‘He has already lost the allegiance of the others – they merely wait for one of their number to be the first to repudiate him. As for Tatikios, this is no longer his concern.’
‘If we move now, men will see another instance of Byzantine cowardice. They will say we do it to escape the enemies approaching from the north.’
‘You would do better to fear the enemies camped to your south.’ Raymond stooped to pass through the door, and I followed him into the mild evening. ‘When the Turks come and find us trapped between the river and the city, it will not matter if you are in your camp or my camp or even Duke Godfrey’s camp.’
He looked to the north, where the sky was firming into darkness. ‘There will be no escape when Kerbogha comes.’
? ?
We moved our camp next day, squeezing our tents into the spaces left by Provencals who had died or fled. Every day, it seemed, the weather grew warmer and the skies bluer; trees blossomed and the earth hardened, but nothing could shake off the mournful cloud building over the army like a thunderhead. At night our campfires hissed with whispered rumours of Kerbogha, and each morning fresh patches of bare earth revealed where more tents had vanished away. Yet still the princes could find no way of cracking the city – nor even seemed minded to try. They garrisoned their towers and shot arrows at defenders on the walls, but they moved not an inch closer.
One day, in the middle of May, I was sitting by the river alone, wondering how I might save Anna if Kerbogha overran our camp. Despite all my pleas she had refused to take ship to Cyprus, claiming that she would be most needed when the Turks attacked. I feared gravediggers would be more use. I buried my hand in the earth of the river bank and pulled out a fistful of pebbles, tossing them one by one into the green water. If only I could have cast my cares away so easily.
The clash of metal rang out and I stared round. A little way upstream I could see a loose knot of figures standing near the bank. They carried a rustic armoury of axes, hammers and billhooks, waving them viciously above their heads. In their midst I could see the flashing blade of a lone sword.
I scrambled to my feet and sprinted towards them. They were peasants, Franks, their ragged clothes scarce fit for rubbing down horses. By the turbaned head which bobbed between them, I guessed they had happened on a lone Turk far from his lines. They were baiting him like a dog, and if they did not disembowel him with their tools they would soon drive him into the river.
‘What are you doing?’ I shouted as I drew near.
‘An infidel spy.’ One of the Franks leaped back as the Turk’s sword swung past his chest. ‘The lord Bohemond will pay well for his corpse.’
‘Demetrios Askiates?’ With a ringing clang, the Ishmaelite parried a blow from a billhook and looked up. In shock, I saw that it was not a Turk but a Saracen, the swordsmith Mushid. ‘In the name of your God and mine, get these hounds away from me.’
‘Leave him alone.’ I drew my own sword, for in those days it never left my side, and jabbed it at the nearest Frank.
The peasant, a gaunt and hairless man, spat at my feet. ‘His life is ours. No Greek will keep us from him.’
‘And no Frankish villein shall kill a man under my protection.’ I rolled my wrists and swung the sword. The peasant had begun to raise his sickle; my blade caught on its curve and tore it from his hands. As the other Franks stared, Mushid brought the flat of his sword down on the knuckles that gripped a hammer. They sprang open and the tool dropped to the ground. Before it landed, a kick in the belly had sent another of the Franks sprawling back, while I reversed my blade and thumped the pommel into one more adversary’s face. Blood dribbled from his lip.
‘We will return here, traitor,’ the gaunt man warned me. His gaze darted to the fallen sickle, but two hovering swords warned against rashness. ‘I will come back with my brothers and I will rip out every inch of your entrails so that when I finally throw you in the river you will float all the way to Saint Simeon.’ He stumbled away, drawing his bruised companions after him.
‘You fight well, considering the poverty of your blade.’ Mushid wiped his own blade on the hem of his white woollen robe, squinted down it to check for cracks, then replaced it in its sheath. The iron barely whispered as it slid into the scabbard.
‘The Varangians have been teaching me. I fear I will have more than peasants and pruning hooks to fight before long.’
Mushid’s dark eyebrows lifted. ‘Kerbogha?’ I must have shown some surprise, for he laughed. ‘You forget, Demetrios, that I travel widely in my trade. These past weeks the talk has been of little else.’
‘Do you know where he is?’ In the back of my mind, I wondered what other rumours this smiling, itinerant craftsman might carry, and to whom he might report them.
‘At Edessa. He thought to reduce the city first, but it has proved harder than he thought. I suspect he will soon abandon it and hasten on to greater battles.’
‘And easier pickings.’
‘Come, Demetrios: your swordplay is not so bad.’ He looked at the sky. ‘But I must hurry on, for the wars of this world need swords to fight them. Will you accompany me through the camp? I do not want to dirty my blade again on peasants.’
As we walked north, through the Norman lines, a thought occurred to me. ‘You said you travel widely. Have you ever been to Persia?’
‘Often. It is said that the Sultan in Isfahan himself carries one of my blades.’
‘Tell me: on your journeys, did you ever encounter the worship of a Persian deity named Mithra?’
Mushid looked perplexed. ‘There have been no gods save Allah in Persia for four hundred years – since the Prophet, praise him, converted its peoples to truth.’
‘You have never heard of this Mithra?’
‘Never. Why?’
I hesitated. ‘You were friendly with Drogo. Did he ever speak to you of religion?’
‘A little. Our friendship was easier without it. He was very devout, I think.’ He paused, his smooth face furrowed in thought. ‘You ask about ancient gods, and then about Drogo’s faith. What are you truly asking, I wonder?’
‘I seek any thread I can grasp. Drogo’s murderer has still not been found.’
‘That is bad. The Devil draws strength when his deeds go unchecked.’
‘Then he must be strong indeed at the moment.’
We walked on a little in silence, our hands ever on the hilts of our swords to discourage the hate-filled looks we drew. Eventually, Mushid said: ‘If a man in my village were killed, I would seek his murderer nearby, among his friends, his lovers, his servants and his master.’
‘Drogo’s friends were building the tower by the bridge, and it was his servant who brought us to the body. His lovers . . .’ I thought of the woman, Sarah, whom many had seen but none could find. ‘I do not know. As for his master, Bohemond—’
I broke off in surprise as I saw where we had arrived. Even as I spoke Bohemond’s name, we had come into open ground, in the midst of which stood his huge, crimson-striped tent. A banner emblazoned with a silver serpent hung limp in front of it.
‘I must leave you here,’ said Mushid.
‘For Bohemond?’ Though I hated the memory, I thought of Tancred’s abomination with the Turkish prisoners. ‘You do not know what Normans will do to Ishmaelites like you.’
Mushid smiled. ‘Even Normans can stem their hatred if there is gain to be had. Bohemond seeks a weapon to slice open the city. Perhaps I can supply the blade he needs. Thank you for guiding me here.’
He inclined his head, then strode confidently into the tent. Neither of the guards challenged him.
Two weeks later, at the end of May, Sigurd, Anna and I sat around our campfire, eating fish stew. Our
