Pagan's Crusade

by Catherine Jinks

  You get a pretty good view from the Mount of Olives. The entire west wall, with the Golden Gate, and the Temple behind it . . . the Gate of Josophat, the spire of St Anne’s . . . up along the north wall a bit, and smoke rising against the sky. A real mess, on the north wall.

  ‘Your standard is down, Lord Saladin.’ Roland’s voice, behind me. ‘Your standard is down, and your men are driven back. See for yourself. The city has not fallen.’

  A burst of chatter from the Infidels. Balian’s face, as bright as silver. Roland, shading his eyes. And Saladin, strolling up with his retinue. Doesn’t seem especially concerned.

  ‘You have gained a little time. Nothing more,’ he says. ‘It is a temporary setback. We shall regroup.’

  ‘You may regroup, Lord Saladin, but my men will fight to the death!’ Balian, transformed. The hot blood flaming in his cheeks and eyes and nostrils. ‘They will fight to the death, and they will take everything with them! Their prisoners! Their possessions! And everything in the city that you hold sacred!

  ’ Aha. That’s got him. That’s really got him. Look at his hands.

  ‘But your own holy places –’

  ‘Our own holy places. Everything.’

  Long pause. Absolute stillness. All eyes on Saladin, watching his shuttered face. Hardly daring to breathe, as he stands there looking at the ground. Thinking. Deciding.

  Suddenly he lifts his head.

  ‘In truth, it comes as no surprise,’ he announces. ‘Unbelievers have little reverence. They treat their sacred things like dog’s dung.’ His voice is very brisk. Detached. His expression is calm. ‘So be it. I shall free every citizen upon your surrender, Lord Balian, at a ransom of ten dinars for every man, five for every woman, and one for every child.’

  Hooray!

  ‘Ten dinars?’ Balian scratches his chest. ‘What about our paupers? There must be twenty thousand of them . . .’

  ‘And a lump sum for the paupers. Say . . . one hundred thousand.’

  ‘One hundred thousand dinars?’ Balian nearly chokes on his own tongue.

  ‘Five dinars each. A fair price, I think.’

  ‘For a bunch of diseased cripples?’ (Balian.) ‘You ought to be paying us for taking them off your hands!’

  Roland coughs, in a meaningful sort of way. And it makes Saladin smile.

  ‘Very well.’ The Great Man concedes a point. ‘Seventy thousand.’

  Balian shakes his head.

  ‘We can’t make seventy. Twenty.’

  ‘Twenty!’ The smile grows broader. ‘I could get more than that for twenty thousand blind lepers in the slave markets of Baghdad.’ ‘Twenty for ten, then. Twenty thousand for ten thousand.’

  ‘Fifty for ten.’

  ‘Thirty.’

  ‘Thirty for five.’

  ‘Seven.’

  ‘Done.’

  Amazing. Just amazing. I can hardly believe my ears. Is this how kingdoms rise and fall? It sounds like haggling in a fish market.

  Glance at Roland, who catches my eye.

  ‘So we are agreed, then.’ (Saladin.) ‘Thirty thousand dinars for seven thousand paupers, and for the rest –’ ‘Ten, five and one, I know,’ says Balian.

  ‘And fifty dinars for each knight.’

  ‘Fifty?’

  ‘At least.’ Saladin sounds surprised. ‘Surely, Lord Balian, for a man of your stature? You must be worth ten times as much.’

  What a gall. What a cheek. What a sly devil. You can see the glint in his sidelong glance.

  That Saladin’s no fool.

  ‘All right, fifty.’ Balian succumbs, scowling. ‘Fifty dinars.’

  ‘Good. Then that’s settled.’ The Great Man gazes out over Jerusalem. Over the Temple Mount, the sheer white walls, the golden dome, the roofs, the towers, the pillars of smoke, the gates, the markets, the churches, the palaces, the Holy Sepulchre. Master of all he surveys.

  Historic moment.

  ‘The siege is lifted,’ he says.

  They’ve found their way to Templar headquarters. Hundreds of them, all soiled, all starving, all desperate. Clustered around the northern entrance, in the shadow of the golden dome. Welf, poor sod, is on guard duty. He looks like a hen that’s hatched a brood of giant locusts who are busy eating everything in sight.

  We’re hardly within hailing distance when a shuffling hunchback emerges from the interior, and triggers a push for the door.

  ‘All right! Get back! Back, I said!’ Welf bars the way with his staff. ‘You. Yes you.’ (Jerking his head.) ‘You next.’

  A wail of protest, as someone small and skinny slips beneath his arm. Over the pleading, outstretched hands Welf catches sight of Roland, and his big face lights up.

  Shall we risk it, or will they tear us to pieces?

  ‘God have mercy on us all.’ Roland, beside me. Stopping in his tracks to watch the hunchback scurry by. A pathetic, greyish old creature, his ransom pressed to his heart, his toothless mouth hanging open. ‘So many paupers, Pagan – I had no idea . . .’

  ‘They mightn’t all be paupers. Not real paupers.’ (What’s that fellow doing? Peeling off from the crowd, following the hunchback. I don’t like his face.) ‘Hey, you!’ (Yes, you.) ‘Where do you think you’re going?’

  Who, me? An expression of injured innocence. You’re not fooling anyone, cesshead.

  ‘Try stealing that old man’s ransom, my friend, and you’ll find yourself nailed to the nearest piece of wood.’

  ‘I wasn’t –’

  ‘Now get over there and wait your turn.’

  Nice to have a bit of authority. Nice to have Roland around. You don’t argue with a man whose comrade looks like Saint George’s big brother. Not that Roland’s the slightest bit interested: he’s already waist deep in beggars, and heading for the door.

  The crowd parts in front of him like mist in the morning sunlight. An eerie hush descends.

  ‘Any trouble, sergeant?’

  ‘A little, my lord.’

  ‘Please try to be patient, good folk.’ Roland lifts his voice. ‘Patience and discipline are always rewarded.’

  Yes, and my Aunty Eleanor was the Queen of Persia. You can almost hear it. Almost, but not quite. No one says a word as Roland proceeds through the doorway.

  With his faithful squire panting at his heels.

  ‘I don’t see why they have to sit out there.’ Roland sounds harassed. ‘They should be brought into this courtyard.’

  ‘Bring them in here, my lord, and they’ll steal everything that isn’t bolted down.’

  ‘Oh, Pagan –’

  ‘It’s true. Believe me. I know.’

  ‘How can you know?’

  ‘Because I spent two years patrolling the Jewry quarter on night watch. It wasn’t much fun, but it was instructive.’

  First on the left, just inside the main entrance. A narrow storeroom lined with shelves. Bundles of hemp, jars of tallow, blankets, chisels, brooms, pails, hides, rope, axes, water-bags, chamber-pots, you name it. Plus a big oak chest full of money.

  Gildoin and Odo are standing guard. Odo bruised and puffy, his swollen face all the colours of the rainbow: red, orange, yellow, purple. Gildoin drawn and heavy-eyed, missing a couple of teeth. Both survivors.

  Father Amiel in front of them, seated. Talking to a pauper you wouldn’t touch with tongs. Ingrained with dirt, crusted with sores, smells like a leper’s latrine. Stay downwind of that one.

  ‘But you can’t have the ransom until you tell me your name.’ (Amiel, wearily.) ‘You do have a name, don’t you?’

  The pauper nods. It’s a man, anyway. You can tell that much.

  ‘Well if you have a name, then give it to me.’

  ‘Joseph.’

  ‘Joseph what?’

  Silence. Amiel lifts his eyes to heaven.

  ‘Where do you come from, Joseph?’ Roland steps forward. ‘Where is your home?’

  Not a whimper. Hardly surprising, poor dungbeetle. Time to make my contribution.

&nb
sp; ‘He won’t have a home, my lord. Or a name or a family or anything else. He’s probably a scavenger. They live off the rubbish heaps outside the city wall. We used to see them on night watch.’

  All eyes swing in my direction. There’s a heavy, hopeless feeling in the air.

  ‘Well how can I mark him down in the records if he doesn’t have a name?’ Amiel is tired and peevish. He bites at the end of his quill. ‘We can’t just say “Joseph”. It isn’t enough.’

  Roland makes an impatient movement.

  ‘Just give him the money.’

  ‘But –’

  ‘Do it.’

  ‘But how much? One or ten?’

  Good question. Peering at the pauper. Man or boy? Roland decides to ask.

  ‘How old are you, Joseph?’

  A goggling stare. Might as well ask a puddle of mud the way to Byzantium.

  ‘I think he’s a boy.’ Amiel wants to save money. ‘One dinar.’

  ‘Give him ten. Just in case.’

  ‘But my lord –’

  ‘Now.

  ’ Gildoin counts the money into Amiel’s hand. Amiel passes it to Joseph. Joseph stares in wonder. Probably never seen a dinar before in his life.

  ‘Off you go, Joseph.’ Roland points him to the door. ‘And may God go with you.’

  Shuffle, shuffle. Hobbling out on rag-bound feet. Amiel waits until Joseph has disappeared, his mouth tight with disapproval, his nose as sharp as his pen. He frowns up at Roland, his skin the colour of candle-wax.

  ‘My lord, I must tell you that we can’t do much more for these people,’ he says. ‘The Temple treasury is not a bottomless pit.’

  ‘We must do what we can.’

  ‘Yes, but we’re not responsible. The church and the city –’

  ‘The church and the city have thousands more to look after.’ Roland’s voice is like cold iron. ‘There are twenty thousand poor in Jerusalem. They will be sold into slavery if we don’t raise the funds to buy their release.’

  ‘My lord, I know we have a Christian duty, but the Order also has a duty to itself. There’s barely enough left for our own ransoms. What with the servants, and the mercenaries, and your fifty dinars –’

  ‘Don’t trouble with my ransom. Forget about it. That’s not coming out of the treasury.’

  Hold on. Wait just a moment. What’s happening here? Amiel opens his mouth – and shuts it again as the next pauper appears on the threshold.

  A raw, ragged woman with a face like a length of torn white wool.

  ‘We can discuss this later, Father Amiel.’ Roland begins to back out. ‘Just do what you can, for the present. I’ll return shortly.’

  One little woman and he runs for his life. You’ll have to get used to them some time, Roland. The cloistered days are finished. Catching up in the courtyard, as he heads for the new wing. Grabbing his belt. Pulling him back.

  ‘Wait. My lord?’

  ‘What is it?’

  His eyes, blank and blue. Looking down his nose at me. It’s no good, Roland. That doesn’t work any more.

  ‘If the Order isn’t paying your ransom, my lord, then who is?’

  ‘We’ll discuss it later.’

  ‘Oh no we won’t. We’ll discuss it now.

  ’ Can’t believe I said that. But it’s time to hold firm – time to talk frankly. He blinks; sighs; removes my hand. Exuding an air of weary patience.

  ‘Pagan, you know the Rule as well as I do. No ransom is ever paid for a Templar knight.’

  ‘But the Rule is broken! You said so yourself!’ (Keep calm, Pagan. Take a deep breath.) ‘The Rule doesn’t apply, my lord. Not in these circumstances. Anyway, if it’s good enough for the Grand Master –’

  ‘Pagan. Listen to me. No, listen.’ Laying a hand on my head. ‘Fifty dinars will buy the freedom of ten women. Ten. Do you think I can walk out of this city with the souls of ten women on my conscience? Or fifty children? Do you think God would ever forgive me for that?’

  Christ in a cream cheese sauce. ‘Honestly, my lord, do you think He’ll forgive any of us?’

  ‘No – you don’t understand. This is different.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because my price is higher. And so are His expectations of me. I have spoken before of His blessings, Pagan. Now I see the way clear. This is the chance I have been given to repay Him for his loving kindness, without the shedding of blood –’

  ‘Oh, grow up, for God’s sake! What do you think that stuff is in your veins, consecrated wine? You know they’ll kill you! You know they will!’ (God give me patience! God give me patience, you stupid, stuck-up, arrogant oyster-head!) ‘I mean who the hell do you think you are, exactly? Saint Roland of the Perpetual Martyrdom? You’re no saint, Roland! You might think you are, but you’re not!’

  ‘Pagan –’

  ‘You’re no saint, because saints aren’t stupid! You’re stupid! You’re so stupid that you can’t think ahead! You think that sacrificing your life for a bunch of scabby, snot-nosed orphans is going to save them from slavery? You’re out of your mind! The instant they hit the road they’ll be snapped up by every dealer this side of Damascus – because you won’t be there to protect them! Can’t you see you’ll be needed on the road? No, of course you can’t. Because you’re too damn worried about getting your little foothold in heaven –’

  ‘That’s enough!

  ’ ‘I mean, you’re not satisfied with having the best of everything down here, are you? You’ve got to have a seat right next to the throne up there as well! Because you’re greedy! That’s what you are, you’re –’

  Bang-bang!

  Hit the ground. What . . .? Who . . .? Try to get my eyes back into focus.

  God. He must have boxed my ears.

  Standing up there with his fists clenched. Face the colour of a drunkard’s nose. Speechless. Shaking. Utterly, uncontrollably, frighteningly furious.

  He turns on his heel and strides away across the courtyard.

  For a moment there I thought he was going to kill me. Never seen anything like it in my life. God! What a look! The saint explodes and the earth trembles.

  But you’re no saint, Roland. You’re a stupid, childish, pompous, gullible, pig-headed, misguided foreigner and you’re not going to ruin everything just because of some crazy adolescent idea.

  Because I’m not going to let you.

  Chapter 9

  The Mount Sion bath-house: a den of iniquity since the dawn of time. Or at least since the birth of Jesus. They say the plumbing dates back that far. Skulking there in its shallow pit, four steps below the level of the street, with the marble slowly dropping from its facade – slab by slab – to expose the concrete and rubble beneath.

  First time I’ve ever seen the doors shut.

  Bang-bang-bang! (Open up in there.) No pedlars hanging about with their stocks of perfume and sugar-cane. No shifty-looking men in cheap clothes and expensive jewellery. No steady flow of patrons splashing in and out through clouds of scented steam.

  ‘Open up!’

  The clash of bolts, the squeak of hinges. A quivering collection of pouches and jowls, arranged in the shape of a face.

  ‘Who’s there?’ (Voice like someone filing down steel rivets.) ‘What do you want?’

  ‘I’m looking for Joscelin.’

  ‘Joscelin?’

  ‘On a matter of business.’

  The yellow eyeball rolls heavenwards.

  ‘He lives upstairs.’

  ‘I know that.’ Pus-features. ‘I just don’t know how to get up there.’

  ‘Around the side.’

  Slam! Door swings shut. (Manners? Who needs ’em?) Probably up to no good, in there. What a cesspool. Last time I crossed the threshold – when was it? On night watch. Cut throat in a private bath. Barber’s knife, purse stolen, nobody heard a thing. Perfect haunt for a snake like Joscelin. Should have known he’d end up living here.

  Around the side, he says. Dark, foul, and slippery underfoot. A staircas
e hewn into the crumbling wall. Washing strung from every available window. Oddly quiet.

  But then it’s oddly quiet all over Jerusalem. No battle raging. No bells ringing. No blood flowing. The markets all empty, and everything shut: foundries, tanneries, wine shops, bath-houses – you name it. Infidel patrols on every corner. Trying not to swank about too much, because it might arouse the fury of the populace. Trying to keep the peace. Searching every passer-by for concealed weapons. No arms allowed in public, damn their godforsaken souls – so now I have to catch this venomous hornet with my bare hands.

  And of course the door’s bolted.

  Hmmm. Won’t get anywhere by announcing myself. He’ll probably slip out some hidden back way. Don’t have the weight to push the door open. Can’t use my voice; can’t light a fire; can’t see any accessible windows . . .

  But if I were Joscelin, I’d open my door for a dog. Even if I was only going to send it about its business.

  Scratch-scratch-scratch.

  So it’s come to this. Sitting on my haunches, scraping away at Joscelin’s door with my fingernails like some kind of hungry animal.

  ‘Who is it?’ Muffled, from inside. I’d know that voice anywhere.

  Scratch-scratch-scratch. Scratch-scratch-scratch-scratch-scratch.

  Footsteps. Silence. He’s listening at the door.

  Scratch-scratch.

  Clunk of the bolt. Now! Push!

  And in we go! Wham! He hits the floor, squealing – his little silver knife spins across the room.

  Oh no you don’t, bedlouse. Stamp on his fingers.

  ‘Ow! Ow! Ow –’

  ‘Don’t even try it.’

  ‘Ow, get off, get off –’

  ‘All right.’ Move the foot. Drop down fast, as he turns onto his stomach. One knee on his shoulders. A handful of hair and ‘Yeow!’ Pulling his head back.

  ‘No! Please!’ (He thinks I’m going to cut his throat.) ‘Please –’

  ‘Relax, Joscelin. We’re old friends, remember?’

  The big brown eyes strain sideways in their sockets. Bulging. Astonished.

  ‘Pagan . . .?’

  ‘What’s the matter? Did you think I was dead? Eh?’ Dragging harder, until the tears well up in those oily orbs. ‘No thanks to you that I’m not, you viper.’

  ‘Help! Help!