The Crescent and the Cross

by S. J. A. Turney

  The two men passed into the room, their companion closing the door behind them.

  They were in a bare room, again dusty and disused, refuse and rodent skeletons in evidence. The walls had once been brightly painted, but were now dim and cracked and peeling, all of this made visible by a small window that had been covered with rotting drapes which had now been pulled aside to admit a sliver of moonlight.

  Calderon dropped to the floor in the centre of the room, half in and half out of the beam of light.

  ‘I am…’ he began, and tailed off, staring at the dusty plain tiles beneath him. There was a long pause as the two Templars joined him on the floor.

  ‘You don’t have to explain,’ Arnau said as soothingly as he could. ‘I think we know what happened.’

  ‘You don’t understand. You can’t understand,’ Calderon said.

  ‘They broke you. Just as torturers break their prey. But they did not break you physically as a torturer would. They had to break your spirit instead. What I don’t understand is why? Your fellow knights from Salvatierra told me what happened. They had assumed you were killed. It would seem natural for you to be killed. Why would they go to such efforts?’

  ‘Because they are the Devil’s disciples, and this is the end of days,’ Calderon said in a menacing whisper.

  ‘Be ye ware of false prophets,’ Arnau quoted, ‘that come to you in the clothing of sheep, but withinforth they be ravening wolves or ravens, of their fruits ye shall know them.’

  ‘Matthew seven,’ Calderon hissed, ‘but seek you the revelation of Saint John the Divine: “And the beast was seized, and with him the false prophet who performed the signs in his presence, by which he deceived those who had received the mark of the beast and those who worshiped his image; these two were thrown alive into the lake of fire which burns with brimstone.”’

  ‘You see the Almohads – the caliph – as the false prophet? That he marked you in some way?’

  Calderon’s gaze hardened. ‘My captors, they worked on me, found what truly gripped my heart with fear, and when they had done so, they toyed with me. They took me to the Tower of the Resurrection in Salvatierra and they threw me from the parapet time and again, only to haul me back on ropes. I think they always planned to let go one time and let me plummet, but as long as I shrieked my horror, they played their game.’

  He shuddered, and Arnau gave him a sympathetic look. He could barely imagine the terror of such a thing.

  ‘Their imam saved me. Al-Hafiz came to me. He caught me and admonished them for their games. He pulled me back. He said it was unseemly for a man of Allah to be treated so. He knew, somehow, knew that God talked to me in my heart, and he told me that his god… that Allah would protect me. They came for me again, more than once, those Almohad dogs who simply wanted me to suffer, and they played their games with me, but always Al-Hafiz found me and saved me.

  ‘They turned my belief, my piety, my very faith upon me, used me to destroy myself. I had always thought the voice of the Divine spoke to me, that it had called me to service. I thought that it had called me at Salvatierra to surrender myself to the enemy, to the Great Enemy, even. I knew there had to be a reason, some part of the divine plan. But now, I wonder whether it was always the false prophet, marking me and corrupting me. And now I am ruined, godless, corrupt, damned.’

  Arnau shivered. He was a man of God, and learned enough in the scriptures, and he believed beyond doubt in the Trinity, but this? This was beyond him. Calderon was a man so close to the Divine that he was also dangerously close to madness, or so the other knights of Calatrava had intimated. A suspicion fell upon Arnau.

  ‘What did they plan for you? The imam converted you, but there has to be a reason. He saw something in you.’

  ‘They called me Al-Haji.’

  ‘I am not familiar with this word,’ Arnau admitted.

  ‘It is the name for one who has trod the great pilgrimage. Someone a step closer to God.’

  Arnau nodded, frowning. ‘I think they saw in you the same nearness to the Divine that you see in yourself. I think you were a prize for them. I think you were to be brought out and displayed to the armies of Christendom as a sign. God above, but I can only imagine how that would shake the Orders, especially yours.’

  ‘I have been fooled by the false prophet,’ Calderon said quietly, ‘marked by the Beast. You should have let me die. As soon as I realised that it was not the words of the Lord that had brought me here, as soon as you showed me that, I knew that I was worthless, that everything I have done is at the bidding of Satan. I would have died in that gate, but I would have died bringing about the death of demons around me. I could perhaps have redeemed my soul at the last, and secured a path to Heaven. You should have left me and let me die in the gate.’

  Arnau gritted his teeth, thinking desperately. Calderon had been a prize for the Almohads, and if he had led out an enemy charge against his own order, Arnau could hardly imagine what effect that would have on them. But to have Calderon, a man who heard the song of the angels, returned to them to fight with his brothers on the field? Well that would give heart instead. It was important that they get Calderon back to Toledo now. How they could do so he could barely conceive, but the first step had to be making the man want to go back. Finding a reason for him to believe again. Arnau had to somehow persuade him to become again the man he had once been.

  ‘What if you were not mistaken originally?’ Arnau asked, a notion occurring to him.

  ‘What?’

  ‘God’s plan is ineffable. It is not given to the likes of us to know wherefore we do what we do. Perhaps it is part of God’s plan that not only did you join the Order and submit yourself to the Almohads, but even that you should be so taken in by them? That, even more, Tristán and I should come to Cordoba to find you? Perhaps in the end it is the imam Al-Hafiz who has been played, who does the work of the Lord in saving you and bringing you to this point.’

  ‘I do not follow you.’

  Arnau leaned over and grasped Calderon by the shoulders. ‘I mean that providence is at work all around us, Brother. That God watches and guides our every move. Against all probability, we crossed hundreds of miles of enemy land safely in order to find you. That has to be the work of God, for no man alone could hope to achieve such a thing. That we found you and that you have recovered in yourself once more? That we have avoided capture by the enemy? All of this is too much for men, but has to be the work of God.’

  ‘You are saying that God led us here? But why?’

  ‘Because there is no other way we could have seen what we have seen,’ Arnau breathed, suddenly sure of himself. ‘Because at Toledo an army gathers at the word of the Pope, commanded by kings and bishops and expecting to carve a deep path into Al-Andalus, to recover the lands for Christendom. They cannot know what awaits them. We all knew that their caliph was back, that his gaze had turned west once more, but the gathering force in Toledo cannot know what we have seen. They cannot be prepared.’

  Tristán nodded, understanding. ‘Ever since we crossed the Sierra Morena we have seen more and more signs of the Moorish army coming. The accommodation in this city filled by officers and nobles on the move, units of cavalry and infantry all travelling the road to the north-east. And at the one great pass through the mountains new defences thrown up by the caliph’s men. The kings in the north think they will bring a crusade south, rolling across Iberia, but we know now that the Almohad forces are gathering to stop them. And thinking on what we have seen, if this has been going on even half as long as the forces have been gathering in Toledo, the caliph could already have twice as many men in place.’

  Arnau nodded. ‘Do you not realise, Calderon, that all we have seen and done has to be the work of God. We are the only Christians who know that the caliph is prepared and that his massive force is awaiting the advance of the kings. We must return to the army, to Toledo, for we can tell them what they face, and that way they can still prepare or alter their plans.’


  Calderon still looked uncertain, yet he nodded slowly.

  ‘We have to get out of Cordoba, and soon,’ Arnau said. ‘I cannot imagine how, but we must. Yusuf and the horses are in a stable near Farraj’s house. Can you find that place? I am now truly lost.’

  Calderon frowned. ‘I believe so.’

  ‘Then lead on, but we must be wary. The soldiers will still be looking for us.’

  The knight nodded and retraced the steps they had taken into this place, emerging into the alley once more. For a moment they paused, breath held, and listened. The sounds of angry searching were still audible but at a distance. Calderon turned and led them back in the direction from which they had first come. It was the more sensible choice, Arnau realised, for the guards would be less likely to retrace their steps in their search. They moved carefully but as swiftly as they dared. Arnau recognised several landmarks on the journey as places they had passed at a mad run on the way here, and then, finally, they reached the street with the tower.

  Calderon looked out, left and right, and ducked back into the alley. ‘It is busy out there. Too many guards at the gate. Come.’ And with that he turned back, selecting a new path. Arnau and Tristán followed, with little idea where they were going, but twice, where high buildings gave way to low garden walls, he spotted the ramparts and the towers, and realised they were moving parallel with the city walls. He was therefore not entirely surprised when they reached another wider street, ducking out to the left, and in the distance, at the top of the hill, he could just see places he remembered from looking out of Farraj’s window.

  The street was not busy, just a few ordinary folk visible here and there, and blessedly none of them in the uniform of city guards. As they emerged from the alley, Calderon slipped the scimitar under his robes, jamming the pommel beneath his armpit and hiding it as effectively as possible. He edged his turban lower and pulled his veil up to cover much of his face, affecting the stoop of an older, more grizzled labourer. Arnau and Tristán followed suit as best they could, becoming nondescript being easy enough for Arnau, but somewhat difficult for Tristán in his armoured shirt and full-face helmet.

  Still, as they moved at a measured pace up the hill along the edge of the street, few folk offered them even a passing glance, and those that did displayed no suspicion. With the build-up to war, the people of Cordoba were probably more than used to seeing soldiers in the street, after all. Ahead, the stables came slowly into view, golden light washing out of the wide and low archway into the street. With Calderon leading, they closed on it, and Arnau gestured to the knight carefully, warning him to be careful, with just his eyes reminding the man that trouble might await them inside. Calderon confirmed that he had understood with just a nod.

  They rounded the corner and made their way inside, hands ready to grasp concealed weapons. Their worst fears seemed realised when the first thing they saw was a pair of boys, stable-hands clearly, cowering in a corner near the arch with terrified looks. They had fled something within the stables, but being slaves, they dared not leave the building, and so cringed and cowered at the threshold. At the sight of them, Arnau’s fingers wrapped around the hilt of the sword beneath his robe.

  The stable’s cluttered entrance opened up into a wide courtyard of stone flags, filled with scattered straw and hay and the stains of horse manure and urine. Stalls led off three sides of the courtyard, the last pierced by three doorways that led inside. There was no sign of anyone, but Arnau recognised the bag in which Yusuf had gathered their supplies lying forlorn near a stall door. He gestured to it, and the other two nodded as they stepped into the courtyard and away from the entrance.

  No other sign of life. They held their breath once more as they listened, Arnau peering back out to the gateway. They were now around the corner and not visible from the street, which was a blessing, and he could no longer see the cowering slaves. They could all hear the murmur of low voices echoing from the central doorway, though not what was being said.

  The three men, spread out in a line, closed on the door, Arnau on Calderon’s left, the squire on his right. Padding forwards, they pulled in close and passed through the arched doorway: first the knight of Calatrava, then Tristán, and finally Arnau.

  The room inside was lit by the low glow of two oil lamps, a golden warm light. Around the edge, the walls were dotted with hooks upon which hung the tack and harnesses, the saddles and bags of the various horses currently in the stables. One wall was given over to shelving, which held more of the same, but it was what occupied the centre of the room that held Arnau’s attention as he stepped inside.

  Yusuf lay in a heap on the ground, his clothing soaked and matted with blood. If he was alive, he was barely so, for there was no sound coming from him and no sign of movement. Close by stood the city guardsman, blade out and glistening redly, a look of savage hatred pasted across his face at the sight of the new arrivals. To the other side of the Moor’s body stood Farraj’s second son, his lip twisted into a sneer. A bag lay nearby, battered books spilled from it into sticky blood. Arnau felt the ire rise in him, and his sword was out now, but he was suddenly robbed of a target, for Calderon, snarling furiously, threw himself at the guard, scimitar swinging, while Tristán dived in front of Arnau, making for the young man, who ripped a long, curved knife out from where it had been tucked into his belt and brandished it ready.

  Arnau looked left and then right as the two pairs engaged, snarling and clashing, and then dropped to his knees next to Yusuf. He reached down and placed his fingers at the side of their friend’s neck. There was no pulse. With a heavy heart, he turned the Moor over and was further dismayed at the greyness of the man’s flesh. He had bled out almost completely. Arnau realised he had the toe of one of his boots in the deep pool of blood that had come out of his friend’s body.

  ‘Oh, Yusuf, I am sorry.’

  He squeezed the dead Moor’s shoulder and then rose, slowly. He could feel the anger flowing through him, but somehow it was being kept down by the sorrow that also enshrouded him. This was so pointless. Moor killing Moor, all through distrust and hatred, and as always it was the innocent who suffered the most. He watched Calderon for a moment and marvelled at the speed and skill of the man as the knight swung his weapon, danced two steps and, as the guard brought up his own blade, neatly severed the man’s sword hand at the wrist with a swing that should not have had sufficient time to get to where it needed to be. Calderon busied himself angrily with chopping pieces from the howling guard, and Arnau left him to what was clearly a cathartic experience, turning back to Tristán.

  The boy the squire was fighting had lost his knife now and sported an angry red line across one cheek that ran continuously with blood, as well as a bloom of crimson on the white cotton sleeve of his right arm. The squire had his opponent at his mercy and lifted his sword for a final chop, but Arnau leapt forwards and grasped Tristán’s wrist at the last moment. The squire turned and flashed him a look that was as confused as it was angry, while Farraj’s son cowered in terror.

  Arnau waved Tristán away and, still glowering, the squire stepped back, neatly bypassing the pool of blood beside Yusuf. The young man shivered and backed against the wall, and Arnau followed him, sword in hand.

  ‘The man you had killed, there,’ he said, pointing to the mess on the floor, ‘was a truly good man, a man your God will treasure, a learned and peaceful man. What you have done is not war or piety or justice. What you have done is simple murder. Your father, I believe, is another such good man, and it is because of the respect I have for him that you are not now lying on the floor bleeding out alongside the man you had butchered. Go home to your father, tell him nothing of all of this. Find your brother and somehow dispose of the two dead guards on the roof that you sent to kill us, and then go and hide inside your home. Treasure your father, because if boys like you grow to be men without changing, then your father’s like in this world are finished. Stay with your family and avoid what is coming, but know this: if I
spy you on the battlefield, I will give no quarter.’

  The lad continued to cower, wide-eyed and with tears on his cheeks, until Arnau pointed back to the door and snapped, ‘Go!’

  He ran.

  Arnau sighed and turned to see that Calderon had finished the guard now, and that Tristán was still irritated over being stopped.

  ‘Sometimes mercy is the quality for which we must strive,’ he reminded the squire.

  ‘And sometimes it is not,’ added Calderon, rolling the dead guard into the corner with the toe of his boot.

  ‘You shouldn’t have let him go,’ Tristán grumbled. ‘Leaving an enemy behind you is always foolish, and I do not believe for one moment that he will change. By the time we have drawn ten breaths he will be with the city guard once more, telling them where we are.’

  ‘Then we must move, and swiftly. Yusuf was going to work out how to get out of the city, but I fear that is no longer of use to us.’

  Calderon turned slowly. ‘I think I may know a way.’

  11. Tahūna

  2 July 1212, Cordoba

  The three men moved through dark alleys like shadows. They had taken what they could from the stables, and despite the burden, Arnau had gathered up four of the best books from Yusuf’s collection, but Calderon’s idea meant leaving the horses behind, and since neither Arnau nor Tristán could come up with a better plan, they had acceded, grabbing only what they could carry.

  After that they had moved swiftly through the back alleys of the city, being sure to avoid anywhere that might land them in a meeting with the city guards, or indeed anyone else. Reaching that same impoverished empty room where they had hid from their pursuers earlier, they had rested. Six hours, they had allowed themselves, each man getting four hours of sleep and two on watch. There had been a number of distant clamours during Arnau’s watch, but he couldn’t say whether they were because of the three fugitives and their trail of corpses or whether, as was most likely, they were caused by something entirely unconnected.