Chapter 5
The Palace of the Patriarchs. Not much to look at, from the street. A towering block of dung-brown stone, heavily fortified, no flags or banners, just two or three arched windows high up on the second storey. And a cavernous entrance punched through the eastern wall, opposite the Church of the Holy Sepulchre.
Solid workmanship is the best you can say for it.
Never set foot inside, myself, though I’ve passed it often enough. Don’t much care for the neighbourhood, personally. Wedged between the grain market and the Postern of Saint Lazarus: between a floating mist of chaff and the stink of decaying lepers (huddled around the postern like flies around an open wound). Either way, you can hardly breathe. And the smell hasn’t improved since I was last in the area. In fact there seems to be more dung on the street – unless I’m imagining things.
You forget what it’s like out here, when you’re living in Templar headquarters. You forget that people out here aren’t forced to scrub the pavement with lime when they piss on it.
‘Make way! Make way! Out of the way, woman!’ A palace guard, beating through the doleful crowds on the doorstep. They’re new, as well. Never seen them before. Not beggars, either: most of them are quite well dressed, in rain capes and lamb’s wool and embroidered money pouches. Hugging their bags and bundles, nursing listless children on their knees. At a guess, I’d say they were stranded pilgrims. Stranded pilgrims waiting for help.
Lord Roland catches my eye as they shuffle apart to let us through. He obviously doesn’t like it.
‘Pagan.’ (Softly.) ‘Does that child look ill to you?’
‘I don’t know, my lord.’ Who do you think I am – Brother Gavin? Doesn’t look too bad. Doesn’t look too good, either. ‘Do you want me to ask anyone?’
‘No, no. I’ll take it up with the Patriarch.’
On through the gate and into the courtyard, which is paved with stone and deep as a well. Shadowy doorways lead off in all directions. Bales of straw. A broken cartwheel. And stretched out on an empty barrel to dry, somebody’s quilted corselet. Most of the guards are wearing them. Used to wear one myself, on night patrol. The poor man’s armour: two flimsy layers of linen stuffed with flax. A single downpour and you spend the rest of your life trying to dry it out.
‘You there!’ Lord Roland’s ‘patrician’ voice. Crisp, confident, imperious. Used only on special occasions. ‘We have a meeting with the Patriarch. We are expected.’ The usual rapid response, as the guard ushers us both through one of the doorways. Beyond it, a stairwell drenched in urine. Delightful. A stink so bad it practically dissolves your teeth at fifty paces. Haven’t smelt anything this ferocious since Odo last took off his boots.
Lord Roland, of course, doesn’t twitch a nostril. Pursues the guard at a leisurely pace, like someone who wouldn’t know an urgent summons if he was married to it. Just passing through, you know. Thought I’d drop in – catch up on the gossip . . . And suddenly there’s carpet underfoot. Rich woollen carpet, straight from Damascus. Tapestries on the walls. Flickering silken scenes, weaving and swaying as stray draughts punch at their backs.
We turn left . . . left again . . . through a big carved door . . . and stop.
Behold the Patriarch.
‘Lord Roland! Praise God. We’ve been waiting this last hour. Welcome, my lord, you must hear this, come in. Who’s that? Your squire? Come in . . .’
When did I last see him? Easter before last, I think, in the Church of the Holy Sepulchre. He looks about the same. Not your typical career cleric. Most of them are running to fat, but this one’s kept his figure. Tall, slim and supple; narrow shoulders; long neck; face that launched a thousand fantasies. The Lily of the Auvergne, they call him. Frankish, of course. Eyes like sapphires and lashes as long as your arm. No brain to speak of, but who needs a brain when you’ve got the kind of brawn that appeals to women of influence? Everyone knows that he wooed his way to the top.
Beside him, the Master-Sergeant. God preserve us. One glance, and he looks away.
I don’t recognise the other man.
‘You know the Master-Sergeant, of course. And this is Ernio of the Mallone. A merchant from Acre.’ The Lily waves a graceful hand, studded with badly chewed fingernails. ‘He’s brought us news from the north. Tell Lord Roland what you just told me, Master Mallon.’
‘My lord.’ The merchant bows. He’s a chunky, careful, grey-headed Venetian. The sort of man you generally never see without his samples, account books, and brother-in-law. But he doesn’t look well. His eyes are bloodshot, his colour is bad. There’s a greasy shine to his complexion. ‘My lord,’ he says, ‘Acre has surrendered. Saladin has occupied the city. The Seneschal offered it in exchange for all lives and possessions ten days ago –’
‘And now Saladin has moved north,’ the Lily breaks in. ‘North and east, into Galilee and Samaria. But Tyre has held out. As I said it would.’ No prize for guessing what he thinks. This supports his argument for doing damn-all. Lord Roland frowns.
‘Was there no defence at Acre? No fighting?’
‘No, my lord. I think they lost heart, when they saw the King held captive. He was there himself.’ A pause, as the merchant plucks up his courage. ‘And so was your Grand Master, my lord. The Grand Master of the Templars.’
‘What?
’ ‘They were both there. I saw them, before we left.’
Well, well, well. Here’s a puzzle. The first Grand Master to survive captivity for more than a day. Theoretically, he’s supposed to be a waste of space – because you can’t ransom a Templar. So why has Saladin kept him alive?
‘We should send for reinforcements from the south,’ says the Lily, ‘while the Infidels are still in the north. We should bring in troops from Gaza to defend us.’
‘But if Gaza sends troops, who will defend Gaza?’ says Lord Roland. ‘You should remember that Egypt lies to the south, your grace. In Gaza they have problems of their own.’
The voice of reason. But he sounds preoccupied, as if he’s wrestling with a private concern. The Lily begins to gnaw at a thumbnail.
‘Gaza is nothing,’ he whines. ‘Gaza is not the holy city. They must send troops, when they hear we are threatened.’ (To the merchant.) ‘How many of you have come from Acre? Did you bring your possessions with you?’
‘We brought what we could carry, your grace. The rest has gone to Saladin.’
‘Ah.’
A short and gloomy silence. Call this a strategic conference? I’ve seen smarter tactics in a drunkard trying to negotiate his way down a flight of stairs. Lord Roland addresses the merchant as Heraclius spits a fragment of thumbnail onto the carpet.
‘Those people at the palace gate. Have they also come from Acre with you?’
‘Yes, my lord.’
‘And have they not been given shelter?’
‘It’s all in hand,’ the Lily snaps. What a sepulchre-head. Somewhere in the building a bell tolls, and he uncoils himself in response. ‘I’ll have to leave now, but we can discuss this tomorrow,’ he says. ‘Thank you, Lord Roland. Thank you, Master Mallon. That will be all.’
What a pus-bag. What a prize boil. He struts out the door like a peacock, trailing half a mile of iridescent plumage behind him. Probably gone off to meet his latest girlfriend. Meanwhile, the merchant’s been dropped like a dismembered limb. Standing there with his jaw dangling around his knees. Lord Roland’s about to take pity (I can tell), but old Garlic-Breath the Master-Sergeant forestalls him. ‘Can I have a word with you, my lord?’ he says. ‘In private?’ I don’t like the look of this at all.
I don’t like the way he’s ignored my very existence from the moment I walked in the room. Standing there silent, with his hairy arms folded and his balding head bowed.
‘Wait for me outside, Pagan. I won’t be long.’
So the merchant and I end up on the doorstep, like bags of kitchen garbage. He wanders off a broken man, and I’m left to count my fingernails. Wondering what the Master-Sergeant
could possibly be up to. Knew that I shouldn’t have come on this jaunt. Knew that I’d run into trouble. But what can you do? I mean, orders are orders.
Can’t hear anything – not a single word. Not even with my ear to the door. What does that pig’s liver think he’s doing? He can’t arrest me. Lord Roland outranks him.
‘Yes, my lord. Thank you, my lord . . .’
Pulling away as the door swings open. Who, me? Eavesdropping? Never. Lord Roland strides out with a flick of his cape, followed by Garlic-Breath, who’s bowing and scraping. The very picture of humility. A moment to treasure.
‘Come, Pagan. It’s time for us to leave.’
And away we go, without a word of farewell. Turn right. Right again. Down the hall and hit the stairs. Holding my breath (and my nose) until we’re clear of the stink and standing in the courtyard.
‘My lord?’
‘Yes, Pagan.’
‘What did he say? The Master-Sergeant?’
‘He said you were a thief. A thief, a liar, a blasphemer, a sluggard, a gamester and a consumer of strong drink. Just in case I didn’t know.’
Hmmm.
‘And what did you say, my lord?’
‘I said: “He that is without sin among you, let him first cast a stone”.’
Lord Roland passes judgement, and the world obeys. He looks at me for a moment – just one look – and moves to grab old Coppertail’s bridle. You can practically see the halo shining above his head.
Outside the gates, the refugees are still waiting.
It’s very dark, but I know where I am. I’m lying in bed, and the bed is wet. I can feel it beneath me. It’s not my bed, though. My bed’s in the corner. This can’t be my bed.
Everyone else is asleep. They’re all safe asleep, and they can’t help me. They wouldn’t help me anyway. I can see the door open. I can see him, Father Benedict, holding his stick. But I can’t see his face, because I’m hiding under the blanket. If I keep very still, very quiet, if I try and try, perhaps I’ll disappear, and he won’t be able to see me.
He’s stopping at each bed, one by one. There are so many beds: perhaps the bell will ring before he reaches mine. But he moves so fast from bed to bed. Perhaps they’re empty after all. But they can’t be. They can’t be. No one has ever run away because they’ll catch you, and put you down the bottom of a deep, dark well. Perhaps he’s killing them. God, please help me. Please help me, God. He’s coming closer . . . closer . . .
I’m very still. Very still. Don’t breathe. But he knows what I’m doing. He knows my bed is wet. He knows everything. He always says so. He leans down, down, closer and closer, wheezing through his pointed teeth, he’s going to – he’s going to – No! No! He’s going to kill me!
‘Pagan.’
It’s dark. I can’t see. But I’m awake now: I know I am. Because that was Lord Roland’s voice.
‘Pagan? Are you all right?’
Oh dear. I must have said something.
‘I’m sorry, my lord. Did I wake you?’
‘I was awake already. Was it a bad dream? You shouted.’
Father Benedict. It feels as if he’s still in the room. I almost wish he was, so I could skewer his guts and stamp on his face and chop off his arms and make him eat them.
Why can’t they leave me alone? After all these years? They must be dead by now, most of them. Perhaps they’ve come back to haunt me.
‘Yes, my lord. It was a bad dream.’
‘I’ve been having bad dreams too, these last few nights.’ A surprising revelation from out of the darkness. ‘Full of bloody faces and weeping children. I hope it’s not a bad omen. What was your dream about?’
‘Oh – nothing apocalyptic, my lord. Nothing to do with Jerusalem. It was a childish dream. Mad.’
‘Most of them are. Do you mean to say that you dreamed about being a child again?’
Now that’s very sharp. How on earth did he know that?
‘Yes, my lord. Alas.’
Long silence. But somehow – don’t ask me why – I know that he hasn’t dozed off. What is he doing, lying awake at this hour? It seems so out of character.
‘When did you leave your monastery, Pagan?’
‘Saint Joseph’s?’ (What’s that got to do with anything?) ‘I left when I was ten, my lord. Praise God.’
‘And when did you first enter it?’
‘When I was two days old. Or so they say. Can’t remember the occasion, myself.’
‘So you never knew your parents.’
‘Well – I never knew my father. Neither did my mother. He came and went like an attack of swamp belly.’
Pause.
‘What?’ Completely baffled. ‘What on earth do you mean?’
‘He was a brigand, my lord. Passing through her village. She never knew his name.’ (If he even had one, the animal.) ‘She gave me this name herself. Only thing she ever did give me.’
‘That’s not entirely true, Pagan. She gave you your life, after all.’
Oh yes. My life. And one terrific gift that was. Sometimes I think that I would have done better without it.
‘I don’t know if that was a gift, my lord. More like an accident.’
Outside, many miles away, a dog howls. Amazing how quiet it is. Only a gust of wind now and then, as if the whole city were empty. Empty and desolate. It used to be that way sometimes on night patrol, when there were no children crying or cats fighting, and when your lantern went ‘clink, clink’ as you walked along.
Cheery.
‘Did you run away from your monastery, Pagan?’
‘Yes, my lord. As soon as possible.’
‘I thought as much.’ Somewhere in the darkness his brain is turning, round and round like a water-wheel. ‘They wouldn’t have taught you to read if they hadn’t intended to keep you. So you didn’t like it, then.’
‘No, my lord.’ (Understatement of the year.) ‘I didn’t.’
‘Why not?’
Why not? Dry bread and water. Marching in straight lines. No talking between sunset and dawn. No talking in the cloister. No talking at meals. No leaving the monastery grounds without permission. No running. No shouting. No laughing. No wetting the bed.
Father Benedict, with his hard wooden cane, and his ugly mouth, and his silent beatings.
Blood on the blankets.
Why not?
‘No girls, my lord. And no jokes, either.’
Another long silence. Not so much as a rustle. Wonder what time it is? Must be very early. Probably an hour or so to matins. Still enough of the night left to get a reasonable amount of sleep . . .
‘I’ve been thinking about you, Pagan.’
God preserve us. Here’s trouble.
‘I’ve been thinking that I have never met anyone like you before. And I think I understand why, now. It seems to me that you have been given only one thing in your entire life, and that is your education. No saint gave you his name, so you have no saint’s day. No family. No property. No place in the world. And no loving friends to watch over you, unless I’m mistaken. You have nothing except your learning. But most people with nothing don’t even have that. So I think your learning is what makes you so different.’
Different in what way? Don’t know if I want to ask.
‘My lord, with all respect, you shouldn’t take my learning too seriously. It might look impressive to be able to read, but that’s because you can’t read yourself. When you learn to read, all you can do is read. It doesn’t change anything.’
‘No, Pagan. You’re wrong. I’m quite sure you’re wrong. Because people who read, they are always – they are always a little like you.’ He thinks for a moment. ‘You can’t just tell them. You have to tell them why.
’ Clear as mud.
‘I don’t understand, my lord. Are you saying that’s a good thing or a bad thing?’
‘I don’t know. I used to think it was a bad thing. It can be very dangerous. But now I don’t know . . .’
All at
once it’s hard to concentrate. He’s speaking very softly, and his voice is like the sound of doves cooing. Like a gentle wind in the treetops. Like Father Arniel droning on through the Book of Numbers, chapter twenty-six.
Yawn.
‘But what I want to say to you, Pagan, is that you’re not like me.’ (No. Really? What a revelation.) ‘All my life God has showered me with blessings. Because of His infinite love, the people around me have bestowed on me all manner of gifts. So my purpose in life is to ask: what can I do to repay my benefactors? How can I use this fortunate life of mine to the benefit of others?
‘But you have been given nothing – or next to nothing. So you owe nothing to anyone but yourself. You are free to build your own life, to your own advantage.
‘Pagan? Do you understand me? I’m saying that in giving you nothing else, God has given you the gift of freedom. And that is a very precious gift.
‘Pagan? Are you listening?’
‘Yes, my lord . . . freedom . . . right . . .’ (Yawn.)
‘Think about it.’
Think about it. Sure. Think about it tomorrow. Tomorrow. There’s a special service on, tomorrow. Prayers for deliverance – Church of the Holy Sepulchre. Have to be there, bright and early. Have to be there. Bright and early, with a clear head.
Have to get some sleep . . .
It must be the greatest church in the world. Massive dome, marble floor, golden mosaics, pillars like the legs of giants, three-storeyed walls, jewelled lamps, silver-gilt trimmings, prophets on the vault, everything.
Trouble is, it’s always full of pilgrims. Or priests. Or hundreds and hundreds of noisy, filthy, stinking, fighting, sweating, brainless, vicious, uncontrollable worshippers.
‘Well?’
Rockhead’s arrived: God knows how he managed to force his way through the multitudes. By punching little old ladies’ heads in, probably.
‘It’s a mess out there, my lord.’ (Gasping.) ‘The crowds – they’re piled up as far as the abbey. Thousands of them. And they’re all trying to get in here.’
‘I see.’
Lord Roland surveys the situation. Cretins to the left of him, cretins to the right. Standing head and shoulders above them all, like a cedar in a bed of parsley. The Patriarch still hasn’t appeared.