“Is it true?” Robert asked, hastily putting on his boots. “Do we finally get to pay them back?”
“Sharpen that knife,” I told the eager lad.
Raymond ordered the army to break camp, giving the appearance that we were headed for a raid elsewhere. We pulled back two miles, as far as the river Orontes. Then we held until close to dawn. The signal was spread. Everyone be ready. . . .
Under the shield of darkness, we quietly crept back within sight of the city walls. A sliver of orange light was just breaking over the hills to the east. My blood was surging. Today, Antioch would fall. Then it was on to Jerusalem. Freedom.
As we waited for the word, I put my hand on Robert’s shoulder. “Nerves?”
The boy shook his head. “I fear not.”
“You may have started the day still a boy, but by its end you’ll be a man,” I told him.
He grinned sheepishly.
“I guess we’ll both be men.” I winked.
Then a torch waved over the north tower. That was it! Our men were inside. “Let’s go!” the nobles shouted. “Attack!”
Our army charged, Frank, Norman, Tafur, side by side, with one purpose, one mind. “Show them whose God is One,” the leaders cried.
Our battalions headed toward the north tower, where ladders were hoisted against the walls and wave after wave of men climbed over. The sound of shouts and vicious fighting erupted from inside. Then, all at once, the big gate opened. Right in front of our eyes. But instead of attacking Moslem horsemen streaking out, our own conquering army spilled in.
We made our way helter-skelter through the city. Buildings were torched. Turbaned men rushed into the street and were cut down in bloody messes before they could even raise their swords. Cries of “Death to the pagans” and “Dei leveult,” God wills it, echoed everywhere.
I ran in the pack, with no great malice toward the enemy but ready to fight whoever confronted me. I saw one defender cut in half by a mighty ax blow. Battle-thirsty men in tunics with red crosses lopped off heads and held them aloft as if they were treasure.
In front of us a young woman ran out of a burning house, screaming. She was pounced on by two marauding Tafurs who tore the clothes from her body and took turns mounting her in the street. When they were done, they ripped a bronze bracelet from her wrist and bludgeoned her lifeless.
I stared in horror at her bloody shape. In her clutched fist, I saw a cross. Good Lord, she was Christian.
A moment later, from the same building, a fiery-eyed Turk, maybe her husband, charged at me with a scream. I stood paralyzed. An image of my own death rose in my mind. All I could think to utter was, “It was not me. . . .”
But just as the man’s spear was inches from my throat, his rush was intercepted by Robert, thrusting his knife into the Turk’s chest. The man staggered, his eyes horrifically wide. Then he toppled onto his wife, dead.
I blinked in amazement. I turned to Robert with a sigh of relief.
“See, it’s not just God who watches over you.” He winked. “It’s me.”
He had just uttered these words when another turbaned warrior charged toward him, brandishing a long blade.
The boy’s back was turned, and I saw I could not get there in time. He was tugging on his knife, but it remained stuck in the dead Turk’s chest. His face was still lit with that innocent grin.
“Robert!” I screamed. “Robert!”
Chapter 17
THE ATTACKER HURTLED INTO ROBERT and swung his sword with both hands. I had only an instant to intervene. I tried to pivot around Robert, but I was blocked by the Turk. All I could do was scream, “No . . . !”
The sword caught Robert just below the throat. I heard the sound of bones cracking, and his shoulder fell away from his body as the massive blade lodged deep in his chest, seeming to split him in two.
At first I stared in horror. It was as if the boy had seen that he was powerless to stop his own death and, instead of turning to face his attacker, had turned toward me. I will carry his expression with me for the rest of my life.
Then, gaining hold, I lunged, piercing the Turk with my sword. I ran him through again as he fell. When he was on the ground, I continued to hack at him, as if my ferocity could bring back my friend.
Then I knelt beside Robert. His body was asunder, but his face was still as boyish and smooth as when he had first joined our ranks, his goose comically trailing behind. I fought back tears. He was just a boy. . . . All around me, madness boiled out of control. Red-crossed soldiers stormed through the streets, running from house to house, looting, burning. Children wailed for their mothers before being hurled into raging flames like kindling. Tafurs, mad with greed, slaughtered Christian and infidel alike, stuffing anything of value into their filthy robes.
What kind of God inspired such horror? Was this God’s fault? Or man’s?
Something snapped in me. Whatever I thought I was fighting for, whatever dream of freedom or wealth had brought me here, burst. And there was nothing in its place. I did not care about Antioch. Or freeing Jerusalem. Or freeing myself. I only wanted to go home. To see Sophie once more. To tell her I loved her. I could deal with the harshness of laws and taxes and the wrath of our lord, if only I could hold her one more time. I had come here to set myself free. Now I was free. Free of my illusions.
My regiment went on, but I stayed behind, consumed with grief and rage. I did not know where I would go, just that I could no longer fight in their ranks. I staggered around, wandering among burning buildings, passing from horror to horror. Carnage and screams were everywhere. The streets ran ankle deep with blood.
I came upon a Christian church. Sanctum Christi . . . St. Paul’s . . . It almost seemed funny to me: this . . . this old tomb was what we were fighting for. This empty block of stone was what we had come to set free.
I wanted to lash at the church with my sword. It was a host of lies. I finally staggered up the steep stone steps in a fit of rage.
“God wills this?” I screamed. “God wills this murder?”
Chapter 18
I HAD NO SOONER STEPPED INSIDE the dark, cool nave of the church than I heard a cry of anguish coming from the front. This madness just wouldn’t stop!
On the steps of the altar, two black-robed Turks hovered over a priest, pummeling him with kicks, cursing him in their tongue, while the fearful cleric did his best to defend himself with a rough wooden staff.
A moment before, I had hesitated. A friend had died. I had no fealty to this priest, but this time I charged full force toward the assault.
I ran with my sword drawn and a loud cry, just as one of the attackers thrust a dagger into the belly of the priest. The other infidel turned, and I leaped upon him. The blade of my sword penetrated his side. The Turk let out a chilling howl.
The other assailant rose and faced me, wielding the dagger that was still covered with the priest’s blood. He lunged, spitting words I recognized, “Ibn Kan . . .” Son of Cain.
I pivoted aside and brought my sword over the back of his head. It sheared through his neck as if it were a weak limb of a tree. The Turk fell to his knees, his head rolling away from him. Then he toppled forward, landing on what would have been his face.
I stood, transfixed by the awful corpses of the Turks. I no longer knew what was inside of me. What was I doing here? What had I become?
I went over to the fallen priest, to help if I could. As I knelt beside him his eyes grew cloudy. He exhaled a final breath. The useless wooden staff fell from his hand.
Too late . . . I was no hero, only a fool.
Just then, I heard a rustling behind me. I spun to see a third attacker, this one bare chested and monstrous, the size of two men. Seeing his comrades slain, he rushed toward me, his sword poised for attack.
In that instant I saw my helplessness. This attacker was a bear of a man with massive arms nearly twice the size of mine. I could no more hold him off than I could a tornado. As he charged, I raised my sword, but the Tur
k’s stroke was so strong it knocked me backward over the dead priest. He charged at me once more, his eyes focused and fierce. This time, my sword flew out of my hands, clattering across the church’s floor. I lunged after it, but the Turk intercepted me with a vicious kick, sucking the air out of my belly.
I was going to die. . . . I knew it. There was no way to defeat this horrible monster. In a last effort, I reached for the priest’s wooden staff. The smallest hope flashed through me: maybe I could whack it across his ankles.
But my attacker merely took a giant step, pinning the staff uselessly under his sandal. I peered into the bastard’s black eyes. I was out of tricks. Above me, his blade caught the glint of a torch. I was about to die. . . .
What profound images filled my mind as I tensed, waiting for the blade to fall? It did not occur to me to pray, to ask God for the forgiveness of my sins. No, God had taken me where I belonged. I bade farewell to my sweet Sophie. I felt I had shamed myself, to leave her this way. She would never know how I died, why, or where, or that I was thinking of her at the end.
What did flash through my brain was the incredible irony of it all. Here I was, dying in front of an altar of Christ, on a holy crusade that I never really believed in.
I didn’t believe. . . . Yet I was dying for this cause anyway.
As I looked at my murderer, my fear left me. So did my urge to resist. I peered into the Turk’s eyes. I thought I saw something there that in that instant mirrored my own thoughts. The strangest urge overcame me. I could not hold it back.
I didn’t pray, or close my eyes, or even beg for my life.
Instead, I began to laugh.
Chapter 19
THE TURK’S SWORD HOVERED OVER ME. At any second he would strike the final blow. Yet all I could do was laugh.
At what I was dying for. At the total ridiculousness of it all. At the precious freedom I was about to be granted at last.
I looked into his hooded eyes, and though I knew it was probably my last breath, I simply could not hold back. I just laughed. . . .
My attacker hesitated, his sword poised above my head. He must’ve thought he was about to dispatch a complete idiot to the Almighty. He blinked at me, his brows arched, confused.
I searched my mind for something to say in his tongue, which Nicodemus had taught me. Anything at all.
“This is your last warning,” I said to him. “Are you ready to give up?”
Then I burst out laughing once again.
The massive Turk, his eyes like fiery coals, loomed over me. I waited for the death blow. Then I saw his expression relax into the slightest inkling of a smile.
Choking back the laughter, I stammered, “Th-the thing is . . . I’m not even a believer.”
The giant man hesitated. I didn’t know if he would speak or strike. His mouth curved into a sheepish grin. “Nor am I.”
His sword still quivered menacingly over my head. I knew any moment could be my last. I raised myself to my elbows, looked him in the eye, and said, “Then, one nonbeliever to another, you must kill me in the name of what we do not embrace.”
Slowly, almost inexplicably, I saw the hostility on his face fade. To my utter amazement, the Turk lowered his sword. “We’re too few as it is,” he said. “No reason to make one less.”
Was this possible? Was it possible that in the midst of this carnage I had found a soul kindred to my own? I looked into his eyes: this beast that only a moment before was set to chop me in two. I saw something there that this whole bloody night I had not seen: virtue, humor, a human soul . . . I couldn’t believe it. Please, God, I finally prayed, don’t let this be some kind of cruel trick.
“Is this real? You’re going to let me go?” My fingers slowly relaxed from the priest’s staff.
The Turk took a measuring look at me, then he nodded.
“You probably thought you were ridding the world of a complete madman,” I said.
“The thought occurred.” He grinned.
Then my mind fixed on the danger of the moment. “You’d better go. Our forces are all around. You are at risk.”
“Go . . . ?” The Turk seemed to sigh. “Go where?” There was something in his face, no longer hatred or even amusement. It was more like resignation.
At that moment, loud footsteps burst through the outer door. I heard voices. Soldiers stormed into the church. They were not wearing crosses but filthy robes. Tafurs.
“Get out of here,” I urged the Turk. “These men will show you no mercy.”
He took a look at his assailants. Then he merely winked at me. He started to laugh himself, then turned to face their charge.
The Tafurs came upon him with their swords and awful clubs.
“No . . .” I screamed. “Spare this man. Spare him!”
He managed to kill the first one with a mighty sweep of his sword. But then he was overwhelmed, consumed by heavy blows and disemboweling slashes, never once crying out, until his powerful body resembled some hideous slab of meat and not the noble soul he was.
The lead Tafur delivered one more blow to the bloody mound, then he delved through the Turk’s robes, looking for something of value. Finding nothing, he shrugged to his comrades. “Let’s find the fucking crypt.”
It took everything I had not to leap on the Tafurs myself, but these savages would surely kill me.
They passed by me on their way to loot the church. I was trembling with horror.
The lead vermin ran the blade of his sword across my chest, as if he were evaluating whether to leave me in the same condition as the Turk. Then he sneered, amused, and said, “Don’t look so sad, redhead. You are free!”
Chapter 20
I WAS FREE, the Tafur had said. Free!
I started to laugh once more. The irony was bursting through my sides. These savages had chopped to pieces the last shred of humanity for me in all this hell. Now . . . they were setting me free!
If the Turk had not hesitated just a moment ago, I’d have been dead myself. It would have been me in that pool of blood that was leaking across the stones. Yet he’d spared me. In all this madness I had found a moment of clarity and truth with this Turk, whose name I did not even know. We’d touched souls. And the vermin had told me I was free.
I struggled to my feet. I stepped over to the body of the man who had spared me and looked, horrified, at his bloody corpse. I knelt down and touched his hand. Why . . . ? I could walk out of this church. I could be cut down as soon as I stepped out on the street, or I could live for years, a full life. For what end?
Why did you spare me? I looked into the Turk’s dull, still eyes. What did you see?
It was laughter that had saved me. Laughter that had somehow touched the Turk. I was only a breath away from death and yet instead of panic and fear, laughter had entered my soul. Amid all this fighting, I had simply made him smile. Now he was gone and I was here. A calm came over me. You are right, Tafur. . . . I am finally free.
I had to get out of here. I knew I could no longer fight. I was a different man. Different from a moment ago. This cross on my tunic meant nothing to me. I stripped it from my chest. I had to go back. I had to see Sophie again. What else could matter? I was a fool to have left her. For freedom? Suddenly, the truth seemed so clear. A child could have seen it.
It was only with Sophie that I felt truly free.
I wanted to take something from the church with me. Something from this moment that I would have for the rest of my life. I leaned over the dead Turk. The poor warrior was empty of anything: a ring, a memento.
I heard voices outside. It could be anybody. Infidels, raiders, more Tafurs hunting for spoils. I looked around. Please, something.
I went back to the priest. I lifted the staff that had been in my hands when the Turk spared my life. It was a rough, gnarled stick of wood, maybe four feet long, and thin. But it seemed strong. It would be my friend when I crossed the mountains again, my companion. I vowed to carry it with me wherever I went for the rest of my life. r />
I looked at the fallen Turk and whispered good-bye. “You’re right, my friend; we are too few as it is.”
I gave him a wink.
Looking up, I noticed a small crucifix on the altar. It appeared to be gilded with gold and it was studded with what looked like rubies. I took it down and stuffed it into my pouch. I had earned this much. A golden cross.
The cries of men dying hit me as I stepped outside. Mayhem was still rampant in the streets. The conquering throng had gone deeper into Antioch, cleansing the city of anything Moslem. Bloody corpses were scattered everywhere. A few latecomers in clean armor rushed by me, eager to share in the spoils.
I heard awful cries of death farther up the hill, but I wasn’t going there. I put the priest’s staff to the ground and took a step — the other way.
Away from the senseless killing. And my regiment. Back toward the city gate.
I would never see Jerusalem in this lifetime.
I was heading home to Sophie.
Part Two
BLACK CROSS
Chapter 21
IT TOOK SIX MONTHS for me to find my way home.
From Antioch, I headed west, toward the coast. I wanted to get as far away from my murderous battalion as I could. I stripped out of my bloody clothing and donned the robes of a pilgrim whose corpse I had stumbled upon. I was a deserter. All promises of freedom made by Raymond of Toulouse were now revoked.
I traveled by night, crossing the barren mountains to St. Simeon, a port held in Christian hands. There, I slept on the docks like a beggar until I managed to convince a Greek captain to let me hitch a ride aboard his ship to Malta. From there, I traded my way onto a Venetian cargo ship carrying sugar and spun cloth back to Europe. Venice . . . It was still the trek of a lifetime from my little village.
I earned my passage recalling my days as a jongleur with the goliards, reciting tales from La Chanson de Roland and entertaining the crew at their meals with raucous jokes. No doubt the crew had their suspicions of me. Deserters were everywhere, and why else would an able, penniless man be running from the Holy Land?