“I have not accepted that command,” Ibelin retorted sharply. He did not like being forced into a corner.
“My lord.” It was an Armenian merchant who spoke. “We will all die one day. Do you want to face Our Lord as the man who abandoned the site of His passion and left it to desecration?”
Ibelin stared at the man.
“We would all rather die a martyr’s death than do that,” announced the master of the Furrier’s Guild. He was a burly man with a gruff voice.
“And your wives and children?” Ibelin asked back.
“We have agreed among ourselves to kill them rather than allow them to be taken away into shameful slavery.”
“You would repeat Masada?” Ibelin asked, his eyes sweeping around the table, making eye contact with one after another. They met his eyes, some defiant, some troubled, but all nodded one after another until Ibelin’s eyes came to the master of the Potter’s Guild.
This gray-haired master asked in a belligerently reproachful tone, “Do you love Christ less than the Jews loved their Ark of the Covenant?”
Ibelin didn’t answer the question. It was obvious that these men were more than disappointed—they were shocked to discover that Ibelin had not come to lead their futile defense of Jerusalem.
Balian considered himself a devout man, but he had never seen himself in the role of martyr. He most certainly could not embrace the idea of killing Maria Zoë, Isabella, and his four innocent children. It was one thing to lead a near-suicidal charge of fighting men; it was something else again to turn his weapons against those he loved. He lacked that kind of fanaticism. “You are trying to impose upon me the decision you took when you turned down Salah ad-Din’s generous terms to surrender in exchange for your lives and property. I did not make that decision to sacrifice my family for the sake of martyrdom.”
“No, you didn’t,” the master of the Carpenters’ Guild admitted. “But we are begging you to stay and help us now.” He looked at Ibelin with large brown eyes over a graying beard. He might have been St. Joseph, Balian found himself thinking involuntarily.
“Just what do you think I can accomplish? If you are prepared to die a martyr’s death, what difference does it make if you are well or poorly led? Death is death.”
“But we can make them bleed a little!” the furrier master declared forcefully, pounding his clenched fist on the oak table to underline his point, and the others nodded—even the Orthodox clerics.
“Maybe we can make it so costly that they give up,” a Syrian weapons merchant suggested, his eyes fixed hopefully on Ibelin.
So this was their vain hope, Balian registered, and he shook his head. They needed to get that fairy tale out of their heads. “Salah ad-Din has promised his imams and emirs Jerusalem. He does not care what it costs.”
“Then by making it so costly that they regret their own intransigence, we can win a victory even in death,” the Grand Hospitaller told them solemnly, speaking for the first time.
“What do you mean?” Ibelin challenged him.
“The army of Jerusalem has been obliterated, and the fighting men left here in Outremer are too few and too weak to defend the Holy Places. But even now, ships are flying on the wind to Rome, to Paris, to London and Cologne. We are weak, but Christendom is strong. I know my brothers in the West—and the Templars, too—will not accept the loss of the Holy Land. King Henry of England has pledged his support and has already raised a fortune. Friedrich Barbarossa is no less committed to the Holy Land. The Christian kings and lords will come as they came before—and Plantagenet and Barbarossa are not fickle and foolish like Louis VII. They are both tried and proven fighting men. Such men will regain what Lusignan lost. We can make it easier for them by reminding Salah ad-Din here—at Jerusalem—that he has much to fear from Christian knights! He has forgotten that after Hattin, I think.”
“Just how many knights are here?” Ibelin asked dryly, for he knew the answer.
“You and Sir Constantine, I believe,” Heraclius admitted.
Ibelin looked at him and then back at the Grand Hospitaller with raised eyebrows.
“So much the better,” the Grand Hospitaller answered with a faint smile. “Then we will teach Salah ad-Din to fear all Franks—even Franks who are of common birth and not trained to arms.”
“I beg to correct you, my lord,” the Armenian spoke up sharply. “We will teach Salah ad-Din to fear Christians! It is not the Franks alone who will defend Jerusalem!” He was seconded by the Syrians and Greeks at the table.
The Grand Hospitaller bowed his head to them and conceded, “I stand corrected, my lord of Ibelin. We will teach Salah ad-Din that Christian men are not sheep to be slaughtered, but fierce defenders of their faith.”
Ibelin looked around the table at the twenty men assembled, and they gazed back at him expectantly and proudly. Heraclius’ fingers were drumming on the table. It surprised Balian that the Patriarch was here. He had not expected the self-indulgent luxury lover to fancy martyrdom.
“I will think about it,” Ibelin conceded.
Outside, the crowd had thinned, but it had not dispersed. When Ibelin emerged from the Patriarch’s palace, a little cheer went up and many people moved forward to touch him, as if he were a saint or a king, while others called out, “God bless you, my lord!” from the back of the crowd. A grinning boy led Centurion forward, having evidently appointed himself to look after the desterier although Balian had left him tethered. Ibelin automatically reached for his purse to tip the boy, but the boy shook his head. “No need, my lord,” he said, and then went around to hold the off stirrup as Ibelin mounted.
As Balian took up the reins, he looked down at the boy. “What’s your name, boy?”
“Ravon, my lord.”
“Are you from Jerusalem?”
“No, my lord, we’re from Bethlehem.”
“We? Who is with you?”
“My Mum and Dad and my five brothers and sisters.”
“What does your father do?”
“He was the gardener at the Armenian seminary behind the Church of the Nativity, my lord.”
Ibelin said no more; he just nodded and nudged Centurion forward. What would happen to the likes of Ravon when Jerusalem fell? Ravon certainly had no say in whether or not the city was defended, but he would pay the price, along with the rest of his family. It was from here a very short ride home, but Balian could feel the dome of the Holy Sepulcher looming to his right and knew he must go there. He dismounted and, looking back, saw Ravon run forward eagerly to take Centurion from him again. With a smile he turned over his faithful destrier and walked back past the Patriarch’s palace to turn into the narrow street, lined with souvenir and trinket shops, that led to the entrance to the Holy Sepulcher.
The courtyard of the church was full of people, but they parted for him, a whisper of awe running through the crowd from those who recognized him to those who did not. He passed through the portal into the church itself. This was lit by candles, and the air was heavy with incense. Immediately ahead of him, against the back side of the choir, were the tombs of the Kings of Jerusalem. Balian paused to kneel before Baldwin IV’s tomb. “You were lucky to go when you did,” he told his former pupil silently.
“But if I’d lived longer, maybe I would have found a way to get rid of Guy,” Baldwin seemed to answer.
“Guy and Ridefort together lost Jerusalem,” Balian told his dead friend.
“Jerusalem?” Baldwin asked back. “Guy and Ridefort lost Hattin. Jerusalem is still Christian.”
“Am I to defend it with just two knights?”
“How many knights did you have at Ascalon?”
“You brought me 376 knights.”
“I issued the arrière-ban. Do not underestimate the power of people imbued with faith.”
Balian looked up at the effigy on the tomb. It was calm and beautiful, unmarked by the ravages of leprosy; it was not a portrait but a symbol. It was the way Baldwin would have liked to be remembered. �
�What would you have done if you had survived?” Balian asked silently.
“How can you even ask?” Baldwin reproached him. “When did I ever fail to defend my Kingdom? I would do so from the grave if I could. And you are still my knight, Balian. You were always my lance and my sword. Do not fail me now.”
Balian stood and proceeded to the rotunda. Here the crowds were thicker than ever; many people knelt on the flagstone floor, praying fervently. Others were lighting candles before the Grave Chapel, while in the choir several hundred people stood pressed together, following the Mass being read by the canons of the Holy Sepulcher. All twelve canons who had accompanied the True Cross to Hattin had been killed. There could not be more than a dozen left, Balian reckoned. But two of these stood as usual at the entrance to the Grave Chapel, controlling access. They recognized the Baron of Ibelin as he approached, and parted without a word; one even bowed his head.
“I wish to be alone,” Ibelin told them as he passed into the chapel. They did not answer, but took up their position before the entrance again, ensuring no one could follow.
Balian descended the steep stairs to the grave itself. The grave was cool, almost chilly, lit only by candles. Balian went down on his knees and bowed his head. He recited the Lord’s Prayer. Then he sat back on his heels and considered the grave.
“Thy will be done.” It was so easy to say, but he was expected to make decisions and take actions.
Balian did not doubt the divinity of Christ even for an instant—but he knew, too, with what conviction and fervor the Muslims too believed that they were doing God’s will. Did they not shout “God is great” every time they won a victory over the armies of Christ? He had even been told that they shouted “God is great” while executing the unarmed and bound Templar and Hospitaller prisoners after Hattin.
Balian did not believe it was God’s will for helpless men to be gruesomely tortured to death, as had happened in Damascus. He did not believe it was God’s will that the Kingdom of Jerusalem had been squandered on a single battlefield because of the poor decisions of a usurper. He did not believe it was God’s will that Guy was King of Jerusalem at all. And that was his problem. Men made decisions and took actions that were—all too often—not in accordance with His will.
Balian laid himself face down on the cold surface of the grave beside the ledge on which Christ’s mortal remains had lain more than a thousand years before. The space was too narrow for him to stretch out his arms to either side, so he cradled his head on them instead, and tried to empty his brain entirely. He was not here to plead, beg, or even ask for anything. He was here to receive the Will of God.
The children had been far too excited to sleep, but Maria Zoë could order Nanny Anne and Fathers Michael and Angelus to put them to bed and keep them there. She could hardly do that with Isabella anymore, however, much less Eschiva and Eloise. The other three women sat together in her chamber, as nervous as condemned criminals awaiting an execution.
Eloise was the most difficult. She had broken down very early in the evening and started pleading, “You can’t leave me here! You can’t!” She whined when she pleaded, and Maria Zoë found it very hard to be patient with her. She hated whiners, and part of her was convinced that Eloise invited contempt by her very weakness. “You can’t leave me here,” she whined again; “please take me with you.”
“I don’t know that I’m leaving,” Maria Zoë snapped back—eliciting a simultaneous gasp from Eschiva and Isabella that it would have been comic under other circumstances.
“What do you mean?” Isabella asked.
“You saw the reaction of the crowd! And the summons from the Patriarch. They want and expect my lord husband to stay and organize the defense of Jerusalem,” Maria Zoë told them bluntly.
“But surely Uncle Balian won’t do that!” Eschiva protested, horrified. It had never occurred to her that her uncle might choose to remain in Jerusalem. She had been focused entirely on convincing him that “niece” would surely count as “family,” or that she could pass herself off as Maria Zoë’s waiting woman.
Isabella, on the other hand, had been worrying about exactly that: that her stepfather might decide to stay. She looked sharply at her mother. “What about the children?” she asked, meaning her half-siblings.
“There are thirty thousand children in Jerusalem, Isabella. Maybe more.”
“But Uncle Balian can’t save them all!”
“No,” Maria Zoë paused, reflecting on whether or not she should be honest, and then admitted, “I doubt very much he can save any of them.”
“But the Sultan gave him a safe-conduct!” Eloise wailed. “He can take you and his children—all of us—” she included Isabella and Eschiva—“to safety!”
“What sort of man would walk away from this?” Maria Zoë answered, gesturing vaguely toward the window. The shutters were open, and even at this late hour of the night, indistinct voices wafted up from the street below. “Where could we ever go where we could look people in the eye again, if he walks away?
“Besides,” she added matter-of-factly, “last night we didn’t even dream of him coming. Nothing has changed. We are trapped in this city, and when it falls, we will be at the mercy of our enemies.” Maria Zoë looked at the other three women, one after another. “You need to face that fact and not keep hoping for a miracle—from my lord husband or anyone else.”
“But what about the children?” Eloise wailed again.
“I have to believe that the Sultan will not allow the children—or nephews—of a noble opponent to be mishandled,” Maria Zoë told her firmly. She had to believe that.
“He vowed to kill us all!” Eloise screamed, her terror turning to hysteria in an instant.
Eschiva at once put an arm around her and shushed her. “Hush. Hush. Tante Marie is right. We have to pray—”
“What good is praying? I prayed and prayed—” Eloise broke down into wailing sobs.
Maria Zoë looked at Isabella. “I do not think anyone will dare harm a princess of Jerusalem.”
“Princess of a kingdom that does not exist anymore?” Isabella shot back. “Why should anyone care what I once was?”
“Jerusalem has not yet fallen.” It was Balian’s voice. The women had been too intent on their own conversation to hear him arrive—because, assuming they would be asleep, he had approached as quietly as possible.
Maria Zoë spun about and looked into his face.
“We need to talk,” he told her softly, earnestly, holding out his hand.
“Of course.” She took his hand and followed him immediately and without hesitation.
He led her to the rooftop. It was flat and enclosed by a crenelated adobe wall, which also provided a running plaster bench around the perimeter. From here they had a clear view: to the southeast, the Dome of the Rock and beyond it the Templar headquarters in the Temple of Solomon; to the southwest, the dome of the Holy Sepulcher and the smaller dome over the Chapel of Calvary.
“I can’t go,” Balian told her simply.
“I know.” She paused. “That was what I was trying to explain to the others.”
“Will the children understand?”
“Don’t worry about the children, Balian. I will deal with them.”
He smiled faintly, because she had not answered his question, but he did not pursue it. Instead he looked out across the city. The sky was lightening, casting the skyline in silhouette against a murky, gray dawn, and diminishing the power of the torches that still burned in the street below. “Do you know a scribe that can write a fine, educated Arabic? I must send my apologies to the Sultan for breaking my word.”
Acre, July 28, 1187
Al-Afdal was indignant. He kept insisting furiously that the Baron of Ibelin had broken his word and deserved “swift retribution.” Al-Adil, in contrast, just watched his brother’s face carefully, but could see neither anger nor indignation there. While his teenage son fumed and threatened revenge on the “perfidious Ibelin,” the Sul
tan calmly asked for the message Ibelin had sent and reached for a goblet with beautiful enameled edging—spoils taken from the Venetian quarter—to sip lemon-laced ice water as he broke the seal with his thumb.
Al-Adil took the liberty of dismissing the escort commander who had brought he message, and telling al-Afdal to calm down.
“Thank you,” Salah ad-Din remarked absently to his brother, without even looking up from Ibelin’s message.
Al-Adil went to a carved table inlaid with mother-of-pearl, part of the Sultan’s traveling furnishings, and helped himself to a goblet of ice water. When he turned back, his brother had finished reading and was folding the message back together.
“What excuse does he give?” asked Al-Adil, his own disgust for Christian perfidy imperfectly disguised, if under better control than his nephew’s.
“That the entire city expected him to stay. He says he did not have any choice.”
“That’s no excuse—” Al-Afdal started to protest, but his father waved him silent.
“Do you believe him?” Al-Adil asked more perceptively.
“All our spies confirm that the inhabitants went wild with enthusiasm on his arrival,” Salah ad-Din reminded his brother. “Only a cur would have slunk away at dawn with his wife and children. Ibelin is a Christian, but he is not a coward, and most certainly not a cur.”
“But do you think he planned this? Maybe that story about wanting to remove his wife and children was a ruse to get himself into Jerusalem?” Al-Adil suggested.
Salah ad-Din raised his eyebrows. He hadn’t thought about that possibility. He gave it a moment’s thought, going over in his memory his conversation with Ibelin at Tyre, then he shook his head. “No, I don’t think he intentionally deceived me. He said himself that the inhabitants were preparing for martyrdom. I sincerely believe he wanted to spare his wife and children that fate—although he is willing to accept it for himself. Perhaps even welcomes it. It is hard to say.”
“Well, now he will have to watch his family die, or die knowing they will be slaves,” Al-Afdal declared emphatically and with obvious satisfaction.
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