The Crusader

by Michael Eisner

  “Escape-proof?” Andrés asked. “How do you know?”

  Salamago laughed, short and mirthless.

  “Many men much smarter than me—knights, murderers, monks, pickpockets, pilgrims—have studied this question,” he said. “Let me spare you the trouble. Perhaps you recall your descent into the prison. You passed through the only entrance or exit—more than thirty feet up—a small gap in the roof. If you could fly, you could soar out of this pit and fight your way past the infidel garrison of two thousand men. Or you could dig a tunnel for the next ten years. But you would only hit the moat and drown us all.”

  “A pretty picture,” Andrés said.

  “It could be worse,” Salamago said. “The prison is not without its virtues. Unveil the mosaic, Manuel.”

  Manuel bent down on his knees. He used his hands to wipe away the mud on the ground before us. Salamago pulled two sticks from the wall and planted them in the crevice of a large stone. Then he began to twirl the sticks between his palms. Quicker and quicker, until sparks flickered. One of the sticks flared. Salamago cupped the fragile fire as he brought it close to the floor.

  “Behold,” Salamago said. “Beauty even in this underworld.”

  Flames danced against the pearly stone. A blue river shimmered across the floor between Andrés and me. Flowers bloomed red and blue. Delicate palm trees swayed under the weight of their fruit. The sun burst yellow, a bright reflection casting its warmth on my cheeks.

  “A man sculpted each one of these tiny cubes.” Salamago was holding a square stone between his thumb and forefinger. He had a shaggy beard soiled black. His ribs protruded jagged from his chest. “This one is ivory,” Salamago continued. “Some of the stones contain gold, silver, rubies. The guards value the precious stones. We barter them for food.”

  Salamago snuffed out the flame with his bare fist. The flowers and trees disappeared; the sun extinguished.

  “And the other prisoners,” Andrés said, “do they leave you and your mosaic in peace? You are only two men.”

  “We used to number seven,” Salamago said. “Five of my men were ransomed several weeks ago. The Templars sent a representative to the Citadel. He paid twenty gold coins per head. Unfortunately, he had only one hundred coins in his possession. He will be back for Manuel and me. Perhaps your friends in the Calatrava will ransom you before we are freed.”

  “We will not be ransomed,” I said.

  “The Sultan runs a profitable business out of the prison,” Salamago said. “He invites representatives from all the knightly orders to come to Aleppo and buy back their prisoners.”

  “No one will come for us,” Andrés said.

  “How can you be sure?” Salamago asked.

  “Most of our comrades in the Calatrava are dead,” I said. “They died during the siege of the Krak des Chevaliers.”

  “The great castle has fallen?” Salamago asked. “When?”

  “Only weeks ago. Andrés and I were taken prisoner.”

  “How come there are only two of you?”

  “The defenders of the Krak received safe passage in exchange for the surrender of the castle,” I said.

  “Safe passage to this dungeon?”

  “Francisco and I were betrayed by Don Fernando, the son of King Jaime,” Andrés said. “He was responsible for the death of the Grand Master of the Calatrava, Ramón. We witnessed his treachery. He delivered us to the infidels to keep secret his perfidy.”

  “Surely,” Salamago said, “one of your surviving comrades will report your disappearance. They will investigate your fates.”

  “Don Fernando,” I said, “will make sure they do not have the opportunity to pursue the matter.”

  “Then the Templars will have to buy your freedom as well. Manuel and I will insist on your inclusion in any transaction.”

  “Francisco and I would be indebted,” Andrés said.

  “It is we who are indebted to you,” Salamago responded. “We have grown quite bored of each other’s company. Besides, your presence will deter the Teutonic knights from attacking. Since the departure of the other Templars, our German brothers have been watching, waiting for the opportunity to strike. You can see them peering over the rubble of the parlor wall.”

  I looked in the direction that Salamago had gestured. I could see only a black haze.

  Salamago shouted into the darkness. “Hello, scalawags. Perhaps you have noticed the advent of the Knights of Calatrava—Francisco and Andrés—fresh from the front lines.”

  “The eight Germans occupy one of the Sultan’s antechambers,” Manuel said. “It has enough timber to supply the whole cave for several winters. A couple of Englishmen discovered the wooden floor while digging for gold. They tried to conceal their discovery, trading the wood sporadically. A German scout chanced upon the English pulling up one of the planks. The next day, the Germans left their shelter on the other side of the cave and attacked. We watched the battle from here. The English fled within minutes. The Germans trade sections of timber as firewood to every faction in the prison.”

  “Like all rich men,” Salamago interrupted, “they are never satisfied. They look for their next conquest. If the Germans come for the mosaic, we will fight them to the death.”

  “Salamago,” Manuel said, “no talk of death. We should show Andrés and Francisco the rest of the prison.”

  “The grand tour,” Salamago said, “to help our friends understand the state of affairs in the netherworld. You take them, Manuel. I will remain behind and defend the fort.”

  Salamago handed stones to Andrés and me. “Just in case,” he said.

  We walked a wide path—three abreast with Manuel in the middle. Our footsteps made no sound in the soft clay. Our prison mates became visible in the darkness. A silent gallery on both sides of the walkway examined Andrés and me, assessing, reassessing the implications of this new alliance of knights. Salamago and Manuel must have foreseen the consequences of our march—putting to rest any ideas amongst the other prisoners concerning the vulnerability of the two Templars and their two newly arrived countrymen.

  I played my part, walking vigilant, soldierly. I passed the solid stone between my hands, feeling the rough grain. From hand to hand and back again.

  “The Turks on the left,” Manuel said.

  Five men were sitting in a circle. They looked up when we passed as if we had interrupted some discussion or a game of dice. Five heads turned, following our course.

  “They jail infidels here too?” Andrés asked.

  “All manner of men,” Manuel said. “Muslim, Christian, Jew. French, German, Turk, Mongol. Knight, monk, criminal. Each faction bands together. The larger groups occupy a room, establish a shelter. We battle over the meager resources that mean the difference between living and dying.”

  A man stood in the center of the path. He was naked. His body, smeared with mud and excrement, exuded a foul smell. He was twirling a straggled beard, the other hand on his hip. He mumbled to himself in a strident tone.

  “He’s a Franciscan monk,” Manuel said, “captured on a pilgrimage to Jerusalem. We offered him refuge when we were seven. He refused. He said that he must accept the full weight of the Lord’s judgment. He will die soon.”

  He ignored us when we walked around him. He was speaking Italian and seemed to be carrying on a heated debate. The three of us quickened our pace to leave behind the noisome stench.

  On the right, we passed a hut. The old walls of a palace room were still intact on two sides. On the other two sides, rocks were stacked high, enclosing the space.

  “Venetian sailors,” Manuel said, motioning to the structure. “We think there are twelve of them—the largest faction in the prison. They built a small fortress in the middle of the prison. They stay in there all day, except to find food or to relieve themselves. They dug a latrine on the edge of the cave a few feet away from the entrance. Most civilized. They are probably waiting for Venetian merchants to deliver a ransom.”

  As we p
roceeded on that path, I lost track of the different groups Manuel pointed out. Mongols, Jews, Arabs, the two English who had fled the German attack. They waved sticks, like primeval tribes, growling if we got too close.

  I saw the outline of a man, advancing slowly. He wore only a cloth around his waist. He approached stealthily, holding a stick, a small spear. I raised the stone, trying to warn him off. He kept coming, though. When he sprinted toward us, I cocked my arm. Manuel held my hand back before I could hurl the stone. The man released the spear. It flew to the side, a short, screeching sound. He yanked back the spear with a string attached to his wrist. A small rodent dangled on the end of the point. The tiny claws were still moving.

  “Well done,” Manuel said. “Francisco and Andrés, you could learn from watching his technique.”

  “How did he get his weapon?” Andrés asked.

  “We carve spears and knives with stones, sometimes our fingernails and teeth.”

  “To hunt mice?” Andrés asked.

  “Mice, rats, snakes, insects.”

  “Are there many?” Andrés asked.

  “Not enough.”

  The path opened up on both sides. A wide, barren circle.

  “Look up,” Manuel said.

  Pearls of light stole down into the underworld.

  “The gates to the inferno,” Manuel said. “That’s where the guards dropped you.”

  The hatch was almost as high as the bell tower of the monastery at Santes Creus. I looked down and saw the imprint of my body in the clay that had cushioned my fall.

  “All of us entered through the same passage,” Manuel said. “As Salamago said, it is the only entrance or exit.

  “Every other day, the guards drop food through the hole,” Manuel said. “Their garbage—a stale crust of bread, a chicken bone, rotten fruit and vegetables. As soon as the light streams in, the prisoners scramble for position under the hole. Even the Venetians leave their compound. It can be quite dangerous. To entertain themselves, the guards sometimes shoot arrows into the crowd. The prisoners scuffle over a crumb. Salamago and I remain on the side, let the others do the fighting, and then pounce on a stray morsel.”

  “Can you see the sky through the hatch?” I asked.

  “I have seen the sun and the moon,” Manuel said.

  “Every other day the guards open the hatch?” Andrés asked.

  “Yes. That’s how we keep track of our time in captivity—three hundred and forty-eight days.”

  We walked a few more paces before reaching the end of the path, the edge of the cave—about two hundred steps from the mosaic at the other end. I could hear the trickle of water, like the lilting murmur of a flute. I touched my hand to the rock wall. The water fell across my forearm. I cupped my hands together, the water collecting in my palms. I brought my hands to my face. The cold water stung my eyes, spilling across my cheeks, down the back of my neck.

  “Salamago says,” Manuel said, “that the stones are weeping the tears we can no longer shed.”

  I tilted my head and let the water flow into my mouth. It soaked my lips like a burst of rain on a parched field.

  “We share the water,” Manuel said. “The underground spring sustains us. It flows all year long.”

  When Andrés and I had sated ourselves, we walked back through the same gauntlet. The other prisoners had lost interest in the new arrivals. They resumed their activities—scavenging for sticks, stones, a tiny scrap of food overlooked by the other prisoners.

  Salamago was pulling up one of the mosaic stones when we returned.

  “Pure gold,” he said. “This one will fetch a loaf of bread.”

  It did more than that. Andrés and I were sitting against the cave wall when the light came unforeseen into the night. We followed the Templars toward the other end of the cave, toward the open hatch. Looking up, I could see the blue sky, the sun’s rays falling in a halo on the floor of the prison. Salamago positioned Andrés and me so that our group formed a circle just on the edge of that halo. When the guards dropped the contents of the buckets, we stood our ground and watched the battles rage. In the presence of food, the factions came undone. Each man at war with the other. Except for us. While maintaining the circle, Salamago and Manuel snatched the pieces of food that bounced near us. They shared the spoils with Andrés and me. It wasn’t much, and it tasted like horse manure. But we ate it just the same, grateful for any substance to hush the hunger pangs.

  When the prisoners had finished combing the soil for scraps of food, they dispersed. Most returned to their shelters. The others withdrew to the shadows but remained close to the light source. Salamago kept our group on the edge of light. Three prisoners formed a line, each man holding some offering. Salamago was second. The guards lowered a bucket by a thick rope. The first prisoner stepped into the center of the circle of light, directly under the hatch. He placed a stone in the bucket and watched it ascend. Crossing his hands, he muttered a prayer.

  While the man stood supplicant, the guards passed the stone amongst themselves, like jewelers appraising its value. When they threw the stone back, the man bolted out of the circle just as one of the guards fired an arrow into the hole. The arrow’s shaft stuck out of the soil as if it had been planted there long ago.

  Salamago was next. He stepped forward and placed the stone cube in the lowered bucket. After raising the rope, the guards examined the stone. In between scrutinizing the stone, the guards peered down at Salamago pensively as if judging his worth. Should he live or die? Then they lowered the bucket again. Salamago reached in and took out half the carcass of a chicken. The savory smell attracted a crowd. Sighs rumbled through the cave. Manuel drew Andrés and me into the circle to protect Salamago from the more intrepid prisoners. Salamago had already pulled the arrow from the ground and was brandishing it threateningly. The crowd parted in deference to Salamago’s martial display. Nonetheless, as we walked passed the throng, several prisoners tried to grab the prize. Salamago jabbed them with short, quick thrusts. The victims cried out, then retreated, whimpering, cursing in whatever language they could muster.

  After seeing Salamago wield the arrow, the other prisoners scattered. We marched back to our shelter like a victorious army. We sat down on the mosaic and passed around the chicken. A faint, familiar taste of charcoal slid down my chest, summoning the past, an image extinct. Just below my ribs, I could feel a hollow space, gnawing, longing for another place, a different night. Before my brother took the Cross, we held a feast in his honor in the Great Hall. My father chose Sergio to carve the roasted chicken. My brother, a knight in God’s army. His soothing smile grew blurred, fading, swallowed by the earth.

  After that episode, every group in the prison approached us to trade for the mosaic’s stone cubes. We were able to acquire rats, snakes, wood, sharpened sticks, and other precious stones.

  The incident piqued interest in our shelter. The other prisoners did not forget the succulent aroma of that chicken. Salamago pointed out scouts from the larger groups studying our position, our habits. Following his instructions, we dug through the mud for a small arsenal of rocks that we kept in a pile in the middle of our group. We never strayed far from each other. At least one of us remained awake to warn the others if an attack seemed imminent.

  Perhaps because of their proximity, the Germans could not resist. I was on guard at the time. Their eyes appeared suddenly like crystal stars in the midnight sky. The stars drew closer. I shook the others awake. We gathered the biggest stones in our hands.

  “They will try to separate us,” Salamago said, “to kill us one by one. Stay together. If you find yourself alone, fight your way back to the group.”

  The eight Germans divided into two lines of four. They were swinging heavy sticks. One line withdrew as the next attacked. I did not have a second to catch my breath. Intruders charged forward, then retreated before I could strike back. I was waving my rock at phantoms. A stick thumped across my face. My nose cracked. I dropped the rock. I fought on wi
th bare hands. My fists were bloodied, my right hand broken on the hard jaw of one of our attackers.

  “Stay together,” Salamago yelled.

  The next line fell hard. The point of a stick thrust into my stomach. I bent over, clutching my insides. I raised myself in time to see the rock poised above my head. The blue glimmer of mica. Then I felt nothing, no pain, just floating in a starless sky.

  I woke, skidding on my back, across the muddy path between factions. We were traveling away from our shelter, toward the other end of the cave. I tried to grasp the black slime. There was no handle, no catch. Raising my head, I looked forward. Three Germans, racing backward, were dragging me by my legs. Just beyond my attackers, I saw a man standing in the middle of the path. He had a shaggy beard. He held a stone in one hand, an arrow in the other. It was Salamago. I don’t know how he got there. Maybe he flew above us to the other side of the cave. Or maybe he knew a secret path to outflank my assailants. The gap between us was closing fast. I lay back down and felt the cool mud on the back of my hands.

  Salamago’s rock connected with the head of one of the Germans. Sparks dashed, the victim propelled into the shadows. The others let go of my legs. When I rose, Salamago had already plunged the arrow into the chest of another German.

  “Come,” Salamago said.

  He sprinted back toward our comrades. I followed closely.

  Two Germans lay dead in our shelter—facedown on the mosaic. Andrés and Manuel were faring badly, though. The remaining Germans had backed them up against the rock wall.

  I approached the fighting on the run. When I reached the combatants, I lowered my shoulder and slammed into one of the Germans. He had not seen my approach. His head snapped back and smacked against the sharp rock face. His body collapsed.