Pagan's Crusade (17 page)

Balian nods.

‘We have come to discuss an end to the fighting, my lord.’

‘Good, I am thankful. There has been too much bloodshed on this holy ground.’ A sigh, a nod, a pious gesture. ‘Do you wish, then, to lay down your arms?’

‘Only upon certain conditions.’

‘Ah.’

Loads of meaning in a little word. It’s obvious the Great Man’s not about to give in easily. It’s obvious from the bland sort of way he raises his eyebrows.

‘But my lord Balian, I fear you have nothing left with which to bargain.’ (Gently.) ‘My standard has just been raised on the city wall, as you know.’

‘The city has not yet fallen.’

‘It is only a matter of time.’

Balian takes a deep breath. He’s sweating buckets, but otherwise he seems composed. It probably helps when you’ve got a face like something hacked out of hardwood.

‘If Jerusalem falls, it will be at a most terrible cost,’ he says. ‘A negotiated surrender will prevent that.’

‘Perhaps it will. Unfortunately, I swore an oath many years ago that I would take Jerusalem by sword. Only your
unconditional
surrender will absolve me from my oath.’

Christ in a cream cheese sauce. Balian swallows. Saladin waits. Look to Lord Roland. He hasn’t taken his eyes off the Great Man since making his entrance. Hasn’t twitched a muscle, either. Impossible to tell what he thinks.

‘An unconditional surrender is out of the question.’ Balian finds his voice at last. It sounds strained. ‘You must realise that no one in the city will accept this alternative. You must
see
that.’

‘I’m sorry.’ (Saladin.) ‘It is a matter of honour.’

‘Is honour more important than innocent lives?’

Roland speaks out. Quite calmly, but with that familiar hint of disdain. (As in, ‘Pagan, is that apple core there for a purpose?’ or ‘Pagan, did you say you were finished cleaning this shield?’.) Saladin turns his head, slowly. Such a wealth of menace in such a trivial movement.

‘You come from across the sea, Lord Roland, do you not?’

‘I was born in the Frankish lands, yes.’

‘Then you are probably not acquainted with the history of this kingdom. If you were, you would appreciate the irony of your remark. When you talk of innocent lives, Lord Roland, you make me think of the lives lost ninety years ago, when your forefathers took Jerusalem from mine. Clearly you are not aware that the only inhabitants to escape from the city with their lives on that occasion were the Governor Iftikhar ad-Daula and his bodyguard. Every other man, woman and child was slain by the Christian soldiers. I have heard that the mosque of al-Aqsa, which you now call your Temple, was knee-deep in our dead.’

He stops for a moment, and his dark face grows darker – as dark as a storm-cloud. Let’s just hope the storm doesn’t break. Yes? No? Roland says nothing – and it’s probably the right thing to do. At least it allows Saladin to take a few deep breaths and calm down.

‘It is not my wish to descend to the level of this Christian barbarity,’ he murmurs. ‘However, such wounds leave very deep scars.’

Sudden noise in the distance. Hard to tell – a muffled roar. Voices, perhaps? Thousands and thousands of swelling voices . . .

Rush for the exit. Balian first, as fast as a flea. Then a tight knot of Infidels. Scraping past their armoured huddle, through a press of perfumed silk. Wriggling free, and – there!

Balian turns. He grabs my arm.

‘What’s happening? Tell me! I can’t see!’

You get a pretty good view from the Mount of Olives. The entire west wall, with the Golden Gate, and the Temple behind it . . . the Gate of Josophat, the spire of St Anne’s . . . up along the north wall a bit, and smoke rising against the sky. A real mess, on the north wall.

‘Your standard is down, Lord Saladin.’ Roland’s voice, behind me. ‘Your standard is down, and your men are driven back. See for yourself. The city has not fallen.’

A burst of chatter from the Infidels. Balian’s face, as bright as silver. Roland, shading his eyes. And Saladin, strolling up with his retinue. Doesn’t seem especially concerned.

‘You have gained a little time. Nothing more,’ he says. ‘It is a temporary setback. We shall regroup.’

‘You may regroup, Lord Saladin, but my men will fight to the death!’ Balian, transformed. The hot blood flaming in his cheeks and eyes and nostrils. ‘They will fight to the death, and they will take everything with them! Their prisoners! Their possessions!
And everything in the city that you hold sacred!

’ Aha. That’s got him. That’s really got him. Look at his hands.

‘But your own holy places –’

‘Our own holy places. Everything.’

Long pause. Absolute stillness. All eyes on Saladin, watching his shuttered face. Hardly daring to breathe, as he stands there looking at the ground. Thinking. Deciding.

Suddenly he lifts his head.

‘In truth, it comes as no surprise,’ he announces. ‘Unbelievers have little reverence. They treat their sacred things like dog’s dung.’ His voice is very brisk. Detached. His expression is calm. ‘So be it. I shall free every citizen upon your surrender, Lord Balian, at a ransom of ten dinars for every man, five for every woman, and one for every child.’

Hooray!

‘Ten dinars?’ Balian scratches his chest. ‘What about our paupers? There must be twenty thousand of them . . .’

‘And a lump sum for the paupers. Say . . . one hundred thousand.’

‘
One hundred thousand dinars?
’ Balian nearly chokes on his own tongue.

‘Five dinars each. A fair price, I think.’

‘For a bunch of diseased cripples?’ (Balian.) ‘You ought to be paying
us
for taking them off your hands!’

Roland coughs, in a meaningful sort of way. And it makes Saladin smile.

‘Very well.’ The Great Man concedes a point. ‘Seventy thousand.’

Balian shakes his head.

‘We can’t make seventy. Twenty.’

‘Twenty!’ The smile grows broader. ‘I could get more than that for twenty thousand blind lepers in the slave markets of Baghdad.’ ‘Twenty for ten, then. Twenty thousand for ten thousand.’

‘Fifty for ten.’

‘Thirty.’

‘Thirty for five.’

‘Seven.’

‘Done.’

Amazing. Just amazing. I can hardly believe my ears. Is this how kingdoms rise and fall? It sounds like haggling in a fish market.

Glance at Roland, who catches my eye.

‘So we are agreed, then.’ (Saladin.) ‘Thirty thousand dinars for seven thousand paupers, and for the rest –’ ‘Ten, five and one, I know,’ says Balian.

‘And fifty dinars for each knight.’

‘
Fifty
?’

‘At least.’ Saladin sounds surprised. ‘Surely, Lord Balian, for a man of your stature? You must be worth ten times as much.’

What a gall. What a cheek. What a sly devil. You can see the glint in his sidelong glance.

That Saladin’s no fool.

‘All right, fifty.’ Balian succumbs, scowling. ‘Fifty dinars.’

‘Good. Then that’s settled.’ The Great Man gazes out over Jerusalem. Over the Temple Mount, the sheer white walls, the golden dome, the roofs, the towers, the pillars of smoke, the gates, the markets, the churches, the palaces, the Holy Sepulchre. Master of all he surveys.

Historic moment.

‘The siege is lifted,’ he says.

They’ve found their way to Templar headquarters. Hundreds of them, all soiled, all starving, all desperate. Clustered around the northern entrance, in the shadow of the golden dome. Welf, poor sod, is on guard duty. He looks like a hen that’s hatched a brood of giant locusts who are busy eating everything in sight.

We’re hardly within hailing distance when a shuffling hunchback emerges from the interior, and triggers a push for the door.

‘All right! Get back! Back, I said!’ Welf bars the way with his staff. ‘You. Yes you.’ (Jerking his head.) ‘You next.’

A wail of protest, as someone small and skinny slips beneath his arm. Over the pleading, outstretched hands Welf catches sight of Roland, and his big face lights up.

Shall we risk it, or will they tear us to pieces?

‘God have mercy on us all.’ Roland, beside me. Stopping in his tracks to watch the hunchback scurry by. A pathetic, greyish old creature, his ransom pressed to his heart, his toothless mouth hanging open. ‘So many paupers, Pagan – I had no idea . . .’

‘They mightn’t all be paupers. Not
real
paupers.’ (What’s that fellow doing? Peeling off from the crowd, following the hunchback. I don’t like his face.) ‘Hey, you!’ (Yes, you.) ‘Where do you think you’re going?’

Who, me? An expression of injured innocence. You’re not fooling anyone, cesshead.

‘Try stealing that old man’s ransom, my friend, and you’ll find yourself nailed to the nearest piece of wood.’

‘I wasn’t –’

‘Now get over there and wait your turn.’

Nice to have a bit of authority. Nice to have Roland around. You don’t argue with a man whose comrade looks like Saint George’s big brother. Not that Roland’s the slightest bit interested: he’s already waist deep in beggars, and heading for the door.

The crowd parts in front of him like mist in the morning sunlight. An eerie hush descends.

‘Any trouble, sergeant?’

‘A little, my lord.’

‘Please try to be patient, good folk.’ Roland lifts his voice. ‘Patience and discipline are always rewarded.’

Yes, and my Aunty Eleanor was the Queen of Persia. You can almost hear it. Almost, but not quite. No one says a word as Roland proceeds through the doorway.

With his faithful squire panting at his heels.

‘I don’t see why they have to sit out there.’ Roland sounds harassed. ‘They should be brought into this courtyard.’

‘Bring them in here, my lord, and they’ll steal everything that isn’t bolted down.’

‘Oh, Pagan –’

‘It’s true. Believe me. I know.’

‘How can you know?’

‘Because I spent two years patrolling the Jewry quarter on night watch. It wasn’t much fun, but it was instructive.’

First on the left, just inside the main entrance. A narrow storeroom lined with shelves. Bundles of hemp, jars of tallow, blankets, chisels, brooms, pails, hides, rope, axes, water-bags, chamber-pots, you name it. Plus a big oak chest full of money.

Gildoin and Odo are standing guard. Odo bruised and puffy, his swollen face all the colours of the rainbow: red, orange, yellow, purple. Gildoin drawn and heavy-eyed, missing a couple of teeth. Both survivors.

Father Amiel in front of them, seated. Talking to a pauper you wouldn’t touch with tongs. Ingrained with dirt, crusted with sores, smells like a leper’s latrine. Stay downwind of
that
one.

‘But you can’t have the ransom until you tell me your name.’ (Amiel, wearily.) ‘You do have a name, don’t you?’

The pauper nods. It’s a man, anyway. You can tell that much.

‘Well if you have a name, then give it to me.’

‘Joseph.’

‘Joseph what?’

Silence. Amiel lifts his eyes to heaven.

‘Where do you come from, Joseph?’ Roland steps forward. ‘Where is your home?’

Not a whimper. Hardly surprising, poor dungbeetle. Time to make my contribution.

‘He won’t have a home, my lord. Or a name or a family or anything else. He’s probably a scavenger. They live off the rubbish heaps outside the city wall. We used to see them on night watch.’

All eyes swing in my direction. There’s a heavy, hopeless feeling in the air.

‘Well how can I mark him down in the records if he doesn’t have a name?’ Amiel is tired and peevish. He bites at the end of his quill. ‘We can’t just say “Joseph”. It isn’t enough.’

Roland makes an impatient movement.

‘Just give him the money.’

‘But –’

‘
Do
it.’

‘But how
much?
One or ten?’

Good question. Peering at the pauper. Man or boy? Roland decides to ask.

‘How old are you, Joseph?’

A goggling stare. Might as well ask a puddle of mud the way to Byzantium.

‘I think he’s a boy.’ Amiel wants to save money. ‘One dinar.’

‘Give him ten. Just in case.’

‘But my lord –’

‘
Now.

’ Gildoin counts the money into Amiel’s hand. Amiel passes it to Joseph. Joseph stares in wonder. Probably never seen a dinar before in his life.

‘Off you go, Joseph.’ Roland points him to the door. ‘And may God go with you.’

Shuffle, shuffle. Hobbling out on rag-bound feet. Amiel waits until Joseph has disappeared, his mouth tight with disapproval, his nose as sharp as his pen. He frowns up at Roland, his skin the colour of candle-wax.

‘My lord, I must tell you that we can’t do much more for these people,’ he says. ‘The Temple treasury is not a bottomless pit.’

‘We must do what we can.’

‘Yes, but we’re not responsible. The church and the city –’

‘The church and the city have thousands more to look after.’ Roland’s voice is like cold iron. ‘There are twenty thousand poor in Jerusalem. They will be sold into slavery if we don’t raise the funds to buy their release.’

‘My lord, I know we have a Christian duty, but the Order also has a duty to itself. There’s barely enough left for our own ransoms. What with the servants, and the mercenaries, and your fifty dinars –’

‘Don’t trouble with my ransom. Forget about it. That’s not coming out of the treasury.’

Hold on. Wait just a moment. What’s happening here? Amiel opens his mouth – and shuts it again as the next pauper appears on the threshold.

A raw, ragged woman with a face like a length of torn white wool.

‘We can discuss this later, Father Amiel.’ Roland begins to back out. ‘Just do what you can, for the present. I’ll return shortly.’

One little woman and he runs for his life. You’ll have to get used to them
some
time, Roland. The cloistered days are finished. Catching up in the courtyard, as he heads for the new wing. Grabbing his belt. Pulling him back.

‘Wait. My lord?’

‘What is it?’

His eyes, blank and blue. Looking down his nose at me. It’s no good, Roland. That doesn’t work any more.

‘If the Order isn’t paying your ransom, my lord, then who is?’