them honestly when the princes meet?’
Unlike any army before it, the Army of God had not been summoned by kings or compelled into being by circumstance: it had been preached into existence for a war of pilgrimage. Knights and soldiers had answered the call, but so had peasants, in vast numbers. They offered no service save drudgery, and required far more in supplies and protection than they earned. Yet in the strange world of the Army of God they were esteemed for their innocence; they had a righteousness of purpose that none of the knights or princes could claim, and were thus endowed with a special sanctity.
I stared at Peter. The naked hope was plain on his crooked face, and pitiable. For a few happy days he had been the army’s salvation, the finder of the lance and the saviour of Antioch. Now the memory was fading and he was ebbing back towards obscurity. I could see how it wounded him, how desperate he was to snatch back his waning eminence.
‘Other men have tried to put themselves at the head of the pilgrims,’ I warned him, ‘and it has never ended well.’ The first man to do so, a self-styled hermit also named Peter, had led the pilgrims with assurances of divine immunity from swords and arrows. A single, terrible battle had proven the emptiness of that promise.
‘God made you a vessel for His purpose and granted you a wonderful vision.’ It was hard to believe that anyone would have chosen Peter Bartholomew for such a purpose — but perhaps it was ever so with visionaries. ‘That is more than most men can dream of in a lifetime.’
He bridled again, snapping his head angrily, though this time I had not intended to provoke him. ‘
His voice had risen, far louder than was wise in the company of the men he vilified. He realised it now, and stared around in wild defiance to see if he had provoked any reaction. To his immediate relief, and then anger, none of the surrounding lords paid him the least attention.
‘They will notice me soon enough,’ he mumbled. Forgetting me, he pushed away through the crowd.
I sighed. I knew too much of his history — the immoral diseases that ravaged his body, the flirtation with heresy that had almost cost him his life — to be taken in by his delusions, but I still pitied him. I could guess how he felt. Little more than a year earlier, I had walked freely in the halls of the palace at Byzantium — had even, for brief moments, been a confidant of the emperor. Now I lingered in the wilderness beyond the fringes of civilisation, not as punishment or in disfavour but simply because life had brought me there.
Talking with Peter Bartholomew had drawn me out of the shade, into the centre of the courtyard where the sun beat down. I looked for another cup of wine to cure my thirst, knowing I would regret it later, but there was none to be seen. I wandered along the fringes of the crowd, scanning for familiar faces and wondering what errand the patriarch intended for me.
‘And will you go on to Jerusalem?’
The voice was so close, the question so much in my own mind, I thought it must have been spoken to me. It was only when I turned that I saw my error: the speaker was standing with his back to me, oblivious to my presence, while his companion stood beside him. Both were dressed in richly woven robes, and golden threads picked out the sign of the cross on their sleeves. With a start, I recognised Duke Godfrey and Bohemond.
‘I took my oath to pray beside Christ’s tomb,’ Bohemond answered Godfrey. ‘But I am not in a hurry. Too many questions demand my attention in Antioch for the moment.’
‘Count Raymond may have his own answers to those questions.’
Bohemond made a swatting gesture with his hand. ‘There will only be one lord in Antioch, and it will not be Count Raymond. Nor the king of the Greeks either.’
Godfrey made no sound of argument. Instead: ‘The road to Jerusalem will be longer and harder without your army.’
Again, Bohemond waved his concerns away. ‘Our victory over the Turks has broken them for a generation. With a strong Antioch defended at your back, you could be in Jerusalem in a fortnight. If you still mean to go.’
From behind, I saw Godfrey nod slowly. ‘I will go.’
‘To honour your oath?’ There was a taunt in Bohemond’s voice.
‘To honour God — and to answer the destiny written for me.’
Bohemond laughed. ‘Written in your book?’
‘Written in my book,’ Godfrey agreed. There was no laughter in his voice.
‘And what book is that?’
The cheerful question rang out behind me. Godfrey and Bohemond turned with a start, and suddenly I was trapped between them and the patriarch, who had emerged from the crowd unnoticed and now stood there, smiling and expectant.
‘A book of wisdom,’ Godfrey answered brusquely.
The patriarch nodded. ‘Good. We need God’s wisdom to guide us, especially now that Adhemar has gone. He was a good and wise man. Your army will miss him.’
Bohemond pursed his lips and made a noise like a horse farting. ‘A good man? You can’t kill Turks and Saracens with goodness. Or even wisdom.’
‘It takes wisdom to hold an army together — especially if it is to reach its destination.’ The patriarch stared at Bohemond calmly. ‘But perhaps that is no longer your concern.’
‘As if it was ever a concern of the Greeks.’ Without waiting for a reply, Bohemond drained his cup and barged away into the crowd. Godfrey waited a moment, fixing me with a harsh gaze of suspicion, before following. Though it seemed I had not been the only one eavesdropping: as Godfrey moved away, I saw Peter Bartholomew loitering artlessly nearby.
‘Demetrios.’ The patriarch was still there, watching me expectantly. ‘Let me introduce you to. .’ He trailed off as he scanned the crowd. Whoever he was seeking, he did not find him; instead, on the other side of the courtyard, Count Raymond caught his eye and came limping towards us. The patriarch sighed.
‘But here comes Count Raymond. He is upset to hear you will be leaving us.’
‘I’m glad there will be someone who misses me.’
Count Raymond halted and swivelled his single eye towards me. Even after his illness it still retained a furious power. ‘I have been your emperor’s most constant ally, and it has won me few friends among the other princes. It has even tested the loyalty of many of my own men. If you leave now, you as good as surrender the city to Bohemond.’
‘The emperor has not abandoned you,’ I assured him. ‘He has sent a new ambassador to Antioch. When he arrives, I will go home.’
‘An ambassador? Not the emperor himself?’ For a man who had fought more battles than Caesar, Count Raymond seemed suddenly vulnerable, like an expectant child looking for his father.
‘The emperor has an empire to govern. He is needed in Constantinople, and cannot allow himself the journey to Jerusalem.’
‘Hah. It will be a long time before we see Jerusalem. First we must decide what to do with Antioch. Bohemond will not surrender it easily.’
‘Would you fight him for it?’ I asked.
Raymond’s eye narrowed. ‘I have the noblest title, the largest army and the richest treasury. I have the support of both your emperor and the peasant mob. Most of all, I have the holy lance. It is a compelling claim. Hard to resist, if any man was so foolish.’
In my mind’s eye, I saw Adhemar’s shrouded body in the cold earth beneath the cathedral. These were exactly the wounds he had struggled to bind together: he would be turning in his grave to hear them torn open again so soon.
‘If you are not careful, there will be nothing left to fight over,’ observed the patriarch quietly. ‘Adhemar will not be the last victim of the disease that claimed his life. In the fields outside the city there are already more gravediggers than farmers.’
I had noticed it too. Hardly had we seen off the physical threat of the Turkish army than a new, invisible enemy had insinuated itself into our ranks. At first in ones and twos, then in dozens and scores, men had started to sicken and die. Flush with victory, we had ignored it too long — and soon we would be dying in our thousands. Out
