Another siege. Sometimes I thought there must only be one wall in all the world, spiralling around itself like a snake, and that however often we broke through, we would only advance to confront it again. I stood on a ridge in the shadow of the mountain and felt the warm February sun on my cheek. To my left, the foot of the mountain swept out to form the natural buttress on whose formidable heights the town was built. The only approach was by a thin neck of land little wider than a bridge, carved away by the fast river that flowed along its base. The Provencals had tried to force their assault across the promontory and failed, losing many men. Now, two weeks later, they had resigned themselves to the familiar toil of siege work.
A heavy crack sounded behind me, like rock breaking off the mountain. I did not bother to look. I heard the familiar whiplash of coiled rope unspooling, the whoosh of the sling and the creak of timbers. A flock of starlings squawked their protest, though even they must have grown used to it. A heavy stone flew close over my head and sailed over the deep ravine that divided us from the town, spinning and tumbling in the air.
It struck Arqa’s wall with a thump and an eruption of dust. A few dislodged bricks fell into the bushes at the base; otherwise, there was no discernible effect. Behind me, I heard the Provencal engineers begin the laborious effort of winding back the catapult.
‘Even if you make the breach, you’ll never get your men up that slope.’ Tancred sat on a black gelding and surveyed the town across the ravine. Beside him, Raymond and Nikephoros tried to calm their own steeds after the noise of the catapult. I stood attentively by Nikephoros’ stirrup, more an ornament than an aide, and absent-mindedly stroked the horse’s flank.
‘We’ll wear it down,’ said Raymond shortly.
Tancred rolled his eyes. ‘Not if we wear ourselves down first. What does Peter Bartholomew say to this delay?’
He pulled on his reins, turning his horse to face north. Beneath the heights of Arqa the road wound along the plain, lined with the tents and baggage of the Provencal army. Beyond, a little apart, more tents and makeshift shelters covered a rounded hill, enclosed by a low wall of wood, wattle and rubble. In its centre, on the crown of the hill, a large cross stood empty to the sky, almost as if waiting for something.
‘Well?’ pressed Tancred. ‘What does the peasant messiah say?’
‘Do not call him that,’ Raymond snapped. ‘And what he thinks does not matter.’
‘Even when what he says is true?’ Tancred looked to the south, where an ancient bridge carried the road towards the coast and Jerusalem. ‘We should have kept moving.’
Nikephoros, who had learned to prefer silence during Tancred and Raymond’s arguments, stirred. ‘Not with this army. You would be walking into the lion’s mouth. Better to wait until you are large enough that his jaws cannot devour you.’
Raymond slapped the pommel of his saddle impatiently. These were not new debates. ‘Listen to what the Greek says. Your youth makes you impatient.’
‘My poverty makes me impatient. I entered your service because you promised conquest and plunder — not to sit at the foot of a fortress of no consequence and throw stones at it.’
Another whip-crack from behind launched another boulder into the air. This one actually bounced off the wall, landing on the slope below and tumbling slowly down among the gorse and sagebrush until it came to rest at the foot of the spur. A cloud of dust rolled down the hillside after it. Above my head, I heard Nikephoros mutter something about Sisyphus.
‘You entered my service because I paid you five thousand sous,’ said Raymond to Tancred. ‘What happened to those?’
‘I spent them on my army. A good lord is bountiful to his vassals.’
The slight was not lost on Raymond. ‘And so I will be. Arqa belongs to the emir of Tripoli. When we have made an example of it, he will see our might and offer a rich ransom to be spared.’
‘I heard he had already offered gold to let us pass.’
‘When we have taken Arqa, he will offer more.’
‘And how much will he offer if we do not take it?’
A bang echoed across the ravine, and a white projectile flew up from within the town. At first it appeared to rise straight into the air; then, gathering pace, its trajectory became clear. It seemed to move much faster from the receiving end, I noticed: there was no thought of trying to avoid it. The three lords on horseback stood still as stone, trapped at the mercy of an unswerving destiny.
The rock rushed over our heads and struck the cliff behind us. The earth shivered under our feet; I heard a crack as the rock split in pieces, and a rain of stone fell to the ground. A surprised cry rang out among the clatter, then choked off suddenly. Looking back, I saw a knight lying on the ground amid the fallen rubble. A dent in his helmet was the only damage I could see, but he did not move. Others ran over to help him, though their efforts did not last long.
‘Their catapult is stronger than yours,’ said Nikephoros, stroking his agitated mount.
‘Then we will break it,’ snapped Raymond. His face was pale, his single eye roving over the chaos behind him. ‘We will break this feeble town, and make such an example of it that every lord from here to Jerusalem will grovel in the dust as we pass by. Godfrey and Bohemond will see they have no choice but to hasten here and submit to my standard, and you’ — he jabbed a finger at Tancred — ‘will have your gold.’
Behind him, two knights began rolling another rock up the slope to load into the catapult’s sling.
‘Raymond is more visionary than Peter Bartholomew if he thinks besieging Arqa is the answer to his troubles.’ Nikephoros strode across the carpeted floor of his tent. In the lamplight, monstrous shadows mimicked his movement on the wall behind. ‘He does not know what he wants.’
It seemed to me that Raymond knew too much what he wanted: to be master of Antioch, unrivalled captain of the Army of God, impregnable warlord and conqueror of Jerusalem. I kept silent.
‘And meanwhile, his gamble — our gamble — has failed. Bohemond, Godfrey and the others say they will follow Raymond south — but they do nothing. Bohemond is waiting for Raymond to overreach himself and tip into disaster, while Godfrey watches to see which way the dice will fall. Who can blame him? While they wait, Raymond can go no further. If they come, he will lose his cherished authority over the army. So he waits here, throwing stones at Arqa like a boy at a bird’s nest.’ He kicked the table in the corner of the room, shaking the candles on it. A shower of wax fell like snow. I had rarely seen his passion so unreined.
‘If we are not careful, Raymond’s army will wither at Arqa and Bohemond will have all the excuse he needs to stay at Antioch for ever. Do you know what the emperor would say to that? We have to break this stalemate.’
Nikephoros dropped into his ebony chair and slumped back, more like a soldier in a tavern than an imperial dignitary. ‘You must speak to Peter Bartholomew.’
I had not expected it, though perhaps I should have. ‘Raymond hates Peter Bartholomew now. He will not listen to him.’
‘Raymond hates Peter Bartholomew,’ Nikephoros agreed. ‘But only because he fears his power. And because he fears him, he will do what Peter demands.’
Despite the heat of the bygone day, the night was cold as I crossed our small camp to my tent. Thomas and Helena were inside, Helena with the baby gurgling at her breast. I dropped my eyes: even after a month living and travelling together, I was still not used to the sight of her nursing. Thomas sat beside her, running a whetstone along the rim of his axe. He still concentrated hard at the task, I noticed, squinting and frowning, though his fellow Varangians could do it with no more thought than breathing. The weapon looked vast and ravenous beside the tiny child in Helena’s arms.
‘Where are Anna and Zoe?’ I asked.
Helena lifted the baby away, flashing a view of shining raw-red skin before she pulled her dress closed.
‘Anna took Zoe for a walk.’
‘She shouldn’t have.’ Why did I always sound so humourless with my children? ‘Not after dark. It’s dangerous.’
‘Aelfric went with them.’ Thomas kept his head down as he spoke, rasping his axe and concentrating more studiously than ever.
That could be dangerous in different ways. ‘I hope I won’t have another daughter marrying a Varangian.’ It was supposed to be a joke, but no one smiled. I reverted to the task at hand. ‘Nikephoros has ordered me to visit Peter Bartholomew’s camp.’
‘That could be dangerous,’ said Helena sternly. She wiped the baby’s mouth.
‘That’s why I want Thomas to come with me.’
Thomas took two more long strokes with the stone before looking up. Even then, he did not look at me but instead glanced at Helena. She nodded, and he rose.
‘Leave the axe,’ I told him. ‘I doubt the pilgrims will welcome it in their camp.’
Thomas scowled, but laid it back down on the blanket. Its blade winked as it caught the flame of the solitary candle in the tent.
We did not speak as we climbed the hill to the pilgrim camp. Thomas had always been quiet, but I felt a growing distance between us now and I did not have the words to bridge it. Perhaps there were none that could. He walked one step behind me, never complaining, but his very presence seemed a constant reproach.
A line of stakes marked the edge of Peter Bartholomew’s domain. Crude axe blows had sharpened their tips to points, which seemed sharper still in the flickering light of the watch fire. A guard challenged us as we approached the opening in the fence: he wore no armour, but his spear was real enough. So was the laugh that answered my demand to speak to Peter Bartholomew.
‘Do you want to speak with Saint Michael and all the angels as well? Peter Bartholomew’ — the guard crossed himself with his free hand — ‘does not receive visitors.’
As if to encourage us away, the guard stepped towards us, into the firelight. Thomas gasped, and I had to hold my face stiff to hide my shock. Even with the fire plain on his face, more than half of it remained dark — not in any shadow, but stained with bruises as if someone had tipped a bottle of ink over it. Scars and scabs rose among the bruises, and thick welts lay open on his cracked nose.
‘Count Raymond did this to you?’ I murmured, taking in the stocky figure and the matted hair that had once been fair.
The guard grimaced, making his face even more grotesque. ‘It is better to suffer for doing good than evil. That is what Peter says.’
‘Raymond has expelled you from his service?’
‘He stripped me of my rank, my armour, my servants. He says that when we return to Provence he will take away my lands as well.’ He cracked a ghastly smile. More than half his teeth were missing, and blood still oozed from his gums. ‘But that will not happen. Not once we reach Jerusalem.’
‘If we reach Jerusalem.’
He leaned forward on his spear. ‘We will reach Jerusalem. It has been prophesied.’
I stared him in the eyes — one swollen and half-shut, the other wide open. Perhaps Raymond had kicked out more than his teeth, for I saw no craft or machination behind them, just innocent faith. I leaned closer.
‘If you want to reach Jerusalem, you will let me speak to Peter Bartholomew.’
He shook his head, though this time with some semblance of regret. ‘I cannot. He will not be disturbed.’
‘I will not disturb him,’ I lied. ‘But you can see that our path is faltering again.’ I pointed up behind me, where the watch-fires of Arqa burned high on the mountain spur. ‘Count Raymond will not give that up lightly. What I have to tell Peter Bartholomew could change his mind.’
The guard hesitated, but I could see the doubt I had sowed. He glanced at me and Thomas, then back to the encampment, then to us again.
‘Peter Bartholomew will not see you,’ he reiterated. ‘But I will take you to him.’
He called another guard to take his place, and led us up the hill into the heart of the camp. Raymond’s beating had broken more than his face: he walked with a heavy limp, dragging his foot and learning on his spear like an old man’s staff.
‘I have a friend who would make sure that mended properly,’ I told him. But he only muttered something about the healing of Christ, and shuffled on through the camp. Though it must have been a camp of thousands, sprawled all down the slope, there was neither sound nor light save the flap of our footsteps, and a golden glow from the very top of the hill.
‘Are all the pilgrims in their beds?’ I wondered.
The guard touched a finger to his cracked lips. ‘Peter Bartholomew has ordered it.’
The camp thinned as we neared the top of the hill. By some twist of the landscape the summit was hidden until we were almost upon it: then, suddenly, I could see three solitary tents set to form an open-sided square, with the vast cross I had seen from the mountain at its centre. The tents on either side flickered dimly with the light of lamps within, but the third shone like a beacon. A regal light burned through its delicately spun walls so that it appeared as a pyramid of light, celestial in its radiance. I could hear a soft song rising within, like a psalm or a lullaby — many overlapping voices, though no shadows darkened the golden walls save for the black silhouette of the cross.
‘Is that Peter Bartholomew’s tent?’ Thomas’s voice rang with suspicion and wonder.
The guard did not answer, but took me by the arm and pulled me towards the dim tent on the left. Even he seemed awestruck to be there: his grip was slack, and the light beamed on his shattered face to make it seem almost whole again. He lifted the flap of the tent, called something inside, then beckoned us in.
After the still beauty outside, the tent we entered was a mean and shabby place. Its lamps hissed and spat, filling the space with an oily smoke; the cloths that divided the apartments were stained yellow, and hung crooked from the ceiling. Tangled heaps of carpets and furs lay discarded on the floor, and at least half the furniture seemed to have been knocked over as if in a brawl. An unpleasant odour hung in the air, despite the oversweet perfumes that tried to mask it.
‘Wait here,’ said the guard. His ease had vanished, and he scuttled out of the tent before we could answer. Through the cloth partition I could hear rustles and a low grunting, like a pig rooting in the ground — and occasionally a high-pitched whimper. I did not dare look at Thomas.
The grunting stopped. I looked to the canvas flap, expectant and dreading, but there was no sign of anyone emerging. And then, suddenly, a voice from the tent door behind us.
‘What do you want?’
Thomas and I spun around. He had arrived with startling silence, but he did not look like a quiet man. His pockmarked face was bloated and heavy, his belly likewise, though the rest of him was meagre enough. His eyes were too small for his face and his mouth too large. Something sticky seemed to be smeared on his chin. He wore a long camelskin robe tied with a leather belt: he hooked his thumbs in it, and puffed out his chest.
‘I have a message for Peter Bartholomew,’ I said. ‘It will help the army reach Jerusalem.’
The man’s eyes fixed on me. ‘Peter Bartholomew, bless his holy name’ — he tapped a perfunctory sign of the cross across his chest — ‘is at prayer. He will not be disturbed.’
‘He will want to hear my message.’
‘Then you can tell it to me.’ His voice was coarse, even by the standards of the Provencals. There was no poise in his manner, only blunt strength.
‘It is for Peter Bartholomew alone,’ I insisted.
‘No one comes to Peter Bartholomew, bless his name, except through me.’ He gave an ugly smile. ‘I am his steward and his prophet.’
‘I have seen him many times.’ I spoke mildly. Despite his obvious dissolution, there was a menace in the man’s face I did not want to provoke.
‘That was in the past. Now that the time of trial is coming, he must gather his strength and devote himself to God. If he saw every disciple who sought his blessing he would never sleep.’
‘I am not his disciple.’
The steward gave what was meant to be an indulgent look; it emerged more like a leer. ‘We are all his disciples — though some do not know it yet.’
‘Then will you tell him Demetrios Askiates has brought a message for him.’
He shook his fat head. ‘Tell it to me.’
‘It is for him only.’
My obstinacy was beginning to irritate this selfproclaimed prophet: his small eyes narrowed, his hands began to ball into fists by his side. Thomas saw it too and edged closer, but I flicked my head to keep him back.
‘Raymond cannot advance to Jerusalem unless Bohemond and Godfrey come to reinforce him. But they will not come until Raymond asks — and his pride will not bend to that.’
The prophet folded his arms across his chest. ‘So?’
‘Peter Bartholomew-’
‘Bless his name.’
‘. . has influence Raymond cannot ignore. If he commands Raymond to send for Bohemond and Godfrey, to ask for their help, Raymond will do it.’
The prophet stared at me. ‘Is that all?’
‘It is enough.’ I hoped that was true. I had little faith that the fat prophet would relay what I had said, and less still that Peter Bartholomew would act on it.
But the next day, Aelfric reported he had seen a knight leave Count Raymond’s camp and ride north to Antioch.