by Tom Harper
‘But where is Bohemond?’ asked Raymond. He said it lightly, as if referring to a well-renowned horse he had been curious to see. No one was deceived.
Godfrey looked up. Where the trials of the past two months had slowly twisted the roots of Raymond’s soul, so that his whole body appeared crooked and misshapen, Godfrey seemed to have benefited from the interlude. His bearing was firm, his face bright, his blond hair thick as a lion’s mane and his blue eyes unyielding with purpose.
‘Bohemond set out with us from Antioch two weeks ago. Three days later, he turned back.’
Raymond breathed a slow sigh, like a warm summer wind. His hunched shoulders relaxed and his bearing straightened, so that he seemed taller, more noble again.
‘He will not come,’ he declared softly, almost to himself. ‘He has shown himself at last.’
‘He swore he would honour his oath to worship at the tomb of Christ,’ said Godfrey.
‘When better men have captured it.’ Raymond laughed in savage triumph. ‘Bohemond’s part in this enterprise is over. Our names will ring in history as the conquerors of the holy city; Bohemond’s will be forgotten, or remembered only in the annals of traitors and cowards. As soon as Arqa is taken we will fall on Jerusalem like wolves.’
‘As soon as Arqa is taken? I did not bring my army here at a forced march to defend you against a few Saracen villagers marooned on a hilltop. We should go now.’
Several of the other princes nodded their agreement. Raymond stiffened, bending forward like a bow drawn tight.
‘I have besieged this town for a month; I will not see all that effort wasted now.’
‘Better than seeing it wasted two months from now,’ said Tancred.
Raymond looked as if he might strike Tancred – and Tancred, equally, as if he would relish fighting the old man. Fortunately, at that moment the council was interrupted by a commotion among the guards. A small knot of men were trying to push through, their voices raised in indignant protest. The guards waved their spears and shouted them back; for a moment I feared this might be the moment that the entire army broke apart in open battle. But Raymond must have recognised one of them, for he angrily called the guards to let the newcomer in.
A short, pot-bellied man shrugged his way between them and marched across to the tent. The camelskin tunic flapped around his knees, bulging out over the leather belt that tied it, and his small eyes surveyed us from the illtempered face. He seemed different in daylight, smaller in every part except his belly, but I recognised him at once as the man I had seen in the pilgrim camp – Peter Bartholomew’s self-styled prophet.
He did not have the air of a peasant approaching the great princes of the earth. He held his head high and sure, his fat lips pouting as if he had already detected some slight against his dignity. All the princes stayed seated, save Raymond who was already standing.
‘What is happening here?’ he demanded. He turned on Count Raymond. ‘Why have you summoned secret councils without my lord Peter Bartholomew’s presence, bless his name?’
In any other place, to speak as he did to a man of Raymond’s station would have been death. Instead, Raymond choked back his obvious anger and said simply, ‘This does not concern Peter Bartholomew.’
‘That is for him to judge.’ The prophet’s eyes swept around the gathering, defying them to argue.
Godfrey ignored him. ‘Who is he?’ he asked Raymond. His face was a mask of distaste.
‘I am John, disciple and prophet of Peter Bartholomew, bless his name.’ He rounded on Godfrey, who somehow contrived to evade the accusing stare and fix his gaze just over the man’s shoulder.
Godfrey stood. ‘I thought this was to be a council for princes – not paupers and rabble.’
‘Wait,’ Raymond pleaded. ‘At our councils at Antioch, we always had leaders from the pilgrim host present.’
‘If Peter Bartholomew is their leader, why is he not here himself?’
Raymond was about to offer an excuse, but the prophet John spoke more quickly. ‘The time is not yet ready for Peter Bartholomew to reveal himself. He is preparing for the time to come – the time foretold by the prophecy. The time when the last shall be first and the first last.’ He spun around, fixing his small eyes on the princes. ‘You know what is coming. The King will ascend Golgotha. He will take his crown from his head and place it on the cross, and stretching out his hands to heaven he will hand over the kingdom of the Christians to God the Father.’
Godfrey moved so quickly I did not see what he did. One moment the peasant was standing, the next he was writhing on the ground, squealing in outraged agony until Godfrey’s boot on his throat choked off the sound.
‘Who told you that?’ he demanded. ‘Where did you hear it?’
He half lifted his foot from John’s neck so that the wretch could speak. ‘Mercy,’ he spluttered. ‘It is what Peter Bartholomew preaches. It is written in his book.’
‘What book?’
‘The book of prophecy,’ squealed John.
‘Liar!’ Godfrey’s cheeks were flushed; I had never seen him lose his temper like this, not even on the mountaintop at Ravendan. ‘That is not his book.’ He took his boot off John’s throat and delivered a sharp kick to his ribs. ‘You should keep your dogs better trained,’ he hissed at Count Raymond, ‘or they will pull you down and devour you. Bring Peter Bartholomew to me.’
Raymond squirmed. ‘I cannot–’
‘He will not come.’ John had struggled to his feet. ‘Not until the appointed hour.’ He circled around like a cornered dog, keeping his eyes fixed on Godfrey. ‘And then, Duke Godfrey, beware, for his revenge will be terrible. The good wheat he will gather into his granary, but the chaff’ – he almost spat out the word – ‘he will burn with unquenchable fire.’
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There were no councils after that. Godfrey’s army crossed the bridge and made their camp to the south-east of the city, well away from the Provençals, while Tancred extricated his men from Raymond’s camp and took them south on foraging raids. Peter Bartholomew and the pilgrim horde stayed aloof on their hilltop. On the twenty-fifth of March, the Feast of the Annunciation, the Franks celebrated the start of their new year. It seemed to bring new life to the world: wildflowers bloomed on the hillside among the pines, and in the valley green buds began to sprout from the skeletal boughs of fig trees. A white sun shone from cloudless skies, warming the earth to dust. Even the crack and thud of siege weapons was, for a time, drowned out by birdsong. But it did nothing to brighten the mood of the Army of God. You had only to look at their faces to see the thunderclouds that gathered over them, to feel the charge in the sultry calm that gripped them. Soon, I feared, the storm would break.
It came on Holy Wednesday, the Wednesday before Easter. That morning I ate the stale, presanctified bread and listened to the priest read the gospel. The hour has come for the Son of Man to be glorified. Now is the judgement of this world; now the ruler of this world will be driven out. Walk while you have the light, so that the darkness does not overtake you. Afterwards, I sat with my family in our camp, while Helena wove daisies into a crown for Everard.
‘I don’t like Holy Week,’ Zoe declared. ‘Everything is pain and death.’ She had never been shy of speaking her mind, though her thoughts seemed more provocative now than they once had. I had learned to choose when to answer and when to ignore her; Helena, however, could not restrain herself.
‘Without the passion there is no resurrection. The sufferings of holy week are the foundations on which the church is built.’
I said nothing; I had my own reasons for disliking Holy Week. It was then, eighteen years ago, when the emperor Alexios had captured the imperial throne while his troops sacked the city where my wife and newborn daughter lived, and it had been Holy Week too when, sixteen years later, the Franks had tried to seize Constantinople. Instead of humility and love, this festival of exalted suffering seemed more likely to provoke violence and frenzy. I had seen too much of it.
‘What’s that?’
I looked where Helena was pointing. From the hill to the north, where Peter Bartholomew and the pilgrims had their colony, a long procession had emerged and was winding its way towards the main Provençal camp. There must have been thousands of them, and even at that distance I could hear the melody of the hymn they sang.
‘What does it mean?’ Zoe asked, tugging my sleeve. ‘What are they doing?’
‘I don’t know.’ It might have been nothing more than a rite for Holy Week, some Frankish custom we did not know, but I doubted it. Already, at the foot of the hill and in the valley, I could see knights and soldiers emerging from their tents to stare in surprise.
‘They look so solemn,’ said Helena. ‘More like an army marching to war than a host of pilgrims.’
She was right: rigid discipline gripped the pilgrim line, and they walked as if moved by a single, solemn purpose. A terrible foreboding rose in my heart; I shook off Zoe’s hand and broke into a run, threading my way first between the tents, and then through the thickening crowds who flocked towards the same place. Up on the mountain spur men abandoned their siege tools and descended to meet us, while others poured over the bridge from Duke Godfrey’s camp.
The pilgrim column reached the north side of the camp, where the valley floor began to rise, and halted. The crowd of knights and soldiers gathered around. Raised above all, on a rocky outcropping, stood Peter Bartholomew. He wore a long robe of pure white wool, with only a rope belt for adornment. His hair and beard had been washed, combed and tied straight with bands of cloth, and his sallow skin had been embalmed with oils and perfumes. Only his misshapen nose broke the picture of perfection, and betrayed the man he had once been.
He lifted his arms. The long sleeves of his gown hung down like wings.
‘Rejoice, my brothers. The Lord came to me last night in dreams. Our deliverance is at hand.’
The pilgrims erupted in cheers and jubilation, hosannas and amens. Many of the facing knights joined in, though at least half – mostly the men of Normandy and Lorraine – remained impassive.
‘Bring out the relic, the holy lance that pierced our Saviour’s side, so that I may swear the truth of my vision.’
Three priests brought the golden reliquary that contained the fragment of the holy lance. One knelt on the ground and held up the casket to Peter, who laid both hands on its lid. Waves of light rippled from the crystal and gold, bathing his face in celestial radiance. A sigh shivered through the crowd.
‘I swear by the holy lance . . . No!’
He broke off, snatching his hands away as if they had been burned. The crowd gasped – could this be punishment for a false oath? – but before they could move Peter had unlatched the reliquary, thrown back the lid and plunged in his hand. He pulled it out and held it in the air, his fist clenched around something too small to see.
‘I swear on the holy lance.’
The crowd erupted in a turmoil of euphoria. The din must have carried all the way to the lofty walls of Arqa far above us on the mountain, perhaps even to heaven itself. No one could see the lance – it was only a fragment, after all, no longer than a nail – but no one doubted that he held it. Even I felt a trembling in my heart, as if by touching the relic Peter had plucked a string that resonated in all our souls.
The light on Peter’s face burned brighter than ever. Still holding his fist aloft, he turned to survey his congregation. Wherever he looked, the noise seemed to redouble.
‘The way of truth is a thorny path. Will you receive this vision? Will you hear the words the Lord spoke to me, and believe them?’
I thought I felt an edge to his words, a sharpness like the mouth of a trap. But my thoughts were drowned by the commotion around me, thousands of voices all crying out that they would hear Peter’s vision.
Peter bowed his head. Behind him, for the first time, I noticed his lieutenant, the self-styled prophet John. I scanned his face for signs of what was to come, but could read nothing in it except pride.
‘I saw the Lord,’ Peter declared. ‘Last night, while I prayed.’
Several in the crowd shouted ‘Amen’, though the majority stayed still and silent, their heads lowered and their hands clasped before them, as if they could not trust themselves to let go. Many of the women swayed with eyes closed, transported by mystic rapture.
‘A black cross stood before me, its wood rough and ill fitted. I trembled to see it, but the Lord commanded me: “Look up on the cross you seek.”’
His far-seeing eyes stared up as if he could look through the vault of the sky all the way into heaven itself.
‘And suddenly, there upon the cross, I saw the Lord stretched out and crucified, just as in the gospel. He hung naked, save for a black and red linen cloth tied around his loins, bordered with bands of white, red and green. Saint Peter supported Him on the right, and Saint Andrew on the left.
‘Then the Lord spoke to me in a voice as deep as thunder. “Why do the Franks fear to die for me, as I died for them? I went to Jerusalem; I did not fear swords, lances, clubs, sticks or even the cross. Why do they fear to follow me?”
‘I had no answer to give.’ Peter’s voice was desolate; he stood stooped and hunched like an old man. ‘But the Lord said, “The army is riven by doubters and unbelievers. The covetous, the jealous, the cowards and the wicked. They have forgotten their calling: pretending caution, they corrupt even the bold and tempt them away from the righteous battle.”’
Peter raised his head defiantly, staring straight ahead at a point in the crowd. I could not see who stood there, but I could guess.
‘“But these evil men infest the body of this army like maggots,” I said. “How can we root them out?”
‘Then the wounds of Christ reopened, and blood gushed out from his hands, his feet and his side.’ Peter waved the hand that still clasped the fragment of the lance. ‘He asked, “Do you see my wounds?” And by some divine power my hand was stretched forward so that my fingers penetrated the wound. My arm became sticky with blood; within I could feel the bones of his ribs and the soft flesh of his intestines.’
His face lit up with sickened wonder. At the back of the crowd, I heard someone retching.
‘The Lord continued, “As you see these five wounds, you must command Count Raymond, Duke Godfrey and all the princes to order their army in five ranks, as if for battle. Then the heralds will shout the war cry, Deus vult, three times, and the Holy Spirit will move across the face of the army, dividing them. And in the first rank you will see the best men, those who do not fear swords or spears or the torments of battle. They reside in me, and I in them, and at their deaths they will take their rightful places by my side.
‘“In the second row are the auxiliaries, a rear-guard to protect the front rank. They are the apostles, who followed me and ate at my table. Behind them come their servants, who bring food and weapons to the front line – they are like the ones who pitied me on the cross but did not have the courage to act. All these men, I tell you, are worthy to be saved.”’
Peter surveyed his audience, breathing in their adoration. Then something changed: the beatific smile vanished, and anger clouded his face.
“‘In the fourth rank are the cowards and hypocrites, those who shut themselves up when the war comes because they do not trust in my strength to bring victory. It was they who crucified me, who said I deserved death because I claimed to be king, the Son of God. I am the Son of God.”’
Peter seemed to rip those last words from the very depths of his soul, shouting with such adamant defiance that you might have forgotten he was merely recounting the words of a vision. He breathed hard as if pressed down by a great burden, and his face was wet with sweat. His whole body convulsed with a raging energy.
With a visible effort he calmed himself. ‘“At the back, in the last rank, you will find the worst of men. Men who are not content to flee the battle themselves, but who use their guile to seduce others, braver and better, to aba
ndon their duty. They are snakes, poisoning the army against me. They are the true brothers of the traitor Iscariot, the heirs of Pilate, and I will show them no mercy.’”
Once again, Peter’s burning gaze was trained on that place in the crowd to my left, where Duke Godfrey’s knights were gathered thickest.
“‘What shall we do with them?” I asked.’
Peter raked his eyes over the audience, revelling in their dread anticipation. He licked his lips – his throat must have been parched from the effort, but when he spoke again his voice was deep and vivid, a terrible sound that seemed to come not from within him but through him, like a great wind funnelled through a doorway.
“‘Kill them all.’”
λ
A shocked silence fell upon the crowd. Eyes downcast, they began to edge away from Peter like a receding tide, while the princes pushed their way forward and gathered in front of him for a council. I attached myself to Nikephoros and watched discreetly from the margin.
‘Does God say that I should massacre the fifth part of my army?’
The Duke of Normandy, normally reserved, stamped his foot and pounded a fist into his palm. ‘Have I mortgaged my birthright, left all I held dear behind, and come so far through such torments, only to be told that my men are not worthy?’
From high on his rock, Peter Bartholomew stared back implacably. ‘Not the fifth part of your army – only those the Lord knows as traitors. He did not say there would be equal numbers in all the ranks.’
‘I say there is only one traitor we need to be rid of – the sooner the better.’ Tancred touched one hand to his sword hilt, while the other sliced a gruesome gesture across his throat.
‘Why?’ asked Peter. ‘Are you afraid of justice? You will stand in the front row when the army assembles, but where will you find yourself when God has winnowed His field?’