‘He can barely open his mouth to drink. Have they found the lance?’
‘No. It seems that Saint Andrew did not specify how deep it might be buried.’
I paused, interrupted by a fit of choking by my feet. Quino’s hand shot out from his side and scrabbled on the floor; his eyes opened, and he seemed to be staring on me with horror. I bent low and inclined my ear, but there were no words, only the hiss and gurgle of air. His eyes closed, and he lapsed back into whatever dreams possessed him.
Afternoon came, and with it a stillness that settled over the city like dust. The festive atmosphere of the morning had gone; when I drifted back to the church of Saint Peter, there were no crowds to keep me from its door. A cluster of watchful pilgrims stood in a circle before the altar, but it took little effort to push through them and look down into the pit which the diggers had excavated for themselves. A rampart of earth and broken stones surrounded the hole, and I thought I could see a stump of bone among the rubble. Had they disturbed the grave of some early saint or martyr? It would be an unfortunate beginning.
On the opposite side of the hole, I saw Count Raymond stand back from his labour and mop his face. The cloth must have been stained with the red soil they had excavated, for it left a weal of earth across his grizzled cheek. His tunic was likewise smeared with sweat and mud. He pushed out his chest and tipped back his head, and I could see the weariness in his aged limbs. It was in his face, though, that he seemed oldest.
‘I must go,’ he said.
‘My
Tired and worn he might have been, but there was strength enough in Raymond’s eye that even a man as shameless as Peter stepped back under its glare. ‘I am called to defend this city – and you – from the Turks. That too is Christ’s work.’
‘It is right to do so.’ Adhemar sat in front of the altar on his episcopal chair, staring down on the diggers like a stone saint. ‘Count Raymond should relieve Bohemond’s watch on the citadel.’
‘But in my dream the saint commanded twelve men to accompany me.’
There was a spade in Raymond’s hands and for the briefest instant I thought he might swing it, mace-like, into Peter’s self-righteous face. Or perhaps that was my hope.
The count pulled himself out of the pit and wiped the earth from his hands. He pushed through the onlookers, followed by a gaggle of his knights and attendants. As he passed me I saw bitterness in his features, disappointment that he had sought but had not found.
Another knight was found to take Count Raymond’s place and the digging went on. The heat under the silver dome grew and the watching crowd thinned. From out in the city, I heard the terrible squeals of a mule or donkey being slaughtered, and wondered if it was the one that Peter Bartholomew had ridden that morning. It would have been no use for war, and there now seemed little hope that we would need a baggage train again.
The hole deepened. The men who dug were in it up to their waists now, and still they turned up nothing but potsherds and gravel. They stabbed at the earth; had they actually found the lance, they would probably have struck sparks from it. Anger and defeat and misery filled the pit, and spilled out to infect the few pilgrims who remained to watch.
I left, and for an hour I wandered without purpose through the streets. I walked in the shadow of the walls, hearing snatches of conversation from the guards above. I found a small church tucked behind an abandoned bakery and entered its stifling gloom to offer a few private prayers. After a time, I found myself near the quarter which Bohemond had burned down two days earlier, and I marvelled that already shoots of life were growing back from the ashes. Tents had been pitched on clear ground, and awnings stretched from the walls and timbers which still stood. Mothers sat on scorched rocks feeding their babies, and children black as Nubians chased each other through the ruins. Their shouts seemed uncommonly loud in the open, silent space.
As the shadows began to creep back over the city, I retraced my aimless steps to the church of Saint Peter. A single glance confirmed that no miracle had occurred in my absence. The knot of watchers around the hole was thinner than before, and even from the door I could see Adhemar’s impassive figure beyond them. He and Raymond had gambled on a charlatan, and their last effort to thwart Bohemond and the Turks had failed. No wonder the bishop seemed so forlorn, alone on his chair above the low business of digging.
I walked back to the house by the walls, feeling the copper gaze of the setting sun on my face. I did not need Sigurd’s knowledge of portents to ascribe it a meaning.
As soon as I came within sight of the door, the guard hailed me. ‘Demetrios. Anna has been seeking you. The Norman has woken.’
In an instant, the lethargy of a hot afternoon was washed from my mind. ‘How long since?’
The Varangian shrugged. ‘Not long. But it will not last long, either. She said it was the last coil of his strength unravelling.’
I ran through the gate and across the courtyard, under the plane tree into the infirmary. In my haste, I may have kicked against some of the other patients on the floor, but I was heedless of their cries. I came to the end of the room, where Quino lay, and knelt beside him. His black eyes were open and the dullness that had glazed them was wiped away. He tried to raise himself on his elbow as he saw me, but the effort was too much.
‘Quino.’ I spoke gently, as to a child, though desperation consumed me.
‘I am dying.’
‘Yes.’ Sometimes it is a mercy to deceive the dying, but I sensed that Quino craved only honesty.
‘You are the scorpion, Greek. Now you have stung me to my grave.’
I did not argue. ‘Will you give me your confession?’
A gurgling, choking sound rose from Quino’s throat, and he screwed up his face in agony. Wishing Anna were there, I put my arm about his shoulders and lifted him upright. The coughing subsided.
‘I do not think . . . I do not think God will grant me life enough to confess my sins.’
‘Then tell me what you can. Tell me who killed Drogo.’
Quino’s eyes rolled back in his skull, and I tightened my grip on him. Every fibre of my being implored Christ to save him long enough to answer me.
‘Who killed Drogo?’
Though I had him cradled in my arm, the strength to keep upright was still beyond Quino. As tenderly as I could, I laid him back on the ground.
‘Do you repent it? Your heresy?’ I remembered him on the tower, even before the Turkish arrow had pierced him. A man broken by his conscience.
‘I am beyond . . . repentance.’ His life was measured in words now, each one bringing him nearer death. ‘Soon . . . I will know.’
‘Who killed Drogo?’
‘He took us to the cave. In the valley. He knew the ancient magic. The old gods.’
‘Who? Drogo?’
‘He offered truth.’ Impossible though it seemed, I thought I saw a smile touch Quino’s fractured lips. ‘But I will find it first.’
‘Who offered truth? Did he kill Rainauld also?’
‘He killed the bull. He took us to the cave. He—’
Another spasm racked him. I looked around, hoping desperately that Anna would return to minister to him, but there was no sight of her. There was only the guard, standing by the door and watching uncomprehendingly.
But the coughing seemed to have dislodged some canker on Quino’s soul, for when he spoke again it was with a firmer voice. ‘He knew our sins. He swore that if we betrayed him we would burn in flames. But already I am falling into the fire. His hold is broken.’ Again, the ghostly smile. ‘It is funny, is it not, Greek? I came so many miles, through desert and starvation and war, to follow the cross. And here, in this godless waste, I lost my soul to an Ishmaelite.’
‘An Ishmaelite?’
‘The swordsmith.’
Afterwards, I despised myself for leaving a broken man to die alone. At the time, I had no other thought. Without even pausing to tell the bewildered Varangian what had happened, I ran out of the building and up the stairs to the walls. An absent guard had left a spear leaning against the battlements, and I had the presence of
