The Jester

Chapter I

Veille du Père, a village in southern France, 1096

The church bells were ringing.

Loud, quickening peals-echoing through town in the middle of the day.

Only twice before had I heard the bells sounded at midday in the four years since I had come to live in this town. Once, when word reached us that the King’s son had died. And the second, when a raiding party from our lord’s rival in Digne swept through town during the wars, leaving eight dead and burning almost every house to the ground.

What was going on?

I rushed to the second-floor window of the inn I looked after with my wife, Sophie. People were running into the square, still carrying their tools. “What’s going on? Who needs help?” they shouted.

Then Antoine, who farmed a plot by the river, galloped over the bridge aboard his mule, pointing back toward the road. “They’re coming! They’re almost here!”

From the east, I heard the loudest chorus of voices, seemingly raised as one. I squinted through the trees and felt my jaw drop. “Jesus, I’m dreaming,” I said to myself. A peddler with a [10] cart was considered an event here. I blinked at the sight, not once but twice.

It was the greatest multitude I had ever seen! Jammed along the narrow road into town, stretching out as far as the eye could see.

“Sophie, come quick, now,” I yelled. “You’re not going to believe this.”

My wife of three years hurried to the window, her yellow hair pinned up for the workday under a white cap. “Mother of God, Hugh…”

“It’s an army,” I muttered, barely able to believe my eyes. “The Army of the Crusade.”

Chapter 2

EVEN IN VEILLE DU PÈRE, word had reached us of the Pope’s call. We had heard that masses of men were leaving their families, taking the Cross, as nearby as Avignon. And here they were… the army of Crusaders, marching through Veille du Père!

But what an army! More of a rabble, like one of those multitudes prophesied in Isaiah or John. Men, women, children, carrying clubs and tools straight from home. And it was vast-thousands of them! Not fitted out with armor or uniforms, but shabbily, with red crosses either painted or sewn onto plain tunics. And at the head of this assemblage… not some trumped-up duke or king in crested mail and armor sitting imperiously atop a massive charger. But a little man in a homespun monk’s robe, barefoot, bald, with a thatched crown, plopped atop a simple mule.

“It is their awful singing the Turks will turn and run from,” I said, shaking my head, “not their swords.”

Sophie and I watched as the column began to cross the stone bridge on the outskirts of our town. Young and old, men and women; some carrying axes and mallets and old swords, some old knights parading in rusty armor. Carts, wagons, tired mules and plow horses. Thousands of them.

[12] Everyone in town stood and stared. Children ran out and danced around the approaching monk. No one had ever seen anything like it before. Nothing ever happened here!

I was struck with a kind of wonderment. “Sophie, tell me, what do you see?”

“What do I see? Either the holiest army I’ve ever seen or the dumbest. In any case, it’s the worst equipped.”

“But look, not a noble anywhere. Just common men and women. Like us.”

Below us, the vast column wound into the main square and the queer monk at its head tugged his mule to a stop. A bearded knight helped him slide off. Father Leo, the town’s priest, went up to greet him. The singing stopped, weapons and packs were laid down. Everyone in our town was pressed around the tiny square. To listen.

“I am called Peter the Hermit,” the monk said in a surprisingly strong voice, “urged by His Holiness Urban to lead an army of believers to the Holy Land to free the holy sepulchre from the heathen hordes. Are there any believers here?”

He was pale and long nosed, resembling his mount, and his brown robes had holes in them, threadbare. Yet as he spoke, he seemed to grow, his voice rising in power and conviction.

“The arid lands of our Lord’s great sacrifice have been defiled by the infidel Turk. Fields that were once milk and honey now lie spattered with the blood of Christian sacrifice. Churches have been burned and looted, sainted sites destroyed. The holiest treasures of our faith, the bones of saints, have been fed to dogs; cherished vials filled with drops of the Savior’s own blood, poured into heaps of dung like spoiled wine.”

“Join us,” many from the ranks called out loudly. “Kill the pagans and sit with the Lord in Heaven.”

“For those who come,” the monk named Peter went on, “for those who put aside their earthly possessions and join our Crusade, His Holiness Urban promises unimaginable rewards. Riches, spoils, and honor in battle. His protection for your families who [13] dutifully remain behind. An eternity in Heaven at the feet of our grateful Lord. And, most of all, freedom. Freedom from all servitude upon your return. Who will come, brave souls?” The monk reached out his arms., his invitation almost irresistible.

Shouts of acclamation rose throughout the square. People I had known for years shouted, “I … I will come!”

I saw Matt, the miller’s older son, just sixteen, throw up his hands and hug his mother. And Jean the smith, who could crush iron in his hands, kneel and take the Cross. Several other people, some of them just boys, ran to get their possessions, then merged with the ranks. Everyone was shouting, “Dei leveult!” God wills it!

My own blood surged. What a glorious adventure awaited. Riches and spoils picked up along the way. A chance to change my destiny in a single stroke. I felt my soul spring alive. I thought of gaining our freedom, and the treasures I might find on the Crusade. For a moment I almost raised my hand and called out, “I will come! I will take the Cross.”

But then I felt Sophie’s hand pressing on mine. I lost my tongue.

Then the procession started up again. The ranks of farmers, masons, bakers, maids, whores, jongleurs, and outlaws hoisting their sacks and makeshift weapons, swelling in song. The monk Peter mounted his donkey, blessed the town with a wave, then pointed east.

I watched them with a yearning I thought had long been put behind me. I had traveled in my youth. I’d been brought up by goliards, students and scholars who entertained from town to town. And there was something that I missed from those days. Something my life in Veille du Père had stilled but not completely put aside.

I missed being free, and even more than that, I wanted freedom for Sophie and the children we would have one day.

Chapter 3

TWO DAYS LATER, other visitors came through our town.

There was a ground-shaking rumble from the west, followed by a cloud of gravel and dust. Horsemen were coming in at a full gallop! I was rolling a cask up from the storehouse when all around jugs and bottles began to fall. Panic clutched at my heart. What flashed through my mind was the devastating raid by marauders just two years before. Every house in the village had been burned or sacked.

There was a shriek, and then a shout. Children playing ball in the square dived out of the way. Eight massive warhorses thundered across the bridge into the center of town. On their huge mounts, I saw knights wearing the purple-and-white colors of Baldwin of Treille, our liege lord.

The party of horsemen pulled to a stop in the square. I recognized the knight in charge as Norcross, our liege lord’s chatelain, his military chief. He scanned our village from atop his mount and remarked loudly, “This is Veille du Père?”

“It must be, my lord,” a companion knight replied with an exaggerated sniff. “We were told to ride east until the smell of shit, then head directly for it.”

Their presence here could only signal harm. I began to make my way slowly toward the square with my heart pounding. Anything might happen. Where was Sophie?

[15] Norcross dismounted and the others did the same, their chargers snorting heavily. The chatelain had dark, hooded eyes that flashed only a sliver of light, like an eighth-moon. A trace of a thin, dark beard.

“I bring greetings from your lord, Baldwin,” he said for all to hear, stepping into the center of the square. “Word has reached him that a rabble passed through here a day ago, some babbling hermit at the head.”

As he spoke, his knights began to fan out through town. They pushed aside women and children, sticking their heads into houses as if they owned them. Their haughty faces read, Get out of my way, pieces of shit. You have no power. We can do anything we want.

“Your lord asked me to impress upon you,” Norcross declared, “his hope that none of you were swayed by the ravings of that religious crank. His brain’s the only thing more withered than his dick.”

Now I realized what Norcross and his men were doing here. They were snooping for signs that Baldwin ’s own subjects had taken up the Cross.

Norcross strutted around the square, his small eyes moving from person to person. “It is your lord, Baldwin, who demands your service, not some moth-eaten hermit. It is pledged and honor bound to him. Next to his, the Pope’s protection is worthless.”

I finally caught sight of Sophie, hurrying from the well with her bucket. Beside her was the miller’s wife, Marie, and their daughter, Aimée. I motioned with my eyes for them to stay clear of Norcross and his thugs.

Father Leo spoke up. “On the fate of your soul, knight,” the priest said, stepping toward him, “do not defame those who now fight for God’s glory. Do not compare the Pope’s holy protection to yours. It is blasphemy.”

Frantic shouts rang out. Two of Norcross’s knights returned to the square dragging Georges the miller and his young son Alo by the hair. They threw both into the middle of the square.

[16] I felt a hole in the pit of my stomach. Somehow they knew …

Norcross seemed delighted, actually. He went and cupped the face of the cowering boy in his massive hand. “The Pope’s protection, you say, eh, priest?” He chuckled. “Why don’t we see what his protection is truly worth.”

Chapter 4

OUR POWERLESSNESS WAS SO OBVIOUS it was shameful to me. Norcross’s sword jangled as he made his way to the frightened miller. “On my word, miller.” Norcross smiled. “Only last week did you not have two sons?”

“My son Matt has gone to Vaucluse,” Georges said, and looked toward me. “To study the metal trade.”

“The metal trade …” Norcross nodded, bunching his lips. He smiled as if to say, I know that is a pile of shit. Georges was my friend. My heart went out to him. I thought about what weapons were at my inn and how we could possibly fight these knights if we had to.

“And with your stronger son gone,” Norcross pressed on, “how will you continue to pay your tax to the duke, your labor now depleted by a third?”

Georges’s eyes darted about. “It will be made easily, my lord. I will work that much harder.”

“That is good.” Norcross nodded, stepping over to the boy. “In that case, you won’t be missing this one too much, will you?” In a flash, he hoisted the nine-year-old lad up like a sack of hay.

He carried Alo, kicking and screaming, toward the mill.

As Norcross passed the miller’s cowering daughter, he winked at his men. “Feel free to help yourselves to some of the [18] miller’s lovely grain.” They grinned and dragged poor Aimée, screaming wildly, inside the mill.

Disaster loomed in front of my eyes. Norcross took a hemp rope and, with the help of a cohort, lashed Alo to the staves of the mill’s large wheel, which dipped deep beneath the surface of the river.

Georges threw himself at the chatelain’s feet. “Haven’t I always been true to our lord, Baldwin? Haven’t I done what was expected?”

“Feel free to take your appeal to His Holiness.” Norcross laughed, lashing the boy’s wrists and ankles tightly to the water wheel.

“Father, father …” the terrified Alo cried.

Norcross began to turn the wheel. To Georges and Marie’s frantic shrieks, Alo went under. Norcross held it for a moment, then slowly raised the wheel. The child appeared, wildly gasping for air.

The despicable knight laughed at our priest. “What do you say, Father? Is this what you expect from the Pope’s protection?” He lowered the wheel again and the small boy disappeared. Our entire town gasped in horror.

I counted to thirty. “Please,” Marie begged on her knees. “He’s just a boy.”

Norcross finally began to raise the wheel. Alo was gagging and coughing water out of his lungs. From behind the mill’s door came the sickening cries of Aimée. I could scarcely breathe myself. I had to do something-even if it sealed my own fate.

“Sir.” I stepped forward, toward Norcross. “I will help the miller increase his tax by a third.”

“And who are you, carrot-top?” The glowering knight turned, fixed on my shock of bright red hair.

“Carrots too, if my lord wants.” I took another step. I was prepared to say anything, whatever gibberish might divert him. “We’ll throw in two bushels of carrots!”

I was about to go on-a joke, nonsense, anything that came [19] into my head-when one of the henchmen rushed up to me. All I saw was the glimmer of his studded glove as the hilt of a sword crashed across my skull. In the next breath I was on the ground.

“Hugh, Hugh,” I heard Sophie scream.

“Carrot-top here must be keen on the miller,” Norcross jeered. “Or the miller’s wife. By a third more, you say. Well, in my lord’s name, I accept your offer. Consider your tax raised.”

At the same time, he lowered the wheel again. I heard a struggling, choking Alo go under one more time.

Norcross shouted, “If it’s a fight you want, then fight for the glory of your liege when called upon. If it’s riches, then attend harder to your work. But the laws of custom are the laws. You all understand the laws, do you not?”

Norcross leaned against the wheel for the longest time. An anguished plea rose from the crowd, “Please … let the boy up. Let him up.” I clenched my fist, counting the beats that Alo remained under. Twenty … thirty … forty.

Then Norcross’s face split into an amused smile. “Goodness… do I forget the time?”

He slowly raised the wheel. When Alo broke the surface, the boy’s face was bloated and wide-eyed. His small jaw hung open, lifeless.

Marie screamed and Georges began to sob.

“What a shame.” Norcross sighed, leaving the wheel aloft and Alo’s lifeless body suspended high. “It seems he wasn’t cut out for the miller’s life after all.”

A silence ensued, a terrible moment that was empty and gnawing. It was broken only by Aimée’s whimpers as she emerged weak-kneed from the mill.

“Let us go.” Norcross gathered his knights. “I think the duke’s point is adequately driven home.”

As he made his way back across the square, he stopped over me where I still lay and hovered. Then he pressed his heavy boot into my neck. “Do not forget your pledge, carrot-top. I will be looking especially for your tax payment.”

Chapter 5

THAT TERRIBLE AFTERNOON changed my life. That night, as Sophie and I lay in bed, I couldn’t hold back the truth from her. She and I had always shared everything, good and bad. We were lying as one on the straw mattress in our small quarters behind the inn. I gently stroked her long blond hair, which fell all the way down her back. Every time she moved, every twitch of her nose, reminded me how much I loved her, how I had since the first time I had set eyes on her.

It was love at first sight for us. At ten!

I had spent my youth traveling with a band of itinerant goliards, given to them at a young age when my mother died, the mistress of a cleric who could no longer hide my presence. They raised me as one of their own, taught me Latin, grammar, logic, how to read and write. But most of all, they taught me how to perform. We traveled the large cathedral towns, Nîmes, Cluny Le Puy reciting our irreverent songs, tumbling, and juggling for the crowds. Each summer, we passed through Veille du Père. I saw Sophie there at her father’s inn, her shy blue eyes unable to hide from mine. And later, I noticed her peeking at a rehearsal. I was sure, at me … I swiped a sunflower and went up to her. “What goes in all stiff and stout, but when it comes out it’s flopping about?”

[21] She widened her eyes and blushed. “How could anyone but a devil have such bright red hair?” she said. Then she ran away.

A cabbage, I was about to say.

Each year when we returned, I came bearing a sunflower, until Sophie had grown from a gangly girl into the most beautiful woman I had ever seen. She had a song for me, a teasing rhyme:

A maiden met a wandering man

In the light of the moon’s pure cheer,

And though they fell in love at that first sight,

It was a love that was born for tears.

I called her my princess, and she said that I probably had one in every town. But in truth, I did not. Each year I promised I would come back, and I always did. One year, I stayed.

The three years we’d been married had been the happiest I had known. I felt connected for the first time in my life. And deeply in love.

But as I held Sophie that night, something told me I could no longer live like this. The rage that burned in my heart from the day’s horror was killing me. There would always be another Norcross, another tax levied upon us. Or another Alo… One day, the boy strung up on that wheel could be our own.

Until we were free.

“Sophie, I have something important to talk to you about.” I snuggled into the smooth curve of her back.

She had nearly drifted off to sleep. “Can’t it wait, Hugh? What could be more important than what we’ve just shared?”

I swallowed. “Raymond of Toulouse is forming an army. Paul the carter told me. They leave for the Holy Land in a few days.”

Sophie turned in my arms and faced me with a blank, unsure look.

[22] “I have to go,” I said.

Sophie sat up, almost dumbfounded. “You want to take the Cross?”

“Not the Cross: I wouldn’t fight for that. But Raymond has promised freedom to anyone who joins. Freedom, Sophie… You saw what happened today.”

She sat up straight. “I did see, Hugh. And I saw that Baldwin will never free you from your pledge. Or any of us.”

“In this he has no choice,” I protested. “Raymond and Baldwin are aligned. He has to accept. Sophie, think of how our lives could change. Who knows what I might find there? There are tales of riches just for the taking. And holy relics worth more than a thousand inns like ours.”

“You’re leaving,” she said, turning her eyes from me, “because I have not given you a child.”

“I am not! You mustn’t think that, not even for a moment. I love you more than anything. When I see you each day, working around the inn, or even amid the grease and smoke of the kitchen, I thank God for how lucky I am. We were meant to be together. I’ll be back before you know it.”

She nodded, unconvinced. “You are no soldier, Hugh. You could die.”

“I’m strong. And agile. No one around can do the tricks I do.”

“No one wants to hear your silly jokes, Hugh.” Sophie sniffed. “Except me.”

“Then I’ll scare the infidels off with my bright red hair.”

I saw the outline of a smile from her. I held her by the shoulders and looked into her eyes. “I will be back. I swear it. Just like when we were children. I always told you I’d return. I always did.”

She nodded, a bit reluctantly. I could see that she was scared, but so was I. I held her and stroked her hair.

Sophie lifted her head and kissed me, a mixture of ardor and tears.

[23] A stirring rose in me. I couldn’t hold it down. I could see in Sophie’s eyes that she felt it too. I held her by the waist and she moved on top of me. Her legs parted and I gently eased myself inside. My body lit with her warmth.

“My Sophie …” I whispered.

She moved with me in perfect rhythm, softly moaning with pleasure and love. How could I leave her? How could I be such a fool?

“You’ll come back, Hugh?” Her eyes locked on mine.

“I swear.” I reached and wiped a glistening tear from her eye. “Who knows?” I smiled. “Maybe I’ll come back a knight. With untold treasure and fame.”

“My knight,” she whispered. “And I, your queen…”

Chapter 6

THE MORNING OF THE DAY I was to leave was bright and clear. I rose early, even before the sun. The town had bid me godspeed with a festive roast the night before. All the toasts had been made and farewells said.

All but one.

In the doorway of the inn, Sophie handed me my pouch. In it was a change of clothes, bread to eat, a hazel twig to clean my teeth. “It may be cold,” she said. “You have to cross the mountains. Let me get your skin.”

I stopped her. “Sophie, it’s summer. I’ll need it more when I come back.”

“Then I should pack some more food for you.”

“I’ll find food.” I pumped out my chest. “People will be eager to feed a Crusader.”

She stopped and smiled at my plain flax tunic and calfskin vest. “You don’t look like much of a Crusader.”

I stood before her, ready to leave, and smiled too.

“There’s one more thing,” Sophie said with a start. She hurried to the table by the hearth. She came back a moment later with her treasured comb, a thin band of beech wood painted with flowers. It had belonged to her mother. Other than the inn, I knew she valued it more than anything in her life. “Take this with you, Hugh.”

[25] “Thanks,” I tried to joke, “but where I’m headed a woman’s comb may be looked at strangely.”

“Where you’re headed, my love, you will need it all the more.”

To my surprise, she snapped her prized comb in two. She handed half to me. Then she held her half out and we touched the jagged edges together, neatly fitting it back into a whole.

“I never thought I would ever say good-bye to you,” she whispered, doing her best not to cry. “I thought we would live out our lives together.”

“We will,” I said. “See?” One more time, we fitted the comb’s halves together and made a whole.

I drew Sophie close and kissed her. I felt her thin body tremble in my arms. I knew she was trying to be brave. There was nothing more to say.

“So…” I took a breath and smiled.

We looked at each other for a long while, then I remembered my own gift. From my vest pocket I took out a small sunflower. I had gone into the hills to pick it early that morning. “I’ll be back, Sophie, to pick sunflowers for you.”

She took it. Her bright blue eyes were moist with tears.

I threw my pouch over my shoulder and tried to drink in the last sight of her beautiful, glistening eyes. “I love you, Sophie.”

“I love you too, Hugh. I can’t wait for my next sunflower.”

I started toward the road. West, to Toulouse. At the stone bridge on the edge of town, I turned and took a long last look at the inn. It had been my home for the past three years. The happiest days of my life.

I gave a last wave to Sophie. She stood there, holding the sunflower, and reached out the jagged edge of her comb one last time.

Then I did a little hop, like a jig, to break the mood, and started to walk, spinning around a final time to catch her laugh.

Her golden hair down to her waist. That brave smile. Her tinkling little-girl laugh.

It was the image I carried for the next two years.

Chapter 7

A year later, somewhere in Macedonia

The heavy-bearded knight reared his mount over us on the steep ridge. “March, you princesses, or the only Turkish blood you’ll see will be at the end of a mop.”

March … We had been marching for months now. Months so long and grueling, so lacking in all provision, I could mark them only by the sores oozing on my feet, or the lice crawling in my beard.

We had marched across Europe and through the Alps. At first in tight formation, cheered in every town we passed, our tunics clean, with bright red crosses, helmets gleaming in the sun.

Then, into the craggy mountains of Serbia -each step slow and treacherous, every ridge ripe with ambush. I watched as many a loyal soul, eager to fight for the glory of God, was swept screaming into vast crevices or dropped in his tracks by Serb or Magyar arrows a thousand miles before the first sign of a Turk.

All along we were told that Peter’s army was months ahead of us, slaughtering infidels and hoarding all the spoils, while our nobles fought and bickered among themselves, and the rest of us trudged like beaten livestock in the blistering heat and bargained for what little food there was.

[27] I’ll be back in a y ear, I had promised Sophie. Now that was just a mocking refrain in my dreams. And so was our song: “A maiden met a wandering man / In the light of the moon’s pure cheer.”

Along the way, I had made two lasting friends. One was Nicodemus, an old Greek, schooled in the sciences and languages, who managed to keep up his steady stride despite a satchel heavy with tracts of Aristotle, Euclid, and Boethius. Professor, we called him. Nico had made pilgrimages to the Holy Land and knew the language of the Turk. He spent many hours on the march teaching it to me. He had joined the quest as a translator, and because of his white beard and moth-eaten robe, he had the reputation of being a bit of a soothsayer too. But every time a soldier moaned, “Where the hell are we, Professor?” and the old Greek muttered only, “Near …,” his reputation as a seer suffered.

And there was Robert with his goose, Hortense, who had sneaked into our ranks one day as we passed through Apt. Fresh-faced and chattering, Robert claimed to be sixteen, but it didn’t take a seer to divine that he was lying. “I’ve come to carve the Turks,” he boasted, brandishing a makeshift knife. I handed him a stick that would be good for walking. “Here, start with this.” I laughed. From that moment on, he and the goose were great companions to us.

It was late summer when we finally came out of the mountains.

“Where are we, Hugh?” Robert moaned, as another interminable valley loomed before our eyes.

“By my calculations…” I tried to sound cheerful. “A left at the next ridge and we should see Rome . Isn’t that right, Nico? This was the pilgrimage to St. Peter’s we signed up for, wasn’t it? Or, shit, was it the Crusade?”

A ripple of tired laughter snaked through the exhausted ranks.

Nicodemus started to answer, but everyone shouted him [28] down. “We know, Professor, we’re near, right?” taunted Mouse, a diminutive Spaniard with a large hooked nose.

Suddenly I heard shouting from up ahead. Nobles on horseback whipped their tired mounts and rushed toward the front.

Robert bolted ahead. “If there’s fighting, Hugh, I’ll save you a spot.”

All at once, my legs seemed ready to comply. I grabbed my shield and ran after the boy. Ahead of us was a wide gulf in the mountains. Hundreds of men were gathered there, knights and soldiers.

For once, they were not defending themselves. They were shouting, slapping one another on the back, thrusting their swords toward Heaven and hurling their helmets into the air.

Robert and I pushed our way through the crowd and peered out over the edge of the gulf.

Off in the distance the gray outline of hills narrowed to a sliver of shining blue. “The Bosporus,” people shouted.

The Bosporus … !

“Son of Mary,” I muttered. We were here!

A jubilant roar went up. Everyone pointed at a walled city nestled into the isthmus’s edge. Constantinople . It took my breath away, like nothing I had ever seen before. It seemed to stretch out forever, glinting through the haze.

Many knights sank to their knees in prayer. Others, too exhausted to celebrate, simply bowed their heads and wept.

“What’s going on?” Robert looked around.

“What’s going on …?” I repeated. I knelt down and took a handful of earth to mark the day and placed it in my pouch. Then I hoisted Robert into the air. “You see those hills over there?” I pointed across the channel.

He nodded.

“Sharpen your knife, boy… Those are Turk!”

Chapter 8

FOR TWO WEEKS we rested outside the gates of Constantinople.

Such a city I had never seen before in all my life, with its huge glittering domes, hundreds of tall towers, Roman ruins and temples, and streets paved with polished stone. Ten of Paris could have fit within its walls.

And the people… crowding the massive walls, roaring with cheers. Clad in colorful, lightweight cottons and silks, in hues of crimson and purple I had never seen. Every race was represented. European, black slaves from Africa, yellows from China. And people of no stench. Who bathed and smelled of perfume, dressed up in ornate robes.

Even the men!

I had traveled across Europe in my youth and had played most of the large cathedral towns, but never had I seen a place like this! Gold was like tin here. Stalls and markets were crammed with the most exotic goods. I traded for a gilded perfume box to take back home for Sophie. “A relic already!” Nico laughed. New aromas entranced me, cumin and ginger, and there were fruits I had never tasted before: oranges and figs.

I savored every exotic image, thinking of how I would describe it all to Sophie. We were hailed as heroes and we had [30] fought almost no one. If this was how it would be, I would return both sweet smelling and free!

Then the knights and nobles rallied us. “Crusaders, you are here for God’s work, not for silver and soap.” We said good-bye to Constantinople, crossing the Bosporus on wooden pontoons.

At last we stood in the land of the dreaded Turk!

The first fortresses we encountered were empty and abandoned, towns scorched and plundered dry.

“The pagan is a coward,” the soldiers mocked. “He hides in his hole like a squirrel.”

We spotted red crosses painted everywhere, pagan towns now consecrated in the name of God. All signs that Peter’s army had been through.

The nobles pushed us hard. “Hurry, you lazy louts, or the little hermit will take all the spoils.”

And we did hurry, though our new enemy became the blistering heat and thirst. We baked like hogs, sucking our water skins dry. The pious among us dreamed of their holy mission; the nobles, no doubt, of relics and glory; the innocent of finally proving their worth.

Outside Civetot we had our first taste of the enemy. A few straggly horsemen, turbaned and cloaked in robes, ringed our ranks, lofting some harmless arrows at us, then fled into the hills like children hurling stones.

“Look, they run like grandmothers,” Robert cackled.

“Send Hortense after them.” I squawked about like a chicken. “No doubt they are cousins of your goose.”

Civetot seemed deserted, an enclave of stone dwellings on the edge of a dense wood. No one wanted to delay in our rush to catch up with the army of Peter, but we needed water badly, so we decided to enter the town.

On the outskirts, a grim odor pressed at my nostrils. Nicodemus glanced at me. “You smell it, don’t you, Hugh?”

I nodded. I knew the stench, from burying the dead. But this was magnified a thousand times. At first I thought it was just [31] slaughtered livestock, or offal, but as we got closer, I saw that Civetot was smoking like burning cinders.

As we entered the town there were corpses everywhere. A sea of body parts. Heads severed and gawking, limbs cut off and piled like wood, blood drenching the parched earth. It was a slaughter. Men and women hacked up like diseased stock, torsos naked and disemboweled, heads charred and roasted, hung up on spears. Red crosses smeared all over the walls-in blood.

“What has happened here?” a soldier muttered. Some puked and turned away. My stomach felt as empty as a bottomless pit.

From out of the trees, a few stragglers appeared. Their clothing was charred and tattered, their skin dark with blood and filth. They all bore the wide-eyed, hollow look of men who have seen the worst atrocities and somehow lived. It was impossible to tell if they were Christian or Turk.

“Peter’s army has crushed the infidels,” Robert called out. “They’ve gone ahead to Antioch.”

But not a man among us cheered.

“This is Peter’s army,” Nicodemus said grimly. “What remains of it.”

Chapter 9

THE FEW SURVIVORS HUDDLED AROUND fires that night, sucking in precious food, and told of the fate of Peter the Hermit’s army.

There were some early successes, they recounted. “The Turks fled like rabbits,” an old knight said. “They left us their towns. Their temples. ‘We’ll be in Jerusalem by summer,’ everyone cheered. We split up our forces. A detachment, six thousand strong, pushed east to seize the Turkish fortress at Xerigordon. Rumor had it some holy relics were held ransom there. The balance of us stayed behind.

“After a month, word reached us that the fortress had fallen. Spoils and booty were being divvied up among the men. Saint Peter’s sandals, we were told. The rest of us set out for there, eager not to miss out on the loot.”

“It was all lies,” said another in a parched, sorry voice, “from infidel spies. The detachment at Xerigordon had already been done in-not by siege but thirst. The fortress lacked all water. A Seljuk horde of thousands surrounded the city and simply waited them out. And when our troops finally opened the gates in desperation, mad with thirst, they were overrun and slaughtered to a man. Six thousand, gone. Then the devils moved on to us.”

[33] “At first, there was this howl from the surrounding hills…” another survivor recounted, “of such chilling proportion that we thought we had entered a valley of demons. We stood in our tracks and scanned the hills. Then, suddenly, daylight darkened, the sun blocked by a hail of arrows.

“I will never forget that deafening whoosh. Every next man clutching at his limbs and throat, falling to his knees. Then turbaned horsemen charged-wave after wave, hacking away at limbs and heads, our ranks shredded. Hardened knights fled terror stricken back to camp, horsemen at their tails. Women, children, the feeble and sick, unprotected-chopped to bits in their tents. The lucky among us were slain where they stood, the rest were seized, raped, cut apart limb by limb. What’s left of us, I am sure, were spared just so we could bear the tale.”

My throat went dry. Gone … All of them …? It could not be! My mind flashed back to the cheerful faces and joyous voices of the hermit’s army as it marched through Veille du Père. Matt, the miller’s son. Jean the smith… all the young who had so eagerly signed up. There was nothing left of them?

A nauseating anger boiled up in my stomach. Whatever I had come for-freedom, fortune-all that left me as if it had never been there. For the first time, I wanted not just to fight for my own gain, but to kill these curs. Pay them back!

I had to leave. I ran, past Robert and Nico, past the fires to the edge of the camp.

Why had I ever come to this place? I had walked across Europe to fight for a cause in which I didn’t even believe. The love of my life, all that I held true and good, was a million miles away. How could all those faces-all that hope-be gone?

Chapter 10

WE BURIED THE DEAD for six days straight. Then our dispirited army headed farther south.

In Caesarea, we joined forces with Count Robert of Flanders and Bohemond of Antioch, a heralded fighter. They had recently taken Nicaea. Our spirits were bolstered by the tales of Turks fleeing at full run, their towns now under Christian flags. Our once fledgling troop was now an army forty thousand strong.

Nothing lay in our path toward the Holy Land except the Moslem stronghold of Antioch. There, it was said, believers were being nailed to the city’s walls, and the most precious relics in all of Christendom, a shroud stained by the tears of Mary and the very lance that had pierced the Savior’s side on the cross, were being held for ransom.

Yet nothing so far could prepare us for the hell we were about to face.

First it was the heat, the most hostile I had ever felt in my life.

The sun became a raging, red-eyed demon that, never sheltered, we grew to hate and curse. Hardened knights, praised for valor in battle, howled in anguish, literally roasting in their armor, their skin blistered from the touch of the metal. Men simply dropped as they marched, overcome, and were left, uncared for, where they fell.

[35] And the thirst… Each town we got to was scorched and empty, run dry of provision by the Turks themselves. What little water we carried we consumed like drunken fools. I saw men clearly over the edge guzzle their own urine as if it were ale.

“If this is the Holy Land,” the Spaniard Mouse remarked, “God can keep it.”

Our bodies cried, yet we trudged on; our hearts and wills, like the water, slowly depleting. Along the way, I picked up a few Turkish arrow- and spearheads that I knew would be worth much back home. I did my best to try to cheer other men up, but there was little to find amusing.

“Hold your tears,” Nico warned, keeping up with his shuffling stride. “When we hit the mountains, you will think this was Paradise.”

Nico was right. Jagged mountains appeared in our path, chillingly steep and dry of all life. Narrow passes, barely wide enough for a cart and a horse, cut through the rising peaks. At first we were glad to leave the inferno behind, but as we climbed, a new hell awaited.

The higher we got, the slower and more treacherous every step became. Sheep, horses, carts overladen with supplies, had to be dragged single file up the steep way. A mere stumble, a sudden rock slide, and a man disappeared over the edge, sometimes dragging a companion along with him.

“Press on,” the nobles urged. “In Antioch, God will reward you.”

But every summit we surmounted brought the sight of a new peak, trails more nerve wracking than the last. Once-proud knights trudged humbly, their chargers useless, dragging their armor, alongside foot soldiers like Robert and me.

Somewhere in the heights, Hortense disappeared, a few of her feathers left in a cart. It was never known what became of her. Many felt the nobles had themselves a meal at Robert’s expense. Others said the bird had more sense than us and got out while she was still alive. The boy was heartbroken. That [36] bird had walked across Europe with him! Many felt our luck had run out along with hers.

Yet still we climbed, one step at a time, sweltering in our tunics and armor, knowing that on the other side lay Antioch.

And beyond that, the Holy Land. Jerusalem!

Chapter 11

“TELL US A STORY, Hugh?” Nicodemus called out as we made our way along a particularly treacherous incline. “The more blasphemous the better.”

The trail seemed cut out of the mountain’s edge, teetering over an immense chasm. One false step would mean a grisly death. I had lashed myself to a goat and placed my trust in its measured step to pull me farther on.

“There is the one about the convent and the whorehouse,” I said, delving back to my days as an innkeeper. “A traveler is walking down a quiet road when he notices a sign scratched onto a tree: ‘Sisters of St. Brigit Convent, House of Prostitution, two miles.’ ”

“Yes, I saw it myself,” a soldier exclaimed. “A ways back on that last ridge.” The peril of the climb was broken by a few welcome laughs.

“The traveler assumes it is a joke,” I resumed, “and continues along. Soon he comes to another sign. ‘Sisters of St. Brigit, House of Prostitution, one mile.’ Now his curiosity is piqued. A ways ahead, there is a third sign. This time: ‘Convent, Brothel, next right.’

“ ‘Why not?’ the traveler thinks, and turns down the road until he arrives at an old stone church marked St. Brigit. He [38] steps up and rings the bell, and an abbess answers. ‘What may we do for you, my son?’

“ ‘I saw your signs along the road,’ the traveler says. ‘Very well, my son,’ the abbess replies. ‘Please, follow me.’

“She leads him through a series of dark, winding passages where he sees many beautiful young nuns who smile at him.”

“Where are these nuns when I am in need?” a soldier behind me moaned.

“At last the abbess stops at a door,” I went on. “The traveler goes in and is greeted by another comely nun, who instructs him, ‘Place a gold coin in the cup.’ He empties his pockets excitedly. ‘Good enough,’ she says, ‘Now, just go through that door.’

“Aroused, the traveler hurries through the door, but he finds himself back outside, at the entrance, facing another sign. ‘Go in peace,’ it reads, ‘and consider yourself properly screwed!’ ”

Laughter broke out from all around.

“I don’t get it,” Robert said behind me. “I thought there was a brothel.”

“Never mind.” I rolled my eyes. Nico’s trick had worked. For a few moments, our burden had seemed bearable. All I wanted was to get off this ridge.

Suddenly I heard a rumble from above. A slide of rock and gravel hurtled down at us. I reached for Robert and pulled the boy toward the mountain’s face, gripping the sheer stone as huge rocks crashed around us, missing me by the width of a blade, bouncing over the edge into oblivion.

We gazed at each other with a sigh of relief, realizing how close we had come to death.

Then I heard a mule bray from behind, and Nicodemus trying to settle it. “Whoa…” The falling rocks must have spooked it.

“Steady that animal,” an officer barked from behind. “It carries your food for the next two weeks.”

Nicodemus grasped for the rope. The animal’s hind legs spun, trying to catch hold on the trail.

[39] I lunged for the harness around its neck, but the mule bucked again and stumbled. Its feet were unable to hold the trail. Its frightened eyes showed that the animal was aware of the danger, but the stone gave way. With a hideous bray, the poor mule toppled over the edge and fell into the void.

As it did, it caused a terrible reaction, pulling along the animal behind it to which it was tied.

I saw disaster looming. “Nico,” I shouted.

But the old Greek was too slow and laden with gear to get out of the way. My eyes locked helplessly on him as he stumbled in his long robe.

“Nico,” I screamed, seeing the old man slipping off the edge. I lunged toward him, grabbing for his arm.

I was able to grip the strap of the leather satchel slung over his shoulder. It was all that kept him from plunging to his death.

The old man looked up at me and shook his head. “You must let go, Hugh. If you don’t, we’ll both fall.”

“I won’t. Reach up your other hand,” I begged. A crowd of others, Robert among them, had formed behind me. “Give me your hand, Nico.”

I searched his eyes for panic, but they were clear and sure. I wanted to say, Hold on, Professor. Jerusalem is near.

But the satchel slid out of my grasp. Nicodemus, his white hair and beard billowing in the draft, fell away from me.

“No!” I lunged, grasping, calling his name.

In a flash he was gone. We had marched together for a thousand miles, but for him it was never far, always near … I didn’t remember my father, but the grief emptying from me showed that Nicodemus was as close to one as I’d ever had.

A knight pushed up the trail, grumbling about what the hell was going on. I recognized him as Guillaume, a vassal of Bohemond, one of the nobles in charge.

He peered over the edge and swallowed. “A soothsayer who couldn’t even predict his own death?” he spat. “No great loss.”

Chapter 12

FOR DAYS TO COME, the loss of my friend weighed greatly upon me. We continued to climb, but each step, all I saw in my path was the wise Greek’s face.

Without my noticing it at first, the trails began to widen. I realized we were marching through valleys now, not over peaks. We were heading down. Our pace quickened, and the mood in the ranks brightened with anticipation of what lay ahead.

“I’ve heard from the Spaniard there are Christians chained to the city’s walls,” Robert said as we marched. “The sooner we get there, the sooner we can set our brothers free.”

“Your buddy’s an eager one, Hugh,” Mouse called to me. “You better tell him, just because you’re first at the party doesn’t mean you get to sleep with the mistress of the house.”

“He wants a fight,” I defended Robert, “and who can blame him? We’ve marched a long way.”

From behind came the clatter of a warhorse galloping toward us. “Make way!”

We scattered off the trail and turned to see Guillaume, the same arrogant bastard who’d mocked Nico after his death, in full armor astride his large charger. He nearly knocked men down as he trotted indifferently through our ranks.

“That’s who we fight for, eh?” I bowed sarcastically with an exaggerated flourish.

[41] We soon came to a wide clearing between mountains. A good-sized river, perhaps sixty yards wide, lay in the column’s path.

Up ahead, I heard nobles disagreeing on the proper spot to ford the river. Raymond, our commander, insisted that the scouts and maps suggested a point to the south. Others, eager to show our face to the Turks, the stubborn Bohemond among them, argued why lose a day.

Finally, I saw that same knight, Guillaume, shoot from the crowd. “I will make you a map,” he shouted to Raymond. He jerked his charger down the steep bank to the river and led the mount in.

Guillaume’s horse waded in, bearing the knight in full chain mail. Men lined the shore, either cheering or laughing at his attempt to show off in front of royalty.

Thirty yards out, the water was still no higher than the horse’s ankles. Guillaume turned around and waved, a vain smile visible under his mustache. “Even my mother’s mother could cross here,” he called. “Are the mapmakers taking notes?”

“I never knew that a peacock would so take to water,” I remarked to Robert.

Suddenly, in the middle of the river, Guillaume’s mount seemed to stumble. The knight did his best, but in his full battle gear and on unsteady footing he couldn’t hold the mount. He fell from the horse, face first into the river.

The troops along the riverbank burst into laughter. Jeers, catcalls, mock waving. “Oh, mapmakers …” I laughed above the din. “Are you taking notes?”

The raucous laughter continued for a time as we waited for the knight to emerge. But he did not.

“He stays under out of shame,” someone commented. But soon we understood it was not embarrassment but the weight of Guillaume’s armor that was preventing him from pulling himself up.

[42] As this became clear, the hooting ceased. Another knight galloped into the water and waded out to the spot. A full minute passed before the new rider was able to reach the area. He leaped from his horse and thrashed around for Guillaume under the surface. Then, raising the knight’s heavy torso, he shouted back, “He is drowned, my lord.”

A gasp escaped from those on shore. Men bowed their heads and crossed themselves.

Just a few days before, the same Guillaume had stood behind me after Nicodemus was swept off the rocky cliff to his death.

I looked at Robert, who shrugged with a thin smile. “No great loss,” he said.

Chapter 13

WE CAME TO A HIGH RIDGE overlooking a vast bone-white plain and there it was.

Antioch .

A massive walled fortress, seemingly built into a solid mound of rock. Larger and more formidable than any castle I had ever seen back home.

The sight sent a chill shooting through my bones.

It was built on a sharp rise. Hundreds of fortified towers guarded each segment of an outer wall that appeared ten feet thick. We had no siege engines to break such walls, no ladders that could even scale their height. It seemed impregnable.

Knights took off their helmets and surveyed the city in awe. I know the same sobering thought pounded through each of our minds. We had to take this place.

“I don’t see any Christians chained to the walls.” Robert squinted into the sun, sounding almost disappointed.

“If it’s martyrs you’re looking for,” I promised grimly, “don’t worry, you’ll have your pick.”

One by one, we continued along the ridge and down the narrow trail. There was a feeling that the worst was over. That whatever God had in store for us, surely the coming battles could test us no more than what we had already faced. The talk, again, was of treasure and glory.

[44] Stumbling on a ledge, I noticed a glimmer coming from under a rock. I bent down to pick up the shiny object and could not believe it.

It was a scabbard, for some kind of dagger. Very old, I was sure. It looked like bronze, with some inlaid writing that I could not understand.

“What is it?” Robert asked.

“I don’t know.” I wished Nico were here. I knew he would be able to interpret it. “Maybe the language of the Jews… God, it looks old.”

“Hugh’s rich,” Robert shouted. “My friend is rich! Rich, I say!”

“Quiet,” a soldier hushed him. “If one of our illustrious leaders hears you, you won’t have your treasure for long.”

I placed the scabbard in my pouch, which was starting to fill up. I felt like a man who had just claimed the richest dowry. I couldn’t wait to show it to Sophie! Back home, a prize like this could buy us food for a winter.

I couldn’t believe my good luck.

“Up here, the relics fall out of trees,” Mouse grumbled from behind, “if there were any fucking trees.”

The trail we walked was flat and manageable. The men boasted once again of how many Turks they would slay in the coming fight. After my discovery, thoughts of treasure and spoils seemed alive and real. Maybe I would be rich.

Suddenly, up ahead, the column came to a halt. Then-eerie silence.

As far as the eye could see, the trail ahead was lined with large white rocks, spaced at intervals equal to a man’s arm span. Each rock was painted with a bright red cross.

“The bastards are welcoming us,” someone said. Mocking us was more like it. The rows of red crosses sent a shiver right through me.

Robert ran ahead to hurl one of the rocks toward the walls, [45] but as he got close, the boy stopped in his tracks. Other soldiers who had reached the rocks crossed themselves.

They were not rocks at all-but skulls.

Thousands of them.

Chapter 14

THERE WERE FOOLS among us who believed that Antioch would fall in a day. On that first morning we lined up, many thousand strong. A sea of white tunics and red crosses.

Heaven’s army, if I truly believed.

We focused on the eastern wall, a buttress of gray rock thirty feet tall, spilling over with defenders in white robes and bright blue turbans at every post. And higher up, the towers, hundreds of them, were each manned with archers, their long, curved bows glinting in the morning sun.

My heart pounded under my tunic. At any moment, I knew, I would have to charge, but my legs seemed rooted to the ground. I muttered Sophie’s name as if in prayer.

Young Robert, looking fit, was next to me in line. “Are you ready, Hugh?” he asked with an eager smile.

“When we charge, stay by me,” I instructed him. I was twice the boy’s size. For whatever the reason, I had sworn in my heart to protect him.

“Don’t worry, God will watch over me.” Robert seemed assured. “And you too, Hugh, even if you try and deny it.”

A trumpet sounded the call to arms. Raymond and Bohemond, in full armor, galloped down the line on their crested mounts. “Be brave, soldiers. Do your duty,” they urged. “Fight with honor. God will be at your side.”

[47] Then all at once a chilling roar rose up from behind the city walls. The Turks, taunting and mocking us. I fixed on a face above the main gate. Then the trumpet sounded again. We were at a run.

I know not exactly what went through my mind as, in formation, we advanced toward the massive walls. I made one last prayer to Sophie. And to God, for Robert’s sake, to watch over us.

But I know I ran, swept up in the tide of the charge. From behind, I heard the whoosh from a wave of arrows shooting across the sky, but they fell against the massive walls like harmless sticks, clattering to the ground.

A hundred yards … A volley of arrows shot back from the towers in return. I held my shield as they ripped into us, thudding and clanging into shields and armor all around. Men fell, clutching at their heads and throats. Blood spurted from their faces, and gruesome gasps escaped from their wretched mouths. The rest of us surged ahead, Robert still at my side. In front of us, I saw the first ram approach the main gate. Our division captain ordered us to follow. From above, heavy rocks and fiery arrows rained down on us. Men screamed and toppled over, either pierced or rolling on the ground trying to smother the flames on their bodies.

The first ram pounded into the heavy gate, a solid wooden barrier the height of three men. It bounced off with the effect of a pebble tossed against a wall. The team reversed and rammed again. Foot soldiers were hurling their lances up at the defenders, but they fell halfway up the walls and in return brought volleys of spears and Greek fire, molten pitch. Men writhed on the ground, kicking and screaming, their white tunics ablaze. Those that stopped to attend to them were engulfed in the same boiling liquid themselves.

It was a slaughter. Men who had traveled so far, endured so much-God’s call resounding in their hearts-were cut down like grain in a field. I saw poor Mouse, an arrow piercing [48] his throat so completely his hands gripped it on both sides, drop to his knees. Others fell over him. I felt sure I would soon die too. One of the ram carriers went down. Robert took his place. Soon they were battering again at the gate, but without result.

Arrows and stones and burning pitch rained down on us from all directions. It was only luck to avoid death at any point. I scanned the walls, searching for archers or pitch, and to my horror spotted two large Turks preparing to tip a vat of bubbling tar upon those manning the ram. As they readied, I bolted into Robert, knocking him off his post and flush against the wall just as a sulfurous black wave engulfed his ram-mates. They all shrieked, buckling to their knees, tearing at their sizzling faces and eyes, an odious smell coming from their flesh.

I pressed Robert up against the wall, for a moment out of harm’s way. All around us, our ranks were being shredded. Soldiers fell to their knees and moaned. Battering rams were tossed aside and abandoned.

Suddenly the assault turned into a rout. Men, hearing the alarm, turned and fled from the walls. Arrows and spears followed them, dropping them as they ran.

“We’ve got to get out of here,” I said to Robert.

I dragged him from the wall and we ran with all our might. I prayed as I ran that my back would not be ripped apart by a Saracen arrow.

As we fled, the mighty fortress gate opened, and from within, horsemen appeared, dozens of turbaned riders flashing long, curved swords. They swept toward us like hunters chasing a hare, yelping mad cries that I recognized as “Allahu Akbar.” God is great.

In spite of our being totally outnumbered, there was no option but to stand and fight. I drew my sword, resolved that any breath might be my last, and hacked away at the first wave of horsemen.

[49] A dark-skinned Saracen whirred by, and the head of a man next to me shot off like a kicked ball. Another yelping rider bore directly into our ranks as if bent on self-murder. We pounced on him and hacked him bloody. One by one, the small group of men Robert and I had attached ourselves to began to thin. Begging to God, they were split open by the Turks as they swooped by.

I grabbed Robert by the tunic and dragged him farther away. In the open, I saw a horseman hurtling directly toward us at full speed. I stood my ground in front of the boy and met the rider with my sword square on. If this was it, then let it be. Our weapons came together in a mighty clang, the impact shaking my entire body. I looked down, expecting to see my legs separated from my torso, but, thank God, I was whole. Behind me, the Saracen rider had fallen off, horse and rider surrounded by a cloud of dust. I leaped on him before he had a chance to recover, plunging my sword into his neck and watching a flow of blood rush out of the warrior’s mouth.

Before this day I had never taken a life, but now I hacked and slashed at anything that moved as if I had been bred solely for it.

Every instant, more horsemen stormed out from the gates. They swept down on our fleeing troops and hacked them where they stood. Blood and gore soaked the ground everywhere. A wave of our own cavalry went out to meet them, only to be overcome by the sheer numbers they faced. It seemed as if our whole army was being slaughtered.

I pushed Robert through the smoke and dust in the direction of our ranks. We were now out of arrow-shot. Men were still moaning and dying on the field, Turks hacking at them. It was impossible to tell a red cross from a pool of blood.

For the first time, I noticed that my own tunic and arms were smeared with blood, whose I did not know. And my legs stung from the spray of molten pitch. Though I had seen many [50] men fall, in a way I was proud. I had fought bravely. And Robert too. And I had protected him, as was my vow. Though I wanted to weep for my fallen friends, Mouse among them, I fell to the ground happy just to be alive.

“I was right, Hugh.” Robert turned to me, grinning. “God did protect us after all.”

Then he lowered his head and puked his guts out on the field.

Chapter 15

IT HAPPENED JUST THAT WAY nearly every day.

Assault upon assault.

Death after meaningless death.

The siege took months. For a while, it seemed as if our glorious Crusade would end in Antioch, not Jerusalem.

Our catapults flung giant missiles of fiery rock, yet they barely dented the massive walls. Wave after wave of frontal attacks only increased the death toll.

Finally, we constructed enormous siege engines, as tall as the highest towers. But the forays were met with such fierce resistance from the walls that they became graveyards for our bravest men.

The longer Antioch survived, the lower our spirits fell. Food was down to nothing. All the cattle and oxen had been butchered; even the dogs had been eaten. Water was as scarce as wine.

All the time, rumors reached us of Christians inside the city being tortured and raped. And holy relics desecrated.

Every couple of days, a Moslem warrior would hurl some urn down from the towers and it would shatter on the ground, spilling blood. “That is the blood of your useless Savior,” he would taunt. “See how it saves you now.” Or, lighting a cloth [52] afire and tossing it to the earth, “This is the shroud of the whore who gave him life.”

At intervals, Turk warriors made forays outside the city walls. They charged our ranks as if on a holy mission, yelping and hacking at those who met them, only to be surrounded and chopped to bits. They were unafraid, even heroic. It made us realize even more that they would not easily give in.

Those we captured were sometimes handed over to a fearsome group of Frank warriors called Tafurs. Barefoot, covered in filth and sores, the Tafurs were distinguished by the ragged sackcloth they wore as uniforms and by the ferocious savagery with which they fought. Everyone was afraid of them. Even us.

In battle, these Tafurs fought like possessed devils, wielding leaded clubs and axes, gnashing their teeth as if they wanted to devour the enemy alive. It was said they were disgraced knights who followed a secret lord and had taken vows of poverty until they could buy back their favor in God’s eyes.

Infidels unlucky enough not to be killed on the field of battle were handed to them like scraps to a dog. I watched with disgust as these swine would disembowel a Moslem warrior in front of his own eyes, stuffing his entrails into his mouth as he died. This happened, and much worse, so help me.

These Tafurs reported to no lord among us, and to most of us, it seemed, no god either. They were marked by a cross burned into their necks, which attested not so much to their religious fervor as to their urge to inflict pain.

The longer the horrible siege went on, the farther away I felt from anything I knew. It was now eighteen months I’d been gone. I dreamed about Sophie every night, and often during the day: that last image of her, watching me go off, her brave smile as I hopped down the road.

Would she even know me now, bearded, thin as a pole, and blackened with grime and enemy blood? Would she still laugh at my jokes and tease me for my innocence after what I had [53] seen and known? If I brought her a sunflower, would she kiss my bright red hair now that it was filled with gore and lice?

My queen … How far away she seemed right now.

“A maiden met a wandering man,” I sang in the quietest voice before I slept each night, “in the light of the moon’s pure cheer.”

Chapter 16

THE WORD SPREAD like fire from battalion to battalion. “Get ready… Full battle gear. We’re going in, tonight!”

“Tonight, another charge?” Weary and frightened soldiers around me moaned in disbelief. “Do they think we can see at night what we cannot even shoot during the day?”

“No, this time it’s different,” the captain promised. “Tonight you’ll go to sleep fucking the emir’s wife!”

The camp sprang alive. There was a traitor inside Antioch. He would give up the city. Antioch would finally fall. Not from its walls crumbling but from treachery and greed.

“Is it true?” Robert asked, hastily putting on his boots. “Do we finally get to pay them back?”

“Sharpen that knife,” I told the eager lad.

Raymond ordered the army to break camp, giving the appearance that we were headed for a raid elsewhere. We pulled back two miles, as far as the river Orontes. Then we held until close to dawn. The signal was spread. Everyone be ready…

Under the shield of darkness, we quietly crept back within sight of the city walls. A sliver of orange light was just breaking over the hills to the east. My blood was surging. Today, Antioch would fall. Then it was on to Jerusalem. Freedom.

As we waited for the word, I put my hand on Robert’s shoulder. “Nerves?”

[55] The boy shook his head. “I fear not.”

“You may have started the day still a boy, but by its end you’ll be a man,” I told him.

He grinned sheepishly.

“I guess we’ll both be men.” I winked.

Then a torch waved over the north tower. That was it! Our men were inside. “Let’s go!” the nobles shouted. “Attack!”

Our army charged, Frank, Norman, Tafur, side by side, with one purpose, one mind. “Show them whose God is One,” the leaders cried.

Our battalions headed toward the north tower, where ladders were hoisted against the walls and wave after wave of men climbed over. The sound of shouts and vicious fighting erupted from inside. Then, all at once, the big gate opened. Right in front of our eyes. But instead of attacking Moslem horsemen streaking out, our own conquering army spilled in.

We made our way helter-skelter through the city. Buildings were torched. Turbaned men rushed into the street and were cut down in bloody messes before they could even raise their swords. Cries of “Death to the pagans” and “Dei leveult,” God wills it, echoed everywhere.

I ran in the pack, with no great malice toward the enemy but ready to fight whoever confronted me. I saw one defender cut in half by a mighty ax blow. Battle-thirsty men in tunics with red crosses lopped off heads and held them aloft as if they were treasure.

In front of us a young woman ran out of a burning house, screaming. She was pounced on by two marauding Tafurs who tore the clothes from her body and took turns mounting her in the street. When they were done, they ripped a bronze bracelet from her wrist and bludgeoned her lifeless.

I stared in horror at her bloody shape. In her clutched fist, I saw a cross. Good Lord, she was Christian.

A moment later, from the same building, a fiery-eyed Turk, maybe her husband, charged at me with a scream. I stood [56] paralyzed. An image of my own death rose in my mind. All I could think to utter was, “It was not me…”

But just as the man’s spear was inches from my throat, his rush was intercepted by Robert, thrusting his knife into the Turk’s chest. The man staggered, his eyes horrifically wide. Then he toppled onto his wife, dead.

I blinked in amazement. I turned to Robert with a sigh of relief.

“See, it’s not just God who watches over you.” He winked. “It’s me.”

He had just uttered these words when another turbaned warrior charged toward him, brandishing a long blade.

The boy’s back was turned, and I saw I could not get there in time. He was tugging on his knife, but it remained stuck in the dead Turk’s chest. His face was still lit with that innocent grin.

“Robert!” I screamed. “Robert!”

Chapter 17

THE ATTACKER HURTLED into Robert and swung his sword with both hands. I had only an instant to intervene. I tried to pivot around Robert, but I was blocked by the Turk. All I could do was scream, “No …!”

The sword caught Robert just below the throat. I heard the sound of bones cracking, and his shoulder fell away from his body as the massive blade lodged deep in his chest, seeming to split him in two.

At first I stared in horror. It was as if the boy had seen that he was powerless to stop his own death and, instead of turning to face his attacker, had turned toward me. I will carry his expression with me for the rest of my life.

Then, gaining hold, I lunged, piercing the Turk with my sword. I ran him through again as he fell. When he was on the ground, I continued to hack at him, as if my ferocity could bring back my friend.

Then I knelt beside Robert. His body was asunder, but his face was still as boyish and smooth as when he had first joined our ranks, his goose comically trailing behind. I fought back tears. He was just a boy. … All around me, madness boiled out of control. Red-crossed soldiers stormed through the streets, running from house to house, looting, burning. Children Wailed for their mothers before being hurled into raging flames [58] like kindling. Tafurs, mad with greed, slaughtered Christian and infidel alike, stuffing anything of value into their filthy robes.

What kind of God inspired such horror? Was this God’s fault? Or man’s?

Something snapped in me. Whatever I thought I was fighting for, whatever dream of freedom or wealth had brought me here, burst. And there was nothing in its place. I did not care about Antioch. Or freeing Jerusalem. Or freeing myself. I only wanted to go home. To see Sophie once more. To tell her I loved her. I could deal with the harshness of laws and taxes and the wrath of our lord, if only I could hold her one more time. I had come here to set myself free. Now I was free. Free of my illusions.

My regiment went on, but I stayed behind, consumed with grief and rage. I did not know where I would go, just that I could no longer fight in their ranks. I staggered around, wandering among burning buildings, passing from horror to horror. Carnage and screams were everywhere. The streets ran ankle deep with blood.

I came upon a Christian church. Sanctum Christi … St. Paul’s … It almost seemed funny to me: this… this old tomb was what we were fighting for. This empty block of stone was what we had come to set free.

I wanted to lash at the church with my sword. It was a host of lies. I finally staggered up the steep stone steps in a fit of rage.

“God wills this?” I screamed. “God wills this murder?”

Chapter 18

I HAD NO SOONER STEPPED INSIDE the dark, cool nave of the church than I heard a cry of anguish coming from the front. This madness just wouldn’t stop!

On the steps of the altar, two black-robed Turks hovered over a priest, pummeling him with kicks, cursing him in their tongue, while the fearful cleric did his best to defend himself with a rough wooden staff.

A moment before, I had hesitated. A friend had died. I had no fealty to this priest, but this time I charged full force toward the assault.

I ran with my sword drawn and a loud cry, just as one of the attackers thrust a dagger into the belly of the priest. The other infidel turned, and I leaped upon him. The blade of my sword penetrated his side. The Turk let out a chilling howl.

The other assailant rose and faced me, wielding the dagger that was still covered with the priest’s blood. He lunged, spitting words I recognized, “Ibn Kan …” Son of Cain.

I pivoted aside and brought my sword over the back of his head. It sheared through his neck as if it were a weak limb of a tree. The Turk fell to his knees, his head rolling away from him. Then he toppled forward, landing on what would have been his face.

[60] I stood, transfixed by the awful corpses of the Turks. I no longer knew what was inside of me. What was I doing here? What had I become?

I went over to the fallen priest, to help if I could. As I knelt beside him his eyes grew cloudy. He exhaled a final breath. The useless wooden staff fell from his hand.

Too late … I was no hero, only a fool.

Just then, I heard a rustling behind me. I spun to see a third attacker, this one bare chested and monstrous, the size of two men. Seeing his comrades slain, he rushed toward me, his sword poised for attack.

In that instant I saw my helplessness. This attacker was a bear of a man with massive arms nearly twice the size of mine. I could no more hold him off than I could a tornado. As he charged, I raised my sword, but the Turk’s stroke was so strong it knocked me backward over the dead priest. He charged at me once more, his eyes focused and fierce. This time, my sword flew out of my hands, clattering across the church’s floor. I lunged after it, but the Turk intercepted me with a vicious kick, sucking the air out of my belly.

I was going to die… I knew it. There was no way to defeat this horrible monster. In a last effort, I reached for the priest’s wooden staff. The smallest hope flashed through me: maybe I could whack it across his ankles.

But my attacker merely took a giant step, pinning the staff uselessly under his sandal. I peered into the bastard’s black eyes. I was out of tricks. Above me, his blade caught the glint of a torch. I was about to die…

What profound images filled my mind as I tensed, waiting for the blade to fall? It did not occur to me to pray, to ask God for the forgiveness of my sins. No, God had taken me where I belonged. I bade farewell to my sweet Sophie. I felt I had shamed myself, to leave her this way. She would never know how I died, why, or where, or that I was thinking of her at the end.

[61] What did flash through my brain was the incredible irony of it all. Here I was, dying in front of an altar of Christ, on a holy crusade that I never really believed in.

I didn’t believe… Yet I was dying for this cause anyway.

As I looked at my murderer, my fear left me. So did my urge to resist. I peered into the Turk’s eyes. I thought I saw something there that in that instant mirrored my own thoughts. The strangest urge overcame me. I could not hold it back.

I didn’t pray, or close my eyes, or even beg for my life.

Instead, I began to laugh.

Chapter 19

THE TURK’S SWORD hovered over me. At any second he would strike the final blow. Yet all I could do was laugh.

At what I was dying for. At the total ridiculousness of it all. At the precious freedom I was about to be granted at last.

I looked into his hooded eyes, and though I knew it was probably my last breath, I simply could not hold back. I just laughed…

My attacker hesitated, his sword poised above my head. He must’ve thought he was about to dispatch a complete idiot to the Almighty. He blinked at me, his brows arched, confused.

I searched my mind for something to say in his tongue, which Nicodemus had taught me. Anything at all.

“This is your last warning,” I said to him. “Are you ready to give up?”

Then I burst out laughing once again.

The massive Turk, his eyes like fiery coals, loomed over me. I waited for the death blow. Then I saw his expression relax into the slightest inkling of a smile.

Choking back the laughter, I stammered, “Th-the thing is… I’m not even a believer.”

The giant man hesitated. I didn’t know if he would speak or strike. His mouth curved into a sheepish grin. “Nor am I.”

[63] His sword still quivered menacingly over my head. I knew any moment could be my last. I raised myself to my elbows, looked him in the eye, and said, “Then, one nonbeliever to another, you must kill me in the name of what we do not embrace.”

Slowly, almost inexplicably, I saw the hostility on his face fade. To my utter amazement, the Turk lowered his sword. “We’re too few as it is,” he said. “No reason to make one less.”

Was this possible? Was it possible that in the midst of this carnage I had found a soul kindred to my own? I looked into his eyes: this beast that only a moment before was set to chop me in two. I saw something there that this whole bloody night I had not seen: virtue, humor, a human soul… I couldn’t believe it. Please, God, I finally prayed, don’t let this be some kind of cruel trick.

“Is this real? You’re going to let me go?” My fingers slowly relaxed from the priest’s staff.

The Turk took a measuring look at me, then he nodded.

“You probably thought you were ridding the world of a complete madman,” I said.

“The thought occurred.” He grinned.

Then my mind fixed on the danger of the moment. “You’d better go. Our forces are all around. You are at risk.”

“Go…?” The Turk seemed to sigh. “Go where?” There was something in his face, no longer hatred or even amusement. It was more like resignation.

At that moment, loud footsteps burst through the outer door. I heard voices. Soldiers stormed into the church. They were not wearing crosses but filthy robes. Tafurs.

“Get out of here,” I urged the Turk. “These men will show you no mercy.”

He took a look at his assailants. Then he merely winked at me. He started to laugh himself, then turned to face their charge.

[64] The Tafurs came upon him with their swords and awful clubs.

“No…” I screamed. “Spare this man. Spare him!”

He managed to kill the first one with a mighty sweep of his sword. But then he was overwhelmed, consumed by heavy blows and disemboweling slashes, never once crying out, until his powerful body resembled some hideous slab of meat and not the noble soul he was.

The lead Tafur delivered one more blow to the bloody mound, then he delved through the Turk’s robes, looking for something of value. Finding nothing, he shrugged to his comrades. “Let’s find the fucking crypt.”

It took everything I had not to leap on the Tafurs myself, but these savages would surely kill me.

They passed by me on their way to loot the church. I was trembling with horror.

The lead vermin ran the blade of his sword across my chest, as if he were evaluating whether to leave me in the same condition as the Turk. Then he sneered, amused, and said, “Don’t look so sad, redhead. You are free!”

Chapter 20

I WAS FREE, the Tafur had said. Free!

I started to laugh once more. The irony was bursting through my sides. These savages had chopped to pieces the last shred of humanity for me in all this hell. Now… they were setting me free!

If the Turk had not hesitated just a moment ago, I’d have been dead myself. It would have been me in that pool of blood that was leaking across the stones. Yet he’d spared me. In all this madness I had found a moment of clarity and truth with this Turk, whose name I did not even know. We’d touched souls. And the vermin had told me I was free.

I struggled to my feet. I stepped over to the body of the man who had spared me and looked, horrified, at his bloody corpse. I knelt down and touched his hand. Why …? I could walk out of this church. I could be cut down as soon as I stepped out on the street, or I could live for years, a full life. For what end?

Why did you spare me? I looked into the Turk’s dull, still eyes. What did you see?

It was laughter that had saved me. Laughter that had somehow touched the Turk. I was only a breath away from death and yet instead of panic and fear, laughter had entered my soul. Amid all this fighting, I had simply made him smile. Now he [66] was gone and I was here. A calm came over me. You are right, Tafur… I am finally free.

I had to get out of here. I knew I could no longer fight. I was a different man. Different from a moment ago. This cross on my tunic meant nothing to me. I stripped it from my chest. I had to go back. I had to see Sophie again. What else could matter? I was a fool to have left her. For freedom? Suddenly, the truth seemed so clear. A child could have seen it.

It was only with Sophie that I felt truly free.

I wanted to take something from the church with me. Something from this moment that I would have for the rest of my life. I leaned over the dead Turk. The poor warrior was empty of anything: a ring, a memento.

I heard voices outside. It could be anybody. Infidels, raiders, more Tafurs hunting for spoils. I looked around. Please, something.

I went back to the priest. I lifted the staff that had been in my hands when the Turk spared my life. It was a rough, gnarled Stick of wood, maybe four feet long, and thin. But it seemed strong. It would be my friend when I crossed the mountains again, my companion. I vowed to carry it with me wherever I went for the rest of my life.

I looked at the fallen Turk and whispered good-bye. “You’re right, my friend; we are too few as it is.”

I gave him a wink.

Looking up, I noticed a small crucifix on the altar. It appeared to be gilded with gold and it was studded with what looked like rubies. I took it down and stuffed it into my pouch. I had earned this much. A golden cross.

The cries of men dying hit me as I stepped outside. Mayhem was still rampant in the streets. The conquering throng had gone deeper into Antioch, cleansing the city of anything Moslem. Bloody corpses were scattered everywhere. A few latecomers in clean armor rushed by me, eager to share in the spoils.

[67] I heard awful cries of death farther up the hill, but I wasn’t going there. I put the priest’s staff to the ground and took a step-the other way.

Away from the senseless killing. And my regiment. Back toward the city gate.

I would never see Jerusalem in this lifetime.

I was heading home to Sophie.