Pagan's Crusade (18 page)

‘We’ll discuss it later.’

‘Oh no we won’t. We’ll discuss it
now.

’ Can’t believe I said that. But it’s time to hold firm – time to talk frankly. He blinks; sighs; removes my hand. Exuding an air of weary patience.

‘Pagan, you know the Rule as well as I do. No ransom is ever paid for a Templar knight.’

‘But the Rule is
broken
! You said so yourself!’ (Keep calm, Pagan. Take a deep breath.) ‘The Rule doesn’t apply, my lord. Not in these circumstances. Anyway, if it’s good enough for the Grand Master –’

‘Pagan. Listen to me. No,
listen.
’ Laying a hand on my head. ‘Fifty dinars will buy the freedom of ten women.
Ten.
Do you think I can walk out of this city with the souls of ten women on my conscience? Or fifty children? Do you think God would ever forgive me for that?’

Christ in a cream cheese sauce. ‘Honestly, my lord, do you think He’ll forgive
any
of us?’

‘No – you don’t understand. This is different.’

‘Why?’

‘Because my price is higher. And so are His expectations of me. I have spoken before of His blessings, Pagan. Now I see the way clear. This is the chance I have been given to repay Him for his loving kindness, without the shedding of blood –’

‘Oh, grow up, for God’s sake! What do you think that stuff is in
your
veins, consecrated wine? You know they’ll kill you! You know they will!’ (God give me patience! God give me
patience
, you stupid, stuck-up, arrogant oyster-head!) ‘I mean who the hell do you think you are, exactly? Saint Roland of the Perpetual Martyrdom? You’re no saint, Roland! You might think you are, but you’re not!’

‘Pagan –’

‘You’re no saint, because saints aren’t stupid!
You
’
re
stupid! You’re so stupid that you can’t think ahead! You think that sacrificing your life for a bunch of scabby, snot-nosed orphans is going to save them from slavery? You’re out of your mind! The instant they hit the road they’ll be snapped up by every dealer this side of Damascus – because
you
won’t be there to protect them! Can’t you see you’ll be needed on the road? No, of course you can’t. Because you’re too damn worried about getting your little foothold in heaven –’

‘
That
’
s enough!

’ ‘I mean, you’re not satisfied with having the best of everything down here, are you? You’ve got to have a seat right next to the throne up there as well! Because you’re greedy! That’s what you are, you’re –’

Bang-bang!

Hit the ground. What . . .? Who . . .? Try to get my eyes back into focus.

God. He must have boxed my ears.

Standing up there with his fists clenched. Face the colour of a drunkard’s nose. Speechless. Shaking. Utterly, uncontrollably, frighteningly furious.

He turns on his heel and strides away across the courtyard.

For a moment there I thought he was going to kill me. Never seen anything like it in my life. God! What a look! The saint explodes and the earth trembles.

But you’re no saint, Roland. You’re a stupid, childish, pompous, gullible, pig-headed, misguided foreigner and you’re not going to ruin everything just because of some crazy adolescent idea.

Because I’m not going to
let
you.

Chapter 9

T
he Mount Sion bath-house: a den of iniquity since the dawn of time. Or at least since the birth of Jesus. They say the plumbing dates back that far. Skulking there in its shallow pit, four steps below the level of the street, with the marble slowly dropping from its facade – slab by slab – to expose the concrete and rubble beneath.

First time I’ve ever seen the doors shut.

Bang-bang-bang! (Open up in there.) No pedlars hanging about with their stocks of perfume and sugar-cane. No shifty-looking men in cheap clothes and expensive jewellery. No steady flow of patrons splashing in and out through clouds of scented steam.

‘Open up!’

The clash of bolts, the squeak of hinges. A quivering collection of pouches and jowls, arranged in the shape of a face.

‘Who’s there?’ (Voice like someone filing down steel rivets.) ‘What do you want?’

‘I’m looking for Joscelin.’

‘Joscelin?’

‘On a matter of business.’

The yellow eyeball rolls heavenwards.

‘He lives upstairs.’

‘I know that.’ Pus-features. ‘I just don’t know how to get up there.’

‘Around the side.’

Slam!
Door swings shut. (Manners? Who needs ’em?) Probably up to no good, in there. What a cesspool. Last time I crossed the threshold – when was it? On night watch. Cut throat in a private bath. Barber’s knife, purse stolen, nobody heard a thing. Perfect haunt for a snake like Joscelin. Should have known he’d end up living here.

Around the side, he says. Dark, foul, and slippery underfoot. A staircase hewn into the crumbling wall. Washing strung from every available window. Oddly quiet.

But then it’s oddly quiet all over Jerusalem. No battle raging. No bells ringing. No blood flowing. The markets all empty, and everything shut: foundries, tanneries, wine shops, bath-houses – you name it. Infidel patrols on every corner. Trying not to swank about too much, because it might arouse the fury of the populace. Trying to keep the peace. Searching every passer-by for concealed weapons. No arms allowed in public, damn their godforsaken souls – so now I have to catch this venomous hornet with my bare hands.

And of course the door’s bolted.

Hmmm. Won’t get anywhere by announcing myself. He’ll probably slip out some hidden back way. Don’t have the weight to push the door open. Can’t use my voice; can’t light a fire; can’t see any accessible windows . . .

But if I were Joscelin, I’d open my door for a dog. Even if I was only going to send it about its business.

Scratch-scratch-scratch.

So it’s come to this. Sitting on my haunches, scraping away at Joscelin’s door with my fingernails like some kind of hungry animal.

‘Who is it?’ Muffled, from inside. I’d know that voice anywhere.

Scratch-scratch-scratch. Scratch-scratch-scratch-scratch-scratch.

Footsteps. Silence. He’s listening at the door.

Scratch-scratch.

Clunk of the bolt.
Now! Push!

And
in
we go! Wham! He hits the floor, squealing – his little silver knife spins across the room.

Oh no you don’t, bedlouse. Stamp on his fingers.

‘Ow! Ow! Ow –’

‘Don’t even try it.’

‘Ow, get off, get off –’

‘All right.’ Move the foot. Drop down fast, as he turns onto his stomach. One knee on his shoulders. A handful of hair and ‘Yeow!’ Pulling his head back.

‘No! Please!’ (He thinks I’m going to cut his throat.) ‘Please –’

‘Relax, Joscelin. We’re old friends, remember?’

The big brown eyes strain sideways in their sockets. Bulging. Astonished.

‘Pagan . . .?’

‘What’s the matter? Did you think I was dead? Eh?’ Dragging harder, until the tears well up in those oily orbs. ‘No thanks to you that I’m not, you viper.’

‘Help!
Help!

’ ‘Shut up.’ Push his head down, hard, to strike the floor. A nice little clunk of bone on wood. ‘I’m not going to kill you. I wouldn’t risk getting myself that dirty.’

‘What – what do you want?’

‘Money. I want money.’ The smooth texture of silk on his back: figured silk – damask – in blue, white and gold. Imported. Expensive. ‘Fifty dinars, to be precise.’

‘Fifty dinars!’

‘Or you won’t get the
chance
to buy your freedom. It just so happens I’ve met Saladin, and he’s a man of honour. He wouldn’t even think of letting you loose on the world, if he knew what I know –’ Sudden lurch as he bucks. Not a hope, Delilah. Didn’t even lose my balance. All that Templar training is beginning to pay off.

‘Don’t make me angry, Joscelin.’

‘But I don’t have it! I don’t have fifty dinars!’ Panting like a dog in the heat. ‘I barely have enough to pay my own ransom . . .’

Look around the room. It’s small, low, crowded. Stacked with firewood and buckets – endless buckets. A tiny brazier. A palliasse under a heap of tangled fabric, fustian and linen and fine wool. A painted chest. A dented cooking pot. A broken sandal.

Where did all his carpets go?

‘They’ve been bleeding me dry,’ he quavers. ‘I’ve had to sell everything . . .’

‘Who have?’

‘The Silver Ring. They think I can pay my dues when there’s no business. How can I take money from pilgrims when there’s a war on?’

‘Liar.’

‘It’s true! See for yourself ! There’s only the clothes on my back, now.’

Christ in a cream cheese sauce. Could he be telling the truth? But he never tells the truth. Never.

‘What’s in that chest?’

‘Nothing. Garbage. Take it, if you want – it isn’t worth a dinar.’

‘What about these clothes? They must be worth a bit.’

‘You can’t have my clothes!’ (Shrilly.) ‘They’re all I have left! I’m paying my ransom with these clothes!’

‘Take them off.’

‘
No
!’

‘Do you want me to take them off for you?’ Tugging his hair. ‘Because you won’t enjoy it, I promise.’

‘Ow! Ow – all right. All right . . .’

Shifting my weight, slowly. Pulling back behind a cocked fist, ready for anything. He rolls over, sits up, sneezes. No sudden moves.

‘Stay there, Joscelin. Just take them off down there.’

‘But –’

‘Do it!’

He wriggles out of his silken surcote, dragging it over his head, folding it into a bundle, aiming it, throwing it. Whoops! Caught it. Underneath, he’s wearing a blue linen tunic embroidered at the sleeves and hem. Pulling it off and – whump! Damnation! Right in my face –

Off he goes, across the floor, grabs the knife, spins around, yells, stabs, misses.
Hard
to his head. Crack! Knuckles hit his cheekbone. Thrown sideways, drops the knife.
I’ll
take that.

Using the left hand: my right is killing me.

‘You want your knife, Joscelin?’ (Gasping. ) ‘Because I’ll give it to you. I’ll give it to you in the guts.’

‘No! Don’t – don’t –’ Tearfully. Cowering there in his breeches, his skin pulled tight over his ribs. As pale as a maggot. Arms like chicken bones. Mottled with the yellowish smears of old bruises – he always bruised easily – at Saint Joseph’s he was a walking bruise . . .

Oh, hell. What am I doing here? I’m beyond this, now. This is all in the past. It’s mean and low and pathetic and filthy and I don’t want anything more to do with it.

‘Don’t flatter yourself, Joscelin. I wouldn’t waste my energy. And I don’t want your clothes – they smell bad.’ (Ouch, my knuckles. Hope nothing’s broken.) ‘But I’ll take this knife, maybe it’s worth a few dinars.

No reply. He’s wobbling about on all fours like a newborn lamb, dazed, dishevelled. Looking down, you can see the scars on his sticky white back. Scars from Brother Benedict’s wooden cane.

What a miserable creature.

‘Goodbye, Joscelin. May we never meet again, in this world or the next, and may you spend all eternity with Brother Benedict in a pit full of rotten vegetable peelings.’

One more look at his pale, pointed face, with its long eyes and short nose, disappearing behind the door as it swings shut. Outside, the air seems fresher, sweeter, and the light is dazzling. Praise the Lord, who brought me up out of a horrible pit, out of the miry clay, and set my feet upon a rock . . .

But I still don’t have fifty dinars.

There’s a whole crowd of people here already – most of them down on their knees. A buzz of whispers, echoing around the cavernous dome, the arches, the chapels. Sobs and moans and the occasional beating of breasts. Mosaics flickering in the light of a thousand votive candles . . . great mountains of wax . . . never seen anything like it.

All praying for a miracle, I suppose.

Just think of the number of prayers flying up to heaven, right at this very instant. Thousands. Hundreds of thousands. Hundreds of thousands from the Holy Sepulchre alone. And most of them for money, of course. It’s enough to make you despair. How am I ever going to make myself heard through this lot?

First thing to do is get close to the altar. You’re nearer to God, around the altar. If this fishmonger’s wife would just move her fat carcass . . . There. Thank you. Now. What do I want? I want fifty dinars.

Praise ye the Lord. Bow down thine ear, O Lord, for I am poor and needy. Deal bountifully with me for the sake of my master, O Lord, who is gracious, and full of compassion, and righteous, and walketh in the law of the Lord, and I will behave myself wisely in a perfect way, and set no wicked thing before mine eyes –

‘Pagan! Pagan Kidrouk!’

An urgent hiss. Spin around, peer through the gloom; it’s Sigebert the Saxon.

Terrific.

‘Pagan Kidrouk, what are you doing here?’

Sigh. The Lord give me strength and endurance. I’ll never understand why God took the lives of men like Bonetus and Maynard and Pons, but left Sigebert here to annoy us. Unless He doesn’t particularly want Sigebert up there with Him. That I can understand.