The Jester, Page 3

  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.