another to put their faces into the water, the last climbing over the first, and all of them sucking down the life- giving liquid. The horses, getting the scent in their nostrils, plunged chest-deep into the river where they stood with their noses sunk in the water.
When every last pilgrim had drunk as much as he could hold, they all turned their attention to replenishing every cask and butt and skin with fresh water. Then the children were joined by their elders as they bathed and frolicked in the shallows, splashing cool water over their blistered, sun-burnt bodies, making the nearby ruins echo with glad shouts and the sound of laughter.
As the meadow was full and green-the first good pasturage they had seen since leaving Constantinople-Prince Bohemond gave the order to halt and make camp. They grazed the animals on the wide rivermead and enjoyed a comfortable night. The next morning, after another swim and soak in the river, the crusaders moved on reluctantly.
They had only just reformed the line and begun the day's march when Sultan Arslan and the massed Seljuq warhost attacked and cut the crusader army to small, bloody pieces.
BOOK III
January 16, 1899: Edinburgh, Scotland
Caitlin and I were married in the spring of 1871. A few weeks after Angus and Libby were wed, my lovely Cait and I tied the knot and began a long and mostly sunny life together. I still saw Angus at the office, of course, and we still went to the club on the rare occasion, but we were both soon too preoccupied with the demands-financial and otherwise-of our burgeoning families to resume our old bachelor ways.
Our second wedding anniversaries saw two couples very much in love, and looking hopefully towards a prosperous and happy future. Then, only three short months later, Angus was dead.
Like so many others, he succumbed to the influenza epidemic which swept all of Europe that year. I knew nothing about his illness. I vaguely recall that he did not appear at work on Friday, and I did not see him over the week's end. By Monday morning, he was gone, having passed in the early hours of the night.
I was devastated. My best friend, gone for ever, and I never had the chance to say good-bye, to tell him how much his friendship meant to me. After the funeral, Libby and the child-they had a little girl less than a year old- moved back to Perth, where her mother and father lived; and though she and Caitlin kept up a regular correspondence, it was never to be the same.
I bring all this up now, because, as I think on it, Angus' funeral was the turning point. I took part in the service, naturally, and as I read out the eulogy, I happened to look up from my reading to see someone standing alone at the back of the chapel. It was Pemberton. Grim and tall in a black suit, his coat over his shoulders like a cape, he was standing with his hands folded before him, his eyes downcast.
But just as I noticed him, he raised his head slowly and looked at me. Not, I mean, as one does when being addressed from a pulpit-I was delivering the eulogy, after all-but… and how can I describe this? He raised his eyes and fixed me with a most extraordinary stare. Although he was at the back of the chapel and I at the front, his gaze penetrated straight to my very soul and filled me with such sadness that I was instantly overcome and was forced to break off my prepared speech. I fear I muttered something incomprehensible in conclusion and sat down as a great crushing wave of grief washed over me.
Afterwards, when I had collected myself somewhat, I looked for Pemberton at the reception, but he failed to appear. Six months later we met again. Caitlin had taken the sprog-we now had a delightful little cherub named Annie to amuse and amaze us-to her aunt's house for a summer visit. I could not get away from the office to go with them, so stayed home, fending for myself. I was sitting in the smoking room at the club, reading the paper, and waiting for the dinner gong, when I became aware that someone was watching me. Glancing up, I saw Pemberton sitting across from me, and looking very much the way he had looked the day I'd seen him at the funeral.
'Are you alone this evening?' he asked, politely, but without preamble.
'Mr Pemberton,' I said, 'what a pleasant surprise. I did not hear you sit down. Yes, I am dining alone this evening-wife off to the country for a fortnight. I'm sick of my own cooking, so thought I might pop round to see if the Old Stag still provides a decent haunch of an evening.'
'Oh, excellent as ever, I assure you,' he replied. 'In fact, I would be most gratified if you would join me for dinner. I have been wanting to talk to you for some time.'
'How very kind of you. I would be delighted, sir.'
The gong sounded at that moment, and the tall gentleman stood. 'I asked to have a table waiting. I hope you don't mind if we go right in. We have much to talk about, I think.'
Talk we did, to be sure. We spoke briefly of poor Angus' untimely death, as I expected we would, and he said, 'I was very touched by your tribute to Alisdair at his funeral. I know his parents were very grateful for your friendship with him,' he paused, and added, 'as was I.'
Conversation then passed to other things. Our discussion ranged the length and breadth of the British Empire, I think: Egypt, the Sudan, India, Hong Kong, and a few dozen other countries I can't remember. He seemed to know about, or have interests in, all these places, and spoke not as a casual observer, but as one with an intimate familiarity.
Much of what he said that night I found incredible. Indeed, I went home thinking I had passed the evening with a madman. Harmless, perhaps, but mad as a hatter. Definitely.
In the weeks and months that followed, however, I found myself returning time and again to something he had told me-a peculiar phrase he'd used, or startling observation he'd made-and little by little it began to make sense. Curiosity took hold of me, and I found myself wondering what else he knew.
I determined to see him again. As I did not know any other way to get in touch with him, I left a note at the Old Stag, thinking that if he came to the club more regularly than I, the porter could give it to him next time he popped in. Sure enough, within a fortnight I received a reply. It came on gold-trimmed, cream-coloured stationery, very expensive, and said, simply: 'Delighted to see you again. Would dinner on the sixteenth suit? Best regards, Pemberton.'
Taking this to mean that we would meet at the club, I turned up on the night just before eight, and settled into my customary chair. By eight-thirty, I was beginning to think I'd missed the boat, when he came striding in. Looking neither left nor right, he marched to where I was sitting and shook me by the hand, apologized for being late, and pulled me with him into the dining room where, as before, he had a table waiting.
Our talk that night was no less wide-ranging than previously, but this time I listened most intently to all he said, and tried very hard to remember any detail he might mention about himself. At the end of the evening, I had learned very much about maritime exploration in Polynesia, and Renaissance philosophy in France, but almost nothing about my host. As we made our farewells, he took me by the hand and looked straight into my eyes, and said, 'I wonder if you would care to make the acquaintance of two of my closest friends.'
This took me off guard, and I must have hesitated, for he said, 'I see I've made you uncomfortable. Forgive me. It was only a thought.'
'No, no,' I protested, 'I would be honoured to meet your friends, Mr Pemberton. Truly, I -'
'Pembers, please. I feel we know each other well enough, don't you, Gordon?'
'Of course,' I agreed; and it seemed he had taken me into his confidence – an intimacy I was certain he did not bestow lightly.
'Splendid,' he said. We arranged a time for our next meeting, and bade one another good evening.
In the cab on the way home that night, I thought about what had taken place over dinner. Nothing of import, certainly. In fact, I felt distinctly let down. I suppose I had been expecting something extraordinary, and had to settle for the merely ordinary instead. Nor did our eventual dinner with his two friends seem remarkable in any way. They were agreeable enough gentlemen: one a short, well-upholstered Welshman named Evans, and the other a slender, grey-haired chap of French extraction by the name of De Cardou. Both were slightly 'olde worlde' in a pleasant sort of way, and, like our host, refined and voluble, eager and able to talk about anything and everything, yet never giving away the tiniest detail of their personal lives.
