City of God

by S. J. A. Turney

  The third new friend was the most important, and in many ways the most surprising. Father Loukas was the priest of a Greek church a mile out of town, on the road to Argetis. He had popped his head around the door one day on his way into the town, surprised to see the old church occupied. At first, he had been reserved and careful, politely passing the time of day with them but, given their experiences with old Stathis and his wife and what they knew of the island’s history, the two knights went out of their way to be friendly, understanding and polite. The result was pleasing. Before long, Father Loukas had become a daily visitor. Often he brought wine and insisted on drinking several cups with them while discussing the difference between his beliefs and theirs which, it turned out, were surprisingly small given the vast history of conflict between the two Churches.

  Their debates were often lively affairs, and Father Loukas became their primary source of news, which was how, in the depths of a chilly January, Arnau and Ramon learned of the corruption of the Pope’s Crusade. News had finally reached Cyprus of what had happened among the forces of Christendom, and the tidings were far from welcome.

  ‘The army and its Venetian fleet never left Zadra, my friends,’ Father Loukas said sadly. ‘They are wintering in their ill-gotten land. May their misguided souls torment them for what they have done. Your patriarch in Rome has excommunicated the entire army, including the nobles and the fleet that carry them. They have been denounced as enemies of God, and rightly so, given their actions.’

  ‘Then that is it,’ Ramon said with an air of finality. ‘The Crusade has failed. It is over.’

  ‘Would that it were so,’ the old priest responded darkly. ‘For the first time in my long memory, the people of my Church are praising your Pope for denouncing this act. Your own order has joined Rome in condemning the entire expedition, but sadly it appears that greed and the thirst for war are stronger motivations than piety in this wicked world.’

  Arnau felt a shiver. What could possibly have happened that was more awful than what they already knew?

  ‘Worse is to come?’ Ramon prompted.

  ‘I fear so,’ the old priest agreed, lifting his kalimavkion hat enough to scratch amid his wild grey hair. ‘It seems the young fool renegade prince of Byzantium has run to the Crusaders for help. There is a rumour that the leaders of the Crusade have agreed to help put the young fool on the throne in return for riches and Rome’s control over our Church.’

  Arnau leaned back against the wall, eyes wide. Surely this was some kind of twisted joke? The army called to war by the Pope had been destined for Egypt to destroy the heart of the sultan’s power and free Jerusalem from his grasp. Was it not evil enough that they had paused in that great and laudable goal to sack and loot a Christian city? Would they now revel in their excommunication? Having sold their souls to the Great Enemy, would they now compound their wickedness by taking the sword of Christendom and using it to usurp the emperor of Byzantium?

  Ramon was clearly suffering similar disbelief, with the two men sitting in stunned silence.

  ‘I see the news is as unwelcome to you as it is to me,’ Father Loukas said, gravely. ‘The great empire, which has kept the threat of the Turk and the Saracen at bay for centuries, is to become the target of the papal army. And my Church is a target now also? How far must men fall before Hell opens up beneath their feet and swallows them?’

  ‘It cannot happen,’ Ramon said with uncertainty in his voice. ‘The Pope will not allow it. An Italian nobleman and a Venetian doge even together do not have the authority to waylay a crusading army.’

  But they did. Arnau knew it, and so did Ramon. They shouldn’t, but they did. Because the Pope had excommunicated them, and now they had nothing to lose.

  Father Loukas left early that day, but he once more affirmed his appreciation of the Order and their stance against the Crusaders, and promised to foster just such an understanding among the islanders. Arnau was silent for some time after the old man left, and it was Ramon who finally broke the silence.

  ‘This is a dark day for Christians everywhere, Arnau.’

  The younger knight nodded. ‘What do we do? If the Order has condemned the Crusade, we will not be supplying sword arms, even if they change their mind and sail for Egypt when the weather clears. Our mission no longer exists.’

  Ramon shook his head. ‘We continue on our path, Vallbona. The grand master at Acre is expecting us. Whether the Crusade continues or not, our place is to attend upon the grand master as ordered. If we are required no further, then we will immediately take ship back to Rourell, but we may not return home until we have presented ourselves at Acre as promised. Perhaps the Order will lead some sort of action against the Saracen instead.’

  Arnau nodded, though he looked less than excited at the prospect.

  The Crusade had not only failed, but had turned upon its allies. Nothing good was going to come of this year. He found himself dreading the coming spring and ships beginning to ply the waters to Acre once more.

  Damn the Crusaders.

  Chapter 3: The Bitter Templar

  Acre

  March 1203

  It seemed ridiculous, really. Acre, heart of the Templar world and home to the exiled king of Jerusalem, lay less than two hundred miles from where Arnau and the others had wintered on Cyprus, and yet the dangers of eddying currents had forced them to stay on the island until the spring tides allowed for safer sailing.

  Though he was loath to admit it, their enforced delay had probably been a boon. Had they rushed straight to Acre they would have been part of the Templar presence in the city when the tidings of the Crusaders came in, and Arnau could only imagine what things had been like in the Order’s home fortress then. Digesting the news slowly in the quiet seclusion of the church in Lefkosia would most certainly have been easier, and the late winter had passed much more pleasantly as the islanders gradually opened up to the presence of the three brothers in their midst. It would clearly be a long time before they would trust the Order again, if that ever happened, but at least the undercurrent of malice the visitors had felt upon their arrival had faded.

  March came around soon enough, and in a way Arnau had been sad to say farewell to their little monastery. They had slipped back into the Order’s daily monastic routine with ease, and it had felt comfortable. Even Sebastian had relaxed and stopped clutching his icon to his heart day in and day out. Now they were heading into unknown territory, and the near future was worrying to say the least. Still, the great adventure of life must go on.

  The ship aboard which they had managed to secure passage was a trader from Ascalon, down the coast. Arnau had been rather pleased with their command of the Greek tongue after a winter of concerted study, and had been therefore disappointed when it transpired that the sailors spoke some strange glottal language and his Greek was now clearly redundant. Likely, where they were going he would encounter more Arabic than Greek, the former a tongue which was already becoming vague and distant for him with two years of disuse.

  Still, despite their uncertain future, the difficulties of communication and the knowledge that the world was teetering on the brink of something terrible, it was hard not to feel a touch of excitement as the coast came into view as a long strip of hazy brown which slowly resolved into beaches and woodland, villages and parched hills. And then finally, Acre grew out of the haze.

  Somehow Arnau had expected a mountainous place with towering walls and turrets, flags of the crusading nations fluttering in the wind and ships prowling the coast, searching for Saracens to destroy. It was a little deflating to realise that Acre was a fairly flat and run-down looking place, filled with low, brown buildings and rabbit-warren streets. There were city walls, he could see, but only facing inland. The coast was unfortified, barring occasional towers and one squat, ugly-looking fortress on a headland. The only ships to be seen were the same native traders they had encountered all through their journey. No flags. No mountains. No sign that since the fall of Jerusalem t
his place was the very heart of the Holy Land, the centre of Christian power in the East and the mother house of the Order.

  Still, he rallied. Appearances weren’t everything. As the city slid ever closer and they made to round that fortified headland to the harbour on the southern side, Arnau realised that flags were flying above Acre, or at least above that heavy, square, golden stone fortress. Black and white flags. The flags of the Templar order. It would appear that the one great military monument in Acre belonged to the Order.

  Ramon was peering at the place too, while Sebastian suffered in silence with only the occasional gulp or retch to remind them he was present. As they rounded the heavy stone mole and slid through the waters towards the dock, Arnau could see with surprise ships in port also flying the flag of the Temple. He hadn’t realised the Order had its own ships, but then again, this was the very heart of the Templar world. Moments later he was waiting, almost quivering with anticipation, as sailors tied off lines, ran out ramps and brought up horses and gear. The sun was a little past its zenith when they finally set foot upon the dock of Acre.

  ‘To the castle?’ he murmured as Ramon tested the straps on his saddle bags.

  ‘To the castle.’

  The three men led their horses rather than riding, making their way along the dock and into the streets of Acre. After days at sea, all three of them felt the need to reacquaint themselves with walking on dry land before mounting animals once more. Arnau took in his surroundings like a parched man at a water fountain. Acre was a whole new world, more different from home than even Cyprus. The streets were narrow and paved with ancient stone, the houses centuries old and tightly packed. Awnings of striped canvas covered houses and shop fronts, and stalls seemed to be placed at random, selling all manner of things as if the entire city was one sprawling market. The people here were almost uniformly darker coloured than any visitor, their skin leathery from years of exposure to a harsh sun. Many seemed to be wearing turbans or scarves wrapped around their heads in the manner of Saracens. The entire place smelled of parched horse dung mixed with strong spices, overlaid by the briny salt of sea air. It was a heady combination.

  It took just a quarter of an hour to reach the fortress, which stood resolute and powerful, dominating the headland. Constructed in an uneven pentagon to suit the terrain, it sported five towers rising above the battlements. The gate consisted of a single great arch which reached a point at the apex in an almost Arabian style, heavy, studded doors standing open with men in white surcoats bearing the red cross standing to either side, watching any passers-by carefully.

  Arnau was concerned to hear the distinctive sounds of combat as they approached, but nearing the gate, he caught sight of figures moving about inside on a cloister lawn of parched brown grass, training in pairs, hammering at shields and parrying the blows of their brothers. The entire place was alive with people. Moreover, now that he looked around, he could see the Order’s cross carved above the doors of many of the buildings clustered around the fortress. Clearly Templar control was not limited to the castle. An entire area of the city was under their command. Arnau had never seen so many knights, sergeants and associate brothers in one place. It looked almost like an army preparing for a campaign.

  He swallowed his distaste, remembering what he had been told about the Crusade. That was probably exactly what they had been doing.

  They stopped at the gate.

  ‘Brothers Ramon de Juelle and Arnau de Vallbona of Aragon reporting for the muster. I apologise for any delay. We were caught on Cyprus for the winter.’

  ‘The Iberians,’ one of the two men on the door noted to the other, who nodded. ‘You are expected.’

  ‘Where do we report in?’

  ‘You’ve been assigned to Preceptor Bochard,’ the first man said. ‘Go past the church and to the doorway in the corner. Anyone there can direct you to him.’

  The two men nodded and thanked the guards before walking in through the arch and across the courtyard of the fortress, past two dozen men training in a crash of steel and grunts. The sound of voices raised in a pious chant arose from the church as they neared it. Something was nagging at Arnau as they walked. Something about that name…

  Finally, he turned to Ramon.

  ‘I know that name from somewhere. Bochard, I mean.’

  Ramon nodded, his face sour. ‘I’m not surprised. We heard it a few times on Cyprus.’

  Arnau blinked with realisation, a cold shiver running through him. That was it. The name had cropped up in the few discussions they’d had with Father Loukas about the Templar troubles on the island. Bochard had been the name of the Templar master on Cyprus who had led the Order through their disastrous year in control of the island. The man who had driven the locals to revolt and who, finding his men trapped in Lefkosia, had led a charge and slaughtered hundreds of islanders.

  The chances of the name being entirely coincidental were almost non-existent.

  ‘The same man.’

  ‘Without a doubt. We might tread carefully here, Vallbona. And try not to talk about Cyprus if you can avoid it.’

  Arnau nodded vigorously as they passed the church and made for the corner doorway, which led into a huge block that contained halls, chambers and staircases. At the doorway, Ramon once more handed his reins to the grey-green looking Sebastian. ‘Find the stables and see to the horses, and then fetch the gear and wait here.’

  Sebastian nodded his understanding as Arnau also handed over his reins, then the two knights turned to the building. A sergeant stood just inside the doorway, a hammer in hand, repairing the latch.

  ‘Good day, Brother,’ Ramon greeted him in French. ‘Can you direct us to Preceptor Bochard?’

  The man nodded, three nails held between his teeth. Pausing in his work, he removed the offending articles and licked his lips, wincing at the ferrous taste. ‘Up the stairs to the first floor. Head along the corridor with the large window at the end. Behind the last door on the right you will find Master Reynal Bochard.’

  Ramon thanked the man and they moved on, climbing the stairs and emerging onto a landing. Half a dozen doors led off this place, and they could hear muted conversation and the occasional low song from them as they passed, before reaching the last one. Taking a deep breath, Ramon shot Arnau a glance that silently asked if he was ready. Arnau nodded once and then the older knight rapped on the door.

  ‘Come,’ called a strong, if slightly hoarse, voice from within.

  They opened the door and walked into a large room with a low ceiling supported by twin, wide-spanning arches. A window at the far side admitted ample light to give the room a warm glow. The place was clearly no sleeping chamber, for benches sat to each side in pairs and a large table, spread with maps, stood in the centre. A man in a white mantle was leaning over one such chart, peering intently at it. As Ramon closed the door behind them, Arnau took in what he could of Preceptor Bochard. The man was heavily built, barrel-chested and muscular, particularly for a man of his clearly advancing years. His long beard was entirely grey, while his hair was a salt-and-pepper mix, cropped relatively close. As he looked up, his eyebrows were similarly long and grey, throwing the pits of his eyes into shadow. The effect was rather disconcerting. Bochard had almost the same skin tone as the locals, and Arnau surmised the man had probably spent much of his adult life in the Order and in the Holy Land.

  ‘What is it?’ barked Bochard, irritably.

  ‘Brothers Ramon de Juelle and Arnau de Vallbona from the preceptory of Rourell in Aragon, Preceptor, reporting as ordered by our preceptrix, Ermengarda. My squire is below stabling the horses.’

  Bochard’s face underwent a series of odd emotional changes and then settled back into irritation.

  ‘I was beginning to think you would never arrive. You have been assigned to me by the grand master. What do you know about the situation here in the East?’

  Arnau remained silent, letting his superior answer for them, though his eyes strayed to the maps on the t
able. One was of the city, several clearly of this locale and the entire coastal region, heading as far east and north as Jerusalem and Damascus. One seemed to cover the northern lands, up across Anatolia and into the Balkan kingdoms.

  ‘I understand,’ Ramon answered, ‘that the king of Jerusalem has a number of truces in place with various heathen groups in order to secure the borders while he concentrates on Egypt. As far as I am aware, there are currently no hostilities here. The last I heard the army of the Franks was still in Zadra and may be planning to involve themselves in imperial succession affairs at the expense of their goal in Egypt. As such, I am aware that our involvement in the Crusade is likely to be nullified. The grand master still stands by the papal excommunication, I presume?’

  Bochard’s brows knitted tightly. ‘You are better informed than I expected, given your peripheral position in Iberia and the months spent travelling. But you are far from up to date.’

  Ramon bowed his head.

  ‘The Crusade is in danger, certainly,’ Bochard said with a hint of anger. ‘The army is currently in Corfu, where there seems to be some division between their leaders as to their next move. I understand that a sizeable force has split from the main Crusade, secured their own ships and set sail for Acre, where they intend to put themselves at the service of the King of Jerusalem. Others intend to place this pretender Alexius on the Byzantine throne at all costs, that party being led by the doge of Venice. In fact, the Pope has rescinded his excommunication of the crusading army, hoping that they will all follow the example of those men who have split off and sailed for Outremer. Not of the Venetians, mind, only the crusading Franks. The sea dogs are still outside the arms of Mother Church.’

  Again, both brothers bowed their heads. It was heartening to hear that the Crusade might yet recover and adhere to its intended goals. More so that the Franks were no longer suffering excommunication. Perhaps there was hope. And if the Crusaders reached Acre, then maybe the Order would once more join them on campaign.