Knights of the Cross (7 page)

‘And if we had waited for you to conceive it, our grandsons would still be besieging Antioch fifty years hence.’ Count Hugh jerked his head emphatically, so that his fine hair tumbled over his face. He pushed it back, but it would not stay. ‘I propose we should reimburse Count Raymond from the common fund, as a signal of our gratitude.’

Raymond raised his hands in deference, while his single eye fixed Duke Godfrey with malice. ‘Keep the common fund for the poor and feeble. I have money enough for the task.’

‘So be it,’ said Adhemar. He turned to Bohemond. ‘What are the reports from your camp?’

Though the only man at the council with neither lands nor titles, it was Bohemond alone among them who looked a prince. He stood, letting the blood-red folds of his cloak hang free so that the swirling weave of the silk shimmered in the candlelight. It must have been a gift from the Emperor, for there was not a craftsman in the west who could have wrought it with such subtlety.

‘The report from my camp, your Grace, is that only the Turks could rejoice at our progress. What of it that my men routed a thousand of them three days ago on the road to Saint Simeon? They have more. Their walls stand as tall today as yesterday. And we bicker in our tents because we cannot scruple to let one man shine above the rest.’

He had advanced into the centre of the square now, pacing and turning as he addressed his audience. Of those faces I could see, none looked sympathetic. ‘You know, Bishop Adhemar, that there can only be one head of the church. Why do we suffer many heads in our army, pulling in so many different directions that we tear apart?’

‘We acknowledge one captain over our armies, and His name is Jesus Christ,’ said Adhemar. ‘Before the Lord, every one of us is equal. It would be the sin of Lucifer to overreach God’s order.’

‘We acknowledge one Lord over our church. But we also acknowledge His ordination of a single man to govern that church, your master the Pope, the better to accomplish His divine purpose.’

That provoked mutterings among the council, particularly in Duke Godfrey’s corner. Bohemond ignored them.

‘Why, then, should one of us not have primacy, even for a short time, in directing our affairs? Let one who has distinguished himself in battle, whose army has proved itself time and again against the Turks, be appointed to break this city open before we are slaughtered.’

‘And I suppose,’ Count Raymond interrupted, ‘that such a man might then claim the city as the fair spoils of his victory.’

‘Why not? He would have earned it.’

That brought Tatikios to his feet, though it was Raymond again who spoke first. ‘Have you forgotten your oath to the Emperor, Lord Bohemond? To restore all the lands of Asia that are rightfully his? Would you so happily perjure yourself to your greed?’

‘When the Greek King comes in person to share our sufferings and our war, then perhaps he will earn the honouring of my promise. But for now, he sits in his palace surrounded by the eunuchs while we – all of us – fester and perish in misery.’

His words drew many nods of agreement, though not from Raymond or Bishop Adhemar. But at last Tatikios was able to speak.

‘Perhaps, in the folly of youth, Lord Bohemond still believes that it is only the point of the sword, where blood is spilled, that matters. The wiser among you, my lords, will know that no sword will cut true without a strong hand on the hilt. If the Emperor Alexios does not share your burdens here it is because he campaigns in our rear, guarding our supply lines and preventing the Turks from surrounding us.’

‘Where else would you find a Greek but in the rear?’ Bohemond asked, to widespread laughter.

‘Where else would you find a Norman but banging his head against impenetrable walls, too dull to notice he had tipped out his brains? If you had heeded my plan, to hold back from the city and choke it from afar, then you would not now waste your forces in fruitless attrition.’

‘If the Emperor had sent the men he promised, we would have had the strength to take the city. His treachery consigns us to failure.’

‘His generosity keeps you from dying of famine.’

Bishop Adhemar clapped his hands. ‘Enough. Be seated – both of you,’ he added, with a pointed glance at Bohemond. ‘Quarrelling among allies will profit us nothing. You are right, Lord Bohemond, that the Turks rejoice at our lack of progress. But how much more would they rejoice if they could hear your quarrelling now.’

With an unrepentant sneer, curiously satisfied for one so rebuked, Bohemond seated himself in silence.

It had not been unforeseen. On the day we left Constantinople, the Emperor had gathered the princes together on the shores of the Bosphorus. It had reminded me of a fair or a market, for the air was sweet with the sounds of harps and lyres and laughter, the smells of blossom and roasting meat. At the top of the slope, beneath the high bluffs, the Emperor had caused pavilions to be erected, each sewn with the standards of the princes. I still remembered the stupefied grins on their faces as they emerged, each from his own tent, marvelling at the treasure that they had found within. Bishop Adhemar and our own Patriarch had celebrated the Eucharist on the beach, handing the cup to each of the princes in turn, and they had sworn that the blood of Christ would be as the blood of brothers among them. Ladies from the palace had woven their hair with garlands of gold which gleamed in the May sun, and the sea had sparkled with promise. Afterwards, after the feast, the Emperor had summoned them to a council.

‘You have come far,’ he announced. The purple walls of his tent glowed like embers, rippling in the fresh breeze. Inside, the air was close and warm. ‘But the holy road to Jerusalem is longer still – and harder. You will need clean hearts and pure souls if your pilgrimage is to succeed, if the lands of Asia are to be reclaimed for Christendom. Remember that you walk in the footsteps of Christ: be strong as he was strong, but also merciful as he was merciful.’

He paused, sipping from a great golden chalice. I fancied that there was more grey in his beard now than there had been six months earlier, and a slight shrinking of the stout shoulders beneath the gems on his robe. Even the act of breathing seemed to spur a dull pain: for all the attention of Anna and the palace doctors, it was still only weeks since he had suffered an almost fatal spear wound.

‘The cares of my people prevent me from leading you, and I would not steal the least portion of the glory that you will undoubtedly earn. But I send you off with as much food and gold as you require, with my strongest general’ – Tatikios, seated to the Emperor’s left, inclined his head – ‘and also with some advice. Twenty miles inland from that far shore, my domains cease. Beyond, you will find only Ishmaelites. But do not make the mistake of thinking that all who wear turbans and pray to Mahomet are as one: between Nicaea and Jerusalem there are more tribes and factions than there are birds in the air. Every one of their emirs and atabegs eyes his neighbours with jealousy, and plots the increase of his own realm. Every city is a province, and every province a kingdom. There are not two brothers who do not conspire against each other. Learn their ways, their allegiances and their feuds, and exploit them. If they unite, they will sweep you from their shores like grains of sand; while they are divided, they can be conquered. Send embassies to the Fatimids of Egypt, if you can, for though they are Ishmaelites they are of a different race and creed, and will fight the Turks with more ferocity even than you.’

The Emperor paused again, surveying the barbarian faces. Standing at the back, I could not tell what he saw – the salvation of his empire, an army ordained by God, a troop of barbarian mercenaries – but it seemed to sadden him. His voice was slower when he spoke again.

‘You are tens of thousands marching against hundreds of thousands. You will pass through trials and battles too terrible to imagine. Many of you will doubtless die, others will wish themselves dead. Whatever your suffering, remain constant to each other, and to our God. The Devil will seek to work division and hatred among you, and if he succeeds you will die in the dust of Anatolia. You are entering a desert, a wilderness of dangers and temptations. You must not succumb.’

Somewhere near the back of the tent, someone sniggered.

‘Another fleet will come from Cyprus next week with grain,’ Tatikios was saying.

‘We will see that it feeds the hungriest first.’ Bishop Adhemar turned to his right. Despite the crowding on the benches, there was one place where the princes had pushed apart, leaving a few inches of clear space flanking the figure in their midst. Even by the debased standards of the siege he was exceptionally filthy; his clothes were rags seemingly sewn together with grime. His bare feet were hairy and callused, the horny nails yellow, while his long, twisted face resembled a mule’s more than a man’s. He sat in his isolation hunched over, his eyes closed, muttering words which none could understand.

‘You will distribute food to the pilgrims, Little Peter?’ Adhemar asked.

The man’s eyes flicked open, their blue pupils fixing on something invisible to the rest of the council. I felt unease course through the assembled princes.

‘Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness, for they will be filled.’

To look at him, you would have expected a braying voice, or perhaps a haggard croak, but when he opened his lips the words were gentle, sweet, as though he had been waiting all his life to say them. It was the sort of voice that made men want to listen, even if they did not understand what it said. Among the pilgrims he was worshipped as a saint, though when he had led his own army his innocent followers had been slaughtered in their thousands, convinced to the last that his spirit would ward off Turkish arrows. All the Franks paid him respect, even those who distrusted his power. For my part, I hated him.

He had shut his eyes again, but still held the gaze of the room. ‘When the people are diminished and brought low, the Lord pours contempt on princes and makes them wander in trackless wastes. But the needy he raises from their distress; he blesses them with a fruitful house.’

It seemed that he spoke to himself, almost in a whisper, yet his words were clear across the tent. Anger and fear flitted over the watching faces, but none dared speak. None save Adhemar.

‘The day is tired, and the hour late.’ He stood, and the rest of the assembly followed in grateful release. ‘Sound rest and fresh hearts will profit us more than words tomorrow. My Lords, goodnight.’

A handful of priests and knights followed him out of the tent, while the other princes drifted into small groups of urgent conversation. Only Little Peter, the mystic, did not join them: he stayed seated on his bench, staring at Heaven and mumbling incoherently.

A broad shoulder interrupted my view as Bohemond appeared beside me. He gestured at my ivory writing tablet. ‘Did you find much worthy of recording, Demetrios?’

‘A scribe must listen and write; he does not have to judge.’

‘Then have you found anything else worth recording since last we spoke? Anything to explain the death of my liegeman Drogo?’

I detailed what I had learned that day.

‘So he was killed by a knightly blade, and not for gain if his purse was untouched. You do not think it was a Turk?’

‘A Turk would have robbed him.’

Bohemond scratched his beard and affected to think, though there seemed little doubt behind those pale eyes. As I waited, my gaze drifting over the room, I thought I saw Count Raymond’s single-eyed stare fixed suspiciously upon us, though he turned away as he saw me.

‘You think this Provençal woman, this Sarah, might have been the cause of the feud?’ Bohemond asked at last.

‘It is possible.’

‘A Norman knight and a Provençal woman. A dangerous union.’ He swept his arm in a circle around us. ‘You have seen tonight how fragile our allegiances are. The death of Drogo cannot be another wedge between us.’

Having witnessed the distrust, intrigue and venom in the tent, I doubted it would make much difference.

It was the next afternoon before my duties allowed me to seek the woman Sarah. As the path to the Provençal camp took me through the Norman lines, I risked a second visit to Drogo’s tent. Sigurd and his men were working at the tower that day, but the need to know more of the dead man’s companions drove me to attempt it alone.

The skeletal man still sat cross-legged opposite, the mud pressed smooth under his legs. He might never have moved since the previous morning, though he waved a ragged arm in greeting as I passed.

‘Is Quino there?’ I asked.

The old man shook his head.

I tried to resurrect the other names in my mind. ‘Rainauld?’

He was not, but I must have spoken more loudly than I intended, for suddenly a voice behind me demanded: ‘Who asks for Rainauld?’

‘Demetrios Askiates, on behalf of the Lord Bohemond.’