by Amy Sumida
He walked outside to see one of the most beautiful sights he had ever beheld. The sky was streaked with color…blues, reds, purples and bright white. The colors pulsed and danced with life. It was an amazing thing to behold… if you were ignorant of its meaning.
All around him men ran in terror, packing their possessions or just fleeing without thought. All feared the curse that would befall them the next morning. The witch had proved her powers and they were strong.
Bohemund stood amidst all the chaos, just staring at the incredible sky. He seemed blind to all the uproar, completely absorbed by the horrible beauty before him. Rannulf ran over and put a hand on Bohemund’s shoulder.
“Bohemund,” Rannulf shouted above the din. The man slowly turned to him.
“What power is this, that the woman can paint the sky?” Bohemund asked in wonder.
“I don’t know,” Rannulf admitted. “But your men will dessert you if you don’t say something to stop them.”
Bohemund looked about him, like he was seeing the scene for the first time. He shouted for Tancred and Robert. He shouted for his squires, he shouted for his horse and when he got astride, he shouted some more. Bohemund’s voice would be gone by morning along with most of his men.
Ayla’s back ached and her eyes were beginning to shut on their own but she had one more thing to do before she could succumb to sleep. She had to try and warn her beautiful Warrior.
She got an old book down from a shelf and flipped through the pages till she found the spell for contacting someone through a dream. Ayla took the book to her altar, gathering supplies as she went. Before the low table, she knelt and deposited her armload. She lit the candles and the charcoal for her incense, then placed a chunk of resin on the glowing coal. Slowly, she cleared her mind and began to chant the words of the spell as the incense lifted its ghostly arms to the ceiling.
It was hours before the men were calmed enough to sleep. When Rannulf finally entered his tent, it was in complete exhaustion. He fell asleep as soon as he laid down. But peace was not to be found in for him, the witch was waiting for him in his dreams.
She stood before him in a large, white room. Her loose, silk gown flowed around her in the breeze from the balcony, teasing him with glimpses of silken flesh. She walked closer to him, across a floor inlaid with stone pieces that created pictures, until he was staring down into her dark eyes. They were thickly lined with kohl and had long lashes. He'd never seen anything so beautiful.
“Tell me your name,” he reached for her. She took his hand before it touched her face and held it gently between them.
“That is for another time, Christian,” she sighed softly. “Why did you not leave?”
“I can not,” he said as he pulled her to him. It was just a dream after all, he could do whatever he wished. His lips descended on hers and the fire of their kiss surprised them both. He was consumed as much as he consumed her. Shivers coursed down his spine and up again, to make his fingertips tingle. The woman was pure magic.
“No,” she pulled away a little to look at him, “there’s no time. I must warn you.”
“You have already warned me but I told you, I can't go. I must stay with Bohemund.”
“I know,” she waved her hand dismissively. “But if you must stay, then I would at least spare you. I'm unable to save the rest.” He brushed her hair back from her face and kissed her cheek.
“You've already saved me,” he smiled gently down at her.
“Listen to me, Christian!” She pushed away again. “When the curse hits, you must stay as far from the wall as possible. Retreat into your tent and close the flap. Then…and this is very important, are you listening to me?”
“Yes, lovely one, I’m listening,” he held her hands reassuringly.
“Cover your nose and mouth with a wet cloth, thick layers to filter the air.”
“I will do it,” he vowed.
“Remember this, when the curse hits,” her eyes widened in fear and she gripped his hands tighter. “I’m losing you…remember the cloth and the tent.” Then she was gone.
Chapter Eight
Morning’s light illuminated the haggard faces of the remaining soldiers. They'd lost close to four thousand, from their camp alone, during the night. The number was not huge, by comparison to the thousands remaining, but it was still significant. The witch had dropped their numbers without so much as raising a sword.
Bohemund stood with Rannulf at the opening of his tent, awaiting her arrival. They both knew she would come. She would come and deliver her curse. The other camps had been warned and many had deserted their ranks as well. Now all were on watch for the evil to come.
They didn't have long to wait. She appeared on the massive wall, this time flanked by many men. They all held large bows and Rannulf could see them along the walls near the other camps as well. He didn’t like the looks of it.
“Hail, brave and foolish warriors,” she greeted them. “Know that you have forced me to this, as I hold no ill will against you or your God. War brings forth only evil and it is evil now that I must rain upon you.” The men began to shift uneasily. “Forgive me for the horrors I send to you, as I will never forgive myself.”
There were tears streaming down the woman’s face. Rannulf frowned, that couldn’t be a good sign. She gestured to the men behind the archers and they threw a volley of unusually shaped objects. As the objects sailed overhead, the archers released their arrows and struck the flying objects, cracking them open and releasing their horrible contents over the camp.
Instantly, men started to scream in pain. Rannulf shouted for the men to get inside their tents, as the memory of his dream came back to him vividly. Bohemund and Tancred followed him into Bohemund’s tent and there they waited helplessly for the terror to end.
They watched out the open doorway as men fell under the ruthless attack, clutching their bleeding wounds. A wicked, oily rain was falling, burning away the flesh it landed on. The victims rubbed at their skin, trying vainly to get it off but it clung to them until the men ran screaming into the Ophontes.
“Dear Christ,” whispered Bohemund as he watched his tent’s roof begin to burn away in places where the substance had hit. Tancred began to shake violently next to him. Volley after volley was launched, until the camp was covered with an evil film.
Just when they thought it was over, another assault was launched. This time it was only arrows but the arrows had thin glass containers attached to them. When they landed, the containers cracked and thick, noxious fumes wafted out. They snaked along the ground and soon, those that had survived the burning rain were choking and gasping.
“Cover your nose,” cried Rannulf as he ran further into the tent and found a piece of cloth. He wet it quickly from a pitcher of water and tied it around his head. He passed one to Bohemund and then Tancred. Rannulf looked at the doorway and saw the fumes begin to waft their way. He ran to the entrance to pull down the door flap. The last thing he saw before he let it drop, was the woman on the wall of Antioch, being pulled roughly away as she cried violently. How could she be so powerful and yet so easily controlled? He retreated to the rear of the tent as the full memory of his dream assailed him. Was she powerful enough to invade a man’s dreams? Did she really spare him, and if so, why?
There was screaming coming from the direction of the other camps and Rannulf knew they were suffering similar fates. He had faced many battles without fear at Bohemund’s side but now they huddled together under a table like scared children, listening to the screams of the fallen. There was nothing they could do. This was one enemy that couldn’t be faced. They had to wait it out. As Rannulf contemplated the distinct possibility of his death, he was surprised to realize, his only regret would be never meeting the beautiful sorceress.
“Let go of me,” Ayla shoved at the arms holding her and was finally released.
She climbed up into the carriage that was waiting to take her back to the palace and sank back into its soft cushions. T
he people of Antioch lined the wide, central street but she didn’t notice the faces that peered at her in awe. She didn’t see the beauty of the city either, the double rows of roofed columns, lining each side of the lane, the magnificent gardens, the amazing aqueducts filled with rushing water, or the serene sculptures of Gods and heroes.
All she saw was the faces of her victims.
She huddled back into the cushioned seat and covered her face with her hands. She'd never forget those horrible, twisted faces or the terrible deaths she'd caused. Her gift had been used as a weapon of war and she would surely pay for it. Her father would be so disappointed in her. But what choice did she really have? She tried to get them to leave. Why didn’t they heed her warnings?
“Why do you cry for the infidels?” Yaghi-Siyan looked at Ayla in confusion. “They are nothing to you.”
“They are men,” Ayla lowered her hands to stare at Yaghi-Siyan. “Just like you…except maybe not so cold-hearted.”
“Don’t be a fool, Ayla,” Yaghi-Siyan sneered. “They would do worse to you if they could.” Seeing her pale, he moved on to a different subject. “You have pleased me, maybe when this siege is over I will reward you by making you my wife.”
“Marry me and you will never have a peaceful night’s sleep again,” she hissed at him. “You will be too concerned over losing your manhood, which I will cut off, shall it ever touch me.” Yaghi-Siyan’s face turned white and he pulled back from the woman in horror. She had a crazed look about her and he wasn’t inclined to call her bluff. No woman was worth losing his shaft over.
“I retract my offer,” he said quietly. “Only a fool would try to bed a serpent.”
Ayla calmed a little and returned to her brooding but the silence did not last long.
“What did the second attack do?” Yaghi questioned. “I saw the men choking. Will they die horribly?” His eyes held a glittering glee that made Ayla’s stomach twist.
“I refuse to speak on this any further,” she turned away from him. “You will see for yourself soon enough, their fate.”
Chapter Nine
Rannulf dropped heavily to the ground beside the fire. It had been weeks since the nightmarish attack of the Turkish sorceress. They lost many men that day but it was nothing compared to the deaths that followed. A strange illness had consumed the men who had been unlucky enough to inhale some of the poisonous fumes. They were overcome with an insatiable hunger. They ate and ate but still their bodies withered and died. It was a double-edged sword for not only did the sick waste away but the healthy suffered famine from the constant theft of supplies. Rations were meager and the only ones able to afford the Armenian merchants’ prices were the rich. Now they had to post a guard around the horses because the starving men were killing them for meat.
Then there were the Tarfurs. Rannulf ran a hand over his eyes, trying to wipe away the memory. Remnants of the first wave of soldiers into Byzantium, the Tarfurs were of the poorest class. They were led by Peter the Hermit, otherwise known as the unwashed priest, and were a rather pitiful group. When the famine struck, they had become cannibals, digging up the dead at night and roasting them like beef. The sight of a human body cooking over a spit was not one Rannulf would soon forget.
The Tarfurs tried to sneak away one night, after inciting so much rage from their comrades, and Rannulf had wished they'd been allowed to leave. He didn’t like the group and not just because of their eating habits. He'd heard horrible stories of their journey across Europe, in which they slaughtered and stole from any Jew they came across. Rannulf hated the way the Pope’s speech had incited such violence against the Jewish people.
The Tarfurs used it as an excuse for cruelty and thievery. One town in Yugoslavia had dared to fight back and the Tarfurs had slaughtered all four-thousand of its inhabitants. They were evil people and Rannulf was happy to see them go but Bohemund was enraged by any further desertion and had sent Tancred to bring them back. Peter the Hermit had been taken immediately to Bohemund, to be chastised thoroughly. The chastisement may have involved a few fists and possibly a dagger. The next morning, Peter addressed the whole camp and apologized for his cowardice.
When would this hell end? Rannulf almost wished he'd been fortunate enough to die in the witch rain. At least it would have been quick. This slow torture was unbearable. He laid back in the grass and fell into a dreamless sleep.
Chapter Ten
“The men think the Emperor is secretly encouraging the Turks,” Bohemund whispered conspiratorially to the General Tartizius.
“What?” Tartizius was aghast. “That’s not true.”
“I’m sure it’s not,” Bohemund put an arm around the general. “But as a friend, I wanted to warn you before it was too late.”
“Warn me?” Tartizius pulled back to look at Bohemund. “Warn me of what?”
“They are planning your murder, my friend.”
“My murder?” The Byzantine backed up in shock as his golden complexion paled. “They would not dare.”
“I’m sorry, General,” Bohemund did his best to look upset. “I fear they will not listen to my guidance and will kill you in the dark of night.”
“What should I do?” Tartizius looked about him in fear.
“Leave tonight, General,” Bohemund advised his adviser. “Wait for the cover of dark and sneak away alone. No one will notice if your servants remain behind. You know as well as I, that sometimes the best tactic is retreat.”
“Yes,” Tartizius agreed. “That's a wise idea. Thank you, Bohemund. I will not forget your kindness.”
“Godspeed, Tartizius.”
The general quickly left to pack a few belongings and plan for his long trip. He was secretly happy to be leaving this place of death. He couldn’t wait to return to the grandeur of Constantinople.
Rannulf saw the Byzantine leave Bohemund’s tent and frowned. What was Bohemund up to now? Would nothing stop his constant plotting? He entered Bohemund’s tent and found him smiling smugly.
“What have you done?” Rannulf instantly questioned.
“I have insured our fortunes,” Bohemund beamed. “don't trip in your haste to thank me.” The teasing was lost on Rannulf.
“You’ve somehow got Tartizius to leave, haven’t you?”
“As far as you know, I've done nothing,” Bohemund’s eyes narrowed.
“You know where my loyalty lies,” Rannulf sighed as he sat down next to his friend. “There's no need for your concern.” Bohemund’s demeanor instantly changed. He laughed and slapped Rannulf on the back.
“I never doubted you, my friend,” he said. “It’s just this horrible siege getting to me. I don’t know how much longer we can last in these conditions but at least now we won’t have to worry about the Byzantines and our oathe to give them Antioch.”
The next morning, Godfrey, Raymond, Robert and Stephen of Blois burst into Bohemund’s tent. Rannulf and Tancred were breaking their fast with meager rations, at the table with Bohemund. The only one surprised at the abrupt entrance was Tancred, who Bohemund had not thought to take into his confidence.
“Tartizius is gone,” Godfrey said.
“What?” Bohemund jumped up with a practiced expression of shock. “What do you mean?”
“His tent and servants are still here but most of his personal items are gone and he is nowhere to be found.” Raymond strode forward and slammed his fist down on Bohemund’s table. “What did you do, Bohemund?”
“What are you implying, Raymond?” Bohemund narrowed his eyes and closed the distance between them. Rannulf quietly stood and walked over to stand behind his friend and make perfectly clear which side he chose. Raymond backed up a little and looked to the men behind him.
“We don’t know that Bohemund had anything to do with this,” Robert said as he stepped up and put his hand on Raymond’s shoulder. “Let’s not begin fighting amongst ourselves.”
“I warned all of you that Alexius was untrustworthy,” Bohemund said slowly as he looked t
hem each in the eye. “His desertion should be proof of it.”
“We shall see, Bohemund,” Godfrey said quietly as he gestured for the rest of the men to exit. “Things have become rather unclear as of late.”
“Maybe you’d do better to join your brother in Edessa,” Bohemund taunted Godfrey. “I heard he got that poor fool, King Thoros, to make him his heir and now the King has been conveniently assassinated. There’s a man with clarity.”
“You bastard,” Godfrey swung at Bohemund but was pulled back by Robert and Stephen.
“My Lord Bohemund is simply trying to point out, that each and every one of us can look suspicious,” Rannulf stepped forward. “Who can say that this was not the very intention of Tartizius’s secret departure? We must stand firm together or the Turks have already won.” The men calmed at Rannulf’s rational words and nodded in agreement.
“You are blessed by this man’s friendship, Bohemund,” Godfrey said as he stared at Rannulf. “His words have saved you once again.” The men filed out of the tent, much more reserved than when they'd entered.
Chapter Eleven
June 2, 1098
Rannulf looked down at the map of Antioch, brows furrowed in concentration. Their time had finally come. Tonight they would take the city. He could hardly believe they'd survived as long as they had. It was due, in part, to the unexpected supplies that had arrived in March with a fleet of ships sailing under the command of Edgar Atheling, although, even that blessing had almost cost them, when both Bohemund and Raymond had insisted on going to escort the supplies. On the road back, Yaghi-Siyan had attacked them and almost succeeded in capturing their desperately needed provisions yet again.
