The Crusader

by Michael Eisner

  The Calatrava knights who had not overheard Uncle Ramón’s orders were quickly informed by their colleagues of our mission. We congregated around the center of the tower peering into the opening. It was a dark passage. The slender stairs were visible from the surface for the initial descent only—and then they wound around into the unknown.

  As we contemplated our new situation and waited for Ramón’s order to descend the staircase, Marcos Vicens declared solemnly, “Uncle Ramón, Alejandro and I volunteer to be the first knights to enter the passage.”

  Marcos and Alejandro were identical twins. Most of the other knights could not distinguish between the two brothers. At Calatrava, Ramón had them wear different-colored ribbons around their wrists so that he could tell them apart. Marcos wore blue, Alejandro red. Alejandro once told me that the ribbons made him feel like livestock. His father, he said, had used a similar system to keep track of which cattle were sick or needed extra feed.

  I could see the difference between the two brothers. Marcos’ cheeks were slightly fuller than Alejandro’s. Marcos stared you straight in the eye during conversation, whereas Alejandro always looked to the ground. I told Ramón this in the hope of obviating the need for ribbons. Ramón responded with an affable laugh.

  “You are a sensitive soul, Francisco,” Ramón said. “You may want to lose some of that delicacy before we arrive in Syria.”

  I did notice Ramón studying the two brothers over the next days, though. One week after our conversation, Ramón told Marcos and Alejandro that they were forbidden to wear ribbons on their wrists, or, for that matter, any ribbons at all.

  On the castle tower, Ramón tilted his head in surprise as he examined Marcos. We were all a bit puzzled by his proclamation. I do not think Marcos had volunteered for anything in his entire life, including membership in the Order of Calatrava. Marcos and Alejandro’s father had four sons. The first became heir. The father pledged the second son to the Church and the third and fourth, the twins, to Christ’s army. In Calatrava, Marcos and Alejandro seemed ill-suited for combat. They always fulfilled their responsibilities but often performed mechanically. When our instructors turned their backs, Marcos and Alejandro would slacken the pace of whatever activity in which we were engaged—archery, sparring, running. Marcos showed more passion for playing the flute he kept under his bed mat.

  Despite his distaste for the regimen of martial life in Calatrava, Marcos had volunteered for a perilous expedition in Toron. The first soldiers to breach an enemy stairwell face an uncertain journey. They are often the necessary sacrifice, experiments from which those who follow learn the position of enemy booby traps—murder holes from which Saracen archers remain sheltered and fire through a window at enemy soldiers; wooden stairs that can be quickly removed in darkness and cause a knight to fall to his death on the hard stone.

  Perhaps, I thought, Marcos had received a sharp blow to the head that affected his judgment. Or maybe at a weak moment as the siege engine approached the castle, he made the Lord a promise to serve the Cross more courageously, in exchange for divine protection.

  Just before Marcos and Alejandro descended, Ramón gave final instructions—listen carefully for corridors running alongside and on top of the passage, beware the murder holes, take each step slowly and with great caution. Marcos and Alejandro paid strict attention to our master, but they knew everything he said. We all did. We had trained for such circumstances, simulating descents into hostile castles in the towers of the fortress at Calatrava.

  Marcos and Alejandro started down, treading lightly on the stone floor. They carried their swords poised before them. Their backs were pressed against the wall so that they could see as far down the stairs as possible. After a few seconds, they disappeared from our sight.

  We huddled around the entrance, waiting, listening intently for any noise from the passageway. Over the clamor of small battles conducted by the Hospitallers in defending the tower, we could hear nothing. The long period of silence raised our hopes. Perhaps, I thought, the Saracens were in such disarray after the tower’s conquest they were neglecting the defense of the tower’s interior. Perhaps the two brothers had made it unscathed into the belly of the castle.

  When we finally heard a noise, it was unmistakable—the sound of an arrow shot from short range penetrating chain mail and entering flesh. There was a groan, and then Alejandro’s voice calling to Marcos. They must have been far down into the castle. The words were barely audible.

  “Marcos,” Alejandro said, “stay where you are. I will come and get you.”

  There was a distant lull and then the splash of liquid, as if several buckets of water had been dumped inside the stairwell.

  “I cannot see!” It was Alejandro’s voice, terrified, chilling. “I am blinded!”

  That could only be the effect of oil. The Saracens frequently employed the substance against besiegers trying to scale or breach the fortress walls. I had never heard of its use inside a castle’s confines. It seemed that the infidels intended to burn the intruders alive.

  Ramon grabbed Bernard by his tunic. “Get Alejandro, Bernard,” Ramón said, “and return immediately. This hole is a deathtrap.”

  Bernard’s face revealed neither fear nor concern. I never understood the man. Either he concealed his feelings skillfully or he had none—a perfect soldier. He walked down the stairs nimbly, silently, like a phantom.

  “Alejandro,” Ramón shouted down the stairwell, “help is on its way.”

  Before Ramón finished his sentence, we could hear the eruption of flames, the hissing, the seething crackle, the anguished screams of Alejandro.

  Ramón slammed his fist against the stone floor. “Damn it,” he said. “Goddamn it.”

  The sound of Alejandro’s cries echoed through the entrails of the castle as if it were the voice of Jonah calling from inside the great whale.

  “Help me, Uncle!” he pleaded. “I am burned alive!”

  “Alejandro, stay where you are,” Ramón shouted down the stairwell. “Help will reach you soon enough.”

  After several more minutes, Ramón became restless. He paced the tower in a small, distracted circle, unnerving all the knights accustomed to Ramón’s equanimity. He stopped walking before the entrance to the stairwell and called out to Bernard. There was no answer. Following a short pause, Ramón resumed his confused circle. He stopped abruptly. He pulled out the dagger strapped to his shin. He would rescue the stranded knights himself.

  “Uncle,” Andrés said, “I will retrieve Alejandro. Your place is here, commanding the soldiers.”

  Of course, Andrés was right. Ramón was directing the defense of the tower. His absence, his death, would have caused an unacceptable absence of leadership. But Ramón was not prepared to expose Andrés or any of his other less-experienced knights to the perils of that passageway. Not yet. Ramón ignored Andrés’ words and proceeded with his preparations, tightening the straps of his wooden shield against his forearm.

  “Uncle,” Andrés raised his voice. “I will go.”

  “No,” Ramón said, not even looking at Andrés. “I have seen the inside of more dangerous passages than this one. I will not be long.”

  “Uncle Ramón,” I said, “you cannot leave the men here. Andrés and I will retrieve Marcos and Alejandro. We can do the job. We were trained for this.”

  Ramón turned an annoyed glance on me.

  “Uncle, Francisco is right,” Andrés said. “You cannot leave the men without a commander. Would you put us in the hands of Baron Bernières?”

  Andrés’ question caused Ramón to halt his preparations. He glanced pensively at his group of knights—those who had survived the assault. Ramón turned his back on us and walked toward the archers, who were firing a steady stream of arrows into the castle’s interior. He was peering at the castle courtyard. The Knights of Calatrava gazed at his broad back, waiting for a decision. Alejandro’s sobbing continued, rising up from the stairwell like a melancholy haze.

 
; Ramón called forth one of the archers manning the tower and took his weapon. Then he walked back to the circle of his knights. He handed me the bow with a sheath of arrows.

  “The attack,” Ramón said, “will come from above, from a shaft in the ceiling. You will have to kill with an arrow. Francisco, put your sword in its scabbard. Andrés will cover you with his. If oil is poured from above, even if it be well in front of your position, flee up the stairs, and be done with it.”

  Andrés and I moved to the opening. Ramón clasped both of us by the shoulder.

  “Uncle,” Antonio de Figueres said, “let them go. I never saw an archer with Francisco’s skill.”

  Antonio spoke his compliment in the past, as if it were an epitaph, as if he were speaking fondly of a fellow knight who died many years ago. His appeal had its intended effect, though. Ramón released both of us, and we began our descent.

  The passageway was dark and cool. A moist film coated the outer walls, glistening with the little light that remained from the entrance above. The sodden moss that grew between the stone tablets exuded a musty trail. Andrés and I took turns leading. Very soon, we were walking in pitch dark. The tumult of the battle faded. Drops of water fell from the ceiling, echoing through the corridor. My bow was taut and ready. Our muscles strained with vigilance. We expected an ambush at any moment, from any direction.

  After each step, we paused and peered into the darkness. We felt our way down the jagged walls. It was not long before I felt the presence of someone or something, perhaps one of the enemy crouching in wait, maybe just an insect or a cobweb. I reached out carefully. I felt only air. Still, I sensed that we were not alone. As I was moving my boot to the next step, a narrow window opened just above me. A glimmer of light fell into the black corridor. I was momentarily frozen, silently cursing my legs for not moving.

  In that instant, I saw a rope emanate from the glare. It fell loosely around my chest—like a lasso used to rein in a wild horse. Before I had a chance to react, the noose tightened around my neck. My body was jerked into the air. I wanted to cry out to Andrés behind me. I could not breathe, though. I flailed my legs, trying to gain a foothold in a crag of the wall. My neck burned. My temples felt as if they would burst. My eyes rolled back in my head.

  Then I was falling. The pressure pounding my temples released. I hit the ground, tumbling down the stairs. For several minutes, I was gasping for air and coughing violently. When I caught my breath, I could see Andrés standing above me.

  “Are you injured?” he asked.

  I moved my limbs. They seemed intact, unbroken. But I was too disoriented to know for certain.

  “I am still alive, anyway,” I responded, my voice rasping. “How did the rope break?”

  Andrés motioned to his sword. “Your body was swinging,” he said. “It took three strokes to connect.”

  He helped me to my feet. We continued slowly down the stairs. Andrés took the lead. After just a few steps, he leaped backward. He raised his sword to strike. I readied my bow. Just ahead we heard a squeaking, pitching sound as if a cable were lurching back and forth on a rusted axle.

  Andrés poked his sword forward. It was a swinging body that he touched—Bernard. We could tell by the embroidered Cross stitched to the front of his tunic, a gift from his sister. Ramón had allowed his deputy this exception from the requirement of conformity in all aspects of uniform. Bernard was hanged—my death that would have been but for Andrés’ intervention. He had not reached Alejandro and Marcos. This fearless warrior dangled like a trinket in the forgotten alcove of some remote cathedral. I took my dagger and reached out to cut the rope that bound him. Andrés stopped my hand.

  “Leave him,” he whispered. “The Saracens will know our exact location if the body falls.” I obeyed Andrés’ injunction, although I suspected that the infidels already knew exactly where we were, each step that we took. Alejandro’s moaning stirred us forward. His voice was getting closer.

  After rounding another bend in the staircase, we came upon Marcos and Alejandro, a hideous sight. A shaft of light from above illuminated the two men’s bodies. Marcos was already dead. Several arrows had pierced his shoulders and chest. One of the arrows had entered his bare head and stood straight up like a feathered decoration. He was sitting on the stone floor, holding his helmet in both hands—he had probably removed it to see more clearly the dark passage.

  Alejandro lay on his back. His hair stood up like tiny cinders, his eyebrows still smoking. His lips vanished, burned right off; his eyes pus-filled, unseeing, his ears malformed, his surcoat a rag of ashes.

  “Who is there?” he said, his familiar voice frayed, sunken.

  We did not respond immediately. Again, we were wary of alerting the Saracens to our location. But Alejandro was desperate and terrified, and Andrés relented.

  “Who is there?” Alejandro asked again. “Saint Peter or Lucifer?”

  “Alejandro, it is neither,” Andrés said. “It is Andrés and Francisco. We will carry you back to safety.”

  “No, Andrés,” Alejandro said. “I am already dead. Please, please, let me go.”

  “I do not know what you mean,” Andrés responded.

  “Too much pain,” Alejandro said. “Mercy.” Alejandro was weeping, a searing lament.

  “What you ask,” Andrés said, “is not possible.”

  But it was possible. I pulled back the string of my bow. I closed my eyes. I released the arrow. Alejandro’s weeping ceased. An eerie silence returned to the passageway. Alejandro’s life ended—by my hand. But I feel no remorse. Not for that. Alejandro might have survived a day or two, but not much longer. There was no valor or mercy in prolonging his life—or his death.

  The light shaft stood ten feet ahead of us just above the stairwell—a sliding hatch from which the Saracens had ambushed the twin brothers. Marcos’ body was slumped directly underneath the shaft. Alejandro was about seven steps higher. He had crawled up a little ways, a human flame, before collapsing on the stairs. We could see the slick surface where the oil had fallen and the path of Alejandro’s grieved steps. A torch lay on the stairs, still burning—the incendiary device dropped on Alejandro after the oil had blinded him.

  Two metal sheets that extended down from the ceiling blocked our view to that window. The rays of light filtered through the hole, affording a ghastly view of Alejandro’s disfigured face—the gray skin blistered, melting, smoldering still. In the shadows, we could see the steam rising where the trail of fire had followed Alejandro.

  From the shaft above, we could hear grunts of physical exertion, alien curses of frustration. The hatch was stuck, the Saracens trying frantically to slide it back over the opening—to extinguish the light in the passage that could guide us to their position. Andrés and I realized the urgency of the situation—that the Saracens would be vulnerable only as long as the shaft remained open. When it closed, the enemy would once again be hidden, and we blind, defenseless.

  In whispers and gestures, Andrés and I communicated our plan. Andrés would bolt past the window. We assumed that the illuminated area—approximately eight steps—comprised the boundaries of the Saracen’s visibility. If Andrés could take two steps at a time, he would be exposed, unprotected, for two to three seconds. That’s how long we thought it would take him to pass through the light. His presence would bring the Saracens into the opening, to fire at the moving target and then to become targets themselves. Andrés’ quickness, we hoped, would take our adversaries by surprise, so that their arrows would find only stone. After the Saracens shot their arrows, I would slide down, my bow already taut, to fire straight up into the open hole. One shot, one Saracen life would be enough—for now, that would be enough. Afterward, I too would leap down the few steps into the dark shelter.

  We moved gently down the steps, stopping just before the rays of light. We were both crouched, straining to hear the movement of the Saracens above us. But the noise had ceased—a bad sign—the Saracens were aware of our proximity
. They were waiting for us. I drew back my bow. Andrés prepared to bound down the stairs, bobbing his head up and down as if to establish a rhythm before sprinting forward. He turned to me and nodded. He was gone in an instant, springing forward into the light. He seemed suspended there for several seconds, like a deer hurdling in the bright snow, caught in the sights of some weary hunter.

  As Andrés passed the threshold, I heard shrieks from above, the snap of bows, the crash of arrows. Whether any of the arrows had found their mark, I could not see. Andrés continued down the stairs, swallowed back into the safety of the shadows.

  As soon as the arrows were fired, I moved underneath the shaft. I used the wall to balance my weight and to steady my aim. Looking straight up into the light, I saw blurred figures leaning over the opening. I released the arrow. It passed through the two metal sheets. I rose quickly and ran down the stairs. Just behind me, several arrows ricocheted off the stone floor. It took another second before one of the Saracens let out a soothing groan, a hymn of vengeance.

  As soon as we were past the shaft, a commotion broke out above us. We heard the sound of hurried footsteps in the passage overhead. Perhaps the Saracens were alerting their comrades below of our intrusion, or sending for reinforcements. We would not wait for them.

  Andrés was wounded—an arrow sticking out from his thick forearm. Not fatal—unless the Saracens had tipped the blade with poison. Shot at close range, the arrow had penetrated deeply. It bulged from the other side of his arm. That was just as well. It would be easier to push the blade through when the time came.

  Andrés looked at the arrow, perturbed but unwincing. He was a stoic man. I took his hand and smelled the blade for poison. It was clean. I motioned for Andrés to sit down on the stairs. Andrés braced his arm in the wedge between steps. With a swift blow from the butt of my dagger, I snapped off the end of the arrow. Andrés cursed at me between gritted teeth. I tore a strip from my robe and tied it tightly around his wound. We would worry later about extracting the blade.