Pagan's Crusade (14 page)
‘My lord, you must see the difference. You’re not an ordinary person. God made you like this. You were made to fight for God.’
‘How?’
‘Well – um –’ (Well I don’t know. You tell me. You’re the expert.)
‘I was born in a land of slaughter, Pagan. I was born on a battlefield. My father is the biggest butcher in Christendom. He took me from the cradle and welded my sword to my hand. And when I was gorged with blood – when my dreams were so full of ghosts that there was no more room for sleep – I went to the monastery of Saint Jerome, and I begged for a place behind its walls. I
begged.
On my
knees.
But the Abbot wouldn’t let me in. He said I was born to fight, and I should fight for God, and he sent me to fight for the city of God.’
‘Jerusalem.’
‘Yes, Jerusalem. I came here to serve the King of Jerusalem. The last king. And I found that the King was a leper. I found that I couldn’t even kiss his hand, he smelt so rotten. And I thought: why would God curse the Holy City with a leper king?’
‘He wasn’t a curse.’ Poor old Baldwin. Poor old King Baldwin. ‘He was a brave king.’
‘But he was a leper, Pagan. A
leper.
It was surely a sign from God. And when I looked around, I saw that his kingdom was as rotten as its king. I saw thieves at every door, monks consorting with women, Christians cheating pilgrims and trading with the Infidel –’ ‘Well it’s no worse than anywhere else!’
‘But it ought to be
better
, don’t you see? Or what is there here that’s worth fighting for?’
It’s always the same. The eternal lament of the foreigner. Call this a Holy City? The streets aren’t even clean!
‘So I appealed to the Church once more, and once more the priests bade me fight. The kingdom couldn’t spare me, they said. They told me to join the Templars. To become a Monk of War. They said the Rule of the Order was perfect in its obedience to the divine will, and that by following the Rule I would become one of God’s own liege men.’
‘And that’s exactly what you
are
!’
He looks up. That look –! Like an enormous weight, settling onto your shoulders.
‘The Rule is broken,’ he says. ‘The Rule is broken by its own guardian. We cannot follow it any more: how can we? It tells us to obey our Grand Master. It tells us to fight to the death. We must break one rule or break another. How can it be our path to salvation now? The path is gone. The truth is gone. There are no rules. There’s nothing.’
And he sits there, staring at the floor, with his hands lying open on his knees, the very picture of despair. While I can’t even begin to understand what he’s saying. It doesn’t make sense. So what if the Rule is broken? We’ll just make a new Rule. It’s not the end of the world.
‘My lord, the Rule doesn’t matter. What matters is the fight. We still have to fight.’
‘For what?’
‘For
what
? For our
lives
, that’s what!’
‘But my life is worthless. It has no meaning in the eyes of God. I have spent it killing and killing . . . for no good cause. The Rule is broken. I have no path. How can I reach salvation if I can’t find a path?’
Salvation, salvation. Most of us just take our chances. I don’t know, Roland, somehow I can’t picture you in hell.
‘My lord, I’m not a priest. I have no understanding of these things. If you ask me, I should say that of all the people in the world you’re the most likely to go to heaven – but then I’m no expert. All I know . . .’ (God, all I know is that we need you. We
need
you.) ‘My lord, without you we’re lost. We’re all lost, here. Please, my lord, this is my country. You can go home, but where can I go? I have nothing but this. Nothing. And – and you’re the only one. There’s no one else. If you give up, what will I do? Please, my lord. You’re a good man. You can’t leave us here. If you leave us, we’re finished.
Please
. . .’
God. Did I say that? He’s staring – staring – and the blood feels hot in my cheeks. Let go of his arm, Pagan. He looks down as my hand moves: a sleepy, stunned sort of look. Like someone who’s just woken up.
Suddenly the door creaks on its hinges. Sergeant Pons peers in.
He sees Roland, and gapes.
‘My lord! Are you all right?’
‘What?’ Blinking. ‘Yes. Yes, I’m all right.’
‘But what are you doing down there?’
‘Nothing.’ Roland heaves himself upright. Climbs to his feet. ‘Nothing. What is it?’
‘My lord, I’ve been looking all over. We need to call a council. We need to make decisions –’
‘Yes, of course.’ Glancing at me. He looks pale, still, but collected. Amazing how fast he can recover when he wants to. ‘We’ll call a general chapter, to break the news. Then I want to discuss our strategy with you and Brother Felix, sergeant. Brother Felix will be very useful with his first-hand knowledge. It will help us to know what we’re up against. Pagan?’
‘My lord?’
He seems about to speak, but acts instead. Laying a hand on my shoulder. His grip is as firm as a rock: not heavy, just strong. He stands there, looking down at me, with the colour coming back to his face.
‘Thank you,’ he says at last. ‘Thank you, Pagan. You are right, of course.’
And he smiles before leaving the room.
The city of Jerusalem stands alone against Saladin
’
s army of Infidels.
F
rom Tancred’s Tower, you can see their flags quite clearly – flashes of colour in the fitful gusts of wind. A hot, dry wind. Kicking up dust in their faces. Carrying snatches of sound across the city walls: the babble of voices, the clash of iron, the whinnying of horses and mules.
Very quiet, on this side. Everyone’s watching. Like birds in a nest, watching a cat at the base of the tree.
Except that there are hundreds of cats . . . maybe thousands. All properly trained and able-bodied. While on this side, at least fifty women and children for every man.
‘There.’ Roland points. ‘Look there.’ A tent rises, billowing, over the busy, steel-capped heads. White and blue and silver. A real home from home.
Must be Saladin’s.
‘What is it?’ Balian, squinting. Who would have thought that the great Lord Balian – Balian ‘just call me Chivalry’ of Ibelin – would turn out to be short-sighted? Quite small, too. And getting on in years. A solid, serious man, balding on top, with a little mouth and a big neck. Quite a shock, after all those stories.
Not the kind of looks to inspire confidence. Not like Roland’s. Still – give Balian his due. He did repel Saladin’s attack on Tyre. And he didn’t do that by posing heroically against a majestic mountainous backdrop.
‘It’s a tent, my lord.’ (Roland.) ‘Very fine. Would it be the Sultan’s?’
‘Without a doubt.’
And what are those things, over there? Like cages on wheels. Cages or scaffolding. Don’t like the look of them at all.
‘My lord?’
‘Yes, Pagan.’
‘Those strange wooden structures . . .’
‘They are mangonels.’
Mangonels! I’ve heard about mangonels. A mangonel can throw a rock as big as a donkey. And Saladin’s got
three
of them!
Balian is frowning. ‘We must strengthen this tower with sacks full of cotton and hay. This tower and the citadel.’
‘I’ve already given the order, my lord.’ Roland’s motto: be prepared. He’s not stupid. He’s got every woman, child and greybeard in Jerusalem sewing ox and camel hides into covers for the city’s exposed woodwork, so that it’s protected against the terrible Greek fire. He’s put buckets of sand all along the top of the city walls. He’s removed the awnings from across the streets because they’re a fire hazard, and posted watches and rationed water and built up great piles of wood and dung, so that fires can be lit and lead melted at short notice.
He’s done everything the Patriarch would let him do. And now Balian’s come along and done the rest. Raided the treasury, distributed arms, even stripped the silver from the roof of the Holy Sepulchre.
Just shows where a bit of political clout can get you.
‘We’ve one advantage, anyway,’ Balian mutters. The sun will be in his eyes of a morning.’
‘Not only that, my lord. The pool of Siloam is his only water supply, and it’s right under the southern wall.’ Roland doesn’t take his eyes from the enemy camp as he speaks. ‘A couple of archers or a mangonel stationed near the gate and we’ll have it completely covered.’
‘Thats true.’
‘The only other spring is two parasangs away. We could even send out a company – ambush the path –’
Balian grunts. Thank God he’s arrived, is all I can say. With Balian and Roland in command we might actually pull through this awful predicament. Standing there together, squinting into the wind, solid and strong and well-armoured – they’re our only hope.
‘He’s brought a team of sappers with him,’ says Balian. ‘That much I do know, though I haven’t seen them in action.’
‘His cavalry hasn’t fared well,’ says Roland. ‘Not that his horses have ever been worth boasting about. I believe his engineering support is what really gives him the edge.’
‘Byzantine, most of them.’
‘Truly?’
‘Never trust a Greek.’
Suddenly a detachment peels off Saladin’s main formation. Three riders, one carrying a flag. All of them heading straight for us.
‘My lord –’
‘Yes, I see. Sergeant Gildoin! I want women and children off these walls! Understand? All non-combatants!’
‘Yes, my lord!’
He’ll be lucky. The only way to keep children out from under your feet on occasions like this is to feed them to the nearest wild animal. And what I want to know is, why send them away at all? Why not use them? When I was that age, I had the eyes of an eagle. My aim was so good, I could have knocked out Saladin’s two front teeth from halfway across the kingdom.
Give that pair of urchins a few slings and stones and they’ll probably annihilate the whole Infidel army before the sun goes down.
‘Brother Felix! Archers in position, please!’
‘Yes, Brother!’
‘And I want a full complement ready on the rock piles.’
‘Yes, Brother, and what about the fires? Shall we light the fires?’
‘Not yet. I’ll give the word.’
‘Yes, Brother.’
That Lord Felix is fast on his feet. Shoots off like an arrow. Suddenly people are moving again: dashing about, waving their arms, gathering up their axes and helmets and dazed platoons. If I was a Templar sergeant, I’d have a platoon by now. When your troops are mostly merchants, potters, shepherds, tanners, barbers, tax collectors, cobblers, carpenters, farriers, smiths, apothecaries, cooks, thieves, notaries and bath-house attendants, you have to divide them into nice, small groups and put an experienced Templar at the head of each one. That’s why poor old Bonetus has that line of overweight shopkeepers trailing after him like a flock of ducklings.
Thank heavens I’m just a lowly squire.
‘Pagan.’
‘Yes, my lord?’
‘You have good eyes. Lord Balian wants to know, are any of those approaching heralds wearing a red turban?’
‘Yes, my lord. Just the one.’
Balian nods. ‘Malik al-Adil,’ he says, and Roland raises an eyebrow.
‘The Sultan’s brother?’
‘In person.’
Saladin’s brother! Riding a sleek bay palfrey, fully armoured, crimson shield, can’t see his face yet. What a temptation. One small arrow . . .
Balian steps forward, clinking in his chain mail. It looks battered and dirty, almost black in places. His squire can’t have cleaned it in months. Funny sort of squire. Seems to spend all his time propping up Balian’s standard. Nice job, if you can get it: a walking flag pole. Probably too old to do anything else (judging from the grey hair). Never seen a squire with grey hair before.
Saladin’s brother has no beard. He reins in beneath the tower, craning his neck to look up at Balian. Framed in an embrasure, Balian leans out over the sheer drop of the wall, his standard flapping above his head. Their eyes meet.
‘Balian Lord of Ibelin!’
‘Malik Saif ed-Din al-Adil.’
‘Behold the forces of Yusuf Salah ed-Din, my master.’ Malik flings out his arm, dramatically. ‘Yusuf Salah ed-Din desires no bloodshed in this most holy place. Surrender the city now and he will guarantee the lives of all its inhabitants.’
