Knights of the Cross (30 page)

Odard, who had hovered in the Tafur’s shadow, now darted forward. ‘Lies! Lies!’ he shrieked. ‘You are the crow, Greek, trilling lies and death. Curse you! Curse you!’

‘You did not go down to that temple to eat, did you? You prostrated yourself before the Antichrist, and gave yourself into his power.’

Behind Odard the Tafur band had begun to rise. Suddenly their leader stepped forward and hooked his arm around Odard’s neck. It seemed so thin, and the grip so firm, that I thought it might snap off his shoulders.

‘Truly?’ hissed the Tafur in his ear. ‘Has the Devil broken your mind and brought curses upon us?’ He turned to me. ‘Or is it you who speaks for the prince of lies and darkness?’

All my attention was on Odard; I did not notice the Tafurs sidling up to me until it was too late. I jerked back with a cry as one of them stepped behind me and locked my head in the same vicelike grip as held Odard. A second man pinned my arms at my sides. Little Peter had vanished.

‘I speak the truth.’ My throat burned, and the arms clamped around my stomach made me want to retch, but it was nothing against the fear of what I would suffer if they disbelieved me. I directed my words to Odard again. ‘Was it Quino? Did Quino come to you, tell you I guessed your secret? Did you fear that Simon had betrayed you – that his testimony would see you burned on a pyre? Was it you who drew the bowstring while the boy picked herbs on the river bank? Tell me. Confess it, and win mercy.’

The hand on my neck choked short my words, so that I feared Odard had not even heard them. Certainly he did not heed me: without regard for his safety he twisted and fought against the Tafur’s grip. It availed him nothing.

‘Those are solemn charges,’ said the Tafur. A callous smile belied his concern. ‘You swear its truth; he denies it. Who can decide?’

‘It would be easier to judge if he answered me.’

Odard stamped his foot on the Tafur’s, and was rewarded with a blow to his belly. His head jerked about like a puppet’s.

‘He will not answer you. His wits are broken.’

‘Then let me take him away, to see what I may coax from him.’

The Tafur shook his head, chuckling. ‘No. You say he has profaned his holy faith. If he has not, then you yourself are an enemy of Christ. The Lord is just in all His works – He will decide.’

Fear began to warm my veins. ‘How?’

‘You will suffer the ordeal of combat. God’s favour will decide it.’

Before I could argue, the hands that held me dropped away. My knife, which lay on the ground where it had been struck, was picked up and placed in my fist. The Tafur pulled a similar knife from his own belt and passed it to Odard, keeping his arm gripped tight so that he did not turn the blade on his captor.

The rest of the Tafurs stepped away and leaned against the walls, watching with undisguised anticipation. Two of them blocked the gate by which I had entered, while another barred the inner door. Even the brutalised Turkish woman had sat up, staring at us through a curtain of torn hair.

‘This is not justice.’ The words seemed to fall from my mouth unnaturally fast now the pressure on my throat had been released. ‘This is sport.’

‘It is the will of God,’ said the Tafur solemnly. ‘Only the man who doubts His cause fears Him.’

I set my hands by my side. ‘I will not fight.’

‘Then pray that God defends you.’

The Tafur let Odard go and stepped back. Even before I could lift an arm to defend myself Odard had flown forward, his knife poised to rip me open. I ducked, spinning away from his flailing blade, and as he stumbled past me I kicked out at his knee. He fell with a howl onto a pile of rubble.

I glanced at the Tafur. ‘Is it enough?’

He did not need to answer. The tension coiled into Odard’s frame made him quick as a whip: he leaped to his feet and moved towards me again, more carefully this time. Grime and blood were smeared on his face where he had fallen.

‘I have no quarrel with you,’ I said loudly. ‘Tell me the truth of Simon’s death, why he died, and we will set our blades aside.’

Odard screamed something indistinct and charged. He feinted to his right, then swung left, but I had read it in his eyes and avoided him.

‘Fight honestly,’ called one of the watching Tafurs. ‘Fight to kill.’

‘Whom did you worship in the cave?’ I persisted. ‘Was it Mithra?’

Odard lifted his drooping face and fixed his stare on mine. ‘What was he to you?’

He ran at me, moving right again, and this time it was no feint. His blade sliced across my arm, but I did not feel the welling blood. His momentum had brought him crashing into me and we both collapsed to the ground. Sharp stones bit into my back. I tried to roll him over, tried to escape his pressing weight – who would have thought so scrawny a man could be so heavy? His right hand, his sword hand, was trapped under my shoulder, and as it wriggled free I saw that his fist was empty. That was brief respite. Fingers and nails scratched my wrist as he sought to prise away my own knife.

Odard’s bare torso pressed close against my face. The smell of his sweat and of my own blood mingled in the air about me as my right hand jerked against the attack. If he seized my knife now I would die.

‘Drogo. It is time to finish this, Drogo.’ His black eyes seemed to spin in their sockets. ‘You led me into the path of sin, the way of death. Now it is yours.’

He swooped down, leaning across me and sinking his teeth into my arm. I cried out, and before I could master the pain my fingers sprang open. The knife dropped from my grasp and in an instant Odard snatched it away.

‘What have you done to me?’ he whispered. Strange contortions wracked his face, as if a demon struggled to escape, but now his eyes were still. I wondered if it was me he saw, or Drogo or Quino or none of us. ‘What have you done?’

‘Nothing. Odard, I have done nothing to you, I swear it.’

‘He is innocent, Quino. What has he done to us?’

‘Nothing.’

I saw Odard’s gaze sidle over to his right, to the hand which held my knife. Surprise creased his brow.

‘This is not mine.’

His thoughts were shattered, so much so that I could not guess whether he would throw the knife away or plunge it into my heart. I doubt whether he knew himself. I would not wait to discover it. Drawing on his distraction, on the fact that he had released my arm, I drove a fist into his jaw. As he reeled backwards I pushed myself off the ground, trying to shake him off me. I unbalanced him, but did not dislodge him: instead we rolled over and over, locked together in each other’s arms like lovers. Dust rose around us and filled my eyes; splinters dug into me, while Odard’s hands snatched at my tunic. The knife seemed to be lost.

And suddenly there was no more struggle. I had come to rest on top of him, and my first thought was that my arm had bled more than I realised, for the sweat ran red on his chest. Then panic struck me, as I saw the blood spreading between us. That did not come from my arm: had I been stabbed without knowing?

At last I saw the truth: the knife was buried to the hilt in Odard’s chest. Whether it had been my hand or his that had guided the weapon I would never know, but somewhere in our frenzied grappling it had pierced his heart. He was still breathing, just, but his head was still and his eyes were closed. His left arm flapped limply, like a broken wing.

I bent my mouth close to his ear. ‘Why did Simon die?’

Odard did not answer. He had joined Drogo, Rainauld, Simon and the other denizens of that cursed tent. I wondered what he would say to them in the world beyond.

I hauled myself to my feet and glanced around.

The Tafur leader watched me, smirking. ‘The Lord has spoken. Truly, this man was a heretic. Now, Greek, you may ask your questions.’

His ringing laughter chased me from the courtyard. None of the Tafurs tried to stop me.

My arm still bled a little, but there were deeper cuts to my soul which I could not bind. Nonetheless, I tried. As if my pain was not a part of me, as if I could escape my very self, I ran. Through Antioch’s alleys and passageways, past houses, mansions, churches and empty markets, I ran until my lungs faltered and my legs burned. Even then I could not free myself from my torment, though at least the ache in my body dulled it.

I might have run for miles, or merely in circles; at last I stopped to see where I had gone. I was on the eastern outskirts of the city, against the foot of the mountain. At the end of the road I could see orchards and olive groves rising in stepped terraces over the lower slopes, the sheer cliffs looming above them. A golden light washed over the landscape and the air was still, yet the beauty only sharpened my feeling of desolation. I had killed men before, of course – for war, for money, for pride and for hate – but never had I slain a witless innocent in such vicious entertainment.

I could not dwell on it now. I was far from our camp on the walls, and soon the light would dissolve into shadow. I did not know whether I had left the realm of the Tafurs or not, but it had been terrible enough in daylight. By night, it must have been beyond imagining. I would go back to Anna, though I dared not think what I would say.

It should have been an easy journey, for the sinking sun pointed straight to the walls, but in the maze of streets I soon lost sight of it. I tried to remember the bearing and tread a straight path, but that was impossible: this quarter of the city was so tangled that I could barely walk fifty paces before I was spun around a corner, or found the road blocked. Within ten minutes my sense of direction was uncertain; after twenty, I had lost it completely. The hazy shadows deepened, the houses melted together, and my pace grew ever more hesitant. A rising panic drove the guilt and pain from my heart, which now beat only with the urgency of escape. Though I had seen no Tafurs, I feared there might be other Franks keen to take advantage of a solitary Greek.

At a crossroads I found a man squatting by a wall. He was wrapped in rags; his teeth were gone and the skin on his bare head was mottled purple with disease. Had it been any darker, I might have thought him a pile of discarded refuse.

‘Which way to the church of Saint Peter?’ I asked.

He said nothing, but after a few moments a single arm extended to his right.

‘Thank you.’

I hurried on the way he had indicated. Either I was more badly lost than I had feared or this was a little-travelled short cut, for the way quickly narrowed until barely two men could have walked abreast. High walls towered on either side, unbroken by windows or doors, and though I could see a ribbon of blue sky stretched above none of its light reached into those depths.

The road ended abruptly in a brick wall. I cursed. I had been played false by the derelict at the crossroads, and doubtless he would think it a fine joke when I returned. I turned to go back.

Two men were standing in my path, pressed shoulder to shoulder against the confining walls, their faces hidden in the gloom. I had not heard them arrive.

I opened my palms to show that I was harmless. Perhaps that was a mistake.

‘It’s a dead end,’ I said. ‘I have come the wrong way.’

They did not answer. The man on the right stepped forward, cocked his head, and drove a fist into my stomach. As I doubled over, I sensed his companion moving closer.

A hard blow struck me on the back of my skull, and I fell into darkness.

‘Drink.’

I had slept without dreams. When the voice came, I did not know if I heard it or imagined it. I could not even tell if I had opened my eyes, for whatever I did the darkness remained complete.

‘Drink.’

The rough grain of a carved cup pressed against my lip. An unseen force tipped back my head, and I felt cool water pouring in. My mouth was dry as stone, and I held the water on my tongue to let it seep into the flesh.

‘Where am I?’

‘Alive.’

The voice was soft, feminine. Was it Anna’s? I leaned forward, knocking my teeth on the cup, but still the night rebuffed me.

‘Who are you?’

The cup eased away without answer.

When I next awoke, it was to the feel of fresh air on my cheek. I was sitting beside a lake surrounded by high mountains, grey and blue in the distance. Low clouds scudded over the peaks, and birdsong blew in on the breeze that furrowed the water. I could smell charred smoke, as if a candle had recently been extinguished nearby.

A woman in a white shift walked towards me along the shore. A hood covered her hair, and her face was strangely indistinct. Even when she drew near it seemed as though I looked at her through smeared glass, though I could see nothing between us.

‘Where am I?’

‘You are lost in the wilderness. You must find the path that will take you away, to Jerusalem.’

I looked around. There was no break in the mountains. ‘I see nowhere to go.’