by Tony Roberts
“We shall see about that,” he stuck his face in Casca’s. “My lord, Bohemond, shall order you to do so.”
“He can appeal to God for all I care. I bested him in a fight, so there’s no way he’ll make me do anything. Besides, I have Count Raymond as my overlord and he certainly will not wish for any rude Sicilian dog-fucker taking over command of his men. Now get out of my face or I’ll break it.”
Foucard sneered but backed off. Something in the scarred man’s eyes told him to be wary. “I shall keep my men apart from yours then. You show us how it is done. Attack the Muslims. Show us all how courageous and fantastic you are!”
“Up yours.” Casca moved off, fuming. Dumb asshole. He ordered his men into three lines across the road. Spears in front, crossbows at the rear and the swordsmen in the middle. Once they were ready, they marched off towards the Turks who were now halted. Raymond and Bohemond had arrived and were advancing. The Turks were fanning out, trying to use the terrain to shoot arrows onto the advancing Crusaders. Gathering the survivors of the baggage train to him, Casca now had around two hundred men. Enough to hit the enemy in the rear.
The terrain had flattened out at the point the Turks had halted. They were now trying to push on and get to the gate before the food was re-taken. There was a tremendous amount of noise coming from ahead and Casca urged his men to hurry. The rearguard of the Turks now turned, sensing the danger. These were spearmen, the foot soldiers, the second-rate men used for garrison duty.
Casca realized the enemy was there for the taking. Yelling the attack, he drew his sword and ran alongside his men, the call of battle pulling him in. The spearmen before him paled in fear; these westerners were better armed and more protected than them, and the prospect of falling in battle didn’t appeal much to them, no matter how many times they were told they would go to paradise should they die against the infidel.
Casca got some space for himself by shoving a man to one side and came at the first man ahead of him, a bearded man with a dirty off-white turban and a blue cloth robe than went down to his calves. He had an oblong wooden shield. Casca slashed at him as he reached the spearman. His sword cut through the air and struck the wooden shield. Chips flew off it and the spearman staggered backwards.
Alongside, the Turkish line reeled. The poorly-trained auxiliaries crumbled as the Crusader force struck them. Casca easily blocked the spear thrust with his shield. His next blow was a straight thrust under the shield. He felt the blade enter the man’s guts and rip deep into the body. Pulling the sword free he pushed the dying man over onto his back. Next. Another Turk, a bowman from Damascus. Casca thought idly to himself why did I know he was from Damascus? He slashed at the man who was holding a sword, and not too expertly either. His bow was slung across his back.
The Turk missed the parry and got Casca’s blade across his neck. He fell choking on his own blood. As Casca stepped forward, another thought popped into his head. Most expert Muslim bowmen come from Damascus. He trod on the man’s face, not able to avoid it. Bodies were pressed tightly. A third opponent appeared, hacking wildly. Clumsy, desperate. A straight smash of the shield to his face stunned the man. Casca’s sword cut into his neck and chest and the opponent went down. The smell of blood was thick in the air.
More slaughter. Another man stumbled across Casca’s path, already flecked with blood. It didn’t seem his own. He screamed in terror as the scarred warrior attacked, the look of intent in his face doing most to unnerve him. His bowels turned to water. Casca struck him down without compassion. The fool was armed and in a fight, so what else was he to do? No matter he’d stood there transfixed. If he’d dropped his sword and sank to his knees asking for mercy, then perhaps he might have stayed his killing blow. Most likely another of his men would have killed him in a blink of an eye.
The Turks were running. They’d had enough. Caught between two merciless groups they had been decimated and now were scattering into the countryside away from the road, the mounted archers getting away but those on foot not so lucky.
Casca let those who wanted to chase them do so. He walked up to the abandoned baggage and patted one ox on the flank. It looked at him curiously, then bent its head and resumed chewing on some tough grass it had found at its feet. Let those strange creatures that tied it to the wagon fight over its contents. It was happy enough no matter who drove it. The prisoners who had been taken in the first fight now breathed again in relief. They would now not be held to ransom. The Count of Foix was easily identifiable. Casca sauntered up to him, his blade dripping blood. “My lord, you are free,” he greeted him.
“Ah, yes. Thank the Lord. A disagreeable turn of events. I shall of course mention you to Count Raymond.”
“Thank you, Lord Foix. Here he comes now, in fact,” Casca nodded towards the dirty and blood-splattered men coming towards them. Raymond halted, looking down on them from his horse.
“Good day, Foix. I see you are unharmed, which is a relief.”
“Count Raymond,” Foix bowed briefly. “They came at us without warning. The vanguard did not see them.”
Casca stiffened in anger.
Raymond caught the motion. “Ah, Lord Foix, then you should have been more specific in your instructions to the vanguard. It was your overall responsibility. Thanks to the Baron here we were warned and able to come to your assistance.”
Foix glared at Casca. “It seems he was better at asking for help than performing it.”
Casca spat into the dirt. “Next time I’ll let them take you into Antioch. From what I could see you put up no fight whatsoever.” He tapped his sword to his helmet in salute. “Count Raymond, I’ll return to camp. My job is done here.”
Raymond nodded. “My thanks.”
Casca glared at the blustering Foix once more, then loped free of the mess on the road and sat on a stone away from the confusion of people reclaiming the wagons and beginning to steer them towards the camp. He cleaned his sword and looked at the scene before him. At least the Crusaders would be able to feed themselves for a while. It all depended now on getting into the city.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Ironically Antioch didn’t fall to an assault, neither did it surrender through starvation. Yet again it was treachery that told. Bohemond, keeping his moves from all the other Crusader leaders, contacted a disaffected Turkish officer in charge of a stretch of the walls. From what Casca later discovered, it seemed this man’s wife had been seduced by his commanding officer, and so, in revenge, he allowed Bohemond’s hand-picked knights to scale ladders along part of the wall he commanded, and let them down to one of the gates nearby.
Once the Crusaders were in there was no stopping the slaughter. All flooded in, screaming in triumph, and butchered people wholesale. Casca followed more leisurely, knowing it was pointless trying to stop the madness. He was more concerned in keeping an eye on the relic and making sure Giselle was safe. He also advised Mehmet to stay with him rather than be mistaken for a defender.
After the looting had died down and the killing stopped, Casca packed the tent and belongings on one of the camp wagons and commandeered a donkey to pull it. Mehmet and Giselle rode on the wagon with Casca walking alongside, sword bared. Anyone who looked as if they would cause any trouble would get a blade through the throat. Nobody came close. Bodies littered the streets, men, women. Some children too. Casca grimaced and looked the other way.
The smell of death was everywhere. Houses had their doors broken open and men were seen searching through the contents, sometimes over the corpses of those who had lived there. It seemed the Crusaders hadn’t differentiated between Christian or Muslim. They’d killed indiscriminately.
They came to a halt in a square. Here the properties were bigger. This would be where the nobility would house themselves. Casca looked up the dizzyingly high slopes of Mount Sulpius and saw the citadel standing there, looking down over the city. The Turkish flags were still fluttering defiantly and small dark figures of Crusaders were futilely trying t
o force the gates. Some had fallen. They wouldn’t force them easily. It seemed a stand-off.
A few houses were still being ransacked. Casca motioned to Mehmet to join him. He’d spotted a large suitable house. The door was open, having been broken in. Pieces of the lock were lying on the pavement. It was a stout looking whitewashed stone construction, with two floors and a courtyard out the back. Casca walked into the coolness of the interior, a welcome change from the early summer heat outside.
Sounds of someone trashing a room upstairs came to him. He waved to Mehmet to guard the downstairs, then went up the wooden stairs to a landing. All the doors were open and pieces of furnishing and papers lay scattered over the floor. A man was throwing clothing out of a chest, cursing in French.
“Hey, you. What do you think you’re doing?” Casca challenged him.
The man, a lowly looking swarthy Frank, looked up at him. The red-rimmed eyes spoke of a glint of madness. “Who are you?” he snapped.
“Baron Stokeham. I serve under Count Raymond. Now, I ask you one more time. What are you doing?”
“I got here first,” the man said, turning his head away from Casca and pulling more clothing from the chest.
Casca stepped forward and sent his fist down onto the man’s neck. The Frank shook and sank to his knees. Casca grabbed him and pulled him out of the room. The man grunted and tried to resist but got another fist in the neck, and he sagged bonelessly to the ground. Casca put his sword down and threw the man down the stairs with a loud crash.
Mehmet appeared. “Is this refuse to be ejected into the streets?”
“It is,” Casca said, tossing the Frank’s sword down after him. “Make sure it’s away from the house.”
Mehmet grinned and dragged the half conscious man out. Casca checked the rest of the house. The former owner was lying in a second bedroom, a red stain in his chest. He’d been run through. He had been unarmed, as far as Casca could tell. He looked Armenian. Perhaps a city official who had collaborated with the Turkish garrison. Whatever, he wouldn’t be able to tell anyone now. Casca took him downstairs and out into the courtyard out the back. It was enclosed with trees and a water fountain. Very nice.
Giselle came in, and looked at the mess in dismay. “Oh, what should we do?”
“Get the contents of the wagon in here. Get Mehmet to help you. I’ll make sure there’s space to dump everything in that room there,” he nodded towards what probably was the day room. He pushed into it and looked round. All the delicate furniture and contents lay smashed, including vases and books. Civilization triumphs.
Casca tidied up the mess, piling the torn books in one corner. They would be dealt with later. First, his possessions and Giselle’s stuff had to come in before a group of frustrated soldiers took out their feelings on the wagon and donkey.
The rest of the day passed quickly. The soldiers were brought to heel and their plight fully realized. The next day Kitbugha and his huge Turkish army turned up and promptly surrounded the city. After all those months of siege, Antioch had no food. So now they were trapped with no food and a huge army outside.
“Fucking brilliant!” Casca exclaimed, standing at his doorway. Mehmet was behind him, looking as if he was having second thoughts about whether he should have fought onto the death at Dorylaeum. “Now we’re going to starve to death after eight months of battering our heads against the damned walls!”
“Perhaps we can escape over the mountain?” Mehmet suggested, indicating the looming shape of Mount Sulpius behind them.
“Not while that garrison is sitting in that citadel, Mehmet. They can block any attempt to get out up there. Besides, that army out there will see anyone trying to get up the mountain and I’m willing to bet they’ve got enough to go all the way round the fucking city, unlike us. Christ Almighty, what a fuck up.”
“Do Christians blaspheme as much as I’ve heard on this journey?” Mehmet asked, his brow furrowed. “Every time one of you gets excited or angry, you curse using the name of either the prophet Jesus, or your God.”
“Well, next time I’ll curse using Mohammed’s name if that’s fine by you.”
“Indeed it is not,” Mehmet shook his head. “It is not acceptable for one who follows Islam, and for an unbeliever it is doubly worse.”
Casca spat into the dust. “At the moment the only thing I believe is that our leaders are a collection of bone-headed idiots who couldn’t lead a group of horses to a drinking trough.”
Mehmet grinned briefly. “I concur. I shall put in a good word for you when Kitbugha accepts the surrender of this city.”
“Your generosity is staggering, Mehmet,” Casca said sarcastically. “I shall bear that in mind when I’m cutting a few Turks to pieces.”
“So when will the leaders agree to surrender?”
“They can’t even agree who’s going to rule Antioch, so a surrender isn’t going to be easy to arrange. There’s too many fanatics here who’ll ever accept that.”
“Hunger changes the most set of minds.”
Casca nodded. He had an idea. “I’m going to see somebody. Guard the house.” He waved a farewell and loped along the street that ran east-west through Antioch. His memories of the place were hazy, and the city had been rebuilt a few times following an earthquake here and a sacking there. The last time he’d been in Antioch was over five hundred years previously. It had changed a lot.
He made his way to Raymond’s camp. A few enquiries soon sent him in the right direction. Peter Bartholomew was conducting a prayer session, crying out for God to give them all strength to prevail against the Turks.
Casca lounged against the wall of a house at the back and folded his arms. After a few minutes the priest saw him. Casca jerked his head. Bartholomew bowed once, which could have been taken by the congregation as an entreaty in prayer, but he ended the prayer meeting shortly afterwards. The people broke up, scattering in every direction.
“I assume you are here to show me the evidence of what you spoke of some time ago?”
Casca pushed away from the wall and began walking along a dusty and filth-encrusted street. It stank. “Something like that.”
The priest stopped, his expression severe. “Please do not toy with me, Longinus. The Brotherhood have more agents here in the city now. If you try anything, whether to escape or to harm me, then they shall go to Godfrey and tell him all about the Finger of Syagrius.”
“And who the hell told you of that?”
“We have people inside the camp of Raymond. One overheard the Bishop speaking of it to the Count. That is of no import; the fact remains you must show me now or the relic – and your woman – will be destroyed.”
“Let me do a deal with you, Bartholomew.”
“What do you mean?” the priest asked, suspiciously. “Do not try to bribe me or the like. I am a dedicated follower of Izram – to the death!”
“But not necessarily of Hasan al-Sabah, your glorious Elder, I suspect.” Casca faced Peter. “He fucked up, big-time, didn’t he? If he’d been alert you would have me as a prisoner in Castle Alamut, instead of being here inside a starving city with a horde of maniacs outside.”
Bartholomew remained silent, waiting. Casca had gotten used to his mannerisms. He was thinking. Thinking hard.
“Right, so here’s the deal. These Crusaders are facing death, or at least slavery. The Crusade is dead. Finished. They’re outnumbered. They’re trapped. So what do they need? A miracle, that’s what. A symbol, something to inspire them. I know soldiers. They need the right leader, the right inspiration. Men in impossible situations have won before against the odds. Now you and I both know that there’s no one leader here amongst them all who can unite them into a coherent force to fight like bastards under their banner. Too many leaders, too many petty rivalries.”
“Come to the point, Longinus.”
“If you’d shut up, I will. Now, a Holy Relic can unite these Crusaders. Something big, something so fundamental to their belief that it’ll cut t
hrough any inter-nation rivalry. These people need a miracle; a relic can give them that.”
Bartholomew looked long and hard at Casca. “The Spear? Are you suggesting that this supposed ‘true Spear’ that you concealed here all those years ago is to be used like some crude banner to defeat the Turks? Are you mad?” He pointed at Casca. “First, if it’s a fake, which is likely, then there will be no power it can bring forth to win them any battle. Secondly, if it is the real Spear, then there is no way I or any of the Brotherhood will permit it to be used in this way! It is the Holy of Holies and not some war banner!”
Casca chuckled. “You’re wrong, Brotherhood man. Whether it be a fake or not is irrelevant. If people believe something to be real then it is, no matter if it is or is not in reality. This is all a matter of faith; religion usually is. Faith will do more for these people than any noble speech or the like. In any case, I know it to be real. It’s the genuine article. I should know; it was mine long before you lot got your dirty hands on it. I took it from Ctesiphon. I was there. You were not. So face it, priest, either you go along with it or I’ll tell Adhemar and he’ll take the credit for saving the Crusade. Then there’s no way you’ll get your hands on the real Spear.”
“So why haven’t you gone to him in that case?”
“To do a deal with you, like I said. In return for giving you the Spear back, and using it to save the asses of everyone here, you back off and leave me alone. Besides, once you see it’s the real deal, you’ll have a problem on your hands, won’t you? The Brotherhood aren’t going to like it that there’s two spears. What will they do? What will you do?”
Bartholomew gritted his teeth. “I will not make any promises until I see it for myself. Now, where is it?”
Casca laughed briefly. “No way, you maniac. You’re going to go to Adhemar and Raymond and tell them you’ve had visions or something. I’ll come with you. Once you speak to them, I’ll tell you where it is. Only then. I’m not going to tell you here and now so you can sneak off and dig it up on the quiet.”