Pilgrim

by James Jackson

  In a stampede of dust, his long-hafted gisarme axe held high, the first of the knights accelerated for his target. The tethered Arab screamed throughout the run-in and went silent as his head split.

  The Lord of Arsur squinted. ‘A clean kill.’

  ‘It helps to sharpen the edge of our brethren.’

  ‘Alas, it denies an intact head for my tannery and onward shipment to Europe.’

  He had done well in faking relics, in selling counterfeit heads of St John the Baptist to the rich and trusting fools of Christendom. They were merely part of the process, an element in wider actions that had amassed him a fortune. Where Reynald of Châtillon, Lord of Oultrejordain and victim of Saladin’s wrath and blade at Hattin, had left off, he inherited, refined and continued. With one hand he traded with the Mohammedan and tendered his friendship, with the other he stole and snatched away. It was necessity. Vision and conquest, the raising of armies, cost dear.

  The second of the knights completed his charge. A javelin flew, a body slumped. The next attacker was already formed up, raising his masse torque war-club in token salute before hurtling into the stretch. Face-off that led to face off: there was little left of the straining visage in his wake. Colleagues took their turn, galloping in, dashing out. An eleven-foot cavalry lance that pinioned, a steel-tipped lasso-flail that garrotted as it wrapped around. Then a sword, sweeping to sever torso and post in a single blow. All were tried and tested.

  ‘My lord would honour us with participation.’

  It would be ill-mannered to decline. The Lord of Arsur made his selection, picking a mace from among the weapons offered by his men. His choice was the morning-star, a spiked ball attached by steel chain to its shaft. It was capable of penetrating armour, liable to reduce a skull to pulp. Expertly, he lifted his arm at his side and let the killing-sphere dangle, spurred towards the impact point. The rush of air, the snorting of his horse, the looming and twisted grimace of a victim, the vibration of contact. Conclusion was swift.

  He trotted back, restored the matted and bloodied instrument to its lender, and wiped a gauntlet on his surcoat. ‘You will receive fresh orders in due course. Meanwhile, we take our tribute and return to Arsur.’

  ‘As you wish.’

  What he wished no man could hazard, neither Saladin nor Cœur de Lion could have foretold. He peered at the hooded creature.

  ‘It is fortunate none suspect the Syrian Order of St Lazarus might have spawned such demonic offspring.’

  A clawed hand rose and pulled aside the covering. The Lord of Arsur’s men shied in horror and disgust. Before them was a face replaced by a shapeless and atrophied mass, by the lesions and decay of lepromatous leprosy. The muscles twitched.

  ‘Eventually all turns rotten in the Holy Land.’

  Like a great serpent shedding its skin, the column moved into the Alpine foothills, discarding dead children, sliding onward with internal momentum of its own. Early August, and the harrowing sights and unbearable hardships had not diminished the pace. Thirty thousand had set out on this route, another ten thousand heading for the St Gotthard Pass and the eastern parts of Italy, and it was clear with each passing day that but a fraction would reach their destination. ‘May their suffering be rewarded in heaven,’ they prayed. And they buried more and spoke less.

  ‘A bell, I hear it.’

  ‘You imagine, Achim.’

  ‘No, listen, Zepp. It comes this way.’

  They paused, instantly wary at the possibility of trouble. News had come from the van that robbers and cut-throats were attacking pilgrims for their meagre rations and chance of hidden plunder, that farmers had killed to preserve their flocks and livelihood. How safe their villages had seemed.

  The blind boy was right. A tinkling of a bell floated in the breeze, its sound presaging the appearance of a snaking shadow heading their way. The image solidified. Nine grotesques, men or women it was impossible to tell, shambled along in single file and, with aid of a knotted rope, followed the lead of their guide. Ears had been cropped, eyes gouged out, noses removed, lips hacked away. Arbitrary justice, medieval style. Only the leader had escaped total mutilation, had been left with a single eye the better to steer, a tongue with which to preach collective woe.

  ‘Let us serve as warning to others. Let us proclaim before God our sins and heresies. Let man look upon us and repent . . .’ The handbell rang.

  Kurt nudged Hans and whispered, ‘What devils are these?’

  ‘Cathars. They are Cathars.’

  ‘They are unlike any beings I have encountered, the most monstrous things I have ever seen.’

  ‘It is punishment, Kurt. They were fool enough to challenge the Church, to rail against the Pope. I have heard a priest tell of their sacrilege and profanation, of the crusade in north Italy and southern France against them, and their resulting torment.’

  With fascinated revulsion, the children watched the Cathars pass. Kurt felt pity for them, a nagging doubt that any deserved such harshness, should be condemned to disfigurement and eternal wandering. His was meant to be a forgiving God. Yet perhaps the Church knew best.

  ‘Stop, Zepp . . .’ His sharpness forced the ten-year-old to drop the stone. ‘You think they are not already persecuted?’

  ‘They claim they are sinners and heretics. It is our duty to chastise them.’

  ‘Not to find easy sport at expense of others.’

  Disappointed, Zepp conceded the point and shrugged. There were plenty of other diversions. Kurt and Hans turned. They had heard the slightest of sounds, the quietest of cries from behind. Isolda had fainted. For uphill miles, she had struggled with a sprained ankle, Egon acting as her chaperone and support. Now he leaned over her, concern creasing his features, affection rendering him almost useless. His friends rushed over.

  ‘Prop her against this stone, Egon. I have a rolled cloth for her head.’

  ‘She is so grey. Quick, splash water on her face.’

  ‘Isolda? Can you hear us?’

  Advice was taken, random procedures followed. Slowly she revived, her colour returning, her eyelids flickering and glassy stare dissolving back to focus.

  She gave a weak smile. ‘By the hour, I seem to slow.’

  ‘That is untrue, Isolda.’ The son of the blacksmith knelt and gazed at her. ‘Mountains are no barrier.’

  ‘You encourage me in every step, sweet Egon. But I hold you back, have injury that may cause hardship to us all.’

  ‘We share it as we do our food and faith, our hopes and pilgrimage.’

  Kurt nodded vigorously. ‘Without you we are lost, Isolda.’

  ‘Yet at merest sight of those unfortunates I had cause to fall.’

  ‘None would desert you for it.’ Kurt leaned and kissed his sister, then stood. ‘Egon will tend you, Achim and Zepp will amuse, and Hans and I will venture towards Annecy to discover provision.’

  They climbed, eager to move, wondering what they searched for. Maybe they could find victuals, discarded boots, scraps of clothing or information. Revelations occurred in the harshest of times. Kurt was strangely elated. Twelve years old, he had the earth at his feet and glistening snowcaps around. This was freedom and responsibility and malehood, his very future. Gunther . . .

  In a heartbeat, the rush of joy was gone. At the edge of the track, where it split to twist into a different valley, the son of the woodsman held a knife to the throat of a young boy. The victim was trembling, his friends on their knees pleading, piling their inadequate effects into an unfurled square of cloth.

  ‘Things I might eat or trade, trinkets and baubles of any worth or none. Whatever you possess, I shall have.’ He pressed the blade harder against the exposed neck. ‘Make it quick. If you deny me, there will be blood.’

  ‘Should you continue, it will be yours.’

  Gunther reacted slowly to the shout from Hans, his attention swerving to record the knife in the hand of the goatherd, the wooden staff held by Kurt.

  He was dismissive. ‘Come cl
oser and this little pig begins to squeal.’

  ‘Release him, Gunther.’

  ‘Or what, Hans? You charge towards me, attempt to wrestle me away?’

  ‘It is not worth the pain and danger.’

  ‘So continue on your way.’

  ‘I took vow to protect my fellow pilgrims. As did you.’

  ‘Conditions may change, needs arise.’

  Kurt took a step forward. ‘You remain under the oath and demands of the Cross.’

  ‘I do?’ Gunther narrowed his eyes. ‘You among any should know of what I am capable, Kurt.’

  Steel traced a line and the boy screamed. It was a flesh wound, a statement of intent, but blood flowed. Kurt retreated, the kneeling children continuing to empty the contents of their belt-purses.

  Triumphant, Gunther ordered the kerchief folded and brought to him. He was simply collecting his dues. But he had not anticipated the flat tap of a sword-blade on his shoulder, the emergence of a stranger who had dismounted from a black charger and approached him silent from behind.

  ‘It appears the contest is evened.’ The newcomer grinned, his perfect teeth set in a faultless face. ‘You care to joust the knife against the sword?’

  His opponent seemed reluctant. The fight had not only been evened but was plainly over. Gunther had sloped away, his quarry released, and Kurt and Hans stood in awkward company with their ally and champion. There was no denying he had rescued them from a delicate situation, little doubt he was an important personage. He was a young and handsome noble some three or four years their senior, with piercing blue eyes and bobbed ash-blond hair. The tunic was green, the cloak blue, the upper body protected by a cuirie of hardened leather. Kurt and Hans had never before met such a deity, found themselves staring in deference and awe.

  ‘We are grateful to you, sir.’ Kurt bowed.

  The boy laughed and slapped him on the shoulder. ‘Arise. I am your friend, not your king.’

  Then, friend, I am Kurt and this is Hans.’

  ‘And I am Otto of Alzey.’

  Chapter 4

  Neither the nightwatchmen nor the ahdath militia would catch the flitting shadows, pose a threat to the operation. At sunset the gates of Damascus had been closed and locked in a routine unchanged for centuries. But the danger was already within. The team of Assassins had entered the city several days before, had merged with the populace, moved among sympathizers, biding their time and laying their plans. These crowded alleyways, these hidden courtyards, these jumbled labyrinths of cellars and rooftops gave unmatched opportunity and incomparable cover. The ideal hunting-ground. Possibilities that would not be squandered.

  There were myriad targets from which to choose. The mosques, the palace of the Sultan, the mausoleum of Salah ad-Din, the residence of the Shinna, the Chief of Police. All too easy. Besides, there would be plenty more occasion to visit, a thousand reasons to return and stoke the flames, spread the fear. For practitioners in the art of death and disarray, it was a question of balance, of pace. Terror at the unknown was the most valuable of tactics and tools. On this outing, and by order of their sheikh and the Lord of Arsur, they would keep it simple.

  Commerce was the focus of their raid. Passing silently through the gloom, sliding sinuously over walls and obstacles, they made their way to the covered markets beside the Bab al-Faradis, the Gate of Paradise, and to the sprawling souk near the Amayyad Mosque. Guards were dealt with. Here there were vaults and storerooms piled high, recesses stocked with the heaped pungence of spices, the richness of silks and cloth, the oils and perfumes that made the streets famous and vulnerable to accidental blaze. The Assassins worked methodically, with practised fluency. Flax soaked in pitch and naphtha could act as accelerant, toppled amphorae could spread conflagration; flour dust sent airborne could serve as explosive. All was ready, and the spark was lit.

  In living or recorded history, the residents of Damascus had experienced nothing like it. The fire raged for over two days, impervious to water and immune to any effort to smother it. Many fought to save their livelihoods, and failed. Many joined their friends and neighbours in ad-hoc groups to battle valiantly against the reaching calamity. The Assassins too were there. They were in the thick of it, concealed among the throng, directing and misdirecting, adding to confusion, seeing matters through. Left behind in the acrid aftermath, enveloped in a pall of smoke, were the glowing embers of what had been a thriving street life. None could quite comprehend the disaster. Yet in their shocked hearts they had an inkling that treachery and sabotage were to blame.

  The Sultan came to visit. Stroking his beard, immersed in private thoughts of rage and retribution, he toured the scene with his advisers. He stopped to speak to the distressed and dispossessed, paid money from his purse, embraced and comforted the merchants and their kin. Saphadin, the great al-Adil, brother and confidant to the late Saladin, was a wise, merciful and benevolent man. But he was also a leader, a Moslem potentate whose grip on power forever suffered challenge and who had now lost face and revenue. Insult and threat would not go unpunished.

  Yet the fire-starters were not alone in their aggressive acts that night. Elsewhere, in the mountains beyond Beirut, and in the region around Ajlun, bands of leper Knights of St Lazarus launched attack on the iron-ore mines of Saphadin. The campaign was as co-ordinated as it was sharp and decisive. Armed with battle-hammers and swords, the invaders fell upon the unsuspecting workers and engineers, cutting them down, burning their dwellings. Next they turned their attention to the mine-shafts. Within minutes, pit props were ablaze; after several hours, tunnel entrances were collapsing. By then, the knights had taken their leave, were heading for the hills behind Arsur, another task done. The body-count had been high, the destruction complete. News would soon filter back to a provoked Sultan.

  During the week that followed, the Assassins departed Damascus and returned to their fortress at al-Kahf.

  Some nineteen hundred miles to the north-west, in Switzerland, four other Assassins continued their pursuit. A lame horse and the need to replace it had delayed them in Biel; a false sighting of their target had distracted. But they rediscovered the scent. With renewed urgency they spurred on, following the trail, gaining on their kill. Assassins rarely accepted defeat. It would be the death of someone.

  The leader raised his hand to slow them. For miles they had seen children, some living, others dead, some limping onward with the remnants of hope or dragging themselves back with the despair of surrender. Too bad. Christians and westerners had strange ways. He had noticed the two begging for alms at the side of the road, a tall boy and once-stout girl, peasant spawn languishing and needy in their plight. A nice spot to sit, overlooking a lake, hungrily watching the wildfowl and admiring the summer flowers. His agenda was different. Those who were still tended to observe, and those who observed always gave of their confidences.

  He smiled and tossed a coin in the dust at their feet. They seemed grateful enough.

  ‘You have names?’

  The boy answered for them both, staring dully at the strangers through dark-ringed eyes.

  Nodding empathetically, the Assassin remained open, pleasant. ‘I can see you have endured much.’

  ‘We have lost more: the young of our hamlet, the friends with whom we were raised, with whom we played and strove and came on pilgrimage. One day we march, the next we bury and wave goodbye.’

  ‘Where now do you go?’

  ‘Home to our village. We should never have left, should never have listened’.

  ‘On occasion we learn through error and hardship.’

  ‘Learn?’ The boy hawked on the ground. ‘Look about at our lesson. I discover only that death and stupidity are twinned.’

  ‘It takes bravery to bow to fate, to recognize the inescapable. Those who doubt, who turn back, possess the courage to question.’

  ‘I feel no courage.’

  ‘Nor should you feel shame. At least you live to chase another destiny.’

  Skilfu
lly the horseman lulled and engaged, edged conversation round to issues more dear to him, higher on his agenda. Starved and careworn, the boy and girl would not suspect.

  ‘You misplace comrades as do we. A young man of noble visage and bearing, adorned in green tunic and blue cloak, seated on a black horse with a grey mare attending.’

  He saw the eyes of the girl spark and subside with the light of recognition. The boy again replied.

  ‘He came this way these three days past.’

  ‘His name is Otto of Alzey.’

  ‘That too I remember. He dismounted to share bread and company with us, gave salve for our wounded feet.’

  ‘A reputation that is one of kindness.’

  ‘For the mercies alone he showed us, he merits reward on his journey and later in heaven.’

  ‘Otto is of adventurous spirit. I am certain he will receive whatever recompense he deserves.’

  ‘Be sure to thank him for his charity.’

  ‘We shall endeavour in every way.’

  As though weighing a decision, the horseman considered the children awhile. Finally, without word of farewell, he flicked the reins and urged his horse from trot into canter. His retinue followed. Left behind in the backwash of dust, Albert and Roswitha looked on and did not think of them again.

  ‘You have made a friend of him, Kurt.’

  The stallion snorted and flicked his ears in satisfaction as the twelve-year-old eased out the sweat and grime, rubbed down his coat with a cloth. At the rear, his back turned, Otto held a hoof between his knees and picked out debris with a metal tool. It was a moment of utter contentment for Kurt. In this gentle labour, in the well of a sweeping valley, he forged connection, shared time with his protector and new-found brother. Maximilian was the name of the stallion, Gerta the mare. He was happy to tend them, to talk and to laugh, to shed the deaths of little Lisa and the girl from Cologne, his parting with Roswitha and Albert, his discovery of the murdered man. And Gunther could not reach him now.