by Jane Johnson
30
They beat us with sticks and whatever else came to hand, then surrounded us and pushed us through the streets and up onto the ramparts, screaming at us in their guttural language. They were thin—so thin—but hatred gave them strength as they pushed people out of the way, shouting at the tops of their voices to be heard over the hellish noise. Quicksilver was in front of me, the pre-dawn light making a silver corona of his wild frizz of hair. Little Ned stumbled along beside me, swearing and lashing out. I looked behind me, and there, unconscious, carried by his hands and feet, his long, thin body making a bow, his tangled red hair trailing in the dust, was Will. A rusty stain spread across his robe; the hilt of a dagger protruded from his side.
“Will!” I cried.
Someone grabbed hold of Ned and shoved him at a team of men loading rocks into the missile-basket of a massive catapult. The officer—at least he seemed to be the man in charge—looked at us. There was no fellow-feeling in his expression, just a sort of exhausted mirth, as if he were enjoying a joke with the powers that be at our expense.
Ned fought like a demon, but they knocked him over the head and piled him unceremoniously into the sling of the trebuchet, on top of its load of rocks. “For fook’s sake!” Quicksilver breathed. “They’re going to chuck him over t’wall.”
I had not believed they would do it. I had seen corpses and body parts of animals and men sent over their walls by our own catapult men, hurtling overhead to burst and spatter on the ochre stones of the city, spreading brains and gore and disease where they landed. But I had never seen a living being hurled to destruction. I hadn’t much liked Ned, but to die like this—streaking towards your death, terrified and powerless in the face of the inevitable, agonizing obliteration—was something I would wish on no man. And yet, when they released the mechanism and Ned’s screams trailed away into the general cacophony, I could not look away.
As Ned arced towards the Christian lines, they started hauling on the winding mechanism of the trebuchet beside it, drawing back the counterweight. I shrank reflexively. It was Red Will they handed forward. They slung him unceremoniously into the sling, and I prayed silently he would not awaken suddenly to his awful fate.
Quicksilver broke free of his captors and confronted them like a wild animal, hands like claws, curses spilling from his mouth. “You bloody bastards, leave him be!” It did no good: he was soon held back. When the sling was released for a second time, he wept and bowed his head, and started to recite the Lord’s Prayer.
I had never been able to pray without feeling myself a hypocrite, until then. I watched as Will soared gracefully, the rising sun making an angel of him, illuminating his billowing robe as if he had unfurled invisible wings. On reaching the top of its arc, Will’s body plunged towards the darkness of the Christian camp. Then I lost him in the distance and the gloom. Any last cry he might have made was swallowed by the racket of the great engine as it rocked and recoiled.
They came for me next. I bit and scratched. I used every trick I’d ever learned, but none of them had ever done me much good—in the monastery on the Mount; beaten by the mob in London—and of course they did me no good now. Up into the catapult basket they hauled me until I was sitting astride a great boulder like some champion on his tourney horse. I stared out over the walls to the beauty before me—of the Christian army campfires punctuating the gloom, the red eye of the sun peeping over the distant hills. Was this the last sight my eyes would see? Only if I close them now, I told myself with gallows humour.
But what in hell was that?
At the western edge of the battlefield, something stirred in the foothills leading from the Muslim camp. I shouted out and stared, and all of a sudden everyone was doing the same, craning their necks, pushing forward for a better view. I had the best view of all.
A green cloud had materialized on the outer reaches of our lines, accompanied by a blare of trumpets, a throb of drums and great explosions of light. On it came, gaining definition until I could see a band of charging horsemen enveloped in an uncanny cloud of green smoke, hundreds of them, in green cloaks, with the crescent banners of Islam flying from their lances.
All around, I could see our soldiers falling back in fear, abandoning their positions, some even abandoning their weapons. Many fell to their knees as if in terror and awe as the spectral horsemen careered past. Many died, seeming to realize too late that this strange green cavalry was more corporeal than they had imagined.
The defenders of Acre crowded forward, their hands raised as if to bless God. They beamed at one another, hugged each other, laughed, even danced.
“Alhemdulillah!” cried the man who was holding Quicksilver. He fell to his knees, pressed his forehead to the ground.
All around, the other soldiers were doing the same. There were a lot of cries of “Allahu akhbar!” They seemed to be praying.
I gazed out at the bizarre scene beyond the walls. What was I seeing? It defied the imagination, and yet, and yet … that green vapour … I had seen coloured smoke, and incandescent lights, and heard cacophonies like this before …
Quickfinger caught my arm urgently, hauling me from out of the trebuchet. “Wake up, man! Run!”
We stumbled down the stairs up which we’d been dragged into the deserted streets below just as the first rays of the morning sun crept into the city. We had lost all our treasure. All that remained to us was the wretched lump of wood jammed hard against my ribs. How I had managed to hold on to it through all this I didn’t really know, given how cumbersome the thing was, but strangely it had felt lighter with every step we’d taken. Or maybe I’d been so distracted by our circumstances I’d paid it scant attention. I didn’t even know why I was bothering to carry it any more, for it had caused the deaths of Will and Little Ned. I thought, If we ever get out of this godforsaken place, King Richard can take his Wood of Life, his lignum vitae, and stick it up his royal arse.
Wearily, I looked around. Ochre buildings everywhere in various states of ruin, a maze of streets, and downhill, impossibly far away, a glint of liquid silver. “There!” I pointed. “The sea.”
Quickfinger shook his head. “Too far. Let’s head back for the tunnel we came in by.”
But the streets towards the north were filling with soldiery heading for the walls, no doubt to view the miraculous presence in the field beyond. At last we were forced to move downhill towards the sea after all, through ruined neighbourhoods and burned buildings, through abandoned marketplaces and open spaces gone to baked clay and dust. As we went, the cloaking darkness faded, and all of a sudden a wailing rent the air, right overhead. Shocked, I craned my neck towards the crying voice. Picked out by the first rays of dawn light was a man standing on the gallery of one of those tall spires they called minarets. He was not looking down at us but pointing out over the walls, and I realized that his raucous cries were not the usual melodic call to prayer but a summons to witness what he was seeing, what we had just seen for ourselves—the cloud of green horsemen charging out from the Muslim lines.
Suddenly a mass of people were surging up the hill towards us.
“Fook!” Quickfinger’s eyes went wide with panic.
I grabbed him by the arm and bundled him ahead of me up some wide steps and into an open doorway, from which we watched the crowds pour past. I don’t know what made me turn to look into the building. Perhaps it was the faint scent of roses …
Inside was a marble-floored hall, and through a tall, horseshoe arch at the back I glimpsed something that made my knees tremble. Without thinking, I stepped towards it.
Hard fingers hauled me back. “Where do you think you’re going?” Quickfinger glared at me.
I found myself wordless, unable to frame even the thought to answer him. The scent of roses had become overpowering. I pulled away from him as though he were not there, my feet dragging me to the space beyond the horseshoe-shaped opening. And there it was. The vision in my head, the towering, arcaded pillars linked by a succession o
f beautiful pointed arches. And above them a sky of gold: a soaring, gleaming cupola, bounding an immensity of light. I staggered, and sat down, dizzied, the Moor’s sonorous voice like a deep bell in my head: “A place where earth touches heaven” … and then I blacked out.
I must have lost consciousness for only a few seconds, for I came to with Quickfinger bent over me, fumbling at my cloak as if to find a heartbeat. His eyes were wet. It touched me that he should show such emotion for me: then I realized it was not my plight that had caused him to blink so. He had pulled aside the cloth and was gazing down in awe at the True Cross.
“Well fook me, John, I thought we’d lost the lot.” All of a sudden his dagger was in his hand, and for a dizzying moment I thought he was going to stick me with it and leave me bleeding on the marble floor in the place of my visions. But instead he dug the point into the casing and prised out a red stone, which he held up so that all the light in the mosque seemed to funnel through it. His fingers closed over it, but I could still see the light between them, as if it had eaten the sun. “My fee,” he said grimly, “for this fools’ chase.” He stashed it carefully away from prying eyes and hands, then helped me to my feet, and together we stumbled back through the marble hallway.
Outside, the streets were deserted, and I blessed the natural curiosity and superstition of people, which had always been our stock in trade, for taking them up onto the city walls and out of our path. We continued our passage towards the sea, keeping the rising sun over our left shoulders. Downhill we ran until at last we glimpsed a gleam between alleys stacked with empty crates, and there was the harbour, shining in the rosy light. There were little boats and skiffs aplenty, pulled up and overturned on the quay. We selected one, found oars and were beginning to push it down the ramp into the water when a voice behind us shouted, “Wait!”
Quickfinger spun, ready for a fight, but it was Hammer, belting towards us, his dark eyes wild with joy, the first time I had seen him smile since his twin died.
“I thought you were all dead!”
“Aye,” said Quickfinger. “Didn’t stick around to find out, I noticed.” Then his long, pale face broke into a grin and he grabbed Hammer up and spun him around, losing his turban in the process. I swear the carpenter rattled—and when he was on his feet again I saw why: under the cloak was his bag full of ransacked gold and silver plate.
“Ha!” cried Quickfinger. “That’s where me loot went, then.”
We had just got the sack stowed in the skiff when there was another shout, not such a friendly one this time. Men were running towards us waving sticks and knives overhead, shouting threats.
The boat rocked dangerously as we leapt aboard and shoved off into the harbour.
“Can you row?” I shouted.
Quickfinger and Hammer both shook their heads. “But if it means getting out of here, I’ll learn bloody fast!” Quickfinger grabbed an oar and set about throwing up enormous jets of water with it, to little effect. We made an untidy job of getting into any rhythm, not helped by Hammer squatting in the bow, screaming at us to hurry. I could already see the danger: my eyes were trained on the quayside, where a dozen or so men were leaping into the little boats and coming after us, gaining all the time.
A huge splash a yard away sent a gout of water into our skiff as a lobbed rock just missed us. With a howl, Quickfinger dug his oar into the water as if hoeing carrots and immediately we skewed to the right and threatened to turn a complete circle.
“Give me your oar!” I roared at him and banished him to the stern. “Just lie low and don’t move!”
It was hard work but terror lent me strength, and soon we were out of range of missiles from the shore and heading towards the open sea and the Tower of Flies jutting out from the end of the breakwater. Beyond it lay three warships: surely one of these was the vessel detailed to pick us up. I checked our course over my shoulder and then put all my effort into the rowing, but even so, it seemed the thin, dark men in their small fishing boats were catching us stroke by stroke.
“Oh God!” cried Hammer a few minutes later.
“What?” There was a splash away to my left. “What was that?”
“Crossbow,” said Quicksilver succinctly.
I risked a look back and saw that we were heading too close to the tower. The red morning light twinkled on the helms of the men up on the tower battlements. This time I saw the crossbow raised, pointed right at me. It took every ounce of willpower I possessed to turn back to my task and ignore my coming death. I heard the quarrel whistling through the air towards me, and closed my eyes, even as I drove the oars into the water and heaved with all my might. There was a dull thud and a heavy vibration, and when I opened my eyes again a crossbow bolt stood in the stern between Quickfinger’s splayed feet.
“We’re never going to make it!” Hammer shouted. “Look, they’re gaining on us!”
Over Quickfinger’s shoulder I saw the little flotilla of boats coming right at us now, could make out the features of the two men in the leading skiff as they turned while they rowed, their sharp noses and dark beards jutting from beneath their head-wrappings.
With immense effort, I dug the right oar in and hit something hard. A rock? I stared down to see the dark outline of a massive chain just below the surface. The keel of our little boat grazed over it, and then we were free of it. My left oar skimmed the surface so that a silver feather of water flew off the top of the blade, and we skewed away from the Tower of Flies, across the bows of the pursuing boats and into the open water. I prayed the warships would see our plight and come for us, but they didn’t appear to have seen us.
“Take my turban!” I yelled at Quickfinger, who just stared at me, mouth open like an idiot. “Unwind it and wave it to attract their attention.”
I could see the nearest ship flew English colours, and that lifted my heart, but only for a moment, as there was a rough, shearing sound and a hole appeared in the cloth through which the sky shone for a second, and a clout of red fabric traced the arc of the crossbow bolt that then buried itself in the sea.
Quicksilver sat down again, looking ashen. And then suddenly there came a shout from the warship, and a moment later it was coming towards us, at a barely perceptible pace, until you saw the banks of oars rising and falling in what seemed from such distance a languid precision. I saw the men in the boats chasing us gesticulate and stop rowing; two even turned tail. Relief swept over me, but it was ill timed, for just as the warship hove into sight a bolt struck Quickfinger in the shoulder and knocked him overboard.
“Shit!” I shipped the oars and scrambled after him. There he was, just below the surface, yellow hair waving gently in the tide like some great sea anemone, a dark wash of blood blooming on the water. Bracing my chest on the side, I leaned over, reached down into the chill water, wrapped my fingers in his hair and hauled with all my might. Up he came like a cork out of a bottle, and as soon as he surfaced curses and water flew from his mouth with equal force. I did not let go. Together Hammer and I landed him like a huge fish. The bolt was lodged in the top of his shoulder. I didn’t think it would kill him, but he was paler than I had ever seen him.
Even so, as soon as he could reach it he swarmed up the rope ladder the warship dropped for us, using one hand and the crook of his elbow, and his feet like monkey’s hands, as if Paradise awaited at the top. Between us, Hammer and I managed to get the treasure sack, the cross and ourselves onto the ladder, despite the chop of the waves carrying the skiff away from under us, and the rope bucking and snaking like a live thing. Falling over the side of the ship onto that solid deck made me feel like weeping with relief.
This euphoria was not to last long. Barely had we confirmed our identity to the captain—a ruddy-faced man who stood as foursquare as a bear set to worry terriers—when there was a scream of “ ’Ware Greek fire!”
Looking up, I saw one of the warship’s great sails catch, and within seconds it was blazing with a heat so fierce I could feel it scald my face hal
f the deck away. The captain ordered men up the mast to cut the sail down and dump it overboard, but it was already too late: the flames were running from top to bottom of the sheet, ravenously searching for more solid fuel to feed upon. I saw a man beat at the fire that touched the deck and come away with his hands aflame, then his face and hair as he beat at himself in panic. The sail came crashing down a moment later, to be shovelled overboard, along with a sailor caught up in the lines and burning like a torch, and suddenly all was mayhem.
We had come within range of the Tower of Flies’ ballistas: the soldiers of the Muslim garrison were hurling fire pots at us—no doubt delighted to have a target to aim for after weeks of inactivity—and now two more landed, spraying their lethal contents across the deck.
“Sand!” the captain roared. Men staggered across the deck to spill sacks of sand over the tarry mixture, but although it smothered the flames for a few seconds, nothing could quench them. They burned with a salty sea-flame—green-blue, blue-green—
“Christ!” I experienced a sudden hallucinatory flashback of the smell of burned chemicals.
Quicksilver turned a questioning face to me.
“That green smoke we saw around the Muslim cavalry galloping towards the city? I’ve seen it before. Remember those experiments on the road to Exeter?” In my mind’s eye I saw the Moor blowing on his chemical compounds, coaxing them to life as they cast weird green light on the sharp planes of his beautiful face.
Quicksilver’s expression was a picture of amazement. “The Moor! Well fook me sideways,” he said at last. “Now that’s what I call a reet good miracle.”
There was a scream behind us. Turning, I saw the green flames bursting back into greedy red life, and soon there were holes in the planking through which you could glimpse the lower deck and the rowers beneath, screaming and scrambling as gobbets of the Greek fire dripped down upon them.
The captain sent men to whip them back to work. “If we don’t move out of range we will all perish!” he shouted at them, but the sight of the enemy fire eating its way through everything it came in contact with was too terrifying for logic to prevail, and within minutes all the rowers had abandoned their oars and were running in all directions, many with their clothes and hair afire. The stench took me back to that day on the battering ram when Acre’s defenders had rained Greek fire down on us. At least on solid ground there had been somewhere to run—as Quickfinger had done—but here there was only the sea, a great stretch of deep, dark water, between us and the other warships, who were keeping their distance. And even that wasn’t safe, for where the fire pots hit and shattered, the liquid they contained merely floated on the surface and burned and burned, creating murderous islands of fire that crept to join with one another.