by Tony Roberts
The man called Raymond Aguillar appeared with the Lance, holding it aloft, and the people peeled away so that he could walk through them to the front. Hands reached out to touch the object, reverently. Casca sniffed in contempt. It was his old spear, nothing more than that. Alright, so he’d stuck it in Jesus’ side at the crucifixion, but that didn’t make it any different. Any blood that had been on it would surely have gone after all this time, especially after being in the ground all those years.
The gates slowly opened inwards with a creak. The Lance passed through the opening, followed by the northern Franks. The rest pressed eagerly forward, hoping to keep the Lance in sight, so that it would give them inspiration that day to fight the enemy. Casca allowed himself to be pushed along, making sure his retainer was alongside. It was a difficult task, since the people in front and to the side all moved at a different pace, but Casca used his strength to push those behind him back so that they didn’t cause the two to become separated. He gave the men behind him a filthy look to reinforce his wishes.
They passed underneath the gate house and were out, on the walkway leading to the reinforced bridge that crossed the Orontes. Here it flowed close to the city walls, and on the far bank the ground was flat. The perfect terrain for a cavalry battle. Casca grimaced. The Crusaders had only a few horses left while the Turks had plenty.
He thought about warning Mehmet about the Turkish tactics but managed to stop before he made a fool of himself. It would be the other way round in reality; Mehmet should know everything about how they conducted warfare.
Cheers rose from the ranks as the defenders trotted out across the bridge and began to fan out. The Turks hung back, waiting. To Casca’s eye it seemed that Kitbugha was playing the old trick of drawing the enemy out and then striking on the counter. Another reason for him hanging back was probably to get as many of the Crusaders out onto the plain before attacking. No point if most of the defenders are still inside the walls. If he sent men to bottle them up close to the bridge, then they’d be in range of the archers on the walls.
Dust billowed up from Casca’s boots as he reached land on the far side. “Mehmet, to me,” he said, angling away from the main thrust, moving to the right. He knew Adhemar’s force was to strike in this direction and wanted to be with the Provencal troops. He knew them, knew their tactics, and they knew him.
The Turkish mounted archers wheeled and rode back and forth, kicking up clouds of dust. Their bows were ready. The infantry, standing a little further back, stood in ranks, ready to charge on their commander’s orders. Banners, pennants and flags fluttered in the early morning air. The sound of thudding feet, clinking steel, grunting of men and yells of encouragement were what could be heard as the Christian army spread out from the bridge.
A trumpet sounded. Now the Turks attacked! Screaming wildly and uttering ululating whistles, the Turks charged, loosing off arrows into the packed ranks of the Crusaders. Men fell into the dust, sending up more into the air. The Crusaders didn’t stop; they carried on, screaming defiance and full of religious fervor; they were following the very Lance that had touched Jesus!
The sun came out from behind the clouds, sending brilliant shafts of light into the eyes of the Turks. “God is helping us!” came a shout in delight.
“St. Andrew is riding to our aid!”
“The angels are on horseback, assisting us!”
Casca could hardly believe what he was hearing, but hell, if it helped, so be it. With a roar the Crusaders surged forward once more, their weapons seeking the bellies and throats of the Muslim troops. Casca saw the faces of the Turks and they weren’t liking what was coming at them. The sun blinded them, peeking over the rim of the mountains, and they could hardly see properly. Sounds of battle broke out all along the line of the men running from Antioch, and Casca closed on the infantry ahead of him.
An arrow struck his shield and deflected up into the air behind him. Shit. Where the hell did that one come from? He had no more time to think as he closed to striking distance. A spearman, standing with legs braced. Fuck him.
Leaping the last few feet to give him impetus, he landed, sweeping down with a huge blow. His arm shook with the force. The Turk sank to the ground, his spear broken in two, his throat sliced open. Mehmet crashed into the man to the left. Casca slammed his shield forward. An enemy soldier took it in the shoulder. Left foot down. Stab with the right arm. Twist. The blade sank into the Turk’s ribs, breaking two. Casca pulled it out sharply. The soldier fell to his knees, crying in agony. The shield was smashed into his face, sending him onto his back.
Curved sword to the right. Casca twisted. He met the blow intended to cut him open above his head. Shield smash. Sword slash. Left, right. The Turk looked shocked. This scar-faced demon was too much. Casca left him clutching his guts and span to face another. Mehmet was carving through the enemy, shouting Allah akhbar! which didn’t help the confused and stunned Turks.
More trumpets. Renewed fighting. More Muslim soldiers arrived to prop up the crumbling line. Adhemar’s troops were there now, furiously fighting their way forward. What was happening elsewhere Casca didn’t know, but both sides were fighting like there was no more tomorrow.
Sword. Casca’s flung up his shield and it shook to the blow. He bent his knees. Struck low. The point of the sword sank into the soldier’s abdomen. Screaming in pain, the Turk fell back, all thoughts of the fight forgotten. The press of bodies was getting bad. Room to swing weapons was getting short.
Casca’s sword was no different to the standard type used in Europe. Four feet of steel, with only the bottom foot sharpened. The rest of the blade edges were blunt. This was because this part was used to crush an enemy’s body, or to block opponents’ strikes. A sword wasn’t so much a stabbing weapon as a crushing weapon. True, the bottom was sharpened, and you did need some of it to pierce armor or flesh and bone, or to cut.
Casca now used the end to stab into bodies before him. Shields were locked and unable to be moved. Spears were particularly dangerous in this situation, so Casca made sure his shield was in the right place before he pressed forward. Push, stab. The madness of it all consumed the combatants.
A man pushed hard from the enemy side and Mehmet staggered back. As he was halted by those behind, a Turkish swordsman raised his blade to skewer the man. Casca jumped in, knocking the man’s arm up with his shield, and then slamming his blade forward. It sank into the Turk’s chest and he twisted round, eyes screwed tightly shut, and fell backwards out of sight.
Mehmet pressed forward, sword hacking down, and Casca checked to see where the next opponent was coming from. A spearman. Turbaned head. Padded leather gambeson. The enemy soldier stabbed hard, intending to run Casca through the gut. As his enemy struck, Casca pushed hard with his shield.
A more experienced man. Casca could always tell. He blocked the jab with his shield. The spear point went up. Casca turned sideways so that the Turk’s shield brushed his chest rather than slammed head-on into it. Off-balance, the Turk took two steps too far. It was enough. Casca sent the pommel of his sword down on the man’s neck, stunning him. A second blow sent him to the ground, out cold.
Suddenly there were no more to face.
The Turkish army was disintegrating, fleeing in every direction. With cries of delight, the cavalry came thundering forward, chasing the routing enemy. Casca looked round in surprise. The battle was over. Mehmet, ten feet away, exchanged a look of relief with the eternal mercenary. “A surprise, yes?”
“Yes. How?”
Mehmet shrugged. “Too many emirs did not wish Kitbugha to take Antioch. He would have become too powerful. Look how they flee towards their respective cities!”
Casca saw indeed that the Turkish troops were not running in any one direction. They were taking every road and path possible, all grouped around their respective banners. The fragile unity of the Muslim force had shattered in the face of the all-out assault from Antioch.
The Crusaders were cheering and man
y went down on their knees to thank God. Raymond of Aguilar held the Lance aloft and cried out that the power of God was indeed mighty. Casca groaned. Now it would be almost impossible to persuade people that it hadn’t been down to the Lance. So be it.
He cleaned his sword and slid it into his scabbard and took off his helmet, glad to get some air to his head. It was damned hot. “Come on Mehmet, we’ve done our job; let’s go back before the people come to strip the bodies. I need a drink.”
They returned to Antioch, avoiding the celebrating soldiers. Now they had been saved from certain defeat they could relax. Casca slept the rest of the day; it had been hard work and he’d been up early for the battle.
Over the next few days things got better. Supplies began to trickle in, thanks to the imperial governor of Cyprus, and also due to some ships that pulled in at the port of St. Symeon. Raymond recovered enough to sit in on the council sessions once more, and insisted Antioch be handed over to the emperor as per everyone’s oaths.
His pleas went ignored. Bohemond was determined to hold onto the city for himself. He argued that as Edessa was being held by Baldwin, he should do the same with Antioch. The citadel garrison had surrendered to Bohemond, not Raymond, and that irked Raymond even more. He didn’t have the strength yet to face the Norman but was determined to take the matter further.
A development, however, reared its head that put paid to any dispute. Plague broke out. Almost certainly down to the rotting bodies and unsanitary conditions that existed in the streets. Nothing much had been done to clear things up, and the summer heat did the rest.
Adhemar was the first to fall. Casca regretted his passing, as he was one of the more level-headed of the leaders, and probably the binding force that held all together. Now he was gone the divisions between the respective leaders widened. Bohemond and Tancred increased their opposition to the imperial position and Casca was convinced that should Alexius turn up with an army, Bohemond would probably send his army out to fight them.
Not that Alexius would. Stephen of Blois had deserted the Crusade before Antioch had fallen and had met the emperor, persuading him all was lost. The imperial army had turned around and retreated to Constantinople, bringing renewed calls of cowardice from the Normans. Casca was getting fed up with their one-path minds.
Giselle fell ill. Casca abandoned his daily attendance to the council meetings and tended her full-time. As the plague spread, the leaders left the city and spent their time in nearby strongholds. There would be no danger from the enemy; the Turks were beaten and were licking their wounds in their various centers of power. The Christian populations had risen up and butchered their Muslim rulers in places and had appealed for one or other of the lords to come protect them, which had been eagerly accepted.
Casca remained in Antioch. Mehmet stayed too, his attitude being that if Allah was going to call him then it may as well be here than any other place. Besides, without Casca, he would be seen as an enemy unless he converted, and having converted once already he was determined not to do so again. It got tiring, or so he insisted.
He cleaned the house up and took care of getting supplies, keeping his face covered as he went out. He insisted on washing, too, and somehow he kept clear of the disease.
Not so Giselle. She weakened by the day and Casca felt the stab of loss in his heart again. Although he’d not known her for very long, he’d become attached to the woman. It was hard keeping enough fluids in her. She weakened and her ability to fight the disease lessened. Casca kept her as clean as he could but he knew there could be only one ending to it.
She opened her eyes one morning, pale and shrunken. “Caska,” she whispered.
“Yes, Giselle. I’m here.” He smiled at her and held her cold hands in his.
“Promise me, Caska. Promise me you’ll take the relic to Jerusalem. Promise me.”
“I promise,” Casca nodded. “I shall take it to Golgotha.” The name sent a shiver through him, but it was the only place of significance he could think of. If power did exist in the Holy City, then it would be at the place he had experienced it.
Giselle nodded and smiled. “Thank you.” Her voice had become the faintest of whispers. She gripped Casca’s hands tightly, looking up at him, her eyes seemingly too large for her face, but that was due to her shrunken features. “God bless you.”
Casca gently stroked her hair, watching as she slowly faded before him. There came a shudder, a catch of the breath, then a couple of deep even breaths before another catch. One long exhalation and she was gone.
Casca squeezed her hands once, then gently put them across her breast. Another woman gone that he’d loved. A poor, homeless lost soul with no future and a title that meant little. Mehmet put his head round the corner. “Has she left us, effendi?”
“Yes, Mehmet,” Casca said in a low, listless voice. “She has.”
“I shall pray to Allah to look after her soul.”
“Aye; you do that.” Casca leaned back. He was tired and emotionally drained. He would see to Giselle’s burial the next day. He needed sleep badly. He hadn’t slept much these last few days as he had been caring for the girl. He’d arrange for her to be buried in the cathedral. Fuck anyone who objected.
Mehmet withdrew. He knew his master wished to mourn the passing of the lady privately. He would leave a sign on the door that there had been a death so people who wished to know would find out without intruding.
Casca had his way. Adhemar’s replacement as senior cleric to the Crusade was the Bishop of Orange, but Raymond put in a good word and so the bishop, who was wary of Casca’s reputation, consented. They were busy discussing who would be the new bishop of Antioch. There were arguments over whether it would be Orthodox or Catholic, so the Bishop of Orange was careful not to upset this strange scar-faced soldier who wore the uniform of the Orthodox Emperor. Of course, all this was conducted by letter. None of the senior lords were in Antioch.
A couple of soldiers Casca ‘volunteered’ helped him prepare the place of burial. A priest was requested, and to Casca’s shock, and displeasure, it happened to be Peter Bartholomew. “What are you doing here?”
Bartholomew stared hard at Casca. “I volunteered. I wish to speak with you.”
“Later. I’m here to bury my woman.”
“Now. It is important.”
Casca pushed the priest none too gently out of the aisle and into an alcove, shrouded with darkness. He gripped the Brotherhood man by the throat and squeezed. “Now, you piece of slime; you listen to me. I said later, not now. I’m not in the mood. Go play with yourself somewhere, or even better still shove that spear up your ass. In fact, if you bug me today or tomorrow, I’ll go push it up there myself. Now go get a proper priest or I’ll just bury her without a ceremony. I don’t care either way but she was a Christian so I think she’d be expecting that sort of burial.”
He released Bartholomew who staggered into a pillar, massaged his throat gingerly, then weaved his way unsteadily towards the door. He turned once. “Two days, Longinus. Here. Or others will learn of what she carried.”
Casca kept his promise, but he knew he really had little choice. Giselle was gone, and buried. Mehmet asked about the future and Casca brought him up to date with what he knew. They were living in a plague city, most of the leaders had fled and it had been left to those who were brave enough – or had no other choice – to remain there and deal with the outbreak as best they could.
What the plans of the leaders were he no longer knew; being away from them he had no access to their meetings and, besides, Bohemond’s and Tancred’s outright hostility to him and the emperor, and anything connected with the Empire, meant it was unlikely he would be allowed back in again. Bohemond had what he wanted, Antioch. Now his true colors were showing. He was not going to let anyone take it away from him.
Casca spoke to Mehmet about how he saw the future as far as the Crusade was concerned, and the Turk had to agree with his thoughts. On other matters Casca told him about
one or two things, things he thought Mehmet should know, and left the retainer to mull them over in his mind.
Casca was still mourning Giselle when he made his way to the cathedral. It was not being used for prayer. Most people still remained behind their front doors, too afraid to go out and risk getting infected. Casca was immune, as he knew all too well. He’d caught it once, way back in Attila’s time in Italy, but since then had been exposed to it repeatedly but hadn’t succumbed. He must have become resistant to it then.
The cavernous place of worship had assumed a sinister air since he’d buried Giselle there. Why that was he didn’t know, maybe it was just his imagination. There again, perhaps it was because the Brotherhood were here. He knew they were, he could sense their presence. They made his skin crawl. Freaks.
“Welcome Longinus,” a voice made him start. Bartholomew. Somewhere close, but his voice echoed eerily all around.
Casca put his hand on the hilt of his sword and slowly looked round. The shadows took on threatening form, but he was probably seeing specters where none existed.
“Now, Longinus, no need for violence. We need to talk, as I said.” Peter Bartholomew slowly materialized out of the dark, off to one side of the main aisle. He stopped and folded his hands in front of him. Casca caught sight of movement behind him. There was at least one other there, almost certainly armed.
“You know I can’t trust you bastards,” Casca said evenly, turning his head from side to side, trying to catch sight of more movement. His ears strained for any foreign noise, especially behind him. He glanced quickly behind him. Nothing.
“Nor can we trust you. However that is irrelevant. The problem is what to do now. I have not received any news from the Elder and I think that may take some time, what with the plague here and the news that had, no doubt, reached him that there is a possible duplicate Lance here.”