The Black Rood (36 page)

“And who is going to tell them, eh?” demanded another soldier, struggling to rise. He had been slashed on the arm, and the wound showing through the blood-crusted rag of his sleeve was gray and watery with pus. “Idiot! Who is going to ride to Antioch to tell them? Eh?” He glared furiously around the ring of grim faces. “Gaston is right, we are all dead men.”

“What!” demanded the one called Thomas. “When they learn the rood has been captured, they will come, by God.”

“Do not speak to me of God, or the rood,” muttered Gaston. “If the rood goes before us, we cannot lose—so they said. It is God's good pleasure to lead us to victory, they said. Where is the victory now?” He glared around daring anyone to challenge him. “Damn them! Damn their lies!”

“Forgive me, brother,” I said, breaking into their conversation, “is it the Holy Cross you mean?”

“Aye,” he agreed dubiously, “is there any other?”

“The Black Rood,” one of them muttered, “taken by the cursed heathen Seljuqs.” He spat. “Much good may it do them. God knows it has done no good for us.”

“Shut your stinking gob, Matthias!” charged Thomas. “Maybe it is for blasphemers like you that the Almighty gave us up to defeat. Did you ever think of that?”

“How dare you come the high and holy with me!” snarled the offended Matthias. “I was well and truly shriven ere we left the city—we all were. You'll not go laying the blame for this at
my
feet, so help me—”

“Where is it?” I asked, interrupting their argument.

“The rood? Why, the Turks have taken it,” answered Matthias. “They will have it with the rest of the plunder. Christ alone knows what they will do with it, the heathens.”

“They'll burn it,” suggested Girardus dolefully. “By God they will, for they are godless devil worshippers every hell-cursed one.”

The discussion moved on to speculation about what would happen to us when we reached Damascus, but as no one had any notion, I turned instead to pondering what I had learned: the Holy Rood was here…somewhere.

I determined then and there that if the High King of Heaven allowed me to remain alive, I would resume my quest: somehow I would find the Holy Rood, and I would save it. This I vowed to do.

W
E STAYED FOUR
days at Kadiriq, a baked-mud settlement on the banks of the stagnant lake, regaining our strength for the days ahead. I suspect the march from Anazarbus had been made as tortuous as possible to kill off the weak and wounded. The Seljuqs wanted slaves to sell and only those strong enough to survive the ordeal would bring a price worth the trouble of keeping them alive.

I slept nearly all of the first day, and the second I spent lying in the shade of a gnarled little tree beside the lake—I could not bear to be out of sight of the water, and several times went in swimming to cool off. The sight of this white-skinned foreigner thrashing around in the shallows produced great amusement for the children of Kadiriq, who had come out to examine the conquered captives.

That night we were given food for the first time since the battle: flat bread—thin and dry, and tough as parchment—and lentils cooked in beef broth. The second night we were given bread and beans again, and some leathery scraps of goat meat.

On the third day, Amir Ghazi arrived. He traveled in
caravan
—that is to say, with his entire retinue of advisors, liegemen, and a bodyguard of three hundred or more warriors—all mounted, and leading a long train of pack animals, mostly horses. However, moving with a strange, swaying gait, I saw the odd, ungainly desert creatures called
camels. With their steep-humped backs, long necks and small, flat heads, they seemed to tower above the surrounding turmoil with lordly sufferance.

The newcomers arrived leading a few dozen more prisoners. Rumors spread among the captives that the main Seljuq army had taken the town of Marash on the border, allowing the amir to enrich himself still farther with Christian slaves and plundered treasure.

Ghazi set up his camp on the other side of the lake. I counted over a hundred tents before losing interest. The townspeople were overjoyed to have the honor of hosting the amir, and that night there was a feast in his name. A dozen cows were slaughtered for the spit, and a score of sheep and goats. The festive mood overflowed the town and even spilled out into the captives' camp, to the extent that we were given a humble share of the feast. That night, along with our bread—a soft, thick flat bread flavored with
anise
—we were also given lamb stewed with figs. It was very good, and there was not a man among us who did not lick the wooden bowl clean. We were also given a drink of fermented goat's milk—slightly salty, with a rancid sour taste which failed to seduce many to its charms.

The next morning, rested, fed, and as hale as I could hope to be in the uncertain days ahead, I determined to try my luck with Amir Ghazi.

The sun was high and the wind hot out of the south. I was bathing in the lake when two of the amir's bodyguard appeared. They spoke to the Seljuq keeping watch on the bank, and I decided the time had come. Hauling myself from the water, I motioned for Girardus to accompany me, and came to stand before them on the bank.

“What are you doing?” he whispered desperately.

“Tell them I demand to see the amir.”

He gaped at me in disbelief, and started to object.

“Tell them.”

The guards glanced at us with haughty contempt, but otherwise ignored us.

“I do not think they speak Arabic,” Girardus concluded quickly. “Let us go before they make trouble for us.”

“Tell them. Make them understand.”

Rolling his eyes, Girardus spoke up, interrupting the Seljuqs, who were not pleased with our persistence. The guard shouted something, and waved his hands at us to drive us away. “They say to go away,” Girardus said, much relieved.

“I demand to see the amir,” I said, holding my ground. “Tell them I
demand
it, Girardus. Use that word. I demand to see him at once.”

After another shouted exchange, Girardus said, “They say no one can see the amir.”

“Tell them I am a nobleman, and a friend of Lord Thoros of Armenia, and I demand to see Amir Ghazi at once.”

To his credit, Girardus swallowed his fear and spoke up once more. In a halting and trembling voice, he told the guards what I had said. The Seljuq guard started toward us, waving his spear and shouting. But one of the amir's men took him by the arm and pulled him back. He motioned me to him.

Without hesitation, I stepped up. He gazed at me, his dark eyes searching mine. The second guard said something, and flapped a hand at me, but the first guard took me by the arm and turned me around, indicating that I was to walk before them.

“God go with you,” called Girardus.

They marched me around the lake to where the amir had established his camp. Upon arrival, I was brought to stand outside the amir's tent, which was pale blue instead of the deep black-brown of all the others. I was given to understand that I was to remain there—a few score paces before the tent—and my two keepers spoke to a man who appeared briefly at the tent entrance, before retreating to the shade of a small date palm beside the tent where they could watch me. Thus, I stood, waiting for my audience and observing the commerce of the camp.

Amir Ghazi was a very busy man, judging by the comings and goings of the amir's many advisors, and subject lords. Few of the people who entered the tent stayed very long. I expect they were merely paying homage to the amir, or dis
charging some perfunctory duty. Indeed, the entire Arab race from the highest caliph to the lowest goatherd is hedged about with a veritable wall of duties and obligations, not one brick or block of which can be removed or altered.

Surveying this continuous procession of lords and notables, I marked again how very splendid were these noblemen: arrayed in flowing clothes of the finest cloth and bedecked with gold and jewels, they wore plumes of ostrich and peacock, and carried jeweled weapons. They gleamed and glittered in the bright sun, astride their fine horses, and accompanied by their retinues.

They all came bearing gifts, which they carried in boxes of carved sandalwood. Sometimes—depending, I think, on the rank of the guest—the amir met his visitor at the entrance to his tent, and welcomed him with a kiss. Most often, however, it was one of the amir's servants who, bowing low, directed the guest into the great man's presence.

Not all of the amir's visitors were men. Many of the nobles brought women with them, and these, from what I could see of them, were even more magnificently arrayed than the men—although they hid their splendor under long hooded outer cloaks or gowns which covered them head to toe, and they wore veils across the lower parts of their faces so that between hood and veil, only their eyes were visible. But such eyes! Almond shaped and black as sloe, with long lashes and brows thin and dark and delicately curved.

It put me in mind of Sydoni and I spent a long time happily thinking about her—until I remembered my grave predicament. If I had not been such an impetuous fool I would no doubt be with her now. My thoughts grew so forlorn and pitiable, that I was forced to put them off at last. It does no good to wallow in regret. What might have been is as impossible as what can never be.

After awhile one of my guards fell asleep. As I had been standing in the sun for a goodly while, I sat down. The other guard did not like this; he hissed at me and gestured for me to stand up again, and I obliged. Soon, however, he was fast asleep, too, and so I sat down again and pulled my siarc over my head to keep the sun off me while I waited.

The sun passed midday and began its long slow descent into the west. Still, I sat in my place, dozing now and again, and waiting for the amir, and still people came and went on errands of fealty and homage. As the sun began to stretch my shadow toward the entrance to the tent, I heard horses approaching.

A party of Arab chieftains was riding into camp. I climbed to my feet and, as they dismounted, I darted in among them and started for the entrance to the amir's tent. One of the Arabs called for me to stop. I paid him no heed and kept walking. One of the guardsmen, roused by the shouting, woke up and saw me, however; he rushed upon me and dragged me back to my place where he was joined by two others and all three began shouting and raining blows upon my head.

I do not know whether the disturbance I raised outside his tent drew the attention of the amir, but as I was lying on the ground, trying to protect my head and neck from the fists of the soldiers, a man suddenly appeared in the midst of the commotion.

He barked a single sharp word of command and the men ceased their attack. I looked up to see the Atabeg of Albistan, the same who had captured me days before. He recognized me, too, and bade me rise; he pointed toward the tent and I saw the amir himself standing at the entrance surrounded by advisors and liegemen. He was frowning mightily, none too pleased at the interruption of his affairs.

Rising slowly, I dusted myself off, and prepared for whatever would happen next.

The unhappy amir beckoned his attendant nobleman to him. The atabeg put his hand on my arm and pulled me away from the guards, and I was brought before the amir where I was made to kneel at his feet. This was to humble me, but I did not greatly mind. It is no shame to acknowledge one who is above you, and inasmuch as I was a lowly hostage in his camp, Amir Ghazi was certainly superior in every way.

The black amir scowled down at me. I cannot say what passed in his mind, but I bowed as I had seen the other noblemen do, touching my forehead to the ground, and then,
employing my best Greek, said, “My name is Duncan of Caithness, and I am a friend of Prince Thoros of Armenia.”

He glared, and spoke a word of command and one of his advisors approached on the run. This fellow—an Armenian, I believe, for in manner, dress, and appearance he was very like those I had met at the banquet in Anazarbus—was an ungainly, sallow-skinned man, with a large eagle-beaked nose and smooth, hairless jowls like the wattles of a pig, he cast a dour, pitiless black eye over me. “Who are you?” he asked in Greek, suspicion thickening his reedy voice.

I repeated what I had said before, and added, “I am a pilgrim from a country in the far northwest, where I am a lord and nobleman. I befriended young Lord Roupen, brother of Prince Thoros, and son of Leo, and became his protector. I was leaving Anazarbus, and blundered upon the battle by mistake.”

I could tell he did not believe me; he looked me up and down as if measuring for a coffin. “See how I am dressed—are these the clothes of a crusader?” His frown of disbelief deepened. “Also, we are speaking Greek,” I added.

“Badly,” he sniffed, unimpressed.

“Tell me your name,” I commanded.

The Armenian stiffened slightly at my audacity. But he was well accustomed to taking orders, and replied, “I am Katib Sahak of Tarawn, advisor to Amir Ghazi.”

I thanked him, and said, “I ask you now, Katib—”

“Just Sahak only,” he said. “
Katib
is an Arab word. It means scribe.”

“I ask you, Sahak, do the Franks speak Greek?”

At this, the Armenian turned and held close conversation with the amir, whose interest pricked slightly when he heard what Sahak had to say about me. Breathing a fervent prayer, I said, “I had no part in Bohemond's army, and took no part in the battle. I was a guest of Prince Thoros and was captured by mistake. I was with three others when this man captured me.” Pointing to the atabeg, I said, “Ask him if this is not so. The others were able to escape. I alone was captured.”

Sahak discussed my story with the atabeg, who nodded,
which I took as confirmation that I was telling the truth. “The Atabeg of Albistan agrees that it happened the way you say,” the scribe confirmed. Ghazi spoke up then, and Sahak added, “The amir demands proof.”

Looking directly at the amir, I answered, “Tell him I can prove I have come from the prince's household.” When my words were interpreted for the amir, I said, “This was given to me by Princess Elena for aiding the return of her son, Roupen.”

So saying, I pulled the neck of my siarc down and twisted it inside out to reveal the brooch I had pinned there the day I left Anazarbus. Sahak's eyes went wide with amazement. “If you will look closely,” I said, directing their attention to the carved ruby, “you will see that it bears the royal emblem.”

I showed the gem to each of them in turn. Ghazi and the atabeg exchanged a few words, and the amir issued his command. “Give me the brooch,” the Armenian translator said.

I refused, saying, “The amir has said the noblemen are to be ransomed. This,” I held the brooch before them, “is to be my ransom. What is the word for ransom?” I asked. “In the amir's tongue, what is the word?”

“
Namus'lu keza
,” replied the advisor.

Tapping the brooch with my finger, I repeated the word. “Namus'lu keza,” I said, and prayed they understood what I was trying to tell them.

The amir made up his mind. Speaking gruffly, he held out his hand to me.

“Amir Ghazi says you are to give him the jewel.”

I hesitated.

“You have no choice,” Sahak informed me. “You are to give it to him now. It will be sent to Anazarbus to inform them of your capture.”

With great reluctance, I obeyed, unfastening the brooch and placing it in the amir's palm with a last appeal. “Namus'lu keza.”

The amir closed his hand over the brooch, turned on his heel and walked away, pausing to toss a word of command to the guards as he retreated to his tent. They took hold of
me and I was taken back around the lake to resume my place with the captives.

Girardus was glad at my return to the fold, so to speak. “I never thought to see you again,” he confided. “They are saying the amir is holding court, and judgments are being given.”

“It is true,” I told him. Other captives gathered closer to hear. “The amir is indeed holding court, and he seems to be renewing the loyalties of his vassal lords.” I went on to describe what I had seen of the comings and goings of all the noblemen and women and gifts they brought.