Knights of the Cross

‘His blade passed by me. Why—’

I left her question unanswered. As much as I knew, I could explain later. For now, a single purpose drove me, hopeless though it was. Mushid had already vanished into the alley when I reached the door; by the time I was at the foot of the wall, he would have had enough time to be halfway up the mountain. Nonetheless, I chased him. With every pounding stride I offered prayers to God: that I would find Mushid, that I would avenge the evils he had worked, that I would strike him down for assaulting Anna. After a time I began to see the futility of my headlong search; my malnourished legs began to falter, my lungs to ache. I remembered the grace which had spared Anna from harm, and offered belated thanks for that, but still I stumbled on.

I came into the square in front of the cathedral and halted – not from pain or reason, but because a sudden crowd blocked my path. The great throng of the morning had returned, and though the light was fading, all stared at the figure standing on the steps before the portico. The cone of his bishop’s mitre was silhouetted against the light of the candles which his acolytes held behind him and his hand was raised aloft, clasping a bundle of purple cloth. It was barely larger than the fist which held it: if it was the spear, it was no great portion of it.

The crowd fell silent as Adhemar spoke.

‘The lance is found.’

All around me, men and women fell to their knees in wonder. Some beat their brows on the ground; others lifted their arms to Heaven and sang hymns of praise and thanksgiving. Even in the twilight, every face radiated exultant joy. Sounds of ecstasy and weeping filled the air.

‘Salvation has come.’

? ?

And God came down, and dwelt among us, and we beheld his glory, the evangelist says. I wonder. Was it so simple? If I had lived a thousand years earlier, would I have known Christ as the Messiah, or would I have joined the crowds who jeered him on the cross for an impostor and a fraud? Until Antioch, I imagined myself with the apostles; now, I am not so sure. Did I witness a miracle? From what I have been taught of the ways of God, there is no question: a poor man, despised by his people but beloved of Christ, dreamed a vision; the saint’s message was obeyed, and the promised relic was found in the appointed place. What could be more obvious?

Yet knowing the ways of man, doubts remain. A heretic had this dream months earlier, he said, yet he did not reveal it until his crimes were known and his punishment was at hand. It saved him from death in flames. Those princes in the army most likely to benefit seized on his prophecy, and presided over its fulfilment. And when even they had lost hope – I later heard – when the diggers cast down their picks and spades in despair, it was Peter Bartholomew who leaped into the pit and scrabbled on his knees until he unearthed the precious fragment. Some said that it looked more like a roofer’s nail than the tip of a lance; others swore that they had seen the sacred blood still crusted on its point. It seems to me now that they believed, and then saw as they believed. For my part, I did not know what to believe.

One day during the fortnight after the discovery of the lance, I put my thoughts to Adhemar. I doubt that I was the first to ask him, for his answer was practised.

‘Saint Augustine writes that there is only one miracle, the miracle of miracles, the creation of this world. All that is in this world proceeds from that, and is thereby miraculous. The signs and portents that we ascribe to God’s wondrous acts do not occur contrary to nature, but by it. If it seems to us that the Lord has gone against the natural order of things, it is merely our understanding of the natural order which is imperfect.’

It did not seem to me that he had answered my question, but I dared not challenge him further. Too many of my doubts about the miracle’s provenance attached to his role in it.

Curiously, it was Anna who defended Adhemar best. I had expected that she, so sceptical of mystics and soothsayers, would dismiss the lance as a ruse and a sham. Instead, she seemed happy to accept it.

‘Of course it is ambiguous,’ she said. ‘Of course it is open to every suspicion and doubt. How else could the Lord test our faith?’

‘The conjurors in the market seek my faith. I do not oblige them simply because they ask.’

‘Because your reason tells you that they are bent on fraud. But how would you have answered if a humble carpenter had proclaimed himself the Son of God, the Saviour of the world, and called you to cast off all possessions and follow him?’

‘That was different. He performed miracles by which he might be known.’

Anna folded her arms. ‘Exactly.’

And though I prayed every night, imploring Christ to strengthen my faith beyond the weakness of doubt, the truth remained veiled.

Certainly, for those who did believe, the miraculous beneficence of the lance was plain. On the very day when it was found, Kerbogha’s army came down off the mountain, leaving only a passive garrison to guard the citadel. Some said it was because they were exhausted, parched of water and broken by too many days of defeat. But Bohemond himself declared that a single further assault would have shattered his ranks, and so this respite was ascribed to the lance. Indeed, its power seemed to have robbed Kerbogha of all stomach for battle: not only did he withdraw from the mountain, but he did not seek to break down our defences elsewhere either. He disposed his army around Antioch’s walls, besieging the gates and bridges, and waited for us to starve.

And there, even the most fervent advocates of the lance began to lose faith. Kerbogha’s new strategy saved us from the press of battle, but nothing could cure the misery of our condition. Famine consumed us. Each day it seemed there was nothing to eat, yet each day after there was less. Limbs shrank into themselves until skin and bone fused together, while bellies – by some cruel junction of humours – swelled as if we had gorged ourselves. Men pulled apart dung with their bare hands, seeking even a single grain which might remain undigested. We stripped the trees of their leaves and ate those, boiling them into green soups to stretch them further. Afterwards it looked as though winter had come to the orchards. The few who still had horses cut open the beasts’ veins, draining their blood into cups and drinking it. One day I saw a Lotharingian knight lead his horse through the streets, shouting that for a bezant any man could buy the cup of salvation. Later, I saw a mob chase him away, hurling abuse and stones and beating on his heels with sticks. I could not tell if it was the greed or the blasphemy which had offended them.

Such was our hunger that time itself seemed to contract. Counting now, it seems impossible that a mere twelve days passed from taking the city to finding the lance but that we endured a full two weeks of starvation afterwards. With no battles, and no strength, the period passed like a dream. My sight grew hazy, as if I was fading from the world, and my mouth was filled with a sweetness like ripe fruit, though I had eaten none in months. Every day I sat on my tower, half-asleep, staring out on the vastness of Kerbogha’s camp, the opulence of his tents and the brilliance of the horsemen who rode between them. At night, I lay half-awake on my stony bed, listening to the bleating of the herds that Kerbogha’s army had brought to feed themselves. I remembered the pagan legend of King Tantalus, neck-high in water but ravaged by an unquenchable thirst, and wondered if the lance had brought us not to Heaven but to Hell.

One evening, while Anna and I lay sleepless in the tower, I confessed the secret of my part in the city’s downfall, my guilt for the slaughter that followed. It had weighed so heavy on my soul that I feared it might be too enormous to reveal, but now I did not have the strength to withhold it. It poured out, almost unbidden, and Anna listened in silence. When I was done, I could hardly bear to hear her response.

Again she surprised me. Her words were neither harsh nor angry, but gentle. ‘It was not your doing. If we had not come into the city, Kerbogha would have crushed us in our camp. What happened afterwards, the slaughter of the Ishmaelites – that is for the Normans to repent, if God will forgive them. You cannot take the burden of their sins upon yourself. There was only ever one man who did that, and he died a thousand years ago.’

Reason told me that she spoke truly, but reason alone could not wash my conscience clean. Yet her words proved to be a balm: at first they made little difference, but over time, working their way into the wound, they began to knit together the lacerations in my soul, to heal me. Even so, the scar would remain.