Knights of the Cross da-2

by Tom Harper

  He kicked his horse, and rode into the mêlée. From the edge of the circle, I saw another knight spur after him.

  Adhemar looked down. ‘Demetrios.’

  ‘Your Grace . . .’ After so long in the cave, and now caught up in the consuming panic, even familiar faces looked strange to me. ‘Has . . . has Bohemond done this?’

  Adhemar gave a grim nod. ‘He believed that too many pilgrims were hiding themselves from battle. He set the fire to smoke them out, but I fear he has merely opened the city to Kerbogha.’

  ‘Has Kerbogha broken through?’

  ‘I do not know. The last I heard was that we still withstood him.’

  Amid all the turmoil I did not hear the sound of feet approaching. Suddenly a dark figure had thrown himself between me and the bishop, was clutching the horse’s bridle and staring imploringly at Adhemar. He swayed from side to side, his free arm swinging wildly, and as his face turned towards the firelight I saw its features clearly. A crooked nose, and a host of pox scars. Peter Bartholomew.

  ‘Your Grace,’ he shrieked. ‘What has this liar told you?’

  Without wasting a word, Adhemar swivelled his sword and slapped the blade hard against the wretch’s shoulders. Bartholomew screamed and fell back, but did not let go his grasp of the bridle.

  ‘Blessed are you when men persecute and revile you,’ he gasped. ‘Your Grace, the Lord has granted me a vision. You must hear it – by Christ you must hear it, before this Greek poisons you against me.’

  The earth shuddered under our feet as a colonnade on the far side of the square crashed down on itself. Thick pillars toppled over and shattered on the ground; a cloud of ash and sparks erupted. Through it, set in an alcove on the rear wall, I saw the scorched face of an ancient statue staring down impassively on the destruction. A few men whose courage and order remained ran towards the blaze, carrying buckets and hurling water on the flames. The statue vanished in a steaming mist.

  I looked back at the bishop. Peter Bartholomew was still at his side, still clinging to the bridle and ranting. Perhaps he feared that I was about to betray his heresy and wanted to denounce me first, but my only concern was to find my friends in all the fire and riot. I did not say farewell to Adhemar, did not even look at him, but threw myself back into the crowd and plunged on. There was little merit in trying to strike my own path, for no man could have imposed himself on the mob’s surging course. Instead, like a drowned man, I let it draw me effortlessly along, away from the mountain, down towards the walls and the river.

  It did not take long to reach the walls: the road was wide, and the crowd inexorable. At the bridge a troop of Norman knights stood with brandished spears, stabbing back any who approached the barred gates, but they were little use. Peasants and knights swarmed up the steps to the walls above. Where the crowds were too thick, makeshift ladders had been leaned against the rampart, sagging under the weight pressed onto them. I remembered the scaling ladder that had snapped on the night we took the city, and chose the stairs. Looking up at the hordes clustered on the walls, it seemed impossible that there could be room for any others, yet still we pressed on up the steps. The city dropped away beneath me; when I turned my head at a bend in the stairwell I could see the roofs and domes stretching back to the mountain. Even in my shattered state I trembled, for here the full appetite of the fire was evident. It seemed that half of Antioch must be ablaze. Fat gouts of smoke rose over the flames, lifting the cries of men and beasts to the heavens. If this continued, Kerbogha could watch our destruction from the citadel on the summit, then ride down to pick over the ashes of our army in triumph.

  Half-blinded by the flames and deafened by the noise, I reached the rampart. It was broad enough that in normal times four men could easily have marched abreast, yet now the space between the towers was choked with humanity. Still they surged forward, pushing into the teeth of the battlements where ropes dropped into the darkness on the far side of the wall. Some were the stout hawsers that we used for the siege engines; others were more rudimentary, bridles and tunics and cloth torn from tents hurriedly knotted together. The pilgrims clambered over each other, vying to snatch the hastily devised ropes and slide down out of the city. Such was the unrelenting pressure of crowding bodies that many were tipped from their perches before they had a hold.

  I turned away. That was not the path for me. Along the walls to my right the crowds thinned, and though at first I had to batter my way across their flow my route gradually eased as I moved further from the gate. A few hundred yards away, indeed, the rampart was almost deserted: I passed through deserted watchtowers and met not a single challenge. So it was that when I did hear voices, from beyond a door ahead of me, I was well warned.

  I no longer believed that I had any ally in that city save the Varangians, and I was half a mile or more from their camp. I slowed my pace and edged my way towards the guardroom door.

  ‘You must sail as soon as you reach the harbour,’ I heard from the other side. ‘Allow no delay. It will not be long before Kerbogha strikes at Saint Simeon to bar us from the sea, and you must be away before that.’

  A second man mumbled a reply, but I did not heed it. From the moment I had heard the first voice, an icy fear had frozen me still. I knew it, its commanding tones and brusque arrogance. He had set the city alight to roust out the feeble and fearful because he had no men; now it seemed that he was sending his followers away. What was Bohemond doing?

  ‘Order the vessel’s master to make for Tarsus – you have enough gold to persuade him?’ I heard the chink of coin. ‘Good. Cross through the Cilician Gates, and seek out the Greek king Alexios in Anatolia. My last report was that he was campaigning at the lakes, near Philomelium, though he may have moved since. He should not be hard to find.’

  ‘They will call me a coward.’ I realised that the second voice was also familiar to me, though I could not name its owner.

  ‘You will say that you had no choice. You will tell the king that you left Antioch only so that the Lord might preserve your sword arm to kill the Ishmaelites. That Kerbogha stood in the gates when you left, and that you heard the doom of our army as you fled. Make sure that the Greek understands there is no merit in coming to our aid – that the only course open to him is to retreat to his palaces.’

  ‘I will tell him,’ said the second man doubtfully. ‘It will be all too easy to persuade him, for our doom is nearer than you admit. The city burns, the army flees – and you would have me delay the only man who could rescue us? I will do as you ask, but it is madness.’

  ‘A man may risk all on the throw of a single die. If he loses, they call it madness. But if he wins, William, suddenly it is greatness. When my father challenged the decadent might of the Greeks, when he landed his army on the shores of Illyria, he burned his baggage and scuttled his fleet so that not one man could succumb to cowardice. It is the same now. I will win this city myself, or not at all. Twice I have been denied the kingdoms which were mine by right – it will not happen a third time.’

  There was a pause; perhaps they whispered, or embraced, or stood in silence. At length Bohemond said: ‘God go with you, William.’

  ‘Better He stays here. You have more need of Him.’

  I heard the clinking of armour and the scrape of boots on stone, followed by the creak of a rope stretching taut. Then nothing. And then, quite suddenly, the sharp rap of footsteps approaching the door. It swung in so quickly that the hinges did not even squeak, and I barely had time to leap back into the shadow behind it. I crouched low, hoping that Bohemond had not heard me.

  I need not have worried. He stepped straight past my hiding place, and a few of his long strides carried him away. He disappeared into the next tower and was gone.

  I waited a few minutes for him to be well away, listening for any other companions he might have left behind. But there were none. I eased out onto the rampart, into the blue twilight. A thick rope was secured onto the battlements, dropping down to the dry meadow in front o
f the walls, but I did not examine it. I had eavesdropped enough to know who had descended it: William of Grantmesnil, Bohemond’s piggish brother-in-law. Doubtless others would discover it soon. I could scarcely comprehend the treacherous ambition of Bohemond’s plot, but this was not the time to wonder at it. I hurried away.

  I knew that I had reached the right tower when I found the door barred. I hammered on it with my fist, though there was little enough strength left in that, and shouted in Greek for them to let me in.

  They must have been on their guard, for they challenged me almost immediately. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘Demetrios.’

  I heard the heavy clatter of beams being thrown aside. The door swung open, though its frame was filled almost immediately by the huge bulk of the man standing within. Behind him I could see a cluster of Varangians staring in amazement, the turbaned head of Mushid the swordsmith, and Anna, her arms crossed and her eyes crimson.

  ‘Fool,’ said Sigurd. ‘We thought you had died thrice over.’

  I stumbled forward and slumped against his chest, oblivious to the rough touch of the iron mail. His bear arms closed around me, swaddling me in darkness.

  κ η

  They let me sleep for an hour – they could not have stopped me, for the moment Sigurd let me go I sprawled exhausted onto the stone floor. Then they roused me to demand answers. We made a fire on the top of the tower, for after so long in dark caves I craved light and air, and Sigurd roasted a small cube of meat on the end of a spear.

  ‘Horseflesh,’ he explained. ‘I found a Norman who had slaughtered his mount and was selling it, a bezant a portion.’

  ‘He will regret that when Kerbogha comes.’

  ‘He has probably already fled – or died. Have you seen what Bohemond did to the city?’

  Sigurd waved an arm to the south-east. From our height, the devastation of that quarter of Antioch was easily visible. The blaze no longer raged, for the wind had turned the flames back towards the mountain where they had already devoured all there was to consume. Yet its embers still glowed red, winking in the night like a carpet of light, as though a bucket of live coals had been tipped out across the city.

  ‘I have seen what Bohemond did,’ I said wearily. ‘I was there.’

  ‘So was I.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I was looking for you.’ Sigurd pulled the spear from the fire and held it towards me. I scorched my fingers as I slid off the dripping meat, and shook it in the air to cool a little.

  ‘Sigurd has spent two days searching the city for you,’ Anna explained. She was sitting against the parapet at a little distance, unwilling to come too close to me.

  ‘I gave up when I saw the madness Bohemond had unleashed. I would not have found my own brother in that rout. And now, perhaps, you can tell me where you have been.’

  The meat had cooled in my hand; I popped it in my mouth, desperate to savour it after my long, unwanted fast. Too quickly, it was gone – and though I knew what it had cost Sigurd, and loved him for it, it only sparked a more ravenous hunger.

  ‘I went in search of Odard. I wanted to know . . .’ I paused. What had I wanted to know? ‘I wanted to know if he had killed the boy – Simon, his servant.’

  ‘Had he?’

  ‘I don’t know. I think so.’ I could barely remember. ‘His wits had deserted him – he gibbered without meaning. I – I killed him.’

  Anna leaned forward sharply. ‘What?’

  Without meeting her gaze I told how the Tafurs had made me fight Odard, how the dagger had plunged itself into his heart, how I had run until I could run no further, then been struck down by the robbers. ‘When I awoke, I was in a cave. I did not know it at first, but it was a lair of heretics.’

  ‘What heretics?’ Sigurd asked.

  ‘The heretics who carve their backs with crosses. Sarah, the woman who visited Drogo in his tent, she is their priestess.’ I shuddered, remembering the dark hours in their cave. ‘I saw their rituals; I heard their secrets – terrible lies which should not be repeated. They fed me artemisia to ease my pain, and bound me.’

  ‘Artemisia would have numbed your senses as much as your pain.’ The physician in Anna was quick to speak. ‘Doubtless they hoped to stupefy you.’

  Perhaps they had. Even to think on what Sarah had told me was like touching a scar. Was it the pain of error, though, or the stabbing fear of truth?

  ‘When the fires started they fled their cave. I escaped, found my way to the walls and came here.’

  There was silence.

  ‘What will you do about the heretics?’ Sigurd asked.

  ‘What can I do? I did not see their faces, save one. If I report them to the Frankish priests they will be burned alive.’

  ‘If you do not, their impiety may infest the whole army. God may abandon us.’ Sigurd had a soldier’s fear of affronting the deities, and an exhaustive knowledge of the ways in which they might take offence.

  Anna had less care for divine sensibilities. ‘God may abandon us?’ she echoed. ‘Look around you. He has abandoned us. The city burns, the army flees, and Kerbogha is at hand to deliver the killing blow. What does it matter if a rabble of Franks want to dispute the nature of the substance of the Trinity?’

  ‘This was not that sort of heresy,’ I said. ‘It was deeper. Darker.’

  Anna banged her fist on the stone beside her. ‘It does not matter, Demetrios! The ship founders, and all you care about is the set of the sail.’

  ‘If we are bound to die, it is important to die piously,’ I insisted.

  ‘Are we bound to die?’

  I looked out across the ravaged city again. It was not a quiet night: screaming and crashing and shouting still resounded in the darkness, punctuated by the occasional clash of steel. Who could guess the calamities they signalled, the battles raging unseen around the fragment of wall we sat on? For all I knew, we could be the last Christians left in the city.

  ‘I do not know if we are doomed. All we can do is stay here as long as our defences stand, and see who comes to find us.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ Sigurd growled. ‘Feeble nonsense. If we are to die, we should die like men, taking our fight to the enemy. When I come to see my ancestors, I will not have them scorn me as a coward.’

  ‘And what will you do if they condemn you for rushing too fast to meet them?’ Anna demanded. ‘You will not be able to come back.’

  ‘You fear to die too soon. I only fear to die badly.’

  ‘Enough!’ I lifted my hand to still them, and in the pause I heard shouts from below. I scrambled to my feet and looked down through one of the embrasures. Two horses stood patiently in front of the tower door; I could not identify their riders, for both wore cloaks even though the night was hot. One leaned forward to speak with our guard, and whatever he said must have satisfied the Varangian for he took the horses’ bridles and tethered them to a ring in the wall, then ushered the men into the tower. The slap of footsteps rose from the stairwell behind me, sounding ever louder, until a cowled head popped up through the opening. It looked around, blinking in the firelight, then fixed on me.

  ‘Demetrios. I hoped to find you here.’

  The man’s hands came up and pulled the hood back from his face. He wore neither hat nor helmet beneath it: his grey hair was matted and tousled. At his neck, behind the beard, I saw the gleam of mail. Clearly he had not changed his clothing since we had met by the palace.

  ‘Are there not more important matters in Antioch to attend, your Grace?’

  Adhemar climbed out of the stairwell and, glancing at me for permission, seated himself against the wall between me and Sigurd. His companion sat beside him. He did not pull back his hood, and Adhemar did not name him.

  ‘What news of the city?’ Anna’s impatience swept her manners aside. ‘Has it fallen?’

  Adhemar shook his head slowly. The flames reflected on his face dug out every crevice and wrinkle, the deep pits around his eyes: he seemed immeasurably old.
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  ‘We hold it, praise God. We have tried Him sorely.’

  ‘Bohemond tries God like none save the Devil,’ added Adhemar’s companion, with a rasping anger that I recognised immediately as Count Raymond’s. ‘And for now it earns him the Devil’s luck.’

  ‘How many men were lost tonight?’ I asked.

  ‘Who knows? Those who burned to death in the flames will never be found; those who escaped will never be numbered, unless Kerbogha finds them and sends trophies of their bodies. But I fear that Bohemond has lost more through the fire than he has gained.’

  ‘And those who do remain have lost what hope they had,’ said Raymond savagely. His hood had slipped back a little, and I could see the glint of his single eye staring at me. ‘They had little enough before; now there is nothing. In a rout, men become like cattle and even the bravest falters. If their miseries are inflicted by their own captain, what confidence can they have?’

  ‘Bishop Adhemar, Count Raymond – you have not come here, so late on this night of fire and death, to seek commiseration in our shared peril. Why have you come?’

  My blunt speaking silenced them for a moment. Raymond hunched his legs to his chest and fiddled with the straps of his boots, while Adhemar stroked a finger over his cheek and stared at the fire. At length, speaking carefully, he said, ‘It concerns a pilgrim, a Provençal named Peter Bartholomew.’

  There was a speculative note in his voice which implied that we had entered a negotiation, that he sought to barter for information. I tried to hide my surprise. Bartholomew had turned up so often: in the cathedral, in the heretics’ cave, in the tumult by the palace – why not also in the Bishop’s cares?