Knights of the Cross (19 page)

‘Retreat?’ Raymond bored his single-eyed glare into the hapless Hugh. ‘Have you forgotten the torments that brought us here – the passes so steep that even crows could not get into them to feast on our dead, and the salt deserts where we withered? If we journey north, rocks and thorns will rip our ragged army apart long before the Turks come. Besides, Jerusalem is to the south – and I will not turn my course until I have fulfilled my vow to walk in the footsteps of Christ.’

His outburst drew approving nods and murmurs, though there was little conviction in them. I saw Adhemar whisper something in his ear, but before the bishop could speak to the council Bohemond had risen. As ever, there was something in his presence which commanded attention, and the company fell silent.

‘Count Raymond speaks the truth. We cannot go back: the road will destroy us.’

He paused, allowing others to mutter their assent. Looking at the Count of Saint-Gilles, I saw his head crooked to one side, the eye half-closed, almost as if he were falling asleep.

Bohemond hooked his thumb on his belt. ‘But the Count of Vermandois speaks the truth also. There is no glory in a rout.’

‘Then what would you have us do?’ snapped Godfrey. ‘We cannot fight; we cannot flee: shall we sit in our tents until Kerbogha burns us alive in them?’

Bohemond showed no concern. ‘The Duke of Lorraine asks what I would have us do. I will tell you. Kerbogha the Terrible rushes on us like a bull. If we fight, we are gored on one horn. If we run, we are gored on the other. If we do nothing, we are trampled under the hooves. What, then, do we do?’

‘Exactly.’

‘We strike it clean between the eyes.’ As if from the air itself, a bone-handled knife appeared in Bohemond’s hand. He rolled the hilt in his palm. ‘In the scant time remaining, we take the city and make it a bulwark to withstand everything the Turks may throw at us. For six months we have sat out here like women, hoping that the Lord would send some miracle to break open the city. Now we have His sign. If we cannot force the city, we are unworthy of our quest. When I hear that Kerbogha is coming, I am not afraid.’ His restless gaze dropped a moment on Hugh, and moved on. ‘I rejoice that now, when the fire is hottest, we may prove ourselves true before God. Every alternative is death. What does the council say?’

‘It says we meet in the peace of Christ, and all weapons are to be left outside,’ observed Adhemar mildly.

‘And I say that famine has starved Bohemond’s mind,’ said Hugh. ‘“Take the city”, he says. Shall we knock on the gates? For six months we have tried to take the city, and—’

‘No!’ Bohemond thumped a fist into his palm. ‘For six months we have tried
nothing
. Now that ruin is upon us we may at last begin to try. Our stratagems have failed. The Greek King has proved a false ally, and his manless minion has abandoned us in our greatest need. Only if we unleash our desperation can we hope to escape this trap. In peace we esteem humility the only grace, but in war the truest spur is glory. Let the council agree that whoever takes the city, he alone will rule it. With such a prize to be had, we will break down those gates like clay.’

‘No.’ Old though he was, Adhemar’s voice rang above the clamour that Bohemond’s words had sparked. ‘The city belongs to no man.’

‘Except the Pope?’ Robert of Normandy did not bother to stand but stabbed a fat finger at the bishop. ‘We know that Rome allows no kings but her vassals, that she would extend her domain over realms temporal as well as spiritual. Will your master not be satisfied, I wonder, until his fiefdoms stretch from Rome to Jerusalem?’

‘Have a care,’ Raymond warned. ‘Do not rekindle long-forgotten feuds.’

‘My master the Pope does not covet this city.’ Adhemar’s sharp-eyed gaze swept across the room. ‘One city alone is in his heart, and we are still far from reaching it. As for Antioch, none shall have it outright, because none shall take it outright. We fight in the name and service of the Lord: only through Him shall we find victory. We march as the Army of God, and as the Army of God we shall claim the spoils. If Kerbogha does not destroy us first.’

‘You are also bound by oath to return it to the Emperor,’ Sigurd muttered. No one seemed to hear him.

‘I disagree with Bishop Adhemar.’ Still Bohemond would not yield. ‘We fight in the name of God, and with His aid, but we fight also as Normans and Lotharingians and Frisians – even, sometimes, Provençals. I demand to know the will of the council as to whether the worthiest of these should take the city.’

Adhemar thumped his staff three times on the ground. ‘There is only one issue before the council: whether we fight or flee in the face of Kerbogha’s advance. We will know the will of the council on that alone. Who favours flight?’

There was silence. Looking around, I could see the searching expressions on many men’s faces each trying to guess his neighbour’s intent. Some arms wavered in uncertainty, but none was raised.

‘Who favours battle?’

Immediately, and in unison, Raymond and Bohemond showed their hands. With greater or lesser enthusiasm, every other man around the square followed their example.

Adhemar nodded. ‘It is decided. We will face Kerbogha here.’

‘Nothing is decided – nor will be until you acknowledge the truth. Unless one man is assured of the city, none will hazard the risks needed to take it.’ Bohemond pushed through the corner between two benches and stormed out of the tent. Several of his lieutenants followed.

‘Bohemond does not care to be frustrated,’ said a voice. I turned and saw Count Raymond at my side. ‘He has seen off your emperor’s general, but still Adhemar checks his ambitions. For how long, I wonder?’

‘For as long as the Franks stand by their oath to the Emperor, and their God.’

Raymond gave a rasping chuckle. ‘Their God will tell them that they honour Him best by preserving the lives that He has gifted them. As for their oath, who is now here to hold them to it? A company of Englishmen and a scribe? Do you feel safe, Demetrios?’

‘I put my trust in the Lord,’ I said instinctively.

‘I put my trust in stout armour and a sharp blade. You are isolated in your camp, I think – on the fringes of the siege and with none but Normans nearby. When Kerbogha comes, it will be from the north. Are you read to stand in the first line of defence?’

‘Would you rather have me flee like Tatikios?’

‘I would rather have you surrounded by the Emperor and ten thousand of his legions, but that will not happen. Thus, I offer you my protection. Move your tents within my encampment and I will assure your safety.’

‘Tatikios believed that we should not commit to any Frankish faction lest the Emperor lose the allegiance of the others.’

‘He has already lost the allegiance of the others – they merely wait for one of their number to be the first to repudiate him. As for Tatikios, this is no longer his concern.’

‘If we move now, men will see another instance of Byzantine cowardice. They will say we do it to escape the enemies approaching from the north.’

‘You would do better to fear the enemies camped to your south.’ Raymond stooped to pass through the door, and I followed him into the mild evening. ‘When the Turks come and find us trapped between the river and the city, it will not matter if you are in your camp or my camp or even Duke Godfrey’s camp.’

He looked to the north, where the sky was firming into darkness. ‘There will be no escape when Kerbogha comes.’

We moved our camp next day, squeezing our tents into the spaces left by Provençals who had died or fled. Every day, it seemed, the weather grew warmer and the skies bluer; trees blossomed and the earth hardened, but nothing could shake off the mournful cloud building over the army like a thunderhead. At night our campfires hissed with whispered rumours of Kerbogha, and each morning fresh patches of bare earth revealed where more tents had vanished away. Yet still the princes could find no way of cracking the city – nor even seemed minded to try. They garrisoned their towers and shot arrows at defenders on the walls, but they moved not an inch closer.

One day, in the middle of May, I was sitting by the river alone, wondering how I might save Anna if Kerbogha overran our camp. Despite all my pleas she had refused to take ship to Cyprus, claiming that she would be most needed when the Turks attacked. I feared gravediggers would be more use. I buried my hand in the earth of the river bank and pulled out a fistful of pebbles, tossing them one by one into the green water. If only I could have cast my cares away so easily.

The clash of metal rang out and I stared round. A little way upstream I could see a loose knot of figures standing near the bank. They carried a rustic armoury of axes, hammers and billhooks, waving them viciously above their heads. In their midst I could see the flashing blade of a lone sword.

I scrambled to my feet and sprinted towards them. They were peasants, Franks, their ragged clothes scarce fit for rubbing down horses. By the turbaned head which bobbed between them, I guessed they had happened on a lone Turk far from his lines. They were baiting him like a dog, and if they did not disembowel him with their tools they would soon drive him into the river.

‘What are you doing?’ I shouted as I drew near.

‘An infidel spy.’ One of the Franks leaped back as the Turk’s sword swung past his chest. ‘The lord Bohemond will pay well for his corpse.’

‘Demetrios Askiates?’ With a ringing clang, the Ishmaelite parried a blow from a billhook and looked up. In shock, I saw that it was not a Turk but a Saracen, the swordsmith Mushid. ‘In the name of your God and mine, get these hounds away from me.’

‘Leave him alone.’ I drew my own sword, for in those days it never left my side, and jabbed it at the nearest Frank.

The peasant, a gaunt and hairless man, spat at my feet. ‘His life is ours. No Greek will keep us from him.’

‘And no Frankish villein shall kill a man under my protection.’ I rolled my wrists and swung the sword. The peasant had begun to raise his sickle; my blade caught on its curve and tore it from his hands. As the other Franks stared, Mushid brought the flat of his sword down on the knuckles that gripped a hammer. They sprang open and the tool dropped to the ground. Before it landed, a kick in the belly had sent another of the Franks sprawling back, while I reversed my blade and thumped the pommel into one more adversary’s face. Blood dribbled from his lip.

‘We will return here, traitor,’ the gaunt man warned me. His gaze darted to the fallen sickle, but two hovering swords warned against rashness. ‘I will come back with my brothers and I will rip out every inch of your entrails so that when I finally throw you in the river you will float all the way to Saint Simeon.’ He stumbled away, drawing his bruised companions after him.

‘You fight well, considering the poverty of your blade.’ Mushid wiped his own blade on the hem of his white woollen robe, squinted down it to check for cracks, then replaced it in its sheath. The iron barely whispered as it slid into the scabbard.

‘The Varangians have been teaching me. I fear I will have more than peasants and pruning hooks to fight before long.’

Mushid’s dark eyebrows lifted. ‘Kerbogha?’ I must have shown some surprise, for he laughed. ‘You forget, Demetrios, that I travel widely in my trade. These past weeks the talk has been of little else.’

‘Do you know where he is?’ In the back of my mind, I wondered what other rumours this smiling, itinerant craftsman might carry, and to whom he might report them.

‘At Edessa. He thought to reduce the city first, but it has proved harder than he thought. I suspect he will soon abandon it and hasten on to greater battles.’

‘And easier pickings.’

‘Come, Demetrios: your swordplay is not so bad.’ He looked at the sky. ‘But I must hurry on, for the wars of this world need swords to fight them. Will you accompany me through the camp? I do not want to dirty my blade again on peasants.’

As we walked north, through the Norman lines, a thought occurred to me. ‘You said you travel widely. Have you ever been to Persia?’

‘Often. It is said that the Sultan in Isfahan himself carries one of my blades.’

‘Tell me: on your journeys, did you ever encounter the worship of a Persian deity named Mithra?’

Mushid looked perplexed. ‘There have been no gods save Allah in Persia for four hundred years – since the Prophet, praise him, converted its peoples to truth.’

‘You have never heard of this Mithra?’

‘Never. Why?’

I hesitated. ‘You were friendly with Drogo. Did he ever speak to you of religion?’

‘A little. Our friendship was easier without it. He was very devout, I think.’ He paused, his smooth face furrowed in thought. ‘You ask about ancient gods, and then about Drogo’s faith. What are you truly asking, I wonder?’

‘I seek any thread I can grasp. Drogo’s murderer has still not been found.’

‘That is bad. The Devil draws strength when his deeds go unchecked.’