Sudden roar. Whip round. The wedge of troops, breaking up. Can’t see – God help us – are they pushing through? A shower of arrows, some distance away. Archers. Stationed on the walls either side of the breach. Smart move, that. Balian’s? Doesn’t seem to be stopping the enemy.
I need to empty my bladder.
‘Pagan . . .’
It’s Arnulf, stumbling out of the smoky haze. Staring. Falling. Arnulf?
‘Arn?’
Someone behind him.
‘Yaaoooaah!
’ Turk! Turk! Help! Sword! Duck!
‘Yaah! Yaah!
’ Battleaxe – heavy. Swing and miss. Now! Now! Under the armpit!
Got him!
No. Just the arm. Watch that foot!
‘Oof!’
Hard kick. Fall on stone, hit my arm. God, my arm. God, the axe! Roll over!
CHUNK!
His blade, buried in the rubble. Just missed my shoulder. He pulls it out, swings it over his head, staggering under the weight. His legs! Go for his legs!
Straight to the knees. Down he goes. Axe spins away – watch his hands – boot in the chest. Ouch. Ouch. My ribs. My ribs. Can’t breathe . . .
Thrown on my back. His weight on top. Knife! He’s got a knife!
‘Haah!’
Roland.
A warm gush of blood. Infidel blood. The weight falls away. Rolling away, heavily, the arm flopping down. The knife chinking on stone.
The blood . . .
Dragged upright. Collapsing again on fluffy cotton knees. Roland’s arm like an iron bar against my shoulder. His urgent, gasping voice.
‘What is it? Where is it? Show me!’
Shaking my head.
‘Show me!
’ ‘It’s nothing.’ Miracle! My breath’s come back again. ‘It’s just a kick. In the chest. That’s all.’
‘What’s this, then?’
Look down. He’s holding my arm, and there’s a nasty gash across the elbow. How on earth did that happen? Didn’t feel a thing.
‘I don’t know, I don’t know what it is . . .’
‘Then I’ll tell you what it is! It’s what happens when you don’t obey orders!’ He’s practically shouting – I’ve never seen him so angry. ‘Next time, when I want you to come, you’ll come! Understand?’
‘Yes, my lord.’
‘Instead of stopping and gawking like a silly damned sheep in a slaughterhouse!’
‘I’m sorry, my lord.’
‘I’ve already lost two squires to these blood-glutted savages! Do you think I want to lose you, as well?’
‘My lord!’
I know that voice. The Master-Sergeant, standing there dissolving in his own sweat.
‘Lord Balian wants to bring in a mounted squadron,’ he pants. ‘Lord Balian wants Templar horses . . . you in charge . . . right now . . .’
‘I’m coming.’ Roland nudges me forward. ‘Take my squire to the surgeon’s station and I’ll come at once.’
‘But –’
‘No! My lord! I’m perfectly all right!’
‘I want his arm properly dressed. Tell Brother Gavin to check for fractures or broken bones.’
‘Yes, my lord.’
God preserve us! I can’t go with Garlic-Breath! He’ll hang my gizzards out to dry!
‘Wait – please – I’m not –’
‘Be quiet, Pagan. As for you, sergeant, you listen to me.’ (Roland places the tip of his finger gently on the Master-Sergeant’s labouring ribcage.) ‘I know all about you and your affairs. And if the slightest harm comes to this boy while he’s out of my sight, you probably won’t live long enough to regret it. Understand?’
He understands, all right. You can tell by the way his eyes slink around like hunted animals.
‘Yes, my lord.’
‘Good.’
It’s daylight, at last. As we stumble away from the breach, a cock crows somewhere deep inside the city. I can hear it even through the roar of a thousand hysterical fighters.
That bird’s got guts.
Chapter 8
What a bizarre situation.
I mean, the room for a start. So rich and gaudy. The silk pillows! The carved shutters! The little ebony tables, inlaid with ivory and mother-of-pearl, too small to support anything but a scent bottle. At least a dozen of the fussy things, scattered across a peacock-coloured Persian rug. I mean, what are they for?
Jade lamps, too. Gold-embroidered tapestries. Chairs like thrones and doors like the gates of heaven. The Patriarch’s taste for luxury would leave King Solomon’s for dead. And in the midst of all this splendour, the dilapidated human beings. Lord Felix, pale as sea salt, a four-day growth on his chin. The Master-Sergeant, stained and creased like a bundle of dirty laundry left out in a dust storm. Lord Roland, heavy-eyed, still wearing the same old blood-spattered tunic (now more brown than white). Brother Gavin, in a stupor of fatigue.
Only the Patriarch belongs in this room, and even he’s not looking his best. His face is thinner; his colour is sickly; his fingernails have been bitten down so far that he’s drawn blood. Hasn’t left him much to scratch with.
‘These fleas,’ he says at last, breaking the awful silence. ‘They seem to be reaching plague proportions.’
The Master-Sergeant grunts. No one else says anything. We just scratch ourselves, thoughtfully.
‘I’ve tried pepper,’ the Lily continues, ‘but it doesn’t seem to work. Is there anything more I can do?’
‘You can try burning hay.’ (Lord Felix.) ‘That helps with mosquitoes.’
‘It doesn’t help with fleas. I’ve tried,’ says the Master-Sergeant.
Another pause, but you can’t stop the Lily.
‘I’ve heard that if you wear a little piece of fur close to your skin, then all the fleas will congregate on that –’ ‘Wormwood,’ says Gavin, suddenly. Thought he was asleep. His eyes are glazed, and he speaks in a monotone.
‘Wormwood or tansy or winter savory. Or rue. A few drops of wormwood tea. A scattering of tansy leaves. Or you can steep some horehound in milk, and use that. Even an infusion of elder will do the trick. Herbs are very effective repellents.’
In that case, perhaps we ought to try some on Saladin. Since nothing else seems to work. Ho hum. Where is Lord Balian?
‘My apologies, everyone.’ Lo and behold! He walks through the door. ‘I was detained by new tidings. Is everyone here?’
‘Yes, my lord.’ A weary chorus.
‘Good. Then we can begin.’ He throws himself onto one of the Lily’s luxurious seats – and I don’t like the way he does it. I don’t like the way his foot taps the floor. I don’t like the strain in his muscles. ‘Lord Roland? We’ll start with your assessment, I think.’
‘Yes, my lord.’ Roland clears his throat. ‘My lord, the breach has doubled its size in the last day. Our defences are stretched to the limits. Already the south and south-west walls are dangerously undermanned.’
‘And how much longer can we hold out? In your estimation.’
All eyes on Roland, who drops his gaze to the floor.
‘I believe – no more than three days, at the most.’
(You what? You didn’t tell me that! You said we were strong in our endurance! You said)!
Around the room, protesting voices.
‘If you please.’ Balian raises a hand. ‘I had reached practically the same conclusion myself. Brother, do you have the casualty figures?’
Gavin blinks. He looks very old, all of a sudden.
‘Seven hundred and thirteen dead, my lord. Sixteen hundred and sixty-five wounded.’
God preserve us.
Roland crosses himself.
‘And you, Master-Sergeant?’ (Balian.) ‘What are your figures?’
‘I don’t know about exact figures, my lord.’ The Master-Sergeant scratches himself absent-mindedly. It’s hard to judge what some people might have hoarded away in their cupboards. But I’d estimate there are supplies for a week – p
erhaps ten days. No more.’
‘Thank you.’
A long, long silence. Feel as if I’m going to be sick. As if I’m going to vomit all over the Lily’s fancy carpet. Swallowing hard, again and again.
‘There’s something else I’ve just been told,’ Balian announces. ‘Fortunately, there is at least one Orthodox Greek in this city who holds Christianity dearer than the works of the devil. He has passed on the information that Saladin’s personal adviser is an Orthodox scholar from Jerusalem by the name of Joseph Batit. Somehow – don’t ask me how – Joseph Batit has made contact with the Orthodox community within these walls.’
He stops for a moment. The look on his face – you’d think there was a bad taste in his mouth.
‘The Orthodox community,’ he says at last, like some-one spitting out a bitter poison, ‘has promised to open the gates to Saladin as soon as the opportunity presents itself.’
‘What?
’ I can’t believe it. I can’t believe it. The Patriarch leaps to his feet. Jaws drop – everyone’s.
‘But I don’t understand.’ Gavin, bewildered. ‘Why would they want to do that?’
‘Because they’re foul, satanic, hypocritical heretics, that’s why!’ The Lily’s gone red. Quite red. ‘We must kill them all! Now! Every last filthy one of them!’
‘Somehow I don’t think that’s going to solve our problem,’ says Balian, in a dry sort of voice. ‘Though I agree they deserve it.’
‘Then what are we going to do?’
There must be an answer. Look to Roland. He has his eyes on the floor again, sitting there like some kind of long-nosed, stone-faced statue. No matter how hard I stare, I can’t get him to raise his head.
‘I believe there’s only one thing we can do.’ Balian speaks very quietly. ‘I believe –’
‘– that we should make a last great sortie and give our lives to God as the Lord Jesus sacrificed his life for us!’
Felix. Hasn’t said a word until now. His white face gleams with sweat and devotion.
Probably a little mad from lack of sleep.
‘That is one possibility.’ Balian doesn’t sound too enthusiastic. Thank God. ‘I know there are several people who support the idea . . .’
‘But this is insane!’ The shrill, frantic voice of the Patriarch. ‘This is no more than suicide!’
Felix shakes his head. ‘Not suicide, Father. Martyrdom.’ You can see that the notion really appeals to him. You can also see that it doesn’t appeal to the Lily. He’s practically climbing the wall.
‘Martyrdom!’ he screeches. (No one’s going to make a martyr out of him!) Suddenly he pulls himself together; takes a deep breath; wipes the palms of his hands on his fine silk gown. ‘Certainly it would be martyrdom,’ he quavers. ‘But it would be martyrdom also for our women and children. With their men gone, they will face inevitable slavery. I will not give my blessing to so impious an action. Is it right that we should abandon our helpless dependants?’
No, it’s not. It’s not right at all. Come on, everyone. Let’s be realistic. Let’s live to fight another day.
‘I agree with Patriarch Heraclius.’ (Hooray! Balian agrees!) ‘It’s folly to waste more lives defending the indefensible. As things stand now, we have a good chance of negotiating reasonable terms of surrender. The weaker we become, the less chance we’ll have of making any gains. Is that not so, Lord Roland?’
Everyone looks from one lord to the other – and Roland raises his eyes, at last. Impossible to read his expression.
‘Yes,’ he says. ‘It is so.’
‘Then I shall act on this advice, and seek terms from Saladin.’
There it is. What we’ve all been waiting for. What we’ve all been dreading. Don’t know whether to rejoice or despair. Don’t know what I feel.
Gavin falls back in his seat with a long and weary sigh.
‘I shall go at once,’ Balian continues. There’s a new energy in his voice: fresh colour in his cheeks. Not surprising, really. He has a wife and son, after all. ‘I shall call for a parley on his own ground. We can both go, Lord Roland, if you do not object.’
Roland says nothing. He simply nods in agreement.
Balian glances at Felix, whose eyes are big and dark and full of tears. ‘I must ask you to stay, Lord Felix, to command the city’s defence in our absence.’
‘You don’t think I would go?’ Felix spits it out, wildly. ‘I would never go! Never!
’ ‘Don’t worry, my lord, you won’t have to. I am the one who will be remembered until the end of time as the man who gave Jerusalem to the heathens.’ Balian sounds quite calm, but his face is too painful to look at.
* * *
So that’s the great Saladin.
Bit of a shock, really. Would have missed him in a crowd. Slight build, sad face, big nose, medium height, conservative taste in clothing. No bloodstained teeth, bat’s wings, devil’s horns or anything else diabolic. Just a normal-looking human being.
Which is more than you can say for some of the other Infidels squeezed into this tent. That ghastly wreck over there, for example: the one with the face that’s just a ball of scar tissue, with a single eye embedded in the shiny red ridges. Or that hulking, hairy monster glowering across the top of Saladin’s head. What a collection. All bathed in blue – the blue of the tent walls – as the sun beats down through the fabric and turns this portable palace into an oven.
Flies buzzing from mouth to mouth. Hands flapping. Armour clinking. Outside, the muffled noise of battle.
Inside, an embarrassing pause. Balian’s introduced himself. Saladin’s introduced himself. Now what?
Now Balian introduces his second in command.
‘This is Lord Roland Roucy de Bram of the Templar knights.’
The temperature seems to fall a notch. You can feel their hackles rising.
Saladin turns a cold, bleak eye on Roland and his distinctive white tunic with its blood-red cross.
‘I have entertained your Grand Master many times in this tent, Lord Roland,’ he remarks – with that flowery and precise courtesy that everyone’s always talking about. You’ve got to admit he’s damned fluent. His accent may be thick, but his vocabulary’s amazing. ‘Your Grand Master is the only Templar knight besides yourself who has ever been granted this privilege.’ Meaning that every other Templar knight has been slaughtered on the threshold. It’s no secret that Saladin doesn’t like Templars.
Feeling’s mutual, of course.
‘Now, my lord Balian.’ The Great Man gets down to business. ‘You have come on a mission of peace, I understand.’
Balian nods.
‘We have come to discuss an end to the fighting, my lord.’
‘Good, I am thankful. There has been too much bloodshed on this holy ground.’ A sigh, a nod, a pious gesture. ‘Do you wish, then, to lay down your arms?’
‘Only upon certain conditions.’
‘Ah.’
Loads of meaning in a little word. It’s obvious the Great Man’s not about to give in easily. It’s obvious from the bland sort of way he raises his eyebrows.
‘But my lord Balian, I fear you have nothing left with which to bargain.’ (Gently.) ‘My standard has just been raised on the city wall, as you know.’
‘The city has not yet fallen.’
‘It is only a matter of time.’
Balian takes a deep breath. He’s sweating buckets, but otherwise he seems composed. It probably helps when you’ve got a face like something hacked out of hardwood.
‘If Jerusalem falls, it will be at a most terrible cost,’ he says. ‘A negotiated surrender will prevent that.’
‘Perhaps it will. Unfortunately, I swore an oath many years ago that I would take Jerusalem by sword. Only your unconditional surrender will absolve me from my oath.’
Christ in a cream cheese sauce. Balian swallows. Saladin waits. Look to Lord Roland. He hasn’t taken his eyes off the Great Man since making his entrance. Hasn’t twitched a muscle, ei
ther. Impossible to tell what he thinks.
‘An unconditional surrender is out of the question.’ Balian finds his voice at last. It sounds strained. ‘You must realise that no one in the city will accept this alternative. You must see that.’
‘I’m sorry.’ (Saladin.) ‘It is a matter of honour.’
‘Is honour more important than innocent lives?’
Roland speaks out. Quite calmly, but with that familiar hint of disdain. (As in, ‘Pagan, is that apple core there for a purpose?’ or ‘Pagan, did you say you were finished cleaning this shield?’.) Saladin turns his head, slowly. Such a wealth of menace in such a trivial movement.
‘You come from across the sea, Lord Roland, do you not?’
‘I was born in the Frankish lands, yes.’
‘Then you are probably not acquainted with the history of this kingdom. If you were, you would appreciate the irony of your remark. When you talk of innocent lives, Lord Roland, you make me think of the lives lost ninety years ago, when your forefathers took Jerusalem from mine. Clearly you are not aware that the only inhabitants to escape from the city with their lives on that occasion were the Governor Iftikhar ad-Daula and his bodyguard. Every other man, woman and child was slain by the Christian soldiers. I have heard that the mosque of al-Aqsa, which you now call your Temple, was knee-deep in our dead.’
He stops for a moment, and his dark face grows darker – as dark as a storm-cloud. Let’s just hope the storm doesn’t break. Yes? No? Roland says nothing – and it’s probably the right thing to do. At least it allows Saladin to take a few deep breaths and calm down.
‘It is not my wish to descend to the level of this Christian barbarity,’ he murmurs. ‘However, such wounds leave very deep scars.’
Sudden noise in the distance. Hard to tell – a muffled roar. Voices, perhaps? Thousands and thousands of swelling voices . . .
Rush for the exit. Balian first, as fast as a flea. Then a tight knot of Infidels. Scraping past their armoured huddle, through a press of perfumed silk. Wriggling free, and – there!
Balian turns. He grabs my arm.
‘What’s happening? Tell me! I can’t see!’
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