“I had already accompanied Salamago on seven missions to Jerusalem. On the first six, we had skirmishes with local brigands, but nothing serious. On the seventh mission, a group of bandits ambushed our party. We protected the pilgrims, but lost one of our own—the deputy whom I replaced. Salamago mourned his death. They had been close friends.
“We never had to face an organized Muslim army. Not until our eighth tour. We knew that the Muslims had twice sent delegations to Prince Bohemund of Antioch complaining of Christian knights marauding the countryside. When the Christian Prince failed to put an end to the attacks, one of the Muslim commanders decided to retaliate. Our company was traveling to Jerusalem at the time of the dispute. We had thirty pilgrims in our caravan—mostly women and children.
“On the fifth night of the journey, we camped in a sunken valley shielded from the elements. We woke at dawn to the sight of a Muslim contingent—twenty-four soldiers—surrounding our camp.
“Hysteria spread amongst the civilians. The knights prepared for battle. We were outnumbered two to one—but the Templars had overcome worse odds.
“Salamago hoped to avoid a conflict. He told our company to put our swords in their scabbards. That he would reach a peaceful accommodation with the infidels—to preserve the lives of the pilgrims and his knights.
“With this purpose, Salamago and I rode under a flag of truce to the Muslim lines. The Muslim commander with his own delegation rode out to meet us. Salamago explained the nature of our mission. He referred to the agreements in place between our leaders and the safe-conduct assurances for pilgrims.
“When Salamago finished, the Muslim commander said that he would let our party pass on condition that the Templar knights lay down their weapons—swords, daggers, shields. He said that until Christian attacks on Muslim villages ceased, Christian caravans passing through Muslim territory would be disarmed. He gave his word that no harm would come to any in our company if we obeyed his injunction. Salamago believed him.
“As we rode back to our caravan, I reminded Salamago of the Templar prohibition against surrendering weapons. Better to die a martyr than to put your sword down in the face of the enemy. I told him that if we returned to Acre without our swords, the Grand Master would sanction him severely, that he would probably be expelled from the Order. That, at the very least, his reputation would be forever tarnished.
“ ‘Do you think,’ Salamago said, ‘that Jesus Christ would place His reputation above the welfare of His charges?’
“When we rode back to our camp, Salamago explained the bargain we had struck with the Muslim commander. There was distress amongst the civilians, confusion amongst my comrades. We complied, though, stacking our weapons in a pile before the watchful eyes of the Muslim soldiers.
“We mounted our horses and resumed our trek to Jerusalem. We traveled not one mile before the caravan came to a halt. The Muslim soldiers were spread across the plain, swords drawn, preparing to charge.”
Manuel picked up a stone and threw it into the darkness.
“The infidels slaughtered the pilgrims, even the children. The Templars fought with bare fists, determined at least to die with the pilgrims. The Muslim commander denied us that dignity, instructing his men to capture the knights alive. We were to be a gift to the Sultan of Aleppo. Five of my comrades fought with such ferocity the Muslims were forced to kill them. The other seven Templars, bruised, broken, were taken here.
“The Templars sent an envoy to ransom five of my comrades. He left Salamago and me to rot in this godforsaken hole.”
“Manuel,” Andrés said, “the Templars will send a ransom for you soon. Didn’t you say that the envoy had only one hundred coins? If he had brought more gold, you and Salamago would be back in Acre right now.”
“Or maybe Aragón,” I said.
“I lied to Salamago,” Manuel responded. “With the coins in his purse, the Templar envoy could have ransomed half the prisoners in the cave. His superiors had instructed him not to ransom Salamago or his deputy.”
“Salamago was trying to protect the lives of the pilgrims,” I said. “They cannot hold you and Salamago responsible for what happened.”
“They can, and they do,” Manuel said. “I was initially included in the ransomed group. The guards lifted me from the cave and closed the hatch. My freedom was fleeting, though. Since I had been promoted recently by Salamago, the envoy did not know of my appointment. I was standing in the courtyard, shielding my eyes from the bright sun, when he asked the group of us—all six—what positions we held in the company. When I told him I was the deputy, he instructed the infidel guards to return me to the prison. He said that one pilgrim in our caravan had survived. The man had returned to Acre and given an account of the massacre to the Grand Master of the Order.
“ ‘Salamago and you placed your own judgment ahead of the principles of the Order,’ the envoy said. ‘For that, you have the blood of children on your hands.’
“I pleaded with the envoy to reconsider. I told him that Salamago had made the decision. That I had tried to dissuade him.”
“I do not believe you, Manuel,” Andrés said. “You would never do that to Salamago.”
“Spend as much time as I have in this cave, Andrés,” Manuel said, “then tell me what you would and would not do to escape this hell.
“My protestations did not serve me, though,” Manuel continued. “The Templar representative shook his head and motioned to the infidel guards. As they led me back to the cave, I asked the envoy what would become of me. He said that the Grand Master had yet to decide my fate, mine and Salamago’s.”
“Then there is still a chance, Manuel,” I said. “Your comrades will testify on your behalf.”
“We are beyond their assistance,” Manuel responded. “Salamago and I will die in this hole.”
Manuel was wrong. He and Salamago did not die in the cave. Several months after Manuel made that prediction, the hatch opened, and one of the guards called the names of both Templars.
Neither Salamago nor Manuel moved. Perhaps they thought they were sleeping, and they were afraid lest they wake and disturb the dream.
“Salamago and Manuel,” the guard shouted again.
Andrés and I roused our comrades.
“You are free,” Andrés said.
We walked with them toward the hatch and stood under the light. Salamago was raised first.
“You will soon be in Acre, Salamago,” I said.
He did not hear me. He was looking toward the hatch. I squinted into the light. I could see several guards. Another man dressed in black, his foot tapping on the edge of the hole, so that fragments of mud tumbled into the cave.
“That’s him,” Manuel said. “The Templar envoy. He has returned. The Grand Master has forgiven us.”
When Salamago reached the surface, the guards dropped the rope again. Manuel rested his feet on the knot. As the rope climbed, Manuel looked down at Andrés and me.
“We will not forget you,” he said. “As soon as we arrive in Acre, Salamago and I will collect your ransom and return. Your time will come too, Andrés and Francisco.”
When the hatch closed, a different shade of darkness entered the chamber. The blackness spread thin. I could see Andrés’ expression clearly—a broad, forgotten smile, all-encompassing.
“I always knew we would leave this prison,” Andrés said. “I always knew. After we land in Barcelona, we will visit your parents in Montcada for a week before going to Girona.”
“Patience, Andrés,” I said. “Nothing is settled.”
I did not feel patient, though. I could hear the wind—the soft rustle of the tall grass in the hills of Montcada. For the first time since my arrival in the prison, I could see your face, Isabel.
“You will be with her soon, Francisco,” Andrés said.
My thoughts were exposed. My face flashed red.
“I will see who, cousin?” I asked, feigning disinterest.
“I am naive, Francisco,�
� Andrés said, “but I am not blind.”
As Andrés patted my back, light flooded the cave. I could hear a soft thud in the earth. Then another. Two bodies dropped into the hole. Headless.
One of the guards stood above the hatch. His arms crossed, he peered down into the cave and spoke. Giovanni later translated his words.
“Salamago and Manuel, expelled from the Knights of the Temple for cowardice. The Templar envoy paid us a handsome fee to execute them. Precious gold coins he offered. He brings their heads back to Acre to show his Grand Master. The Sultan gives the bodies to you.”
At Andrés’ insistence, Salamago and Manuel were buried inside our shelter. He tied two sticks together to make a Cross to place over the graves. Every prisoner in the cave attended the funeral. Father Gabrio conducted the service.
“After several years of captivity,” Father Gabrio said, “Salamago and Manuel tasted freedom. We thank the Lord for those brief moments when they felt the sun on their face.”
I did not thank the Lord. For what? A moment’s illusion. Hopes fostered and then dashed.
We had been in the cave for one year and four months when Manuel and Salamago were killed. After that, we stopped counting the days.
Andrés dug a new trench next to the graves of our comrades. He labored continuously. When he exhausted himself, he lay down in the hole and slept, only to wake and start digging again. He never seemed to find any treasure. I do not think he was looking for it. He was trying to block his view of the cave. That, or bury himself alive.
I hunted occasionally. Mostly, I sat in our shelter, listening to Andrés’ exertions, staring into the darkness. Stare long enough, and you can see your own reflection staring back at you.
Giovanni still visited us. He would coax Andrés from his hole with some question about a rock from our dirt pile. We had nothing of value to trade with him. Giovanni always managed to leave us a small supply of food, though, usually in exchange for some worthless stone.
Andrés was scooping dirt from the trench when one of the guards called the name of a German. The light from the hatch emanated all the way to the edge of our shelter. No one answered the call.
He called the name again. Still no response. Andrés had stopped digging and was peering over the ridge of the trench.
When the guard called the name a third time, Andrés pulled himself out of the hole. He surveyed the other prisoners.
“He’s probably dead,” I said.
Andrés nodded, then left our shelter. I yelled to him, but he did not turn around. He was walking slowly, deliberately, toward the light source. When he reached the hatch, he motioned up toward the guards. His face, his blond hair, his naked body, all smeared black with mud. Only his blue eyes remained bare. They shone fierce in the sunlight.
The other prisoners peered over their shelters, scrutinizing Andrés, trying to discern his purpose. I did not know it. Perhaps, I thought, he intended to bring death upon himself. When the guards raised him and learned he was not the ransomed individual, they would kill him on the spot.
I did nothing, though. Instant death might be preferable to slow disintegration in the prison. Andrés, I thought, had made his choice.
Andrés grabbed the rope. One of the guards bent down and took hold of it. As the guard peered into the hole, Andrés reached up with both hands. His body coiled, Andrés let out a savage grunt as he yanked the rope downward. The guard was jerked forward and fell into the hole. He landed in the muck. He raised himself and brushed the dirt off his green tunic. He was chuckling, reaching for the rope. The other guards gathered around the opening, looking down into the cave, laughing at their confederate.
The prisoners understood what the guards did not. They began to shout, to cry for blood. The fallen guard glanced at Andrés. His smile vanished. He must have seen a murderous gaze. He let go of the rope and drew his dagger, like a man who pulls a handkerchief from his pocket to shield himself against a storm.
I heard my own voice as if it came from far away. “Kill him, Andrés. Gouge his eyes out.”
As if this man embodied all our oppressors—the guards, the degradation, the darkness, the Templar envoy, Don Fernando.
When Andrés leapt toward the Muslim soldier, the guards above loaded their bows hastily and aimed them into the hole. There was no clear shot, though. Andrés and the guard were rolling in the slime. The prisoners surrounded the melee, screaming and throwing rocks up at the guards, who were forced to retreat from the opening. I made my way through the crowd and saw Andrés atop his victim, biting into the man’s cheek and spitting out his flesh. That display enticed the others. They pounced on the guard, kicking, punching in one swirling heap.
Eventually, the guards were able to establish a steady fire into the hole. The prisoners dispersed toward the dark, unexposed edges of the cave. The bloody corpse of the guard, recognizable only by his torn green tunic, lay on the ground just below the hatch.
“There is your precious gold,” a prisoner screamed in French. “Come and get it, bastards.”
Even if they could have understood that foreign tongue, the guards had no intention of venturing into the lair. They closed the hatch, leaving behind the body of their comrade.
Andrés came back to our shelter. He was breathing heavily. He walked past me without saying a word. Then he climbed down into the trench and began digging again.
A line of prisoners walked orderly by our shelter, as if they were knights waiting to salute their commander. An act of defiance had expunged a collective shame, transforming captives into rebels. Many of the men carried stones, which they placed on Salamago’s grave. They passed by Andrés’ trench, trying to catch a glimpse of their leader. He continued to dig, paying no heed to the visitors.
After this tribute, the other prisoners retreated to their shelters. Sleepless, we waited for the Sultan’s punishment, listening to the crackle of small fires, whispering memories once forgotten. For a few hours, we felt like soldiers again, on the eve of a great battle.
It was night when the hatch opened. Muslim guards slid down ropes. They held scarves over their faces so as not to breathe the foul air. They carried swords and whips, marching down the walkway.
A group of Genoans ambushed the intruders, leaping down from the rock walls on both sides of the walkway. The infidel guards dispatched their attackers swiftly. A line of Venetians stood across the path. They were cut down just as quickly. The other prisoners observed the battle, reassessing a resolve, then forsaking it. Stones and sticks were dropped. Heads bowed. The resistance was short-lived.
The Muslim guards fanned out to every point of the cave. Torches illuminated our surroundings, revealing the sloping, uneven walls and the small niches in which each group of prisoners resided. The crack of whips echoed as the soldiers drove the prisoners onto the walkway and under the hatch.
I thought they meant to kill us right there. But the Sultan had other plans. Soldiers looped the rope under the shoulders of a prisoner and raised him to the surface. One by one, we followed. I interposed myself between Andrés and the soldiers, fearing they would recognize him as the killer. They seemed unable to distinguish amongst us, though, or uninterested in doing so. Most of us were covered in mud and blood.
I preceded Andrés. As I was hauled through the air, the rope scraped across my bare chest. My feet dangled. I looked up at the clear sky, yellow stars like bright lanterns.
When I reached the surface, a soldier grasped my hair. He pulled me into a row of other prisoners. Andrés was soon by my side. We breathed the chilled night.
“Strange nectar,” Andrés said.
We stood in a dusty courtyard with sparse patches of grass. We were facing one of the palace buildings. A castle wall rose in back of us. The sides of the courtyard extended indefinite, long enough to accommodate fifty prisoners lined up.
We made a ragged bunch—filthy, shivering in the cold. Many of the prisoners were completely naked. Some held their hands before their genitals, an
awkward display of modesty.
A Frenchman was humming a cheerful tune, smiling inanely at the infidel guards. Maybe the idiot thought we had been ransomed.
Giovanni stood about ten men down on the left. He was talking to himself, loud enough so that we could hear. I recognized a few words, about the Lord, about salvation. Hollow words. A blow from a guard’s club silenced him.
There must have been four soldiers for every prisoner. They wore handsome green tunics, emerald like a forest. They brandished their swords, as if they faced an army, not a gathering of broken men.
To the right, a small group of soldiers huddled around a bonfire, warming their hands against the flames.
I scanned the gray stones ahead. Who made their home in that building? The guards? Maybe a family. Cousins of the Sultan. Maybe two brothers, not knowing the forces, good and evil, lurking beneath everything they were and would be.
A large wooden block in the middle of the courtyard arrested my gaze. It was bloodstained, the wood chipped and worn. An arc had been carved in its center.
A soldier stood behind the block, a half-moon axe on his shoulder. The silver blade shimmered against the stars, the fire.
Three men entered the courtyard from the adjacent building. The guards stood at attention. They shouted at the prisoners. Whips snapped. The three walked slowly toward the prisoners. In the center, the commander, a fat man, shuffled forward. A golden breastplate covered his chest—defining muscles that belonged to another.
When he reached the far end of the line, the commander stopped. He inspected the prisoners. Then he pointed to one. Guards grabbed the man and pulled him forward. They marched him toward the wood block.
It was Alberto, one of the Venetians. He did not resist. They walked him around so that he faced us. He kneeled forward of his own accord and placed his head on the block. The brown curls of his hair were the same shade as the blood staining the creases of the wood grain.
The Crusader Page 32