in that army was not a pauper? – knelt hopefully nearby, their bowls poised for any charity that might emerge, but otherwise there was only a single guard in a blue cloak. On hearing my errand, he was swift to let me pass.
‘Greetings, Demetrios Askiates.’ The bishop rose from behind a wooden table and lifted a hand so that the palm faced me. He pronounced a blessing, in Latin words that I did not understand, then waved me to be seated. ‘Have you come to speak of Drogo?’
Even the name of Drogo dredged up thoughts of death and anger. ‘Your Grace, I have a message from my master Tatikios.’
‘He desires to know what I have done with his grain?’ the bishop guessed. He leaned forward, watching for my reaction, and I met his gaze. Though his eyes were kindly, and warm like polished oak, there was a sharpness in them which I fancied might cut through to the soul. Despite his white cassock and crimson cap, he did not have the look of a holy man: his face was taut and cracked, like hide stretched over a shield, and his shoulders seemed more suited to bearing a sword than a staff. He must have been twenty years my senior, the years etched into him, yet there was unbending strength there which I would not want to meet in battle.
‘Tatikios desires to know why eighty bushels of the Emperor’s grain have not reached him,’ I said.
‘Then your errand is futile.’ He smiled at me. ‘If the grain had been in my hands, it would already have passed to his. I can only suppose that some of Count Raymond’s men must have misnumbered the shipment, and taken it by mistake.’
‘Their mistake means we go hungry.’ I was unwilling to accept excuses that we both knew to be false.
‘Every man in this camp goes hungry. But if Tatikios can control his appetite and forgive the injustice, I will see that the deficit is made good in the next shipment.’
I nodded. We both knew that the Franks delighted in denying the Byzantines our rations, and that we could do nothing about it save protest. When the Franks had passed through Constantinople, the Emperor had used his command of their provisions to force obedience; now the trick was revisited on us.
‘And what news of Drogo?’ the bishop asked. He spoke lightly, but did not try to mask his interest.
‘There is no news of Drogo,’ I said harshly. ‘Nor of Rainauld. Bohemond seems to have lost his interest in the question, and even if he had not, I am no longer minded to serve him.’
‘It was an evil thing that his nephew did with the prisoners. If I could have stopped him . . .’ He parted his clasped hands before him, like a man releasing a bird.
‘There seems to be much evil in this army that you cannot stop.’ The memory of Tancred swept aside all caution and respect for rank. ‘Prisoners are killed, food is stolen, and you – you who wield the authority of God Himself – claim impotence. How is it that God’s legate has so little power in the Army of God?’
Adhemar did not flinch. ‘The brighter the light, the darker the shadow. Sometimes evils, great evils, must be borne in a higher cause.’
‘The cause of letting thousands die besieging an unbreakable city?’
‘The cause of salvation – and of peace also.’ He leaned forward, his brow creased by intent or sadness. ‘Do not scoff when I say peace. For all my life – and yours also – the peace of God, to which all Christians should adhere, has been nothing more than a dream in Christendom. Norman against Greek, Frank against German, father against son and emperor against king – ambition and greed have stirred every lord against his neighbour. Dukes become kings and earls become counts, but at what profit? A lord may add another country to his estate, but it is a wasted land, its fruits and its people pillaged by war. In such circumstances, famine and pestilence and hate and despair and all other works of the Devil flourish, while faith and justice are obliterated.’ He closed his eyes in pain, and I wondered what images he saw behind them. ‘You have seen the princes, Demetrios, their pride and their jealousies. Only a single power could impose peace on them: God’s power, as vested in the Pope. All my life I have worked to advance that power. Now we are at its crisis.’
His words were heartfelt, supple and strong as steel, but all his preacher’s art could not mask the contradiction at their core. ‘You would make peace by waging war?’ I asked. ‘Truly, it is said: “I bring no peace but the sword.”’
Adhemar shook his head. ‘You do not understand our purpose. Since the time of Pope Gregory, the church has fought with words and swords to bend the princes of the Earth to its rule, so that under one authority there need be no struggle. Now, at last, my lord Pope Urban has united all the tribes of Christendom under the banner of the cross. Their feet tread the road to Jerusalem, and their souls walk the still thornier path to the peace and fellowship of Christ. For the first time in history, the lords of the Earth have willingly submitted themselves to the direction of the church.’
‘Would they have followed you without the prospect of war and plunder?’ Afterwards I might wonder that I had spoken so freely, so intemperately, to a man of Adhemar’s station, but for now his proselytising energy provoked equal response.
‘The church must work in the world God made. And human flesh is weak. But if we can keep hold of their ambitions, and govern their wills, then eventually we may guide them to a higher path. This great project is the crucible in which the power of the church, and the peace of Christendom, will be forged. Do you wonder, then, at the fires that burn us?’
‘I wonder that you claim to govern their wills, yet cannot command eighty bushels of wheat to reach my camp safely. Nor even keep Tancred from committing the foulest abomination. I see no power – only vain words.’
‘There are many powers in this world, visible and invisible,’ said Adhemar patiently. ‘When Christ came, he did not bring an army of angels to smite his enemies. His was the power to teach and to endure suffering; the power of compassion over anger. If I had ten thousand knights at my command I would be a rival to the princes, and they would sift my words through suspicion and distrust. It is only by forsaking the means to their form of power that I gain the spiritual power to engage their souls. Moral strength comes from weakness in arms – but it is a transient strength, easily spent, and thus much must be sacrificed to the greater end.’
He sat back, apparently drained by the sermon, while I at last let deference reassert itself. It seemed to me that he spoke in paradox, theological riddles to cloud his impotence, but I did not say so. Instead, his last words had spurred a new thought in me.
‘On the subject of Drogo, your Grace, there is an aspect of his death which goes beyond my understanding.’
Adhemar gestured to me to continue.
‘A month before he died, he and his companions journeyed to the valley of Daphne. I have followed their path and seen where they went. Beneath one of the ancient villas, they discovered a hidden chamber.’ As best I could remember, I described the form and the decoration of the cave. ‘It was as nothing I have ever seen.’ Nor had I discovered anything from the priests in our camp, who had shied away from any report of such pagan evil, enjoining me only to confess and forget it. ‘I wonder whether in learning to combat idolatry, you have heard of anything similar?’
Adhemar scratched his white beard, his eyes apparently fixed on some knot in the wood of the table. ‘A bull,’ he murmured, repeating what I had told him. ‘It was an animal, I believe, much worshipped by the ancients. Stephen!’
He called, and a young dark-haired priest appeared from behind the inner curtain of the tent. I felt a stab of wounded confidence that words I had spoken so intemperately to the bishop had been heard by another. The priest ignored me, however, and inclined his head to his master.
‘Fetch the writings of the fathers from my library,’ Adhemar said.
The priest disappeared and Adhemar looked back to me. ‘We shall see what ancient authorities can tell us of ancient idolatry.’
In a few minutes the priest returned, bearing two enormous volumes. They were artfully made, stitched with crimson thread and bound with stout iron locks, while the leaves within seemed tinged with a great age. Unlocking one with a key that he took from his robe, Adhemar cracked it open and turned slowly through the pages. They whispered and crackled like fire. I could not read the script but I could admire its beauty: row upon row of words in perfect alignment, broken every so often by oversized letters swirling across the page. So even was the text that it might have been hammered out from a mould, like coins in a mint.
‘His Holiness, my master, foresaw that I might need the direction of wisdom in the wilderness.’ Adhemar licked his finger and turned another page. ‘These are from his own library in Rome. Ah.’ He took a candle from the priest, who had fetched it unprompted, and held it close to the parchment. ‘Here is what Eubulus says of the ways
