The Mongoliad: Book Two

by Neal Stephenson

  It was curious then for him to present himself anonymously at the Shield-Brethren camp, wrapped in a nondescript cloak and hood. Most of the Shield-Brethren were drilling with the Templars, a mock display of martial readiness meant to confuse any Muslim scouts that might be observing the Christian camp from the south. Raphael and Eptor were engaged in the tedious but necessary task of repairing maille when the mysterious figure approached. Setting aside his tools, Raphael rose to greet the visitor and was shocked to recognize the face peering out from within the shadows of the hood.

  “I am but a poor penitent,” Sir John admonished him in a low voice. “A nameless wanderer, seeking to bless your company.”

  “Of course,” Raphael recovered smoothly. He made the sign of the cross toward John.

  Sir John was a dark-haired man, quick to laugh and slow to anger. He would make a good king, Raphael surmised, if they were ever successful in their efforts in Egypt and to the north and west. “I wish to speak with your master, Calpurnius.”

  “He is—” Raphael stopped and turned, glancing toward the large tent that served as the Shield-Brethren chapter house. Calpurnius should have been with the others, engaged in the exercise with the Templars, but he suddenly recalled seeing the Shield-Brethren master not long after the other members of the company had departed. He had thought nothing of it at the time. Men came and went at all hours within the camp, and the endless cycle of drilling and fighting and waiting had become tedious. “I suspect he is waiting for you,” Raphael amended.

  Sir John offered him a slight smile. “I suspect he is,” he said.

  “A convenient distraction offered by today’s exercise,” Raphael noted.

  “Yes,” Sir John agreed. “Sometimes it helps to be the one who can arrange such things.” Looking past Raphael, he caught sight of Eptor. “Is that the boy who converses with the dead?”

  “It is. His name is Eptor.”

  “Are you his keeper?”

  Raphael shrugged. “Sometimes he keeps me. Today, for example. I am missing an opportunity to train, yet again, with our Templar brothers. I fear I might miss some brilliant new stratagem that is being concocted on the field.”

  “I suspect not,” Sir John said. “Join me, if you would. What I have to discuss with your master may benefit from your insight.”

  “Mine?”

  Sir John clapped Raphael on the shoulder as he started to walk toward the main tent. “Yes. You pretend to be nothing more than your brother’s keeper, but your exploits are known to me, Raphael of Acre. I hear the men call you ‘The Thresher.’”

  Raphael blushed. “It is an unwarranted title, Sir John,” he said.

  “All titles are unwarranted, Raphael,” Sir John said. “Whether or not we live up to them is what matters.”

  Sir John gestured that Raphael should follow him. After a passing glance over at Eptor—ensuring that the simpleminded lad was well ensconced in the minute work of repairing maille—Raphael followed the King of Jerusalem into the large Shield-Brethren tent.

  Calpurnius was seated behind a rough-hewn desk that had been crafted from driftwood rescued from the Nile. A large map of the Egyptian territory was laid across it. Small chips of charred wood were arranged to indicate the physical terrain, and clusters of colored beads stood in for troops. Calpurnius set aside the tome he had been studying and stood as the two men entered the tent. “Sir John,” he said, striding around the table to clasp Sir John’s outstretched arm. It was the old style of greeting, one that had its origins in ancient Greece, but was used among the Shield-Brethren as a way to indicate brotherhood. Grasping the forearm allowed one to feel the initiation scars of another.

  The Shield-Brethren were quite strict in who they accepted into the order—the initiates could not have any other ties that might compromise their vows to the order—but they also took the sons of kings and lords under their tutelage. In a flash, and feeling quite foolish for not having recognized it earlier, Raphael realized Sir John had been one of those students.

  “Old friend,” Sir John said. “Our diversion with your men and the Templars will afford us a welcome opportunity to talk freely. I am surrounded by sycophants of the legate’s. They cannot think for themselves, and all they do is echo back to me the ridiculous drivel spewing from Pelagius’s mouth.”

  “He still insists on taking Damietta, does he?” Calpurnius asked. He glanced at Raphael briefly and seemed unconcerned about the young knight’s presence.

  “Even after our disastrous attempt at the beginning of the month,” Sir John sighed.

  The previous attempt to storm the city had involved a quartet of freshly arrived boats from Christendom and an audacious plan to fill in the moat along the southern wall. For a few hours, it seemed as if the Crusaders might prevail, but the Muslims had only been waiting for them to get close enough. Fire and rocks destroyed most of their ladders, and flights of arrows from the walls had done the rest. They had lost more than a hundred men.

  “The legate has a new idea,” Sir John said, shaking his head. “He claims to have proof of our victory.”

  “Proof? How?”

  “Prophecy,” Sir John said. “I know you have tried to suppress knowledge of your man’s addled visions, but the camp knows of his...peculiarity.”

  “It wasn’t me,” Raphael protested, suddenly alarmed at the reason he had been summoned to this meeting.

  “I have every confidence that it wasn’t,” Sir John said gently, “but no secret is safe in an army this large and this desperate for good news.”

  Calpurnius had already discerned the root of John’s concern. “Pelagius wants to create his own prophecy, doesn’t he?”

  Sir John nodded. “Aye, he does. Your man Eptor has given him a dangerous idea.” He looked at Raphael. “Will you have the strength to say ‘no’ to a holy man?”

  “Will I?” Raphael looked at Calpurnius for guidance.

  “This is a dangerous game,” Calpurnius said to Sir John after a few moments of thought.

  “It is far from a game,” Sir John replied sadly. “Pelagius seeks glory that only the sacrifice of others can grant him. He is—not unlike me—a king without a country. Or, in his case, a patriarch without a flock. If he cannot have Antioch, he will have Jerusalem and the Holy Lands, and it does not weigh on his soul in the slightest the number who must die to achieve this mad dream of his. But he knows he cannot be the recipient of a message from God. He needs an innocent to receive it.” He looked at Raphael.

  “Me?” Raphael asked.

  “No, the boy. Eptor. But more importantly, he needs a witness. Someone who will attest to what the boy has said; someone who will spread the word.”

  “He wants me to...” Raphael struggled with the idea of what was being suggested. “But he is the voice of Rome,” Raphael said. “He speaks on behalf of the Pope. If he commands that I serve him—in any way that I am capable—and I refuse...Am I not condemning myself? And the order too, for that matter.”

  Calpurnius let out a low chuckle. “This one thinks too much,” he said, jerking his thumb at Raphael. “It will always be his greatest flaw.”

  “I do not,” Raphael protested.

  Calpurnius made a face. “Ach, you are correct. I am exaggerating. There was that one instance where you did not think. Where you simply acted. And what a glorious moment that was.”

  Raphael felt his face get hot. “Any one of us would have done the same,” he mumbled.

  “Perhaps,” Calpurnius mused. “But you were the one who did.”

  “It...it seemed like a good idea at the time,” Raphael offered lamely, wishing the conversation would turn away from discussion about the tower assault a year ago. He and Eptor had made it to the ramparts and, in the crush of bodies, had gotten separated from the other Shield-Brethren. The Muslims had fought ferociously, and it had been here that Eptor had received a savage blow to the head that Raphael believed to be fatal. The farmer’s son had fallen, and the press of Muslims had threatene
d to overwhelm Raphael. His sword had been knocked from his hand, and having fallen to his knees, he waited tensely, anticipating the sharp edge of a Muslim sword against his neck.

  And then...Eptor’s body, lying nearby, and the flail, unused and forgotten.

  Raphael grabs the weapon, whirling it about his head as he turns to face his enemies. He snarls at them, defiant in this final moment. The chains chime and ring about his head as he swings the flail, and he feels the metal tear at the face of the nearest man. His heart thunders in his chest, a war drum that drives him forward. The Muslims hesitate, wary of his whirling chains, and he plunges into their midst, not caring who he strikes. They are all his enemy. He is alone and in battle—where he should be—and the flail is rising and falling. A wild abandon is surging through his body...

  “The legate needs you,” Sir John said quietly, starting Raphael from the horrible reverie into which he had fallen. “He wants the hero of the tower to give credence to this prophecy.”

  “Do not let the legate sway you,” Calpurnius said, his voice cutting through Raphael’s confusion. “He is a small-minded man who will never amount to more than the bite of a gnat.” He made a flicking motion with two fingers, brushing something so small as to be invisible from his surcoat. “Your vows are not to the Church or the man who says he speaks for the Church. You swore to protect your brothers and to protect the spirit of the Virgin. Nothing else matters.”

  Raphael rested his fingertips against his forehead. “This is—” he began.

  Calpurnius put his hands on Raphael’s shoulders. “Remember your vows,” he reiterated, looking the young man straight in the eye.

  “Nothing else matters,” Raphael echoed, trying to let go of the panic twisting in his gut. “Aye.”

  “This will not be an easy thing. The legate will insist,” Sir John said. “And he may threaten you. And he may...” He trailed off, unwilling to give credence to his suspicions.

  Raphael nodded, realizing what he was being volunteered for. “Aye,” he said, his voice weakening. “I will not falter. I will protect my brothers.”

  Verna, 1224

  The young knight’s thoughts continued to trouble him, and as it became clear that Raphael was uncomfortable being surrounded by the other monks, Brother Leo encouraged the young man to follow him. Once they had left the oratory, Brother Leo led Raphael along the path that trundled past the hermitage. The route took them into the shadows of tall rocks where tiny pools of water moistened fringes of pale lichens. The monk showed Raphael were to step so as to steer clear of a pair of empty bird nests—used this last spring, but empty now as the chicks had all grown strong enough to fly on their own. Eventually they came to the narrow footbridge that crossed a yawning gap in the mountain.

  Brother Leo laid his hand on Raphael’s shoulder. “You have seen much, my son, and I have not the skills to ease your pain,” he said. “I am an old man, and my life is simple.” He chuckled. “I like it that way.”

  “Aye,” Raphael said, offering him a shy smile. “I fear I have upset your tranquility, Brother Leo.”

  Brother Leo shook his head. “I know you did not climb all this way to test my faith with your stories and your questions,” he said. “My simple life is of little import to you, though my heart is enriched by the knowledge that you will fret about having an undue effect on my thoughts.” He shook his head. “I wish that I could give you the gift of such simplicity, but I know I am not the one you seek. I cannot help you find your path.”

  Raphael said nothing, and Brother Leo could not tell if the young man’s reticence stemmed from politeness or despair.

  “Brother Francis does not live among us,” Brother Leo said, and when Raphael tensed at his words, he gently squeezed the knight’s shoulder. “He lives in a tiny cell,” Brother Leo continued. “Just over there.” Brother Leo pointed out the corner of the shack that stuck out beyond the wide shelf of rock that lay on the other side of the chasm. “We try not to disturb him during his vigil. Every day I come here and offer him a benediction. If he responds, then I cross the bridge and we say our prayers together.”

  “What do you say?” Raphael asked, his voice breaking.

  “It is from the fifty-first Psalm,” Brother Leo said, eyeing Raphael carefully. “‘Domine, labia mea aperies.’ Do you know it?”

  “‘Lord, open my lips,’” Raphael translated.

  “Do you know what comes next?”

  Raphael shook his head.

  “‘Et os meum annuntiabit laudem tuam,’” Brother Leo said. “‘And my mouth shall declare Your praise.’”

  Tears began to track down Raphael’s face.

  Brother Leo embraced the young knight. Raphael’s body was tense at first, but gradually the tears broke down his defenses and he relented, weeping openly and freely.

  “‘Create in me a clean heart,’” Brother Leo quoted softly, recalling another part of the fifty-first Psalm, “‘and renew a steadfast spirit within me.’”

  When he spotted the hunched figure totter around the edge of the rocky outcrop and make its way slowly and painfully toward the bridge, he let go of Raphael. “God knows what is in your heart,” he said to Raphael, “that is the true measure of the man.”

  Raphael nodded, wiping at his nose. He looked very much like the boy Brother Leo might have been, had many things been different. Had God granted him a different path, Brother Leo reflected.

  “I have been lost, Brother Leo,” Raphael said. “I have not known what to do. Where to go. I just haven’t known...”

  “Very few of us ever do,” Brother Leo said as he made the sign of the cross. He pointed over Raphael’s shoulder.

  As the young man turned to look, Brother Leo departed. He wasn’t needed any more. As he reached the first bend in the path, he heard Raphael’s voice—querulous at first, but stronger in its second attempt.

  “‘Domine...Domine, labia mea aperies...’”

  Brother Leo did not wait to hear Brother Francis’s reply.

  Damietta, 1219

  A storm brewed in the north, dark clouds fuming over the wind-lashed bay, and the only respite the Christian camp received from the summer heat was a sturdy breeze that tried to blow dust through the gaps in the canvas of the tents. Inside the legate’s expansive domicile, there was no dust; the wind billowed the walls of the tent, outraged that it couldn’t be party to the gathering inside.

  Already, Raphael was wishing he could become a leaf, and the next time the heavy flaps were raised, he could escape on a curlicue of warm air.

  The legate was an austere man, like a piece of driftwood—bleached by the sun and dried by the wind. Like all of the Crusaders, he had lost weight since arriving in Egypt, and his skin was stretched tight across his thick bones. He looked as if he did not enjoy the heat; none of them did, truly, but the Egyptian summer left him perpetually breathless. When he became agitated, he began to wheeze like an old hound.

  “I am surprised you do not understand the gravity of our situation,” he said as he rose from the heavy oak chair he kept in his tent as a symbol of his position. He began to stalk back and forth across the wide floor of his tent, his red robes flapping about his lean frame. Raphael knew he was not unaware that the cloth made him appear as if he were drenched in blood. “I was led to believe that your master was a pragmatic man.” He paused to glare at Raphael before continuing to pace.

  Raphael’s back itched. He wanted to look over his shoulder. To seek some sign from either Calpurnius or Sir John of how he should reply. But he didn’t dare. They had warned him already. Once they stepped inside the tent, they were witnesses. They were not allies. They could not be called upon for aid.

  “Calpurnius is a knight initiate of my order,” Raphael said, repeating what the legate already knew. “He is the master of the company of Shield-Brethren that seeks to assist Rome in the matter of this Crusade. He leads us because he has proven himself worthy of that command.”

  The legate whirled on him. �
�And what of me?”

  “I beg your pardon, Your Grace?”

  “Am I not worthy?”

  Raphael hesitated, seeing the trap before him. Beside him, Eptor shuffled nervously. “Worthy of what, Your Grace?” Raphael replied. It was an impudent reply, but after having suffered through a lengthy speech already on the glory that awaited each of the Crusaders in Heaven once they had accomplished God’s will here in Egypt, he had found himself recalling Calpurnius’s assessment of the man—a gnat with a tiny bite. “The Pope has granted you honorifics that you wear with exceptional pride, including the title of Patriarch of Antioch. This army of Crusaders seeks to—as you said so yourself not a few minutes ago—provide the Church with the bounty that God has set for us. Yes, our reward for our committed service. As I am but a simple soldier who seeks God’s blessing, how could I not find all of this splendor worthy of my devotion?”

  The legate stalked up to him, putting his face close to Raphael’s. There was a curious dry smell about the man; it reminded Raphael of the dried herbs hung near the hearth in the great kitchen at Petraathen. “I do not care for your tone,” the legate said.

  “My apologies, Your Grace,” Raphael said. “This desert air is drying. It makes my words harder than they warrant.”

  “It makes hard men of all of us,” the legate sneered. “And we must make difficult choices. Choices that may appear to be in opposition to what we believe, but which are for the greater good of all.”

  “I understand that God seeks to instruct us with this manner of trial,” Raphael said. “Did he not test Jesus thusly during his time in the desert?”

  The legate’s cheek twitched. Behind him, Raphael heard Sir John shift nervously.

  “Our morale is dangerously low,” the legate said, ignoring Raphael’s question. “I—we—need a miracle. We need a sign from God that our victory is pre-ordained.”

  “I hope—with all my heart—that such a sign would present itself,” Raphael said, once again feigning ignorance as to what the legate was suggesting.