The Iron Lance (28 page)

Murdo frowned. The whole world, it seemed, was travelling to Jerusalem and here he was, stranded in Antioch. It beggared belief.

“This cup is empty,” Emlyn declared. Heaving himself onto unsteady legs, he staggered off in search of more wine.

“Enjoy,” muttered Murdo darkly.

Despite the merrymaking, the day's exertion and the wine combined to give Murdo a good night's sleep. He awoke early—just in time to see the three monks leaving for their dawn service. He kept his head down until they left so he would not have to decline the inevitable invitation to go with them, then rose quickly and hurried off, intending to stay out of the king's sight as much as possible to save having to explain his presence.

Taking a piece of bread from last night's supper with him, he gnawed the loaf and walked again to the square he had visited the night before. The city looked far different in the morning light, but no better for it, he thought. Most of the back streets were beaten earth, and powdered dust coated every surface, making the bottom half of all the buildings the same pale, yellow-gray color.

As he passed one house, an old woman emerged with a bundle of twigs and began sweeping off the step before her door. She stared at Murdo as he walked by, muttering at him, and crossing herself with the bundle of twigs in her hand.

Although the sun was newly risen, he could feel the heat of the day already mounting in the square. The valley beyond the walls was hung in a thick bluish haze, and the sun, white as a hot
poker, burned through a dead pale sky. Even as he stood looking out across the city, the first of the merchants began arriving to erect their stalls in the empty square. Murdo watched as the men and women went about their work, and quickly found himself admiring the clothing they wore. All of them were dressed in billowy flowing mantles that reached from neck to feet, gathered at the waist with a girdle of winding cloth—and all in a wild profusion of colors: blood red and blue stripes; glistening emerald green; deep yellow the hue of egg-yolk; rich brown with purple stripes and tiny silver threads between; pale ivory white, and sky blue; rose pink, and scarlet, and gold, and indigo so blue it was almost black.

Their extravagant clothes made Murdo aware of his own drab appearance. He looked down his length at what he was wearing. Both siarc and breecs were threadbare, and showing through at elbows and knees. Boots and belt were in good condition yet, but his once-handsome red-brown cloak was now faded and travel-stained, and ragged at the edges.

While far from persuaded to adopt the attire of the inhabitants of Antioch, he decided that perhaps he might buy a new siarc at least, and so lingered at the edge of the market while more and more merchants arrived and began busily erecting their cloth-framed shelters, and arranging their various wares, which they placed in baskets, or on mats of woven grass, or strips of cloth on the ground. Many of the traders had donkeys to carry their burdens, others lugged the baskets themselves. Murdo had never seen a donkey before, but thought the small, fuzzy horse like creatures absurd and amusing.

As the marketplace began to fill, Murdo strolled into the square for a closer look at the various wares, and was instantly assailed by a dozen or more brown children, who ran up to him and began tugging on his clothing, and gibbering at him in a
strange, chirpy tongue. Some merely held out their hands in gestures of supplication, but others rubbed their stomachs and pointed to their empty mouths.

As he had no intention of giving them anything, he resented their noisy insistence, but tried to extricate himself gracefully—to no avail. The diminutive mob followed him, clinging to him, grasping at him. When he felt a small hand inside his shirt, snatching at the knife Ragna had given him, he became angry.

“Get away from me!” he shouted, seizing the hand and squeezing it hard so that it released the knife. “Get away!” He stomped his feet at them, and they scattered, only to watch and follow him a few paces further away. His outburst succeeded in drawing the notice of some of the merchants, who likewise began clamoring for his attention. The closer ones came running to him, beseeching him in their strange language, vying for his patronage.

“No! No!” he shouted, walking briskly away. This merely provoked them all the more, and they shouted even more loudly, putting their hands on him, touching him, tugging at him.

Murdo could not abide the commotion. Desperate to flee, he rushed from the square down the nearest street, and kept running. When he was certain he was no longer followed, he stopped to look around and found that not only had he lost the grasping merchants and his beggar escort, he had lost himself. Nothing looked familiar, nor could he tell in which direction he had come, or which way he might be going.

No matter, he told himself, he could easily retrace his steps to the market square. So, he turned around and started back, but soon came to a place where the narrow way divided; the paths diverged to the left and right of a huge stone water basin, now dry and empty. Both pathways looked exactly alike to Murdo,
and he had no idea which one he had used before. He chose the right-hand path and proceeded down it with the idea that if he did not recognize it, he could quickly retrace his steps and take the other way. But the street wound around and, upon retracing his steps, he returned only to find that it was not the place he remembered at all.

The divide was gone, and in the place where he imagined the water basin should be was a small domed hut with a crude wooden cross above its door. He turned around and stared down the narrow street, but it all looked strange to him. Had he passed this way? Two men appeared and came towards him. Murdo hailed them in his best Latin, and asked if they could help him find his way. Both men frowned at him and passed by quickly.

Disgusted—as much with himself and his own foolishness, as with Antioch's unhelpful citizenry—he turned and began walking back the way he had come. Again, the street turned on itself somehow and, after a time, Murdo found himself once more before the little chapel.

Frantic now, he set off down the opposite path, almost running. After a time, he heard what he thought must be the sound of the marketplace—the confused babble of voices as the merchants squabbled over customers, and buyers haggled with the sellers. He rushed towards the sound, turned one corner, then another, proceeded down a street that looked somewhat familiar, and…found himself standing yet once more before the tiny hut-like chapel.

Fighting down the rising panic, he turned away, intending to retrace his steps yet again. He had not taken more than five steps, however, when he heard a bell chime behind him. He stopped and looked back over his shoulder. The low wooden door was open now, and appeared inviting. He walked to the
door and stepped inside.

The room was dark, save for a single small window above the tiny altar. He stood for a moment, allowing his eyes to adjust to the darkness.

“Pax Vobiscum,” said a kindly voice. “You are welcome here, friend.”

“Pax Vobiscum,” Murdo answered, much relieved to hear a language he could understand. He looked into the darkened interior and a man emerged from the shadows behind the altar. Dressed in monk's robes of white, the figure beckoned him.

“You are new to this city,” the priest observed, moving closer.

“Yes,” Murdo replied. “We arrived yesterday.”

The man stepped nearer. Murdo saw that he was a young man—at least, his appearance was youthful—with a kindly face. His black hair and beard were cut short, and their curly texture reminded Murdo of lamb's fleece. The teeth revealed in the smile were white and straight. His dark eyes glittered in the weak light from the door; his glance was keen and disturbingly direct.

He regarded Murdo for a moment, then said, “What is it that you want, my son?”

Absurdly, the first thought to spring into his mind was that he wanted to be home—in Orkneyjar, at Hrafnbú, with Ragna, and the rest of his family around him, and all of them safe and happy for ever. In that instant, he saw himself amongst people in a cool, green valley surrounded by high, handsome hills under a wide open northern sky. Though occupying the briefest of instants—the small space between one heartbeat and the next—this thought produced a pang of yearing so powerful that it took his breath away. He stared at the priest, unable to speak.

“Do not be afraid,” the monk said, lifting his hand in a con
soling gesture. “You are safe here. Tell me, what is it you seek?”

Murdo swallowed, and his voice returned. “I seem to have lost my way,” he said simply. “I am trying to find the citadel.”

The priest smiled. “Take heart. You are closer than you know.”

He stepped nearer. “Come, I will show you.” The priest brushed past him, and Murdo felt a peculiar sensation on his skin—like the tingling he felt when watching a storm sweeping in off the sea—and he caught a faint whiff of icy, storm-riven air. It was as if something of his homeland had touched him, however fleetingly, and was gone just as quickly.

The white monk led him outside into the street once more. Pointing to the pathway on the right, he said, “This is the way you must go. At the end of the street, you will find the market and the citadel is beyond.”

Murdo nodded, his heart sinking. He had tried this pathway before—twice, at least—and had not come within shouting distance of the square. Nevertheless, he thanked the monk and made to take his leave.

“Remember: the True Path is narrow, and few enter there,” the priest told him, and oh, the look in those keen dark eyes was like lightning flashing from a clear sky. “But fortunate are you among men. For to you is given the Holy Light to guide your way. Go with God, my friend.”

Murdo gaped in amazement, unable to comprehend what the mysterious priest had just said to him. The white monk made the sign of the cross over him, and then moved back into the chapel. The door closed and, overcome with the strangeness of the incident, Murdo began walking quickly down the path. Before he knew it the tiny street ended and he was standing at the edge of the busy market square.

He stopped and looked back. The distance was so small—a
matter of a few hundred paces. On a sudden impulse, he carefully retraced his steps, and soon arrived at the little crossroads once more. He saw the wider street leading away before him, and the other path which formed the divide angling off on the opposite side. But the chapel was nowhere to be seen, and in its place was the empty stone water basin he had seen before.

He stood for a moment, gazing at the dry basin, a queasy sensation snaking through his bowels. He could not have taken another wrong turning! What had become of the chapel?

And then his eye fell upon something he had not noticed before: a stone plaque set in the wall above the basin, bearing the image of a cross, and on one side of the cross was what appeared to be a spear, and on the other side was a footed bowl. Murdo stared at the image, and traced it with his fingers. Once again, he caught the scent of frigid, storm-driven, rain-washed northern air.

“Take heart,” he whispered, repeating the white monk's words, “you are closer than you know.” Then, overcome by the strangeness of what had happened to him, he turned and ran back to the square, through the market, and did not stop running until he reached the citadel.

Murdo returned to the citadel to find the place in turmoil. The streets outside the fortress were awash with men and horses and wagons. Soldiers—mostly Franks, by the look of them, but a good few Norsemen as well—were scurrying everywhere, carrying armfuls of weapons, sacks of grain, baskets of foodstuffs; wagons were being readied, and horses saddled, and everyone seemed to be shouting at once. Dodging through the tumult, Murdo pushed his way into the stables.

“There you are!” cried Emlyn as he stepped inside. “I have been looking for you, Murdo.”

“I walked to the market,” he explained. Indicating the confusion around him, he asked, “Are we under attack?”

“Magnus is moving the fleet to Jaffa,” the monk said quickly. He made to dart away again. “We are all making ready to leave.”

“I thought we must stay here to help defend the city,” Murdo pointed out. “You said—”

“Yes, yes,” replied Emlyn impatiently, “but Prince Bohemond has been summoned to Jerusalem.”

“Why?”

“The siege has begun. The liberation of the Holy City is at hand!” the cleric proclaimed, raising his hands in praise. “Let all Heaven and Earth rejoice!”

In spite of himself, Murdo felt a shiver of excitement. At long last…Jerusalem!

“We leave at once,” explained the monk. “It is a ten-day march overland, but only five days by ship. If we hurry, we can get back to the fleet before sunset, and sail tonight. There is Fionn!” the priest declared, and rushed away to speak to his brother monk.

Remembering the long hot walk from the harbor at Saint Symeon, Murdo prepared himself for the return as best he could. He filled a bowl with water and drank it down, then filled and drank another. He then fell in with the others, helping to make ready their departure. The tumult around him resolved itself quickly; the Norsemen were soon pushing through the massed chaos around the citadel and were trooping noisily down the broad colonnaded central street to the gate. With Magnus in the lead, the king's war band crossed the bridge and walked out onto the plain, past the road leading down to the port of Saint Symeon, and on until striking the footpath by which they had come; they were soon climbing the arid, scrub-covered hills, and leaving the city behind.

Upon reaching the top of the first hill, Murdo paused for a last look at Antioch; he gazed back across the valley at the city, its great stone walls white and shimmering in the summer heat. “Ah, it is a splendid sight,” sighed Emlyn, toiling up beside him. “I would have liked a few more days to know the place better. Mark me, there are mighty things taking place in that city. God is working there.”

“Did you learn anything more of the miracle?” Murdo asked, more out of idle curiosity than interest.

“Did we learn anything?” hooted Emlyn gently. His face was glistening with sweat, and his breath came in quick gasps, but his stride was easy and strong. He stabbed at the path ahead with his tall rowan staff, the leather pouch swinging at his side. “We heard a wonder, my doubting young friend. What is more,
we heard it all from men who were there—men who saw it with their own eyes.”

“What did they see?” demanded Murdo.

“They saw…” said the monk, lifting his eyes towards the sky, as if he might also glimpse a miracle, “they saw the Holy Lance.”

“What Holy Lance?”

“The spear of the crucifixion!” answered the monk, aghast that Murdo should even wonder, let alone ask such a thing. “Do you not know of it?”

“I know of it,” he answered, his tone implying that he had been expecting something slightly more remarkable.

“It is nothing less than the spear which pierced Our Lord's precious side and proved before the world and all his enemies that the Blessed Jesu was dead.
That
is the Holy Lance I mean, and it is the holiest, most sacred relic to come down to us,” Emlyn intoned solemnly, “save one thing alone.”

“What is that?”

“The cup of the Passover Supper,” said the priest. “That is more holy still. But it is lost long since, and only the spear remains.”

“I suppose that makes the spear the most holy thing after all,” observed Murdo.

Emlyn did not deign to notice the remark. “The spear was lost, too, until they found it—only a few months ago.”

“They found it?”

“Is that not what I am telling you, Murdo?”

“You are telling very little it seems to me,” Murdo protested. “First you said they only
saw
it—now you say they
found
it. Which is it?”

Emlyn drew a deep breath. “I will begin again.”

“And start from the beginning this time,” Murdo instructed.

“Yes, yes,” the monk agreed. “One of the Roman soldiers present at the execution of our Lord was a centurion by the name of Longinus. As the commander of the execution, it was his duty to see the crucifixion carried out properly and in accordance with the law of the day.

“It was a Friday, as we know, and when the scribes and Pharisees began clamoring that the execution must be completed before sun had set—for it is an abomination to the Jews for a criminal to be killed on the Sabbath—one of this young centurion's soldiers offered to break the legs of the condemned men so as to hasten their deaths.”

Emlyn, warming to his tale, began to embellish the telling, and Murdo came under the spell of the monk's voice as he had so many times aboard the ship. As the priest related the events of long ago, Murdo, tramping through the heat and dust on his way to the Holy City, began to feel the awful oppression of that black day. For the first time in his life it seemed to him more than merely a story.

“Well now,” the monk continued, “this is the way of it: the centurion sees the Jews growing more agitated as the day wastes away. Wishing to avoid any further trouble, he agrees to end the criminals' suffering, and the order is duly given. ‘Break their legs,' he says. The command is duly carried out, but when the soldier with the hammer comes to Jesu, he observes that Our Lord is already dead. ‘How can this be?' they say. ‘There has not been enough time.' Death by crucifixion is seldom swift, you see, and it is far from painless. I have heard it said that such a death can often take several days—days of unbearable agony before the wretch succumbs and breathes his last.

“Do not touch him! He is dead already!' some declare. ‘No!' shout others. ‘He has only fainted. Revive him, and you will see!'

“The crowd begins to argue. ‘Did you not hear him scream his death agony? He is dead.'

“‘No, no, he is alive still. Break his legs. Kill him!'

“The bloody execution of three men is not enough for them. They begin to fight amongst themselves. Longinus, striving to keep order, decides to settle the matter once and for all. Taking up his spear, he steps to the foot of the cross, and calls for silence. Then up thrusts the spear! Up! Up under the Blessed Saviour's ribs and into his heart. Water and blood gush from the wound. Everyone sees, and knows beyond all doubt the Son of the Living God is dead.”

The round-faced priest fell silent for a moment, and Murdo realized they had both stopped walking, and that he had been holding his breath waiting for the monk to continue. He exhaled, and the two resumed their march.

“Well, and well,” Emlyn sighed, his voice taking on a weight of sadness, “they take Our Jesu down from the cross and lay him in the tomb lent by Joseph of Arimathea, a rich merchant of the city and a secret follower of the Christ. But the enemies of God are not finished yet. No sooner is the body wrapped in a winding shroud and taken away by the mourners than the venomous Pharisees seek audience with Governor Pilate. They rush in to the governor, saying, ‘This man you have killed—the ignorant people believe him to be a very great magician. Indeed, he has often been heard to boast how he will rise again from the dead.'

“Does Pilate encourage their invidious intrigues? No, he does not! The governor wishes only to eat his supper in peace. ‘Is this so?' he replies. ‘Well then, we shall see what manner of man he was. Be gone! I want nothing more to do with you.'

“But the Pharisees will not leave him alone. ‘It is not so easy as that,' they say, ‘would that it were! No, you see, we have overheard a plot by some of this criminal's followers who are plan
ning to steal the body from the tomb tonight. If they should succeed they would be able to boast that he has risen from the grave. Think of the trouble they could make.'

“‘Let them do what they like,' growls Pilate, growing angry at last—he has lost a night's sleep to bad dreams and a painful conscience. ‘Whatever they say will be shown to be a lie and that will be the end of it. They are nothing but fishermen and shepherds. You make them more than they are.'

“‘Oh, to be so confident and trusting,' marvel the sly Pharisees. ‘Alas, the truth is that these are very dangerous men who will stop at nothing. What is more, they have gained the sympathy of the rabble. Think what will happen when these brigands begin spreading their falsehoods among the people. There could be riots—and worse. We are only thinking of your position, O Mighty Governor. Of course, all this could be easily avoided.'

“‘What would you suggest?' asks Pilate, hearing the voice of the serpent hissing in his ear.

“‘Place a cohort of your excellent soldiers around the tomb for a few days,' the wicked Pharisees advise. ‘The outlaws would not dare try their devious tricks with Roman legionaries guarding the tomb.'

“Pilate, watching his supper growing cold, extracts a promise. ‘If I send the soldiers, do I have your assurance that you will trouble me no more with your petty plots and conspiracies? Will you, in fact, show me the same measure of support you insist upon for yourselves?”

“The Jews pretend to be aghast at the suggestion that they have ever been anything other than loyal citizens of the empire, but they agree nevertheless, and the soldiers are sent out to guard the tomb—the same soldiers, as it happens, that conducted the crucifixion. Longinus is in command, and the centu
rion is there, standing guard with his men, when the earth shakes and the tomb opens wide to release its captive.

“Soon the whole world learns of the resurrection. Can anyone stop the sun from rising? Longinus, witness at the tomb, becomes a believer, and word of what he saw on that glorious morning spreads like fire through the dry tinder of the jaded legions. Whenever the centurion encounters anyone who doubts the veracity of his testimony, faithful Longinus produces the iron lance: ‘With this spear, I pierced his heart,' he tells them. ‘Two days later, that same man walked out of the tomb. I was there. I saw it.'

“Many years pass, and a church is erected over the site of the tomb, and Longinus' spear is placed inside the tomb for pilgrims to see and, seeing, believe in the Eternal Truth. Alas, Jerusalem fell to the Saracens,” Emlyn concluded, “and the spear was lost in the terrible desecrations that followed.”

Murdo, enthralled by the tale, could not help asking, “What
did
become of the spear?”

“Some say it was carried off into Egypt; others say it found its way to Baghdat as a trinket for the Caliph. I have even heard that it was destroyed—its iron melted down and made into a chain for Christian slaves. But no one really knew.”

“If no one knew what happened to it,” Murdo said, doubt creeping into his question, “how did they know to look for it in Antioch?”

“Truly, no one knew,” Emlyn assured him. “They had to be shown.”

“Who showed them?” demanded Murdo, openly suspicious once again. After all, if somebody showed the crusaders where to look, then
somebody
knew.

“No, no, no,” the monk protested. “You are getting the wrong idea here. This is the way of it, you see—”

“How do you know?” Murdo said. “None of us were there.”

“Tch!” chided the monk. “How do I know? Have I not already told you? I talked to the priests. I also talked to men who were there—men who helped raise the siege and fought to regain the city. I listened to what they said, and now I am telling you. What is so difficult about that?”

Murdo grunted, but made no further protest.

“By your leave, O Head of Wisdom, I continue. This is the way of it: no sooner was Antioch liberated, than the enemy tried to recapture it. Sultan Kerbogha—the Seljuq chieftain of this region—gathered his armies and those of his vassal lords, and together they surrounded the city. Four days after marching through the gates in victory, our brother crusaders were trapped inside the very walls they had just freed from the enemy. Why, they had not even time enough to replenish the stores of grain and water depleted by their own long siege.

“No food. No water. The pilgrims were starving, and fever broke out. Men were dying by the score, and the army was growing weaker with each passing day. Many gathered in the church to pray God's deliverance. They prayed three days and nights, and during the night one of the priests in Count Raymond's retinue—Peter Bartholomew by name—was visited by a vision in which he was instructed to search for the Lance of Christ.”

“Who told him?” asked Murdo, a queasy feeling beginning to steal over him. “Did they tell him where to search?”

“It seems Peter was visited by a young priest dressed all in white—he did not know who it was at that time—and this white priest told him that when they found the Holy Lance, the crusaders should carry it before them into battle, and their faith would be rewarded by a very great victory.”

At the mention of the white priest, Murdo's scalp prickled.

“It seems Brother Peter duly reported his vision to the count,” Emlyn said.

“And that was when they started searching?”

“Alas, no,” the monk answered. “Count Raymond ignored him. Some people are always having visions, you know, and unfortunately Peter is one of these. No one listened to him. And the more he insisted, the less they believed him.”