‘We shall not surrender this holy city.’
Yusuf Salah ed-Din urges you to consider your weak position. Your king is our captive. Your forces are few. Resist us now and we will butcher every man, woman and child behind those walls. Submit now and we shall be merciful in the sight of God.’
‘In the sight of God, there can only be one outcome. We shall not surrender this holy city.’
‘So be it.’
And there goes our last chance. Wheeling his horse about and kicking it into a canter. Little clouds of dust rising at every hoofbeat.
The silence up here is as thick as beaten cream.
‘That man has fourteen wives, so I’ve heard,’ Balian suddenly remarks. He glances at Roland, and cracks a brittle smile. ‘No wonder he spends all his time in the field.’
A shaky sort of laugh ripples across the roof of the tower. Roland, of course, simply fails to respond. He doesn’t approve of jokes like that. Instead he turns to me.
‘Go and tell Brother Felix I want axemen standing by all along the north wall. Every ten paces. Then report back here. Understand?’
‘Yes, my lord.’
‘Repeat it.’
‘Axemen standing by along the north wall. Every ten paces.’
‘Get going.’
And so it begins.
Who-o-om-CRASH!
God preserve us. That was close. Where did it land? The splinters of rock still pattering down from the sky.
‘Pagan!’
Roland up ahead – he hardly faltered. Beckoning. Get a move on! White tunic, red cross – in that outfit he’s a moving target.
Scurrying behind him, bent double. Through the chains of labouring men who pass great slabs of limestone from hand to hand. A steady flow of ammunition to the defenders at the wall. I don’t envy our opponents. Imagine climbing a ladder with huge chunks of pavement falling past your ears! Not to mention the showers of boiling lead.
You wouldn’t get me volunteering, that’s for sure.
Who-o-om-CRASH!
Ouch. Chip of rock. Just a scratch. Hardly any blood at all.
One of the merlons, knocked right down – a solid chunk of masonry two strides long and half a stride thick. Leaving a great big hole between the embrasures.
‘Cover that gap!’ (Roland.) ‘You! You and you! Get over there!’
Someone howling. Look back – God – a bloody stump – dangling . . .
The missile’s taken his arm off.
Don’t look. Don’t look and you won’t be sick.
‘You! In the arming cap! Take that man to the surgeon’s station!’ Roland’s voice is hoarse and hard. ‘Sergeant! Eyes front! Look out!’
Sure enough, it’s another ladder. Wobbling wood, scraping against the stone. Roland leaps to the embrasure and kicks at one of the cross-rungs. It swings back, falters, then slams onto the wall again. Someone down there knows how to hold a ladder.
‘Over here! Push! Pagan, push!’
You can feel the vibrations of their feet through the shafts. One – two – three –
push
! What a weight. One – two – three –
push
! Useless. Some idiot throws a fire-stick right past my head. Whoosh! Somersaulting down . . . down . . . misses the first climber. Singes the second one’s hair. Whoosh! Another, leaving a trail of sparks and smoke.
‘Out of the way, damn you!’
Pulled back and elbowed aside. Make room for the boulder, please! A six-man stone, balanced on the very edge . . . four wooden levers inserted underneath . . . and all together
push
!
Down it goes. Piercing screams as the earth shakes. Looks as though we’ve broken the ladder –
‘Pagan.’
And on we go. There’s Sergeant Maynard, plastered with soot, drinking water from a pail. Past the next ladder, and the boiling crowd around it. Axes swinging. Stones flying. People screaming with excitement.
Who-o-om-CRASH!
‘Sergeant! Sergeant Tibald!’ Roland’s voice cuts across the confusion. Rockhead! Didn’t recognise him. Dripping with sweat, powdered with dust and ashes, naked from the waist up. He turns, breathing heavily.
‘Spread the cover, sergeant! We need more men to the west!’
‘Yes, my lord.’ (Coughing.) ‘You! Aimery! Get down there and watch that gate! You too – and you! That’s right.’
‘I don’t like the way they’re bunching these missiles.’ Roland squints into the sun. ‘It looks as though they’re trying to clear particular spaces . . .’
An arrow shatters on the ground not two steps away from his right foot. He glances down without really seeing. Rockhead lets out a hiss.
‘How many ladders, my lord? Do you know?’
‘Sixteen. At the last count.’
‘Saladin must have cleared all the forests in Samaria.’
Sudden uproar from the nearest knot of defenders. Spin around and God! An Infidel! Bright blood – open mouth – flashing sword – screaming and screaming . . .
He disappears in a thrashing tangle of bodies. Hasn’t a hope. Hasn’t a hope. But there’s another one. Rising over the heads – look out!
‘
Look out!
’ A blade jabs out of that boiling mess. Straight to the Infidel’s stomach. He drops like a stone . . . reeling back into empty air . . . disappearing. But the next one takes his place.
Who-o-om-CRASH!
God! So close!
Rockhead falls.
‘Sergeant!’
He’s still alive. Clutching his right arm . . . right shoulder. Torn skin on his chest. Doesn’t
look
too bad. Face screwed up. Eyes shut. Gasping for breath.
‘Sergeant?’
Bit of rock must have got him. A big bit. Cracked ribs, maybe?
‘
My lord!
’ Where is he? God. I should be with him. There he is. Defending the wall. (Don’t tell me they’ve broken through
there
!
)
Legs planted firmly apart, both hands on his sword hilt, chopping and chopping and chopping at the ladder-load of Infidels below . . .
Leaps backward, away from a swinging mace. (Last gasp assault from a dying Turk.) Nearly falls flat on his back, but recovers just in time. Someone in quilted buckram comes to his rescue, surging forward with a raised spear. Ploughing into the very next Infidel.
Rockhead moans. Got to do something . . .
‘
My lord!
’ Roland hears me. Turns and looks, bent double, holding his side.
God – the old wound. Don’t tell me it’s playing up again. He moves over quickly, still stooped, with his hand still pressed to his midriff.
The skirt of his tunic is stained dark red.
‘My lord, should I take him . . .?’
‘What is it? Bones?’
‘The ribs, I think. Collarbone, maybe. My lord –’
‘Yes, all right.’ Breathing raggedly. ‘All right, take him – no. Wait. No, you might not find me again. Let me just see if there’s anyone –’
WHOMP!
Overhead, that terrible sound. And a wave of flame washing across the top of the wall . . .
‘Greek fire! Greek fire!’
Burning puddles.
‘Greek fire!’
‘Sand! Sand! You and you!’
‘
Where are the ox-hides?
’ I don’t believe this. I don’t believe this. Lord, I cry unto thee; make haste unto me; give ear unto my voice when I cry unto thee.
People beating at the flames with cured skins. People pounding past from all directions. Running. Yelling.
‘
Man your posts!
’ (Roland.) ‘Get back there! Back! Get back there!
You – watch that ladder!
’ ‘Oh my lord. My lord, your wound. You’re hurt . . .’
He looks down at me. Blue eyes big and bloodshot in a grimy face. Suddenly very still.
‘Stop crying, Pagan.’
What?
‘There’s nothing to cry about.’ (Gently.) ‘Not yet.’
But I’m not crying! Am I? Reach up . . . and there they are. The tears. Christ in a cream cheese sauce.
Cheers from way down the wall somewhere. Theirs or ours? Roland cranes his neck to see. The smell is awful – sulphur? Charcoal? Whatever it is, it’s the stuff they use to make Greek fire. You can hardly see for the smoke.
Rockhead starts coughing.
‘Leave me . . . I’ll manage,’ he squawks. (Every word sounds as if he’s being stabbed.) ‘It’s nothing . . . I can tell . . .’
‘
You there! With the shield!
’ Roland raises his voice. ‘Yes, you! Come and take this man to the surgeon’s station!’
‘No . . . my lord . . . you’ll deplete . . . our defence . . .’
‘Don’t concern yourself, sergeant. The enemy is withdrawing, at least for the present.’
They are? Through the drifts of smoke you can just see Lord Felix. He’s making the sign of retreat. Behind him, a ragged collection of armoured shopkeepers are making other signs, rude ones, in the general direction of Saladin.
‘Praise God, my lord!’
‘Hmmmm.’ Roland scans the wall, up and down. There’s a noticeable lack of movement. Everyone seems to be waiting . . . waiting . . . A charred rock here, a smashed bow there, a person spreading sand, a crumpled body, an empty bucket, a trampled cloak, a nasty smell, a pool of blood.
Roland looks up at the blushing sky.
‘It’s getting late,’ he says – and moves off quickly, to assess the situation.
‘Wake up, Pagan.’
What – what the . . .?
‘Come on. Up.’
But I only just went to sleep!
‘Go ’way.’
‘It’s an emergency, Pagan. They’ve broken through the wall. Now get up. Hurry.’
They’ve what? What have they done? It’s not even daylight! Roland half dressed, groping for his boots. A pale, pinkish light filtering through the window. Somebody hovering near the door.
‘Go,’ says Roland. ‘Tell Lord Balian I’m on my way.’
The figure disappears. Outside, the scuffle of hurrying feet. Low, urgent voices on the stairwell. A distant sound of clashing iron.
‘My lord? What’s happened?’
‘What do you think?’ He pulls on one boot, then another. ‘Their sappers have been mining the wall. They’ve made a breach, at last.’
‘Where?’
‘Near the Gate of the Column.’
God preserve us. Where’s my swordbelt? Feeling around in the gloom.
‘Hurry
up
, Pagan.’
I’m hurrying, I’m hurrying!
‘How big is the breach, my lord?’
‘I don’t know, I haven’t seen it yet. Move!’
Just as well I’m dressed. Didn’t even take my boots off. Must have passed out the moment I crossed the threshold, too tired to do anything but hit the ground.
And pretty hard ground it is, too. This room wasn’t made for sleeping. What is it – some kind of storeroom? Seems to be piled high with bits of old furniture. Funny place to pick for a doze.
‘Hurry up, Pagan!’
‘I’m ready, my lord. Here I am.’
And off we rush. It’s quite a distance, from Tancred’s Tower to the Gate of the Column. Down the stairs (two flights), out the door, under an arch, turn left, squeeze through an alley, up five steps, down nine, past a cistern, over a roof, slip in a puddle, and you’re halfway there. People sleeping in corners. A dead dog on a pile of fetid garbage. A soldier from the city garrison – I know the face, forget the name. Lots of fuzzy black hair and a big, hooked nose in the torchlight. ‘They’ve broken through! They’ve broken through!’ Dashing past to rouse the city.
‘My lord?’
‘What?’
‘Not that way, my lord. That’s a dead end.’
Other people, heading in the same direction. Yelling as they run. A little knot of women, huddled round a fire in a murky alcove, crying out, alarmed. Somebody pounding up behind us.
‘My lord!’
Sergeant Gildoin, gasping for breath. Still pulling on his armour, bleary-eyed.
‘Hurry, sergeant. They’ve made a breach.’
You can hear it quite plainly now: the screaming, thundering, crashing, scraping, roaring sound of battle. The sound that goes through your heart like a knife. Can’t be much further. Only one more block to the Gate of the Column.
‘You! You there!’ Roland grabs at a scurrying figure with a bandaged head. ‘Where is Lord Balian?’
‘Who? What?’
‘Lord Balian! Where is he?’
No help from
that
quarter. Poor fellow’s lost his wits. Stands and stares like a dumb animal.
Roland throws him aside impatiently.
‘My lord!’
Pons. Where did he come from?
‘This way, my lord! This way!’
He dives up the covered stairs from which he emerged, and Roland follows, drawing his sword. Here we go! The air’s thick with dust. The stairs are strewn with rubble. The noise is deafening.
‘Watch out! Watch yourself!’
‘Over here!’
‘
They’re coming!
’ It’s all so confused. A mass of broken stone; flaring torches; struggling people. Floor tiles – was a house knocked over? The loose debris underfoot, sliding away at each step. A wedge of tightly packed bodies. Hundreds of them, and all ours. All ours! All ours, all armed, all ready for action.
‘Oof!’
Watch where you’re going, dunghead! I’m on
your
side.
‘Pagan.’
Look around. Where is Roland? Ah! Over near that tallish building . . . three storeys . . . with Balian on the roof. I suppose it’s what you’d call a ‘strategic standpoint’. Clear view of the chaos.
Sudden roar. Whip round. The wedge of troops, breaking up. Can’t see – God help us – are they pushing through? A shower of arrows, some distance away. Archers. Stationed on the walls either side of the breach. Smart move, that. Balian’s? Doesn’t seem to be stopping the enemy.
I need to empty my bladder.
‘Pagan . . .’
It’s Arnulf, stumbling out of the smoky haze. Staring. Falling. Arnulf?
‘Arn?’
Someone behind him.
‘
Yaaoooaah!
’ Turk! Turk! Help! Sword! Duck!
‘
Yaah! Yaah!
’ Battleaxe – heavy. Swing and miss. Now!
Now!
Under the armpit!
Got him!
No. Just the arm. Watch that foot!
‘Oof!’
Hard kick. Fall on stone, hit my arm. God, my arm. God, the axe!
Roll over!
CHUNK!
His blade, buried in the rubble. Just missed my shoulder. He pulls it out, swings it over his head, staggering under the weight. His legs! Go for his legs!
Straight
to the knees.
Down
he goes. Axe spins away – watch his hands – boot in the chest. Ouch. Ouch. My ribs. My ribs. Can’t breathe . . .