us, looked as though he himself could see the vision at that very moment.
‘I replied: “I do not know you, but I see a cross like our Saviour’s.”
‘“I am He,” He answered.
‘My Lords, I fell at His feet and beseeched His mercy, and the loving Virgin and the blessed Peter fell at His feet also, praying Him to aid us in our distress.’
‘What did He say?’
The memory of the miracle, or the attention of the crowd, had filled the priest with confidence. He crossed himself, turned his face to the heavens and closed his eyes.
‘He said, “All along the length of your journey, through every toil and peril, I have walked beside you. I broke open the walls of Nicaea, and I held your lance at Dorylaeum. When you suffered torments before Antioch I grieved, and when you strayed like lost sheep I lamented your wickedness. It was I who brought you safe into Antioch, rejoicing as you drove the pagan host from my house. At that hour, the angels sang in Heaven, and my holy father was well pleased.”
‘Then he opened his book, and it seemed it was written in letters of fire so that I could not read its words. “Tell my people,” He said, “that if they are with me, I am with them. They will fast, and offer penance, and in five days I will grant a miracle that all will see. I am with you, and none in Earth or Heaven shall stand before me.”’
Stephen’s head slumped forward. ‘He closed his book, yet the light did not dim. Indeed, it grew brighter, and brighter still. I lowered my eyes; I closed them, and covered them with my hands, but still I could not shut out His divine light. When I looked again, He was gone, and I was alone in the church.’
The priest stepped away, shrinking back into himself, and the spirit which had animated him departed. It was as if the sun had retreated behind a cloud, though the sky was immaculately clear. A wondrous silence gripped the mountain top.
Adhemar sat still on his rock, his back straight and his hands folded together. ‘Amen.’
His word was like a pebble cast into the middle of a pond, rippling out through the crowd.
‘And you will swear that all you have said is true?’ Adhemar asked the priest.
‘Before God and all His saints.’
Adhemar waved his hand, and two more priests emerged into the centre of the circle. One held a book bound with silver; the other an ornately jewelled golden crucifix. Adhemar stood, took them, and passed them to Stephen. His hands, I noticed, were shaking again.
Stephen lifted the book.
‘This is the gospel of Christ,’ said Adhemar. ‘Do you swear by its truth the truth of your vision?’
‘I swear it.’
‘This is the cross of Christ. Do you swear on the pain of our Saviour the truth of your vision?’
‘I swear it.’
Adhemar turned to take back his holy artefacts. But the priest was not yet finished.
‘I will swear by whatever oath will satisfy you. If there is any man here who doubts me, I will climb to the top of that tower’ – he pointed to the tower in the wall, where Bohemond’s banner flew – ‘and throw myself down. If I speak truly, surely I will be borne up on the hands of angels, so that not one toe touches the ground. Or, if you prefer, I will suffer the ordeal of fire. The truth of God’s righteousness will guard me from the flames. Does any man ask it?’
He spoke with fervour, though there was a nervous reticence in his eyes which was at odds with his words. I saw Bohemond open his mouth as if to speak, but he closed it again as Adhemar calmly answered: ‘You have sworn on the gospels. That is enough.’
A murmur of assent rumbled through the crowd.
‘We will—’
Adhemar was silenced as a man broke free of the crowd and ran towards him. He fell to his knees at the bishop’s feet and – in a braying voice which Kerbogha himself must have heard in the citadel – declared: ‘Mercy, your Grace: I too have received a vision of the Lord.’
Confusion and consternation erupted from the massed Franks, but if Adhemar felt any surprise he mastered it quickly. He stooped down and raised the man to his feet, then turned him to face the crowd.
I had thought that I recognised the voice, the self-righteousness and wheedling. The face I certainly knew. His hair had been combed since the night before, and a new tunic put on him, but the crooked nose and sneering lip were the same. Truly, it seemed there was nowhere that Peter Bartholomew might not appear.
‘I have beheld His glory too.’ He thrust out his chest like a cockerel readying its crow. ‘In dreams and in visions, Saint Andrew the apostle has visited me.’
I sensed a certain hostility among the throng. Perhaps they did not like Bartholomew’s sudden arrival, or were unimpressed by the lesser saint he had seen. Perhaps they knew him as I did.
Adhemar, though, was indulgent. ‘How often?’
‘Four times.’
The crowd stirred. This was better.
‘Did he speak to you?’
Peter nodded greedily, then remembered his humility and bowed his head. ‘He did. With words so wondrous that I scarcely dared believe them.’
‘What did he say?’ called a soldier from the crowd.
‘He said: “Know my words and obey them. When you have entered Antioch, go to the cathedral of Saint Peter. There, hidden, you will find the spear of the centurion Longinus, the holy lance which pierced the side of our Saviour as he hung on the cross at Calvary.’
I felt warm breath against my ear as Sigurd leaned close. ‘I have seen the lance of Longinus. It is in Constantinople, in the Chapel of the Virgin at the palace.’
‘I know.’
Peter Bartholomew did not think so. ‘Suddenly, it seemed that the saint led me through the city and into the church of the apostle Peter. He reached his hand into the ground – stone and earth were like water to him – and drew forth the lance and gave it into my hands.’
Reliving his vision, Peter had stabbed a fist down and then raised it above his head, brandishing his invisible relic to the crowd. All stares were fixed on it.
‘The saint told me: “Behold the lance which opened Christ’s side, whence has come the whole world’s salvation.”
‘I held it in my hands and wept. I asked to take it to the Count of Saint-Gilles, for at this time we were still hard pressed outside the city walls, but the saint said, “Wait until the city is taken, for then your need will be greatest. At the hour I appoint, bring twelve men to this place and find it where I have hidden it.”
‘He plunged his hand back into the ground, before the steps which lead to the altar, and the lance was gone.’
I looked around. Whatever his failings, Peter Bartholomew was a convincing preacher. His vision seemed to have surpassed even the priest’s in the crowd’s estimation.
‘You said this happened while we were still camped before the walls,’ Adhemar probed.
Peter tilted his head defiantly. ‘It did.’
‘Why, then, do you only tell us now?’
‘Because I was afraid. Because I was poor and you were mighty. “Counts and bishops will not listen to a humble pilgrim,” I told myself. “They will think I tell lies to win favour, or food.” But the saint persisted. Twice more he visited me, commanding me to reveal this miracle, and each time, after he had gone, fear restrained me. Then, yesterday, he appeared again. His eyes flashed, and his red hair burned like fire. “Why do you contemn the Lord your God?” he demanded. “Why, when Christians suffer, do you hold back the words of salvation?”’
Peter’s head was bowed in shame, his hands clasped penitentially before him. ‘As soon as I could, I came to you, my lords, and confessed all. And I will swear it,’ he added, ‘by any holy relic or ordeal you demand.’
If Adhemar was tempted to demand such proof, he did not show it. ‘It is not necessary,’ he declared. ‘Yesterday, in the depths of our distress, as the city burned’ – he glanced significantly at Bohemond – ‘and the Turks assailed us, our Lord granted two visions to the faithful. Hearing them together, we cannot doubt His divine
