and into the heart of Jerusalem.
If I learned one thing that day, it was that Peter Bartholomew, Arnulf, even Saint John the Divine had all been wrong. The world did not have to end with tenhorned beasts and dragons, angels and fantastical monsters. The prophets who foretold those things had succumbed to the extravagance of their imaginations, and it had played them false. Nothing on earth could be so terrible as men. The whole city shook to the sounds of pain and torture as the Franks wrote their triumph in the blood of its people. They did not just murder the populace: they destroyed them. They tore them apart, child from mother, husband from wife, limb from limb until not one morsel of humanity remained. Not content with mere slaughter, they made games of their cruelty; they inflicted pain and studied it, then marvelled at their own ingenuity until even the most savage degradation bored them. Then, when there was no one left to kill, they fought each other for the division of the spoils.
Perhaps it would be kindness to say that they did not know what they did — that a madness had seized them, or blood-lust overwhelmed them, or that the many terrors of their pilgrimage had warped their souls. I do not believe it. They entered Jerusalem in full knowledge of what they would do. They came to end the world, impatient with the world allotted them, and if, in fact, it did not end that day it was not for want of their trying. They came in Christ’s name, every one of them marked with the cross, but they had forgotten the sacrifice He offered and made a new god for themselves — one who could only be satisfied with blood. Like the rebel angels in the first age of heaven, they reached for a thing they could not possess, and in doing so forsook it utterly.
Through all these horrors, Sigurd and Aelfric and I tried to find a path back to the Temple Mount. Frenzied crowds of Franks and Saracens filled the streets; in some places we could barely get through for the great heaps of corpses that choked the way. In one place, I saw a group of men and women who had stacked pillaged furniture and timbers around a tall basilica. They danced around it, singing obscene songs about Jews, while the fire they had set billowed up through the house. A child was wailing inside, and I could hear his mother singing to comfort him even as the flames reached in through the windows. The sound made me think of Helena and Everard: for a moment, I wanted to rush in to the house and snatch the child and his mother away. But as soon as I stepped towards it, the joyous faces in the firelight became threatening, turning angrily towards me. I hurried on my way, though not so quickly that I did not hear the screaming as the first people began to burn.
But in all the slaughter, there was one man who did not take part. We met him by chance, in a narrow street that descended what I thought must be the western side of the valley we had crossed earlier. The pitch of destruction here ran high as ever: blood sluiced through the gutters like rain in a storm, spilling out over the road whenever a body or a severed limb clogged its path. With my eyes to the ground, as much to pick my way over the human debris as to avoid seeing the abominations around me, the whiteness of the horse as it made its way through the stream of blood was almost unnatural. Blood had splashed over its hooves and fetlocks, staining the white hair red, but its flanks and mane remained ghostly white, untouched by the massacre. It was the colt I had seen Duke Godfrey training in his camp. Now, in the hour of his triumph, he rode it along the same road that Christ had walked with his cross to Calvary. He had abandoned his hauberk and his linen battle tunic, replacing them with a robe of shimmering white silk. His eyes were fixed ahead, impervious to the atrocities that surrounded him, his face set with furious concentration. On the hand that held the bridle I saw that he wore two rings: the ancient black gemstone of his ancestor Charlemagne, and a brighter, gold ring with the seal of the emperor Alexios engraved on its face.
Men paused in their labours as he went by, watching the strange procession wend its way up the bloody street. He had few attendants — only three knights, and Arnulf the priest carrying the gold cross, which he must have rescued from the siege tower. He wore a white cassock, though blood spattered it almost up to his knees.
They passed out of sight and we hurried on down the road. At the foot of the hill I could see the great ramparts of the Temple Mount rising up to the sky. We came through a devastated market and arrived in an open courtyard at its base. There must have been a cistern beneath the square, for the paving was riddled with dozens of open holes where the people could draw water. The plaintive moan of drowning souls echoed up through the well holes. On one side of the square a flight of steps led down into the cavern, where laughing Franks forced their victims into the water at spear-point. It was one of the myriad small cruelties of that day that some drowned while others burned.
On the far side of the square, a flight of steps led up into the heart of the Temple Mount. The gates that held it had been smashed in, and the only men who guarded it now were corpses littered on the stairs. We ran up, and emerged at last in the great courtyard of King Solomon’s palace.
The first thing that struck me, even then, was its size. It must have been a full quarter of a mile long, and wide in proportion. Broad arcades lined its sides, hiding the rest of the city from us, while the courtyard itself was dominated by the octagonal Temple of the Lord, and the Temple of Solomon beyond. After the narrow maze of streets below, it was like coming out into a high valley among mountains — like ascending to the court of heaven from the confines of the world. But this was a heaven to make men weep to reach it. It had been overthrown: the Franks had broken in and, at last, brought their impieties back to the place where the first foundation of the world was laid. Mutilated corpses strewed the sacred ground, and the gentle arcades echoed with screams.
‘There’s no sanctuary here,’ murmured Aelfric.
I found one of the Franks, a Norman knight trying to drag away a golden lamp half as high as he was himself. ‘Where are they?’ I shouted. ‘Are there any left alive?’
He started like thief; if he had not been burdened with the lamp he might have drawn his knife and run me through. ‘I’m alive,’ he answered proudly. ‘Praise God.’
Sigurd stepped forward and grabbed the knight’s shoulders. He dropped the lamp, howling to see a crack appear in its crystal window. I glanced around nervously, hoping none of his companions would come to his aid, but they were too busy with their own treasures to notice or care.
‘What about the prisoners?’
The knight laughed, careless of his danger. ‘Prisoners? Look around you.’ The sneer died on his lips as Sigurd’s axe caressed his throat. ‘Some took refuge on the roof of the Temple of Solomon. Tancred gave them his banner for protection.’
I stared at him. ‘Tancred offered to protect them?’
‘He thought they might fetch a ransom.’
I ran. It was like running in a dream, every stride falling short of where I stretched it, while the pursuing terror grew ever closer behind me. The Temple of Solomon was at the furthest end of the great courtyard, on its southern side — though near to the bridge, I saw with hope. If Anna and the girls had managed to cross it, they might have found their way to safety. But for how long? The Franks had been too perfect in their slaughter: I could not see any Saracens left alive in the courtyard now, and groups of knights were milling about in angry confusion. It would not be long before they went in search of new violence.
Seven arches loomed before me as I reached the Temple of Solomon at last. Compared with the intricacies and beauty of the Temple of the Lord, the Temple of Solomon was a squat and solid building, with nothing but a single dome at the far end to ornament it. I barely noticed it. A ladder at the side led up to the roof, from where a host of terrified faces peered down. Three Norman knights guarded the ladder, but they did not hinder us when they saw we wanted to go up. They waved us on with mock bows and false smiles. ‘You can go up if you like,’ they told us. ‘It’s the coming down that’s hard.’
‘That’s what Jesus said,’ said one of them, and his companions laughed wickedly.
We climbed the ladder, and came out at last on the roof of the temple. It felt like standing on the roof of the world. We were above the enclosure now, so I could see the entire city below rising to the western summit of Mount Zion. Screams filled the air, and the thick smoke from a thousand fires rose overhead so that — though it was only afternoon — darkness seemed to cover the earth. I wondered that there should be any light at all, but there was: a red, sickly glow that could only come from a withered sun. A warm breeze blew smoke and ash in my eyes, and I wept.
I turned away from the scene and looked behind me. Hundreds of cowering faces stared back. What must they expect from us? I began pushing through them, frantically calling for Anna, for Helena and Zoe, for Everard. To my right and left, I heard Sigurd and Aelfric calling the same. No one hindered us, but no one answered. Though they packed that rooftop so tight that many were piled on top of each other, they still contrived to part before me like lilies in water. All I saw was a sea of unknown faces, the last citizens of a dying world awaiting their judgement.
