‘What of you, Otto of Alzey, son of Wilhelm? Do you also make pilgrimage?’
‘Of a kind, Reverend Lord. I seek my father, a Hospitaller knight from whom I have not heard these ten years past.’
‘I am told you bear a sword and don cuirie of leather. While this boy and girl undertake mission of peace, it seems you are inclined to more warlike persuasion.’
‘I aim not for battle, Reverend Lord. But where there is threat I must prepare.’
Innocent inclined his head. ‘At least there is one I may trust to carry blade against the heathen Saracen. I find the royal courts of Europe less eager in this task.’
He made the sign of the cross and in Latin committed his visitors to the care and mercy of God. A precious moment. Interview was closed, and the children were ushered from the chamber by a severe and elderly cardinal less welcoming than the Pope. Kurt glanced at him, noted the curl of his lip, the disapproval cloaked in simple piety. The man appeared more desiccated than the rest, perhaps dried out by decades spent in prayer and study. Kurt felt the urge to converse.
‘Was that truly gold on the handles of the door?’
‘It was.’
‘And the incense-burners. Were they set with precious stones?’
‘You saw correct.’
‘I wish we could tell our friends of what we experience, of how our Reverend Lord has blessed and sanctified our journey.’
‘The Holy Father is charitable and generous with his time.’
‘He honours us.’
‘No, he bears and suffers you, bids you go on your way.’
Cardinal Cencio Savelli did not much like the young.
The Franciscan had remained behind. In the background, a bell tolled distant and muffled from the basilica of St John Lateran, cathedral seat of the papacy. It was a comforting sound, the heartbeat of a religion, the pulse of a body politic whose influence spread far with fire and word. Yet here was a more basic scene. A humble friar and an all-powerful pontiff, two priests separated by rank and age and speaking only feet apart.
‘It is four years since last we met, Brother Luke, when you came to Rome with the poor man of Assisi.’
‘I remember it well, Reverend Lord.’
‘As do the cardinals of the Sacred College. There were few in favour of the audience I granted.’
‘Brother Francis and our fellow penitents are beholden, Reverend Lord.’
‘I have no regret. The world is fairer and more sweet for the ecclesiastical tonsures I allowed you, for your preachings of repentance and love.’
‘We are unworthy of such praise.’
‘I speak nothing but the truth.’ Innocent stepped to a carved wood table and decanted water to a pair of chalices. ‘Where now is Brother Francis?’
‘He sets sail from Dalmatia for the Holy Land, bids me follow and shepherd children he hears are destined for that place.’
Innocent paused and put down the silver jug. ‘For seven hundred years, since the reign of Emperor Constantine, a pope has reigned in this palace. I fancy none ever saw a thing so piteous as these innocents and striplings struggling towards Palestine.’
‘Your plenary indulgence, your offer of absolution to those who send proxies on crusade, encourage such event.’
‘You criticize, Brother Luke?’
‘I comment.’
And he noticed much. Experience had taught him how to read his fellow man, how to penetrate the mask of office. He would never underestimate Pope Innocent III. The pontiff had the mind of a canon lawyer, the groomed charisma of a prince, the ambition of an emperor. It was a powerful and dangerous combination. Son of the Count of Segni, nephew to Pope Clement III, scion of the noble Roman house of Scotti, he had been a cardinal by twenty-nine, was in 1198 at the age of thirty-seven elected supreme head of the Church. Success and magnificence abounded. The Franciscan would not forget that this was the pope who had sanctioned the brutal sack of Constantinople, the extinction of the Byzantine Church. Capable of shedding a tear, certainly. Able to inspire and lead, to manipulate and control, without a doubt. He wanted something, otherwise he would not have invited discourse.
Innocent approached and proffered the goblet. ‘My apology it is not wine.’
‘Such comforts are not for me, Reverend Lord.’
‘Indeed not. So drink instead the produce of a lowly spring.’ They both sipped. ‘Strange is it not, Brother Luke? Christian knights answer my call to arms with victorious crusade against the Moorish infidels in Spain, triumph at Las Navas de Tolosa in this July past. They strive too with holy war against the heretic Cathars in France and other places. Yet they dare not strike against the Saracens in the east.’
‘Travel is arduous and the risks high, Reverend Lord.’
‘I thought God demanded of us such sacrifice.’
‘Man is frail and weak.’
‘The leaders of Christendom weaker.’ Innocent lowered his cup. ‘Even the Templars, my angels of death, lose their impulse to kill for our faith. Even John of Brienne and his idle lords seek easy life with the Sultan of Damascus.’
‘They have their reason.’
‘Sloth and cowardice are no reason. Thus do mere children take their place, stride with cheerful purpose for the sacred shrines we claim to venerate.’
Thus do you prepare to reveal your aims, the friar thought. He waited. The restless energy of the pontiff alighted on him and did not shift.
‘Reports come to me, Brother Luke. They tell of unrest and disturbance in Outremer, of strife where there has been calm, murder where there is typically none.’
‘I know nothing of it, Reverend Lord.’
‘But you shall. You will work diligently to find cause and fact, will pry and probe, will search from highest tower to lowest cave. Then you will make expeditious dispatch to me.’
‘I am to be your spy?’
‘My observer. What better concealment than the filthy rags of a mendicant, the aged and dusty bones of a roving friar?’
‘There is my obligation to the children.’
‘They will add lustre and detail to your story, divert suspicion from yourself.’
The Franciscan gazed back unwavering. ‘Reverend Lord, I am a man of simple outlook, a beggar and preacher of eternal love.’
‘Yet we live in state of eternal war. Your loyalty is to me, Brother Luke.’
‘It is to God.’
‘I am leader of His Church on earth.’ The pontiff leaned close, his eyes searching. ‘Do not disappoint. There is narrow margin between those who wear sackcloth and preach in open fields and heretics who hate Rome and must be consigned to the fire.’
‘Torture and death hold no fear for me, Reverend Lord.’
‘Though you may fear for Brother Francis and your brethren of Assisi.’
‘You would threaten us?’
‘I shall do what is needed to protect and preserve the concerns of the Lateran. Go forth and discover. Be my eyes, my ears, my diviner of intentions.’
‘To what end?’
‘Power, Brother Luke. It is ever about power.’
Follow the road inland from Ascalon and the coast, continue past Blanchegarde and the dusty town of Latrun, climb into the Judaean hills, and with three days march behind him the average general would have brought his forces to Beit-Nuba. Arab country; waypoints in crusader history. Perched on its mound, the squat fort dominated the land about, acting as lookout and defence, guarding since Roman times the western approach to the city of Jerusalem that lay twelve miles beyond. Twice in 1192 King Richard I of England had reached this spot. He had been hampered by weather, by the desertion of the French, by impending starvation, by threat of encirclement from an avenging Moslem army tramping up from Egypt. And so he had retreated, taking his Englishmen back to the enclaves of Outremer, losing for ever the chance to capture the holy city he coveted.
A wasted opportunity, the Lord of Arsur reflected. He was walking the battlements with the fort commander, an unlikely ally g
iven his status as Moslem and Turcoman, as dependable officer in the service of Sultan Saphadin. Trust could be so misplaced. When an emir was passed over for promotion, he could grow bitter; when a functionary had costs and needs, he could be bought. The commander’s grievances had not been difficult to exploit. They made him susceptible to bribery, in turn opened him up to blackmail. Of such things were the most fruitful collaborations born.
‘You have our last consignment of weapons?’
‘Yes, my lord. Stored as you command and ready for use when called upon.’
‘I count on your similar readiness.’
‘Rely on it, my lord.’
‘It is important that I may. And should you falter in any way, you shall meet ten thousand agonies before you enter paradise.’
The man understood, swallowed hard in his response. It was part of his working relationship with this brooding Frank from Arsur. He could live with it, would do his utmost not to die for it.
‘May I ask why such quantity of items is required, my lord?’
‘You may not.’ The Lord of Arsur stared him down. ‘Nor may you enquire of the seven of my chosen men left here with you at my departure.’
‘Seven, my lord? I already have a garrison.’
‘Consider it enlarged. They are to be lodged in the gate towers, will not fraternize with any but their own.’
‘My soldiers will ask questions.’
‘To which you shall avoid reply.’
‘It will take money to quarter and feed extra mouths, to purchase the silence and loyalty of my troops.’
‘I am glad it is no matter of conscience.’
The Lord of Arsur continued his tour, pacing to a flight of spiral steps and descending into the cooling gloom of the interior. Richard Cœur de Lion was not the sole leader who could use Beit-Nuba as start line and forward base for grand strategy and all-conquering design. He, Lord of Arsur, would improve on the record of the English king. For months, covered wagons had arrived full-laden at this site and soon after trundled home lighter on their wheels. Prepositioning was under way, a build-up that paralleled his steady dismantling of Mohammedan and Christian kingdoms, his staggered destruction of John of Brienne and Saphadin. As their worlds burned, he would seize the day and take Jerusalem; as their eyes were diverted, he would strike them down and assume their crowns. No easy undertaking. Yet he was confident of victory, certain his enemies were unprepared for the looming apocalypse. This bleating Saracen officer would be grateful for having chosen the winning side.
They emerged into the castle grounds, a lower ward protected by walls and girded by workshops and stables. It reeked of abandonment, reinforced the image of a forgotten outpost of previous conflict. The very illusion he desired. For twenty years the fort had gone ignored, its manpower dwindling, its importance dismissed in a land now under Moslem control. The threat to Jerusalem had evaporated as quickly as the fortunes and army of King Richard. So it seemed.
At the barked order of a sergeant, men came running. In front of the baron and his Moslem turncoat, the cultivated scene of dereliction fell away, its layers of camouflage pulled aside to reveal the hidden reality within. False walls dropped, earth-encrusted frames and trapdoors lifted or slid back across the ground. Exposed were the engines of war. There were the fork-beams of catapults, the counterweights of mangonels, the wheeled platforms of ballista machines. Everything that either besieged or besieger might require, of which a campaigning emperor might dream.
‘We have not been idle, my lord.’
‘And you convince me how appearance may deceive.’ The Lord of Arsur did not show a flicker of satisfaction. ‘I expect you to keep up your guard, to present a usual aspect to the world outside. Nothing must draw attention to Beit-Nuba.’
‘You have my word.’
‘As I also have your soul. While the rulers of Damascus and Outremer choose in their maddened dotage to tear each other assunder, you shall sit tranquil in this crumbling fortress.’
‘Until what time, my lord?’
His master was advancing to inspect the lowered structure of a giant battle-sling. ‘At the hour of my choosing, you will learn.’ He patted the timber, ran his fingers along the coiled rope. ‘We have more active purpose for our hands than to wring them as the rest do in these benighted days.’
‘It is privilege to serve in your employ, my lord, an honour to offer what aid we may.’ Obsequious Mohammedans could say the kindest things.
‘Are the dungeons prepared?’
‘Arranged as you desire and primed for their occupancy, my lord.’
‘Then we are set fair for the venture that unfolds.’
He looked upward, shading his eyes to gauge the position of the sun. A glorious day. By his reckoning, and through intelligence gleaned from Damascus, the next phase of collapse was about to begin.
This infernal heat. It seemed worse in the gully, the rocks reflecting glare, the high cliff walls stilling the air to the heavy consistency of a swamp. The hajib cursed and swatted away a fly. He preferred indolence and the sybaritic pleasures of court, was trained as chamberlain to manage the palace household, to assess slaves, to choose the dancing-girls and delicate platters that would grace the daily routines of his sultan. True, Saphadin was a little more austere than was quite necessary. But he could be generous, was always fair, right up to the moment when he chose his senior chamberlain to act as dove of peace to the Christians of Outremer. It was unjust and absurd. A sorbet flavoured with almonds would be welcome; a mounted servant able to angle the parasol more effectively would be a miracle. He cleared his throat of dust and spat it to the side.
‘Where are the scouts?’
A captain replied. ‘Well ahead, your honour. They will soon appear if encounter is made.’
‘Ensure the pennant-bearers carry high our flags of truce. I do not wish to be misjudged as commander of a raid.’
He backhanded the sweat from his brow, rocked uncomfortably in his saddle. It was no way to treat a fat man. There were others more suited to the role of ambassador: those who were born to the saddle or the diplomatic joust. They could keep their vocation. He was an urbanite, a traveller only between cushions and across silk carpets. Perhaps it was why the Sultan had plucked him from among his coterie. The infidel Latins would listen to one so close to Saphadin, would recognize that a chamberlain spoke from the heart and home of his Moslem overlord. War would be to the detriment of all.
The captain offered his water-flask, and the chamberlain drank. ‘What attraction is there to this life of soldiery?’
‘Had you charged the infidels on horseback, you would not ask, your honour.’
‘I have not, so I do.’ He gulped again and returned the bottle. ‘The flies, the burning sun, the ache of the body. If Allah had wished me to suffer such conditions, He would have made me a lizard to dwell beneath a rock.’
‘There is no disgrace in leaving behind the harems and perfumed baths, the fountains and shaded courtyards.’
‘And precious little point.’
‘Our calling is more harsh, our reward different.’
‘I see no reward in lowly jamakiyah payment, no reward in blistered skin and a lungful of dust.’
‘One day you may need to fight, your honour. One day you may feel the joy of lifting a sword in anger, of pitting yourself against a brutish Frank and cutting him through in the name of Allah the Most Merciful.’
The courtier managed a weak laugh. ‘It shall be an age yet.’
He was wrong. Ahead, a figure had appeared on a pale horse, emerging from the cover of a tal, an artificial mound of debris favoured by bandits and ambushers in these parts. Yet there was nothing to cause alarm. He was alone, a curiosity dressed in the plain mantle of an unidentified knight, his face obscured by a hood. A peculiar sight in a strange place. The chamberlain craned to see, turning to look at the captain and back to the apparition. Heat and light could create mirage, chance encounter stretch the bounds of courtly protocol. T
he visitor raised his hand.
Speaking in French, the hajib called out. ‘We greet you also, friend. We come in peace and under flag of truce for parley with John of Brienne, regent of Outremer.’
Not a word was uttered in reply. On the advice of his officer, the chamberlain attempted Italian and English before resorting to his native tongue. The fool did not answer, but sat immobile and staring, his arm elevated in challenge or welcome. Frustrated, unable to summon explanation, the courtier shouted louder.
‘Move aside. We will proceed.’ Horse and rider failed to obey.
On command, twenty Mamluk cavalrymen lowered their spears. Whatever the mission of this soft and scented chamberlain, they were not about to cede ground or honour to an infidel who blocked their path. Silence was disrespectful, as good as a declaration of threat. They should have checked to their flanks.
The hand dropped. In a shattering instant the scene was blood-drenched, jerked from the recognizable to the unbelievable in a matter of seconds. Crossbow-bolts, double-headed and travelling straight, punctured the air, striking men and horses, tearing from them sounds that were seldom heard. Had he time to think, the chamberlain might have appreciated the trap. But he was otherwise occupied, penetrated by a brace of steel-tipped quarrels that quite took his breath and spine away. Around him, the tableau was folding in on itself, reduced to a last stand where no one moved and no one stood.
At the head of the extinct column, his sword drawn, the captain urged his horse in final and vengeful charge for the knight. The ploy had been anticipated. Caltrops flew, the small and spiked devices scattering in a metal snowstorm on the ground, piercing hooves, throwing the rider. Rage and instinct must have driven the man on. Climbing to his feet, he succeeded in a few tottering and ungainly steps before slumping in the dirt, a host of the deadly burrs embedded in his back. Far behind, one of his troops was making poor his escape, galloping in headlong dash for the rear of the canyon. A hawser uncoiled and went taut across his path, its grapple-iron catching on an opposing rock. Rope and neck connected, and the body spun.
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