The Parchment (17 page)

On the morning of departure, the knights attended a Mass in the Cathedral. “Today you begin your long journey to Outremer, the land beyond the sea,” the Archbishop of Metz thundered from the pulpit. “To shed the blood of the infidel is no sin. If anyone fights against you, they fight against Jesus Christ.”

When the Mass was over, the archbishop stood on the steps of the Metz Cathedral and granted a papal indulgence to all in the cavalcade. Anyone who died on the road to Palestine would have punishment for his sins remitted and be admitted directly into heaven. As she walked past the archbishop, even Marguerite was overcome by emotion. She made the sign of the cross and received the indulgence. Fortified by the promise of salvation, Marguerite and the thousands who accompanied her marched out of Metz amidst a sea of flags and pennants.

The first two weeks of the journey passed uneventfully. When the cavalcade crossed into Serbian territory at Belgrade, however, fortunes changed. Torrential rains mired many of the supply wagons in mud. To move them to drier land, the wagons had to be emptied of their loads. A cooper devised an ingenious method of
keeping the food and wine safe from vermin. He built a wooden platform and laid it on top of a tree trunk. The provisions of food and wine were moved from the wagons to the platform. Although rodents could climb up the tree trunk, they could not walk upside down to reach the edge of the platform. The crusaders were confident that their supplies would be safe until the wagons could be hauled out of the mud.

The night after the provisions had been loaded onto the platform, Gerard was awakened by a dull thud. Instinctively, he ran toward the platform. A dense mist lay over the ground making it difficult to see. When he reached the platform, Gerard's worst fears were confirmed. The platform had been shoved off the trunk, spilling food and wine on the ground. Rats were already enjoying their unexpected banquet.

“Rats are attacking the food.” Gerard's alarm roused the camp. Soldiers and pilgrims picked up whatever weapon they could find and hurried to the platform. No matter how many rats were killed, more appeared. The food would have been totally devoured had it not been for the quick-wittedness of Marguerite and several other prostitutes. They gathered brush and built a circle of fire around what was left of the food. Afraid of the light, the rats retreated back into the forest.

Dawn revealed the full extent of the damage. More than half of the provisions had been eaten or otherwise spoiled. The morning also brought an even more serious problem than loss of food. In the struggle to save the provisions, several pilgrims had been bitten by rats. Fear of the plague spread through the caravan. After consulting with several physicians, Fulk ordered those who had been bitten to leave the caravan. Despite the scarcity of food, however, the bishop provided them with a week's provisions.

As the caravan marched deeper into Serbia, the provisions had to be rationed, which inevitably led to dissension and challenges to Fulk's authority. Against the bishop's commands, rogue bands of knights looted Serbian farms in the nearby countryside. Skirmishes between Serbs and knights were becoming increasingly commonplace. On many mornings, the decapitated torso of a knight or the burnt body of a Serbian farmer would be found lying by
the side of the road. Things did not improve when they reached Thrace. In response to urgent pleas from Fulk, the Byzantine Emperor ordered the local populace to provide food for the caravan. The imperial commands, however, were largely ignored. Petitions to the local Orthodox Church also fell on deaf ears. Many in the caravan were reduced to eating grass and the roots of trees. Finally, after weeks of near starvation, the remains of the caravan—which had so proudly left Metz just months before — reached the Bosporus. On the horizon could be seen the spires of Constantinople, Constantine's City, the capital of the Byzantine Empire, and the richest city in Christendom.

Never had Gerard seen anything so majestic as the walls of Constantinople. Seventy feet in height, the stone bastions were three times taller than the walls of Cours-des-Trois. As he walked through the wide thoroughfares of the city, Gerard was awestruck by what he saw—crowds cheering their favorite horse in the Hippodrome; wealthy merchants in long silk robes, parading through Constantine's Forum; the Imperial Palace with its hundreds of rooms and chapels glimmering in the afternoon sun.

But for Gerard all the wonders of the city paled in comparison with Santa Sophia, the great Basilica of Holy Wisdom and the largest church in Christendom. On one of his many visits to the church, Gerard watched a frightened woman running out through the great bronze doors.

When she saw Gerard, the woman ran over to him and grabbed hold of his arm.

“Do not go in there. The dome is so high it will collapse on you.”

Gerard recognized the woman — it was Marguerite from the caravan. “The church was built over 700 years ago.” Gerard spoke to the woman soothingly. “There is nothing to be afraid of. Come back inside with me.”

The woman clutched Gerard's robe tightly as he led her back through the doors of the church. The inside of the basilica was ablaze with color. Light poured into the church through forty
stained-glass windows that ringed the base of the cupola. Marguerite stretched out her hand to touch the colored light. She moved her hand playfully from color to color. Slowly she released her grip on Gerard's arm.

Gerard prodded her encouragingly. “Look up at the ceiling. It will not fall on you.”

Marguerite shook her head. “I cannot.”

“Try to do it.”

Slowly the woman lifted her eyes. She marveled at the wonders that she saw.

Gerard and Marguerite arranged to meet at Santa Sophia the next day. Gerard showed her the treasury of the basilica, where many of the most sacred relics of Christendom were displayed. As they walked through the rooms, Gerard showed Marguerite the nails that had pierced the hands and feet of Christ on the Cross, a vial of the Virgin's milk, and the coenaculum, the table from which Jesus ate his last meal with the disciples.

“Was Jesus married?” Marguerite asked.

“No, but why do you ask?”

“Because he had no family to help him through his pain and suffering.”

“His disciples were his family.”

“They deserted him at the Cross.”

“Yes — only his mother, Mary Magdalene, and a few other women stood with him to the end.”

“Who was this woman you call the Magdalene?”

After camping for two weeks outside the walls of Constantinople, Gerard and his companions crossed to the Asiatic side of the Bosporus. What lay ahead of them was the vast Anatolian plain, which stretched across Armenia and Cilicia. Day in and day out, they marched through a barren and trackless wilderness where land and sky seemed to merge into an endless space. The Seljuk Turks who ruled the area rarely attacked caravans. They understood that the
Anatolian plain itself was a far more potent weapon than their cavalry.

As the weeks progressed, the sheer monotony and sameness of the landscape brought depression to many. One crusader joked with Gerard. “A skirmish or two would be preferable to this interminable quiet.” Convinced that they would never reach Jerusalem alive, several bands of pilgrims returned to Constantinople.

When the caravan finally reached the Seljuk town of Zanasra at the base of the Taurus Mountains, the mood abruptly changed. If all went as planned, on the following day they would pass through the Cilician Gates and arrive in Tarsus, the city of St. Paul. A day's journey after that and they would be in northern Palestine.

No sooner had the caravan bivouacked outside Zanasra, than a group of Turkish women visited the campsite. Angry at the competition, Marguerite and some other prostitutes from the caravan pelted the women with stones and excrement. Several of the Seljuk women were injured and one knocked unconscious Despite the tension earlier in the day, a band of knights rode into Zanasra after dark in search of pleasure. After drinking too much arak, they broke into Turkish homes in search of women. By dawn of the following morning, three of those who had gone into the town had not returned. A party of armed knights rode into Zanasra looking for their comrades. Inquiries were met with sullen glances and insolent looks. Angered by the hostility of the villagers, the knights took hostages and returned to their camp.

When there was still no word about the missing men on the second morning, Fulk decided to split the convoy into two groups. A contingent of heavily armed knights would remain outside Zanasra and continue the search for their missing companions. The greater part of the caravan would take what was left of the supply wagons and proceed through the Cilician Gates to Tarsus. Lots were drawn, and Gerard was chosen to join those going to Tarsus.

The climb through the Cilician Gates was difficult. Gerard quickly understood why the mountain pass was often referred to as the “Gates of Judas.” Mountains dark with pine forests stood on all sides like gloomy sentinels warning travelers to turn back. The wind blew down the mountain defiles with such intensity that
several muleteers were pushed off the path and fell to their death. As the crusaders climbed higher, ice formed on the ground, forcing those on horseback to dismount or risk sliding to their death down the sides of the gorge.

After a day of climbing, the advance patrol, commanded by Gerard, reached the top of the mountain pass. Three figures stood menacingly in the center of the road. There was an awkwardness about them, as if they belonged to a different world.

A knight cautioned Gerard. “We must not go forward. Spirits haunt these passes.”

“These are not spirits. I fear they are all too real.”

Gerard spurred his horse ahead. The mutilated bodies of the three missing knights from Zanasra stood propped up with twine and pieces of wood—their arms cut off and their testicles pushed into their mouths.

Gerard rode back down the mountain pass with news of the gruesome discovery. A meeting of crusaders was hastily assembled. Several knights, including Gerard, argued for restraint—in a few days, they would be entering the Holy Land. A crusader's hand should not be caked with innocent blood. A young knight from Orleans, however, expressed the sentiment of the majority. “The villagers did not just kill our friends; they butchered them. Our comrades must be avenged.”

That night, the crusaders put Zanasra to the torch and slaughtered its inhabitants.

When the caravan reached the port of Tortosa, Gerard fell gravely ill with dysentery. For six days he lay delirious in a hospital run by the Knights of St. John. Despite angry stares, the harlot Marguerite insisted on nursing Gerard back to health. She bathed him to bring down his fevers and held him in her arms when he shivered from the cold. After she was assured that Gerard was out of danger, Marguerite left for Jerusalem with the caravan.

When he recovered, Gerard was advised to travel the rest of the way to Jaffa by ship. He visited the Templar commanderie in Tortosa to learn when he would be able to find space on a vessel sailing
down the coast. The Templar commanderie was a large castle-like structure that dominated the port's entrance. As Gerard arrived at the front courtyard, a group of men were unloading bales of cloth and sacks of what looked like pieces of yellow rock.

Gerard stopped one of the workmen. “Who is in charge here?”

“Brother Michael. He is inside. You could not miss him even if you tried.”

As Gerard walked to the door of the commanderie, he was confronted by what could only be described as an elemental force of nature. Standing in the doorway with arms folded was a giant of a man, rough-hewn with large callused hands and pockmarked skin. A cloth patch covered his left eye. Gerard knew that it would be foolish to try to push past him.

“Are you Brother Michael?”

As if he found Gerard's question irritating, the man answered brusquely: “Why are you here?”

Gerard handed the man the letter that his father had given him.

Brother Michael read the letter very slowly—a little too slowly, Gerard thought. After several minutes, the monk looked up with an embarrassed expression on his face. “I learned to read when I joined the Templars but thanks to a Saracen arrow in my eye, reading is not easy for me.”

Brother Michael looked down at the letter a second time. “Ah, now I understand. It says your name is Gerard de Montelambert.”

“Yes.”

“Good French stock that! And it says here you are traveling to Jerusalem. Hold out your hand for a moment.”

Brother Michael rolled up his right sleeve. “Feel how tough my skin is. If you are not careful, my young Montelambert, in two weeks' time, the Judean sun will dry your skin into leather like mine.”

Brother Michael's laugh sounded like the roar of a lion. “Now to get you to Jerusalem.”

The Templar pointed to a door at the eastern end of the courtyard. “Come with me to the treasury.”

Brother Michael led Gerard into an airless room piled high with dusty forms and documents. Pushing some papers aside, he motioned Gerard to sit across from him. Within the hour, the necessary travel arrangements had been completed.

“Tomorrow you sail to Jaffa on one of our vessels called the
Madeleine
. From there you will join a Templar convoy going overland to Jerusalem. Now, for the financial arrangements — pay the cost of your trip all the way to Jerusalem. It is easiest.” The Templar took Gerard's money and after a quick calculation, handed him a parchment voucher.

“What is this?” asked Gerard.

“A record of your deposit and current expenses,” answered Brother Michael. “In Jerusalem, we will refund whatever is left on the voucher. It is our system.”

“You have no guard outside the treasury.”

Brother Michael looked amused. “A Templar does not steal money.”

Gerard and Brother Michael left the treasury and walked into the sunlight of the courtyard. Men were still unloading cloth and bales of the yellow rock into a storeroom.

“What do you call the cloth?” Gerard asked. “It reminds me of gossamer?”

“Ah — the cloth. Here we call it gauze. They say it is made in the town of Gaza in the Sinai. And the yellow rock, have you ever tasted it?”