street runs west, to a corner where two tamarisk trees grow. If you go right, there is a house with an iron amulet in the shape of a hand nailed to its door.’ He held up his own hand, palm out. ‘That is where you will find your family — if you take the city.’
‘Do you really think it so unlikely?’
Bilal shook his head — though whether to answer my question or to deny it I could not tell.
‘
‘Where did you hear that?’
‘I heard Achard say it, when we came here on our way north from Egypt. He said it was an ancient prophecy.’
‘It comes from the prophet Jeremiah.’
‘Then perhaps it is true.’ Bilal turned away. ‘I must go — I have already been away too long. Malchus will take you back to your camp.’ He whistled, and the youth emerged from the darkness where he had waited.
‘Goodbye, Demetrios. I would say I hope we meet again, but I fear it will be a terrible day if ever we do.’ He considered this for a moment, then shrugged. ‘
He climbed the cracked steps out of the sunken church and vanished into the night. There were no Franks watching this part of the city — the ground was too steep, their numbers too few — and I supposed he would slip in through one of the gates easily enough. Even so, I delayed a few minutes lest anybody see us together. While I waited, I lowered myself to my knees and offered a few, heartfelt prayers — thanks that my family were safe, and intercessions for those who had died that day. Above all, I prayed that all those I loved would escape that place where God had gathered them. Those were the prayers that tested my faith the hardest.
The night was warm, and I had been awake since well before dawn. I must have prayed longer than I thought, for eventually I felt an arm shaking my shoulder and opened my eyes with a start. The youth was looking down on me.
‘You fell asleep,’ he chided me. ‘Come. You must go back.’
Keeping to the shadows once again, we clambered up the valley and followed the walls towards the camp. Behind us, two priests stood in the pit and offered their prayers to an empty tomb.
40
The next day Count Raymond moved his camp to the south, to a narrow tongue of land in front of the walls on Mount Zion. It was perilously exposed, within easy bowshot of the archers who manned the Zion Gate: the other princes condemned his decision, and many of his knights refused to accompany him. He went anyway and we followed. The failure of the assault had dissolved whatever ties of fealty and honour he still held over his men. He could no longer even garrison his camp, but had to send envoys to his rivals to buy their knights’ service with gold. Each day, I heard, the price went up.
Two days after the battle, the princes held a council and agreed they would not risk another assault without siege engines.
‘If we can find the wood to build them,’ Raymond complained. He had called me to his tent next to a small church on Mount Zion. The air inside was stifling, and flies buzzed about our heads. ‘There’s barely enough wood here to build a campfire. It’s a miracle the Romans found enough to crucify Jesus.’ He stopped, blushing furiously. ‘Christ forgive me, I did not mean that. But we must have wood if we are to get into Jerusalem.’
I could guess why he was telling me this.
‘I want you to take your men west towards the coast and search for wood.’ He swatted at one of the flies. ‘It will do you good to be away from this place for a few days.’
‘Did he say if he wanted us to come back?’ Sigurd enquired.
It was a fair question: for two days our search had taken us ever further from Jerusalem, with nothing except stunted olive trees and shrubs to reward us. The sun burned down on us, parching our throats, and all the time we felt the heavy threat of the Ishmaelites all around us. Several times we came around turns in the road to find dust still lingering in the air where departing hooves had kicked it up; twice we saw their riders silhouetted on distant hilltops, watching us from afar. Though they never came near, their presence stirred a poison in my belly: the fear that I might die in one of these forgotten valleys and leave my family condemned to perpetual slavery. I often walked with my sword drawn from its scabbard; at night I lay awake long after the others had fallen asleep, staring at the darkness and trembling at every sound it made.
Two mornings after leaving Jerusalem, the rugged hills dipped towards the coastal plain. I was worn down to exhaustion; I had hardly had anything to drink, and my tongue had swollen so fat in my mouth I thought it might split my skull open. Sharp pains spiked through my head with every step — steps that only took me further from Jerusalem. The loathsome city had wrapped itself tight around my soul, and the further I went from it the more strongly I felt it pulling me back.
We had just descended into yet another valley when Aelfric, who had gone ahead, came running back to meet us.
‘Three riders coming towards us,’ he said breathlessly.
‘Did they see you?’
‘I don’t think so. But the sun was in my eyes — it was hard to be sure.’
We scrambled up the hillside, hiding ourselves behind boulders and trees. I found a small depression in the slope masked by a bush and lay there. Thomas crouched down beside me, stroking the blade of his axe. In a matter of seconds, all the Varangians had vanished.
We waited. For what seemed an age we heard nothing but bird song and the chatter of insects; once, there was a clatter as one of the Varangians dislodged a pebble, but otherwise no one made a sound. I could almost hear the sweat sliding down my face and dripping onto the stones beneath me. And then, rising slowly beneath the other sounds, the regular clop of horses’ hooves. The noise grew louder, echoing around the valley — and with it came voices.
I edged forward to the lip of the depression, keeping low behind the foliage, and peered out between the branches. The three riders had come level with me. They wore neither helmets nor armour, and if they sat uneasily in their saddles it was only from lack of habit. Otherwise, they talked and laughed like men on holiday; as I watched, one even broke into a song.
Hw?r cwom mearg? Hw?r cwom mago? Hw?r cwom ma??umgyfa?
Hw?r cwom symbla gesetu? Hw?r sindon sele-dreamas?
To my astonishment, another voice answered — not among the riders but from the hillside. It picked up the melody and carried it on. Four more voices joined in, and suddenly the valley was awash with the weird sounds of a song it had never heard before.
Eala beorht bune! Eala byrnwiga!
Eala?eodnes?rym! Hu seo?rag gewat,
genap under nihthelm, swa heo no w?re!
Sigurd stepped out onto the road, still singing. It was he who had first answered the song, I realised, and its foreign sound was his native tongue. He stood in front of the riders, and at last I saw what should have been obvious from the start. The men on the horses were almost indistinguishable from the Varangians who swarmed down the hillside to greet them. All had the same rough red skin that came when pale white skin had been alloyed by the sun, and each face was covered by hair the colour of metal: gold, copper and bronze. Some wore it in braids and some tied with twine; some had beards and others were cleanshaven. Otherwise, they could have been brothers.
The lead rider sang the last verse of the song in unison with Sigurd, their eyes locked on each other. A sardonic grin had spread over the rider’s face, while Sigurd’s remained cool and distrustful. When the song was done, they eyed each other cautiously.
‘You should be more careful, riding alone and unarmed in these mountains,’ said Sigurd.
