Siege of Heaven

by Tom Harper

  ‘What would you have me do then?’ Raymond’s defiance was gone, and I heard only an old man’s despair.

  ‘If someone is pushing against you with all his might, it is easier to unbalance him by stepping backwards than forwards.’

  ‘Not when you’re standing on the edge of a cliff.’ His words choked off in a fit of haggard coughing. He wiped his mouth on his blanket and continued. ‘There are many voices that say the same as you. The soldiers offered to acclaim me as leader of the whole army if I would lead them to Jerusalem. Did you know that?’

  ‘What did you say?’

  ‘I accepted, of course. I will lead the Army of God to Jerusalem, and if God wills it we will take it for Christ. As soon as Bohemond surrenders Antioch.’

  ‘You do not need Antioch,’ Nikephoros persisted. ‘It is a distraction.’

  ‘Of course I do not need Antioch,’ Raymond hissed. ‘But that is not a reason why Bohemond should have it either.’

  A thought struck me. ‘What do the pilgrims say?’

  The great swarm of peasants who followed the army like flies had never been happy with delay: rightly, for they only ever suffered or starved by it. At Antioch their frustrations had led many to question the authority of the princes – and some to ask still more dangerous questions.

  ‘The pilgrims can afford a simpler view of affairs,’ said Raymond shortly. ‘They hunger for Jerusalem, but my priests trim their appetites with a diet of humility and obedience. And Peter Bartholomew holds great sway over their thoughts.’

  ‘The visionary? The same Peter Bartholomew who found the holy lance?’ I glanced at the reliquary again in its shining forest of candles.

  Raymond’s single eye swivelled towards me with suspicion. We both knew that Peter Bartholomew’s journey to sanctity had been a circuitous one. ‘The same.’

  ‘Do you trust him to keep the pilgrims quiet?’

  ‘I hold the lance: he is bound to me. Besides, what do peasants know? They are unhappy, of course; they always are. They say we should have taken Jerusalem months ago, and that all our quarrels are just the vanity. But these are the same simpletons who believed that God would give them an invulnerable shield against Turkish arrows. When I see spears and arrows bouncing off them like rocks, then I will let them dictate my strategy.’

  ‘And if they do not let you wait that long?’

  Nikephoros was giving me a strange look, irritated by my interruption but intrigued by my purpose. I kept my eyes on Raymond, who had half-risen from his chair in anger.

  ‘I will wait as long as I choose, until the last peasant has rotted into the mud if necessary. I am the lord of thirteen counties, honoured by popes and the rightful captain of the Army of God. When Bohemond takes down his banners from Antioch and surrenders the keys to the citadel, and marches out his army, then we will join him on the road to Jerusalem. Until then, I will stay here and throttle him.’

  ‘His fixation with Bohemond will be his ruin,’ said Nikephoros darkly as we walked away. In a side-street, two women were fighting over what looked like a dog’s leg. One held the paw while the other pulled on the haunch, their thin faces scarlet with the effort. The woman with the paw let go and her adversary tumbled back into the mud, screeching with triumph that turned to anguish as the first woman stepped over her and stole the trophy away.

  ‘Does that matter?’ All I cared about now was finding Anna and Sigurd – and then going home. Other men could quarrel over Jerusalem if they chose – though I doubted they would ever see it.

  Nikephoros stopped in the road and turned to look at me. ‘Of course it matters. Nothing has changed, except that we must try even harder to work Bohemond out of Antioch. And Count Raymond, Christ help us, is our last hope for doing that.’

  I let my eyes sweep across the street, to the woman still lying in the mud lamenting her lost meal, and a ramshackle troop of Provençal soldiers picking their way up the slope. One had no boots and two others had no weapons. I gestured to them.

  ‘Do you think we will take Antioch with those?’

  ‘Of course not.’ Nikephoros turned away impatiently and continued on. ‘Did you listen to what I told the count? We must draw Bohemond out of Antioch.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘By going to Jerusalem.’

  I ran after Nikephoros and stepped in front of him, blocking his path. ‘Jerusalem is a myth, a lie concocted by priests and sold to peasants.’ I realised that I was shouting, that passers-by were looking with crooked eyes at the mad Greek raving in a foreign tongue. I did not care. ‘This army will die here. Not one man will ever see Jerusalem and even if they do, it will not solve one single thing.’

  Nikephoros’ cold eyes looked down on mine; clouds of air formed and dispersed between us as he breathed out.

  ‘The man who conquers Jerusalem will be a legend through the ages – a hero to rank with Caesar and Alexander. His power and authority will be boundless.’

  ‘Powerful enough to take on Bohemond?’

  Nikephoros gave the cruel laugh I had heard so often. ‘Powerful enough that Bohemond will not allow it to be anyone but himself. If he sees Raymond is about to conquer Jerusalem, he will flay his horse alive to be there first.’

  ‘But if Bohemond takes Jerusalem it will be his power that is magnified.’

  Nikephoros shrugged. ‘What does it matter? He will be out of Antioch. That is all the emperor cares for.’ He leaned closer, almost whispering in my ear. ‘Yes, Jerusalem is a myth for peasants. But it is also a myth peddled to kings and princes, a myth that inspires men to greatness and folly. This army will reach Jerusalem. You and I will see that it does – even if we have to carry Count Raymond every mile ourselves.’

  A gust of wind howled down off the mountains, whipping the snowflakes around us into turmoil. In the field beside us, a tent broke free from its guy ropes and billowed up, snapping like ravenous jaws, while men ran about in the firelight trying to hold it down. Nikephoros clapped his hands to force warmth into them.

  ‘But hopefully it will not come to that. Not if we can persuade others to do our work for us.’

  The snow was falling more thickly now, the flakes spiralling down like dust in the silver moonlight. The world closed off: the only sound was the faint protest as the snow underfoot yielded to our boots. I did not know where we were going, and I did not ask. How long had I been walking? I had marched across the plains and steppes of Anatolia in the legions; I had tramped the streets of the queen of cities, from sewers and slums to the imperial palaces, seeking wickedness and finding it all too often. I had walked – barely – over mountains, through the gates of Antioch and into the deserts of Egypt. Snow touched my face, melted, and ran down my cheeks like tears. Ahead of me, always two paces away, Nikephoros walked on. Snow had filled the folds of his cloak, so that spidery white lines crossed his shoulders like scars. He did not say a word to me, did not even turn to see that I was with him. I was a ghost, lingering unseen and unnoticed, haunting the footsteps of great men.

  We passed shivering sentries and came to another field where scattered fires burned holes in the blanket of snow. In the centre, beside the largest fire, stood a tent so white it stood out even against the surrounding snow. A banner emblazoned with five red crosses – the five wounds of Christ – hung from a spear before it.

  I stopped, as if the incessant press of snow had finally overwhelmed me and turned my soul to ice. Suddenly the smoke from the fire was no longer woodsmoke on a winter’s evening, but the smog of smouldering ruins and burned flesh. As the wind moaned in the trees, it seemed to carry Pakrad’s screams all the way from the mountaintop at Ravendan.

  ‘That – that is Duke Godfrey’s banner.’

  Nikephoros paused and looked back. Beyond him, I saw the guard at the tent door ready to challenge us, caught off balance by the sudden halt. ‘Of course it is Duke Godfrey’s banner. Who else can help us now?’ He frowned, remembering. ‘Keep quiet – and if you ever hope to see Constantinople ag
ain, do not repeat your accusations.’

  No doubt, in the village, counts and dukes would be feasting on roast boar, hot wine and honey cakes. Here, we might have been in a monk’s cell. No rugs or carpets covered the floor – only a thin cloth, which bore the imprint of every rock and hummock beneath it. The sole concession to comfort was a small brazier in the corner, though it did not even give enough heat to melt the snow that weighed down the canvas ceiling. Otherwise, a handful of stools, a table that might have been dragged by its legs all the way from Lorraine, and a dusty book lying open on a reading stand were the only furnishings.

  Nikephoros eyed our surroundings dismissively. ‘Is the duke of Lorraine such a pauper?’

  It was fortunate he had spoken in Greek, for at that moment one of the curtains swung back and Duke Godfrey strode into the room. I stared at him, unable to hide my hatred despite Nikephoros’ warning. He had not changed much: the weatherbeaten face that seemed set in a permanent look of disapproval, the stocky shoulders more like a ploughman’s than a duke’s, the pale blue eyes. I tried to imagine him standing over the captives at Ravendan, watching his henchmen burn out their sight, but though the memory was sharp the details were clouded.

  He looked at Nikephoros. ‘Welcome,’ he said courteously. He closed the book on the stand and covered it with a cloth. ‘I had not expected I would host an ambassador of your rank on this frozen evening, or I would have made preparations. As it is, all I can offer you are the spartan comforts that I require myself.’

  Evidently the attendant who announced our arrival had not troubled to mention my presence – why would he? – and Godfrey’s noble gaze was well-practised at ignoring servants in the background. Only as I started speaking, translating his greeting, did his eyes flick across to notice me. I was ready for him: though my voice never wavered, I held his gaze and watched with savage delight as recognition bit. Even he, schooled in the wiles of courtly intrigue as he was, could not hide his shock. Just for a second, the mask slipped: colour drained from his face and his eyes widened in panic. By the time I finished relaying his welcome he had collected himself.

  Nikephoros, standing in front of me, could not see my expression. ‘Tell him I am grateful he has received me so late and unannounced.’

  I repeated it in the Frankish dialect. ‘No doubt you did not expect to see us.’

  ‘You had been gone so long I feared you might be dead.’

  ‘As you see, I survived.’

  Two servants moved the brazier to the centre of the room, bringing chairs for Nikephoros and Godfrey and a wooden stool for me. Though outwardly calm, I could see the uncertainty in Godfrey’s eyes as they darted between me and Nikephoros, gauging who was the greater threat. He had never seen me at the monastery, I realised; he did not know how much I knew or guessed of his role, and it troubled him. There at least I had the advantage.

  He offered Nikephoros a taut, insincere smile. ‘What brings the ambassador of Byzantium to my tent on this bleak night?’

  ‘The same thing that has brought all the princes to this forsaken town.’

  ‘The council?’ He laughed. ‘If you have come to persuade me to side with Count Raymond, you could have saved yourself a cold journey. I am not interested in who rules Antioch.’

  ‘You swore an oath to return the emperor his lands.’

  Godfrey’s face soured at the memory. He had spent months trying to escape having to make that oath, and had only relented at the point of a sword. I wondered if his theft of the emperor’s ring was somehow meant to revenge that defeat. ‘Bohemond swore the same. If he has not honoured his word, it is a matter for his soul and conscience. Not mine.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Nikephoros calmly. ‘The question of Antioch is a side issue – a distraction. As you say, it does not concern you.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘It concerns Count Raymond and Bohemond. But while they wrestle together, each trying to choke the other, we are all sinking into the mire.’

  ‘Did you come all this way on a winter’s night to tell me that?’

  ‘Antioch is not worth losing this war for. Already, while you wasted the summer and autumn, the Fatimid vizier marched on Jerusalem and took it. He has already had six months to repair its defences and stuff it full of his men. If we wait another six months he will have made it impregnable.’

  Godfrey leaned forward and stirred the coals with a poker, tapping it against the brazier’s edge to clear the ash. I tensed, memories of Tancred and the blinding iron rushing back to me, then wondered if Godfrey had deliberately done it to provoke me. I glanced at him, but his expression betrayed nothing.

  ‘Six months or six years or six thousand years: it does not matter. The caliph cannot make Jerusalem impregnable. Jerusalem is the city of the living God. He will deliver it to us in His own time.’

  ‘Only if we reach it.’

  ‘We will reach it,’ said Godfrey stubbornly. He paused. ‘Do you know the emperor Charlemagne?’ He must have seen me perplexed by the barbarian name, for he added: ‘The emperor Charles the Great. I know the Greeks did not recognise that title, but he was emperor of the west long after you had surrendered your right to it. He was my ancestor.’

  With a solemn face, he stretched out his hand palm down. On his fourth finger, a black stone bulged from the heavy ring he wore, its gold scratched to an ancient dullness. Once again, I wondered if he was testing me by provoking memories of another ring. ‘This was Charlemagne’s ring.’

  Nikephoros bowed his head in respect. ‘I knew your own reputation, Duke Godfrey – long before I met you – but I admit I did not know your ancestry.’

  Godfrey gave a smug smile. ‘That was centuries ago. After his death there was not a man alive who possessed even half as much authority or ability. The empire he had ruled alone he divided between his three sons, who divided it among themselves and among their heirs until all that remained was my own duchy of Lorraine. But that is history. While he lived, the emperor Charlemagne made a pilgrimage of his own to Jerusalem. That is where he took the banner of the five wounds, which you saw outside. And that,’ he concluded, ‘is why you do not need to question my passion to see Jerusalem. I will never rule over the empire of my ancestors. I would not wish it and I doubt I could manage it. The world was smaller then, or the men bigger. But in this small thing at least I can follow his example, and honour his memory.’

  Godfrey leaned forward on his stool, his eyes half closed, perhaps imagining the great exploits of his ancestor. Nikephoros pressed his fingers together.

  ‘My master the emperor never doubted your zeal – or your faith. Indeed, he relied on you to carry this campaign forward when he knew other men would falter. Which is why – ’

  Godfrey held up a hand. Lamplight gleamed where it caught the band of his ring. ‘When I go to Jerusalem, it will be of my own will and desire, not under duress from any man – Norman, Provençal or Greek.’

  ‘What of the unity of the Army of God?’

  ‘What of the unity of the Army of God? If there was such a thing, you would not be here now. When there is, I will happily follow the army where it chooses to go. But I will not drop to my knees and beg. When God ordains the time they will do what He requires.’

  His tone was measured and his words precise, but there was no mistaking the unbending pride behind them. He rose; Nikephoros and I followed.

  ‘Thank you for coming to speak with me,’ Godfrey said, with the same efficient courtesy he had shown when we arrived. ‘If we all spoke more often together, things would go better with us.’

  ‘Then I will hope tomorrow brings accord.’

  Nikephoros bowed again, and was about to go when Godfrey said, ‘You said you were in Egypt, at the caliph’s court. Did you hear any word of my liege-man, Achard of Tournai? He travelled there nine months ago as part of our embassy, but I have heard nothing from him since the summer.’

  Nikephoros halted in surprise, then crossed himself. ‘While we were in Egypt, the
caliph turned against all Christians at his court and tried to kill us. A few of us escaped; Achard did not. He drowned in the Nile while we fought the caliph’s guards.’

  Godfrey lowered his eyes. ‘By the waters of Babylon I lay down and wept. It was a risk he took, but I will mourn his loss. He was a good man and a zealous servant.’

  ‘He fought bravely to the end.’ Nikephoros, so practised in the nice phrases and smooth lies of diplomacy, sounded unexpectedly false when discussing a man’s death.

  ‘I am glad to hear it.’

  Godfrey inclined his head to dismiss us and we retreated from the tent. We had not gone six paces when a servant scuttled out and called, ‘You have forgotten your cloak, Demetrios Askiates.’

  I touched a hand to my shoulders, feeling the thick wool of my cloak clasped where it should be. Nikephoros raised an eyebrow, but said nothing.

  ‘I had better fetch it.’

  Every muscle in my body tensed as I stepped back into Godfrey’s chamber. He would not harm me with Nikephoros waiting outside and half the Frankish army camped nearby, I told myself. I still could not keep from shivering as I saw him standing over the brazier, stirring the coals. How many hours had I spent during our captivity in Egypt brooding over his treachery and pondering my revenge? Yet now that I stood face to face with him, alone, I could not touch him.

  ‘Did I forget my cloak?’ I asked.

  ‘You were supposed to be dead.’

  ‘By God’s mercy, we escaped the Egyptians.’

  ‘I was not talking of the Egyptians.’ He raked me with a long, searching look. ‘I do not know how you survived, or what you learned, but if you say one word against me I will make you wish you had died in the fires at Ravendan.’

  I kept silent, fixing him with a stare of plain hatred.

  ‘You do not want to make an enemy of me,’ he warned.

  ‘I never did.’

  He banged the poker against the rim of the brazier. It rang with a mournful, hollow clang. ‘You had something that I needed. Now that I have it, there is no reason for us to be enemies.’ He jabbed the poker towards me and I flinched. ‘Go home, Demetrios Askiates. Go home to your family. Leave behind these things that do not concern you. No good will come of it if you stay here.’