The Crescent and the Cross

by S. J. A. Turney

  The gate guards gave Tristán in his steel casing a casual nod, as of one soldier to another, and failed to even look at Arnau and Yusuf. They passed beneath the shadow of the gate and emerged into the city streets of Cordoba without a problem, though it was not until they had walked a good forty feet from the gate that Arnau even dared to breathe.

  They were in the city. At times, he had never truly believed they would manage to cross the Almohad lands even to reach this place, let alone get inside, especially with the pale, unilingual Tristán in the group, and that they were now so close to finding Calderon felt like the most incredible achievement. He fought his elation, pushing it down and setting a serious grimace on his face once more. There was still a long way to go before he was sitting in a campaign tent with Ramon and Balthesar, drinking rich wine and toasting their success.

  ‘There is the caravanserai you seek,’ Yusuf said, pointing to a featureless blank-walled enclosure on one side of the street, a single archway leading in. Arnau nodded and the three men made for the entrance.

  The Templar was aware of caravanserai. They had passed a few on their journey, but not dared to use them. They were hostels found along main routes of travel, like small enclosed villages where travellers could eat and sleep, trade and pray. He was still surprised that such a thing existed within a city where its advantages would be seemingly redundant, but as they made their way through the arch, it was clearly well used, regardless of the urban sprawl around it.

  The enclosed square was surrounded by individual rooms, but the courtyard they created also held niches all around, some of which held stores, some used as stabling, others selling food and drink. Tables sat in the open courtyard, with travellers of all sorts seated at them, eating, chatting, and generally living. It was like a small city within the city, enclosures within enclosures in typically Moorish style. An ebony-skinned guard paid them passing attention as they entered.

  ‘This place is impressive,’ Arnau breathed in Arabic as they looked around the place.

  Yusuf cast him a slightly sour look. ‘You would be surprised at how many folk in Al-Andalus do not quite match the ideals of our Almohad caliphs. Sometimes it is better for them to keep less desirable elements away from the heart of the city and neatly contained in places like this. And for their part, those people who do not match the Almohad ideal are often more than happy to keep themselves separate. It is no surprise that the man you seek might spend time here.’

  Arnau nodded. ‘We will have trouble locating him in this crowd, I fear. I have a good description, but it has been many months, we have no idea of his apparel, and things might have changed. There’s a stall large enough for our horses near the gate. I’ll tether them there, in case we need to leave in a hurry.’

  Yusuf shook his head. ‘I will do this. We cannot stay in this place tonight. We will be watched if we do, come under suspicion even. It is possible this will happen simply because we came here, but to maintain our appearance we should seek accommodation as befits what we purport to be. I need to find my old friend and make contact to retrieve my library. I will be gone for some time, but while I am out, I will find us lodgings nearby, a funduq of more traditional form, and return for you and the animals.’

  Arnau nodded uncertainly. ‘Don’t be too long. You know this place, but we don’t.’

  As Yusuf took the reins of the five animals and led them off back towards the gate, Arnau beckoned to Tristán and crossed to one of the booths. That his slightly odd, northern accent did not even make the merchant there blink confirmed the cosmopolitan nature of the caravanserai’s populace. The Almohad zealots would undoubtedly keep an eye on somewhere like this. The faster they found Calderon and got out of here the better. His gaze slid momentarily to the muscular guard by the gate. Yusuf was quite right that they needed less unusual lodgings. Trying to appear casual, Arnau purchased two kebabs that still sizzled as they were lifted from the grill over the smoking coals, and two clay cups of something reddish and viscous with a strong sweet-sharp taste. He and Tristán found a table near the centre of the large courtyard and sat with their food and drinks.

  Arnau tried not to show signs of surprise at the taste of the drink, while the squire simply let his lunch sit there untouched, since he could hardly lift his visor and reveal his pallor to all. Arnau chided himself for not having thought of that, and when he had finished his, he swapped and took Tristán’s too. All the time, as they sat, his gaze played around the other occupants of this place.

  The descriptions he had of Calderon were drawn from both Amal and Joana, and he had drawn a rather good mental picture from the combination, yet could see no sign of the man in the courtyard. Amal had said he could be found here before the call to noon prayer, which would come any time now. He was just on the verge of giving up their search for the morning when he finally saw the man who matched his description emerge from a door to one of the rooms.

  Calderon. It had to be, though his beard was neatly trimmed in a Moorish style and his hair hidden beneath a carefully-wound turban. His native clothing was of moderate quality, not the attire of a rich man, but far from that of a peasant. Similar, in fact, to those worn by Yusuf. In almost every respect he would be difficult to tell from any Moor in the place, but for the scars. They had been the thing that both Joana and the messenger had noted. A straight scar above his right eye that bisected the brow near the corner, a mark from a childhood injury, and a wound to the jawline that had given him what looked a little like an off-centre dimple. No two men could bear that combination of scars, so it had to be Calderon.

  Arnau stood and turned to him, suddenly a little uncertain how to go about this. He had pictured Calderon being enslaved and here alongside a master Arnau would have to somehow get him away from. He’d not imagined finding Calderon looking very much like a Moorish merchant or gentleman with seeming freedom. Settling upon a course of action, he gestured to Calderon, who took a moment to spot the travel-worn scout standing at the centre of the courtyard and beckoning to him.

  With narrowed eyes, the man paced slowly towards Arnau’s table.

  ‘Yes?’ he said, in a cautious voice and in perfect Arabic.

  ‘I have come from Amal,’ Arnau replied.

  Calderon’s brow furrowed. ‘You have? And where is Amal?’

  Arnau cringed. He shouldn’t lie – his vows forbade it – and moreover, he didn’t really want to lie to this man, but he also worried about what damage the truth might do. He took a deep breath. ‘Amal fell foul of a group of foolish Franks, I am afraid.’ He gestured to the table. Still frowning, Calderon sat, peering intently at Tristán. Suddenly his eyes widened and he went to rise, his chair scraping back across the flags. Arnau reached out and grabbed his arm, holding him in his seat, flashing a quick glance at the ebony guard by the gate to be certain he wasn’t watching them. Calderon had seen past the visor and recognised the colouring of the man inside. He knew they were not locals.

  Though the guard remained unaware, a few gazes slipped their way, and Arnau hurriedly let go.

  ‘Is there somewhere private we can speak?’

  Calderon looked for a moment as though he might rise again and bark out a warning, denouncing them all. Arnau felt the danger all around them rising. Instead, his brow creased in uncertainty and he gave a slight, curt nod. Rising slowly, he strode across towards the door from which he had just emerged. Arnau gestured to Tristán and the pair followed him through the crowd in the courtyard.

  The room was compact and basic, but neat, and most of all private. As the squire closed the door behind him, Calderon took a seat on the narrow bed and pointed to a chair. Arnau sat, while Tristán stood near the door. After a moment, the squire raised his visor and breathed in relief. Calderon cast him the briefest of glances and then turned back to Arnau and spoke in deeply accented Aragonese.

  ‘Who are you? Your Arabic is good, but the accent I cannot place. It is not born of Al-Andalus.’

  Arnau took a deep breath. Now or
never.

  ‘You sent a letter to Joana.’

  ‘Amal carried it for me. And he has died? But not before meeting you, clearly.’

  ‘Unfortunately so. It was upon his return journey. By chance we were not far from him on the road. We tried to get to him to save him from a group of Frankish knights, but were too late.’

  ‘How inconvenient. And you, who are… Aragonese?… decided to save a lone Moor on the road in Christian lands?’

  ‘It is a little more complicated than that. My squire and I belong to the Templar preceptory of Rourell, where Joana has been living, as you know. Your letter arrived and our preceptrix paid Amal his fee. Joana is well, but I fear word from you has stirred up things best forgotten.’

  A pained look crossed Calderon’s scarred face. ‘That was not my intention. Templar, a wave of holy war is about to come crashing down upon the Christian kingdoms. I care not for the vain kings in their palaces or the impious knights in their castles. But for Joana, I… I cannot find it in my heart to push her aside. You should not be here if you received my message, you should be with Joana, taking her far away. Frankland, or the realm of your Pope.’

  The wording of that sent a shiver through Arnau. Your Pope?

  ‘The Order of the Temple fights for the Church and for Christendom, but the wielding of a sword in holy war is not why we exist, Calderon. As a knight of Calatrava you should know that. We are warriors second, but first we are monks. Our Order was created to protect the innocent. As such, our preceptrix, ever the most wise of souls, decided that the best course of action was to send someone to find you, since you had apparently survived Salvatierra. To bring you home, where you belong.’

  Calderon’s face betrayed nothing. He simply looked deep into Arnau’s soul, through the windows of his eyes. Finally he shook his head. ‘You should not have come. Even with your skill in the language, it is incredible that you reached this far. I doubt you will be able to return as easily.’

  ‘It matters not. Any innocent soul is worth the risk.’

  ‘Innocent? I now atone for so many sins, Templar. No, I am far from innocent, and beyond the saving of your Order. You should not have come because I shall not be returning with you.’

  Arnau sat back in the chair. ‘You have old friends, warriors from Salvatierra. Joana fears for you, even though she will now never be yours. Even the knights of Rourell, who have never met you, vow to see you safely home. It is possible. We got here, and it is possible to get home.’

  ‘You misunderstand,’ Calderon said quietly. ‘I have no intention of returning to the north, except as I take my place in the army that comes.’

  The nagging fear that had first arisen with the phrase your Pope now came back in spades. ‘You are a knight of Calatrava,’ Arnau said emphatically.

  Calderon’s expression never softened. ‘The old things be passed. Lo! all things be made new,’ he said.

  ‘Second Corinthians, but that is about a man who accepts Christ, not Allah.’

  ‘Templar, I have seen the light. Twice in my life I had been visited by the angels, and I had believed myself to be a vessel for the Christ’s will and message, but I know now that Christ – Īsā – had a message for me alone. That my worship was heresy. That the true God was calling to me. That is how I came to be here, how I survived Salvatierra and came to my true home. The Imam Al-Hafiz opened my eyes, Templar, to the light.’

  Arnau flinched with each statement as though struck with a slap, though with that last mention of the imam, he noticed a strange reaction. The man twitched as he spoke the name, his eyes darting aside momentarily. ‘Calderon…’

  ‘No. You and I are different sides of the same coin. Christendom is a tarnished obverse, while the reverse shines and gleams as if new. No one is beyond saving, and the masters of Al-Andalus know this. The caliph does not want to butcher as the kings of the north fear. He wants them all as brothers. He fears for their souls, for worshipping as you do, you cannot reach Heaven. Our holy war is not to kill, but to redeem. We bring salvation to the north as Al-Hafiz teaches.’

  Again, that momentary twitch. What had this imam done to Calderon to twist his beliefs in on themselves so?

  Arnau’s face hardened. ‘See it how you will, but the fact remains that whatever the caliph’s dream, he will bring it at the tip of a sword. The caliph is a conqueror, and nothing more. He is intent on forging his new empire throughout all of Iberia. But this land was Christian before the Moor came. The kings are not intent on conquest, but on recovery. Answer me who is in the right, then?’

  Calderon’s nose wrinkled. ‘You do not understand. I did not at first, but I was made to confront my fears, and in their horror I found the truth. Now my old fears hold no terror for me, since Allah placed his hands around my heart.’

  This time, that twitch became a flutter in the man’s nerves, his facial muscles dancing as his eyes darted about. ‘God above, Calderon, but what have they done to you?’

  ‘They have saved me.’

  ‘No, Calderon… Brother Martin… they have changed you.’

  ‘I am a changed man, just not in the way you think. But this is a time of strife, Templar, and the Almohad authorities are watchful of all, seeking out trouble and heresy. Every breath you take in Qurṭuba carries the danger of capture. Were I a man hard of heart, I would already be seeking out the caliph’s guards and seeing you taken away. I am not at all sure why I am not.’

  ‘Because you know that I am right and that something has been done to you.’ Because it is not total, and I am already seeing the cracks in the shell, Arnau thought to himself. Because Martin Calderon is still in there and fighting to get out.

  ‘No, Templar. Perhaps it is the memory of what I once was. Perhaps it is the memory of Joana. Whatever it is, I give you this one chance. Go. Go now and run north. And if you have sense you will follow the advice I sent Joana. Run far from the war, for the end of the world is coming for Christendom.’

  ‘Vallbona,’ came another voice, and Arnau turned to the door to see Tristán pulling a twisted face as though he had been sucking bitter lemons.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Why are we still listening to his dung? He’s right about leaving. He’s one of them now, and we can’t help him. We need to go.’

  Arnau threw him a warning look. ‘Wait outside.’

  The squire gave him a last disapproving look and then wrenched open the door and left the room, slapping down his visor as he went.

  Arnau fixed Calderon with a straight look. ‘I do not know what they have done to you, Brother, but whatever it was, this is not you. And do not think this is me seeing you as a Moor and all Moors as the enemy of my people. I have fought alongside Moors, and I have fought for their protection. I might not share these beliefs you purport to now follow, but in this world, I know good men follow other faiths and bad men share mine. And I believe that only those who accept the trinity of God into their heart and renounce all the works of Satan can hope to live the life eternal. But I also know that that knowledge should not be forced onto someone at the point of a blade, or it means nothing. The acceptance of God has to be a choice.’

  ‘A choice I have made.’

  ‘No,’ snapped Arnau. ‘No, that is not true. Because the war you propose to fight is the caliph’s war of conquest, and he is Almohad. And the Almohad are not even worthy sons of their own god. We came here with a Moor, a good man, and even he, who counts himself a worthy son of Allah, had to flee your caliph, for the Almohads are blind zealots, not holy men.’

  ‘You try to twist my understanding.’

  ‘No.’ By now Arnau’s voice had risen in pitch and volume, and he forced it back to a more level tone. ‘No, I try to un-twist your understanding. The man Joana described to me was a good man, with wisdom and understanding. If you are no longer that, then this is the work of the Almohads. Do you not see? The work of this imam.’

  As silence fell once more and Calderon’s twitch returned, the distant, gentle
strain of the call to prayer wafted on the breeze. ‘I must go,’ Calderon said flatly. Arnau caught the words warbling muffled through the door. Hayya ʿalāṣ-ṣalāhti. He’d heard the damn call often enough now to know they were already halfway through.

  ‘I will not give up on this,’ he said, slapping a palm down on the table. ‘My Moorish friend Yusuf is securing us lodgings. I will not leave Cordoba without you.’

  ‘Then you will not leave Qurṭuba,’ Calderon hissed, rising from the bed.

  ‘I will be here in the morning,’ Arnau said, not unkindly. ‘Come and find me. Talk to me.’

  Calderon said nothing, simply walked past him and pulled open the door, stepped through into the sunlight as the last lines of the call to prayer washed in, and shut it behind him. In the silence and the gloom of the small room, Arnau cursed his luck. Time was of the essence and they were already seriously in danger of being trapped in Al-Andalus while the armies of Christendom and the caliphate struggled across the border. And now the man he had risked all to rescue turned out to be one of them.

  Damn it.

  On one level, he wondered how a man of God such as Calderon could be changed like this, but a little private reflection reminded him that perhaps it was not so fantastic. He himself had once been a temporal man, a knight of a poor estate, who had dreamed of a family and a dynasty, but who had, through a series of unexpected events, taken the vows and had become a true believer in the ideal of the Order. Was it so different? And while the bishops and the masters could denounce the Moor as a heretic, when a man focused on the differences between the Moors and Arnau’s own people, they were fewer than the similarities.

  Damn it, but why now? In a tavern somewhere over a cup of wine and a bowl of stew he could enjoy arguing convictions and creeds, but when pressed for time, and more than a hundred miles inside enemy territory, such an approach was hardly appropriate.