Shoreham again nodded earnestly, but he stood a little straighter, too. He had commanded at Ascalon and Ibelin, but nothing like these numbers. Besides, to command at Jerusalem was the greatest honor yet—one that made him proud, even if he was conscious of how difficult the task would be.
“To ensure that your authority is fully recognized and you are shown due respect, I intend to knight you here and now.”
“Me?” Despite his confidence in his own abilities as a sergeant, Shoreham had never expected the accolade of knighthood. He had been delighted by Daniel’s knighting and nursed hopes that Gabriel, too, would be honored soon, but he had never seriously thought to attain the honor himself; he was too conscious of his humble origins.
“Yes, you; and you, too, Mathewos,” Balian added with a smile to the Ethiopian.
“Me?” Mathewos echoed Shoreham. “But why?”
“Because I need a fluent Arabic speaker to command the Syrians, Copts, and Ethiopians. There are between three and four thousand of the former, maybe five hundred Copts, and some hundred or more Ethiopian fighting men who—I have been told—did not go back to Ethiopia with your Prince Lalibela.”
Unlike Shoreham, Mathewos did not appear flattered by the unexpected honor. He was silent for a moment before venturing cautiously, “Are you sure these men will accept me as their commander?”
“You come from princely blood, Mathewos, and you have shown great courage. I should have knighted you a decade ago.”
“But the Syrians and Copts do not know that, my lord—and the Ethiopians here are mostly followers of King Harbay, a Zagwe, while I am descended from the marshals who served the last Solomonid Emperor.”
Ibelin had no time for the politics of a kingdom on the other side of Egypt and answered firmly, “They have all, through their respective representatives, vowed to follow my orders, and at the muster they will take an oath personally. By then you will be a knight, and I will publicly designate you my lieutenant. If you have any difficulty, report it to me at once. Meanwhile, the first job for both of you will be sorting out your own men and identifying any youths of good birth and character with training in arms. Sir Constantine tells me he has been approached by a least a half-dozen youths claiming to be younger sons or younger brothers of knights slain or captured at Hattin. If you find anyone like that among your troops, let me know. I intend to knight everyone suitable.”
Shoreham and Mathewos looked at one another somewhat blankly.
“Do not underestimate the power of pride,” Balian admonished. “Now which of you wants to go first?”
The leprosarium of Jerusalem lay beyond the northern wall, between the St. Lazarus Postern and the “Leper Pool.” It had been founded by the Greeks or the Armenians—in any case, before the city fell to the Muslims, much less was liberated by the Latins. It had been much expanded after the restoration of Christian rule, and it had benefited particularly from the patronage of King Baldwin IV.
No less than sixteen knights of St. Lazarus of Jerusalem had joined the royal muster and fought at Hattin. The knights that mustered were either men diagnosed with leprosy but still capable of bearing arms, or knights who had joined the Order to treat ills of the soul rather than the body. They had been accompanied by almost all the healthy brothers of the Order, the men who normally looked after the lepers. None of them had returned.
The leper community that remained in Jerusalem nevertheless consisted of nearly two hundred souls, men and women both, who were seriously afflicted with the disease. With the knights, sergeants, and serving brothers who had guided and looked after them gone, the lepers met to decide what to do next—and to elect their own leaders, as was common practice in the leprosariums across the Greek empire.
After only a short debate, the lepers decided that until the enemy was at hand, they would remain in the leprosarium. The decision was dictated by practicality. In the leprosarium they were directly beside one of Jerusalem’s larger water reservoirs, with plenty of water for both drinking and washing. Furthermore, the leprosarium was a solid and spacious building with men’s and women’s wards, large kitchens, adequate sanitation, and a fine church.
There was more debate about what to do when the enemy actually came. Some lepers argued that the Muslims would leave them alone, but others pointed out that, like it or not, the very location of the leprosarium put them at risk; they were in the way of any assault on Tancred’s Tower or the northern wall. As a result, they would be removed forcibly if they didn’t go voluntarily. “They might just kill us all—as we’re no use as slaves. When the enemy comes, we must take refuge in the city,” a middle-aged leper, whose fingerless hands were wrapped in bandages, declared forcefully.
“What makes you think the citizens of Jerusalem will let us inside?” a little man without ears or nose asked back bitterly. He had been expelled from his native Cologne and had walked all the way to Jerusalem in hope of a cure. Instead, he found himself segregated with his fellow lepers, albeit in better circumstances than in the Holy Roman Empire.
“We can appeal to the Grand Hospitaller,” a woman with deforming ulcers on her face and neck answered. The Order of St. Lazarus was an offshoot of the Knights of St. John.
It was at this point that Sir Daniel straightened and raised his voice. “No—Ibelin is in command now, and I will go to him.”
The congress of lepers fell restlessly silent as they turned to look at the speaker. Sir Daniel was one of them—and he wasn’t. He had never really fit in, and then he had gone off to serve the King. When he returned, he had kept himself apart, as if he thought he was better than the rest of them. Yet the leprosy had rendered his left arm useless; it was ulcerous and the fingers were rotting away. Because he could no longer hold a shield, he had not been allowed to go with the knights that mustered with King Guy, despite his protests and pleading.
Now he stepped out of the side aisle to stand directly in front of the altar (the lepers were meeting in the church) and reminded them: “Listen to me. I once served the Baron of Ibelin. If I go to him, he will grant what we request.”
Several in the audience, who didn’t like Daniel very well and thought him arrogant, grumbled to themselves that he shouldn’t be so sure about what the Baron of Ibelin would or would not do. The majority, like him or not, nodded and agreed that what he said made sense.
“But first we must decide what it is we want,” Daniel’s voice rang out, amplified by the acoustics of the church. His audience grew still, surprised and captivated by something in his tone.
“Do we want to cower behind the walls of Jerusalem like piteous rubbish, waiting for our fate?” He paused, but no one answered him; most of his audience, in their rags and rotting limbs, didn’t see what choice they had.
“Or do we want to follow in the footsteps of the late King Baldwin?” Again he paused, but now an intangible excitement had gripped them. The lepers toward the back or behind taller people squirmed and strained to get a better view of Sir Daniel.
Sir Daniel was still a surprisingly impressive figure. His face was not yet marked by the disease, and he stood tall and straight, a habit from his years in the King’s service. His rotting arm was wrapped in bandages and hidden from view in his cloak.
“King Baldwin never stopped fighting for his Kingdom, for this city, for Christ. Even when he was too weak to stand, when he could not use his hands, when his sight was dim. To the very end, he fought. Three times, the Leper King threw back Salah ad-Din’s armies! It took a healthy man to lead the Army of Jerusalem to defeat!” he reminded them, and suddenly they were nodding and congratulating themselves.
“I say if he could fight in his condition, then so can all of us!”
“He had others to do his fighting,” one of Sir Daniel’s detractors grumbled. “All he had to do was command.”
“Well, if you want to just whine and act like an infant, then do so!” Sir Daniel sneered. “But I know that I can be useful—and so can you, Tom, and you, too, Molly!” Dani
el began addressing them by name. “In fact,” Daniel continued, “there are things we can do better than the healthy! With less feeling in our limbs, we can handle hot cauldrons with boiling oil and water, or even stamp out fires with our senseless feet. And who knows better than we how to prepare strips of cotton or how to wind them firmly? Why, then, who better than we to wrap arrows with cotton strips and dip them in tar and oil so they can be sent flaming over the ramparts to the enemy?”
His enthusiasm and conviction were contagious. Particularly, the younger and healthier of his colleagues were with him. “Yes, yes!” they started to shout. “We can help!”
“We can tend fires—”
“And put them out!”
“We can remove the dead!”
“We can throw the enemy dead back at them!”
“We can!”
“We can!”
All doubts, voiced and unvoiced, were soon drowned out in the euphoria of newfound purpose, and Sir Daniel was elected “Master” of the Lepers of St. Lazarus at Jerusalem by popular acclaim.
August 10, 1187
Although they left the Ibelin palace very early in the morning, Beth and Tsion had to worm their way through a large crowd that had already gathered on the street before the Church of the Holy Sepulcher. “My husband is to be knighted!” Tsion explained proudly as she squeezed past, while Beth said more modestly, “We’re part of the Ibelin household!”
They finally reached the courtyard before the south entrance to the church and managed to find places on the steps up to the Chapel of the Trinity, where they could, by straining their necks and standing on tiptoe, see the youths kneeling in neat rows in the courtyard. The young men selected for knighthood had held their vigil all night in the Calvary chapel, had confessed to the canons of the Holy Sepulcher, and now, dressed in white surcoats (donated by the Templars) and red cloaks (donated by the Patriarch), awaited the accolade.
From their position, Beth and Tsion could see only the backs of the eighty-one youths, and because they were now all dressed the same, it was almost impossible to find their respective husbands. Eventually Beth found two young black men side by side and knew Dawit had to be one of them. She decided Dawit was the youth on the left, but she couldn’t be 100 per cent sure. Tsion had a harder time finding Gabriel until she realized he was in the very front row at the far right.
The crowd was getting restless by the time the Patriarch, followed by the Baron of Ibelin and his three deputies, emerged from the Church of the Holy Sepulcher. The Patriarch was in full regalia, the baron and his knights in armor. The Patriarch raised his arms; a gold processional cross glinted in the morning sunlight as he intoned a benediction. Then Ibelin stepped forward and raised his voice so it could be heard at the very back of the crowd. “Do you swear before Almighty God to defend Holy Church, even if to do so you must lay down your life?”
A chorus of “I do!” answered Ibelin.
“Do you swear to defend the weak, whether women or children, the old, or the infirm, and to aid them to the best of your ability, even if to do so you must lay down your life?”
A second chorus of “I do!” answered even louder than before.
“Do you swear to be honest and loyal, abhorring lies, injustice, and treason, for as long as you shall live?”
A final chorus of “I do” followed.
Ibelin took the sword handed him by Sir Roger and, to Tsion’s delight, approached her husband Gabriel before all others. To her horror, Ibelin backhanded his former squire hard enough for the burly youth to visibly sway to one side; then he bent and kissed him on both cheeks, before lifting him off his knees and girding the sword around his hips with the words, “Rise, Sir Gabriel.”
Ibelin repeated this procedure eighty times, the swords handed to him and the names whispered in his ear by one of his three deputies as he went along the lines, until the last, eighty-first knight had been made. Then at last the crowd could cheer.
As Beth made her way through the crowd of other celebrants and their proud womenfolk, she was struck by how young and untried most of the other knights looked. Most were not old enough to grow a beard; many were still marked by pubescent acne and their bodies thin from teenage growth. Dawit was a like a father among them, she thought admiringly, taller and stronger, and so calm amidst all the excitement. He had rejected this honor before, he told her, because he had no desire to watch horses killed nor to kill himself, but now it was different. Now he would be defending her and their infant son, his father, and his sister. That, he said, he was proud to do.
As she reached him, Dawit smiled and introduced his companion, the other Ethiopian who had been knighted. “This is Sir Kassahun; he only arrived in Jerusalem this spring, escorting his grandparents on pilgrimage. He speaks only Amharic and a little Greek, so I must translate.” Dawit switched to Amharic to introduce his wife—and then with Beth on his arm, he indicated they should follow the rest of the crowd to the banquet that the Patriarch was hosting in celebration of this mass knighting.
In the Patriarch’s great hall a long table had been set up for the new knights, at right angles to the high table where the Patriarch, Ibelin, the Grand Hospitaller, and other leading men of the city were seated. Dawit found a seat for his little party near the top, and Beth settled on to the bench, somewhat agog at all the splendor laid out for them. In addition to the linen tablecloths, each place setting had not only a trencher but a light-blue glass beaker and a pewter spoon, although guests were evidently expected to provide their own knives. There were silver and pewter pitchers containing both white and red wine at every second place. Big pewter bowls filled with fresh, clean water for washing one’s hands and linen towels for drying them were being brought around by little boys in the Patriarch’s livery. At the high table the meal was being served entirely on plates of silver, and instead of plain glass beakers, the guests had enameled glass goblets.
Soon the Patriarch’s servants filed into the hall carrying huge platters laden with roasted birds, haunches of pork, and legs of lamb. Other servants followed with sauces enriched with raisins and spiced with cumin, nutmeg, and cinnamon. There were brightly patterned baskets full of bread for the Franks and brass bowls filled to overflowing with rice for the Syrians and Armenians. Smaller glazed pottery bowls offered figs, black and green olives, apricots, and almonds. Pottery plates were heaped with hummus soaked in olive oil and sprinkled with red peppers and fresh sliced cucumbers. Later there were sherbets, glazed oranges, candied lemons, and marzipan in the shape of crosses with red and yellow glaze.
Beth had eaten well in the Ibelin household, but nothing like this feast. She couldn’t get over the abundance—until she heard someone remark that the Patriarch evidently preferred to use his great stores to feed Christians rather than Muslims. The remark sent a chill down Beth’s spine.
Sir Kassahun was deep in an earnest conversation with another new knight and Dawit was diligently translating in both directions, so Beth’s eyes wandered farther. She noticed the intricate pattern of the colored floor tiles and the magnificent wall mosaics depicting Christ’s entry to Jerusalem on Palm Sunday. Tiny gold mosaic chips depicted Christ’s halo, and mother-of-pearl pieces decorated the robes of high-ranking Roman spectators on the edge of the scene. The gold and mother-of-pearl gleamed and glinted in the sunlight pouring through the glazed windows. There was surely no palace in Damascus as fine as this, Beth thought, and her stomach churned as she wondered what the harem of the Sultan was like.
Fortunately, her attention was distracted by the Grand Hospitaller descending from the high table to collect a Hospitaller nun, whom he led to the high table and introduced to the Baron of Ibelin. The latter politely rose to his feet and bowed his head before making a place for her next to him.
Beth thought she looked familiar, but couldn’t place her. She nudged Dawit and pointed to the nun. “Who is that, and why is she with my lord of Ibelin?”
Dawit paused in his conversation to look over at th
e high table. “That’s Sister Adela. Don’t you remember? From Nablus.”
Now everything clicked into place. Beth had sometimes volunteered to help at the orphanage for children before she got pregnant herself.
Dawit was continuing, “Lord Balian wants her to organize the women of Jerusalem—you know, field kitchens and first-aid stations, nurseries to keep the children out from underfoot, and the like.”
“The women will be helping in the defense?” Beth asked, a little breathless at such a radical thought.
“Indirectly—as you did at Kerak,” Dawit reminded her.
Yes, of course, Beth thought, but that had been different. Or she had been different. She had not volunteered to help then, but she would now—if Dawit would let her, of course. “Dawit?”
“Yes, my love?” he answered patiently, although he was clearly more interested in the conversation of his fellow knights. With his head cocked, he was listening to them more than to his wife.
“May I—may I tell the good sister—that—that I—I mean, maybe I can help in some way?”
“Of course!” Dawit assured, giving her hand a squeeze. “You and Tsion can take turns looking after Menelik and helping to prepare for the siege.”
August 11, 1187
Although it was ten years since her conversion to Christianity, Beth still found it somewhat frightening to go out into the streets of a busy city like Jerusalem without a male escort of any kind and with her face uncovered. At least in Jerusalem there were no Muslims, she reminded herself, but she kept her eyes down and stayed in the shadows at the side of the street nevertheless.
At the entrance to the Hospital she requested an audience with Sister Adela, but was told she might have to wait a long time. Beth almost lost heart, but then she squared her shoulders and announced that she would wait. The Hospitaller lay brother shrugged and indicated a bench under the arcade on the side of the courtyard, which was already lined with other people waiting for one thing or another.
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