Knights of the Cross

by Tom Harper

  ‘Yes,’ shrieked Bartholomew. ‘It is true – there was a brotherhood. You could not understand it for it was a fellowship of purity, of sanctity.’

  ‘A fellowship of purity?’ I repeated. ‘Why should that have been kept a secret?’

  ‘Because the Devil has many spies lurking to snatch us. Because the Army of God has become corrupted. Our leaders have forgotten Christ and are fallen prey to selfish greed; our camp festers with vice and blasphemy. Why else has God deserted us before this city? Voices cry out to them to straighten their ways, but they suppress us. That is why we meet in secret and hide the marks of our faith, lest the ravening wolves of Satan consume us.’

  ‘And Drogo and Rainauld were adepts of this group?’ I did not know whether to trust him, but there was a terrified force in his words that betold their truth.

  ‘I cannot say.’

  ‘You will say.’ I tapped him with my knife again, though this time on unbroken skin.

  ‘I cannot. We are sworn to secrecy – and even if I have betrayed that, I cannot betray my companions. I do not know their names.’

  ‘You must have seen some whom you recognised.’

  ‘My eyes were only focused on God.’ Having revealed his secret and survived, Bartholomew seemed to be finding new strength.

  ‘How did you discover the group, if you knew no one in it?’

  ‘My friend – who is dead – brought the priest to speak with me. She spoke with me for many hours, opening my eyes to truth and repentance. Afterwards—’

  So confused were my thoughts that it took a full sentence for me to hear the meaning of his words. ‘She?’ I exploded, spinning him round so that he stared up at me. ‘The priest was a woman? What sort of heresy was this?’

  ‘No heresy but the truth of Christ. Consider the Holy Virgin Mary, the mother of Jesus – she was a woman made a vessel of God’s purpose. Why not another? Sarah lived—’

  ‘Sarah? Her name was Sarah?’ I felt like a man flailing on the edge of a cliff, snatching at branches not knowing if they would snap or hold. ‘She was a Provençal?’

  Bartholomew shook his head, plainly terrified by my frenzy. ‘She was not a Provençal. I thought she was a Greek, though she did not speak of it. Her name was Sarah.’

  ‘Demetrios!’

  The sound of my name spun me around in redoubled confusion. Stooped under the tent flaps, a Patzinak behind him, Sigurd was watching me. His face was grim.

  ‘What is it?’ I asked.

  ‘Tatikios has summoned us.’

  ‘Tatikios can wait,’ I insisted. ‘My business is urgent.’

  ‘You must come. He has decided to leave Antioch.’

  Sigurd led me at a run to Tatikios’ tent, saying nothing. My fears redoubled when I saw a band of Norman knights gathered in front of it, but they did not hinder us. Tatikios’ guards were nowhere to be seen.

  I had always thought the interior to be spacious, but it seemed crowded as we entered now. Four more Normans were standing near the door, three of them in armour and one in chains between them. They formed an immovable mass of iron, about which Tatikios’ slaves scurried in haste, bearing bundles of cloth and arms. The rich partitioning curtain had been ripped from its hangings, and the icon of the three warrior saints had vanished from its stand. In the centre, standing by his silvered chair, stood a highly agitated Tatikios.

  ‘Demetrios. You have come at last.’ He twisted his hands together, made as if to step forward, then slumped into the chair instead.

  ‘You are leaving, Lord?’ I asked in confusion.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘The better to bring this siege to a close. And for my own safety.’

  ‘Your safety is assured while the Varangians serve you.’ Sigurd stepped forward, his axe prominent in his hands. ‘A brutish gang of Normans will not trouble you.’

  ‘On the contrary.’ Tatikios’ voice had jumped high as a girl’s. ‘It is they—’

  ‘It is we who have saved him.’ The moment the leading Norman spoke, all attention switched to him, to the strength of command in his voice. With his head hidden under a helmet and his back to me, I had not recognised him, though size alone should have warned me. As he turned to face me, he revealed the red-and-white mottled skin, the russet beard and dark hair squeezed beneath the dome of his helmet, the eyes as pale as a winter sky.

  ‘I owe my life to the Lord Bohemond,’ Tatikios protested. Absent-mindedly, he scratched the side of his golden nose as if it itched.

  ‘How?’

  ‘We have discovered a plot,’ said Bohemond. ‘A base conspiracy among those who hate the Emperor.’

  ‘They planned to murder me,’ Tatikios squeaked. ‘Me – the Grand Primikerios, plenipotentiary of the Emperor himself. Can you conceive it?’

  ‘Wickedness indeed,’ said Sigurd inscrutably.

  ‘Why should they do that?’ I asked. ‘What would they gain?’

  Bohemond turned to the man in chains behind him, secured between the two knights. ‘Well, worm? What did you hope to gain by your treachery?’

  ‘Mercy, Lord.’ Long hair covered the prisoner’s sagging face so I could not see him; he moaned as Bohemond aimed a kick at his knee. ‘Have mercy on me.’

  ‘Confess yourself.’

  ‘I planned to steal into the eunuch’s tent late at night and stab him in the heart. I despise the Greeks. Their presence in our army draws the Lord’s wrath. They promised to feed us, and we are hungry. They promised gold, and we are poor. They promised to fight, but they sit comfortably in their palaces. Now, at their Emperor’s command, they pay the Turks to assail us in secret, that we might be destroyed.’ His voice, which had been curiously unpassioned, now began to rise. ‘Only when their filth is driven from our camp will the Lord favour us with victory. Only—’

  ‘Enough.’ Bohemond slapped his hand across the man’s cheek. The prisoner subsided into silence. ‘You see, my Lord Tatikios, the ignorance of some of my followers. I crave your forgiveness, but too many in my army do not love the Greeks. Their charges are lies and slanders, but however often I deny them they are believed.’

  ‘How did you discover this plot?’ I asked.

  Bohemond did not even look at me to answer. ‘One of his companions betrayed him.’

  ‘Luckily so,’ declared Tatikios fervently. ‘You, Demetrios, are charged with ensuring my safety. You are supposed to guard against rumours and betrayals. You have failed me – and it is only by the good offices of Lord Bohemond that I am saved.’

  I bowed my head, and said nothing. I could guess why I might have failed.

  ‘But if the conspiracy has been discovered and the murderer captured, then why are you leaving?’ Sigurd broke in. ‘To abandon the siege now would be—’

  Tatikios drew himself up in his chair, and fixed a haughty stare on Sigurd. ‘I do not abandon the siege, Captain. If you suggest that I do, I will have you dragged across Anatolia in chains to learn humility.’

  The axe seemed to tremble in Sigurd’s hands, but he kept silent.

  ‘This wretch, I fear, is only one gust in a storm.’ Bohemond gestured to the prisoner. ‘There is a whirlwind brewing in my camp – and among all the Franks – and I cannot pledge to halt every evil they may concoct.’

  ‘If it were only my own safety, that would matter nothing,’ said Tatikios stiffly. ‘But there are other concerns, higher duties. If we are to prosecute this siege to its end, we shall need reinforcements. The Emperor is campaigning in Anatolia – I will undertake an embassy to persuade him to advance swiftly in all his power and might.’

  Bohemond nodded. ‘A wise plan. Although . . .’

  ‘What?’

  ‘If you leave now, while our prospects seem bleak, there will be many in the camp who misconstrue your motives. Some will talk of fear – others, perhaps, of cowardice. And if they think the Greeks have abandoned them, they may even believe themselves released from their oath to your Emperor, free to seize whate
ver lands they can.’

  ‘They will soon find their error when the Emperor returns.’

  ‘It would be easier if you left some token of your trust, evidence to persuade my companions to adhere to the Emperor. If you were to confirm one of our number in possession of lands, for example, none could deny the good faith of the Greeks. It need not even be lands that you already possess,’ Bohemond added, seeing the doubt on Tatikios’ face. ‘If you assigned future conquests to our charge – under the Emperor’s authority, of course – you would prove your good will at little cost.’

  Bohemond could not hide the hunger in his voice, nor in his eyes, as he stared down on the eunuch. Tatikios, to his credit, did not look away, but gazed back as impassive as if he were in the Emperor’s palace. I hoped he could see the doubt written bold across my face.

  ‘You speak wisely, Lord Bohemond,’ he said at last. ‘I would not desire my departure to become a pretext for any man breaking his oath. Any who did would surely be called to a reckoning before God and my Emperor. As a sign of my earnest desire for friendship and favour between our peoples, I will do as you suggest.’

  I fancied that I saw Bohemond’s tongue shoot out like an adder’s, licking his lips in expectation.

  ‘Your nephew Tancred currently claims the lands of Mamistra, Tarsus and Adana in Cilicia. I confirm them in his possession, as vassal to the Emperor.’

  A spasm passed through Bohemond’s back as if he had been struck by a lance. ‘The lands of Cilicia were taken from Armenians,’ he protested, unable to keep the wound from his voice. ‘They are not the Emperor’s to bestow.’

  ‘The Armenians held them from the Emperor. Now Tancred does. I will have my scribe write out the charter. And as a further pledge of my honour,’ he continued, before Bohemond could object, ‘I will leave my tent and my supplies and a company of my men here at Antioch, until I return.’

  ‘We will value them, Lord.’ The calm had returned to Bohemond’s voice, though the skin on his cheeks throbbed red. ‘But you cannot forget your own safety. There are many brigands and Turks between here and Philomelium, and the road is dangerous. You will need an escort.’

  ‘I will sail from Saint Simeon, and take the Patzinaks. Sigurd will remain here as captain, in command of the Varangians. Demetrios, you will see to the well-being of our camp followers and servants.’

  ‘What will become of the Norman conspirator?’ I asked.

  ‘He will be judged and punished according to our laws,’ said Bohemond harshly.

  ‘Good.’ Tatikios clapped his hands together, and rose. There seemed a confidence in his bearing that I had not seen in weeks. ‘I must make my preparations and go. My cause is urgent, and the road long.’ He looked to Bohemond. ‘I shall report to the Emperor all I have seen, and pray that he comes to rescue his noble allies.’

  Bohemond bowed. ‘I shall pray that he comes in time.’

  Tatikios left two hours later, a stiff figure on a grey palfrey. Two hundred Patzinaks followed on foot, their spears straight and rigid as the bars of a cage, while two dozen horses carried his baggage. We could ill afford to lose the animals, and a detachment of Varangians was sent to escort them back when the men had embarked from the harbour. With a leaden heart, I watched the column ride towards the pale sun as it dipped behind the mountains into the sea.

  ‘We won’t see him again,’ said Sigurd.

  I laughed, though there was no joy in it. ‘Because he won’t return?’ I asked. ‘Or because we shall not be here when he does?’

  A wispy feather of down, perhaps from some newly hatched bird, had drifted onto the blade of Sigurd’s axe. He brushed it away, and gave no answer.

  ι ε

  I had not believed a word of the plot that Bohemond claimed to have discovered, and my distrust proved well founded. I never heard of any punishment meted out to the Norman who had confessed; to the contrary, the next time I saw him, some days later, he was mounted on a fine colt and lavishly dressed. No doubt he had been well rewarded for serving Bohemond’s purpose.

  Two nights after Tatikios left I saw more of Bohemond’s schemes. It was after dark, on a grim evening, when a Frankish priest called at my tent. I recognised him from my interview with Bishop Adhemar, a dark-haired man named Stephen.

  ‘His Grace the Bishop of Le Puy sends greetings,’ he announced to me and Sigurd. ‘The princes hold a council tonight, and you would benefit by attending.’

  ‘Benefit whom?’ I asked, suspicious of any Frankish invitation.

  ‘Come and learn.’

  As captain, it was Sigurd’s place to go, but he insisted that I accompany him. ‘Someone may need to restrain my temper. And I would not trust Bohemond further than I could swing my axe.’

  The council was held in Adhemar’s tent, its furniture stripped away and four benches arranged in the customary square. As ever, Count Raymond had contrived to sit facing the door, where men looked first, with the bishop at his right. On the bench to their left, resplendent in a wine-red robe with a golden belt, was Bohemond. I avoided his gaze and tried to seat myself on the end of the bench opposite Adhemar. Almost immediately there was dissent.

  ‘My Lords, who are these peasants who disturb our council, foreigners who creep in to spy our secrets? Call your knights, Bishop, and send them away to the dungheap they crawled from.’

  It was the Duke of Normandy who spoke, his fat cheeks puffed up like a cow’s. A well-fed belly pressed against the rich silk of his tunic, and he swayed slightly as he spoke. He had distinguished himself by spending almost the entire siege far from Antioch, safe on the coast, and I wondered what it signified that he had returned now. I knew that Sigurd hated him above all Normans, for he was the son of the bastard who had conquered Sigurd’s English homeland.

  ‘Peace, Duke Robert,’ said Adhemar. ‘These men speak for the Emperor himself, to whom you are all sworn. It is right that they should attend our council.’

  ‘A dog may bark when his master is away, but you do not invite him to your table. These are not princes – they are vagabonds. They are not our equals.’

  Adhemar frowned. ‘All are equal in the eyes of the Lord – while they keep His peace. Soon we shall need every sinew of our strength if we are to survive.’

  The threat in his words silenced them, and they retreated glowering to their benches. Adhemar offered a prayer, then turned to Duke Godfrey.

  ‘The Duke of Lorraine brings news.’

  ‘From my brother Baldwin,’ said Godfrey. The jewelled cross he wore swung from his neck as he stood. ‘He has sent a messenger from Edessa.’

  When we were halfway across Anatolia, the Duke’s landless brother Baldwin had broken away from the army and ridden east, hoping to seize Armenian lands for himself. In a progression of violence, cunning and murder, he had – according to reports – first been adopted heir of the local ruler, then bloodily deposed him, and now ruled the far-flung lands of Edessa as tyrant. Having had some dealings with Baldwin at Constantinople, I could well believe the story.

  ‘Baldwin sends word that, even now, Kerbogha the Terrible, Atabeg of Mosul, marches his army towards Antioch.’ A babble of panicked chatter burst across the room. ‘From every province of the Turkish empire, from Mesopotamia, Persia and distant Khorasan, he has assembled ar army to drive us from Asia. Already when Baldwin wrote they neared Edessa – within a month, or even within weeks, they will be here.’

  The tumult in the room stopped as Adhemar banged his staff on the ground. In an instant the sallow-skinned Count Hugh was on his feet.

  ‘We must retreat immediately,’ he announced, his tongue flapping to keep pace with his terror. ‘There is no glory in a rout. We must fall back on Heraklea, or Iconium, and join with the Emperor’s forces. Remember that we are but the vanguard of Christendom, and even as we speak fresh armies of the pious are pouring out of the west to aid us. After we have reinforced ourselves, then we can battle this Turk as he deserves.’

  ‘Retreat?’ Raymond bored
his single-eyed glare into the hapless Hugh. ‘Have you forgotten the torments that brought us here – the passes so steep that even crows could not get into them to feast on our dead, and the salt deserts where we withered? If we journey north, rocks and thorns will rip our ragged army apart long before the Turks come. Besides, Jerusalem is to the south – and I will not turn my course until I have fulfilled my vow to walk in the footsteps of Christ.’

  His outburst drew approving nods and murmurs, though there was little conviction in them. I saw Adhemar whisper something in his ear, but before the bishop could speak to the council Bohemond had risen. As ever, there was something in his presence which commanded attention, and the company fell silent.

  ‘Count Raymond speaks the truth. We cannot go back: the road will destroy us.’

  He paused, allowing others to mutter their assent. Looking at the Count of Saint-Gilles, I saw his head crooked to one side, the eye half-closed, almost as if he were falling asleep.

  Bohemond hooked his thumb on his belt. ‘But the Count of Vermandois speaks the truth also. There is no glory in a rout.’

  ‘Then what would you have us do?’ snapped Godfrey. ‘We cannot fight; we cannot flee: shall we sit in our tents until Kerbogha burns us alive in them?’

  Bohemond showed no concern. ‘The Duke of Lorraine asks what I would have us do. I will tell you. Kerbogha the Terrible rushes on us like a bull. If we fight, we are gored on one horn. If we run, we are gored on the other. If we do nothing, we are trampled under the hooves. What, then, do we do?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘We strike it clean between the eyes.’ As if from the air itself, a bone-handled knife appeared in Bohemond’s hand. He rolled the hilt in his palm. ‘In the scant time remaining, we take the city and make it a bulwark to withstand everything the Turks may throw at us. For six months we have sat out here like women, hoping that the Lord would send some miracle to break open the city. Now we have His sign. If we cannot force the city, we are unworthy of our quest. When I hear that Kerbogha is coming, I am not afraid.’ His restless gaze dropped a moment on Hugh, and moved on. ‘I rejoice that now, when the fire is hottest, we may prove ourselves true before God. Every alternative is death. What does the council say?’