6th Horseman, Extremist Edge Series: Part 1 (15 page)

J.C. walked up to him and shot a 9 millimeter
round into his dead eyes just to make sure. That was one of ten,
maybe fifteen, Mujahidin suicide fighters we had to put down that
day. Fucking bloody day.

For the next three hours we cleared our
sector and secured the courtyard. It was starting to get hot, and
it was only nine a.m.. As the dust settled, things wound down.
After we’d pushed out everyone with a death wish, we fell back to
our base and got some downtime. It was a lonely time for most, a
time to think about what you’d left behind: your ma, pa, or baby
brother. It wasn’t my lonely time. I listened to the quiet. It was
as sweet as that first shot of whiskey. I could hear my heart beat.
Was I still a woman? My gear strapped me down, flattened my chest,
and hid my face and body. Here, I was just another soldier, not
male, not female. My gear made me heavy, but now that I was lying
there, propped up on a brick wall, I didn’t feel hot or achy, just
relaxed. Then I slept. I slept like I’d died.

Three hours went by like a heart beat.
Rodrigues shook me awake. After cramming food down my swollen
throat, we were forced to take up residence in some luxurious
mansion that just happened to be built like a fortress. We set up a
second base further in the neighborhood. We stocked it with ammo,
gear, MREs, smokes, and Band-Aids.

There had been skirmishes throughout the
night, explosions, and more blood. But we held camp. We did our
part. A week later we moved out. Redeployed. The worst was behind
us. Command moved me to the Green Zone in Bagdad. I had to guard a
checkpoint for eight hours a day. At least in Fallujah I got to run
around at night when the sun wasn’t so evil. Every car that passed
had the potential to blow off my face. And these towel heads would
pass by me with bloodlust pooling in their eyes. It wasn’t that I
was American, they hated me because I was a woman that carried a
gun and barked orders.

Day after day of that bullshit and I finally
snapped. This man came walking up to the checkpoint in a dirty thab
and sandals, basically looked like every other Iraqi, but dirtier.
He had his hands hidden. I yelled, “Raweenee edeek!” Which means
show me your hands. He didn’t listen. “Ogaf bmkanek la tetharek!”
(Stop where you are.) He didn’t stop. Only when I readied to blow
his fucking head off did he listen to me. He stopped and held up
his hands. I made him pull up his dress and spin around. No bomb,
no weapon at all. I waved him on. But that moment he passed me he
shot me a look that might as well been a punch to my face. I bashed
his head with the butt of my rifle then leapt on him. I didn’t stop
hitting him until my commander pulled me off. By that time he
looked inside out.

At the time, I burned bright inside like a
sun in some cold corner of the universe. The men around me still
stared, but less hateful than before. They became afraid of me.

The next day I was moved back to Kuwait. They
tried me and formally kicked me out of the Army. Whatever, fuck
‘em. I didn’t regret a damn thing.

#

I exit Central Park and step over the small
knee-high brick wall that surrounds the grounds. I move cautiously
across the road. I look left where the explosion had come from.
There’s a cloud of smoke still rising from the circle. No other
movement. I head up Seventh with my assault rifle at the ready.

A
fter a terribly
long flight, one from which I thought I’d never recover, I land at
the airport in Rome and take a taxi to Vatican City. The cab’s
trunk is too small for my luggage, so I clip it onto the roof rack.
I have never traveled in Europe before. I find myself pleasantly
surprised. It’s bustling like New York but much older. The ghosts
of a thousand centuries must be wandering these streets. There is
also a more casual look on everyone’s face. I fall in love with the
place almost immediately. I wish I’d brought Marian.

The taxi follows winding roads, snaking in
and around brick buildings. I can almost see the hills from the
back seat. Apartments and office buildings cluster the city like a
packed bookshelf. The beauty of the city is only broken by
occasional graffiti. The streets and sidewalks are filled with
Italians in their little cars, zipping in and out of narrow
streets. People love using their horns. Everyone is honking at each
other. I laugh. My mother, God rest her soul, would have loved the
homemade feel of this country.

My cab driver speeds up and turns more
recklessly the farther we get from the airport. His speed gets to
me, so I stare at my hands, feeling irritated. I’m not at a
carnival. I didn’t pay for a roller coaster ride. I want to say
something, but I don’t know how to say it in Italian, so I don’t.
My stomach turns inside out. There’s a reason not many black folks
drive in NASCAR.

Finally, we arrive at one of the Vatican
gates. It looks like a medieval castle gate, three stories tall,
with a high brick archway topped with grand sculptures of Roman
figures and ornate shapes. The walls that extend around and above
the entrance are twice as tall, made of old bricks and mortar. Such
history here. Such a grand old city. So grand, in fact, that it
makes me feel small and young. Inside the lavish gate is the
impressive Sistine Chapel, surrounded by many other classical
buildings I read about in a brochure. Catholicism will always
foment a false idol with its gold trimmed cathedrals and lavish
ornamental decor. Their priests’ robes are even as ostentatious as
their ceremonies. But, because I am in their house, I keep my
criticism to myself. I go directly to the library, following the
map on the brochure.

I step into the Gallery Library. My feet tap
on the solid marble floors. It’s quiet with the occasional echo of
something whispered or dropped. The library is bright, lit from all
angles by the sun. There are so many works of art along the walls.
Paintings from the Renaissance and other periods adorn every nook
and cranny. It is quite stunning. They shouldn’t belong in the city
of God, but that’s an argument for the ages. There are walls and
walls of books, both ancient and contemporary. The library is two
stories tall with high-arching gold ceilings. There is quite a
warmth to this place.

I move past the index section and go to a
service librarian. They are expecting me. I learn that what I’ve
come here for is kept in the basement. I paid a heavy price for an
afternoon of uninterrupted research in the basement archives. I’m
provided white lint-free gloves and a map of the shelves. A
librarian helps me pick twenty or so books to start. Those are
replaced six hours later with ten more books. Time slips through my
fingers like the sand in an hourglass. My hunger is suppressed, and
my mind stays focused. I push through information as easy as a
drill seeds wheat.

I carefully open the next book and start
skimming the pages. Half way through it, I discover a transcript
from the Eighth Crusade detailing the conquering of the port city
of Caesarea in Northern Israel. The transcript was written by a
scribe from France’s King Louis IX’s Army of God. Where the first
army failed, the second army succeeded rather easily because they
found no resistance when they approached the gates. The strange
thing about the account is that when the second army of French
troops entered the city, they only found dead people. They did not
find any gold or treasure, which was odd because Caesarea was a
port city, known to be quite wealthy. I turn back a page to see why
the first army failed but there are no details. All it said was how
the first army was led by a great leader, John the Mighty. If he
was so great, why did he lose?

Louis IX’s second army piled the bodies high
and burned the dead. Because they were afraid of disease, they
burned everything in the city. The King’s army moved north to
capture Acre. Believing, after all, that conquest was not an act of
murder, their quest was supposed to be an act of salvation. The
dead city of Caesarea was useless to the King.

The lack of information regarding the first
attack bothered me. I’m intrigued and totally surprised at where
this investigation is leading me. There’s nothing in these books
that leads me to the Stone of Allah. I turn the page and scan the
end of the account. King Louis IX seemed to be angry about losing
his first army to an empty city. He was thanking God for victory,
but also questioning the loss of his best soldier, John the Mighty.
Who is this John the Mighty?

I look through a different book for
references to the first army that attacked Caesarea. I cannot find
any records. I might have to scan a few dozen other books or more.
A few lights are dimmed at the far end of the library as they are
closing. More lights go out. Only the lights along the walkway to
the exit and the one above me are still lit.

A priest emerges from the dark and approaches
me.

“I guess I got to go?” I ask, feeling
dissatisfied.

The priest wears a black robe with the
typical white square collar. Deep wrinkles and a scrunched nose
hold up his thin gold-rimmed glasses. He speaks English with a
thick accent. “I see you are interested in the Eighth Crusade.”

“I’m looking for the transcript of the first
attack on Caesarea. It seems that King Louis IX had to take a great
loan and many troops from the Templars to conquer Caesarea only to
find everyone already dead. How did the Caesareans defeat his first
army and why aren’t there any accounts of it in these books?” I
look at the notes I have made. “Something is missing.”

The priest pulls a worn and thin book from
his robe and sits down. He slides the book toward me. “There is
only one copy of this text. The original has been lost.” I look at
the book then slide it back. “Is there a transcript? I don’t read
Latin.”

The priest smiles. “Picture this. You are
John the Mighty, a loyal and fierce warrior in the court of King
Louis IX. You ride up to the great stonewalls of Caesarea on your
massive stallion with an army of ten thousand men behind you. Your
body is covered in steel armor, as is your horse. Your army has
counterweight trebuchets, steel weapons, thick armor, and is better
trained and more experienced than any other. You fly the French
colors. You have God on your side. You see, the Crusades were
retaliation for all the wars the Arabs brought to the
Mediterranean. It was a re-conquer. Just because the Muslims had
the land for over a thousand years does not mean it was theirs in
the first place. They were the first to soak the land in blood.
That is the truth that John the Mighty fought for. As did most of
the crusaders, for that matter.

“The first order of business in any siege is
to surround the city gates, then launch attacks by arrow and
trebuchet. After a few weeks the Caesareans should have been hungry
and weak and easy to conquer. All was going according to plan. In
fact, John and his bravest soldiers were so confident, they played
games and ate and drank during the evening hours. The translation
says that the heavens shined on their efforts, a quarter moon after
the siege began, with a great light show in the early morning.”

The priest leans closer to me and continues,
keeping his voice hushed. “The light show was a meteor shower. It
lasted for two days. Thousands of burning falling stars. John
rejoiced. He believed it was a sign. On the third morning, before
the sun rose, John gathered a group of his best warriors and
approached the main gates. He was almost at the siege line — ”

I interrupted, “What is the siege line?”

“It was the line you couldn’t cross until the
siege was over. The Caesarean arrows didn’t have a very long range.
Their maximum distance was marked in the ground and called the
siege line. If you crossed the line you could be shot by an arrow.
John had not crossed the line. There are a few accounts saying that
he did cross the line, but he was too smart for that. He stood well
behind the line and called for surrender. John the Mighty waited
for an answer. It was said that he grew impatient. Then the most
amazing thing happened. He was struck in the chest, killed
instantly.”

“An arrow struck him?”

“No. This document says a meteor struck him.
The official account says arrow, but that was not true. I believe
it was a meteor. The chest plate was penetrated as if it were made
of paper.”

“Why do you believe that it was a meteor?” I
ask, because that would seem like a huge coincidence. “Is there any
evidence of this?”

“This is the oldest account we have. It is
much older than Albert of Aix-la-Chapelle’s account in the 11th
Century text.” The priest flipped to a page and pointed. “It says
here that the French army found the meteor under John’s dead body.
It was reported to be a clear stone in the shape of a large cut
diamond. It had a rusty shape in the heart of the stone that
glimmered, even in the night, as if it had a power unto itself.”
The priest took the book and tucked it back into his robe. “The
French were confused, disheartened. So the Caesareans seized the
advantage and made a desperate attack. The French army retreated,
but had not prepared a strategy for retreat because of their
arrogance. The Caesareans were able to kill most of the French in a
bloody assault. After the battle, the meteorite was taken by the
victorious Caesareans and hailed as the Stone of Allah.”