Siege of Heaven (62 page)

Three weeks after they captured the city, the Army of God took to the field for the last time. At Ascalon, forty miles west of Jerusalem, they met the relief army that al-Afdal had brought from Egypt and, though outnumbered once more, routed it utterly. Many of the Egyptians were driven into the sea and drowned; al-Afdal himself only escaped by fleeing into the harbour and taking ship for Egypt. He never returned. I heard, some years afterwards, that he was eventually murdered by a caliph who had grown tired of his tutelage.

When Jerusalem had been conquered, the princes met in the church of the Holy Sepulchre and elected Godfrey king. But – faithful to his prophecy to the last – he put aside his crown and did not take the title of king, preferring
instead to style himself the Defender of the Holy Sepulchre. A few days afterwards, the red-headed priest, Arnulf of Rohes, was appointed Patriarch of Jerusalem. Raymond got nothing: but true to his vow he never returned to Provence. He died a few years later, once more pursuing a fruitless siege.

Despite the victory, Godfrey’s reign was neither long nor happy. One by one, the other princes abandoned him, either to return to their homes or to make new conquests of their own. The borders of his new realm were weak and fragile; no sooner had one area been secured than another demanded his attention. Almost a year to the day after he marched through the golden gate and processed to Christ’s tomb, Godfrey died in Jerusalem. Some said he had been poisoned, others that he had succumbed to fever; others still said that his heart had simply given up. When I heard that, I remembered the doubt I had seen in his eyes that morning in the Holy Sepulchre. It had seemed then like something sharp and dangerous; I wondered if it had not twisted in his soul until it cut a wound that could not heal.

Many assumed that Godfrey’s successor should be Bohemond; he was summoned from Antioch, but he was away campaigning. Before he could return, he was captured by Turks and carried away deep into their kingdom where he spent four years rotting in captivity. In his absence, the lordship of Jerusalem passed to Baldwin, Godfrey’s younger brother, who had left the Army of God before it even reached Antioch to carve out
his own dominion in the east. He had none of his brother’s pious scruples. On Christmas Day in the first year of the new century, at the Church of the Nativity in Bethlehem, he was crowned king of Jerusalem. And so the man who had abandoned the pilgrimage at the earliest opportunity, who never suffered its torments or fought its terrible battles, became its eventual victor.

I did not see any of it. Before Ascalon, before Godfrey had taken his throne, even before the embers from the funeral pyres had cooled, I began the long journey home. Before we left, I visited the Holy Sepulchre. After waiting almost three hours in a line of weeping pilgrims, I stepped inside the cupola, past the stone where the angel had announced the resurrection to the two Marys, and ducked into the small chamber beyond.

It was empty, of course.

We travelled in easy stages back to the coast, walking at dawn and at dusk, resting during the heat of the day. At Jaffa, we found the last ship from Saewulf’s fleet, which had been away on patrol when the Fatimids burned the harbour. As August winds furrowed the sea, it slowly nosed its way west. The sun shone, and I spent the hours reaccustoming myself to food and water, nursing strength back into my limbs. I had not realised how far my body had withered until I tried to heal it. There were days when my joints were so stiff I could barely move; other days when my stomach rebelled against even water. Through all this,
Anna was at my side: preparing my food, teasing the knots out of my sinews, or just sitting in the shade of a canvas awning watching dolphins play in the water. We did not speak much. The ordeals we had endured loomed too large, mountains in our minds that we could neither conquer nor comprehend. Only by skirting around them, chiselling away small pieces each day, could we gradually reduce them and build the fragments into the houses of memory. It was as well we had Everard to distract us. If ever thoughts of the past grew too melancholy, there was always the sight of him running up and down the sloping deck chasing after gulls to lift our spirits. Amid thoughts of death and despair, his energy provided a necessary reminder of life.

We put into Cyprus and Rhodes, then turned north. One day we sailed past Patmos, the island where Saint John the Divine received his revelation of the world’s end. I stared at it, a rocky outcrop barely distinguishable from the mainland behind, and wondered how much evil had come from the visions he saw in that cave. I was glad to see it slide into the distance behind us. The days were getting shorter now, the winds fresher: the sea was crowded with ships all hurrying to their harbours before the onset of autumn. The urgency affected all of us, and instead of watching the wake or the waves we began to gather in the bow, staring at the sea ahead.

At the beginning of October, we reached the port of Tenedos. According to some authorities, it was where the
Greeks had hidden their fleet during the siege of Troy, but there were few ships there now – only a gaggle of merchantmen waiting for the wind to change so they could navigate through the Hellespont and up to Constantinople. Here, Saewulf announced, he would leave us.

‘I could spend a month waiting for the wind to change,’ he explained. ‘And another month waiting to get out again. You can get a boat to the mainland and be home in half that time.’

I looked at the grey sky and the white wavecaps beyond the harbour. ‘But you can’t take to the seas again now. I thought they were closed in winter.’

He grinned. ‘The seas are never closed to an Englishman. And I’ve been away from home too long. Even if it’s cold and wet and stinks of Normans.’

His was not the only farewell we had to make on Tenedos – nor the hardest. On the night before we parted, I was sitting by the mast with Everard on my knee, pointing out the constellations to him, when Sigurd and Saewulf came on deck. In a few short words, Sigurd told me his plans.

‘I’m not going back to Constantinople.’

I looked up in surprise. ‘Where will you go?’

‘To England – with Saewulf.’

On my knee, Everard tugged at the sleeve of my tunic, peeved to find himself forgotten. I ignored him. The delicate peace in my soul, so patiently stitched together on the voyage, was torn apart again. ‘To England?’ I stared from one to the other. Neither looked happy with the decision. ‘I thought you swore you would never return while
the Normans ruled.’ Every atrocity, every insult, every obloquy that I had ever heard against the Normans raced through my mind, and I wanted to hurl each one back at him. ‘You’re a captain of the palace guard. Would you give all that up to live the life of a peasant in a captive land?’

Sigurd sighed. ‘The emperor doesn’t need me – any more than he needed Aelfric or Thomas or Nikephoros – or even you. If anyone asks, tell them I died at Jerusalem.’

Saewulf looked no happier than I did. ‘It’ll break your heart,’ he warned. ‘The country you remember vanished a long time ago. Better to stay here and cherish it as it was.’

Sigurd shook his head. ‘If you believed that, you wouldn’t have gone back yourself.’

‘But Constantinople is your home,’ I said.

‘Constantinople is
your
home,’ he corrected me. ‘It was mine, too, for a time. Now I must go back. When you get to Constantinople, find my family and tell them to follow as soon as they can. They’ll understand.’

I realised then that I could not dissuade him. I pulled myself to my feet and embraced him. As ever, it was like putting my arms around an oak tree.

‘Try not to kill the first Norman you see.’

He grunted. ‘Try to keep out of trouble yourself. Remember you won’t have me to protect you any more.’

They sailed away next morning. I sat on the quay, watching the ship diminish until it slipped over the horizon. Then, surrounded by my family, I turned east and set out on the final stage.

* * *

Those last two weeks were the happiest of the entire journey. Though we were late in the year, the weather blessed us with a succession of clear days, each more brilliant than the last. The sun shone, and in the evenings a dewy haze descended to cloak the world in soft mystery. All around us we could see the world gathering itself in for the winter. Fields had been harvested and ploughed, flocks brought down from the summer pasture, firewood piled up ready for burning. If we did not speak much now, it was because we did not need words to describe how we felt. Each of us was seized with hope, and with sweet anticipation.

It was evening when we arrived at Constantinople. We came over a hill and there it was – the eastern suburbs of Chrysopolis falling away to the Bosphorus beneath us, and the domes and towers of the city rising in their splendour across the shining water. I could see Ayia Sophia, majestic on its promontory, and the many terraces of the palace cascading down the hill. The autumn sun was setting behind a cloud in the west, casting the sky, the water, the city, the whole world in molten gold. From across the strait, I thought I could hear the chant of the priests at vespers.

‘I don’t think I’ve ever seen it from this side before,’ murmured Helena. ‘It’s beautiful.’

We went down to the water’s edge, and waited for the boatman to ferry us across.

Tελos

The capture of Jerusalem by the First Crusade in 1099 stands as one of the great cataclysms of history. Through a potent combination of zealotry, pent-up frustration and greed, the crusaders massacred more or less every man, woman and child in the city, depopulating it for generations to come and leaving a legacy of hatred whose effects are still being felt today.

As always, I have tried to be as faithful as possible to the facts and chronology of established events, while putting my own interpretation on the motives, meanings, and the gaps in the record. If the story seems to meander in places, it may be because the crusaders, who had been so brutally single-minded in rampaging across Asia Minor and grinding out victory at Antioch, dithered for months
when the road to Jerusalem lay open. The princes seemed to lose interest completely, preferring to nurse their jealousies and quarrel over the spoils they had won that far. Even when they did manage to move on, first to Ma’arat and then to Arqa, they quickly stalled.

In those circumstances, the emergence of Peter Bartholomew as the angry voice of the frustrated poor is hardly surprising. My own sense, which I have tried to convey in the book, is that he was a charlatan who stumbled onto an unexpectedly successful ploy, who grew ever more extreme as he tested the limits of his newfound power, and who eventually came to believe his own hype, to suicidal effect.

But Peter had tapped into one of the most powerful forces at work in the crusade The historical debate over the crusaders’ motives is as energetic as it is futile, but it seems clear that a strong thread of millenarianism inspired many of them. The key biblical text used to preach the crusade – ‘If any man would come after me, let him deny himself and take up his cross and follow me’ (Matthew 16:24) – is drawn from a passage where Jesus foretells the imminent second coming, and several chroniclers of the crusade show the link was clear in their minds when they begin their narratives with the omnious phrase, ‘When that time [i.e., the last days] had already come . . .’ The recapture of Jerusalem by God’s elect has always been seen as a precondition for the end of the world (which is why Christian Zionists today encourage the Jewish diaspora’s return to Israel), and in 1099 the time must have seemed
particularly ripe. To the cosmopolitan armies of the crusade, fighting an exotic range of Turks, Arabs, Armenians, Berbers and Africans, it must truly have felt as though God had gathered up all the nations of the earth to wage war for Jerusalem. The fact that they were actually fighting to liberate the city from the forces of Babylon (as Cairo was inaccurately known) only added to the sense of destiny. In this context, Duke Godfrey’s decision to leave the assault just as the city fell, strip off his armour and enter the city through the Golden Gate on the Mount of Olives looks less like humility and more like a conscious evocation – or consummation – of Ezekiel’s prophecies: this was how Christ would return at the end of time.

The First Crusade effectively ended with the victory at Ascalon, three weeks after the capture of Jerusalem. But that was merely the opening chapter in the two-century story of the crusaders’ attempts to master the Holy Land – and, some historians have argued, a far longer saga of western conquest and colonisation generally. Today’s map of the Middle East contains plenty of borders as artificial and fragile as those of the crusader kingdoms, while from Tehran to Baghdad to Jerusalem, the region still draws zealots of many faiths trying to build their paradises on earth. At the time of writing, none has yet succeeded.