Once, as a boy, I stood on a rock above one of my father’s barley fields and watched the low black clouds of a sudden summer storm sweep across the land. The wind struck first, flattening the tall grain with breathtaking violence. And then, before the golden stalks could rise from beneath the initial onslaught, fierce, wind-driven rain and ripping hail drove the overpowered grain into the ground and battered it to shreds.
What I had witnessed as a boy, I saw again now, and a more terrible harvest could not be imagined. Even from the safe distance of the hilltop, I could see the fearsome gleam of the awful Arab swords as they slashed and slashed and slashed again, like fearful hail falling from on high to pound Bohemond’s army into the ground, never to rise again.
Remorse, futility, and anger struggled within me; I did not want to see the final slaughter. “Come,” I said, wheeling my horse and moving back up the slope.
As I turned from the sight, I caught the glint of gold on the edge of my vision, looked, and saw Bohemond’s golden banner gleaming in the hard midday light. And then it was gone. It simply vanished—a fragile light swallowed by the dark-turbaned sea raging all around it. There was but a momentary ripple in the tide, the treacherous flood eddied and swirled, overcame, and then flowed swiftly on.
But wait, suddenly the banner appeared again, streaking across the plain—in the hands of a Seljuq warrior, this time. The enemy rider sped away with the prize, waving it on high, and screaming like the very devil. We could hear him from the hilltop; and long after, his shouts still echoed in my ears.
As we left the killing ground behind us, I raised my eyes toward heaven and prayed for the souls of those poor ignorant soldiers led blindly to the slaughter by the unfettered ambition of their overweening lord. I asked the Great Judge not to hold the stupidity and greed of their leaders against them. “Demonstrate your immeasurable mercy, Blessed Redeemer,” I prayed, “and give these unfortunates places in Paradise—if not in Heaven’s highest halls, then in the surrounding tents at least.”
We left the battlefield behind and, after a short ride, halted to decide what to do. It seemed to me that our best passage lay on the far side of the dry river, well away from the battlefield. It would take us far out of our way, but keep us well out of sight. Once beyond the battleground, we could rejoin the road and continue on. Padraig and Yordanus agreed.
“There are goat tracks all through these hills,” Yordanus said. “If we keep the river between us and the valley, we will soon be well away from the fighting.”
Accordingly, I chose a goat track that ran along the back side of the hill, out of sight of the conflict, and led the way; Sydoni came next, then Yordanus, and Padraig last, leading the packhorse. We followed the path a goodly way; when it branched off, I took the new one, always keeping the line of shielding hills to my right.
At one point, the track descended toward the dry riverbed, turning in its descent and passing between two broad outcroppings of broken stone. Much rock had fallen onto the narrow trail from the steep banks on either side, thus making the pass very difficult. It took us some time to pick our way through the jagged stones, and when at last we emerged out onto the dry bed of the river, we paused for a short rest and a drink.
We dismounted in the shade of the overhanging rocks, and Padraig fetched a water skin from the packhorse, and we passed it among us, each taking a mouthful or two. It was cooler in the shade, and it was a shame to move on, but we had a long way to go to rejoin the road, and wanted to be well away from the battlefield by nightfall.
So, we climbed into our saddles and moved on. The dry stream-bed was flat and wide, and sufficiently low to allow us to ride without being seen from the hills where the battle was taking place. I pointed this out to Yordanus, who also thought this would be an easier way to go—at least for a short distance—for, although rocky along the slopes leading to the banks rising steep on either side, at its narrowest the bed was fine sand and still wide enough for two to ride abreast. Sydoni came up beside me as we rode along, and we soon fell into conversation.
We talked about trifling things, nothing of any significance or substance. I think she just wanted to put the massacre out of her mind, and I was happy to oblige. Truth be told, I enjoyed Sydoni’s company; on those few occasions she chose to share it with me, I soon found myself profoundly engrossed. Sydoni’s way of expressing herself was unique and, I thought, refreshing. I decided it was her Coptic blood, and her upbringing in Damascus among Muhammedans that made her unlike anyone I had ever known.
Be that as it may, I was paying more attention to her than to the track ahead. “Peacocks are my favorite,” she was saying, “especially when they fly. Their tails are so long and graceful. People eat them in Damascus, but I think they are too beautiful. It would be like eating a sunset.”
“What do they taste like?” I asked, glancing at her face. She hesitated, and I saw her eyes go wide. The words died on her tongue.
I looked where she was gazing and saw a party of Seljuq warriors appear around a bend a few hundred paces ahead. They saw us at the same moment.
There were six of them, each in a bloodred turban, black shirts and trousers, and short black cloaks. They were mounted on identical black Arabian steeds, and each carried a small round shield covered in white horsehide and bearing a sharpened spike in the center boss. The leader of the group had a single white plume atop his turban; he regarded us with bold severity for a moment, and I held my breath.
Merciful God, cover us with your mighty hand, I prayed.
Then turning to the two warriors on his left, he spoke a rapid command, extending his hand toward us as he did so, and my heart lurched in my breast.
“Fly!” I cried, jerking hard on the reins. The gray responded without so much as a quiver of hesitation, and we were away. The horses leapt into full, racing stride effortlessly and with such swiftness I muttered a heartfelt prayer of thanks to God that Nurmal traded in only the finest animals.
Padraig released the packhorse and led the way with Yordanus right behind; Sydoni and I were last, but only by the length of a tail. I slapped the reins across the noble gray’s shoulders and let the horse run, feeling the powerful muscles bunch and flow beneath me as we fled back along the dry stream, the horse’s hooves biting deep into the sandy path and flinging grit skyward.
In no time at all we reached the bend where the track descended down through the cutting between the steep rock outcroppings. I risked a look over my shoulder to see that we had gained ground on our pursuers. We would have to hurry to get everyone up, but once through the gap we would have a clear path and I doubted the Seljuqs would think it worthwhile to follow.
So, with a prayer on my lips, my heart thudding in my chest, I slowed the pace of the gray enough to allow Sydoni to go ahead. Padraig had already reached the cutting and disappeared up the path; Yordanus followed, holding to the saddle like a child as the horse leapt onto the trail. Sydoni’s mount shied. “Hi!” she shouted, and gave the reluctant animal a sharp kick in the flanks with her heels. The horse darted into the gap after the others.
Then it was my turn. The Seljuqs were almost on me. I slapped the reins hard and urged the animal forward. The magnificent gray responded without a quiver of complaint, surging up through the cutting and onto the rock-strewn path. I saw Sydoni gain the track on the other side; she paused and looked back. “Go! Go!” I shouted. “I’m right behind you!”
She disappeared in a clatter of hooves and I saw clear light through the gap, and an empty trail ahead.
That was the last thing I saw. For the next thing I knew, earth and sky had changed places and the ground was rising up before my face. I was thrown clear of the horse and landed hard against the side of the bank, loose rock pelting down on me.
Dust filled my lungs and eyes; I could not breathe or see. My head felt as if it had been driven down between my shoulder blades. Every bone and joint in my body ached, and my right arm tingled strangely. My hands were scraped raw, and my clot
hes were torn, the flesh peeled away from my right hip in a wide and nasty gash.
I could not think what had happened. All I knew was that one moment I had been making good my escape, and the next there was a Seljuq standing over me with a swordpoint at my throat. I made to rise, but the fellow put his foot on my chest and shoved me firmly back down. I lay back, choking and blinking, trying to drag my shattered senses together.
A second warrior appeared above me, spoke a word, and the two of them reached down and hauled me roughly upright. I found myself looking into the impassive face of the Seljuq leader.
Now, of course, I know that the Arab chieftain who addressed me was the Atabeg of Albistan. At the time, however, all I knew was that besides the white plume he possessed the natural authority of a respected leader; a single word or the flick of a hand brought unquestioning obedience from his men.
He regarded me with neither rancor nor curiosity, his shrewd dark eyes taking the measure of his prisoner. He must not have been impressed with what he saw before him, for after the briefest scrutiny, he said something to his companion and turned away. He moved toward his horse, and prepared to remount.
The Seljuq warrior beside me tightened his grip, and his comrade with the sword stepped aside—so as to get a better stroke, I thought, bracing myself for the killing blow.
But the man moved away, and I looked to see my own mount thrashing on the ground, trying to rise. Even in my dazed state I could see the poor beast’s back was broken, and probably his right foreleg as well. In its eagerness to catch the others, the spirited gray had taken the path too quickly and had stumbled on the loose rock.
The commander spoke another quick burst to the soldier with the sword who bent to examine the injury to the animal. His brief scrutiny completed, he stood; the slow shake of his head confirmed what everyone already knew: there was no hope for the beast.
The commander raised his chin sharply, and the warrior bowed. Two men joined the first; one took the reins, and the other brought out a short throwing spear from its holder beneath his saddle. They made the horse lie on its side, and while one held the reins tightly, the other held the animal’s head down, stroking the long jaw and whispering into its ear. The third warrior approached from behind with the spear.
A quick thrust up under the creature’s skull, and it was over. The poor beast gave a shuddery kick, wheezed, and lay still. Satisfied that the horse had not suffered, the commander then turned and started back the way they had come.
A loop of rope was passed around my waist, and I was led off down the dry riverbed. I had to run to keep up, but, mercifully, it was no great distance, else I might have collapsed. Even so, my lungs were burning, and dark spots were dancing before my eyes by the time we reached our destination—a low place on the steep bank near where a number of Christian footmen and a few knights had thought to make their escape from the battlefield.
They had been ridden down and killed, and their bodies now lay strewn over the rocks and sand splattered red with their blood. The Seljuq raiding party had been searching for any who might have escaped along the river when we ran into them.
After a quick search of the dead for valuables, they were stripped of weapons and armor, and the Seljuq commander led his men up the low bank and out onto the plain once more, leading me, and three riderless horses behind them.
Most of the dead were amassed in the center of the plain near the road they had been traveling on when Ghazi sprang his trap. As we approached the road, where the fighting had been fiercest, I began to see corpses heaped one upon another—most of them without armor, and a few even without weapons. I wondered at this and decided that the ambush must have caught them so suddenly that the knights did not have time to arm themselves before the enemy was upon them; they were cut down as they struggled into their helms and hauberks.
The blood of the slain had turned the dust-dry road into a sodden mess, churned to vile mud by the feet of soldiers and Seljuq horses. Already the air was thick with the stink of curdling blood as the white-hot sun beat down on the carnage. The sick-sweet stench filled my nostrils bringing the gorge to my mouth; I gasped and gagged as I was pulled along, desperate to keep my feet lest I be dragged through the gore-slick muck.
I tried not to look at the dead, and averted my eyes whenever I could—their slack mouths and lolling tongues, their astonished empty stares, their raw and gaping wounds—lest they be disgraced in my sight. Their piteous plight filled me with an immense and oppressive remorse. I stumbled across the battleplain staggering over the corpses, bitterness welling anew with every step. An entire army had been cruelly cut down for the ambition of one heedless, headstrong lord. God help me, I cursed Bohemond for the sacrilege of the self-willed arrogance that had blithely squandered so many lives.
My Seljuq captors came to a place a little distance from the road where the victors were gathering. There, under the watchful eyes of their commanders, a vast company of warriors were enthusiastically stripping the dead of their armor, weapons, and clothing. The various items—swords, shields, helmets, spears, mail caps and hauberks, and the like—were brought and tossed onto the swiftly growing heap. Nearby, another, smaller, pile was also increasing; this one contained all the items of silver and gold, or other valuable objects. Bohemond had pressed hard in his effort to reach the Armenian stronghold as quickly as possible, so the crusaders had not pillaged many towns along the way and consequently had little plunder with them.
While I watched this dismal display, a great cry went up from a host of Seljuq warriors massed a short distance away where they were occupied with some great amusement. They waved their curved swords in the air, shouting loudly and enthusiastically. I could not make out what demanded such zealous attention, but more and more warriors were being drawn to the display.
I was still trying to determine what was happening when Amir Ghazi arrived. Surrounded by a bodyguard of fifty warriors on horseback—most of them on milk-white stallions like his own, and all dressed alike in cloaks of deepest blue with crimson turbans—he sat comfortably upon a raised, cushioned saddle of fine polished leather edged in silver. A small, smooth-faced man, he was swathed in shimmering blue samite, and wore a huge red turban surmounted by a peacock plume held in place with a great glittering emerald the size of a duck egg. In his cloak of white samite, he fairly gleamed like a star in the harsh sunlight as he sat in his high saddle and gazed at the still-growing mounds of treasure and weapons with the calm, beatific smile of a cheerful god.
He advanced and reined up before the atabeg and his men. The two addressed one another amiably and fell to discussing, as I imagined, the battle and its aftermath. At one point, the amir turned his attention to me; my captor simply shrugged, as if my presence was of little consequence, and they went back to their conversation.
They were thus occupied when all at once another tremendous shout went up from the nearby host. The amir turned in the saddle and, raising himself in his silver stirrups, attempted to peer over the heads of the close-gathered throng. Failing this, he spoke a command to his men, and a dozen or so warriors wheeled their mounts and rode to the gathering on the plain. Using the butts of their spears, the warriors began prodding them out of the way, clearing a path by which the amir might see what was taking place just beyond them.
As the pathway widened, I saw with sickening dread what it was that so engrossed the watching warriors: the bloody execution of the prisoners. Not all of the crusaders had been slaughtered in the valley; two hundred or so remained alive and had surrendered themselves. These men had been herded together onto the plain, and were now undergoing summary execution by the victors.
This was bad enough; what made it infinitely worse was the way in which the executions were being carried out. Even as I watched, one poor wretch of a foot soldier was pulled screaming from among his companions and hauled to the center of the plain where he was released. The instant he was freed, two Seljuq riders sped out from the near end of the field—one
with a spear and the other brandishing a sword. The two closed rapidly on the fleeing crusader.
Leaning from the saddle, the foremost Arab waved his sword high. There was a glinting flash of steel in the air, and the victim’s head flew from his shoulders, spinning bright ribbons of blood into the air. The decapitated corpse stumbled on a step or two and collapsed, jerking and quivering until it lay still. The disembodied head struck the barren ground to roll like a lumpy ball in the dust.
The whole hideous spectacle was greatly and warmly cheered by the ecstatic onlookers, many of whom had struck wagers on the rider’s ability. That they should do this appalled me, and rage bubbled up like molten rock inside me. Instantly, I was overcome by a towering fury; my vision darkened and my blood flared like liquid fire in my veins.
Burning with impotent rage, I raised my fist to Heaven and called down fiery judgment to consume the heartless infidel. But the sky remained clear and no flaming thunderbolts descended to scorch the brutal victors’ heads. When God withdraws his protective hand, the powers of hell are swift to claim the spoils.
THIRTY-TWO
CAIT, MY LIGHT, I cannot contain myself. For the first time in my captivity, a great fear and uncertainty has descended upon me and I do not know what to do. I pace and pray the night away besieged by a hopeless dread the like of which I have never known.
This very night, two members of the caliph’s bodyguard burst into my cell. Although it was late and all the palace was silent, I was hastened directly to the throne room where the exalted caliph had previously received me, as you will remember. The great room was in darkness, save for two torches burning in sconces either side of a door at the far end of the room.
The Black Rood Page 30