The Crusader

by Michael Eisner

  “It took several years to find Lucinda. One of my half brothers, Nunyo Rodríguez, had paid her handsomely to murder the two of us. Nunyo was anxious to eliminate competitors to the throne. Despite her failure to complete the job, Lucinda found refuge at Nunyo’s estate in Palau. She became nursemaid to his children.

  “When I was fifteen years old, I sneaked into my half brother’s abode disguised as a pilgrim. I played the part well. Smelling most foul after two weeks on the road, I wore a tattered brown smock.

  “I found Lucinda in one of the upstairs rooms. She was humming a forgotten melody, watching a sleeping infant, one of my cousins. I envied his innocence. He accepted her tender care unknowing.

  “She looked up as I approached. She smiled at me. She could not help herself. You see, she still loved me. Then she glanced away, pensive. I could see her thinking, perhaps reliving that night five years previous. Her recognition. Then the terror. Her little boy had become a man.

  “I gagged her, then cut her hands off. Lucinda watched me as she bled to death. She held out one of her stumps as if she would hold my hand. The baby woke. His crying concealed Lucinda’s muffled screams. After she had passed, her hands still labored under the weight of her crime. The same fingers that had poured the poison twitching on the gray stone.

  “I waited in the chapel for my half brother. I had heard he was quite devout. I was kneeling in the pews when he arrived in the afternoon. He was alone. That was more than I had expected. I thanked God for delivering him to me.

  “ ‘I suspect that for a coin or two, you could sing a spry tune, stranger,’ he said. ‘Are you a traveling minstrel?’

  “ ‘No, sir,’ I said.

  “ ‘Please accept my apology,’ he said. ‘Then you are a pilgrim traveling to the tomb of Saint James in Compostela?’

  “ ‘No, sir,’ I said.

  “ ‘Then you are a mystery, stranger. Please tell me, what is your business in these parts?’

  “ ‘I have come to mend the past.’

  “ ‘You will find,’ he said, ‘that the past is better left to the Lord.’ He laughed freely, untroubled. Then he put his hand on my back. ‘You need a priest, friend. I will call for one at your command.’

  “He smiled at me. A curious smile. Under different circumstances, we might have been allies.

  “ ‘You look at me with a peculiar familiarity,’ he said. ‘Do I know you, stranger?’

  “ ‘I am Fernando Sánchez, your brother,’ I said.

  “His smile disappeared. He opened his mouth to speak, then thought better of it.

  “I stabbed him in the chest. I stabbed again and again until there was no clean mark for my blade.”

  Don Fernando waved his empty fist, as if he were reenacting the deed.

  “It’s a charming story, Don Fernando,” Andrés said. “I do not mean to sound disinterested, but Francisco and I must get going.”

  Don Fernando glanced up soberly.

  “Francisco, you and Andrés will be going soon enough,” he said, “but not where you think. I know the loyalty both of you feel for Uncle Ramón. If I let you live—either of you—you would do no less for Ramón than I did for my brother. I would be disappointed if you weren’t already plotting my destruction.

  “But it will never come. Not by your hands. I am not Lucinda, and I will not make her mistake. Baibars wanted some souvenirs to bring back to Aleppo to show his people that the mighty Krak des Chevaliers has fallen. I took the liberty of volunteering your services. You are, are you not, under my command since the tragic death of Ramón?”

  “Yes, master,” Pablo interjected, “the entire garrison is under your command.”

  “Shut up, Pablo,” Don Fernando said.

  “You must see it,” he continued, “from my point of view. I waited five years to kill Lucinda. If I let you live, I would always be waiting for you.”

  As Don Fernando spoke, Muslim soldiers had already moved into the chapel. Don Fernando pointed to Andrés and me. The Muslims surrounded the two of us.

  “Goodbye, gentlemen,” Don Fernando said. “I would say good luck, but luck will not suffice where you are going. I will report your courage in the face of death to your families. That should provide them some solace.”

  “One day,” Andrés said, “I will settle with you, Don Fernando.”

  “Until that day,” Don Fernando said, “enjoy the Sultan’s hospitality.”

  Don Fernando and his men walked past us as they exited the chapel. At the doors, Don Fernando turned to face us.

  “While my lieutenants are fiercely loyal,” Don Fernando said, “they are idiots. I would have liked a deputy with your savvy and fortune, Francisco. And your courage, Andrés. It is a pity.”

  CHAPTER XII

  THE CITADEL

  THE BELLS RANG for sext. We had been in the cell for four hours. Francisco stood haggard in the afternoon shadows. His eyes focused inward, he seemed oblivious to our presence. Isabel was sitting next to me. Her body still, her mouth slightly ajar as if she would pose a question.

  “It is a pity,” Francisco said, repeating Don Fernando’s last words. His tone steady, as if he meant to recount an incident without apportioning blame.

  “Andrés died at the Krak des Chevaliers,” Isabel said.

  Francisco seemed not to hear her.

  “Francisco,” Isabel said.

  Francisco glanced away, toward the window. Isabel stood and walked in front of him. She grasped his free arm under the elbow.

  “My brother died at the Krak des Chevaliers.”

  Francisco pressed his palms hard against his eyes, as if he would blot out the image of those events.

  “Don Fernando sent a letter to my father recounting Andrés’ bravery during the siege. He died defending the castle.” Her voice trailed off until it was barely audible. It was not clear whether the girl was making a statement or asking a question.

  “No, Isabel,” Francisco said.

  Perhaps my esteemed reader thinks Francisco’s response fostered hope in Isabel that her brother might still be alive. It was not so. A foreboding silence lingered in the wake of those two words. An intimation of horror.

  “Isabel, it is best that we leave now. It will soon be supper.”

  Her gray eyes fixed on Francisco, Isabel ignored my words. I offered my hand to lead her from the cell. She did not take it. There was nothing I could do. It was her choice. She would hear the truth wherever it might lead. She would know the circumstances of her brother’s death.

  Indeed, I think Francisco’s cruel demeanor toward Isabel had been calculated to avoid just this moment—to drive the girl from Santes Creus. Perhaps he had wanted to spare her the painful details, or maybe spare himself the telling.

  WE BROUGHT UP the rear of Baibars’ army, traveling north to Aleppo. A company of armed guards surrounded the wagon that carried Andrés and me, chained together by the wrist. They fed us at night, after the day’s march. Andrés split our provisions—one loaf of bread, a bowl of chickpeas, and a cup of water. Every other day, he would save some water to clean my wound. Then he would dress the cut with a new strip of cloth torn from one of our tunics.

  On the third day, an infidel city appeared in the early light. A Muslim church—blue marble—with a slender tower, like a reed sprouting from a swamp. A bearded old man made his way slowly up the winding tower steps. When he reached the summit, he began to sing, a whining melody. The soldiers halted our caravan, then knelt down with two open hands spread before them.

  “I guess no one ever told them about bells,” Andrés said.

  Other men on other towers joined the chorus of lamentation, announcing the new day.

  Andrés stood up in the wagon, glancing thoughtfully. His chains rattled.

  “They probably wouldn’t listen anyway,” he said.

  Only once did one of our captors speak to us. I woke in the night, my shoulder throbbing. The cold wind cut through the wool robe Andrés and I shared as a blanket. Flies
buzzed thinly over the blood oozing through the cloth. I heard whispering behind me. I turned my head toward the end of the wagon. One of our guards was speaking softly, urgently. He looked left and right. Then he reached into his cassock and pulled out an apple. He extended his arm, holding the offering in his closed fist. I could see between his fingers the red glittering. I hesitated, suspicious. What if he had poisoned the apple, coated it in some Arabian venom? Well, I thought, then nothing. Nothing at all. We were dead men anyway.

  The guard pretended to bite the apple as if to show its purpose. Whispering strange words, he reached his arm forward again. Andrés had woken and was watching our benefactor warily. I held out my hand. The guard dropped the apple in my palm, then walked away. Andrés and I passed the apple back and forth furtively. When the caravan moved out, I was rolling the sweet pulp against my tongue.

  Soldiers pulled us off the wagon at the gates of Aleppo. We walked between a mounted guard, parading through the streets. The Arabs ran from their homes, from the bazaar, from mosques. They cheered their soldiers, dropping pink flower petals in our path.

  Andrés and I walked with our heads down, looking at the dirt, trying to avoid the sneers, the stones thrown by the crowd. I went down when a rock hit me in the head. The warm blood flowed evenly across my face and neck. When I opened my eyes, I was looking at the civilians gathered on the side of the route. The young and the old. They were laughing, shouting, spitting.

  I saw Sergio standing next to an old woman. He looked young—a soldier—wearing the same armor as the day he left the port at Barcelona. He was staring at me. I spoke his name. He tilted his head forward. Who are you? It’s me, Sergio, I said, your brother. The guards pulled me up. Walking forward again, I surveyed the spectators, searching for my brother. I shouted his name. The ignorant crowd laughed louder each time I called to my brother.

  “Sergio is not here,” Andrés said, beside me.

  Then I saw him again. He was leaning out of a second-story window. His hair grown gray. Deep creases running down the side of his face. His armor rusted. Sergio shook his head rueful. Did you think to find salvation here? A rock hit me in the chest. I stumbled, coughing fiercely. I managed to remain standing barely. I took the Cross for you, Sergio, I said, your salvation. He could not hear me over the jeers, the tumult of the procession. Sergio gazed down. Look at you now. He smiled, a pitying smile. This is your salvation, brother. The bone in my chest smarted. My eyes burned wet.

  “Francisco,” Andrés said, “remember when I visited you in Montcada. Racing those horses. What was the name of your mare? Pancho?”

  Yes, I said.

  “I wonder what the old girl is doing now,” he said. “Probably eating grass in some pasture.”

  I suppose.

  “A green meadow.”

  I looked up at the open window. It was deserted, a sheer curtain stirring in the wind.

  We marched into the evening. I saw the same faces in the crowd. The young and the old. They pointed toward the Citadel, glancing knowingly. All day we could see that fortress, a huge slab of stone suspended above the city. It waited patiently for Andrés and me.

  The street finally spilled out before the massive fortress. The people, unsated, tried to follow the procession over the drawbridge. They broke through the ranks of soldiers. The guards became our protectors. They beat back the throng. But the crack of bones only excited the crowd, which surged toward the bridge. In the clash, some of the Arabs tumbled into the moat. The fallen splashed into the murky water, trying frantically to stay afloat. The struggles diverted the multitude as we passed over the bridge into the Citadel.

  As we watched the fortress doors close, palace guards were already moving toward us. They seized us roughly, forcing us through a dark corridor. The shouts of the crowd faded. They marched us around corners, up stairs, down stairs, past other chambers, into the open air, a dirt courtyard.

  A group of soldiers were leaning on their spears, conversing in the courtyard. They drew to attention as we approached. The soldiers parted as one man in their number stepped forward.

  He examined Andrés and me. When he completed his second turn around us, he let loose a torrent of harsh, alien words. He was gesturing with both fists, baring yellow teeth, hissing spittle across my cheeks.

  When his tirade finally ended, he was breathing heavily. One eyebrow raised indignant, he looked impatiently at the two of us, as if he were owed an apology. An awkward standoff. Two parties, two different views of the circumstances that brought us together.

  “Greetings to you too,” said Andrés, pinioned by two guards. “It’s nice to finally see some hospitality in these parts. If it were just the same with you, my friend Francisco and I would like to take a bath before supper. A man feels grimy after such a long journey.”

  Stroking his rough beard, their leader pondered Andrés’ response. His eyes darted between Andrés and me. His smile twisted uncertainly. He didn’t understand one word Andrés had uttered. The other soldiers poised keenly, waiting for the verdict of their superior.

  It came swiftly. He pulled a wooden club strapped to his belt and struck Andrés in the stomach. His comrades took their cue from their commander. Kicks, slaps, jabs came from every direction. I tried to protect my head with my forearms, only to shift them down to my sides when the blows struck at my ribs.

  A full punch hit me in the face so that I could feel the indent of each knuckle across my brow. I dropped to the ground. As I lay there, I looked over and could not see Andrés. He had disappeared. The soldiers who had surrounded him were dispersing in different directions, wiping Andrés’ blood from their fists, straightening their tunics.

  Two soldiers hooked their arms under my shoulders and dragged me across the courtyard. We were headed toward the place where Andrés had vanished—a gate that opened to the underground. It resembled the hatch on a ship leading to the lower decks.

  Then I was flying, plunging fast. The light, the voices became more distant, fading. I landed on my side. Every limb ached, so that I could not locate the source of pain. Andrés’ voice cut through the dead air.

  “Remind me, Francisco, never to visit Aleppo again.”

  My head was resting on a patch of mud. The slime made a soft bed. Weariness took hold. I closed my eyes.

  I was wakened by a hand rubbing my head. More hands on my body were gently pulling my robe over my head. Someone was trying to take my boots off. When I sat up, the hands pulled back. Shadows slid away through the mud. I stood and peered straight ahead. I squinted, my eyes adjusting to the darkness slowly. Andrés was lying on his back a few feet away. Just beyond him, figures were slinking to and fro.

  “My name is Francisco de Montcada,” I said. “My friend is Andrés Correa de Girona. We are Knights in the Order of Calatrava and subjects of King Jaime of Aragón.”

  My voice echoed through the chamber, coming back fractured, unrecognizable. My words, my name, tangled with a shrill laughter pealing childlike. Specters circled us like a pack of wolves—their eyes gleaming ominously.

  Andrés had waked. He was standing next to me.

  “So this is hell,” he said. “I imagined it hotter.”

  “The guards make it cooler when new prisoners arrive.” A stranger’s voice, just a few feet away. He was speaking fluent Catalán.

  “You would be the devil, then?” Andrés asked.

  “Even the devil would not enter this abyss,” the stranger said.

  Shrieks pierced the darkness. The other prisoners deplored the efforts at polite conversation.

  “They don’t seem fond of us,” Andrés said.

  “They have no opinion on your merits,” the stranger said. “They treat all new arrivals thus. They covet your possessions. Many wear rags or nothing. Their clothing disintegrates during captivity. They want a new shirt, perhaps a pair of boots. Unless you want to donate yours, follow me.”

  Andrés went first, trying to keep sight of our acquaintance. I kept my hand on Andr�
�s’ shoulder. We slogged through the mud, passing a cluster of prisoners, grasping, whining. I was glancing sideways, trying to gauge the nature of our new dwelling—cave, dungeon, inferno. Our acquaintance stopped at a rock wall. I ran my hand over the craggy edges.

  “Welcome, Knights of Calatrava.” I could make out only the outline of the speaker. He was sitting against the wall. “My name is Salamago de Huesca. You have already met Manuel. We are Knights of the Order of the Temple. I am sorry for your present circumstances. We are pleased to have the company of two more knights from Aragón, though.” His voice was grainy, wheezing between breaths. Yet his words marched forward, the deep pitch resonating certainty. “We left Aragón seven years ago—five years fighting the infidels, almost one year in this hole—three hundred and forty-eight days. Perhaps you have some news from home. Manuel misses Barcelona terribly. Tell us, are the women of Aragón still fair?”

  “More beautiful than any in the world,” Andrés said.

  “What color hair do they have?” he asked.

  “Brown, black, red, blond,” I said, “whatever color you can imagine.”

  “Precisely,” Salamago said. He exhaled a long breath. Manuel grunted affirmatively. Both men lingering over my response, basking in whatever visions they could conjure.

  “Where are we?” Andrés asked.

  “The ancient palace of Aleppo,” Salamago said. “To be exact, you stand in the kitchen. At least, Manuel thinks so. You see that stone before you. Manuel claims it’s the remains of an oven. I think it’s where the Emperor defecated. See the stains? What do you think?” He paused for a moment, cleared his throat, and spit. “Well, in time, you will form an opinion. What was I saying, Manuel?”

  “The old palace becoming a prison.”

  “Yes,” Salamago said. “The infidels discovered these ruins decades ago. They say one of the Sultan’s sons was fucking a whore in the harem when the floor collapsed. The son was killed instantly. The whore survived. The son’s body cushioned her fall. She viewed her survival as a miracle and immediately took a vow of chastity in gratitude to the infidel gods. Even they could not protect her from the Sultan’s wrath, though. He blamed her for the son’s death and executed her personally. Subsequently, the Sultan moved the harem to more solid ground and found a new prison in this cave. Such are the vagaries of life. A whore miraculously survives a great fall, only to be executed. The Sultan loses a son but gains an escape-proof prison to house his enemies.”