Raymond gave Hugues a vicious look. If the Count entered the Anastasis now, it would be under the auspices of Godefroi’s gener­osity, even though Hugues had relinquished any claim to the Holy Sepulchre. But if Raymond refused the offer, he couldn’t complete his vow to pray at the site of Christ’s resurrection.

  Narbonne considered Hugues for a moment, his thoughtful express­ion conveying depths of understanding that Godefroi hadn’t expected. Eventually, Narbonne nodded gratefully. “The Church is indeed fortunate to have such devoted servants.” He took a deep breath and avoided Raymond’s furious look. “Until such time as the city is subdued, it would be wise to solicit the protection of such valiant warriors. Therefore, I accept your generous offer.”

  “You don’t have the authority to appoint him as protector of this site,” Raymond protested.

  “I make no appointments,” Narbonne replied. “I’ve merely accepted an offer of protection until the city is secure. The Council of Princes will determine the issue of secular leadership. Now if you’ll excuse me, I wish to fulfill my vow and offer a prayer of thanks.” Narbonne swept past them and entered the apse, followed eagerly by Desiderius.

  Red blotches mottled Raymond’s face. “This discussion is not finished, Godefroi.”

  “Of that, messire, I’m certain,” Godefroi replied with a smile.

  Raymond mounted his steed. “I will make sure the Governor cannot escape. He’ll make a good hostage.” Raymond gazed around the ruins in frustration before jerking his reins. The Provençals followed their leader through the southern entrance and back towards the Tower of David.

  “The next battle begins,” Hugues murmured.

  “No.” Godefroi shook his head with a rueful expression. “It has been waged constantly since we left Constantinople.”

  The last Provençal disappeared from sight.

  Godefroi glanced at Hugues. “What of the tomb?” he asked in a murmur. “You’ve effectively handed it over.”

  “We had no choice.” A look of excitement infused Hugues’ face. “But we have what we came for, I think. Now we need a roof over our heads and a detailed map of the city.”

  CHAPTER 18

  15 July 1099

  The āl-Aqsa Mosque

  His tenure had come to an end, at last.

  The Sharif sensed it in the bones of the city and the currents in the wind. Deep within his body, in the sacred place of his being, the balance of things had shifted. His successor approached, vital and unpredictable.

  As the fierce, fair-headed Franj conquered the city, the Sharif allowed himself a modicum of regret. Change was inevitable. He knew this from his long years. But he regretted the upheaval, the toll of lives it always exacted. Would mankind ever learn to embrace a lasting peace?

  He knelt on his prayer mat and placed his forehead on the floor. His prayer was offered in the form that he had learned as a child, facing Mecca. He prayed for the inhabitants of Jerusalem, whose lives were being so carelessly shed.

  For the Franj, he could find no prayer or forgiveness. How could such a wild, uncultured people be chosen to bear the weight of the responsibility he and his brethren had shouldered for so long?

  Sandals clattered on the stone steps outside his private chamber. The door burst open. Kamil ibn Hasan gasped for breath. The Sharif knew who it was without looking. He knew Kamil’s emanation. He knew every inch of the āl-Aqsa Mosque and its devotees as he knew his own body. Many of the faithful cowered inside the mosque above, hoping for mercy. They would ask him to protect them. Denying that request would be his most painful task.

  “Apologies, ālim Sharif,” Kamil said in a breathless voice. ālim Sharif: learned noble. Would they still think of him as such after today?

  “The Franj are slaughtering everyone they find,” Kamil blurted in fear. “It won’t be long before they reach us. Will you not treat with them?”

  The Sharif rose from his prayer mat. Facing the wall, he took a long, calming breath. He turned to Kamil and crushed all remaining hope. “I’m sorry you must bear this message, Kamil. I wish that it were another.” A bitter taste curdled his mouth. “Tell them that I will not come. Tell them their lives are in the hands of Allah. All will be as it is written. Allāhu akbar.” God is great.

  Kamil’s eyes widened in surprise and his thin shoulders shook beneath his robe. Respect for the ālim Sharif withered across Kamil’s face and died. The Sharif tallied another regret in his heart, but he let none of it soften the stern expression on his face.

  “I won’t tell them,” Kamil replied in a trembling voice. He shook his head, perhaps trying to dislodge what he had just been told. The Sharif waited patiently, although he knew little time remained. The Franj drew near.

  Kamil gathered his composure and spat out the words the Sharif needed to hear. “Such a message must be delivered by the coward who spoke it.”

  The Sharif bowed his head. A lifetime of respect spent in a single moment. How could Mercy contend with Severity when it was so easy to destroy what had taken so long to build? He backed against the stone wall and pressed the concealed catch with a click. A draft of air brushed against his calves.

  Kamil gaped at the hidden passage. His expression turned to fury. “You intend to flee? To abandon us when we need you the most?”

  “No,” the Sharif replied calmly. “I intend for you to flee. Go to the place of caves by the sea. Tell them—” The Sharif paused, choosing the right words, the ones that would convey enough but not too much should Kamil be caught. “Tell my brothers that the wind blows from the west and we are all dust before it.”

  Doubt eroded Kamil’s anger. The Sharif shifted perception for a moment to examine Kamil’s emanation. Spikes of fear still shot through his anger and disappointment. The core of Kamil’s being, however, was hardening into something approaching determination. He would need every ounce of it in the days ahead.

  The Sharif made Kamil repeat the message three times before he was satisfied.

  “And what of you?” Kamil asked.

  He noted the absence of his usual honorific but also caught a note of conciliation in Kamil’s voice. Silently, he thanked Ein Sof, the Unknowable, for that small comfort.

  “I will wait for the Franj in the place they seek.” He retrieved his scimitar and dagger from where they rested next to the door.

  The familiar weight of the blades felt good, although he was a shell of what he had once been. “Go now,” the Sharif said. “Don’t fail me.” He bustled Kamil towards the passage.

  A scream echoed down the steps, followed by harsh battle cries that shattered the serenity of the mosque. Kamil stopped, half inside the tunnel, a question upon his lips.

  “Quickly, now,” the Sharif urged.

  Kamil climbed inside with a grimace. “ālim Sharif, what place do the Franj seek?”

  “Peace be upon you, my son.” He slammed the stone facade shut and made sure that it had sealed properly. Only then did he answer the question in words spoken too softly for any to hear. “The place of Solomon, which I am sworn to defend until another takes my place.”

  CHAPTER 19

  15 July 1099

  The Temple Mount

  Save us. Have pity on the children. Show mercy.

  The voices whispering to Achambaud had become more incessant as the day waned. At first, they had only crept into his mind when he was idle. Now that the sacking of the city had begun in earnest, the cries invading his head had become increasingly desperate. Fearing for his sanity, Achambaud had found the one person who could help him.

  “This way.” Achambaud yanked on Hugues’ sleeve as they moved down the narrow, abandoned street.

  “Where are you taking me?” Hugues asked.

  “You must see this.”

  “Achambaud, I hardly think it’s safe to be roaming the streets.”

  He swung around to face Hugues. “All resistance ended when we took the wall. The only danger we need fear now is from our own people.”

  Hugues blinked in surprise. “What’s happening to you?” he asked, placing one hand on Achambaud’s mailed shoulder.

  “Voices. In here.” Achambaud tapped the side of his head. “Get out,” he said through gritted teeth. “Get out! Get out!’

  “Who’s speaking to you?” Hugues demanded. “Tell me.”

  “I’ll show you,” Achambaud replied in a bleak voice.

  The street intersected with another alley to form a small souk. Many of the stalls were overturned or damaged, their goods looted. A few bolts of undyed linen had been ground underfoot and a shattered jar of honey seeped into the cloth.

  Achambaud spotted three headless Saracen bodies. Perhaps they were merchants caught trying to salvage their wares. Their heads had been stacked together on a wooden bench in a pyramid. Someone had cut out their tongues and arranged them neatly in a row. The tongues had blackened as they dried out. They reminded Achambaud of hideously swollen dates. Flies swarmed around the remains in a frenzy.

  Have pity on us. Show mercy, Achambaud.

  They knew his name now. Achambaud shivered in the deepening twilight. The incessant, desperate voices called to him from the east.

  “This way.” Achambaud wove through narrow alleys. His route took them south on occasion, but always east. The smell of death and decaying flesh made him gag. Voices buzzed inside his head like the flies at the souk.

  “Achambaud, where are we going?” Hugues struggled to keep up.

  He ignored the question and pushed on.

  As they travelled deeper into the city, more bodies littered the streets. One Jewish family had been cut down in the doorway of their home. The man and woman lacked hands and feet, which had been arranged to cradle a dead child. The baby girl had been stripped and her soft skin was covered in shallow, cruel cuts. From the looks of utter horror etched into the faces of the parents, it was obvious they had lived long enough to witness the torture of their child.

  “What d’you want?” a voice asked in harshly accented French. A sour looking pedite leaned against the doorframe while munching on an apple. Spittle dribbled down his unshaven face. His tunic and hose were drenched in blood.

  “What happened here?” Hugues demanded.

  “What d’you think happened? I killed them swine just like God told me too.” The man’s sharp gaze took in Achambaud’s armour and sword. “And I claim this home by right of conquest.”

  “Did you slay the child as well?” Achambaud’s voice was remark­ably calm. Deep inside his skull, a man and a woman screamed at the murder of their child. The baby’s piercing wails were heart rending.

  The soldier’s eyes narrowed. “Listen, I was at Civetot with the Hermit’s lot when those Saracens slaughtered almost the lot of us. They didn’t hesitate to kill good Christian women and children neither.”

  This man was no honest Christian. Achambaud did not need to touch his mind to know that. “I understand,” Achambaud replied, “but they didn’t cut off your hands before making you watch as they sliced up your child, did they?”

  Achambaud drew his belt knife and rushed up the steps. The soldier hurled his apple at Achambaud and raised his axe, which he had hidden behind the doorframe. Achambaud caught his raised elbow with his free hand and plunged his dagger into the pedite’s liver. A look of shock fractured across the man’s face. He dropped to his knees and feebly clutched at the dagger’s hilt. Achambaud drew his sword and hacked off the man’s head with a single, furious blow.

  “May your soul burn in the seven circles of Hell for all eternity.” Achambaud spat on the corpse and wiped both blades on the dead man’s tunic.

  “That…was nobly done.” Hugues looked pale and shaken.

  He had forgotten about Hugues in his rage.

  “Three less voices up here.” Achambaud tapped his temple.

  “This is what you wanted me to see,” Hugues said. “The senseless cruelty. Our barbarism. Do you think me ignorant of it?”

  “No.” Achambaud shook his head and sheathed his weapons. “There’s much more.”

  Expressionless, Achambaud led Hugues through a gate that connected to the Temple Mount. Here the voices swelled into an agonised chorus. Achambaud clutched his skull at the intensity of their anguish.

  “Listen to me.” Hugues gripped his shoulder. “You must shut them out. Listening to them will only drive you mad.”

  Achambaud stumbled forwards and caught his first glimpse of the Dome of the Rock. Rising above the flat quadrangle of paved stone, the mosque’s golden dome curved gracefully into the air. The building was shaped like an octagon. Rays from the setting sun bathed the whitewashed walls in shades of red. Achambaud’s gaze dropped to the courtyard. Saracen bodies covered the ground. Pedites and chevaliers picked through the piled bodies looking for valuables. They waded through pools of blood that were ankle deep in some places.

  Misery and horror lifted off the killing ground. To Achambaud, it appeared as a crimson mist filled with hollow, accusing eyes and mouths that gaped in silent agony. The fog billowed across the ground, an enormous wound inflicted upon the marrow of Jerusalem.

  They slaughtered us like animals.

  They cut us down, even though some of your lords gave us their banners for protection.

  “No,” Achambaud whimpered.

  “You must listen to me, Achambaud.” Hugues clawed at his arm. “Shut out the voices of the dead.”

  We pleaded for mercy.

  For salvation.

  “I can’t.” Achambaud moaned in terror.

  “Achambaud!” Hugues shouted in his face.

  You must bear witness.

  You must avenge us.

  The fog darkened into the rusty brown of dried blood and drifted towards him. A face formed in the mist; a bearded face, with shoulder-length hair, a strong chin and haunted eyes. They were taking on his appearance as a way of claiming him.

  “No.” His denial was little more than a hoarse whisper.

  The mist gathered around him. Long tendrils trailed from the bottom of the hideous cloud. Each tendril was connected to a corpse.

  “Hugues?” Achambaud whimpered.

  The death cries of thousands of murdered souls drowned out any reply. The world darkened around Achambaud. He lost sight of Hugues and the beautiful dome. The world was dying and only he could hear its dirge.

  Not quite, brother, a clear voice spoke inside his skull. We’re always gifted with light, if we but choose to see it. You must shut out the grief of the slaughtered lest they overcome you.

  “Who are you?” Achambaud cried out.

  Someone who understands your pain. Someone who can help.

  “You’re another one of them,” Achambaud whispered. “Get out of my head. Leave me be.”

  Achambaud, you must focus now else the anguish of the fallen will drive you insane.

  “How?” Achambaud asked desperately.

  Imagine a circular mosque surrounded by five minarets. The muezzin calls you to prayer. Stand in the centre of the mosque within Allah’s embrace. The prayer joins each minaret to the other, drowning out all else. Imagine that you now stand beneath the dome. This you must do now, before the voices of the dead become stronger than the living.

  Achambaud did as the mysterious voice instructed. He pictured him­self standing within the Dome of the Rock, except the interior looked like the Anastasis. The call of the muezzin wove through the slender minarets, overlapping until they formed a five-pointed star. The voices, the horrors that Achambaud had helped perpetrate, were forced from his mind.

  The voice that had aided him was expelled as well. All that remained was a lingering sense of concern…and a strange sense of kinship.

  “Achambaud? Can you hear me?” Hugues’ anxious face swam into focus.

  He must have fallen to his knees because they both knelt in Saracen blood. The voices of the murdered had finally stilled. Even the terrible mist that had borne his face had dissipated.

  Achambaud blinked. “They’re all dead. Cut down while praying in their mosques. The Jews too. Burned alive inside their synagogue while we stood outside singing Christ We Adore Thee.” He shook his head, not understanding how this knowledge had come to him.

  Achambaud clasped Hugues’ forearms. “What good can possibly justify the sins we’ve committed here?”

  Hugues eyes were filled with pain. “Achambaud, I swear good will come from the deeds of today. It’s our duty to ensure it.”

  Achambaud searched his face. “I’ll hold you to that promise.”

  The sun dipped below the horizon as Hugues led Achambaud in fervent prayer.

  CHAPTER 20

  15 July 1099

  The Merchant Quarter

  It was well into the evening before Hugues finally managed to coax Achambaud away from the Temple Mount.

  A party of Tafurs stumbled into the alley ahead of them. They were singing Christ We Adore Thee interspersed by bouts of laughter. One man pretended he was on fire, running around in circles and trying to pat out the flames with his bare hands. His antics elicited a fresh round of hilarity.

  Achambaud grasped the hilt of his sword. Hugues caught him by the arm and pulled him into the deeper shadow of a balcony. “Do nothing,” Hugues whispered.

  “Do you know how many Jews they burned alive today?” Acham­baud murmured.

  “The Rabbis are friends to the Salt Lines, so I mourn those deaths. But if you try to avenge them, you’ll end up dead as well.”

  “Godefroi’s right.” Achambaud’s dark eyes glittered. “You ask us to have faith, yet you don’t show any in us. I always have the sense that you’re holding something back.” Achambaud removed a gauntlet and reached for Hugues’ temple. “I have bared myself before you, but you remain closed to me.”

 

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