He uses letters I don’t recognise. Maybe it’s an alphabet written only in touch. The touch of men and women who might be lovers one day. I want us to be lovers. The desire I feel is clear and absolute. And private. Right now, Luca needs only a friend.
Eventually, he does speak. ‘Father is dead.’
I stroke his cheek. ‘I know.’
Luca sighs. He’s quiet for a long moment. Then, ‘Go to your tent, Suzan,’ he says. ‘Sleep. Tomorrow will be another long day. As will the following day. And we can’t be sure if the Saracens will return.’
The Saracens don’t return. We don’t know how far away they are or what they plan. We do know Jerusalem won’t be reached without terrible battles along the way. And we know the cost, for Saracens as well as us. Because when I look around I see as many Saracen dead as pilgrim.
We stay beside the battlefield for two more days of lamentations and grief. Many pilgrims want to turn around and go home. They only agree to continue when reminded it would be just as dangerous to turn back as to go forwards.
One night, a messenger from the Princes tells us we’re resuming our march in the morning.
‘We have buried four thousand pilgrims,’ he adds.
Four thousand. Four thousand lives lost, four thousand wooden crosses in a cemetery. No wonder Dragonus Ramberti thought he could get away with murder. Who would really notice one more death?
Around the camp, relatives of battle victims sob about leaving their dead behind.
Luca’s moods swing wildly. ‘I’ll have that murderer’s blood!’ he says, and the next moment, ‘I should have killed him at the time. It was weakness. I won’t be weak!’
Luca has me ride Potestas, when we return to the road the next day. The repetitive rhythm of my thoughts keeps pace with the horses’ slow walk.
Luca’s lust for revenge will have him killed.
I have to save him from himself.
Dragonus Ramberti rides past us. It looks like a deliberate taunt. He has more grooms and personal knights supporting him than does Adhemar himself.
Potestas swings his great head from side to side, looking for his dead master. Luca is quiet, lost, changed.
I collect herbs as we walk. Sage, tansy, anything mentioned in the book’s charms. And time passes. By night, I read. So Luca won’t always have to open it for me, I carry the book with its covers folded back, unlocked in my pouch. Days pass, becoming a sevennight, then another, and a third. Time passes in the rain that doesn’t fall, in the lakes and rivers that we don’t reach.
I imagine days counted out in drops from our emptying water flasks. And in Luca’s book, the moons count down.
CHAPTER 12
Twenty-two moons
OUTSIDE ANTIOCH
Luca
Loath to let Dragonus Ramberti out of our sight, we plod through drying terrain. Potestas and Orestes are long-time stablemates, content to walk very near each other. Ramberti is surrounded by guards, but, high and black on his horse, he’s easy to follow. He keeps up with Adhemar. I imagine them talking as we move. Discussing how to keep alive the bedraggled thousands who stumble in their wake.
We need to keep the book safe. Ramberti believes it’s his now. I’m surprised he hasn’t demanded it already.
‘Does the book have any warnings after Dorylaeum?’ I ask Suzan one day, as we ride.
‘Mostly it’s poetry,’ Suzan says. ‘Beautiful poetry. I’ll translate it all for you when we have time.’
‘You said you saw Antioch mentioned?’
‘A few times. It says strange things. Something about a cave graveyard tunnel. And a bow that can find its own prey. What could that mean?’
I shrug.
‘There are so many words I’ve never heard before. My mother spoke to me, but not often of war. I’m doing my best.’
Suzan touches the golden ankh around her neck. Mattiolas gave it to her. What is the connection between them?
‘Train me as a knight,’ she says suddenly.
I blink. ‘You mean…with a sword?’
‘I’m serious! I want to learn to fight. Like the Matilda you talk about.’ She makes a pretend lunging movement with her arm outstretched. ‘Yes, I mean with a sword. You have a spare one. You have a spare hauberk. You have spare…’
Suzan’s words trail off. The spares are mine because they were once Father’s. She reaches out to touch my arm. ‘The chainmail and sword can’t help anyone from a saddlebag.’
I nod. I should give it all away. There are plenty of squires and poorer knights who have no armour.
‘At Dorylaeum we women could do so little to defend ourselves,’ Suzan continues. ‘The chainmail wouldn’t be far from you…if I wore it.’
‘My sister Gemma would have enjoyed learning to fence,’ I tell her.
‘She didn’t have lessons?’
‘No. I’ll teach you when we have time.’
But we rarely pause while we still have energy to do more than eat and sleep. Only demons maintain the enthusiasm of former days. They become livelier as we run out of water and suffering sets in.
We walk all day and take to our tents, too exhausted to talk, as soon as we stop. When a whole moon separates us from Dorylaeum, we still haven’t found time for her to start training.
Suzan
We cry enough tears to salt our meat, to fill our flasks.
Demons taunt us. The journey becomes harder, the land drier. Time is divided into hot, thirsty days of walking and cooler, thirsty nights where we scarcely sleep. When the hours are called—matins, noon, vespers—we stop and pray. After all, we’re here at God’s calling. We are reminded that Jesus also suffered. We pray the usual prayers—and we pray for water.
More sevennights pass. Our stomachs empty, and then, as though God punishes us for complaining of hunger, so do our flasks.
Thirst.
Animals lie in the sun and perish. Their owners waste tears crying and cut strips of flesh for meat, then despair because they have no way to carry it. Demons dance with delight, night and day.
I stop wondering if Luca would like to kiss me. I haven’t got the energy. I leave my santur wrapped and concealed in my pouch. Perhaps when I play the notes of my mother’s name, she can hear my mood too. I don’t want her to know.
Ramberti has his own supply of water, in waterskins that slap against the side of his saddle. He doesn’t care who sees him sipping from them. He has oxen who carry flasks of water and barrels of weak wine, and he doesn’t share, even after children begin dying from the agony of thirst.
‘How can we find Jerusalem if we can’t find a drop of water?’ pilgrims ask. ‘If God created all the world, why can’t he make it rain?’
More days pass. Two moons now between us and Dorylaeum. Luca’s grief shows no sign of lifting. We walk so slowly that even if water were just a few miles away, we might not reach it in time.
Thirst.
We slow still further. Late one afternoon, a Saxon family pulls to the side of the road. Their packhorse collapses. A group of fat demons is lively around their blankets, pots and relics. Each has three mouths in its face, and another mouth in each hand.
‘The demons are drooling,’ I say, horrified by the spittle disappearing between each demon mouth and the dry sand.
The family circles the dying animal. The father raises his sword.
‘Suzan!’ Luca says, suddenly understanding. ‘Don’t look!’
Who can obey such an instruction? I dismount, and watch the father crouch beside the exhausted horse. Though it can no longer move, the creature’s terror shows in its wide eyes and flaring nostrils. The father leans closer and, in one movement, slits its heaving throat.
The horse’s blood gushes out. It pumps and splashes, red, upon the sandy ground. As red as demonic eyes…
And so wet.
Thirst.
The man’s wife passes him a copper pan to hold under the beast’s neck, collecting blood as the horse’s heart pumps itself dry. Only
when the animal is still and blood has stopped flowing does the man stand. He passes the pan to his wife.
She drinks. The demon attached to the pan howls with joy.
Red-mouthed, she passes the pan to her children. They all gulp, greedily. The pan demon frees itself, and runs to the woman. Other nearby demons free themselves too.
‘Drink! I must drink!’
The cry comes behind us. I turn, shocked to see Bianca running to the small group. One of her hands is outstretched. With her other hand, she cradles her swollen belly.
I’ve seen pregnant women on this pilgrimage before. I know they have a greater need for water than the rest of us. The very proper Bianca must be agonised by thirst.
‘No! Bianca!’ I cry.
Bianca pushes me over in her haste.
Luca dismounts and helps me to my feet, brushing dust from my tunic. We turn back to the Saxon family.
A fat, many-mouthed demon has moved behind the mother. It straightens its shoulders and stretches itself out until it’s the same height and width as the woman. It takes a shuddering step into her back, and disappears inside her…
Disappears right into her, leaving nothing but a faint wisp of smoke.
A scream escapes me, quickly stifled. Bianca reaches the man, who is still ladling out blood.
Other demons circle the family, jostling for position behind the children and the father. It takes a while. As a demon squeezes and stretches into the shape of the smallest child—like water taking the form of its vessel—a larger demon moves in and roughly pushes the first one out of its way.
Finally, there’s a demon behind each blood drinker, scaled to his or her size. They open their mouths—the ones in their faces and the ones in their hands—revealing greedy rows of teeth. And they step into the pilgrims’ bodies.
The pilgrims shake for a moment, then stabilise. Heads lift. Inflamed eyes gaze around. The children take awkward steps. One falls right over, as if he has just learned to walk.
We both run to Bianca. Luca reaches her long before I do. She has just raised the ladle full of blood to her lips. ‘Bianca! Think what you’re doing!’ Luca yells.
I stop running. Bianca raises the ladle and drinks until blood runs down her chin.
Of course she can’t see the demons. She glares at Luca.
‘Luca…’ I call quietly, as he backs away, keeping his eyes fastened on her.
He reaches me and we stand together. Demons have gone crazy, leaping and whooping for joy. We’re the only calm beings in this place.
Bianca continues to stare at us. Her eyes begin to flicker. For a while, they seem like copper. Then flashes of a brighter colour appear, like her eyes are on fire. The fire gets hotter and finally her eyes turn red.
‘The demon’s taking over!’ I whisper, horrified.
Luca nods grimly. ‘Oh God, Bianca!’
I wrap my fingers around his wrist. ‘You can’t help her.’
‘I’ve known her all my life.’
The demon peers through the woman’s eyes, taking in its human surroundings.
‘Luca, look away!’
But I know he can’t. No more than I can.
Bianca looks down at her feet, as if working out how to use them. Sir Bottiglio arrives, running. ‘Bianca! What have you done?’
‘Think about it, Luca,’ I continue. ‘A horse’s blood. Bianca knew what she was doing was wrong. It’s painful, but she’s made her own choice.’
‘It’s no choice. This is what the demons want.’
‘Blood’s sent them insane,’ I hear a knight murmur beside me. They see only the blood-maddened family, not the demons.
A moment later, the woman who was taken first lets out an almighty scream. Her eyes widen and her skin flushes with pressure.
I cover my ears.
The family sway like beheaded chickens, blood drying to brown stains around their lips. Their eyes are red, but blank. A priest runs up to the mother and grabs her shoulders, shaking her. Her eyes remain unfocused.
Bianca stands among them, a demon staring through her eyes. Bottiglio reaches her and tries to pull her into his arms, but she throws her husband away as easily as she might cast off an unwanted surcoat.
The demon—having gradually stepped into the Saxon mother—now rips itself from her head, exploding from her skull with the noise of a thousand galloping horses.
The woman crashes to the ground. But the demon, unseen and unheard by any human except us, flings itself into the sky, throwing its own head back and letting out satisfied cheers from each of its mouths, as a metallic cord from a nearby knight’s belongings rises into the air. The demon fights, but the cord lengthens and the demon stretches, pulled by the cord as smoke is pulled through a chimney. The demon is finally snapped back, once again tethered to something in the knight’s bag.
One by one, the demon-crazed people still. They stand, arms hanging limp at their sides. Something is happening to their heads. Smoke appears, creating dark halos. Demon heads stretch out into the smoke, taking on a firmer, smoky shape. They reach up with arms and claws, trying to pull themselves free. And where only one demon possessed each pilgrim, two climb out. Sometimes three.
‘They’re multiplying,’ I breathe.
While we watch, the victims collapse. Dead. All of them. Even Bianca.
With an almighty yell, Bottiglio gathers his wife’s limp body into his arms. Demons scream with delight. A tall, thin one with long ears loosens itself from the ring it had been attached to, and swoops over to Bottiglio. It leans between the broken-hearted husband and his dead wife, and pokes out a scaly tongue. Its eyes gleam and it smiles as it licks at Bottiglio’s salty tears.
Bottiglio seems to brush him away. But, of course, he’s only wiping his eyes.
‘Thanatos didn’t bother coming for them,’ Luca observes as, heavy footed and heavy hearted, we walk away. ‘I think he collects souls. Bianca lost hers when she drank blood.’
Luca
I can’t shake from my mind the image of the dying horse, the blood drinking, the demon possession. Bianca was like a sister to me. Serafina’s sister. A tie to my childhood.
We bury her with the others in the desert. Ramberti recites the funeral mass and blesses the wooden crosses we use to mark the shallow, rocky graves.
The next day, our group paces onwards, saying nothing. There is still a great distance to travel. Bottiglio sits upon his horse, shoulders hunched, face concealed beneath his hood.
It’s so hot we would be drenched in sweat, if we had moisture left to sweat. It’s so hot everyone stops talking and all I hear is quiet footfalls, hoofs muffled in the dirty dryness of sandy soil.
More days pass. Death follows us like a curse. One day, five hundred pilgrims die. The road behind us is forever marked with those rough graves. Demons are livelier and more malicious.
Water is an intense physical need dwarfing every need I’ve ever experienced. I long to drink. Quench. Slake.
We ride on. Onwards, it seems, towards death. The idea of a glorious pilgrimage seems like a terrible joke.
Beneath me, Orestes’ ears prick up. I prod him to move faster and he gallops. And I hear it.
A river. Running water. It’s like I had forgotten there were such things.
I look over my shoulder to make sure Suzan has noticed. She has, of course. Potestas speeds alongside me. Suzan’s cape flies back and her hair catches the wind in a dark cascade.
We reach the water and dismount. Collapsing onto our hands and knees, we bury our faces in the rapidly moving stream, and drink.
I drink until swallowing hurts. I pull back and look around. Thousands upon thousands of pilgrims have joined us. Harsh through parched throats, shouts of joy. Children wade in and paddle. Two girls jump in together and descend to drink, then rise to splash each other. They shriek with laughter.
‘The Lord is good to us!’ someone shouts.
‘Oh yes, the Lord is very good!’
I turn to drink again
. But Suzan is there, tugging at my sleeve.
‘Don’t swallow!’ she says, and points with a shaky finger.
Some yards away a man is sprawled out flat. His boots are still onshore, his head beneath the water. For a long moment, it seems he’s playing a game. A fat, many-mouthed demon rolls over the man’s back, squealing in delight. The man is still. He must come up for air any moment now.
He must.
I spit out the water I was about to swallow. The man is frozen in his moment of great joy, water washing over his head like white streamers.
‘Poisoned?’ Suzan asks, touching her throat.
I shake my head. ‘Father told me about this,’ I say. ‘Too much water, too quickly. His heart stopped beating.’
So much death. Everywhere we look, at every turn. Death in battle, death from too little water and now death from too much.
Suzan’s fingers are warm. I wrap my other hand over hers, and feel the pulse in her wrist. She turns to me. Her breath is shallow and rapid. She looks down, shy. In relief, I want to kiss her and keep on kissing her, but I don’t want to do it here, surrounded by others.
‘They’ve drunk enough water to make tears now,’ Suzan says. I hold her close instead and wonder how it is we so often seem to have the same thoughts.
I hear footsteps and Mattiolas’s voice, returned to its usual strength. ‘We’ve made it through! Come on, stop all that.’
Suzan loosens her arms and turns to embrace Mattiolas, too.
I turn away.
Kiss her! What was I thinking? Maybe she’d prefer to kiss him?
Mattiolas and Suzan exchange a long look. I would do anything to find out how they feel about each other. Anything except ask. Suzan wouldn’t know how to answer. She might be offended. The one thing that would be worse than never having her as a lover is losing her as a friend.
The next day, more tragedy strikes. Mattiolas’s horse dies. We discovered water too late for the aged beast.
Mattiolas tries to be cheerful about the loss of dignity. One feature distinguishing a knight from any other type of person is his horse. ‘I’ve decided I prefer the infantry. Well, my horse decided I prefer the infantry,’ Mattiolas jokes. ‘Decided it was easier to be dead. I only have to worry about feeding myself now. You should join us, Luca. On foot. Hardly any horsemen left.’
The Book of Whispers Page 16