Shadows on a Sword (21 page)

“We are here!” Arnulf of Rhohes proclaimed. “We are outside the walls of Jerusalem itself!” He was widely acknowledged to be the finest preacher in the army, and a silence fell on the vast crowd as they listened intently to him. “We have followed God’s will and done His bidding, and now we are at the gates of the holiest of His cities. Will you not rejoice? Will you not look within your hearts and find the strength for one last battle? One last battle, and then our glorious crusade will be ended. God’s will
will
have been done!”

As the priest spoke, Theo saw heads around him begin to lift. The dullness began to clear from people’s eyes.

Peter the Hermit rose next. Forgotten by all was his inglorious defeat at Civetot, his attempt to desert the crusade at Antioch. As he preached, his eyes blazed with their old intensity. His voice rolled over the hilltop. After so many months, he spoke most of the dialects heard around the camp—translators were quick to interpret his words into the others. The people began to murmur, and then to shout. They raised their fists to the sky and shook them at the very walls of Jerusalem itself.

“We
will
conquer. God wills it! God wills it!”

The old battle cry of the crusade rang out, and echoed back and back again from the surrounding hills.

Theo found himself shouting with the rest. Gone was the lightheadedness, gone the weakness. The clamor of the multitude surrounded him and filled him with strength.

“God wills it!” he cried. “God wills it!”

During the next two days, Theo and the crusaders returned to their work with renewed fervor. Even the oldest of men and women did their part, sewing oxhide and camel-hide onto the exposed woodwork on the siege machines to protect it from the Greek fire.

“Raymond of Toulouse is building a second siege castle,” the count announced. “It is also being built out of sight of the city walls. We will have some surprises for our enemy, never fear.”

By the second week in July, the siege castles were ready.

“Now,” Godfrey commanded. “Let us wheel them out of hiding!”

Theo and Amalric pulled on their castle, shoulder to shoulder with the count and Godfrey himself, along with dozens of their men. It was an enormous tower. At first, the wheels refused to turn. The struggle to get the castle into motion seemed impossible. Theo felt the veins in his forehead swell with the effort. Beside him, Amalric swore as his foot slipped and he almost fell. Then, slowly, cumbersomely, the tower began to move, up the hillside, and down the slight decline on the other side. Then up to face the northern wall, where startled faces were beginning to show themselves over the tops of the battlements. To the south, Theo knew that Raymond and his men were setting his castle into position. A third, smaller one would be set against the northwest corner.

Theo wiped the sweat from his eyes. He straightened. The battle for Jerusalem was about to begin.

T
heir first task was to fill in the ditch that prevented the siege castles from being placed right up against the city walls, but the work was dangerous. As soon as the Egyptians saw the castles approaching, they began to bombard them. Theo worked side by side with Amalric and Emma. It seemed to him that everyone in the crusade had turned out to help, in spite of the deadly rain of stones and liquid fire. The sun burned down upon them out of a cloudless sky.

Theo stopped briefly to rest around midday. He looked up and was amazed to see the heat-shimmering air alive with color. He passed a hand over his eyes, certain his brain was crazed by the sun, and then realized he was surrounded by brilliant, multi-hued butterflies. He reached out to touch Emma’s arm.

“Look,” he croaked. His throat was parched and dry, his head pounding with pain. The butterflies darted and swooped in a sun-mad, dizzy-making dance all their own.

Emma straightened up and leaned on her shovel. A butterfly alighted on the handle. She stared at it, dazed, as if unable to make sense of it. Then she raised her eyes. For several long minutes the butterflies danced; then, obeying some mysterious signal obvious only to them, all flew off. A boulder crashed to the ground beside Theo and Emma. They flinched, ducked, and began to dig again.

On the morning of the next day, they pulled Godfrey’s tower over the filled-in ditch. Theo had time only to grasp Emma’s hand for a brief second.

“Stay safe, Theo,” she whispered, and then she and the other pilgrims ran back out of range of the missiles being hurled from atop the walls.

Theo saw Godfrey himself, oblivious to the lethal hail all around him, standing tall and proud on the top story as they pushed the castle the last few meters. Immediately, crusader soldiers began to bombard the wall with boulders and clay pots filled with Greek fire. The assault was returned in full force by the Fatimid soldiers manning the walls. As soon as the castle touched, a swarm of engineers set about making a bridge between it and the top of the wall, while a steady stream of arrows from Godfrey’s archers held off the Egyptians.

While the bridge was being finished, Theo waited with Amalric and the other knights in the enclosed bottom half of the tower. The press of men in the gloom was great; the smell of sweat and fear almost overpowering. They could not see what was happening outside, but all around them the battle raged. The tower shook with the shock of the catapults every time they fired on the top stage. It shuddered every time it took a hit from the opposing army. The smell of burning hide began to seep into where the knights waited. Several men cried out; panic was not far away. Theo felt Amalric’s shoulder press against his own and he took comfort from it. Both were wearing their mail-ringed leather armor, necessary for the fighting to come, but its heaviness added to the heat and discomfort. The waiting was almost unbearable. Theo felt stomach-churning, almost overwhelming fear. Far better was the crashing, chaotic charge on horseback, with trumpets blaring and war-cries echoing all around. In battle, there was no time to think—no time to imagine your own death waiting for you.

A roar from above was followed by a sudden wave of movement. Theo found himself scrambling for the ladder that led to the upper story. Men behind him shouted and pushed forward. When he reached the upper level, sunlight blinded him for a moment. Then he saw Godfrey standing on the wall on the other side of the bridge, waving them on. He pulled his sword from its scabbard and raced across.

“The gate, Theo!” Count Garnier was at his side. “We must open the gate for the rest of the army!”

Theo followed him, bounding down steps carved into the stone wall. At the bottom, the gate stood, barred and bolted. The Fatimid guards drew their swords. Theo charged the nearest one and their weapons crossed with a jarring clang. His opponent drew back and struck again, but his sword glanced off Theo’s shield. At the same moment, Theo struck at the man’s unguarded side and felt his sword sink deep. He pulled back and the man fell off it. A froth of blood spewed from his mouth and he lay still at Theo’s feet. Theo whirled to face the others, but they lay sprawled around him in slowly widening pools of blood. The count and two of his men were already tugging at the heavy crossbar that sealed the gate. Theo leaped over the body of the soldier he had slain and raced to help. They slid the crossbar free, but before they could open the gate, it was pushed wide by the press of people on the other side. Theo jumped aside to avoid the foot soldiers, who were the first to burst through, and then, to his amazement, he saw a horde of pilgrims—men, women, even children— come rushing through after them. Armed with cudgels, sticks and shovels, they poured through, screaming hate and defiance, maddened beyond belief after weeks of starvation and heat, years of pain and sacrifice. The defenders of the city fell back before them.

All of a sudden, Amalric was at his side again.

“Theo!” he shouted, and pointed.

Theo looked. A group of Egyptian soldiers was running for a mosque.

“After them!” Amalric cried, and set off in pursuit.

They caught up with them at the mosque door. Theo saw the gleam of a scimitar flash down toward him. He parried, but the scimitar faltered and the soldier screamed as Amalric’s sword struck first.

This battle was short. A crowd of crusaders rushed to join them; the Muslims were soon slain. For a moment, there was chaos as pilgrims poured in as well, wielding their makeshift weapons. Then another band of Fatimid defenders was sighted.

“Kill them!” a voice screamed, and the crowd swarmed in their direction.

Suddenly, Theo heard a cry from behind him.

“Theo!”

He felt a searing pain streak down his back. He whirled around. Guy stood there, sword raised, dripping blood, poised to strike again. Theo raised his own sword to defend himself, but Guy’s eyes were wide with shock. His arm fell, and the sword dropped from his hand. He stared at Theo a second longer with a puzzled, uncomprehending look, then slowly toppled forward. A dagger was embedded in his back.

Only then did Theo see Emma. Her eyes were fixed on the dying man. She looked up to meet Theo’s stare. Her hands were at her sides, held out in an oddly imploring gesture.

“He was going to kill you,” she whispered. “I had to kill him first.”

Then the world turned black, and Theo fell across Guy’s body.

He regained consciousness slowly. First, he became aware that he was lying on cold stone, on his stomach. His back was afire with pain. It was dark, but he seemed to be in a protected place. There were walls all around him. From somewhere outside, he could hear noises. Screams. He turned his head. Now he could see a rectangle that must be a window, lit by flames from without. More screams. As he came back to full consciousness, they became louder. A figure moved past the rectangle of light. Theo tensed and tried to sit up. Pain roared through his body and he whirlpooled back down into dizziness.

“Theo? Are you awake? Oh, thanks be to God. I thought you were dying.” It was Emma’s voice, but thin, on the verge of hysteria.

He fought to speak. “What’s happening? How goes the battle?”

“The battle is over.”

“But those screams …”

“They are people—people being murdered. Oh, Theo, it is like a vision of hell itself out there! I dragged you here, and then I tried to go and find help for you, but the crusaders …” She dropped to her knees on the stone beside him. In the flickering light, he saw her bury her face in her hands. “They have gone mad, Theo. All of them. They are killing everyone they can catch. Men, women … I saw a knight strike down a child, Theo! A child!” Her voice broke. Sobs racked her body.

Theo clenched his teeth and rolled onto his side. He reached out and managed to touch her.

“Lie beside me, Emma.”

She burrowed into him; he wrapped his arms around her.

He held her all through the rest of that terrible night. Emma could not stop shaking. She shuddered with every scream from the street outside.

By the time the dawn sent tentative fingers of light through the window, the screams had stopped and Emma finally lay quiet in Theo’s arms. He thought she slept and dared not move in case he wakened her, but his back was torturing him. Then Emma spoke.

“I must go and find help for you, Theo.”

“You cannot go out there alone.”

Emma sat up. In the early morning dimness, he could see only the dead-white oval of her face. Theo sat, too, but could not suppress a moan of pain.

“It is quiet. It is all over. I will be safe.”

Before Theo could make a move to stop her, she had risen to her feet and disappeared. He made a futile attempt to get up and follow her, then sank back into unconsciousness.

He woke again to the sound of two voices: Emma’s and another’s. The alcove where he lay was light now; he recognized the man who followed her in as one of the crusaders’ healers, a man well known for his skill and compassion. He carried bandages and a skin of water. With Emma’s help, he cleansed and bound Theo’s wound. By the time he had finished and left to tend to the many others who awaited him, Theo’s head had cleared and he felt steadier. He sat up. Emma was standing by the window, staring out.

“They killed them all.” Her voice was so low at first he thought he had misunderstood her. “All?”

“All,” Emma repeated. “All afternoon, all through the night, they killed. They spared no one. A band of Muslims took shelter in one of the mosques after surrendering to Tancred. His banner flew above them, to protect them, but our glorious crusaders broke in and slew every one of them.”

Theo started to say something. She silenced him with an abrupt motion.

“The Jews, Theo. All the Jews in the city fled to their synagogue. The crusaders set it on fire and burned everyone within. There is not a Muslim or Jewish man, woman or child left alive. The streets are piled with their bodies.” Her voice was toneless with the horror of what she had seen and what she had heard. “The victory is complete, Theo. Jerusalem is once again a Christian city. They will say mass this morning in this very church.”

Theo struggled to his feet. Ignoring the pain that shot down into his legs and threatened to collapse them beneath him, he walked over to Emma and stood beside her. She turned to him. Her eyes were dark. Dead.

“What have we done, Theo?” she whispered. “What have we done?”

Theo and Emma attended the mass. The nave of the church was filled to capacity. Some of the nobles and the leaders had managed to find time to cleanse themselves of the blood of battle, and were dressed with as much pomp and finery as they could assemble, but most were still as blood-stained and filthy as Theo and Emma. Emma had protested at Theo’s going, fearing he was too weak, but he had insisted. The walk from the alcove to the nave where the service took place was only a short one, but he was sweating and weak by the time they arrived. They found a stone for him to sit on at the back of the church.

Duke Godfrey sat at the right hand of the priest, Peter Desiderius. Count Garnier stood behind him. The count caught sight of Theo and his face lightened with relief.