They presented me with the box, and the Armenian katib informed me that I was to carry it—a sort of punishment, I suppose, for causing the amir the aggravation of having to deal with me. Or, maybe it was the scribe’s revenge for my subtle mockery of the day before. Whatever the reason, I carried the head of Bohemond on my back all the way to Damascus. A loathsome labor, I cursed the arrogant young lord every trudging step of the way.
Provided with a length of folded cloth to serve as a strap, I hoisted the bejeweled box onto my back and followed the other servants when, upon striking camp, they set off. The box was heavy, and in a discouragingly short time my shoulders and arms were throbbing with a fiery ache. I eventually worked out that by knotting the ends of the strap and raising the knot to my forehead, the pressure on my shoulders was relieved by taking some of the weight on my hands. It was awkward, and bent me like an old man, but at least I was able to walk like this for long stretches at a time without exhausting myself.
On that first day, I wondered why it was that the amir’s caravan made no attempt to keep pace with the troops. After a time, it became apparent that we were traveling by another route. This caused me some concern, and I hoped we would eventually rejoin the rest of the Seljuq army, as I did not like being separated from the other Christian prisoners.
Then, as the day dwindled away toward evening and we stopped to make camp, I was joined by three other captive noblemen bound for ransom in Damascus; all were Franks. One of them had been wounded in the battle, and still suffered from his wounds; the other two were nobles of a more rustic stripe who knew little Latin, and no Greek, which made it difficult to speak with them. Also, because of my dress and speech, they thought me an Armenian and worthy only of contempt; say what I might, I could not disabuse them of this notion. Consequently, they would have nothing to do with me, and I was left to myself for the most part.
In many ways, those servants employed in the keeping of the amir’s camp had the best of the traveling. Since much of the treasure and tribute was loaded onto horses, requiring the servants to walk along beside, they stopped regularly for rest and water—much more often than the great mass of the army, which pushed swiftly on. So, when they rested, my fellow prisoners and I rested; and when they drank, we drank.
Those first few days were blessedly shortened, or I do not believe I would have survived. As it was, we walked until the burning sun stretched our shadows long behind us. Then the chief steward, having found a suitable place, would give the command to set up camp. In this chore, I had no part; each servant had his special duties and, as I was given nothing to do—except fetch water for the animals occasionally—I was most often able to rest and watch the hurried proceedings as tents were erected, cooking fires lit, and meals prepared.
Each evening, as the flame-tinted sky flared with the day’s last brilliance, the amir and his retinue would arrive and the camp would be ready. The amir ate a simple meal, usually alone, and then received members of his following—sometimes singly, more often in groups of two or three.
Left to myself for the most part, I would find a hollow place among the stones to sleep, and lay on the ground listening to the sound of the Seljuqs’ voices, loud in the quiet of the camp. They talked long into the night, their intense discussions frequently interrupted by bursts of rowdy laughter which would cease as abruptly as they began. Then, in the morning, the amir would emerge from his tent, give orders to the chief steward, mount his horse and ride away, leaving us to strike camp and move on to the next stopping place.
After we had been several days on the trail, my presence ceased to be of interest to my erstwhile guards. I was treated no more or less well than a dog or mule belonging to the camp; if no one took any interest in my welfare, neither did they show me cruelty or inflict needless torment. They were not warriors, after all, but servants: inexperienced in keeping prisoners and largely unaware of any pressing need to keep me bound or tethered in any way. Perhaps they reckoned escape unlikely as, with nothing but empty desert wilderness stretching away in every direction, there was no place for me to flee.
This was the unvarying pattern of the next eight or ten days—each day so like the last that I lost count, and simply drifted along until we came in sight of Damascus. I heard one of the Arabs shout, and the others began to chatter excitedly all at once. I raised my head and saw the shimmering dazzle on the far horizon.
It was late in the day, and the low sun set the high, white stone walls glowing like kindled ivory or lustrous alabaster. I wiped the sweat from my eyes, and gazed on the glimmering city with a thrill of mingled excitement and alarm. Ahead lay the fate toward which I had been slowly moving for many days, and I had no idea what to expect when we reached our destination.
Rather than push on to the city, the chief steward halted the caravan at a nearby well. As the servants scurried to establish the camp, I put down my burden and sat on the mud brick rim of the well to watch while the servants scurried to make ready to receive their lord. I noticed that some greater care attended this evening’s chores, and it occurred to me that perhaps the amir was preparing to receive dignitaries from the city.
For, once the amir’s tent had been erected beneath the tall date palms, the treasure—which ordinarily remained packed and secured with the animals—was unloaded and brought to the amir’s tent. This task finished, the servants hastened to prepare the evening meal, and I took the opportunity to doze awhile in the dying rays of the sun.
The chief steward must have caught sight of me sleeping, and saw the carved box between my feet, for I was roused with a sharp kick in my ribs and I woke to find him standing over me, railing in Arabic. Before he could kick me again, I jumped to my feet, whereupon he snatched up the box and thrust it into my arms. Still shouting, he gestured toward the amir’s tent and at last I understood that I was to take the box and put it with the rest of the treasure.
I obeyed. As there was no one to take the box from me—everyone was busy with other chores—and as the entrance flap was open, I entered the tent myself. The treasure had been dumped in a careless, cascading heap. I checked my first impulse to simply pitch the box onto the pile and walk away, but fearing the square casket might come open and spill its grotesque contents, I decided to take a moment and make a secure place for the box to rest.
I carefully pulled a few items from the haphazard hoarding and set them to one side—a golden bowl, a ceremonial quiver containing four gilded arrows, an alabaster chalice rimmed and footed with silver, a pair of beaded silk shoes, and so on. This created a goodly space, but as I bent to retrieve the box a few items from the top of the stack started to slide and I soon found myself pulling things from the heap in order to keep the entire mound from toppling.
One of the objects caught my attention as I picked it up. Black and heavy, it looked like a thick oblong casket made of wood and very old. Less than the length of my forearm, both ends were bound in heavy gold into which a number of rubies had been set; each ruby was ringed with tiny pearls. Curiously, I could see neither hinge nor hasp. Closer examination confirmed that there was no lid or opening of any kind. Farther, the wood was deeply grooved, worn smooth and polished by much handling, but dense and heavy still, and hard as iron.
A strange feeling crept over me as I stood holding that short length of age-darkened timber and realized I had found the holiest treasure this side of heaven. I had found the Black Rood. My heart began to beat more quickly, and I was overcome by a powerful urge to kneel down and cradle the strange object to my breast.
Fearful of being discovered, I quickly turned and made my way to the tent opening to see all the servants working away busily. The camp steward was overseeing the preparation of the cooking fires, and there was no one near the tent that I could see. Retreating into the tent once more, I knelt down and picked up the relic and held it for a moment as one might hold an infant child.
Like my father before me, I had discovered the treasure of a lifetime carelessly stowed in an Ar
ab tent. A prize of battle, nothing more, with no more meaning to those who captured it than the price of the gold and gems adorning its surface.
These thoughts were the realization of an instant, and fleeting at that. I knelt and embraced the holy object, and reverenced it with eyes closed and a prayer of thanksgiving in my mouth. Strange to feel such an upwelling of emotion at the ordinary sight of this bulky chunk of old, old wood. Truly, there was no mystery or enchantment in its appearance. Yet, there was mystery.
For as I knelt in the fading light of the open entrance, I felt a quickening presence in the tent. The still air suddenly seemed to seethe with an almost oppressive power. My lungs labored as if trying to breathe water. My hands began to shake uncontrollably; lest I drop the holy object, I placed it on the carpeted floor before me and, to keep my hands from trembling, clasped them tightly together in prayer.
“I am holding fast to God,” I prayed, “and he is holding fast to me. I am holding fast to Christ, and he is holding fast to me. I am holding fast to the Spirit, and he is holding fast to me. The Great King, Lord of Heaven above and Earth below, holding fast to me!”
I placed my trembling hands on the holy object and prayed, “Hear your servant, Lord and Master: I stand ready to do your will. Do not let this sacred treasure pass from the world through ignorance or careless disregard. My God and Savior, let me redeem it from the hands of the unworthy who in their hateful pride and folly have disgraced, defiled, and demeaned your matchless gift.”
The thought that the unclean hands of unbelievers should touch this sacred relic filled me with a great disgust. I took up one of the many rugs which served as a floor for the tent and, reverently and prayerfully, wrapped the holy object in the rug and tied it with a braided cord I pulled from around a large jar containing pungent frankincense.
Then, in all reverence, I carefully replaced the Holy Rood in amongst the other items of plunder, rose, and crept from the tent. Having found the object of my quest, I did not want to allow my Seljuq captors any reason for suspicion. So, I left the tent before I was discovered, and returned to my place beside the well.
That night I lay awake gazing at the stars wheeling slowly overhead, and thinking about the Black Rood. I prayed over and over again that I might be accounted worthy to be the one to rescue it. As I held this prayer in my mind, I sensed the same quickening presence I felt in Ghazi’s tent—a curious sensation. I once felt something like it in the woods when I suddenly became aware of someone, or something watching me as I knelt beside a stream for a drink of water. I slowly turned to see a large tufted wildcat crouched in a patch of sunlight a few dozen paces behind me.
Sleek, wild and powerful, muscles twitching, the magnificent creature stood with lowered head, its golden eyes aflame with a fierce intensity as it observed this odd new kind of prey. I had the same feeling now—as if I were being stalked by something of immense power, grace and subtlety; it had drawn near and fixed me in its burning gaze.
I looked across the silent camp to the amir’s tent, dark and shadowy against the starlit sky. Nothing in the camp moved; there was no sound.
The next thing I knew I was on my feet, moving toward the amir’s tent. The guards were asleep; no one called out to stop me. And then I was inside. A small lamp, hanging from the central post cast a gently wavering light over the mound of treasure with which the amir impressed his many guests. I could hear the slow ebb and flow of the amir’s breathing as he slept on his cushioned bed in the next room; only the cloth partition separated us.
Strangely, I felt no fear of discovery, although it would certainly have brought about immediate execution. On the contrary, I was bathed in a serenity of calm which gave me a feeling of fearless exultation as I set about gently shifting the various items of plunder in the amir’s treasure trove in order to uncover the Black Rood. I moved one object and then another, and a few more, and then…the priceless relic lay before me.
“Great High King, reveal your glory through your servant,” I whispered. I said the first thing that came to mind only, but as soon as the words touched my lips, wonder of wonders, the tent began to fade around me—as if the fabric walls had become a thin, gauzy stuff allowing me to see, as through a veil, all the camp around me. Yet, it was not the camp I saw, but a busy road leading to the walls of a great city.
As I tried to make sense in what I was seeing, there arose a shout from the direction of the city. I looked toward the towering walls and saw a crowd of people emerging from the wide open gates.
With a cry like that of hounds scenting blood, this dark raging flood poured out from the city almost as swiftly as the dark storm clouds gathering in the dull yellow sky overhead. The blue-black bulging heads and shoulders of mighty clouds boiled in the stifling desert air, and away in the distance I could hear the low grumble of thunder.
There were others nearby, standing beside the road, waiting for the crowd to pass. I quickly joined them to see what was happening. The crowd came closer and soon reached the place where I was standing, and I saw that they were driving some poor wretch before them—prodding and shoving him along. As they drew near, I saw that his arms were tied to a rough-hewn wooden beam, and when he stumbled, they hauled him up by yanking on the ends of the beam and, once on his feet, they drove him on.
The crowd soon reached the place where I stood, but were so intent in the pursuit of their ambition they paid me no heed. They were a murderous rabble, it seemed to me; dirty beggars, street brawlers, and cudgelmen for the most part—although, here and there amidst the bedraggled mob the glint of a gold ring, a silver brooch, or the high, tapering crown of a well-made hat, gave me to know there were men of rank and power among them—and also a handful of soldiers, dressed in Roman armor.
As they hastened by, the prisoner stumbled and went down. Those foremost in the crowd snatched him upright again, and the pain made him gasp with agony, and I saw why: the wretch’s back was a sodden expanse of mutilated skin and muscle forming a massive raw, gaping wound. Merciful God, great tattered shreds of flesh hung from his shoulders, ripped from his broad sturdy back by the wicked, iron-tipped Roman lash. Blood coursed freely down his sides, staining his torn robe and spattering the dusty road with each jolting step.
He took but one more step and fell again. They were on him in an instant, kicking at him and shouting for him to get up. Two soldiers shoved into the throng and while one began pushing people away, the other seized the end of the beam and untied the ropes binding the man’s arms.
The crowd howled with rage and three more legionaries appeared and waded in, forcing the rabble back with the shafts of their short spears. One of the soldiers turned and seized a man—a huge black Ethiope on his way to the city, and who, like myself, was merely standing alongside the road watching the fearful procession. Too frightened to resist, the poor fellow was yanked into the wild maelstrom, and pressed into service.
Freed from the crushing burden of the beam, the wounded prisoner made to rise; he lifted his head and looked up, his eyes met my gaze, and my heart caught in my throat, for I knew I looked into the battered face of God’s own dear son.
THIRTY-SIX
THAT ONCE-NOBLE visage was bruised and bleeding, the high, handsome brow shattered and the straight, fine nose broken. A circlet cap had been woven of desert briar and the thorns jammed into his scalp. Blood trickled from the wounds, mixing with the dust of the road to form muddy rivulets down his face. His eyes as they beheld mine, although filled with anguish, were yet keen with intelligence and a burning volition.
That was all I had—a single, fleeting look—but I swear all the grief and care of creation was in that pain-riven glance. The crowd, baying like crazed hounds, urged him on. The soldiers gabbed his arms and hauled him upright. He was shoved on his way with the Ethiope following behind, dragging the heavy crossbeam. And the ghastly retinue lurched along once more.
I stood for a moment, too astonished and terrified to move; and then, before I knew it, I was followi
ng the crowd, surrounded by a large number of loudly wailing women, and giddy, excited children. We continued down the road toward a curious, hump-shaped hill no great distance from the city walls.
The hill was topped by a rocky outcrop against which a large timberwork frame had been erected. A small contingent of bored-looking legionaries sat waiting on the hillside near the road. By the time I pushed my way to the front of the crowd, I saw the Lord Christ standing with splendid dignity, head erect, struggling to remain upright while the crowd surged and seethed around him.
The soldiers wasted no time. Grabbing the crosspiece from the Ethiope, they dragged it up the hillside a few paces and threw it on the ground. Then, laying hands on the condemned man, they stripped off his clothes and pulled him up to the beam, turned him around, and pushed him down onto his bloody back. He winced with pain, but did not cry out.
One of the waiting legionaries, a burly, muscled hulk in a leather laborer’s apron, rose and stepped quickly to the prisoner. Shirtless, his big arms glistening, he gave a nod of command and the prisoner’s right arm was stretched out and held down on the timber. Then, kneeling on the condemned man’s arm so as to hold it still, he ground a splayed thumb into the hollow of the man’s forearm just above the wrist and held it there for a moment.
With his other hand he reached into a pocket of his leather apron and drew out a thick iron spike which he placed where his thumb had been. Then, with quick, practiced efficiency he reached behind him and took up a short, heavy blacksmith’s hammer. The movement was so swift I did not see what was happening at first.
I saw the soldier’s great arm rise with dread purpose and fall with a solid resonating crack. In the same instant the Lord Jesu’s head jerked up, eyes bulging, mouth snatched open in a soundless scream of agony as the hard metal smashed through the flesh and tendons and veins of his wrist.
The Black Rood Page 34