian army? Did you kill Drogo and Rainauld when they refused you?’
‘Drogo was a willing adept. He refused me nothing.’
We were skirting the truth, I was sure of it. Mushid’s words had the manner of practised evasions, careful twists of fact, riddles. Even now, confronted with his deceit at the point of my spear, he played with me.
‘If Drogo did not refuse you—’
How to tell what happened next? From the wall behind me, I heard running footsteps approach. Before I could think, the door was flung open and Anna’s voice was shouting at me that Quino was dead. But I could not listen, for the arc of the opening door had caught the butt of my spear and wrenched it away, throwing me off balance. It was all the opportunity that Mushid needed. His blade was in his hand and he was past the tip of my spear, lithe as a tiger beneath his white robe. A stinging pain exploded in my head as the fist which grasped his sword thumped into my face, and as I reeled backwards I saw the blade driving for Anna. I was powerless to prevent it; she fell beneath his charge and did not move.
I scrambled to my feet and ran to the doorway. Mushid had not paused to savour his victory, had not even looked back on his handiwork: already he was in the far tower and descending the stairwell. There was a Varangian at its foot; I shouted to him to stop the Saracen, but even as he looked up to see who hailed him Mushid pushed past and sprinted into the alley beyond.
Fearful of what I might see, of finding something from which there would be no release, I lowered my gaze to where Anna lay at my feet. She was on her back, eyes closed; I could not see any blood, but I knew that meant little.
Her eyes blinked open.
‘Are you hurt?’ I could hardly bear to ask it, for fear of the answer.
‘His blade passed by me. Why—’
I left her question unanswered. As much as I knew, I could explain later. For now, a single purpose drove me, hopeless though it was. Mushid had already vanished into the alley when I reached the door; by the time I was at the foot of the wall, he would have had enough time to be halfway up the mountain. Nonetheless, I chased him. With every pounding stride I offered prayers to God: that I would find Mushid, that I would avenge the evils he had worked, that I would strike him down for assaulting Anna. After a ti
me I began to see the futility of my headlong search; my malnourished legs began to falter, my lungs to ache. I remembered the grace which had spared Anna from harm, and offered belated thanks for that, but still I stumbled on.
I came into the square in front of the cathedral and halted – not from pain or reason, but because a sudden crowd blocked my path. The great throng of the morning had returned, and though the light was fading, all stared at the figure standing on the steps before the portico. The cone of his bishop’s mitre was silhouetted against the light of the candles which his acolytes held behind him and his hand was raised aloft, clasping a bundle of purple cloth. It was barely larger than the fist which held it: if it was the spear, it was no great portion of it.
The crowd fell silent as Adhemar spoke.
‘The lance is found.’
All around me, men and women fell to their knees in wonder. Some beat their brows on the ground; others lifted their arms to Heaven and sang hymns of praise and thanksgiving. Even in the twilight, every face radiated exultant joy. Sounds of ecstasy and weeping filled the air.
‘Salvation has come.’
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And God came down, and dwelt among us, and we beheld his glory, the evangelist says. I wonder. Was it so simple? If I had lived a thousand years earlier, would I have known Christ as the Messiah, or would I have joined the crowds who jeered him on the cross for an impostor and a fraud? Until Antioch, I imagined myself with the apostles; now, I am not so sure. Did I witness a miracle? From what I have been taught of the ways of God, there is no question: a poor man, despised by his people but beloved of Christ, dreamed a vision; the saint’s message was obeyed, and the promised relic was found in the appointed place. What could be more obvious?
Yet knowing the ways of man, doubts remain. A heretic had this dream months earlier, he said, yet he did not reveal it until his crimes were known and his punishment was at hand. It saved him from death in flames. Those princes in the army most likely to benefit seized on his prophecy, and presided over its fulfilment. And when even they had lost hope – I later heard – when the diggers cast down their picks and spades in despair, it was Peter Bartholomew who leaped into the pit and scrabbled on his knees until he unearthed the precious fragment. Some said that it looked more like a roofer’s nail than the tip of a lance; others swore that they had seen the sacred blood still crusted on its point. It seems to me now that they believed, and then saw as they believed. For my part, I did not know what to believe.
One day during the fortnight after the discovery of the lance, I put my thoughts to Adhemar. I doubt that I was the first to ask him, for his answer was practised.
‘Saint Augustine writes that there is only one miracle, the miracle of miracles, the creation of this world. All that is in this world proceeds from that, and is thereby miraculous. The signs and portents that we ascribe to God’s wondrous acts do not occur contrary to nature, but by it. If it seems to us that the Lord has gone against the natural order of things, it is merely our understanding of the natural order which is imperfect.’
It did not seem to me that he had answered my question, but I dared not challenge him further. Too many of my doubts about the miracle’s provenance attached to his role in it.
Curiously, it was Anna who defended Adhemar best. I had expected that she, so sceptical of mystics and soothsayers, would dismiss the lance as a ruse and a sham. Instead, she seemed happy to accept it.
‘Of course it is ambiguous,’ she said. ‘Of course it is open to every suspicion and doubt. How else could the Lord test our faith?’
‘The conjurors in the market seek my faith. I do not oblige them simply because they ask.’
‘Because your reason tells you that they are bent on fraud. But how would you have answered if a humble carpenter had proclaimed himself the Son of God, the Saviour of the world, and called you to cast off all possessions and follow him?’
‘That was different. He performed miracles by which he might be known.’
Anna folded her arms. ‘Exactly.’
And though I prayed every night, imploring Christ to strengthen my faith beyond the weakness of doubt, the truth remained veiled.
Certainly, for those who did believe, the miraculous beneficence of the lance was plain. On the very day when it was found, Kerbogha’s army came down off the mountain, leaving only a passive garrison to guard the citadel. Some said it was because they were exhausted, parched of water and broken by too many days of defeat. But Bohemond himself declared that a single further assault would have shattered his ranks, and so this respite was ascribed to the lance. Indeed, its power seemed to have robbed Kerbogha of all stomach for battle: not only did he withdraw from the mountain, but he did not seek to break down our defences elsewhere either. He disposed his army around Antioch’s walls, besieging the gates and bridges, and waited for us to starve.
And there, even the most fervent advocates of the lance began to lose faith. Kerbogha’s new strategy saved us from the press of battle, but nothing could cure the misery of our condition. Famine consumed us. Each day it seemed there was nothing to eat, yet each day after there was less. Limbs shrank into themselves until skin and bone fused together, while bellies – by some cruel junction of humours – swelled as if we had gorged ourselves. Men pulled apart dung with their bare hands, seeking even a single grain which might remain undigested. We stripped the trees of their leaves and ate those, boiling them into green soups to stretch them further. Afterwards it looked as though winter had come to the orchards. The few who still had horses cut open the beasts’ veins, draining their blood into cups and drinking it. One day I saw a Lotharingian knight lead his horse through the streets, shouting that for a bezant any man could buy the cup of salvation. Later, I saw a mob chase him away, hurling abuse and stones and beating on his heels with sticks. I could not tell if it was the greed or the blasphemy which had offended them.
Such was our hunger that time itself seemed to contract. Counting now, it seems impossible that a mere twelve days passed from taking the city to finding the lance but that we endured a full two weeks of starvation afterwards. With no battles, and no strength, the period passed like a dream. My sight grew hazy, as if I was fading from the world, and my mouth was filled with a sweetness like ripe fruit, though I had eaten none in months. Every day I sat on my tower, half-asleep, staring out on the vastness of Kerbogha’s camp, the opulence of his tents and the brilliance of the horsemen who rode between them. At night, I lay half-awake on my stony bed, listening to the bleating of the herds that Kerbogha’s army had brought to feed themselves. I remembered the pagan legend of King Tantalus, neck-high in water but ravaged by an unquenchable thirst, and wondered if the lance had brought us not to Heaven but to Hell.
One evening, while Anna and I lay sleepless in the tower, I confessed the secret of my part in the city’s downfall, my guilt for the slaughter that followed. It had weighed so heavy on my soul that I feared it might be too enormous to reveal, but now I did not have the strength to withhold it. It poured out, almost unbidden, and Anna listened in silence. When I was done, I could hardly bear to hear her response.
Again she surprised me. Her words were neither harsh nor angry, but gentle. ‘It was not your doing. If we had not come into the city, Kerbogha would have crushed us in our camp. What happened afterwards, the slaughter of the Ishmaelites – that is for the Normans to repent, if God will forgive them. You cannot take the burden of their sins upon yourself. There was only ever one man who did that, and he died a thousand years ago.’
Reason told me that she spoke truly, but reason alone could not wash my conscience clean. Yet her words proved to be a balm: at first they made little difference, but over time, working their way into the wound, they began to knit together the lacerations in my soul, to heal me. Even so, the scar would remain.
The Army of God was dying. Day by day, life by life, we withered on the famished vine of Antioch. If the miracle had come, it had not been enough. So, thirteen day
s after the finding of the lance, two days before the high feast of Saints Peter and Paul, Adhemar summoned every man in the army to the square in front of the church. The casket which held the holy relic of the lance was placed on a table before him, open to view. The princes, Bohemond and Tancred, Hugh, Godfrey, and the two Roberts lined up behind him. Only Raymond was absent. Whatever miraculous powers the lance held, they had not helped him. Nor, if he had hoped to use it to prick Bohemond’s swelling ambition, had it served his purpose. All his might and riches could not ward off the wasting disease that ravaged the hungry in their weakness. He had kept to his bed for a week, and there had been no others with the power or the inclination to check Bohemond. He was undisputed master of the army; Raymond, it was rumoured, was close to death.
Adhemar fared little better. His health had been failing for months, and though he could still walk and ride, the pain of the effort was clear each time I saw him. Only the need to keep his flock together, the knowledge that his presence alone could unite the princes and reassure the pilgrims, gave him strength to continue. Looking up at him now, I could see little remnant of the kindness and patience which had once animated him. He had given his soul to nourish the army, and there was nothing left of him.
‘Brothers in Christ,’ he began. ‘Pilgrims on the holy road to Jerusalem. Truly it is written, “The Lord scourges with whips every child whom he loves.”’
A thousand skeletal faces stared lifelessly back at him.
‘But it is also written, “There is a time for peace, and a time for war.” Look around you. If the time for war is not now, it will never be. Our strength fades, our hopes die. In another month, Kerbogha will march into Antioch and find only the dust of our bones. Have we come so far, for that? Has the Lord brought us into this wilderness to kill us with hunger?’
Adhemar lifted his gaze above the crowd, stretched out his staff and spoke to the heavens. ‘Lord, why should your wrath burn so hot against your chosen people? By your mighty hand were we led from the lands of our birth: will Kerbogha the Terrible now boast that you brought us here only to kill us in the shadow of the mountain, to tear us from the face of the Earth? Avert your wrath. Do not wreak disaster on us in the sight of our enemies.’
