The Mask of Loki

by Roger Zelazny

  "Thank you, My Lord Saladin."

  He turned to his vizier, who waited at the tent flaps. "Mustafa. See to the lawgiving. Get the context of the matter from these two, and draft a decree of jihad against Reynald de Chatillon, who styles himself Prince of Antioch. It shall be an obligation upon all the faithful to remove him from this land. Any Christian who would interfere is subject to the same destruction also, despite any past promises and all protections of custom and guest rite."

  "Yes, My Lord."

  * * *

  "The whole bazaar is buzzing with the news, sir." Thomas Amnet lifted his eyebrow at his Turcopole assistant but said nothing. His hands went on with the mixing, making precise wrist motions that brought the pestle down the side of the bowl and across its bottom, twisting the blunt end at the completion of each stroke. In time with this scraping and mashing, his other hand turned the mortar one-quarter round for every stroke of the pestle. And at every fortieth stroke he added, in order: a two-finger pinch of saltpeter, a thumb's width of crumbled nutmeg bark, and a single peppercorn.

  "It's to be a war to the death, they say. Lord Saladin has called forth all the faithful. Not only his own Egyptian Mamelukes, but the royal cavalry of Arabia, who fight as do you Franks—"

  "You're half-French yourself, Leo."

  "—we Franks, then. And he invites the Seljuk Turks and Abbasids to send their levies."

  "Big of him."

  "He's going to push all the French—all of us—out of the Holy Land for the insult Prince Reynald made to the Prophet's bones."

  "What about the Assassins? Are they allied with him?"

  Leo screwed up his face in disdain. "Come, Master Thomas! They are not fighters. Not really. They're just a sect."

  "And so not noble enough to take a hand in our whipping, eh?"

  "You can't fight them straight on, sir. That's all. They fight nasty, with knives and garrottes and such."

  "Sneak around in the dark? That sort of thing?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "No match for a direct calvary charge, then." Amnet went on with his grinding.

  The boy looked at him suspiciously. "Are you making fun of me, sir?"

  "I wouldn't think of it, Leo. What else does the bazaar say?"

  "That all the French will be gone from this side of the sea by midsummer."

  "It will take more than a few of General Saladin's horsemen to dislodge us, I think. No matter who is trying to help him."

  "They say he will raise a hundred thousand men, sir. With at least twelve thousand mounted knights to lead them into battle."

  The broad side of the pestle caught on the upper lip of the bowl and missed the stroke. Amnet had to double-chop at it to bring his hands up to the rhythm again.

  He knew the resources that the Order of Temple might raise in fighting men and allies, and he could guess at what the Order of the Hospital might have at call. The Christian duchies and fiefdoms throughout Outremer might also be commanded, bullied, or bought out to muster their own levies... And still the total would not equal a fifth of the force Saladin proposed to lead.

  "You hear wild tales in the bazaar, Leo."

  "I know that, Master Thomas. What is it you are mixing?"

  "A tonic for you, my boy, to cure your curiosity."

  The young Turcopole sniffed it. "Yegh!"

  * * *

  It pleased King Guy to see Reynald de Chatillon sweat. For once.

  The man had been admitted to the audience chamber on a dead run, and his boots had nearly slipped from under him on the polished floor as he tried to halt at the foot of the dais. His knees were trembling, his tunic askew on his body, the old ready smile gone from his lips. Reynald was in a panic. For once.

  How delicious it was, to see a man who thought himself the better of all around him—even of kings!—brought to a state of stumbling, fidgeting, gnawing terror.

  "My Lord Guy!" Reynald's voice even quavered. "The Saracens assemble against me!"

  Guy de Lusignan waited a judicious moment before answering.

  "They fight against us all, Reynald. Every day, every one of them that can draw breath or lift a weapon seeks the blood of every Frenchman in Outremer. Why should you think that you have been singled out?"

  "There is a decree, from Saladin himself, naming me for some supposed blasphemy. They want a holy war against me!"

  "And have you blasphemed, Reynald?" Guy was enjoying himself too much.

  "Never against Our Lord and Saviour, Sire!"

  "A model Christian, are you?"

  "I defend the faith with my words as well as my weapons. I cannot think what occasion General Saladin may find so offensive." Reynald made an elaborate shrug—a gesture that ran strangely counter to his former hysteria. "There may well be some time or other when I scorned the infidel. I cannot remember them all." The man suddenly became subtle. "However, a blow launched at me in Antioch is a blow to all who hold station here in the Holy Land. Even to a king..."

  "I have read this decree." Guy managed to produce a yawn, against his growing excitement. "It specifically states that any Christian who would shelter or support you is likewise subject to expulsion. If we were to surrender you to Saladin..."

  "Surely what my Lord means to suggest is that if any king were to surrender his best subject and most loyal supporter to the Saracen, he would be derided throughout France as a knave and a scoundrel, placed under a papal interdiction, and possibly even opposed in arms by such of his countrymen as remembered their oaths of fealty to a much wronged minister of the court."

  "Ah—well put, Prince Reynald."

  "But a king who took up this hastily thrown gauntlet, who protected and supported a man who has bound his life and destiny to the cause of that king's crown—why, such a king would easily earn the title 'Champion of the Cross' and be remembered throughout all of Christendom, from the steppes beyond Hungary to the seas west of Ireland. Such a king would live forever in the people's hearts."

  Guy floated for a moment on this vision of universal honor and gratitude. And then a thought occurred.

  "Have you heard of the army Saladin is raising in this venture? A body of more than ten thousand Saracen knights. One hundred thousand trained yeomen marching at their heels."

  "Rumor grants him a thousand for the ten he will eventually recruit," Reynald sneered. Gone entirely was the trembling craven, now that he had the Kingdom of Jerusalem under his hand.

  Guy felt less better about this turn in the audience. "He has the full measure of men at his command."

  "Saracen knights? We've fought a hundred like them. Light bows and dainty swords. Mail that cuts like lace. Helms and breastplates that you could punch through with your dagger—delicate work in enamel and gold leaf, to be sure, but nothing a good Norman, or even a knight of Languedoc, might hesitate to cleave asunder. Most of them fight in linen robes with their hair twisted up in turbans. Shake a sword at them and they'll race for the hills. Bring them on by the tens of thousands then, and let them trample over themselves."

  "I have not enough men to oppose so great an army."

  "The Templars? The Hospitallers? They are yours to command. My own landholders at Antioch will fight for me, of course. Every Frenchman—most of the Anglais, too—who have come into this land can wield a sword, or once knew how. We can raise a few ten thousands ourselves, My Lord. That should be an elegant sufficiency."

  "Only if I strip every other man from the walls here at Jerusalem, and do the same with every town and citadel that we hold from Gaza up to Aleppo. We might command twenty thousand mounted knights, and half that again in yeoman afoot."

  "There! You see, Sire? Well have the upper hand in this."

  "But that would leave our strongholds open to attack! Failing a decisive victory, we might have no place whence we might return and bind our wounds."

  "And—with the force that Saladin is supposed to be raising—who do you think might be left to attac
k our strongholds? We'll be chasing them across the countryside, won't we? No time to stop and lay siege to a high tower or a good strong wall. Cheer up, My Lord. We'll have the mastery of this from the time you issue your decree calling up the Orders."

  "Do you think so?"

  "Of course. Have I not said so?"

  "You will go then to Antioch and call up your own levies. You will take every man from your own walls, since the land will be so safe."

  "My Lord..."

  "That's a command, by the way."

  The old, cruel smile returned to Reynald's mouth. "I must obey, then." He bowed low, with his old style and backed toward the doors at the end of the audience chamber.

  Guy wondered if Reynald would actually do it.

  Guy wondered if he himself would actually strip his own walls to defend the man... But then, "Champion of the Cross"... It had a good sound to it.

  * * *

  "Up again, Thomas!"

  For the fortieth time in the past hour, Thomas Amnet raised the iron broadsword above his head and went on guard.

  The blade was barbarous—far heavier than a sword of refined steel, and a good six inches longer than any warrior his size would have had to swing. The weight of it and the ungainly balance tired his arms, so that the muscles screamed in agony as he kept the point level and twelve inches above his eyes. That was the whole reason for wielding such a blade: Amnet was worked hard at the weekly practice.

  No matter the high station a Knight of the Temple might attain—diplomat in service to king or pope, dabbler in numbers in support of the Order's banking schemes, healer with herbs or, as Amnet, reader of omens—he still belonged to a warrior order and must keep up his skill at arms.

  Sir Bror, who opposed Thomas Amnet in the courtyard of the Keep of Jerusalem, could claim no such unworldly attainments. A man of neither subtle speech nor soaring intellect, he was still a courageous fighter who, to hear him tell it, had once withstood a charge of fifty Saracen cavalry. He had cut off the heads of the three riding in the lead with one swing of his sword—and cut three more on the backswing, thereby crippling their attack and sending the rest into confusion.

  Bror made his attack this time straight in, lunging with his whole body length. His lighter steel sword extended the thrust by another seven hands, bringing the point within an inch of Amnet's throat before he could bring his own weapon down and around in a parry that carried Bror's sword off to his left. Amnet's point continued down and dug into the packed earth while, in the same movement, Bror whirled completely around and rethrust with his point over Thomas's hands, which had ended up crossed on his sword hilt.

  Amnet had not enough strength to lift his blade again, and Bror scored touche on his left breast.

  "Tired already?" Bror gibed.

  "You know it."

  Sir Bror pushed the point a half-inch home into the pectoral muscle, pricking the skin beneath Amnet's quilted practice tunic.

  "Hey!" Thomas yelled, rubbing the spot.

  "That's to remember me by. And to remember where your wrists should go." The warrior held his own sword, point down, in Amnet's clumsy grasp, then uncrossed his hands and raised the point easily. "Like this?"

  Amnet slowly uncrossed his own hands and took the better grip. "Yes, thank you. Like that."

  "Thomas!"

  The call came from the other side of the yard, at the foot of the donjon.

  "Thomas!"

  Gerard de Ridefort waited there with a delegation of Templars from the Order's various keeps scattered around the Holy Land. Amnet had noticed them arriving by fast horses, ones and twos, over the past day and a half.

  He saluted Sir Bror with the too-heavy sword and turned to the summons of the Grand Master.

  "Thomas Amnet shall advise us in this matter," he could hear Gerard telling the others as Amnet approached.

  "Advise you how, My Lord?" He wiped the sweat and grime from his forehead with the padded sleeve of his tunic. The other important Templars, refreshed now and dressed in their linens and silks, grimaced at this. Amnet smiled at them.

  "We have received the summons," the Grand Master said.

  "From King Guy," Amnet filled in. "To join him in contesting this jihad that Saladin proposes."

  "Why, yes!" Gerard appeared flustered. The others about him muttered and seemed amazed.

  It was a trick Thomas had long ago learned: by using his wits to seek out and identify the main vein of an affair, he could usually anticipate the context, if not the argument, of a message before its herald had reined in his horse at the gate, let alone been presented before the Grand Master. In this case, Amnet could even guess the herald's arguments, knowing the weaknesses of King Guy and the motives of Reynald de Chatillon as he did.

  "The king commands us to raise a force of seven thousand knights," Gerard said, "supported by a like number of yeomen and servants. We are to ride north, to—"

  "To the Kerak of Moab," Amnet supplied. "What a daring fool is Saladin!"

  Gerard paused, and a smile came to his lips. "How did you know?"

  "The Kerak is Reynald de Chatillon's stronghold. Saladin might attack at Antioch, the prince's seat, which would surely be an easier place to lay siege. Saladin would have many of his coreligionists—and thus potential allies—within its walls. Instead, he proceeds directly to the Kerak, which is totally ours. And so would he have the surprise, because we could not, of course, be expecting so bold a move. Such audacity wins battles."

  "You heard this in the bazaar chatter, did you?"

  "No."

  "You have heard, then, from someone of Reynald's party?"

  "Not at all. Why do you suggest it?"

  "Because only today have I learned, by a most confidential messenger from the King, that Reynald has gone to the Kerak to direct the gathering of his forces."

  "And King Guy expects us to assemble on Reynald's behalf within those high—and narrow—walls?" Amnet proposed.

  "Now that he does not do." Gerard's small smile became broader, pleased at finding Thomas Amnet with a wrong answer. "We are to assemble our troops here and intercept the Saracen army as it gathers."

  "Ah!"

  "And for you I have a special mission."

  "What may that be, My Lord?" Amnet tried to sound humble.

  "The Hospitallers have rejected King Guy's summons. They contend that their allegiance is to His Holiness in Rome, and that they can be commanded by no other sovereign."

  "That seems reasonable."

  "Yes, and—what did you say?" Gerard's jaw dropped. The other Templars, until now ignored on the donjon steps, muttered among themselves at Amnet's unfavorable response.

  "May I suggest, My Lord, that Prince Reynald has sealed his own fate with his own lips," Amnet said quietly. "You can save us all a deal of bloodshed: let Saladin have him. If you would preserve the rule of Christendom in this land, let Saladin have him."

  The Grand Master's face purpled. "You speak rashly, Thomas." He paused as a new thought crossed his mind. "Did you see this in the light of—" Gerard glanced sideways at the other Templars gathered around him"—of our friend?"

  "No, My Lord. The... source does not make itself clear on this issue. I fear, indeed, that I may have lost the mastery of it. I do speak rashly, but it is a speech that might come from the wit and the mouth of any soldier here. We are surely outnumbered by the Saracens. This decree from General Saladin applies only to Reynald, his household, and any Christian who would fight for him. Thus, the way to survival is the—"

  "Enough, Thomas. In this matter of policy, we require your obedience, not your opinions."

  "I am yours to command, My Lord." Amnet bowed low, with his eyes averted.

  "That is better—more comely in a knight under orders. But your directness puts me in a difficulty: I had thought to send you as emissary to Grand Master Roger of the Hospital. You would have entreated him most earnestly to reconsider his refusal and join K
ing Guy. However, since you clearly share the Hospitallers' dissensions, I do not see how you could conduct this embassy. Perhaps another..."

  "My Lord!" Amnet protested. "You know my tongue and my wits are yours to direct. If you would have me hold counsel with Roger, then I shall do so and present your arguments as ably as you might present them yourself."

  "Do you mean that?"

  "As a knight of the cross and a Christian, I will plead with Roger in the Prince of Antioch's cause."

  "In the King's cause, Thomas," the Grand Master chided.

  "For all of our sakes, then."

  * * *

  "And how will you get him to do that, Master?" Leo, stuck on a slow mare that was no match for the old warhorse Amnet was riding, clucked to his mount and dug in his heels. The mare laid back her ears and cantered a few steps, then settled once more into her sedate walk. Leo slumped in his saddle and resigned himself to trailing in his master's dust all the way to Jaffa.

  "I will present the arguments that my reason, and the inspiration from God, can offer my tongue."

  "But the Hospitallers will still refuse."

  "And then my mission shall be discharged, and I will ride back to Jerusalem."

  "Having made the trip for nothing."

  "No. Having made the trip at the order of my liege lord."

  "For nothing."

  "For... oh, have it your way. For nothing. But you shall learn, Leo—and sooner rather than later if you aspire to a military life—that the orders of your lord are more important than your own time or inclinations. A soldier must serve without question, for that is how battles are won.

  "When your captain orders 'Wheel to the left', you do not peer in that direction first, decide whether you like the looks of the enemy you'd be facing, then go left or right as you please. You wheel your horse and take the consequences. How would a war proceed, do you think, if every knight picked his own battles and fought however and whenever he felt like?