Durandal

by Harold Lamb

  On the hillside below were ranks of crossbowmen, covered by mantlets, and on the beffroi, the gigantic tower, were other detachments, mustered under the white and gold standard of the Caesar.

  Beyond arrow flight of the wall, Theodore the Emperor sat a white horse with crimson caparisoning, attended by his Sebastocratos, his chief officer, his councilors and Mavrozomes, the armorer. He had heard that the Seljuks were forsaking the wall and fighting among themselves, and, no sluggard where an advantage was to be gained, he had commanded an instant assault, lending his presence to encourage the men of his host.

  Conspicuous, in his gilded armor and griffon-crested helmet, illuminated by a ring of torches and outlined against the great banner with the purple cross, Theodore was perceived at once by the knight of Taranto.

  For their part, sight of the tall Frank in the aperture from which they had expected a sally of Turks filled the Greek soldiers with astonishment. When they noticed the gold-wrought mail, and the purple cross upon Hugh’s ragged surcoat, their bewilderment waxed greater.

  They had been told that all the Franks were slain at the Meander, and here was one of the crusaders in the Emperor’s mail, leaning upon a sword of unearthly size—and Hugh himself, standing upon the pile of debris, his long hair shining in the flickering torchlight, seemed to them of gigantic stature.

  So, within and without the castle wall, there fell a quiet in which the crackling of cressets and the stamping of horses could be heard. And in this moment of near silence Hugh raised his hand.

  “Lord King—” he cried.

  A bolt from a crossbow whirred past his ear and crashed into the stone lintel of the gate.

  Hugh’s voice now reached to the imperial cavalcade, and even the horse sergeants beyond.

  “Down weapons! Sir Hugh of Taranto speaks, who defended the banner and person of the Emperor at the Meander—”

  He said no more. In Mavrozomes, peering up from the press below, there was a nimble wit. The armorer understood instantly that Hugh had escaped the slaughter at the river, probably as a Seljuk prisoner—Mavrozomes imagined that Hugh had been thrust out by the Seljuks to parley for terms of surrender, and the last thing the Greek nobles wished was that the knight of Taranto should have opportunity to speak before the whole army.

  So Mavrozomes reasoned, and acted upon the thought. Gliding to the rank of crossbowmen, he clutched the shoulder of a sturdy Genoese, whispering:

  “A purse of bezants—a captain’s belt to thee, if thou canst bring down that tall foeman.”

  Thus the first bolt was sped, and the armorer, cursing its failure, passed to a second man, offering a dozen slaves and two heavy purses.

  “Aim lower!”

  The other man settled his shoulder against the iron stock and pulled the trigger. The bolt whirled upward, crashed against the knight’s light shield, and tore through it but glanced aside. The crusader shook the shattered shield from his arm.

  The parley ended as swiftly as it had begun. For the captain in command of the men highest on the ramp had noticed the two missiles, and, feeling himself in jeopardy, shaded his eyes and looked down at his leaders.

  One word passed Theodore’s lips, and the Sebastocrator heard and lifted his ivory baton, pointing it toward the gate, twice—that there should be no mistaking his meaning. The captain understood, and cried to his men:

  “At him—through the gate.”

  Spears lowered, the Greeks advanced. And at this sight fierce anger mastered Sir Hugh. His eyes glowed, and he raised the sword overhead.

  “St. George!” he cried, and again, “St. George!”

  His sword flashed down in a horizontal sweep that snapped off the nearest spearheads, and swept back, as he stepped forward, into the boldest of the Greeks. Three men were cast down and lay without moving.

  “A traitor!” shouted the captain. “Oho—he is leagued with the Saracen and the devils of the pit!”

  What followed was witnessed by three thousand souls on the hillside below and by as many Arabs as could crowd into the half-opened gate—the sight of whom had inspired the Greek officer’s shout.

  The ramp was no more than eight feet wide, and covered with broken stone, so that only three men could stand upon it abreast. Bending low, and shortening their sword arms, the Greeks rushed, and were swept from their feet with broken bones and bodies gaping. Some slid off the ramp, but they were dead before they touched the ground, a hundred feet below.

  “Over the bodies,” ordered the captain angrily. “Shield to shield. Thrust with spears from behind.”

  Three warriors linked shields together and went up, while others who had the long light spears of the foot soldiers pushed their weapons in advance of the three.

  “Well done!” laughed Sir Hugh.

  He stepped forward, and a spear tore through his cheek, grinding into the bone. His sword smote down the middle man of the three, and he leaped back. An ax clanged against his straining chest as he heaved up Durandal, breaking the links of his mail.

  “Well struck!” he roared, and cut inward, toward the rock. The two leaders were knocked against the cliff, their limbs numbed by the impact. Spears snapped.

  Hugh fought with the cold rage and the swiftness of the man who knows his weapon. There was in him, at such a moment, the instinct of the falcon that strikes only to slay and is not to be turned from its quarry. Aroused in every nerve, his long body and iron muscles wielded Durandal as an ordinary man might swing a staff.

  No man, struck by that sword, rose again. He saw the Greek captain climb in desperation upon the huddle of his men. The Greek, who gripped a shield close to him, and a short sword upraised, leaped forward to strike at the crusader’s unprotected head.

  And as he leaped Sir Hugh took two steps back, swinging Durandal far behind his right shoulder. The long blade whined through the air, and checked as it struck the Greek above the hips—then swept out and up, gleaming and hissing.

  Smitten in mid-leap, the body of the Greek flew out from the ramp, and a shout burst from three thousand throats. The form of the captain divided into two parts, the legs and hips whirling away from the trunk, falling into the line of crossbowmen.

  Beholding this, the Greeks on the ramp drew back, and the mutter of voices from the ranks below was like the murmur of innumerable bees:

  “May the saints aid us—such a stroke!”

  “Take up bows—make an end—”

  “Nay, what say the nobles? I marked how the first bolts did him no harm—”

  “By Sergius and Bacchus, the warrior is more than human. Whence came he? See, there is fire playing around his brow.”

  This muttering dwindled when Hugh, resting his sword tip on the roadway, drew from his right hand the gauntlet of steel links.

  “Theodore Lascaris,” he cried, “Lord King, forsworn and traitor. By thy treachery died eight hundred, my companions, who served thee faithfully. Worthier knights than I lie now unburied at yonder river, but I alone am left to proclaim thy guilt, and this I do, challenging thee in thy person or by champions to do battle with swords that God may judge between us.”

  And he cast the gauntlet after the body of the Greek captain, so that it circled in the air and fell among the knights sitting their horses below the ramp.

  This sudden cessation of the struggle at the gate produced a silence among the Greeks, and they who understood Sir Hugh’s words glanced curiously at the Emperor. But Theodore Lascaris, his lean face white under the silver helmet, fingered the tasseled rein of his charger, giving no response or any indication that he had heard. Seeing him thus hesitant, the nobles debated whether or not to pick up the gage cast down by the Frank, and while they hesitated, Sir Hugh spoke again.

  “I am the banneret of Taranto, my lineage the equal of any prince of the Comneni. If thou wilt not accept my pledge, name thy champions, and I will meet them in this hour upon level ground until one or the other perish.”

  A strong hand grasped Hugh’s belt at the back, o
thers caught his arms and he was drawn suddenly into the darkness of the castle court. The gate was shut before his eyes and the iron bar dropped into place. He heard Khalil’s deep voice at his ear.

  “In the name of Allah the Compassionate, let there be an end of madness!”

  While he had been engaged with the Greeks, Youssouf had loaded the treasure sacks upon a score of pack horses, and the Arabs were already crossing the bridge into the quarry.

  They carried lighted torches, and Khalil waited until the last of his men, except his own escort, had disappeared into the cleft behind the quarry. Then he glanced for a last time around the deserted palace grounds of Kai-Kosru. Only the bodies of a few Seljuks were to be seen, because the Arabs had carried away their dead with them. Even the stables stood empty. The Greeks, after their encounter with Sir Hugh, had not yet returned to the attack.

  “V’allah” said Khalil, “it is finished.”

  He ordered one of his men to dismount and to give Sir Hugh his horse, ready saddled. Then in their turn they crossed the narrow bridge leading to the quarry and cast it into the chasm behind them. Not until then did they hear the thudding of the battering ram at the gate again. And Khalil thought that the Emperor’s men would find little spoil in the palace.

  “Where is Donn Dera?” asked Sir Hugh suddenly, looking around for his comrade.

  “He has gone on, but he is carried in a litter because he was wounded at the wall.”

  Pushing through the men laden with bundles of loot wrapped up in rugs, the crusader sought for his friend and found him among the pack animals. Donn Dera lay in a rude litter made of spears and cloaks, and his eyes were closed. He was breathing, but he would say no word until they came to the encampment of the tribe the next day.

  Then, after he had been carried into a tent and given water, he raised his head and motioned for Sir Hugh to come closer.

  “Let me see,” he whispered, “the blade Durandal.”

  The knight held out the long sword that he had kept near him ever since the fight at the gate. He had cleaned the blade, and the blue steel gleamed without flaw or rust. Donn Dera touched it with his crooked fingers and sighed.

  “ ’Tis a good sword I will be leaving behind me. Take it, and guard it well. Nay—” he smiled grimly as the crusader started to speak—“I will not be carrying a weapon in my hand again. For an arrow hath… given me my death. Call Khalil.”

  Sir Hugh looked once into the bloodless face of the wanderer and would have cheered him with words. But Donn Dera lifted his hand. “I had a foreboding that this would be… Make haste.”

  Hastening from the tent, Sir Hugh found Khalil counting the captured horses, surrounded by the exulting Arabs. Readily the chieftain agreed to go to listen to the dying man—saying as he strode beside the crusader that the strange Frank surely had the gift of prophecy, since he had said that they would take the treasure of the Sultan and that ill would come to himself.

  At their coming Donn Dera raised himself on his elbow. “Now, Khalil,” he said slowly, “is it clear to thee that this youth is not the Emperor of the Greeks?”

  “Ay, for I saw the true Emperor beyond the wall. By Allah, I know now that this young warrior is no man of his.”

  “So it is,” said Donn Dera. “Now I will be dying, and I shall tell ye no more lies. This man, Sir Hugh of Taranto, a champion of the Franks, was chosen by the Greeks before the battle to wear the armor and weapons of the Emperor, so that no harm would come in the battle to the real Emperor Theodore. Ay, they clad Sir Hugh like the Emperor and thought that he would be slain with the other Franks.”

  “Mash’allah!” Khalil thought this over for a moment. “Who may escape his fate?”

  “I told thee the truth,” said Sir Hugh. “I am no lord of men, but a knight without gear or gold to pay a ransom.”

  “Now, listen ye—” Donn Dera breathed heavily, whispering his words—“Khalil… if thou dost sell Sir Hugh to the Greeks they will pay well… because they wish to silence his tongue and leave his body with the other Franks upon the battlefield. But thou wilt not!”

  The Arab chieftain looked thoughtfully upon the ground.

  “Nay,” went on Donn Dera, “thou wilt not because he hath eaten of thy salt and shed his blood in fighting for thee. Look.”

  He pointed at the red spear wound that scarred the crusader’s cheek, and Khalil nodded assent.

  “True,” cried the Arab. “Am I a dog, to sell a guest of my tent for profit? Nay, I have enough.”

  “And,” whispered the wanderer, “seek not to take the sword from him. My cunning found it—and I yielded it to him. He alone hath the strength to wield Durandal.”

  “By Allah,” Khalil smiled, “have we not seen what the sword did to the Roumis? They dropped from the gate of Antioch like sheep over a cliff. We would be fools to seek to take it from him.”

  Sir Hugh lifted his head and would have spoken, but Donn Dera checked him with a sign. “Nay, a last word, youngling. What words said Roland to the sword when he felt death anigh? ‘Never shalt thou possessor know… Who would turn from the face of mortal foe.’ Thus said he, and so it is. Ay, Khalil, the sword is not for me but for this youth who did not turn his face from the Seljuks, and who went out alone to face the Emperor and the Greeks.”

  “V’allah!” cried Khalil, who had all an Arab’s love of prophecy and miracles. “What more canst thou foretell?”

  Donn Dera’s head swayed, and he chanted:

  “This must be said, and now the sight of it comes upon me. This youth is not wise, and his way will ever be the way of the sword. There is no help for it. Yea, he will be set upon and he will know suffering. When that is said the worst is said. But he will keep faith with the sword and will not turn his face from any foe, and in the end he will find peace. Ochune! Now my eyes are dim… I can see no more.”

  That night while the young crusader watched, Donn Dera died, and Hugh covered his face. When it was light, he dug the grave himself and buried the body of the wanderer who had saved his life. The grave was under a great pine tree, and Hugh fashioned a cross out of wood to set over it.

  He had barely finished when Khalil sought him out. The Arabs had taken down and packed their tents, and had loaded the pack animals.

  “We must go!” cried the chieftain. “All of us. The Greeks are in the valley, moving toward this place. Thou art my guest—so I give thee the horse that carried thee here, with its saddle. Thou art free. What road wilt thou take?”

  Leaning upon the hand guard of Durandal, Sir Hugh considered. He no longer had a friend to accompany him, and he knew that if the Greeks made him prisoner his life would be forfeit.

  “Whither go ye?” he asked.

  “To our lands, beyond the river Jordan that lieth near to the Holy—the city thou callest Jerusalem.”

  “In other years,” observed the crusader, “I made a vow to go to Jerusalem, to kneel before the tomb of Christ. So, if you will take me with your people I will fare to the south and redeem my vow.”

  “Come, as my guest!” cried Khalil joyfully. “And surely my honor is increased thereby. But knowest not that Jerusalem is held by the men of Islam?”

  “I will find a way to enter.”

  “And after?”

  “Then must I journey to the north. I have challenged the Emperor Theodore, who betrayed my comrades the Franks. Not yet has he atoned for his treachery.”

  Khalil nodded. He understood perfectly the need to finish a pilgrimage—did the Moslems not journey to Mecca?—and the need to take vengeance upon an enemy. But an emperor I “Nay,” he smiled, “surely Allah hath made thee mad! Doth the antelope go into the lion’s lair? Better it would be to abide with my people.”

  Hastening back to his men, his long cloak swinging behind him, he cried out to them. “Good tidings! The great sword goes with us—ay, and the Frank who is a little mad, but only after the manner of his kind. Now surely we will see happenings!”

  The next day Theodore Las
caris, Emperor of the East and Lord of Constantinople and Nicea, sat alone in the disordered throne room of Kai-Kosru. Chin in hand, he meditated, sitting upon the low silver seat that had been the Sultan’s.

  His men had ransacked the palace, the mosque, and the gardens. They had found some silks of Cathay and ivory and scattered gold ornaments, but no trace of the true treasure of Kai-Kosru. This had vanished with the mysterious Arabs and the tall crusader who had disappeared, it seemed, into the mountain itself. Theodore had sent officers to follow them and bring back a report to him.

  He had won the battle at the river, he had captured Antioch, and had rid himself of the troublesome Franks, yet he had not laid hand on the treasure for which he had journeyed hither. So, moodily, his white fingers stroked the jewels sewn into his silk mantle.

  At the far end of the room the curtains parted, and the officer of his guard entered and knelt.

  “May it please your Grandeur,” the soldier said, “the lieutenant of the Cæsar who commanded the riders sent in pursuit of the Arabs—”

  “Admit him,” ordered Theodore, and added, “alone. Then fetch hither the two deaf Bulgars and Mavrozomes the armorer.”

  When the lieutenant knelt before the dais, Theodore leaned forward impatiently. “Thy tale!”

  Reluctantly the Greek spoke. He had found the path through the quarry and the tracks of the Arab and Seljuk horses. He had found Khalil’s camp, but the nomads had vanished into the southern hills, and it would be useless to follow. On their camp site, however, he had noticed a grave with a wooden cross set over it.

  “A cross!” Theodore smiled. “Then, surely, is the crusader slain. Was the body his?”

  “May it please your Magnificence, the body was a strange barbarian with hair the color of fire and an iron flail laid by him.”

  “Eheu!” Theodore closed his eyes, to hide his rage from the soldier. It seemed to him that this young Frank who had donned his armor at the battle had a power of magic in him. Had not the crusader escaped the slaughter and appeared miraculously at the gate of Antioch with a sword that was like to no other sword?