The Codex Lacrimae

by A. J. Carlisle

“He is very nice,” Jacob affirmed, “and he really plays a good game of Gluckhaus. We’re tied now, two games to two.”

  “Your sportsmanship is improving, too,” Rebecca commented. “Normally you don’t take it very well when someone gives you a challenge.”

  “I do, too —” Jacob started to protest and then smiled. She was right. He directed attention to Marcus. “I’m...trying to be better about that, Ima.” Then he frowned. “There’s something wrong with the way that Marcus speaks. He keeps repeating himself, and I’m not sure how much he hears of what I say.”

  “Hmm, what did you try to talk about?”

  “I don’t know — things. Anything, really. He doesn’t look at me much, and just seems to want to play the game.”

  “Well, there are worse things,” Rebecca commented, “and sometimes it takes awhile to get to know someone. I’m sure that he appreciated you taking the time to play some games with him. This doesn’t seem to be a castle where many games are played.”

  “I don’t know about that,” Jacob disagreed, musing as he put the Bible on a chest of drawers next to Rebecca. He then withdrew his sword from beneath Marcus’s bed. “I think that the kids here just play games out of sight. You know,” he said, grunting as he lunged forward thrusting the scabbarded blade into the body of an imaginary enemy, “what kids always do when the adults...are...busy...being...adults.”

  Jacob was halfway through the beginning of his warm-up routine, speaking in gasps as he brought the blade into ever more complex positions (both offensive and defensive) that required busy, athletic footwork. He glanced at his mother. As he’d guessed, she’d fallen asleep again while sitting in the chair. He started building up a sweat as he increased the tempo of his fencing movements — lunging repeatedly in sets of twenty on each leg, then parrying slightly to his right after feinting left, and then riposting with a precise circular dip of his sword before the lunge was completed. He was intent on making the most of this time where both Marcus and his mother were asleep and he could practice. For Jacob, learning the ways of the sword was such an honor and serious commitment that he took every second he could to hone his craft.

  After half an hour, he took a break and went to the cupboard to use one of the towels stowed there to dry off.

  “I’m proud of you, Jacob,” his mother said, awake and smiling at him. “You know that, don’t you?”

  He lay the sword on the blankets at the foot of Marcus’s bed.

  “I know, Ima, and thank you,” he said softly, walking over to her and taking a knee so that he could look up into her eyes. “Should we get you back to bed?”

  “Jacob, we need to talk about something —”

  “Don’t,” he interrupted, knowing and hating that tone and what it meant. He clasped both his hands over hers. “Don’t say it.”

  “I must. I’m not sure how long I have left and there are things that must be said. Things that must be planned for.”

  “We’ll plan them together, and live them together. This siege won’t last long — have you seen all the men-at-arms here? All the provisions and the defenses?”

  “Jacob.” Rebecca withdrew one of her hands and cupped his chin so that he’d look at her. “You’re going to be alone, and you need to know what to do.”

  Tears filled his eyes. “I know what to do, Ima. I know. You don’t have to worry. I go to Jerusalem, bring the testamentary letter to King Guy, and then send for Ephrem and Rachel when accommodations are made.”

  She nodded in appreciation. “Yes, yes. You’ll all be taken care of — even though Baldwin is temporarily king again, he’ll respect the accommodations that Guy of Lusignan made when Aba was an ambassador there.”

  “I know all this, Ima,” Jacob said confidently, and he smiled at her. “In fact, you’ll be the one doing all the talking because you’re going to be right there with me.”

  “I’d like to be, Son, but I’m very tired, Jacob. So tired.”

  “Master Ibn-Khaldun said that he’d tend to you after the meeting. You’re going to get better.” Jacob rose to his feet and stretched out a hand, helping Rebecca rise, too. “Let’s get you back to bed, Ima.”

  She assented quietly and leaned on him as they left Marcus’s chamber, and moved slowly down the hallway to her room.

  “It filled my heart to hear you reading again, Jacob,” she said.

  He snorted. “I’ve got much catching up to do. Do you remember Rabbi Mordecai saying that if we ‘forsake the Torah for one day, it will abandon you for two?’ By such mathematics, I...well, Ima, we’ve been on the move for three months.”

  “Let’s hope there are exceptions to every rule, eh?” she said, and then looked up at him. “You worry too much, Jacob — the Torah, the synagogue, all will be there to resume when the time is right. Live the life you’re given, Son, and spend the time you have as honorably as you know how. I want you to have adventures!”

  Jacob didn’t reply, tears welling in his eyes at the urgency in her voice. He led her to the bed and tucked her in beneath the sheet and rough blanket.

  “Now, tell me what you’ve seen…,” Rebecca started to say, although the excitement in her voice induced another bout of hacking and coughing. When she had calmed down, she repeated softly, “Tell me about what you’ve seen.”

  Jacob’s eyes lit up. “Ima, you should have seen the rooms filled with books! There were desks and tables in each chamber, and so many codexes and manuscripts, and monks working that it could have been the famed library at Alexandria!”

  For the next quarter hour Jacob shared his experiences with his mother. In spite of her exhaustion and occasional coughing bouts, she seemed genuinely interested in all that he had to relate, taking the most pleasure at the fledgling friendships he’d found with Marcus and Ríg.

  “With all those books and now friends to be with, it sounds as if you’ll have some distractions here during the siege,” Rebecca said approvingly.

  “It’s still all somewhat confusing,” Jacob replied with a shake of his head. “There seem to be so many contradictory people and ideas here.”

  “Contradictory?” Rebecca asked.

  “Yes. Everything in this castle is directed toward warfare, yet it contains one of the best libraries in...well, in the world. It’s a Christian castle, yet Ibn-Khaldun, a Muslim, runs the scriptorium. Ríg’s only a few years older than me, but he’s going to be a knight and a priest — something that I don’t think’s possible for me.” He shrugged. “I’ve not seen many rabbis who come armed and ready for combat to their synagogues!”

  “Jacob,” Rebecca countered firmly, “Aba... your father used to tell me about the Holy Land. You understand that the Crusaders and Muslims both call each other ‘infidels.’ Each side thinks that it has the only claim to God. You know, too, that our people used to fight on the ancient soil of Palestine, but in recent times the Hebrews just try to survive under whatever Christian or Islamic government holds power.”

  “We’ve lost the ability to fight,” Jacob replied. “That’s what you’re saying.”

  “No, I’m merely trying to tell you the truth, as best as I see it. There’s no longer any place from where the Hebrews can fight. We have no kingdom, no realm, nothing with borders that can be defended. We’re just too few since the Diaspora….”

  “So we should just cower and give up?”

  “No!” she said, her voice vehement. “We survive! Endure and surpass these times. The best that we can do is continue living in the light, the Halakah, observe the laws of the mitzvah, and continue the written and oral traditions of the Torah and the Talmud. That’s why, I truly don’t mind you practicing with your sword; I know that those skills will be necessary when —”

  Jacob looked at his waist as she spoke. “My sword — oh, no, I left it in Marcus’s room!”

  A slight clinking noise caught his attention, and something instinctively lurched in his gut, putting him on guard.

  Jacob moved quickly, shushing his mother with a
finger to his lips as he moved lightly across the room. The casement was open to allow any breeze inside the ward and Jacob peered over the sill to stare at the central courtyard of the Krak des Chevaliers that lay some fifty feet below the window.

  He saw five black-clad figures running stealthily across the flagstones, trying to hide in the shadows while two others clambered down a rope dangling from the top of the rampart. The sounds that Jacob heard must have been those made by the grappling hook fastened in the crenellation across the way. An assortment of strange and eerie shadows flitted against the far wall of the courtyard, where two more men crouched on the rampart, waiting for the rope.

  Jacob hesitated only for an instant. A total of nine men, then. I need to warn the nazaros! Where did Ríg go? The series of chambers on the top floor, to the west and then east in that hallway...yes, that’s the way!

  “Ima, stay here and keep your head down,” he hissed. “There are armed men invading the castle. I’ve got to tell Ríg and Master Khaldun.”

  “Be careful, Jacob,” she whispered. “Go, but get your sword first and then come back to me when you can!”

  “Yes, yes — the sword.” His mind racing as he envisioned the various things that nine armed men could do before he could notify anyone, Jacob dashed through the door and down the hall to Marcus’s room. He stopped short at the doorway when he looked inside.

  The bed was empty, and both Marcus and Jacob’s sword were nowhere to be seen.

  Jacob cursed and then sprinted in the direction taken by Ríg and Ibn-Khaldun.

  Chapter 15

  Entangling Alliances

  While Jacob dashed up a stairwell looking for Arcadian’s chambers, the sun continued its descent, throwing lengthening shadows across the undulating slopes of the nearby Al-Ansariyah Mountains.

  The encampment of the besieging southern army lay here, radiating outwards from a central pavilion in a series of concentric circles. Large bonfires blazed fiercely as squads of sentries, or darraja, rode on horseback about the perimeter.

  Their evening devotions to Mecca completed, the Muslim soldiers of Saladin’s army continued the siege preparations. Dozens of cooks tended to the provision and feeding of thousands of men, shaping pita breads on flat pans over braziers, and roasting lambs and cows on the trunks of small trees that served as spits. In all kitchens smaller cauldrons were filled with a mixture of spinach, rice, garlic, onions, and lemon juice that was a staple served at almost every meal.

  Around the pyramidal bonfires in front of the tents, many warriors occupied themselves with sharpening blades and making small talk. Fifteen guards stood at attention in evenly spaced intervals surrounded the enormous, white-tented platform of the central pavilion. Salah al-Din Yusuf, the Kurdish son of Ayyub, and ruler of Egypt whom the Crusaders called “Saladin,” sat inside that tent. At the moment, he stared thoughtfully at the westerners, Farbauti and Kenezki, who were arguing nearby with Saladin’s brother, Hamzah al-Adil.

  Shifting his position on the unadorned wooden chair, with a hand absently stroking his neatly manicured beard, he took a moment to give a final review of the sheaf of documents that had been brought to him by his staff officer, or ghulam.

  When his aide-de-camp departed, Saladin sighed and leaned back in his seat to give full attention to the unpleasant task of dealing with the two westerners sitting cross-legged on the pillows nearby.

  “My Lord Saladin,” Farbauti said, realizing that he’d permission to speak. “Again, I apologize if I speak too candidly, but your brother can be very frustrating. Do you really believe that we would’ve brought you this far only to divide the spoils of this Hospitaller fortress with another army?”

  Hamzah al-Adil interrupted before Saladin could answer.

  “Your intent has always been a rather confusing one to us, Farbauti,” he observed cuttingly. “You speak our language, but you don’t think as we do.” He glanced at Saladin. “I’m surprised that my brother has tolerated your acidic western tongue for as long as he has…”

  “Hamzah,” Saladin cautioned, “let us hear him until he is finished — ”

  “Thank you, my lord,” Farbauti said with a tone and glance at Saladin that seemed to convey a commiserating irritation with the ruler’s brother. “We need to… .”

  “—before we see if,” Saladin continued, returning a cool gaze at the blond-haired man, “like scorpions in the desert, they have stingers that need removing.” The ruler of Egypt leaned forward. “You and your partner try my patience, Lord Farbauti.”

  Kenezki threw his pony-tail over his shoulder and smiled. “Me, Milord? I’ve never met you before this afternoon.”

  “More than enough time to take your measure,” Saladin said with a shake of his head. “Yours and that of the other one — the one called ‘Morpeth.’ Where is he?”

  Farbauti rose to his feet so that he could look directly at Saladin. “He’ll be here later in the evening. We, too, have preparations before the siege and he’s tending to them.”

  “Very well,” Saladin said perfunctorily, “then, to business. Thus far, I’ve accommodated you because you’ve been correct in the information about western positions here in Syria and Palestine. But, this second army that approaches from the East…it’s not even of Persian descent. My tali’a scouts think them more akin to Mongols than to warriors from this part of the world.”

  Farbauti said nothing, and Kenezki shrugged his shoulders while holding up his hands. “What? Don’t look at me for any information about eastern armies. I just got here!”

  “Why are you here, Master Kenezki?” Saladin frowned.

  “I fled from Caesarea. The Templar garrison there has fallen, and I’d promised my friends, Farbauti and Morpeth, that I’d join them before this siege.” He smiled at Farbauti. “Events...outpaced expectations in that town, so here I am.”

  Farbauti was quiet, his brow furrowed. “Without the packages that Evremar promised he’d deliver to me. We’ll discuss that later, but you’re certain that the Grand Master and his Templars have been subdued?”

  “Caesarea will wait,” Saladin interrupted, leaning forward with a sharpened tone. “I’d know more of this army that approaches from the East. You say that the commander will help us in the siege?”

  Al-Adil looked sternly at his brother. “I tell you, there’s no logic to this.”

  “He is an old enemy of the Hospitallers,” Farbauti replied, keeping attention on Saladin. “We ourselves have been wronged by the Franks. Is revenge so difficult to understand?”

  “Not difficult,” Saladin stated, raising a hand, “but an ultimately dangerous and unpredictable ally.” He looked at the men. “Enough. I will dwell on these matters, and decide upon sending an envoy to the Asian army in the morning. Lord Farbauti, you say that your man, Morpeth, is inside the Krak, attempting a breach?”

  “As we speak, Milord. Members of the Order of Assassins should have met with him a short time ago.”

  Saladin glanced at his brother, then returned a thoughtful gaze at Farbauti.

  “The Assassins? You are aware that they’ve made repeated attempts on my life in the past?”

  “We are, Milord,” Farbauti nodded, “and that’s why Morpeth personally accompanied the squad to forestall any chance of betrayal.”

  The bearded knight stepped forward, his blue eyes piercing each man in the room before resting on Saladin. “I’d like to take this moment to remind you: when the Krak des Chevaliers is taken, all we want is complete access to the library and scriptorium and any and all books of our choice.”

  Al-Adil sniffed disapprovingly. “Books? You’d raze a citadel for books? What is the real reason that you’re doing this?”

  Farbauti regarded him silently for a long moment before telling both brothers, “I haven’t told you any lies.”

  “Good.” Saladin smiled. “Perhaps we shan’t even have need for an alliance with this eastern army if tonight’s effort goes well.” He nodded at Farbauti. “Thus far, all i
s as you predicted, but now that we’re in it, I’ll expect you to report to me and comply with my orders as would any of the ghulams or other aides. Are we clear?”

  Farbauti bowed low and motioned for Kenezki to rise.

  “You’re dismissed. I’d speak now with my brother.”

  Hamzah al-Adil waited until he heard the last footfall of the westerners boots on the wooden steps outside before turning to Saladin.

  “I tell you now, Brother, that they all know more about this matter of the Easterners than they’re telling us — even this new one, Kenezki...I tell you, he knows more than he lets on.”

  Saladin rose and retrieved a flask from a small table across the room. He drank some water and turned to his advisor. “I’m aware of these things, Hamzah. Don’t take my inaction with them as the behavior that I intend to follow in the future.”

  He remained standing with hands clasped behind his back, staring at the tent flap through which the franj had just departed.

  “If that’s the case, when do you intend to change your behavior ‘in the future?’” Al-Adil asked with a hint of sarcasm. He returned to the pile of pillows on the floor, flopped upon one of the larger ones, and leaned now to one side in a prone, relaxed position.

  The question drew a raised eyebrow from his brother.

  “What?” Al-Adil stated with a shrug, holding his hands out in mock supplication. “I’m allowed to ask that, am I not?”

  “This anger is unworthy of you,” Saladin said.

  “Perhaps,” his younger brother agreed, “but at least it’s an honest emotion. If I have to watch that nazaro, Kenezki, smirk one more time as he tells us one of his lies, or act as if he were one of us because he speaks our language…”

  “You keep calling them nazari, Hamzah, but I don’t think that any of them are Christian. Indeed, I don’t think that they believe in God at all.”

  “A people without God? Abomination!” Saladin’s youthful advisor shook his head. “At least the Crusaders, misguided though they are, at least they believe in their Crucified Prophet.”

  “I didn’t say that they are without a ‘god,’ Hamzah, but that they aren’t of any religion with which I’m familiar.” Saladin returned to the hard-backed chair and sat down. “When I first met them, there was a feast to which I invited them to attend. They sat by my place and we talked of many things. After a while, the conversation turned to strange lands across the Western Sea.”