The Crusader

by Michael Eisner

  “Muslim artillery poses the gravest threat to our survival. Every day, their catapults destroy more and more of the castle fortifications. If the Muslims break through the inner wall, the battle is lost.

  “We have used secret passages to conduct several nighttime raids, dismantling ten catapults. In the last several days, the infidels have attempted to wheel catapults into the no-man’s-land between the inner castle and the outer wall. From that proximity, the projectiles would carry a devastating force—even against the thick walls of the Krak. Fortunately, we have been able to destroy these catapults. The area is in range of our marksmen.

  “To provide protection for a catapult inside the no-man’s-land, the infidels are building a stone shelter. We have tried to sabotage their engineers—pouring burning oil on the shelter, dropping our heaviest stones—to no avail. Despite our efforts, the infidels managed to wheel a catapult under the shelter two nights ago. The catapult will be operational soon, perhaps tomorrow, and it faces the weakest section of the inner wall. We have no choice but to eradicate the position.

  “At dawn, we will conduct a sortie to destroy the catapult and kill the infidels in the shelter. There is a postern with a sliding stone door opposite the catapult. I will lead a team of twelve men through the passageway. We will set fire to the catapult and then return to the inner enceinte. The entire operation will be over in less than five minutes.

  “Our remaining soldiers will provide a hail of arrows to cover the attackers, but the soldiers on the mission will be vulnerable to the Muslim archers manning the outside walls and will meet resistance from soldiers guarding the catapult. I need twelve volunteers to form my team.”

  Amongst some of the men, there was a restless shuffling of feet. Several knights even looked away from Don Lorgne, studying the chapel’s decorated walls, as if they had not heard his appeal.

  “I will fight by your side, Don Lorgne,” Ramón said. “Who in the Calatrava will join me?”

  Andrés and I and three other knights in our Order raised our hands. The other members of the Calatrava, observing their comrades, followed our example, some slower than others. Ramón selected eleven of us—including Andrés and me.

  Don Lorgne had described the mission in stark terms. The chances of survival seemed less than even. Yet, he had also offered a chance for a noble death. If we remained behind, we would probably die anyway. Better to die beside Andrés and Uncle Ramón as warriors, rather than huddled in the castle, waiting for a missile to hit my position, or worse, captured by the Muslims to die more slowly.

  “In a few minutes, at the first sign of sunrise,” Don Lorgne continued, “the Muslims stop shelling to say their prayers. That gives us thirty minutes of peace. We have much to show you and accomplish in this short period.”

  Don Lorgne instructed his deputy to give the new soldiers a short tour of the castle, to learn its general design and “the nature of the infidel encirclement,” before the resumption of artillery made such movement impossible.

  “The team of volunteers will assemble back in the chapel in twenty minutes. From there we will proceed to the postern and launch our raid. The rest of you will be spaced at different points on the walls to strengthen our defenses.”

  When we left the chapel, the night had drained, leaving behind a worn gray. As Don Lorgne predicted, the Muslim shelling had ceased. We walked upright through empty streets and alleyways of the Krak. Small fires burned unattended. I stepped over the carcass of a dead dog, the rib cage partly buried in the dust.

  We passed through a courtyard, a crooked path between craters still seething. Blue ash rose where infidel stones had rent the soil. A narrow passage under an archway led to the kitchen. We walked quickly through that chamber, but not before I could smell stale bread left on the open ovens and feel a pang of hunger. I had not eaten a full meal in two days.

  We proceeded up a stairwell, then across a walkway. Several knights were leaning against the battlements. Most had painted faces. “Blood and charcoal,” our guide said. They looked us over sullenly, silently. One soldier focused on me. A half-smile—half-greeting, half-mocking. Who are you? The blood smeared across his cheeks, his forehead. Did you think to find meaning here, in this hell, to find light in this darkness? Is that what you were thinking?

  As I walked along the ridge, my left foot fell through a gap in the castle floor. I looked down and could see to the ground, corpses littering the no-man’s-land. Ramón grabbed the scruff of my chain mail and lifted me up.

  “Watch your step,” the deputy said. “We drop burning oil through the slots, not our own soldiers. The oil will burn the face off a man in an instant.”

  We entered a tower and climbed the circular staircase. When we had reached the summit, the deputy spoke again.

  “We threw several infidels off this tower when the siege began. They were Baibars’ spies who had been hired to work in the kitchen just weeks before the siege began. Don Lorgne discovered one of them making a diagram of the fort.”

  From that vantage, we had a clear view of the Syrian mountains, a range of snow-capped peaks. A soft haze settled in the valleys. Small villages, still sleeping, dotted the landscape. Patches of forest sprinkled across foothills. To the west, I could see all the way to the ocean—no ships, no port, just a blue fire glimmering in the first light. Closer to the tower, white tents—the Muslim encampments—encircled the castle. They were concentrated on the south side, where the natural defenses were weakest—no steep incline prevented an assault. The Muslims occupied the outside wall and had wheeled their catapults on top of its towers. Groups of Muslim soldiers bowed their heads to the ground as if worshiping the might of their machines.

  Looking back, I saw the castle in all its splendor, a city carved out of rock. Deserted streets snaked between buildings that, in the first rays of morning light, glinted like silver. The stones were so finely cut the mortar was invisible. Towers, rounded and squared, stood like a phalanx of sentinels against our enemies. Christian sentries stationed on the parapet resembled sculptures of ancient warriors hewn from the rough stone.

  I looked east. The sun was rising, the orange and purple spilling across the dusty shoulders of the hills. A cold breeze stung my cheeks.

  “Behold, Francisco,” Uncle Ramón said, just behind me, “the beauty of God’s creation. Even Baibars cannot stop the sun from rising.”

  Before Ramón finished speaking, a whining sound arose in the Muslim camp. As the sound drew closer, it transformed into a strident whistle. I looked up and saw the massive boulder, as if the sun were hurtling from the heavens.

  The impact threw me forward against the wall. The world turned black. I was floating, hovering tranquil amongst the clouds. I looked down at the battle, at my comrades on the tower, at the Muslim encampments. I saw an endless line of infidel soldiers riding humpbacked camels. Red turbans twirled around their heads. The cloth folded, winding like a snake, its tail flapping in the wind across each man’s face. They must have come from Arabia, like vultures in anticipation of the fall of the great Christian fortress.

  Whether this Arabian cavalry truly existed, I cannot say. A sharp pain in my head jarred me back down to the tower’s surface. I felt dizzy. Struggling to sit up, I managed to wedge my back between the rock teeth. Andrés was kneeling in front of me. He was yelling in my face. I could not hear him. Only the soft echo of Ramón’s words—“the beauty of God’s creation.”

  I looked through the smoke and soot in search of my other brothers from the Calatrava. Diego Ponso stumbled toward me. His right shoulder and arm had been ripped from his body. Bloody and torn metal mesh tossed in the wind. One eyebrow raised, Diego’s face bore an expression of righteous indignation, as if he felt that the infidels had broken a tacit agreement by loosing their catapults without warning on the tower. Diego fell to his knees. Then he keeled over like a tree freshly cut.

  I looked down at my legs and noticed a shiny particle on my knee. It seemed a piece of cloth, perhaps velvet
. I reached down to pull it off, but it was stuck to my leg. I examined it more closely. It was a dark curl of oiled hair, attached to a piece of chalky scalp, like a smashed eggshell. I recognized the lock of fine hair as belonging to the Baron. That was all that remained of him. The Baron Gustav Bernières, well groomed until the end.

  Andrés was still yelling at me. I could make out his voice, but it seemed to come from a distance.

  “The infidels have set their sights on the tower,” he said. “We leave now before the next stone falls.”

  He helped me to my feet. Other soldiers had arrived to carry the wounded down the tower’s staircase. I walked the stairs with my arm around Andrés’ shoulder. When we reached the ledge, I was able to proceed unaided. The knights we had passed on the walkway had taken cover behind the stone walls, waiting for the next Muslim salvo. The Knights of Calatrava followed Uncle Ramón to the chapel, where Don Lorgne was waiting.

  In addition to Baron Bernières and Colonel Delacorte, eleven members of the Calatrava were killed on the tower—eleven of my brothers. A devastating loss. Five of the dead had volunteered for the mission against the catapult. Uncle Ramón chose replacements from amongst the other knights.

  We gathered in the nave of the church. Don Lorgne assigned two men to carry jugs of oil, two others to carry torches. If any of these men were killed before reaching the target, Don Lorgne said, the closest knight would be responsible for completing the duty of the fallen man.

  “Ramón and I will lead you out of the postern,” Don Lorgne continued. “Swords drawn, we will reach the infidels’ position quickly. We will take no quarter and no prisoners.”

  Don Lorgne bowed his head before continuing. “Lord,” he said, “give us the strength and courage to perform this mission. If we should not return to the castle, please let us join our brothers in paradise this very day.”

  “Amen,” Ramón said.

  Don Fernando and his lieutenants met us as we left the chapel. They would be responsible for raising and lowering the postern. They would also use crossbows to provide cover for the raiding party. We followed Don Lorgne down a staircase, then through a passageway to the postern. The stone door was massive—perhaps three hundred pounds. Using a rope pulley attached to a crank, one man could lift the door and close it. Don Fernando’s first lieutenant, Pablo, took the handle of the crank.

  We stood just outside the gate. My comrades were mumbling private prayers. The seams of his brow furrowed, Ramón was looking at his men uneasily, as if concerned he had forgotten to convey a vital piece of information. Don Lorgne was studying his blade intently.

  The door creaked open slowly. I thought that after the trials at Toron, I would be immune to the fears before combat. I was wrong. My chest drained. I swallowed, thirsty for a breath, but inhaled an unwholesome, hollow air.

  Don Lorgne was the first through the passageway, followed by Uncle Ramón. When I passed through the gate, I could see the catapult about forty steps away. A stone canopy held up at all four corners by wooden logs protected the machine and its engineers from our archers. There was a gap toward the back of the stone platform—the hole through which projectiles would be fired.

  Don Lorgne and Uncle Ramón were running unmolested. We had caught the Muslims off-guard. Perhaps it was the boldness of the plan, or the stupidity. Sprinting across the no-man’s-land, I had to leap over the rotting corpse of a soldier. Whether he was Muslim or Christian, I did not see. I could only smell the vile stench. My legs supported me faithfully, and I crossed the distance to the catapult in seconds.

  Under the canopy were perhaps twenty Muslim soldiers. Half were sitting on the ground working on the catapult. Don Lorgne and Ramón were upon them instantly. The infidels had time neither to stand nor to defend themselves. As he wielded his sword, Don Lorgne let out a shrill cry, an infernal harmony that awakened within me an uncharted fury. Rage against the infidels. Rage against the whole peoples of Arabia.

  On the other side of the canopy, one of the Muslims was standing. He held a jar to his mouth. His lips still glistened with nectar as I brought my sword down upon him. He crumpled. I stood over his writhing body. He was whimpering, muttering alien words, asking for mercy. I lifted my sword and smashed his skull.

  Several Muslims tried to escape our onslaught by fleeing the shelter of the canopy. Don Fernando’s lieutenants standing at the postern gate with their crossbows made quick work of them.

  “Pedro and Miguel,” Ramón yelled, “douse the catapult.”

  Before my comrades had emptied the jars of oil, Ramón dropped a torch on the catapult. We stared into the fire, mesmerized by the flames. I wiped my forearm against my face; warm blood spread across my lips.

  Don Lorgne broke the spell.

  “Nine of you will break for the gate,” he said, pointing to my comrades. “Sprint to the postern. Do not look back. The rest of us will follow behind you.”

  It was all according to plan—a perfectly executed mission. My brethren set out for the castle with long, confident strides.

  A moment later, they were dead, cut to pieces. Little pieces. Our brothers lay sprawled in the no-man’s-land not halfway to the postern. We had taken the Muslims by surprise with our initial assault. They had responded in kind, ambushing our retreat.

  “Christ have mercy,” Uncle Ramón said, looking at the bodies of his men, “Jesus Christ.”

  Uncle Ramón, Don Lorgne, Andrés, and I—we were the only knights on the mission who remained alive. As we contemplated our changed circumstances and listened to the crackle of flames consuming the catapult, we heard a thud on top of the canopy. Then another thud. The infidels were sending soldiers down onto the platform to finish us off. We could hear them just above us, whispering, crawling, planning our demise.

  The Muslims concentrated the barrage from their catapults and archers against the castle battlements and the open postern gate. The intensity of the bombardment forced our archers to take shelter and provided cover for the Muslim soldiers who would carry out the assault on our position. We were alone.

  “Gentlemen, our guests on the roof will drop in on us any second now.” Don Lorgne spoke calmly, as if he were telling another tale of some brave knight who died long ago. “Fortunately, because of the small size of the opening, they can only enter two or three at a time. They will send a team at first—probably nine or ten men—to probe our position. Then, if we are still alive, they will wait, give us a chance to surrender, before sending another, larger assault.

  “To live, we must take some of the infidels alive. Alive.” Don Lorgne repeated the word, paused, and then spit into the fire, as if the concept were anathema. “We will use them as shields when we cross the pathway back to the castle. Not the first batch—too difficult to guard prisoners and fend off an attack at the same time.”

  We spaced ourselves strategically under the canopy’s opening and waited. The catapult was quickly reduced to a few smoldering pieces of timber. The barrage against the Krak continued unabated. The Muslims remained on the roof of the shelter just above us. Perhaps they thought if they waited long enough we would try to make a run for the castle. One look at our dead comrades erased any temptation we may have had along those lines.

  Three soldiers finally jumped through the gap. Two of the men were wounded before they hit the ground. Don Lorgne’s sword swept through the air, slicing the face of one, cutting into the neck of another. Andrés inflicted the final blows with his blade. The third soldier lost his footing when he landed. Ramón thrust a dagger into his chest.

  Three more came immediately. As they stumbled on their dead comrades, I plunged my sword into the stomach of one. Still gritting a dagger in his teeth, he held the hilt of my blade with both hands. Ramón and Don Lorgne dispatched the other two.

  “Alive,” Don Lorgne said. “Take the next group alive.”

  We stood back as the three Muslims fell to the ground. They were, true to Don Lorgne’s prediction, the last soldiers in the assault party. A
s they struggled to their feet, we held ourselves back—reluctantly obeying Don Lorgne’s instructions. Neither side attacked the other. The three intruders shuffled side to side, waving their daggers in front of them.

  Don Lorgne, Ramón, Andrés, and I did not stir. The vague foreboding I felt at the postern had evaporated in the course of battle. We looked at the infidels as if they were harmless rabbits that we would slaughter as soon as Don Lorgne gave the word. The Muslims glanced at the hideous poses of their dead comrades, then back at us. A pretty sight we must have made. We could almost see our bestial reflection in their eyes, in their dread.

  Don Lorgne started speaking to them in their native tongue—Arabic. I did not expect to hear that foreign language from the lips of the castellan of the Krak. The infidels seemed unsurprised, though, as if they expected that the demons before them could communicate in any tongue, ancient or living.

  I did not, of course, understand the words that Don Lorgne spoke or the negotiations that ensued. But I understood the gist of the exchange. Don Lorgne offered to spare their lives if they dropped their weapons. They refused at first. Adamantly.

  Don Lorgne seemed unconcerned by their emphatic tones. He spoke with them perhaps a minute. The syllables of that strange language entwined off his tongue, the sentences strung together as if he had uttered but one soothing word, whose logic could not be refuted.

  The Muslims’ refusal became more tentative. They began to argue amongst each other. Don Lorgne stood by patiently, knowingly, as they debated his proposition.

  When the three men tossed their daggers on the ground before Don Lorgne, he spoke again to them. I imagine he was reiterating the promise he had made, congratulating them on the foresight of their decision.

  Don Lorgne had not lied to these men. Not exactly. They would not die by our hands. That much he had promised them, and we would keep his word. They were dead nonetheless. As soon as they fell through the opening in the canopy, they were dead. Ramón once said that a drowning person would cling to any branch, no matter how flimsy, that floats before him. What Don Lorgne offered our captives was a brief respite before the inevitable.