‘They are enemies of God,’ said the peasant seriously. ‘Satan favours the Ishmaelites, and leads them on secret paths. Perhaps he sends demons to carry them over water.’
I glanced at Sigurd, but he was working loose a mooring post that we had driven into the river bed and offered no help. ‘If they have demons to carry them across the river, why bother demolishing the bridge?’
Either he did not understand me or he did not care. ‘Last night they killed a boy who went too close to the river. He was found this morning, stuck with their hateful arrows.’ A rivulet of spit oozed down to his chin as he thought of it.
‘Truly it is said, “Be watchful, for you know not at what hour they will come.”’
My bored platitudes did nothing to deter him. To my irritation, he eased himself down onto the edge of the bridge and sat there, trailing his bare feet in the green water. I wondered if I could cut loose the section that held him.
‘It was a cursed house,’ he announced with relish, cleaning a grimy fingernail on his tooth. ‘The boy, the unfortunate, had two masters and both died. Perhaps the priests speak rightly when they say, “A servant cannot serve two masters”. He was picking herbs on the river bank when the Turks, curse them, found him. They say he was found with a sprig of thyme in his hands, stained with his blood.’
Though I had set my back to the peasant, ostensibly to work loose a nail, his final words began to nag at my interest. Against my better judgement, I looked around to prompt him further. But my question was never spoken, for as I turned towards the city and the camps I saw a great column of knights proceeding from among the tents. At their head rode Bohemond, his great stature raised still higher by the white stallion that carried him. His red cloak tumbled over the animal’s flanks and his spear was held aloft so as to gleam in the sun. Behind him the crimson banner with its twisting serpent hung in the still air.
I put down my hammer as it became clear he was approaching the bridge. His steed grew large in my sight, until it was so close that it dwarfed the city and mountain behind. I had to crane my neck to look up, only to be blinded by the sun above.
‘Demetrios Askiates,’ said the shadow that shielded the sun. His voice seemed to draw the warmth from it. ‘I had hoped to find you here.’
‘The Count of Saint-Gilles ordered me to destroy the bridge, lest Kerbogha try to outflank us.’ I felt the eyes of two hundred horsemen, and the foot soldiers beyond, gazing at me, doubtless wondering why a carpenter should delay their lord.
‘Count Raymond did not know that I must cross this river one final time.’ Bohemond let his spear slide through his hand so that the butt thumped onto the wooden deck, the noise echoing off the water below. He looked at my sweat-soaked tunic. ‘Where is your armour?’
‘On the shore.’ I pointed to the near bank, where I had left my mail, sword and shield to be close in case of attack. ‘Why, Lord?’
‘You speak Greek, I presume?’
‘I
‘Then I have need of you. Arm yourself, and follow.’
He was not a man easily disobeyed, even by his adversaries, yet I hesitated. ‘I am charged with dismantling the bridge,’ I said again, knowing the folly of asking for explanation.
‘Then burn it into the water when I have gone and swim after me.’ The shaft of Bohemond’s spear swung like a pendulum in front of me. ‘Come.’
‘Why – to run away from Kerbogha?’ Sigurd’s arms were folded across his broad chest, and he betrayed no fear of the lord before him.
‘Is that what you would do? Flee in terror, as your fathers did before the Duke of Normandy? Suffice it for you to know that I undertake a final foraging expedition. What fruits we shall reap I cannot say, but I promise that they will be sweet. Now come with me, Demetrios, before I lose patience.’
‘And Sigurd?’
Bohemond laughed. ‘I need a man who speaks like the Greeks, not one who fights like them.’
Even without his taunts I would have been minded to refuse him, yet there was something in his manner which made men want to follow, which promised glory and adventure and fortune wherever he went. I was not immune. Nor could I forget my charge from the Emperor, to observe the barbarians and report any treachery. Only the previous night, Bohemond had won approval to hold the city if he took it: now he marched out in strength, and with a need for interpreters. If he had some secret design, it would profit me to witness it. And I was curious.
‘If I am not back before Kerbogha’s army arrives, see that Anna is protected,’ I told Sigurd.
‘They will have to break my axe in two before they harm her.’
‘You will be back before Kerbogha.’ Bohemond spurred his horse, and it began to trot forward over the remaining portion of the bridge. ‘We will march through the night, and by dawn we will have returned. Look for my standard then.’
If Bohemond intended to march through the night, he first seemed intent on marching through the day. With no mount to be wasted on me, I joined the back of his column, lonely under the hostile glares of his men-at-arms, and followed in silence. The heat of the sun and the weight of my armour made common cause against me: the thin tunic I wore beneath my mail did nothing to cushion or smooth the jabbing iron, yet it gave no respite from the heat either. When once my head slumped, I scalded my chin on the metal, for I had no tabard. The men I marched with made loud, coarse jokes about Greeks; frequently they trod on my heels, or tried to trip me with their spears. With sweat stinging my eyes and my armour chafing, I was trapped in a boiling world of misery. And still we tramped onwards, fording the river out of sight of the city and following the road into the hills towards Daphne.
I had only half believed Bohemond when he claimed that he went to forage, and my doubts were well founded: he kept us far from any village or farm, and when we did pass fields or orchards that remained unscathed he allowed us no delay to plunder them. His knights rode up and down the line, hemming us in like sheep and showing the flats of their swords to any who deviated. Mercifully, I did not see Quino.
We must have marched two hours or more, for the sun was already declining when Bohemond at last called a halt. We were in a hollow, a broad natural bowl surrounded by hills and beyond all sight of habitation. A meagre stream ran through it, feeding a marshy pool, and we scooped the brackish water into our mouths as if it were sweet milk. Insects chattered in the bushes. We pulled off our boots and stretched out on the dry grass, too tired to wonder why Bohemond had brought us there. On the rim above, I saw the silhouettes of horsemen patrolling the heights.
‘My friends.’ The words echoed around the bowl, carrying to its furthest reaches. Bohemond had dismounted and was standing on a rock a little way up the slope, looking down on us like a statue in the Augusteion.
‘You have marched hard and far today.’ An afternoon breeze tugged at the red folds of his cloak. ‘And still there are many miles to travel.’
A low, indistinct groan sounded around the hollow.
‘Yet take heart. At the end of this night, a glorious prize awaits those who dare to snatch it. For months we have suffered and waited before the cursed city, borne only on the faith that the Lord God will rescue us. Now, at our darkest hour, as Kerbogha the Terrible approaches, the Lord stretches out his hand and offers us deliverance.’
Bohemond looked at the ridge above where his knights stood sentinel, then turned back to his audience and lowered his voice. ‘Listen. From here we will travel by secret paths into the hills above Antioch. The watchman who holds one of the towers there looks kindly on our cause: I have struck a bargain with him, and he will admit us. Once inside, one party will make to secure the citadel, while another hastens to throw open the gates to our brothers on the plain.’ A jubilant grin shone from his face; for the first time I noticed that he had shaved off his beard. ‘Who is with me?’
‘What if it is a trap? It has happened before.’
It was a courageous man who questioned Bohemond, even one of his own household, but he showed no anger. ‘If it is a trap, then we will fight our way clear, or die in glory as martyrs of Christ. For my part, I have spoken with the watchman, and I trust to his promise. But if we take the walls, trap or no, I will not be dislodged unless I bring all the towers down in ruin about me.’ His gloved hand pulled out his sword and held it up by the blade, so that it appeared as a perfect cross. ‘Do you hear the rustling on the breeze? It is the sound of our grandsons’ scribes, sharpening their pens to record our deeds. Some of you may see an impregnable city, but by God’s grace I see only a new chapter of His greatness waiting to be written. Who will follow me to the walled city? Who will come
