The Black Rood (30 page)

At her mention of my uncle Torf's former home in Outremer, Sydoni's recitation suddenly ceased to resemble a tale of long ago, and became immediate and real. “Baldwin,” I murmured.

“Baldwin the second,” she amended. “The Fida'in offered to hand over the city to the count, if he would let them have the city of Tyre to rule in return. What prince could resist such a gift? But Baldwin was wary. He sent word back that if the Christians of the city wished his intervention, then they must unite behind a leader who could organize the new regime.

“One night they came to our house.” Sydoni shivered at the memory. “Six men dressed in black and wearing the curved swords and crossed daggers—they came asking for Yordanus Hippolytus, saying they had an offer for him to consider.

“Julian was not at home, or else he would not have let them in. But my father did not want any trouble, so he agreed to hear them out. That is when they told him that the city would soon be handed over to Baldwin, and that if he agreed to let them leave unhindered, he would be made governor to rule the city under Baldwin.”

“Did he agree to this?”

“Not at first,” Sydoni replied. “He told them he would pray about it and seek the counsel of the elder Christians in the city. They gave him four days to think it over, and said they would come back for his answer.

“Well, Julian was against it. He did not want to have anything to do with the Batini, but many of my father's friends urged him to accept the offer. They saw it as a chance for the Christians to gain back the power they had lost under the Muslims. Still, my father hesitated.”

“For Julian” sake?”

“He did not like going against Julian, true enough. But he did not think he could trust the Fida'in to keep their part of the bargain. He did not see how he could govern a city where the Muslims far outnumbered the Christians.”

“What changed his mind?” I asked.

“Baldwin sent word that the Templars were ready to back him. The count promised that he would give Damascus a garrison of its own. De Bracineaux was at Edessa then, and he was to have been the Grand Master of the new garrison; he came one night and spoke to my father, and pledged his support. With the Templars at his command, the governorship would be secure. So, my father agreed.”

“What happened?”

“We waited all through the summer, but Baldwin never came,” she replied. “I do not know why he abandoned us. I heard it said that he marched out with his army and was only waiting for support from the Count of Antioch; by the time he realized Bohemond would not come to his aid, the autumn rains had begun. Baldwin did not care to wage a campaign in the mud and cold, so he marched back to Edessa.”

When it became clear that Baldwin would not attack, she told me, Buri, the new atabeg, decided the time was right to make his move. He gathered some warriors and on the morning the city was to be given over, he marched into the Pavillion of Roses in the palace where the wazir was at prayer. He ordered the wazir to be executed then and there. They hacked the body to pieces with swords and sent the pieces to be hung on the Gate of Iron as a warning to anyone who planned rebellion.

The atabeg decided to expel all the Christians, so any plot they might have made could not succeed. Every last Christian in the city was informed that they had until sunset to
gather their belongings and depart; they were allowed to take whatever they could carry with them so long as they left the city before the gates closed. The expulsion was total. Any Christians found in the city after dark would be killed.

They worked like slaves, and Yordanus hired many of his Jewish and Muslim friends as well. He organized an entire caravan and they loaded whole chests of treasure onto donkeys and horses. By sundown they had nearly finished, and Yordanus commanded Julian to begin leading the baggage train out of the city so that it would not be caught when the gates closed.

The danger was real, she said, and I believe her. All of Damascus was in an uproar as never before. They started out, but Julian was fearful of leaving Sydoni and Yordanus behind. So, once he got to the gates, he left the caravan in charge of the hired men and ran back to the house to bring the rest of the family and servants to safety.

Sydoni licked her lips, bracing herself for what came next. “Once Julian had departed, Father changed his mind and abandoned the rest of the packing—what was the use? Instead, we hurried after Julian, but the streets were crowded and it was difficult to get through. We reached the gates only to find the caravan stopped, the hired men scattered, and Julian nowhere to be seen. We searched quickly, asking everyone, but no one would tell us anything.

“At last, we found one of the workmen who said that when Julian could not get through he came back, and the soldiers at the gate challenged him and demanded a second bribe. When Julian refused, the soldiers seized him and dragged him away, threatening the rest of the hired men with violence if they told anyone. The man showed us where the soldiers had taken Julian, and we found his battered body lying in his own blood. The soldiers had beat him and left him to bleed to death behind a dung heap.” Her voice trailed off and we sat listening to the soft tick of the dying coals.

“There was nothing we could do,” she said after a moment. “Julian was dead, and by then it was growing dark. We had to move on, or face death ourselves. Even so, it was only with great difficulty that I persuaded my father to leave. We
paid the workman to take care of the corpse, and made our way to the gate. The greedy soldiers had closed it already, and refused to open it unless Father gave them half his silver and gold. In the end, they took more than that, of course, and we were allowed to keep the rest because they were too lazy to unpack the animals.

“It took us nine days to reach Tyre on the coast,” she said, her voice cracking slightly. “With every step of the way, my father's heart hardened against Baldwin and the other leaders of the Christian principalities that much more. De Bracineaux helped us to reach Cyprus—he even sent soldiers to Sidon and Tripoli to get Father's ships back. The merchants there had heard that the Christians had been exiled from Damascus, and they assumed Yordanus had been killed. But it was Julian.”

She turned to me in the soft ember glow, unshed tears gleaming in her eyes. “Now you know,” she said.

I regretted my curiosity; had I known it would cause her such pain, I never would have asked. “I am sorry, Sydoni,” I murmured, feeling her sorrow as a leaden lump in my heart, and wishing I might have spared her the anguish of those awful days and their retelling. I wanted to put my arm around her shoulders and hold her close, but I did not know whether she would welcome such a gesture of comfort from me.

“That was two years ago and I have not spoken of this to anyone since the day we left Damascus,” she said, pushing the tears away with the heel of her hand. “I will not speak of it again.”

Nor did I blame her.

E
IGHT DAYS WE
were on the road, and in that time met only a handful of fellow travelers—a few farmers and shepherds going to or returning from distant markets, four Greek priests, and a company of merchants on their way to seek their fortunes among the Armenians. These last fell in with us and hoped to keep our company until reaching Anazarbus. Otherwise, the journey was forgettable in every way. One rock-strewn hillside is much the same as the next, after all.

We slept and ate and rode on, growing more fretful and peevish, and less companionable, as the days wore away. Yordanus, who had begun with such zeal, began to fade; he was an old man and his strength was not equal to his enthusiasm. Sydoni seemed to retreat into herself, becoming ever more pensive and melancholy. I would see her riding with her sunshade spread above her, and try to engage her in conversation, but the somber preoccupations of her mind were too potent to quell for very long; she soon slipped back into her distracted reflection. Roupen, anxious and tetchy since leaving Antioch, grew ever more so as his apprehensions mounted. No one could say two words to him without either starting an argument or casting him into a desperate frenzy of morbid self-pity.

Only Padraig and Nurmal remained unaffected by the oppressive sameness—Nurmal, because he loved his horses
and found happiness in all circumstances so long as he was sitting in the saddle; and Padraig, because that is the way he is. Priests of the Célé Dé find hardship stimulating and entertaining in an improving way. Indeed, they have been known to fashion misfortune for themselves when supplies of the natural stuff run short.

For myself, I gradually tired of trying to keep the others cheerful, and more often than not found myself deep in brooding meditation on the peculiar twists and turns encountered on life's rocky road—all the more because each twist and turn took me farther from my pursuit of the Holy Rood. The urgency and importance of our purpose notwithstanding, I began to resent all the intrusions and irritations, large and small, which kept me from my quest. More and more, I grew anxious to be about my own business, and longed for the day when there would be no one to defend, pamper, or appease, save myself alone.

I was heartily glad when, on the eighth day, we crested a hill and saw the walls of Anazarbus glistening in the heat-sheen. Because of the hills, we had come close upon the city before seeing it, and now there it was, nestled like a clutch of dull ruddy eggs in the protective bends of the curved city walls. Away to the south and east slanted a rough, broken plain through which a river had dug a deep ravine; to the north and west ranged the tumbling, craggy foothills of the high Taurus mountains rising elegantly, if forbiddingly, in the hazy distance.

Once in sight of the city, Roupen, morose and unresponsive at best, now became almost drunk with exuberance. He lifted his head and gave out a shriek which must have been heard in the streets of the city itself. He slapped the reins and urged his good horse to speed. The animal, glad for an excuse to run after so many days of dull plodding, put back its ears, reared, and leapt to a gallop, pulling along the poor packhorse tethered behind.

Following his lead, Nurmal and I gave our horses their heads and let them run, leaving our band of merchants behind. It was as if my heart took wings. Suddenly, the grinding monotony of the road fell away as we thundered down
toward the city. Roupen was first to reach the gates, and had already dismounted by the time we arrived. We joined him as he remonstrated with the guards at the gate to let us in.

“Do you not know who it is that demands entrance?” he said, his voice tight with anger, his joy quickly quenched by the obstinate refusal of the gatemen to obey.

“It is Lord Roupen, son of Prince Leo,” offered Nurmal helpfully.

“No one is to enter or leave the city without the lord's leave,” the stolid guard replied; the two soldiers with him nodded and edged nearer.

“But that is absurd!” shouted Roupen. He made to force his way around the guards, who leveled their weapons threateningly.

“Wait!” I said, stepping quickly between Roupen and the gatemen. “Something is amiss here,” I told him. “It is useless arguing with them. See if they will agree to take a message to your father.”

Roupen was ill-disposed to take my advice, but saw the sense of it nonetheless. Turning to the porter, he snapped, “Take a message to your master. Tell him that Lord Roupen waits outside the city walls and begs to be reunited with his family.”

This caused the guards some consternation. The chief among them put out a hand toward the one next to him. “You heard,” he said, pushing the man away. “Run!”

The soldier scurried off, disappearing into the gatehouse behind him. “I beg your pardon, my lord,” the porter muttered. “We did not know it was you.”

Roupen seemed inclined to take issue with the unhelpful fellow, but Nurmal intervened. “Save your breath, my friend. The error is soon put right.”

The walls of Anazarbus were curved, as I say, and protected with squat towers along their length, and over the central gate. What is more, despite the peace and calm of the day, soldiers manned the towers and moved along the walls. Upon pointing this out to Nurmal, he replied, “It was the first thing I noticed. I think they must be expecting someone—but not us.”

Roupen did not hear this, as he was pacing back and forth between us and the guards, growing more and more peevish over the lack of respect shown him. I decided it was best to ignore his ill humor, and sat down on a rock beside the road to wait for the others to join us. Nurmal took up a water skin, drank, and passed the skin to me. “It is warm, I fear, but until we get something better…”

I drank, and then stood, took the skin and poured some into my hand and gave it to my mount. In this way, the thirsty animal finished the little left in the skin, and I was about to fetch some more when Roupen shouted. “Look! My brothers!”

Out from the gatehouse strode two men—as unlike the young lord as beans from barley. Where he was slender and frail, they were well-muscled, brawny men; where he was long-limbed and languid, they were stocky, broad-shouldered, and vigorous. The only similarity between them that I could see was their thick black hair—a feature they shared with all Armenians.

At the sight of the young man they both shouted a greeting and Roupen ran to meet them. The soldiers, slightly embarrassed that the strict observance of their duty should have inconvenienced the royal household, shrank back, looking both repentant and stubborn as the glad reunion commenced in spite of their earlier efforts to prevent it.

The two men caught the younger and lifted him off his feet in fierce hugs, and pounded him on the back until he winced, all the while speaking in a tongue as rapid as it was unintelligible. They knocked the youth this way and that with the easy abuse of true brothers, and it put me in mind of how Eirik and I had behaved toward one another when we were younger.

Nurmal and I approached and waited to have our presence recognized. Presently, Roupen turned and grinning, said, “My friends, I give you my brothers!” Indicating the elder of the two, he said, “This is Thoros.” The man inclined his head politely. Pointing to the second one, he said, “And this is Constantine.” The man bowed respectfully.

Roupen then introduced me, and explained quickly that if
not for me, he would not be standing there now. “Duncan saved my life,” he said, proudly, “not once, but twice. He is a true friend.”

The elder brother, Thoros, stepped before me then and seized my hand in both of his. “We are much indebted to you, sir. Tonight, in your honor, we will hold a feast to celebrate our brother's return.” I accepted his announcement with a modest bow, whereupon he turned at once to Nurmal.

“Here you are! Nurmal, my good friend. I should have known you would have something to do with this.”

“Not at all, my lord,” replied the horsetrader humbly. “They would have reached Anazarbus on raw determination alone. I merely helped smooth the way a little.”

To me, Thoros said, “Did you hear that? Never believe it! There is nothing that happens east of the Taurus that does not concern Nurmal of Mamistra.” He laughed then, but Nurmal did not share his patron's jest.

“You exaggerate, Thoros,” the horsetrader protested. “But no matter. I am happy to serve however I can.”

The rest of our party reined up then, and introductions were made all around. Padraig was made much of; they had never seen a monk who was not dressed in heavy black robes, and refused to believe he was a priest. Yordanus and Sydoni also received especial regard, and I noticed that Thoros lingered over Sydoni's hand as he welcomed her and her father. Then, with good grace and simple sincerity, Thoros thanked everyone for taking care of his brother and helping return him to his home.

“God will honor your charity with the praises of angels,” he said, “but the Noble House of Anazarbus will fill your pockets with gold!” So saying, he gathered everyone with a great swoop of his arms as if we were children. “Come now, friends! Let us go in! The prince will want to know his lost son has returned at last.”

Once inside the thick city walls, we were conducted directly to the palace which stood a short distance across a small square directly inside the gates. The palace itself was built in the manner of a church and was flanked by two domed towers, each surmounted with golden crosses.

As we walked across the square, I observed that there were few people about. Nor did there seem to be much activity in the surrounding streets—a few children playing, an old woman carrying a basket of greens, and one or two men pushing carts, but not at all what I might have expected from a city the size of Anazarbus. I was not the only one to notice the absence of the local population. Nurmal, walking easily beside Thoros, said, “Is everyone in hiding? Where have the people gone?”

“As it happens,” replied Thoros, “we are under alert. Seljuq raiding parties have been seen in the hills, and it is feared that an attack is imminent.” The big man cast a hasty glance at me behind him. “Do you mean to say you have seen no sign of them?”

“No, lord. Not so much as a single turban between here and Mamistra,” Nurmal told him.

“Well, they are out there. The scouts say the hills are crawling with them. You are lucky you did not run headlong into Amir Ghazi himself.”

“Ghazi, is it?” mused the horsetrader. “Why is the old devil sniffing around here? Did you forget to pay your tribute?”

Thoros laughed heartily, and said, “We have had other things on our minds lately.”

They continued talking in this way, but my attention shifted to what Constantine and Roupen were saying behind me. “What is the matter with him?” Roupen asked; although he spoke softly, I caught the concern in his tone.

“He is not well,” his brother replied. “The physicians have done what they can, but no one knows what ails him.”

“How long?”

“Four months,” answered Constantine. “Maybe a little longer. There is not much hope anymore—still, he lingers. The old warrior fights on.” The young man paused, then added, “He will be glad to know that you are home at last. What happened to everyone else?”

“We were stricken with ague the moment we set foot in Frankland. I escaped, but fever took all the rest.”

“It bodes fair to take the prince as well,” observed Constantine gloomily.

Thus, I pieced together what had caused the closure of the royal city: Prince Leo was gravely ill, and the tribute paid to the Muhammedans had been allowed to lapse. Consequently, their Seljuq overlords were angry; those who should have been their allies and protectors were massing in the hills, gathering the necessary strength to attack. And the Armenians, soon to be forcibly reminded why they paid the tribute in the first place, were about to receive the unhappy news that Bohemond II's army was on its way.

Although not as large or as opulent as the citadel at Antioch, the palace of the Armenian princes was grand without being extravagant. While they obviously shared the same lofty ambitions of all noble families, they at least showed some restraint in the furnishing of the royal residence. Or perhaps their means were not as extensive as some. Then again, they may have had better things to do with their wealth than spend it on overlavish possessions. Be that as it may, I found the simplicity of my surroundings refreshing.

The walls of the chamber Padraig and I were to share, for example, were painted the deep ruby color of red wine below a ceiling of dark blue in which small golden discs had been affixed. No trouble had been taken to hide the rooftrees above; indeed, these were painted green. When I lay down that night by candlelight it was as if I looked up through the clustered boughs of a forest into the night sky agleam with stars.

But that was yet to come. For, no sooner were we conducted to our room, than the prince's chamberlain appeared to inform us that Lord Thoros was awaiting us in his receiving chamber. We splashed water on our faces and brushed the dust of the road from our hair and clothes, and then followed the servant. “You must tell him about Bohemond's attack as soon as possible,” Padraig reminded me. “They will need time to prepare.”

“Of course,” I agreed.

“At once,” the monk insisted.

“I will, I will.”

We were led through the inner corridors of the palace to a cozy reception chamber somewhere behind the main hall.
Thoros was there alone, standing at a table mixing wine with water.

“Come in! Come in!” cried Thoros, pouring the wine into two large gold-rimmed silver bowls. “I thought a drink might ease the fatigue of the journey,” he said, raising a bowl in each of his hands and extending them to Padraig and myself. After observing the proper greeting and welcome rituals—which he conducted in the Armenian tongue—he invited us to sit with him.

“With pleasure, my lord,” I replied. “I wanted a word with you before the feast.”