Knights of the Cross (22 page)

‘It was a cursed house,’ he announced with relish, cleaning a grimy fingernail on his tooth. ‘The boy, the unfortunate, had two masters and both died. Perhaps the priests speak rightly when they say, “A servant cannot serve two masters”. He was picking herbs on the river bank when the Turks, curse them, found him. They say he was found with a sprig of thyme in his hands, stained with his blood.’

Though I had set my back to the peasant, ostensibly to work loose a nail, his final words began to nag at my interest. Against my better judgement, I looked around to prompt him further. But my question was never spoken, for as I turned towards the city and the camps I saw a great column of knights proceeding from among the tents. At their head rode Bohemond, his great stature raised still higher by the white stallion that carried him. His red cloak tumbled over the animal’s flanks and his spear was held aloft so as to gleam in the sun. Behind him the crimson banner with its twisting serpent hung in the still air.

I put down my hammer as it became clear he was approaching the bridge. His steed grew large in my sight, until it was so close that it dwarfed the city and mountain behind. I had to crane my neck to look up, only to be blinded by the sun above.

‘Demetrios Askiates,’ said the shadow that shielded the sun. His voice seemed to draw the warmth from it. ‘I had hoped to find you here.’

‘The Count of Saint-Gilles ordered me to destroy the bridge, lest Kerbogha try to outflank us.’ I felt the eyes of two hundred horsemen, and the foot soldiers beyond, gazing at me, doubtless wondering why a carpenter should delay their lord.

‘Count Raymond did not know that I must cross this river one final time.’ Bohemond let his spear slide through his hand so that the butt thumped onto the wooden deck, the noise echoing off the water below. He looked at my sweat-soaked tunic. ‘Where is your armour?’

‘On the shore.’ I pointed to the near bank, where I had left my mail, sword and shield to be close in case of attack. ‘Why, Lord?’

‘You speak Greek, I presume?’

‘I
am
Greek.’

‘Then I have need of you. Arm yourself, and follow.’

He was not a man easily disobeyed, even by his adversaries, yet I hesitated. ‘I am charged with dismantling the bridge,’ I said again, knowing the folly of asking for explanation.

‘Then burn it into the water when I have gone and swim after me.’ The shaft of Bohemond’s spear swung like a pendulum in front of me. ‘Come.’

‘Why – to run away from Kerbogha?’ Sigurd’s arms were folded across his broad chest, and he betrayed no fear of the lord before him.

‘Is that what you would do? Flee in terror, as your fathers did before the Duke of Normandy? Suffice it for you to know that I undertake a final foraging expedition. What fruits we shall reap I cannot say, but I promise that they will be sweet. Now come with me, Demetrios, before I lose patience.’

‘And Sigurd?’

Bohemond laughed. ‘I need a man who speaks like the Greeks, not one who fights like them.’

Even without his taunts I would have been minded to refuse him, yet there was something in his manner which made men want to follow, which promised glory and adventure and fortune wherever he went. I was not immune. Nor could I forget my charge from the Emperor, to observe the barbarians and report any treachery. Only the previous night, Bohemond had won approval to hold the city if he took it: now he marched out in strength, and with a need for interpreters. If he had some secret design, it would profit me to witness it. And I was curious.

‘If I am not back before Kerbogha’s army arrives, see that Anna is protected,’ I told Sigurd.

‘They will have to break my axe in two before they harm her.’

‘You will be back before Kerbogha.’ Bohemond spurred his horse, and it began to trot forward over the remaining portion of the bridge. ‘We will march through the night, and by dawn we will have returned. Look for my standard then.’

If Bohemond intended to march through the night, he first seemed intent on marching through the day. With no mount to be wasted on me, I joined the back of his column, lonely under the hostile glares of his men-at-arms, and followed in silence. The heat of the sun and the weight of my armour made common cause against me: the thin tunic I wore beneath my mail did nothing to cushion or smooth the jabbing iron, yet it gave no respite from the heat either. When once my head slumped, I scalded my chin on the metal, for I had no tabard. The men I marched with made loud, coarse jokes about Greeks; frequently they trod on my heels, or tried to trip me with their spears. With sweat stinging my eyes and my armour chafing, I was trapped in a boiling world of misery. And still we tramped onwards, fording the river out of sight of the city and following the road into the hills towards Daphne.

I had only half believed Bohemond when he claimed that he went to forage, and my doubts were well founded: he kept us far from any village or farm, and when we did pass fields or orchards that remained unscathed he allowed us no delay to plunder them. His knights rode up and down the line, hemming us in like sheep and showing the flats of their swords to any who deviated. Mercifully, I did not see Quino.

We must have marched two hours or more, for the sun was already declining when Bohemond at last called a halt. We were in a hollow, a broad natural bowl surrounded by hills and beyond all sight of habitation. A meagre stream ran through it, feeding a marshy pool, and we scooped the brackish water into our mouths as if it were sweet milk. Insects chattered in the bushes. We pulled off our boots and stretched out on the dry grass, too tired to wonder why Bohemond had brought us there. On the rim above, I saw the silhouettes of horsemen patrolling the heights.

‘My friends.’ The words echoed around the bowl, carrying to its furthest reaches. Bohemond had dismounted and was standing on a rock a little way up the slope, looking down on us like a statue in the Augusteion.

‘You have marched hard and far today.’ An afternoon breeze tugged at the red folds of his cloak. ‘And still there are many miles to travel.’

A low, indistinct groan sounded around the hollow.

‘Yet take heart. At the end of this night, a glorious prize awaits those who dare to snatch it. For months we have suffered and waited before the cursed city, borne only on the faith that the Lord God will rescue us. Now, at our darkest hour, as Kerbogha the Terrible approaches, the Lord stretches out his hand and offers us deliverance.’

Bohemond looked at the ridge above where his knights stood sentinel, then turned back to his audience and lowered his voice. ‘Listen. From here we will travel by secret paths into the hills above Antioch. The watchman who holds one of the towers there looks kindly on our cause: I have struck a bargain with him, and he will admit us. Once inside, one party will make to secure the citadel, while another hastens to throw open the gates to our brothers on the plain.’ A jubilant grin shone from his face; for the first time I noticed that he had shaved off his beard. ‘Who is with me?’

‘What if it is a trap? It has happened before.’

It was a courageous man who questioned Bohemond, even one of his own household, but he showed no anger. ‘If it is a trap, then we will fight our way clear, or die in glory as martyrs of Christ. For my part, I have spoken with the watchman, and I trust to his promise. But if we take the walls, trap or no, I will not be dislodged unless I bring all the towers down in ruin about me.’ His gloved hand pulled out his sword and held it up by the blade, so that it appeared as a perfect cross. ‘Do you hear the rustling on the breeze? It is the sound of our grandsons’ scribes, sharpening their pens to record our deeds. Some of you may see an impregnable city, but by God’s grace I see only a new chapter of His greatness waiting to be written. Who will follow me to the walled city? Who will come with me into Antioch?’ With a quick jerk of his wrist, the sword leaped from his grip and spun in the air, planting its hilt back in his hand. ‘Through God, we will do great deeds and trample down our enemies. I ask again: who is with me?’

Many of the army had risen to their feet as he spoke, some in awe and some in doubt. Now, to a man, they brandished their arms and bellowed their war cries. Some beat their spears on the rocks, others thumped the pommels of their swords against their shields. The hollow rang with the clamour of five hundred men raised to a frenzy, resounding so loud that I feared it might dislodge the very slopes which cupped us. But above all else, over all the shouting and drumming, one phrase swelled imperious.

‘
Deus vult!
God wills it!’

Bohemond held his arms aloft, his face enraptured like an angel’s. ‘Enough. We should not allow the Turks to hear us, even so far away. We will crawl up on them like snakes, and strike before they have seen we are there. By dawn, I promise you, this long siege will be over.’

Though the agonising heat had passed, our journey back through the night felt longer than the afternoon’s march. Worst was the darkness, masking our way and forcing endless knocks and collisions along the column. Frequently men fell, tripping on rocks or slipping off the steep paths we followed. Some escaped with little more than curses and bruises, while others were left to hobble after us as best they could. Spears swayed and bumped each other, rattling like bones over our heads; one swung so low that it almost stabbed through my skull when its owner stumbled ahead of me. Frogs croaked in the under-brush and bats squeaked in the trees – once I froze as I heard a bell off on my right, though I guessed it was only a goat. I touched my chest, feeling the silver cross through the layers of cloth and iron, and prayed to Christ to keep me safe through the perils ahead. And thus our jangling, clanking, toiling column wound its way over the hills.

On the crest of a ridge we paused for breath. A few half-empty water-skins were passed down the line, and I drank gratefully. At last I knew where we had come: ahead, the dark bulk of the mountain loomed black against the silver sky; down to my left, far below, I could see the scattered glow of watchfires, and the meandering course of the Orontes like white silk in the moonlight. We were on the southern shoulder of Mount Silpius, and the string of yellow lights glimmering on the next ridge must have been the high towers of Antioch.

Before that, though, a steep ravine cut through our way. There were no paths down – even goats did not venture here, it seemed – and our column fanned out into a straggling line, each seeking the safest route. The ground underfoot was loose and treacherous: many times I had to jerk my feet away from rocks which gave beneath me. Once I was too slow, and I found myself thrown onto my back and sliding down with my shield rattling after me. A cloud of dust rose, filling my nose and mouth, and when I threw out a hand to halt myself I grasped only spiky branches. All around me I could hear similar sounds of tumbling rocks and cursing men, and my heart pounded for fear that a volley of Turkish arrows might fly hissing out of the night. None came.

The stream that must have carved the gully had dried up, leaving only a rocky channel at the bottom. After a few minutes to catch our breath we were moving again, now climbing the far side of the ravine. We scrambled up the shifting scree, heedless of the pebbles cascading down behind us or the rattle of our scabbards striking the ground. Enveloped in darkness and surrounded by alien voices, I felt that I had relinquished my soul to some intangible power, driven on without will or reason. I wished Sigurd were there to calm me with his implacable strength, his unbending faith in the power of his arms, but he was far away.

At the top of the slope we stopped again. The Romans who had built the walls of Antioch had used its terrain to their full advantage, and the greater length of the southern walls rose seamlessly from the steep gully. Here, though, the wall turned away along the ridge of the mountain, and there was a short stretch of open ground in front of us. We waited, pressing ourselves into the earth just below the lip of the ravine and praying that we were beneath the gaze of the guards. Half-whispered commands passed along our line. My face was buried in the grass, and somewhere nearby I smelled the scent of wild sage.

A rough hand jostled my shoulder, and again the word was hissed in my ear.
‘Greek!’

I rolled over. A Norman whom I did not recognise was squatting beside me. ‘What?’

‘You must go to Lord Bohemond. That way.’ He pointed east along the gully.

Too dazed to question him, I lifted my shield and edged across the slope, always keeping my head low. About a hundred yards along the line, I found Bohemond crouched in a small hollow with three of his lieutenants. Even in the dark his face gleamed with purpose.

‘That is the tower.’ He pointed ahead, where a slab of grey stood out against the night. A thin bar of yellow light shone from a narrow window. ‘There should be a ladder hidden in the bushes at its base.’