by Tony Roberts
The assassin grunted. He had bad breath. Too many hemp sessions. Casca could smell the faint aroma. He was like an eel. Muscular, tough. He writhed, trying to reach a secondary weapon. Casca’s sword had been knocked out of his hand in the fall. Giselle was trying to pull out from the battling duo but was stuck.
Casca held on tight to his enemy. Their foreheads were touching. Casca pushed up, preventing the man from butting him. He couldn’t get proper purchase because Giselle was underneath him. Gritting his teeth Casca rolled, left, right, left, right. Finally he managed to roll down Giselle’s legs and he felt her pull away.
The assassin broke free and struck the chest, but now he reached for his dagger. Casca scrambled back and crashed into a rug hanging up by the clothes chest. He had left a surprise here and had instinctively gone for it. The assassin rose, dagger in hand. “Now you will suffer!” he hissed.
Casca grabbed the stock of the crossbow he’d left behind the rug, swung it round and squeezed the trigger. The bolt struck the man in the right eye. The man staggered back, dropping his knife, and fell heavily.
“Mehmet – light!” he snapped, breathing heavily.
Giselle was sobbing close by. Casca told her it was over and painfully got to his feet. He must have been struck hard during the fight but couldn’t recall when. Mehmet lit a lamp and entered the chamber. “By the Prophet!” he exclaimed.
Giselle clutched hold of Casca, burying her head into his chest. Casca stood there, crossbow hanging down limply. One man lay on his back, eyes wide open, blood soaking the front of his dark burnoose. A second sat slumped with his back to the chest, a bolt sticking out of his eye. Blood dripped onto his lap.
“There’s a third out there,” Casca jerked his head in the direction of the slashed screen. Mehmet stepped over to the ruined screen and peered through. He confirmed that the third was dead.
They heard the sound of a wagon rolling away close by. “Stop him!” Casca snapped.
Mehmet vanished, sword at the ready. Giselle shuddered and stayed buried in Casca’s chest. “It’s finished,” he said softly. “They’re dead.”
“Who were they?” she asked, her voice muffled.
“Bad men. Turks.” He decided not to elaborate; it might make things complicated. “They might have been after the relic.” A lie, the last statement, but convenient enough to make it sound convincing.
“Oh!” she said, tearing herself away. “Is it safe?” She hunted for it amongst her possessions. Casca took advantage of being free by starting to drag the corpses towards the entrance. He’d gotten halfway there with the first when Mehmet returned, grappling with a struggling figure.
“Thought you would be pleased to speak to this dog rather than me dispatch him to eternal suffering. I took him from a cart that was moving towards the edge of camp. There are many outside wishing to know what has happened; the screams woke them.”
“Damn.” Casca waved to Giselle. “Giselle, go outside and reassure them that the Turks who tried to kill us are dead. We are unharmed.”
The woman looked at the prone figure, splayed helplessly on the mat, Mehmet’s foot planted firmly in the spot between the shoulder blades. “And him?”
“Don’t mention him,” Casca said, noting the unkempt hair, long beard and thin, hooked fingers trying to gain some sort of purchase, all to no avail. “I wish to speak to this man alone. Mehmet, go help Giselle reassure the people outside.”
“But these are not Turks,” he said, waving at the bodies. “They are Persian.”
Interesting. Casca nodded. “Agreed, but to these people all Muslims are Turks. Just like to you all Europeans are Franks.”
“Ah, so the veils of ignorance are lifted from my eyes,” Mehmet said with a grin. He followed Giselle out, leaving an indignant Peter Bartholomew to get to his feet. Casca picked up another sword, a longer one, and pressed it into the priest’s throat.
Bartholomew stepped back, his eyes wide, but Casca grabbed him by the robe and held him, the tip of the sword touching his throat. “So you don’t misunderstand me, Bartholomew, I’d like nothing more at this moment than to slide this length of steel through your scrawny neck. Any reason why I should not?”
“I’m a holy man!” he protested.
“You’re a holy pain in the ass. Talk.”
“What about?”
“Oh, I don’t know. What about the weather?” Casca’s face twisted into a snarl of rage. “What the fuck do you think? What now that your plan has failed?”
“Uh…. I suspect there will be others sent. Many more.”
“And you? What will happen to you? If I know your sick organization well enough, I bet they’ll ask for you to report personally and that the next thing is you’ll be thrown from the ramparts of the castle and end up where I did. Only you won’t live. They don’t tolerate failure.”
“Yes – but I shall accept my fate. We all know we must serve the Lamb unto death.”
“That’s what’s bothering me. I could kill you but it’d make no difference. I would like to make a deal with you.”
Bartholomew looked amazed. “A deal? With the antiChrist?” he chuckled. “Not a chance.”
Casca thought furiously. He didn’t want legions of maniacs descending on him. He took the sword away from the priest’s throat. “What if I told you something that would undermine your sect’s worship these past five hundred years or more?”
“What? How? I would not believe the word of Longinus! You are the serpent in the Garden of Eden.”
“And you’re the rotten apple. What if I said that the Spear is not in your lot’s hands but in Antioch. I put it there five centuries ago.”
The priest said nothing. The tent flap opened and Mehmet stuck his head in. “Are you finished?”
“Just a couple of moments.”
Mehmet vanished. Casca looked at the inscrutable face of the priest. “Well?”
“You lie.”
“I do not. When I retrieved the Spear from Persia during the time I was forced to work for you sick bunch of bastards, I went through here, and swapped it. I’m not going to tell you where it is, but once we’re inside I will show you. Then you can decide whether I’m lying or not. Deal?”
“And why should I believe you, Longinus?”
“Because you will know that I did come through here with that Spear. Did you think I would go to the Brotherhood with the real one? The point is when your predecessors turned Ayesha into one of your mindless servants, I gave them a fake. All this time your sect has been worshipping a fake. Now you cannot take the risk that I may be lying, can you?”
Bartholomew ground his teeth together. “I shall think further on this, spawn of Satan. I shall let you know of my decision shortly. In the meantime you will let me go!”
“You’re free to go, pervert. Now stay away.”
Bartholomew left, casting one long hateful look at Casca. A few voices came to him, and a few moments later Mehmet and Giselle returned.
“You let him go? He was the leader!” Mehmet exclaimed.
“He has been told something by me which should stop any further attacks. If I had killed him we would have had many more.”
Mehmet grunted. “I shall assist in clearing these corpses in that case.”
Giselle shivered and stepped back as the dead were dragged outside. Casca noted the onlookers were still there in numbers, including William of Montpelier. That nobleman hadn’t quite forgotten Casca’s role in the fight outside Nicaea, and was kindly disposed towards him. He came stepping over, concern on his face. “I was told you had been attacked by these Turks. I trust nothing was broken and nobody harmed?”
“No, my lord,” Casca grinned, dropping the one with the crossbow bolt in his eye to the ground. “Only these three desert robbers. They clearly saw me as one worth robbing. A costly error.”
“Indeed. I congratulate you, and your servant,” he nodded towards Mehmet. “An odd choice of servant, if I may say so, Baron Stokeham.”
> “That is true, but he has served me faithfully and protected me and the Lady de Doumanche from these raiders. I believe that has earned my trust.”
“Harumph. Well, yes. But a Turk is a Turk. Your choice, though, Stokeham. Well done, again. If you need my assistance, just ask.”
“Likewise, Montpelier. Sleep well.”
“I shall.” The Frank moved off into the night.
Casca wiped his hands and looked at the three dead men, piled away from the tents. When daybreak came they would be removed to outside the camp. He hoped that his little talk with Bartholomew had worked. He didn’t like the prospect of whole groups of Brotherhood members descending on him. Not even he would be able to fight them off.
It all depended on what Bartholomew now decided.
CHAPTER TWENTY
The siege went on. Nothing seemed to get done. Food ran short and tempers frayed. Accusations and arguments ran back and forth. Casca refused to attend the councils eventually as there seemed nothing constructive going on and Bohemond was determined to lay the blame for every mishap on the laps of Tatikus and Casca – and the emperor.
Adhemar used his influence to secure a supply deal with Cyprus which was still part of the Empire. It kept starvation at bay for a while, and raiding parties ranged far and wide trying to find new sources of food for the army. Many deserted and returned by sea to Constantinople or overland, braving the elements and conditions and the enemy, but it was safer overland now that Alexius had regained much of the south in the wake of the Crusader’s march.
What wasn’t good news was that the Turkish prince Kitbugha was mobilizing in Mosul and gathering a huge army under his banners. Once he got his act together it was certain he and his men would come to rescue of Antioch which, to be honest, Casca mused, wasn’t apparently suffering that much. Too many routes in and out were unguarded, and to alleviate boredom the lords decided to build a few towers scattered around the walls to cut off any routes the defenders may be using.
More interesting news came from the east. Tancred and Baldwin had not rejoined the main army, each going their separate ways, and Baldwin had taken the city of Edessa. Edessa had been garrisoned by the Christian Armenians but they had been under threat from the Turks. Now Baldwin had it and was turning it into a Crusader principality.
The news had all the other lords buzzing with excitement. Lands were ripe for the taking. Tatikus objected, stating Edessa was the emperor’s and it should be handed over to him, whereupon Bohemond had shouted that the emperor should come and take it if he thought that it was his. It was now clear that the oaths taken in Constantinople were not going to be followed. In disgust and realizing he no longer had any influence on matters, Tatikus left with his imperial corps one night and marched back the way he’d come, intent on rejoining Alexius who was now based in Philomelium, not too far from Iconium. Casca guessed he also may wish to return to Constantinople to see John, Irene’s son, who was Tatikus’ spitting image. Good luck to him.
Casca knew that Alexius did not have the manpower to press his claim and it was best to let the Crusaders quarrel amongst themselves. Raymond and Bohemond clearly hated one another and vied to gain the respect of the other lords, each wanting to gain overall command of the Crusade, but the two Roberts, Godfrey and Hugh refused to be swayed. Stephen of Blois kept away from the arguments, spending much of his time writing to his wife.
Casca got a message from Bartholomew. It appeared that the Brotherhood man had come to the conclusion that Casca’s claim about the Spear had to be checked out first, and had advised Casca that once Antioch fell and they were inside, they would go to the place of the Spear’s concealment and allow the priest to see for himself whether the Spear was there or not, and if so whether it was genuine or just another tale.
He had also warned Casca not to try to desert, as Bartholomew had now found out about the relic – God alone knew how – and would let slip the fact to Godfrey’s priests. In no time they would descend upon the relic and destroy it to stop Syagrius ever becoming a saint. Someone in Raymond’s or Adhemar’s entourage clearly had a big mouth.
The food situation had gotten so bad over the winter that most of their supplies were now coming from imperial-held Cyprus. Ships sailed to a port close by which was held by the Crusaders, and escorted the short distance to camp. Raymond and Bohemond organized the escort but eyes within Antioch saw this as a chance to both deliver a blow to the besiegers’ morale, and to deny them much needed food and supplies.
Casca was taking his turn as escort. Mehmet was guarding the tent in camp, which gave Casca some peace of mind while he was away. He had no wish to have Bartholomew sniffing around for the relic, neither did he trust the priest to have kept silent about it. He suspected that at any time he may whisper to one of the fanatics amongst Godfrey’s followers the details and before he knew it the tent would be invaded and all the contents smashed to pieces. He’d seen in the past just what religious fanaticism did to people.
The port of St. Symeon wasn’t that spectacular. It had a small harbor and a collection of houses huddled in a semi-circular cove that rose sharply from the waterfront. A single road wound up to the plateau that overlooked the sea and then ran east to Antioch the seven miles across undulating ground with high mountains to the north.
Casca led the vanguard. As a minor noble it was handed to him as part of his duty. The rearguard was given to another nobleman, someone in Bohemond’s entourage, who studiously ignored Casca, while the main body and the supplies was under the Count of Foix, a large, bombastic man from the Pyrenees who believed he was saving all of humanity from the ravages of heresy. Accordingly there was little communication between all three separate parts of the supply train.
Casca had around a hundred men to command. They were Raymond’s followers and had been instructed to follow Casca’s orders. Some of them didn’t care much for that, seeing his outfit as foreign and therefore suspect, but others were happy to be under his orders, having seen him fight at both Nicaea and Dorylaeum.
They were about halfway to Antioch when the ambush came. Turks suddenly sprang up from concealment along the road and charged the baggage. Casca swung round in his saddle – a horse having been supplied him by Raymond personally – and roared to his men to form a defensive square. He had no idea whether the attack would come at him too.
They swung round and formed a hollow square, spears bristling in all directions. Casca, higher than the rest, watched as the enemy crashed into the baggage train. He turned to a messenger. “Here, take the horse. Go to the camp and alert Raymond – tell him we’re under attack!”
The messenger saluted, grabbed the reins as Casca dismounted and climbed into the saddle. Casca grabbed his sword from the saddle scabbard and stepped aside. Back to fighting on foot. Better. The messenger galloped off, leaving the soldiers all looking at Casca expectantly. A hundred yards away the baggage was being captured, the soldiers scattering in panic from the sudden attack. The rearguard was not in sight. Perhaps they were on their way to help.
“Shields!” Casca snapped. The Turks, a mixture of mounted archers and spear-wielding foot soldiers, were looting the abandoned supply wagons. They far outnumbered Casca’s small detachment. As far as the eternal mercenary was concerned, it was best they stayed away from the superior numbers of the enemy until reinforcements arrived. “Back away, up the hill,” he ordered, looking behind him.
The soldiers looked dismayed. One of the sergeants stepped up to him. “But sire, we must attack!”
“And die? Sergeant, I’ve sent a messenger to get Lords Bohemond and Raymond here with reinforcements. When they arrive we will attack, but not until then. We keep our distance.”
Some of the survivors from the main baggage section were running in their direction, pursued by a few Turks. Casca snapped to the few crossbowmen he had. They loaded up and took aim. They watched as two soldiers came running for them, wild-eyed and panic-stricken, and a mounted Turk came for them, curved sword ra
ised high.
Casca nodded and the crossbowman next to him loosed off. The bolt took the Turk in the chest and he was sent pitching from his horse, arms out flung, face screwed up in agony. The two soldiers reached the safety of the spearmen and fell to the ground, panting.
The other Turks wheeled, not wishing to get mixed up in a fight with prepared Franks. They preferred to cut down fleeing men or loot baggage trains.
“Sire, Lord Foix is a prisoner. They hit us without warning!” one of the survivors breathed out fearfully.
“They’ll want him for ransom,” Casca said. He looked on as the Turks took control of the oxen that pulled the supply wagons. “Up the hill, now. They’re coming this way.”
The men reluctantly moved from the road and clambered up the stony slope of the hill. The Turks sent out mounted riders ahead, loosing off missiles. It was more of an encouragement to clear the way rather than a deliberate attack. A few arrows came their way but the soldiers got far enough from the road for the Turks to leave them alone. At the height they were they could see the rearguard following cautiously, picking their way through the remnants of the short skirmish on the road. Most of the baggage guard were alive and came out of hiding, shamefully.
Casca could see ahead a number of men massing on the road before the road forked. To the left it ran to the camp, while ahead it ran to Antioch’s Gate of St. George. “Right, follow me down. Be ready for a fight!”
The men cheered. Now was the chance they had to get to grips with the hated enemy. As they made their way down onto the road in the wake of the Turks, the rearguard now belatedly arrived, under the command of a Baron Roger Foucard. Foucard strutted up to Casca. “My command, hand over your men to me.”
“No way,” Casca replied, facing the man. “These are my men and I’m not letting you have them.”