The iron lance

TWENTY-SEVEN

Murdo returned to the citadel to find the place in turmoil. The streets outside the fortress were awash with men and horses and wagons. Soldiers-mostly Franks, by the look of them, but a good few Norsemen as well-were scurrying everywhere, carrying armfuls of weapons, sacks of grain, baskets of foodstuffs; wagons were being readied, and horses saddled, and everyone seemed to be shouting at once. Dodging through the tumult, Murdo pushed his way into the stables.

'There you are!' cried Emlyn as he stepped inside. 'I have been looking for you, Murdo.'

'I walked to the market,' he explained. Indicating the confusion around him, he asked, 'Are we under attack?'

'Magnus is moving the fleet to Jaffa,' the monk said quickly. He made to dart away again. 'We are all making ready to leave.'

'I thought we must stay here to help defend the city,' Murdo pointed out. 'You said-'

'Yes, yes,' replied Emlyn impatiently, 'but Prince Bohemond has been summoned to Jerusalem.'

'Why?'

'The siege has begun. The liberation of the Holy City is at hand!' the cleric proclaimed, raising his hands in praise. 'Let all Heaven and Earth rejoice!'

In spite of himself, Murdo felt a shiver of excitement. At long last… Jerusalem!

'We leave at once,' explained the monk. 'It is a ten-day march overland, but only five days by ship. If we hurry, we can get back to the fleet before sunset, and sail tonight. There is Fionn!' the priest declared, and rushed away to speak to his brother monk.

Remembering the long hot walk from the harbour at Saint Symeon, Murdo prepared himself for the return as best he could. He filled a bowl with water and drank it down, then filled and drank another. He then fell in with the others, helping to make ready their departure. The tumult around him resolved itself quickly; the Norsemen were soon pushing through the massed chaos around the citadel and were trooping noisily down the broad colonnaded central street to the gate. With Magnus in the lead, the king's war band crossed the bridge and walked out onto the plain, past the road leading down to the port of Saint Symeon, and on until striking the footpath by which they had come; they were soon climbing the arid, scrub-covered hills, and leaving the city behind.

Upon reaching the top of the first hill, Murdo paused for a last look at Antioch; he gazed back across the valley at the city, its great stone walls white and shimmering in the summer heat. 'Ah, it is a splendid sight,' sighed Emlyn, toiling up beside him. 'I would have liked a few more days to know the place better. Mark me, there are mighty things taking place in that city. God is working there.'

'Did you learn anything more of the miracle?' Murdo asked, more out of idle curiosity than interest.

'Did we learn anything?' hooted Emlyn gently. His face was glistening with sweat, and his breath came in quick gasps, but his stride was easy and strong. He stabbed at the path ahead with his tall rowan staff, the leather pouch swinging at his side. 'We heard a wonder, my doubting young friend. What is more, we heard it all from men who were there-men who saw it with their own eyes.'

'What did they see?' demanded Murdo.

'They saw…' said the monk, lifting his eyes towards the sky, as if he might also glimpse a miracle, 'they saw the Holy Lance.'

'What Holy Lance?'

'The spear of the crucifixion!' answered the monk, aghast that Murdo should even wonder, let alone ask such a thing. 'Do you not know of it?'

'I know of it,' he answered, his tone implying that he had been expecting something slightly more remarkable.

'It is nothing less than the spear which pierced Our Lord's precious side and proved before the world and all his enemies that the Blessed Jesu was dead. That is the Holy Lance I mean, and it is the holiest, most sacred relic to come down to us,' Emlyn intoned solemnly, 'save one thing alone.'

'What is that?'

'The cup of the Passover Supper,' said the priest. 'That is more holy still. But it is lost long since, and only the spear remains.'

'I suppose that makes the spear the most holy thing after all,' observed Murdo.

Emlyn did not deign to notice the remark. 'The spear was lost, too, until they found it-only a few months ago.'

'They found it?'

'Is that not what I am telling you, Murdo?'

'You are telling very little it seems to me,' Murdo protested. 'First you said they only saw it-now you say they found it. Which is it?'

Emlyn drew a deep breath. 'I will begin again.'

'And start from the beginning this time,' Murdo instructed.

'Yes, yes,' the monk agreed. 'One of the Roman soldiers present at the execution of our Lord was a centurion by the name of Longinus. As the commander of the execution, it was his duty to see the crucifixion carried out properly and in accordance with the law of the day.

'It was a Friday, as we know, and when the scribes and Pharisees began clamouring that the execution must be completed before sun had set – for it is an abomination to the Jews for a criminal to be killed on the Sabbath-one of this young centurion's soldiers offered to break the legs of the condemned men so as to hasten their deaths.'

Emlyn, warming to his tale, began to embellish the telling, and Murdo came under the spell of the monk's voice as he had so many times aboard the ship. As the priest related the events of long ago, Murdo, tramping through the heat and dust on his way to the Holy City, began to feel the awful oppression of that black day. For the first time in his life it seemed to him more than merely a story.

'Well now,' the monk continued, 'this is the way of it: the centurion sees the Jews growing more agitated as the day wastes away. Wishing to avoid any further trouble, he agrees to end the criminals' suffering, and the order is duly given. "Break their legs," he says. The command is duly carried out, but when the soldier with the hammer comes to Jesu, he observes that Our Lord is already dead. "How can this be?" they say. "There has not been enough time." Death by crucifixion is seldom swift, you see, and it is far from painless. I have heard it said that such a death can often take several days-days of unbearable agony before the wretch succumbs and breathes his last.

"Do not touch him! He is dead already!" some declare. "No!" shout others. "He has only fainted. Revive him, and you will see!"

'The crowd begins to argue. "Did you not hear him scream his death agony? He is dead."

"No, no, he is alive still. Break his legs. Kill him!"

'The bloody execution of three men is not enough for them. They begin to fight amongst themselves. Longinus, striving to keep order, decides to settle the matter once and for all. Taking up his spear, he steps to the foot of the cross, and calls for silence. Then up thrusts the spear! Up! Up under the Blessed Saviour's ribs and into his heart. Water and blood gush from the wound. Everyone sees, and knows beyond all doubt the Son of the Living God is dead.'

The round-faced priest fell silent for a moment, and Murdo realized they had both stopped walking, and that he had been holding his breath waiting for the monk to continue. He exhaled, and the two resumed their march.

'Well, and well,' Emlyn sighed, his voice taking on a weight of sadness, 'they take Our Jesu down from the cross and lay him in the tomb lent by Joseph of Arimathea, a rich merchant of the city and a secret follower of the Christ. But the enemies of God are not finished yet. No sooner is the body wrapped in a winding shroud and taken away by the mourners than the venomous Pharisees seek audience with Governor Pilate. They rush in to the governor, saying, "This man you have killed-the ignorant people believe him to be a very great magician. Indeed, he has often been heard to boast how he will rise again from the dead."

'Does Pilate encourage their invidious intrigues? No, he does not! The governor wishes only to eat his supper in peace. "Is this so?" he replies. "Well then, we shall see what manner of man he was. Be gone! I want nothing more to do with you."

'But the Pharisees will not leave him alone. "It is not so easy as that," they say, "would that it were! No, you see, we have overheard a plot by some of this criminal's followers who are planning to steal the body from the tomb tonight. If they should succeed they would be able to boast that he has risen from the grave. Think of the trouble they could make."

"Let them do what they like," growls Pilate, growing angry at last – he has lost a night's sleep to bad dreams and a painful conscience. "Whatever they say will be shown to be a lie and that will be the end of it. They are nothing but fishermen and shepherds. You make them more than they are."

' "Oh, to be so confident and trusting," marvel the sly Pharisees. "Alas, the truth is that these are very dangerous men who will stop at nothing. What is more, they have gained the sympathy of the rabble. Think what will happen when these brigands begin spreading their falsehoods among the people. There could be riots-and worse. We are only thinking of your position, O Mighty Governor. Of course, all this could be easily avoided."

"What would you suggest?" asks Pilate, hearing the voice of the serpent hissing in his ear.

‘ "Place a cohort of your excellent soldiers around the tomb for a few days," the wicked Pharisees advise. "The outlaws would not dare try their devious tricks with Roman legionaries guarding the tomb."

'Pilate, watching his supper growing cold, extracts a promise. "If I send the soldiers, do I have your assurance that you will trouble me no more with your petty plots and conspiracies? Will you, in fact, show me the same measure of support you insist upon for yourselves?"

'The Jews pretend to be aghast at the suggestion that they have ever been anything other than loyal citizens of the empire, but they agree nevertheless, and the soldiers are sent out to guard the tomb-the same soldiers, as it happens, that conducted the crucifixion. Longinus is in command, and the centurion is there, standing guard with his men, when the earth shakes and the tomb opens wide to release its captive.

'Soon the whole world learns of the resurrection. Can anyone stop the sun from rising? Longinus, witness at the tomb, becomes a believer, and word of what he saw on that glorious morning spreads like fire through the dry tinder of the jaded legions. Whenever the centurion encounters anyone who doubts the veracity of his testimony, faithful Longinus produces the iron lance: "With this spear, I pierced his heart," he tells them. "Two days later, that same man walked out of the tomb. I was there. I saw it."

'Many years pass, and a church is erected over the site of the tomb, and Longinus' spear is placed inside the tomb for pilgrims to see and, seeing, believe in the Eternal Truth. Alas, Jerusalem fell to the Saracens,' Emlyn concluded, 'and the spear was lost in the terrible desecrations that followed.'

Murdo, enthralled by the tale, could not help asking, 'What did become of the spear?'

'Some say it was carried off into Egypt; others say it found its way to Baghdat as a trinket for the Caliph. I have even heard that it was destroyed – its iron melted down and made into a chain for Christian slaves. But no one really knew.'

'If no one knew what happened to it,' Murdo said, doubt creeping into his question, 'how did they know to look for it in Antioch?'

'Truly, no one knew,' Emlyn assured him. 'They had to be shown.'

'Who showed them?' demanded Murdo, openly suspicious once again. After all, if somebody showed the crusaders where to look, then somebody knew.

'No, no, no,' the monk protested. 'You are getting the wrong idea here. This is the way of it, you see -'

'How do you know?' Murdo said. 'None of us were there.'

'Teh!' chided the monk. 'How do I know? Have I not already told you? I talked to the priests. I also talked to men who were there -men who helped raise the siege and fought to regain the city. I listened to what they said, and now I am telling you. What is so difficult about that?'

Murdo grunted, but made no further protest.

'By your leave, O Head of Wisdom, I continue. This is the way of it: no sooner was Antioch liberated, than the enemy tried to recapture it. Sultan Kerbogha-the Seljuq chieftain of this region -gathered his armies and those of his vassal lords, and together they surrounded the city. Four days after marching through the gates in victory, our brother crusaders were trapped inside the very walls they had just freed from the enemy. Why, they had not even time enough to replenish the stores of grain and water depleted by their own long siege.

'No food. No water. The pilgrims were starving, and fever broke out. Men were dying by the score, and the army was growing weaker with each passing day. Many gathered in the church to pray God's deliverance. They prayed three days and nights, and during the night one of the priests in Count Raymond's retinue-Peter Bartholomew by name-was visited by a vision in which he was instructed to search for the Lance of Christ.'

'Who told him?' asked Murdo, a queasy feeling beginning to steal over him. 'Did they tell him where to search?'

'It seems Peter was visited by a young priest dressed all in white-he did not know who it was at that time-and this white priest told him that when they found the Holy Lance, the crusaders should carry it before them into battle, and their faith would be rewarded by a very great victory.'

At the mention of the white priest, Murdo's scalp prickled.

'It seems Brother Peter duly reported his vision to the count,' Emlyn said.

'And that was when they started searching?'

'Alas, no,' the monk answered. 'Count Raymond ignored him. Some people are always having visions, you know, and unfortunately Peter is one of these. No one listened to him. And the more he insisted, the less they believed him.'

'Then how -

'If you will keep your tongue from flapping, I will tell you,' the priest chided. 'As it happens, two nights later another pilgrim had the same vision-then the lords began to take an interest. This second man-by name of Stephen of Valence, a chaplain to one of the lords, and by all accounts as humble, pious, and upright as Brother Peter is rascal-decides to hold a prayer vigil in the church, to seek holy wisdom. He gathers with some of the faithful in the Church of Saint Peter, and, lo and behold! in the middle of the night he is visited by an unknown monk dressed in white. "Dig!" urges the White Monk. "Dig and find! O, men of small belief, do you not know that victory is assured if you carry the Lance of Christ before you into battle?"

'So now, how can he keep this to himself? At once he runs to his lord and says that he, too, has seen the mysterious priest in white who tells him the battle will be won if only they recover the Holy Lance. The lord demands to know where they should search for the spear. "Seek the lance in the Church of Saint Peter. That is where it will be found." That is what he tells them.

'So, they begin searching. But can they find it? No, they cannot. They look here and there; they search the vaults and catacombs, they begin to dig beneath the floor. Three days they dig! Some of the lords abandon the search-they did not believe anyway. And even Raymond, who has faith, tires of the search and says they must desist, for the troops are growing discouraged. He turns from the excavation-they have begun digging beneath the altar-and walks to the door. He is not well; the fever has got hold of him. Raymond reaches the threshold and what should he hear?

'Here it is! We have found it! He turns and sees Brother Peter standing in the trench, pointing to the discovery. Lord Hugh of Vermandois is there; he leaps down into the pit and, while the object is yet embedded in the earth, presses his lips to the Holy Lance. Then Brother Peter raises up the spear.'

'What does it look like?'

'It is a Roman spear,' answered the monk, wiping the sweat from his face. 'Those who have seen it say it is a long, thin piece of hand-forged iron with a short, narrow blade. A wooden haft would have encased the lower portion, and indeed, the remnant of just such a wooden haft still clings to the base of the spear. But, mostly, all that is left is the rusted iron blade and shaft.'

'Where is it now?'

'Patience, boy,' the monk told him. 'All in good time. Where was I?'

'They take up the lance.'

'Yes, yes, they lay hold of the lance. But finding the spear is only half of the vision-now they must make their attack. The lords met that very night and battle plan was decided. At dawn the next morning, they rode out from the main gate and routed the Seljuqs. Forty thousand were slain, and the rest driven off. It was a magnificent victory, just as the vision foretold.'

Emlyn gulped a breath, his flabby chin shaking with excitement. 'Think of it, Murdo! The most valuable treasure of our faith has been recovered, and even now goes before us into Jerusalem to prepare the way for the restoration of the Holy City. The defeat of our enemies is certain. We will return the Sacred Lance to its rightful place in the sepulchre of Our Lord. Who could have imagined such a thing when we first began?'

Murdo agreed that it was a very miracle. 'But what of this vision?' he asked. 'You said the chaplain saw a priest in white who spoke to him. Did he say who this might have been?'

'Did I not say it already? It was none other than Saint Andrew, the apostle, brother to Saint Peter, and the same who as a tireless missionary sowed the seeds of many churches, including the church at Constantinople.'

'Saint Andrew…' Murdo murmured, and wondered whether he should tell Emlyn that he had seen a white priest, too.

But no, he decided, his encounter had been no dream in the night; it had happened in the clear light of day. Lost and confused, he had stumbled on the little chapel purely by accident-inasmuch as he could not find the street to the market, why wonder that he could not find the chapel again when he looked for it? The streets were baffling, the city strange and unknown, and he, desperate to escape the harassment of the beggars and merchants had not been looking where he was going. Where was the mystery in that?

'You have become very quiet, Murdo,' observed Emlyn. 'Do you doubt the tale even now?'

'No-no,' Murdo replied quickly. 'I was only thinking. By Heaven, it is hot though!' he said quickly. 'My feet are on fire already, and we have only begun.'

'Verily,' answered Emlyn, puffing out his cheeks. 'If it were not for the sake of Jerusalem, I do not think I could endure this heat.'

Murdo then suggested that perhaps it was better to conserve their strength and talk no more. In truth, he wanted a space to contemplate what he had just heard. He loped along, head down, his long legs swinging easily. Gradually, the monk fell further and further behind, and Murdo was alone with his thoughts.

By the time they reached the little fishing village on the coast, he had convinced himself that the discovery of the Holy Lance, however it might have happened, was nothing to do with him. Moreover, nothing else mattered but that he should find his father at the first opportunity.

The monks followed Lord Magnus onto his ship and, since no one told him otherwise, Murdo followed the monks. One of the crusaders now, he joined in with a will. He picked up an oar and rowed, desperate now to be in Jerusalem. All around him, men talked about the battles and, from the things they said, he gathered that the pilgrims had suffered greatly in their skirmishes with the enemy. Of all those who had begun the pilgrimage, they said, fewer than half now remained.

Murdo did not allow himself to contemplate the possibility that his father might be among the dead. Instead, he clung to the certainty that Ranulf was alive. I will find him, Murdo vowed with every stroke of the oar. I will bring him home.

The Norsemen used the days aboard ship to prepare their weapons and armour for battle. They honed, sharpened, and stropped their swords, spearblades, and axes; burnished their shield rims, war helms, and hauberks; repaired or renewed all the leather fastenings, bindings, straps, and ties; then polished everything until, upon reaching the port town of Jaffa on the Palestinian coast, King Magnus' war band – nearly four hundred fearsome Vikings-fairly gleamed and glittered with battle-keen ferocity.

Magnus secured his fleet in the Jaffa harbour, newly reconquered by the sailors of the Genoese merchant guild, which the wily king paid to keep watch over his ships so that he would not have to leave any men behind. They paused only long enough to assemble the wagons and load the supplies and water casks, then set off for the Holy City, two days' march inland.

They were yet half a day away when they saw the smoke rolling heavenward in a heavy black column. The Norsemen reached Jerusalem at midday to find that the northwestern wall had been breached and the rape of Jerusalem begun.