And every hour, Nyx uttered a prayer to Tribunal, to guide and strengthen her, and every hour the strength of His hatred for humanity fed her, stifled any impulse of compassion, and gave her the drive to keep moving forward.
1055 A.D.
The call for help came one morning, and Nyx knew it was time.
The sun was just coming up, layering the clouds with goal and orange and red, banishing the night. The air was cool and the April sky over Rome was clear with not a cloud in it when Pope Urban II opened the alcove, descended the stairs, and stood before Nyx’s chair.
“Help me, Nyx, O messenger of God,” he said. “Help me decide what to do.”
Nyx was far away at the time, lying in a bed of furs in Rus, her arms wrapped around Persephone and Ishtar’s sweat-covered bodies. The smell of their lust was still in the air, making it heady and relaxing at once. Nyx sniffed it and smiled. Then she heard the pope’s voice in her head, and sat up.
“Alexios I Komnenos has sent me a messenger,” the pope said. “The Great Patriarch of the Eastern Church has called upon the Western church for assistance. He asks that we bring men and arms, and that we free them from the burden if the Saracen attacks.”
“Get up,” said Nyx, goosing both Persephone and Ishtar. Both Angels gasped and jumped, but they were awake. Nyx grinned at them. “It’s time.”
That night, Ishtar and Persephone escorted Urban down the stairs once more to stand before Nyx. “Your call for help was heard,” said Nyx. “Now, hear the word of God.” She paused, savoring the moment. Her followers were millions strong in the Rus and further east. They outnumbered the Christians and they stood poised to flow over Europe, as soon as it was weak enough. Now, all she had to do was empty it. “Call to all good Christian men, and tell them it is time to march east. To help the Greeks, who were the father of Western civilization, to bring a re-unification of the church, and to bring Jerusalem back into the hands of it’s rightful heirs.”
Pope Urban bowed deeply. “I hear God’s word,” he said, “And I obey.”
1096 A.D.
They stood in the back, dressed as lesser French lords, and listened as Pope Urban spoke convincingly and at length about why the knights and nobles should march east. Nyx listened and nodded. The man was a good speaker and between his words and the work that she, Persephone and Ishtar had done, nobles across Europe were more than ready to take up arms against the Islamics – Saracens, Nyx reminded herself. They call them Saracens.
To Nyx’s surprise, it had not just been the nobles. Across Europe peasants were rising, led by minor knights, and beginning the long march towards Constantinople. Tens of thousands of men and women were marching on the delusional promise that life would be better for them in the holy land. They had already crossed half of Europe and were still marching. From the reports Nyx had, they were pillaging their way across Europe, calling themselves holy crusaders and the People’s Crusade and using it as an excuse to take what they wanted as they marched.
Nyx looked over the room of nobles and smiled. The ones here were not the most pious. Quite the opposite, in fact. Nyx, Persephone and Ishtar had seen to that, working to cultivate the most greedy, self-serving, avarice-filled nobles and bend them to the cause, knowing that they were far more likely to succeed than a column of holy men.
The pope finished his speech. The nobles cheered and applauded and knelt one by one to swear their fealty and loyalty to the cause. They would march east, they would free the Byzantines, and then they would free Jerusalem.
It is perfect, thought Nyx, looking at the French nobles. I haven’t seen a bunch more ripe for corruption than these since Rome.”
“Now what?” asked Ishtar, as they walked out.
“It will take time for this lot to be ready,” said Nyx. “Meanwhile, you two need to go to east and make sure that the People’s Crusade doesn’t manage to succeed.”
“They’ll be there,” said Persephone. “The Turks will be more than happy to deal with them.”
“If they wander into the Turks’ territory,” said Ishtar.
Persephone grinned. “Don’t worry. That’s your job.”
“And what will you be doing?” Ishtar asked Nyx.
Nyx grinned as well. “Harrying the crusaders. By the time they reach Jerusalem, they’ll be dying to serve anyone but Christ.”
Chapter 9
Tribunal, hear my prayers.
Ten thousand Jews were slaughtered as the “People’s Crusade” moved across Europe.
Tribunal, my beloved, I work Your will.
Outside Nicaea, sixteen thousand members of the “people’s crusade” died against the Turks and their corpses were left to rot in the sun.
Tribunal, I am coming.
The real crusaders were forbidden from entering Constantinople, and sent on their way to the Holy Land.
Tribunal, I serve you.
When the Crusaders took Nicaea, it was handed to the Byzantines, much to the crusaders’ anger.
Tribunal, You are my beloved.
In Anatolia, the crusaders fell to flies and diseases, to poisoned wells and starvation. They slaughtered Christians, Jews and Muslims alike as they stole food.
Tribunal, hear me, my love.
At the Cilician Gates, Baldwin of Boulogne and his troops left the army, weakening it.
At Antioch the Crusaders narrowly escaped destruction before the Saxons arrived to reinforce them.
Plague struck them.
The Byzantines abandoned them.
The nobles fell to squabbling and delayed the march for a year.
Tribunal, my beloved, we are at Jerusalem! I am here and we are ready to make it fall!
It was the flies that were the worst.
Sir Simon Benart, standing in the burning sun outside the walls of Jerusalem, stared at the cloud of flies that rose from the bloodied, mangled corpses that surrounded the walls of the city. For five weeks they had besieged the city and all they had to show for it was illness, exhaustion and death.
“Jews and Saracens,” he said, and spat on the ground. “Who’d have thought the little bastards could fight?”
“One must protest,” said Sir Albert de Giroie. “They have walls, which make any defender capable.”
Sir Simon adjusted the hauberk – the knee-length chain mail shirt that he wore – at his neck. The damn thing had grown loose during the long march to reach Jerusalem. The Saracens had retreated before them, destroying crops and poisoning the wells. Half the camp had the running shits for four weeks, including Sir Simon. He was sure he’d lost at least twenty pounds.
This has been the worse fucking campaign ever, thought Simon. Everything had gone badly, from the get go. Foodstuffs had been ruined, they’d not been allowed to enter Constantinople, and everywhere had been flies, disease and death. If God wants us to take Jerusalem, he’s got a damn funny way of showing it.
The tabard he wore, emblazoned with the crusaders’ black cross, had once been white. Now, like the tabard of every other man in the army, it was grey and brown with dirt, and stained red in a dozen places where the infidels had spilled their blood on him.
A chance to repay your sins, he thought, remembering the pope’s promises. Indulgences to cleanse you of all sin and allow you to begin again as a new man, blessed in the eyes of God, should you take Jerusalem.
Should have stayed behind and gone to Hell. It would have been easier than this.
In the main tent, Godfrey of Bouillon and Robert Curthose were arguing again. The crusader army had surrounded the city for five weeks and had yet to do anything more than sacrifice its men trying to breach the city’s walls.
Those bastards should never have been put in charge, thought Simon. They hated each other before we reached Byzantium and being stuck in each other’s company for months hasn’t improved things.
He listened to the two men squabble over the deployment of their only two siege towers. Robert wanted to divide the enemy forces by attacking two walls separa
tely. Godfrey wanted both on the main gates, to dominate the enemy through sheer strength of will. His argument – that dividing their force would only make them weaker, was a reasonable one. Robert argued that dividing the defenders was more important.
“Remember when there was a hundred thousand of us, Albert?” said Sir Simon. “Remember when we all thought this would be an easy march and an easy victory?” He looked over to the walls again, to the bloodied, crow-picked, fly-ridden corpses of soldiers, knights, and friends rotting below it. “Bastards Hope we break through this time. I want that governor’s head on a pike.”
“We all do,” said Albert. “Think we will?”
Simon looked back at the tent, listening to the squabble going on inside. He shook his head in disgust. “Depends which fool wins the argument.”
Inside the cool, breezy shelter of the governor’s citadel, Jibril sat, lounging, on a bench. Beside him, four other captains waited with him to hear the governor’s latest stratagem.
The Governor, Iftikhar ad-Daula, was not a stupid man. He had expelled nearly all the Christians before the crusaders arrived. He had stocked the city with food and fresh water, so much so that even now, after over a month of siege, there were still dates to be bought, and grain to make bread, and fresh meat for those who wanted it.
“Enter!”
The five captains entered the Governor’s chamber, and bowed low to him. The governor was practically unable to sit still, so excited he seemed. He held up a simple note, so small it could only have come from the leg of a messenger bird.
“We have succeeded!” exclaimed the Governor. “Egypt has heard our cries and will come! We need only hold the invaders off until Egypt arrives, then we shall drive these infidels into the sea, and watch them drown!”
The five captains cheered.
“They are no more than two weeks away,” said Iftikhar. “We need only hold out until then. Now, review for me our position.”
Behrouz went first, detailing the supplies of food and water. There had been few thefts, and those who had committed them had been caught, had their hands cut off, and then been thrown from the walls. Jerusalem could easily sit out the siege for another two months before they would even have to begin rationing.
Rachim went next. The catapults were in good repair, and while the enemy had camped far enough away that their tents would not be hit by falling rocks, the catapults were proving effective against the advancing army, especially when loaded with pot shards, which could cut a man in half, if they hit him right.
“Jibril? Tell us.”
“The defenders of the wall are in good spirit,” said Jibril. “Jews and Muslims alike. We have suffered a few losses, mostly to arrows and crossbow bolts. The infidels have twice managed to gain the wall, but have never managed to hold it. We have cut them down and hurled their bodies down on their companions below. That said, the stink at the wall and the flies have become fierce. It would be useful if we could arrange for a party to remove the dead, if the infidels will agree.”
“Would they agree, Kamal?” asked the governor.
“Not today,” said Kamal, leader of Jerusalem’s mounted troops. “They are preparing for another attack. Once we have driven them back again, then there may be an opportunity for discussion, and a chance for us to clear the bodies.” He shrugged. “Infidels or not, I have no doubt they are enjoying the flies no more than we are.”
“Governor! Governor!” shouted a messenger, running in. “My pardon for the interruption, but the infidels are marching.”
“As you predicted,” said Iftikhar ad-Daula, nodding to Kamal. He smiled at his captains. “Prepare the city. Warn the men to be neither afraid, nor over-confident. The infidels will be fighting harder, now that they are becoming desperate. To the walls!”
“Looks like it was Robert,” said Albert. Simon grunted and tightened his shield to his arm. He looked at the twenty men-at-arms he had left in his command. Half of them were inherited from other knights, now dead on the battlefield. The others had been loyal to him from the beginning. And look where I have led them.
It was not a comforting thought, and Simon tried to ignore it, concentrating instead on the battle to come. A thousand men were readying siege ladders. Another five hundred were put to guarding and moving the two siege towers – the only two siege towers, and their only hope.
“Think this will work?” asked Albert.
“By Jesus, I hope so,” said Simon. “There’s not enough food to last another week, at this rate.”
“Then I guess we have to make it work,” said Albert. “See you after the battle, or, if not, then in Hell.”
“Don’t worry about Hell,” said Simon. “The pope said any man who died for Jerusalem would go to Heaven.”
“Nice to have something,” said Albert, “because if this doesn’t work, that’s all we’re going to get.”
“For God! For Jerusalem!” shouted Robert Curthose. “The city shall be ours by nightfall! Deus Vult!”
God wills it, thought Simon, translating the Latin. He looked back at the men behind him. “Time to see if that’s true, boys. Move it out.”
First came the pottery shards, flung from catapults inside Jerusalem’s walls. The men would see the large pots being flung towards them and scatter and cover themselves, hoping to avoid the worst of it. Simon tracked the large clay vessels through the sky. They were carved to break into shards on impact. Worse, they were filled with broken pottery.
The first one landed only twenty yards away. It exploded from the force of impact, and the shards of pottery ripped through the air, slashing skin to the bone, opening faces and legs and cutting into horse flesh. Blood spurted out from one poor bastard’s throat, coating the men around him with red as he thrashed wildly on the ground. The soldiers around him kept marching. They knew he couldn’t be saved and that the only way to end it all was to break down that wall.
And we’d better do it, today, thought Simon. Or we’ll all be food for crows.
They marched closer, inside the range of the catapults.
“Shields up!” came the call as the archers on the walls loosed their arrows. There weren’t as many of them, this time. After the first week, the defenders had learned to pick their targets carefully, and to only shoot when the invaders were within easy range.
There was a scream nearby. One of Albert’s men hadn’t raised his shield in time. An arrow had pierced him through the eye. He pawed at it desperately, trying to get it out as blood ran down his face.
Damn fool will kill himself like that, thought Simon.
“Get him out of here!” shouted Albert.
A pair of soldiers rushed the man, grabbing his hands away and dragging him back to the monk’s tent where they could try to save his life. The man screamed with every jolt, and soon fell behind them.
“‘Ware,” said Albert. “The towers are nearly at the wall.”
“Deus Vult!” screamed Robert Curthose. “Charge!”
Twenty thousand men roared. The footmen charged for the wall, scaling ladders above their heads. Simon and Albert and the other knight, following the signal flag from the commanders, wheeled their horses to the east and west, each group forming a line a fifty wide and five deep. Simon and Albert went to the west. From the side gates of Jerusalem, hundreds of Saracen horsemen were streaming out, preparing a flanking attack to open them up. Simon grinned and couched his lance. He had managed to get in the front line.
Simon’s own battle cry was drowned out in the clash of men and horses. Steel bit into flesh on all sides, horses broke legs and went down screaming, the bones jutting from their flesh becoming dangerous obstacles on the battlefield. Simon’s lance drove into the Saracen in front of him, impaling the man and ripping through his guts before tearing out his back. The man fell backwards off his horse, taking the lance with him. Simon raised his morning star. Others preferred a sword, but for Simon, the spiked ball on the end of the chain, attached to the handle in his hand, was a far
more satisfying weapon. A helmet would barely stop it. Armor might prevent the spikes from getting through, but would do nothing to stop the bones beneath from breaking.
“Deus Vult!” Simon screamed, the morning star smashing into the side of the head of the man beside him. To his credit, the man didn’t lose his saddle, but he swayed as blood spattered from his torn-open face and the deep gouge where the rim of his helmet had driven into his skull. Simon swung again before the man could right himself, smashing his spine. Simon couldn’t hear the man’s back break over the sound of the battle, but knew from the way the man arched backwards, screaming, that he was no longer a threat.
Simon drove forward again. Beside him, Albert hewed with his sword, hacking off men’s hands where they gripped the reins, leaving only bloody, spurting stumps. Two men he cut open that way, then the third managed to get his shield in the way. He and Albert clashed hard, vying for room to cut each other in the hard press of the battle. Simon tried to drive his own horse forward, but a Saracen cut him off, his long, curved, blood-soaked blade swinging for Simon’s head. Simon put his shield between them and swung the morning star down hard, aiming for the other’s skull. The man had his own shield up, and managed to block the vicious blow. They traded back and forth, neither able to get the upper hand.
Then the Saracen twisted and, instead of cutting, thrust hard with his blade, driving it past Simon’s shield and into his shoulder. Simon bellowed in pain and swung the morning star as hard as he could. It didn’t unhorse the man, but send his helmet flying. Simon flipped his wrist and sent the morning star down hard on top of the other man’s head.