The Black Rood (32 page)

P
RINCE LEO'S DEATH
immediately plunged all the members of the royal family into a multitude of tedious and time-consuming rituals and formalities. The foreign visitors were quickly forgotten; Padraig and I gladly fended for ourselves lest we become a burden to our hosts in their time of distress. Anxious as I was to depart, I would gladly have left the city right then and there, but, in deference to Roupen's feelings, could not bring myself to just sneak away like a thief in the night. Thus, as we had nothing else to do, we took the opportunity to wander around the streets of Anazarbus and see for ourselves how the passing of the noble ruler was marked by the populace.

What I saw was a city sunk in grief over the loss of their much-loved prince. Apparently, Leo had governed his people wisely and well for many years, and the Armenians were genuinely sorry he was gone. Everywhere men and women went about their chores with the mournful countenances of the truly sorrowful, speaking in pensive tones. Scores of small shrines sprang up in the streets—here a painting of the prince, there a carving, or perhaps simply a coin on which Leo's image had been stamped—and each adorned with a palm frond or bit of green foliage, and a candle or lamp. Whenever anyone passed one of these makeshift shrines, he made the sign of the cross on his forehead.

Many of the older men and women wore ashes in their
hair, and on their garments; some donned sacking cloth as well. Everyone observed the great prince's passing in a seemly way, and even the younger folk adopted a dutifully subdued and melancholy air.

If ever an entire city grieved, Anazarbus was that place.

The prince himself lay in a gilded casket in the Church of Saint George and Saint Nicholas, the principal church of the city, serving as the cathedral for the Armenian observance. A large, but not imposing building of red stone, it was spare and plain, without much in the way of fussy adornment—much like the chapels the Célé Dé build.

All morning long, Padraig and I strolled about the city, marveling at the long lines of mourners snaking across the square and into the surrounding streets as the people streamed in and out of the church where Leo's body lay. Every now and then, one of the grieving throng would suddenly throw his hands toward heaven, and let out a heartfelt, wailing cry. Otherwise, the crowds were quiet and respectful.

The monk was keenly fascinated to see how the Armenians conducted their religious services, and was enthralled by the endless ritual. For myself, however, the sorrowing crowds and religious feeling seemed wrong, or at least inappropriate for a city and nation teetering on the precipice of war.

Immersed in mourning, Thoros appeared to have given no farther thought to either the Seljuqs lurking in the hills, nor the looming danger of attack by Bohemond and his knights. The beloved Prince Leo's death swept all else aside. Certainly, beyond the posting of a few more soldiers on the walls, there was no other preparation that I could see.

This amazed and troubled me greatly. Why had we risked life and limb to bring a warning that was to remain unheeded? If the rulers of Armenia did not care about their city and the lives of their people, why should we?

Disturbed and distraught, I turned from the gate and started back to the palace, resolved to wait no longer: we would leave at once. I reached the palace forecourt just in time to witness the arrival of a sizeable contingent of Seljuqs. I watched from the inner palace yard as the Turks
were conducted with great ceremony into the hall, which had been hastily prepared to receive mourners. Prince Leo's funeral was to begin at dusk and the various services, rituals, and observances would continue through the night, culminating with the burial which would take place at dawn the next morning.

I stood in the shadows and watched as the Seljuq emissaries were met by a delegation of Armenian nobles, and immediately led into the hall where Thoros, his mother, and other members of the royal family were holding court. The extreme civility of their welcome did astonish me, and I must have worn my amazement on my face, for Nurmal, enjoying the fresh air and quiet of the pleasant courtyard, approached, took one look at me, and said, “What, and have you never seen a Seljuq before?”

“Never,” I replied. “In truth, I cannot decide which I find the more incredible—that they should wish to honor the prince in this way, or that an avowed enemy should be allowed inside the walls to pay their respects to the mourning family.”

Nurmal chuckled. “I do not know what it is like in your country, my friend, but here our hostilities are not carved in stone. Our enmities are more fluid—like streams in the desert, continually shifting and changing. The enemy you meet today might be the friend you call upon tomorrow. You must remember that.”

He was speaking a simple truth of the East, and one I had not yet fully grasped. Even so, I heard in the words a foreboding that chilled me to the marrow. I thought:
If enmities are so loosely held, then loyalties are likewise inconstant
.

“Only yesterday, the city was in a state of alarm lest the dreaded Seljuq attack at any moment,” I pointed out.

“True,” Nurmal agreed cheerfully. “But that was then. Things have changed. What hope would there be for anyone if nothing ever changed?”

With Nurmal's words rolling around in my head, I hurried off to find Yordanus and Sydoni, neither one of whom had I seen since the banquet the night before. I went to the small dining chamber where Thoros had served us wine before the
banquet and there found Roupen with his brother Constantine.

They were speaking so earnestly to one another that I thought it best not to intrude. Nevertheless, I could not help overhearing. “—a very dangerous business,” Constantine was saying. “Even Thoros must see that. If he does not, he is not fit to rule in Father's place. I swear to you—”

I came into Roupen's view just then and they ceased their conversation at once—almost guiltily, as it seemed to me. “My friend,” called Roupen, “you must forgive us for neglecting you. The demands of royalty are especially onerous at times like this.”

“I understand completely,” I replied, assuring them there was no need to trouble themselves on my account. They hesitated then, anxious to conclude their conversation, so I said, “Please excuse me, I am looking for Yordanus.”

“We have not seen him,” replied Constantine bluntly. “No doubt he is still in his chamber.”

“Come to the hall at midday,” Roupen suggested with a tight smile, “and you will be included in the royal party. I will look for you then.”

I thanked them and moved off, aware of Constantine's pent-up fury. Although it was none of my affair, I could not help wondering what lay behind his agitation. Putting it out of my mind, I found my way to the wing of the palace where Yordanus and Sydoni had been given rooms. The old trader was sitting in a chair, gazing out the open window over the rooftops of the low buildings surrounding the palace.

I greeted him and, not wishing to waste time, explained my deep misgivings over the utter lack of preparation to meet Bohemond's army. I told him that Padraig and I were leaving Anazarbus and, in light of the fact that the city was largely undefended against the imminent attack, suggested that he and his daughter should seriously consider doing the same. “Of course,” I said, “we will be happy to escort you and Sydoni to Mamistra.”

He nodded gravely. “When?”

“As soon as I can arrange horses and provisions—no later than midday.”

“Go then. I will tell Sydoni.”

“Come to the stables as soon as you are ready.”

Next, I hastened to speak to the hostlers about making ready five of Nurmal's horses. I had it in mind that, if Nurmal was agreeable, we might return the horses to Mamistra for him. If need be, I would buy them; the brooch Princess Elena had given me would no doubt purchase a half dozen of his best.

On the way, I found Padraig and told him to hurry and secure enough provisions to see us on our way. “Get Roupen to help you. He owes us that much, I guess.” So saying, I continued on to the stables, but could find no one who spoke Latin, and with my poor Greek, it took longer than I had hoped to make them understand what I wanted.

I succeeded at last, and then rushed back to the palace to gather my things and take leave of Roupen. Nurmal was in his chamber across the corridor from ours; he was lying on his bed, resting before the evening's ceremonies. I quickly told him my plan, and begged the use of his horses to return to Mamistra. “Of course, my friend,” he said. “It was always understood that we would return sooner or later. Go, and with my blessing. But,” he added, “if you do not mind my asking, why are you in such a hurry? Half the day is almost gone, and you cannot get far before nightfall. Why not wait until tomorrow? Better still, stay a few more days and we will all return together.”

“There is a battle coming, whether anyone in Anazarbus believes it or cares.” I told him I wanted no part of it, that greedy Prince Bohemond's boundary squabble was none of my affair. So far as I was concerned, I had done my duty by Roupen and his people; now it was for them to do what they would. As for myself and Padraig, we would wait no longer; we were leaving the city at once.

Nurmal regarded me with an amused expression. “There is no hurry, my friend,” he said. “We can leave whenever we wish.”

“Bohemond and his army could be here at any moment,” I snapped, unable to keep the growing frustration out of my voice. “He is coming with hundreds of mounted knights and
a few thousand footmen. I have no wish to be trapped in a city under siege, much less help defend one.”

“Calm yourself,” Nurmal said. “Bohemond will never even see the city walls.”

The way he said it—with such careless confidence—sent a warning tingle through me. I stared at him. “Why? What do you know of this?”

“Amir Ghazi will deal with them,” he said, pushing himself up on an elbow, “and he has many thousand warriors—all of them mounted, all of them eager to die for the glory of Islam and a martyr's paradise.”

I stared at him, trying to make sense of what he was saying. “The Seljuqs? Why would they intervene?”

“We have a saying,” Nurmal replied easily. “My enemy's enemy is my friend. Thoros understands this better than most. He owes Amir Ghazi a very great sum of money. How better to repay his heavy debt than to offer Ghazi the particular honor of, shall we say, delivering Prince Bohemond and his men into Seljuq hands?” He smiled placidly. “It is a perfect solution: Anazarbus is spared, the invader is defeated, and Ghazi receives the irresistible opportunity to recapture Antioch. Harmony and balance is restored.”

“But this is monstrous!” I protested, stunned by the duplicity of the bargain.

The canny horse trader shook his head. “No, it is simple expedience, my friend.”

“If I had imagined such deceit, I would never have left Antioch,” I declared, shaking with fury. “This is intolerable! Unthinkable! It must be stopped.”

Nurmal frowned with benign pity. “Peace, Duncan. You will do yourself an injury.” He rose from the bed, and put his hands on my shoulders in a gesture of fatherly advice. “While I admire your sense of honor, I do not understand your scruples. Why did you come here?”

I did not understand what he was asking. “You know as well as anyone why we came here.”

“You came to warn the Armenians of Bohemond's attack,” Nurmal said. “Is this not so?”

“Yes, but—”

“What did you think would happen?”

“I did not think…” I began, and faltered, realizing how I had been used. “My warning has been turned to treachery. I have been made a traitor!”

“Why speak of treachery?” Nurmal demanded, beginning to lose patience with me. “Where is the betrayal? Where is the treason? Listen to me, my friend. There is no betrayal; there is only fate, and the capricious accidents of war. You learned of the coming attack and flew to prevent a slaughter—”

“Yes! For the love of God, I only thought to prevent it.”

“Well, you have succeeded. It is prevented. Amir Ghazi will see to that, never fear.”

“The slaughter is not prevented,” I growled, my spirit writhing with guilt, “it is merely diverted.”

Futility and shame descended in heavy waves upon me. I turned on my heel and fled the room. He called after me, but I made no reply. I quickly retrieved my belongings; there was nothing much to gather—my clothes had been taken away for cleaning, and had not been returned.

Very well, I would escape in what I was wearing, I decided, and leave all else behind. I had half a mind to leave the jeweled bauble Princess Elena had given me—I wanted nothing from the Armenians. But practicality got the better of that decision; we would need money if we were to reach Antioch in good time, and the brooch was very valuable. So, I took it from its box, and pinned it to the inside of my mantle next to my skin where it would be safe.

Padraig was waiting with Roupen in the stables. The young lord was unhappy to see us leaving with such unseemly haste. “I wish it could be otherwise,” I told him. He asked me to reconsider, but I declined. Seeing there was no changing my mind, he gave in with good grace and told me how much he valued our friendship, and that he would pray we concluded our pilgrimage safely.

Yordanus and Sydoni appeared in the doorway then, and Roupen went to bid them farewell and to thank them for their inestimable help in getting him home in time to see his father before he died. While they talked, Padraig and I ex
amined the horses and the packs of provisions; satisfied that all was in order, we led the beasts out into the yard, and bade Roupen a last farewell.

We rode through the gates and out onto the road by which we had come, leaving Anazarbus behind. The sun was high onto midday; the weather was fine and bright, and hot, and we made fair speed with Nurmal's splendid horses. I had chosen the same mounts we had ridden before so they would know us: the speckled gray for me, the roan for Padraig, and the two chestnut mares for Sydoni and Yordanus.