The Crusader

by Michael Eisner

  “Francisco,” Ramón said, “you are a gracious boy. But you brood unnecessarily. Your approach to life is rather grave. I think a visit to this harem would be just the right medicine for you. Yes, I am certain of that. Bernard …”

  “Yes, Uncle,” Bernard replied.

  “Remind me,” Ramón said, “once we have taken this castle that Francisco is to be the first knight to enter the harem.”

  Ramón continued speaking, teasing various knights, making fun of Baron Bernières’ elaborate wardrobe—“I was surprised that the Baron did not wear his golden epaulets to the battle. They were quite becoming back in the refectory in Acre. Don’t you think so, Andrés?”—any topic but the battle in which we would soon be engaged. Ramón’s words did not banish the fear—the dread that would grip my heart when I thought of running down the plank onto the castle tower. But those terrible moments of isolation diminished, fading in the glare of Ramón’s valor, in the casual, undaunted tone of his voice.

  There were some knights, veterans, perhaps just as brave as Ramón, who guarded the source of their courage jealously as if revealing or sharing it would diminish its strength. Ramón offered his bravery as a deep trough from which we all could drink freely.

  When the engine was full, the Hospitaller foot soldiers began wheeling the tower forward, under increasing fire from the Saracen defenders. The flanking boards, nailed to the sides of the siege engine that morning, fanned out from the structure like a set of wings. They provided protection for those on the ground, but the Saracens were still able to pick off at regular intervals the soldiers who wheeled us. We could hear their grunts under the heavy burden, the woeful cries of the wounded, the urgent calls for reinforcements when their casualties mounted. The sounds of war sometimes drowned out Ramón’s discourse, but he kept speaking.

  The movement of the tower was agonizingly slow. At several points, the engine stopped altogether. I lost track of time—had it been minutes, hours, or days that we remained in that dark chamber? I had no idea where we were in relation to the castle—whether we were close or many feet away from the battle. We could hear the constant thump of arrows against the tower—the wood splintering. Sometimes we could see the glint of an arrowhead protruding inside the engine. The heat from the burning arrows raised the temperature to a suffocating, almost intolerable degree. The sweat from my brow dripped down into my eyes, but my helmet was fixed in place, ready for battle, and I dared not take it off to relieve the painful sting. My throat ached from dryness.

  If the engine caught fire, there would be no escape. The tower would make an impressive funeral pyre for the Knights of Calatrava. I wondered how they would report our demise in Spain. They could not say that we died before engaging the enemy—that after all our training, after King Jaime had personally requested our presence in the Levant, that not one infidel fell under the mighty swords of Calatrava. No, they would create a more glorious ending.

  How would my parents take the news? It would kill my mother. One son dies by water, the other by fire. Two martyrs in the family. My father would run faster, travel farther, from one jousting tournament to another. He could not, though, escape the bitter reality that his seed had been extinguished.

  Fortunately, the fire did not enter our chamber. The vinegar-soaked hides that coated the tower proved an effective antidote to the flaming arrows. I doubt that hell itself was hotter than that chamber, though.

  The soft words of a comrade diverted my attention. I recognized his voice. Enrique Sánchez, Esmeralda’s young lover, was reciting the prayer for the dead.

  The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want.

  Before Enrique reached the second verse, most of my neighbors had joined him. I did not chant the prayer, although I derived some comfort from those familiar verses, humming along to the soothing meter.

  He leadeth me beside the still waters.

  He restoreth my soul.

  Still waters sometimes rage underneath. I thought of Isabel’s struggle under the ice, her gray eyes, her smooth hands, her silver tears. Her silken cloth pressed against my chest, drenched in my sweat, perhaps soon in my blood. I wondered what she was doing at the moment—practicing archery, gossiping with the serfs.

  Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies.…

  Mine enemies—these nameless soldiers who waited for me. The mind can become trapped in the dread of the approaching trial, the gnawing suspicion that death waits just beside you. The darkness inside the engine would be for many of my comrades the very shadow of death closing fast.

  The knights on levels below accompanied Enrique’s prayer—a funeral dirge—a chant of suns forever setting. The whole tower swayed with the rhythmic ballad and the slashing arrows of the infidels.

  I could hear Ramón, just beside me, fidgeting uneasily with his armor. I suspect that he was uncomfortable with the recitation of such a somber, pessimistic prayer. He probably thought it would contribute to a certain resignation not compatible with the fierce mood required for a swift and brutal assault on the tower.

  Ramón did not attempt to stop the ballad, though. I do not think he could have if he tried. Instead, he joined in the rendering. His bold voice overshadowed Enrique’s melancholy tone and injected a note of defiance. Somehow, under Ramón’s direction, the sorrowful melody transformed into song of combat. The prayer became a petition not for us but for the infidels who would soon die under our swords.

  We knew that we were close to the castle walls when we could hear the shouting of the infidels, peculiar, enticing words, and smell the distinctive sulfurous smoke from the explosions of Greek fire that beset the Saracen defenders. My sword was shaking in my hands, clattering against the cedar planks. I squeezed the handle with both hands, but I could not stop the tremor.

  I am going to die, I thought. Andrés and I will join my brother before the day is done. Perhaps in seconds. What happens if my legs will not move forward when the gangplank lowers? Must I reach the castle tower in order to redeem my brother’s soul? Must I kill one of the infidels? Or simply die with honor? Is that enough to lift Sergio’s soul to paradise? Is that enough for my own deliverance? Lord, please give me the strength to serve You.

  The gangplank made a loud thud when it landed on the tower. A blinding sunlight flooded the chamber. My eyes hurt from the effort to see. I heard shouts from all around me, “Go, go, go!” The men in front of me shuffled toward the exit. The first wave of knights hit the gangplank greeted by the crisp sound of crossbows snapping, savage howls, horrific screams. Our sanctuary had been ruptured.

  When my eyes adjusted, I could see the ramp. It sloped slightly downward, a thick wooden board—ten feet wide, fifteen feet long. A walk of death. Over the shoulders of the knights before me, I could see several Saracens. They were kneeling, aiming their crossbows at the opening. The castle’s stone tower was round, crenellated, so that the Saracen archers could aim their crossbows in the gaps of the fortification.

  Our knights spilled out, pushed onto the plank. They ran down the ramp, frenzied, hunted. Galindo Fáñez was holding the sword that only hours before had pressed against the neck of our French server. He was moving ponderously down the ramp. He held his shield in front of him and raised his sword timidly. The arrows tore into his shield, dismantling it, until he was holding only the leather handle. Then the arrows ripped into his hauberk, screeching through the metal mesh. Galindo stopped suddenly and turned toward the engine, distracted, as if he had forgotten something—in his face, a doleful confusion.

  When Pancho, El Cidiota, stepped out onto the plank, he hesitated for a split second, perusing his adversaries. In that instant, an arrow bored into his neck. An arc of blood cascaded from the wound. The stream fell like rain past the edge of the plank. Pancho pitched forward facedown on the plank.

  Enrique Sánchez was next. With Esmeralda’s leather pendant dangling from his neck, he dashed down the ramp.

  “For you, Esmeralda,” Enrique shouted, “with
all my soul.”

  Enrique was shot in the stomach. He continued down the ramp until he stumbled onto the tower.

  Still the incessant commands—“Go, go, go!”—echoed in the chamber. Just outside, the screams of the dying.

  Ramón and his deputies stood to my right. They were advancing slowly toward the opening. Andrés and I moved directly behind them.

  We were close to the entrance. Our turn would come in seconds. I could hear the Hospitaller knights below. They were ascending the ladder to fill the places left by our dead comrades.

  And then we stood before the light, a crystal-blue sky. We were in full view of the enemy, a company of twenty or so Muslim archers spaced evenly around the circle. Not one seemed to be injured. Most were in the act of reloading their crossbows.

  This was the moment of which Ramón had spoken during our exercises in Calatrava—the “window of vulnerability.” It was crucial, according to Ramón, to close the gap between the archers and us as soon as possible. At a distance, the Saracens could pick us off one by one. In close combat, the Saracens would have great difficulty defending themselves against our heavy swords. If we could reach them before they reloaded, if we could reach them before they aimed their crossbows, we would stand a good chance.

  Followed by his two deputies, Ramón stormed down the plank. The Saracens seemed intrigued, puzzled by the fierce cries. They looked up from their weapons to the charging knights. Ramón’s sword came down like a tornado. His victim’s head snapped back, severed from his body. The man remained standing, frozen in the act of loading his crossbow, as if the loss of his head were only a momentary setback. Slashing, thrusting, Bernard and Roberto fell upon a trio of archers to the left. They reached the group before crossbows were raised.

  Andrés and I followed. Ramón’s wild cries resounded in my heart. I sprinted forward, anxious to find a destination for my sword. As I crossed the bridge, I looked down to the earth, one hundred feet away. The broken bodies of my brothers were splayed on the dusty ground. When I looked up, I fixed my sight on one of the infidel defenders. He was just toward the right on the tower. I ran toward him. He was putting an arrow in the chamber of his crossbow. I heard my own voice—a foreign, barbarous cry. The Saracen placed the arrow in its shaft. He pulled back the bow. Before raising his weapon, he glanced up at me. His black eyes desolate. My sword came down on his head, splitting his skull like a coconut under the knife. The warm, gray juices spattered like myrrh on my burning cheeks.

  The man crumpled forward. To my left, a Saracen trained his crossbow on me. I raised my shield to defend myself. He released the arrow. It flew toward me slowly. It seemed to take several seconds to reach my shield. It punctured the wood easily. The arrow blade slowed and stopped just before reaching my chest. I jettisoned the shield and charged him. He was reaching for his dagger when I ran him through with my sword. The blade, razor-sharp, plunged into his stomach with no more resistance than if I had thrust the weapon into the sea.

  The sword’s removal was more difficult. I tried to pull it up with one hand. The dead man resisted, his entrails clutching the instrument as if it belonged to him. As I was struggling to extricate my sword, I saw out of the corner of my eye one of the Saracens charging toward me with an axe at his side. It occurred to me that I could let go of the sword and use my own dagger to fend off the attacker. But a dagger is a weak defense against an axe. I thought I could wrench the sword free in time to block the imminent blow. I put both hands on the hilt. I placed my foot on the dead man’s shoulder. I pulled with all my might.

  The Saracen was quicker than I anticipated. He was upon me before I could salvage the weapon. His axe coiled back, ready to spring toward me. I braced for the impact, as if somehow my taut muscles could deflect the blade. I did not feel afraid. Not anymore. The fear had not disappeared. It was simply pushed to the side. There was no space for it.

  The axe did not strike, though. My assailant staggered. He dropped his weapon and fell forward. He wrapped his arms around me. As his grip slackened, his body slid down my own. I saw over his shoulder the hilt of a dagger welded to his back. Ramón stood about ten feet away, his right hand open, as if gesturing to this unimagined embrace. When the Saracen fell to the ground, I resumed the battle to loosen my sword. It finally came free, the blade coated in a scarlet sheen.

  No Saracen stood before me. I turned around and beheld the exit of the siege engine—a glorious sight. The arrows of the Saracens were no longer concentrated on the opening. Our knights rushed forth fearlessly. The fresh soldiers chased down the few Saracens that remained alive. They killed some by sword. Others they threw off the tower. The screams of the condemned men echoed through the valley like a flock of raving seagulls.

  I fell to my knees. I closed my eyes. The victorious shouts of my comrades enveloped me.

  Blessed Sergio. I am alive. Thank you, Lord. Thank you for giving me the courage to serve you.

  When I opened my eyes, I saw Uncle Ramón on bended knee. He was stroking gently the head of one of our fallen knights. It was Roberto, his deputy. Dead.

  Enrique lay beside Roberto’s body. His moans drew Ramón’s attention. He was breathing in short gasps. He had taken two arrows in his stomach. His intestines were oozing out of his chain mail and staining his tunic. He had fouled himself, the stench from his guts and excrement overpowering. I approached him, unseen, staring at his ashen face. Ramón held his hand.

  “Enrique, it seems,” Ramón said softly, “you may enter the harem before me. Do not hog all the beautiful women.”

  Enrique coughed, blood sputtered on Ramón’s cheeks.

  Ramón bent over him and grasped his hand. “I am proud of you,” Ramón said. “You fought with valor, Enrique. I will visit your family to tell them of your heroism and your sacrifice here.”

  I do not think Enrique heard Ramón’s words of consolation. He was wheezing heavily and seemed to be focusing on the clouds just beyond Ramón.

  “Please say goodbye to Esmeralda,” Enrique said. “Pay her a coin or two. I never did settle with her.”

  Enrique’s mouth dropped open. His cheeks froze in place. His eyes locked in a vacant gaze. A martyr’s death. His last words homage to a whore, lying in his own shit, so noisome I was forced to turn my face.

  Ramón touched my arm. “Francisco,” he said, “where is Andrés?”

  The air drained from my body, leaving a hollow cavity in my gut. I had forgotten Andrés. I had last seen him crossing the ramp, his jaw set fast, his sword raised. What if he is maimed? What if he is dead? What will I do? What will I say to Isabel?

  I pushed my way through a crowd of knights. I grabbed the white tunics of my comrades. I spun them around to inspect their faces. They spoke to me from far away, perhaps of the battle, their words unintelligible. I looked at the corpses on the tower’s surface. No, it cannot be. Please, God. I called his name. No answer came. Then I looked up and saw him.

  Andrés was standing on the parapet, looking north, away from the castle. He seemed to be studying the cliffs of a distant mountain, as if he were looking for a suitable line of ascent, a path to take him beyond the horizon, far removed from the killing at Toron. A gust of wind filled the void in my stomach. I called to Andrés. He turned around, looking straight at me. He did not seem to recognize his friend. His thick forearms were covered in blood. His white surcoat and his face were streaked black from the smoke.

  “Francisco,” he finally stated, almost a question, as if he had difficulty recognizing me.

  The world had changed—the rage of combat, watching comrades cut down like animals to the slaughter, the ease and arrogance of killing another man, the elation of victory. Hope and fear set free.

  “Yes,” I said, “I am here.”

  I left Andrés on the parapet and walked toward the center of the tower, where Uncle Ramón and several Hospitaller deputies were huddled on bended knees. They were taking account of our losses and discussing the battle plan.

  Ra
món was counting our casualties on his bloodstained fingers. Thirty-nine knights from the Order of Calatrava had been killed or seriously wounded in the assault. Forty-eight of us remained.

  “Jesus Christ,” Ramón said, “has been merciful.”

  Ramón told the Hospitaller deputies to use their foot soldiers to evacuate the dead and wounded. Then he turned his attention to the battle. He drew an imaginary map of the castle on the stone floor, which became the basis for planning the tower’s defense, each man pointing to the invisible diagram as if it were drawn on parchment.

  “The Saracens will be forced to devote much of their resources to containing and attempting to crush our intrusion,” Ramón said. “We will create as much trouble as possible to ease the pressure on Don Fernando’s strike from the east.”

  Before issuing specific orders, Ramón reviewed the structure of the castle’s tower. There were three entrances, he said, three points from which the Saracens could counterattack—a winding staircase carved into the stone, going down into the bowels of the castle, and two tunneled staircases on each end, which led down to galleries where Saracens patrolled the walls and maintained communication with the other towers.

  Ramón instructed the Hospitaller deputies to bring up twenty of their best archers. “Assign five archers to defend each stairwell,” Ramón said. “The passages are narrow. I doubt two men could climb the stairs at a time, so it should not be difficult to defend. The ten others will fire from the tower into the castle courtyard. The Calatrava will send scouts down the middle staircase to probe the Saracen defenses in the tower’s interior.

  “Any questions?” Ramón inquired, but he did not seem inclined to answer any, and none were asked.

  One of the Hospitallers spoke to an aide, who rushed down the engine to deliver Ramón’s orders. After several minutes, Hospitaller archers ascended the tower, manning the inside parapet and firing into the castle’s courtyard, setting off a scene of pandemonium. Muslim soldiers, dragging their wounded, ran for cover behind the archways and pillars that ringed the castle. The other Hospitaller archers formed a phalanx at each entrance to the tower, firing periodically at the Saracen soldiers who tested our position.