MILES CHRISTI

Chapter Fourteen

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MILES CHRISTI

Chapter Fourteen

They came boiling out of the Rhodope Mountains like the Demon that had swallowed them. No barrier could stand in their way. Crossing through Macedonia and Thrace, they came upon prosperous towns and were eager to buy and trade. But even with a royal escort, few merchants dealt with them, not after Little Peter’s army. Besides, it was said the Franks were arrogant, these deplorables from the West, and thought themselves anointed beings. Day by day, the escort grew as Alexius ordered more troops to accompany them.

Soon they found the land picked clean. Gone were the crops and domestic herds – the sheep, the pigs, and fowl. The highway, mowed a half-mile wide, was scarred and ladened with horse dung from a plague of Burgundians and Provençals, from Little Peter’s People’s Army. Robert Curthose’s was the last to approach.

The first was Little Peter with his raucous warbands. Alexius sent out provisions to them in advance – better to feed them than have them decimate the lands . . . which they nonetheless did.

Upon receiving Peter, Alexius wondered if his letter to the West calling for help back in ’93 had been a mistake. He had written to Robert of Flanders –

“. . . The blood of Christians flows in unheard-of scenes of carnage . . . Therefore in the name of God . . . we implore you to bring to this city all faithful soldiers of Christ . . .”  

Was there such a letter? None thus far can agree. If there was, Pope Urban was meant to see it. If there was, Urban saw it indeed. For came the wave . . .

Hugh Vermandois, first of the princes’ armies, Hugh the Great, brother of the King of France had written to Alexius in anticipation of his arrival: “Know, Emperor, that I am the King of Kings, the greatest of all beneath the heavens. It is my will that you should meet me on my arrival and receive me with all pomp and ceremony due to my noble birth . . .”

Malákas . . . But what is royalty not to announce itself? Yea, they are different. What king does not come in power and might?     

Alexius sent his nephew, John Comnenos, Governor of Dyrrhachium, and Nicholas Maurokatakalon, (such names to the Western ear) admiral of the Byzantine fleet.

Hugh sent twenty-four envoys in advance as he sailed down from the north.

“Be it known to you,” they addressed John Comnenos, “that our lord, Hugh, is almost here. He brings with him from Rome the golden standard of St Peter. Understand, moreover, that he is the supreme commander of the Frankish army. See to it then that he is accorded a reception worthy of his rank and yourself prepared to meet him.”

Then came the great Hugh with his fleet, flags flying, running on the waves until a storm, sculking like an assassin, charged out from nowhere and floundered every ship. His was the only wreck to be tossed ashore. A wet dog, a rain-soaked chicken the King of Kings with many of his soldiers drowned.

Alexius received Hugh with open arms, showering him with wealth as if he was the Prodigal Son. Hugh, overwhelmed, was giddy. Such abundance, ‘til it demeaned him; Alexius doled out treasure as if pulled from his pocket. France, in all its glory, was to Constantinople as the earth to the sun. Agog. Hugh was agog and fell into Alexius’ hand. Indeed, he would’ve licked it.

“Swear fealty and become my son,” Alexius said.

Hugh swore gladly.

Which had been Pope Urban’s plan – the princes would swear fealty and together, with Alexius at their head, the combined armies of East and West would sweep into the Holy Land and restore Christians lands under Alexius’ rule. Then, on all ecclesiastic matters, Alexius, along with the Patriarch, would submit to the See of St Peter. The Church whole again.

Army by army approached in their turn. Alexius flattered them, bore their tantrums, bestowed parental advice, and as with Hugh, crushed them with abundance. And fealty – no one may cross the Golden Horn to fight Christ’s enemies without submission to Alexius. Any kingdoms conquered must be returned to him.

Though they swore, not all liked it.

“We’re princes ourselves,” they grumbled. “We are peers to the kings of France and England. If fealty is to be sworn to any earthly lord, it would be to the Holy Roman Emperor in Charlemagne’s chair. Not to a Greek, who is no Greek at all but half-Syrian whose family murdered their way to the throne.”

Princes indeed, thought Alexius. Proud. Distrustful. With sharp edges. Subtlety is over their heads. Better to act than think. Such with their faith. Because it is ‘righteous’, it will sort itself out. Diplomacy is a wile that lacks purity. Behold, I send thee as sheep in the midst of wolves. Be ye there for wise as serpents and simple as doves. They come in no disguise. They believe they come as penance. Yet, what prince abandons his realm if he could not improve his station? We’re all mongrels under the skin scrambling beneath God’s table.

Alexius drugged them with gold. Some more easily drugged than others . . . Yet one would not succumb – Count Raymond of Toulouse, wealthiest of the princes; he needed no money.

A man of deep faith, Raymond, especially in his old age, though not so old to swing an axe. He was the pope’s man and his aim was to die in the Holy Land. His death should have meaning – what a violent man thinks when growing old. Have mercy on the souls I killed. Have mercy on the souls I shall kill. On those who will kill me. I pray for the pagans I send down to Hell. Will they do the same for me with their pagan faith? We are dogs in their eyes.

Ah – jumping heads.

Do old men think this? Violent old men when their blood runs thin? Or are they men who feign belief in want of a worldly legacy? There are these . . . Yet still, there are old men no longer able to lie to themselves. Who’ve wasted away their lives with all appearance of success, old men who stand at the back of the temple striking their breast . . . Was this Count Raymond? What could Alexius bestow that Raymond did not have? Redemption? Do humans seek redemption?

They do – via orthodoxy, good works, right intentions, remorse, collective reasoning, and all manner of thinking and belief.

As do you, though you may not know it . . .

Mankind is guilty. Be there God or not. And their acts are in vain. But this was an age when God covered the world – Mohammedan, Christian, Jew – People of the Book. But Mankind needed not God to slaughter each other. He slaughtered before anything was writ.

What, then, could Alexius give Raymond?

Nothing.

They became friends. Clever old fox the one-eyed Raymond . . .

Next, Adhemar, bishop of LePuy, who traveled with Raymond and carried the papal authority and was, in fact, the expedition’s head. A fighting bishop, when required, diplomatic and practical, he typified the Roman Church – one must fight for truth. But all fought regardless of principle. No clerical sword was anymore bloodier than those of the enemies they killed. Certainly not more than Alexius’ or the Saracen foe.

Next, Bohemond, prince of Taranto with his Italo-Normans, Alexius’ old scourge who had kicked him out of Italy. Ah Bohemond, thought Alexius, their Achilles. He embodies what they are. If Raymond aspires to be their spiritual ideal, Bohemond is their reality. Tall and beautiful like a pagan statue, Bohemond, at forty, is their man.

Indeed, he captivated all. None more than Alexius’ daughter, Anna, who derided Bohemond publicly, but was, in truth, enthralled – a horrid fascination, the way one looks at a lion on a kill. Was she no princess, she would’ve flung herself upon him. How magnetic – a lie in his every word . . . Tancred, Bohemond’s nephew, was even worse, with all the cunning and none of the charm.

Bohemond took the pledge too easily, Alexius thought. And will be the first to break it . . . or not – whatever suites him best. Such a wolf. Even his smile is threatening. How will he match with Raymond?

Godfrey de Bouillon, with landless brothers Eustace and Baldwin, came with a huge army on the overland route. Tall, the brothers were so tall. Why were Franks so tall? Height implies virtue. An intent pure . . .

They attacked the city straight away; hearing Alexius was holding the princes captive who did not swear allegiance. And on Holy Thursday. Alexius implored them not to spill Christian blood on the eve of Christ’s passion. It was, after all, a misunderstanding. If they insisted on a fight, then next week after our Lord’s resurrection. Yet all could be resolved with a little gold and conversation with an accomplished interpreter. Their purpose was one and the same – restore Christian land and recover Jerusalem. How little they comprehend, thought Alexius.

Who did not comprehend?

Godfrey was bought and won – another Frankish son for Alexius. He shipped Godfrey across the Golden Horn to Saracen held lands.

Then there had been the People’s army.

“You should wait for the armies of the princes,” Alexius counselled them.

“What need have we for the princes? We are guided by the living God.”

So eager they were to spill blood and usher in the Kingdom. These humble peasants and petty seigneurs come halfway around the world, downtrodden themselves, bringing God’s Fire. “Who is innocent?” they cried. “The pagan child with a sweet face? Have not our children died? Have they not suffered – we, the new Israel? Vipers beget vipers. Exterminate them before they have the strength, before pagan falsehoods harden their brains.”

            Upon the rivers of Babylon, we wept when we remembered Zion.

            On the willows in the midst thereof we hung our instruments.

            For there they that led us into captivity required of us songs.

            And they that carried us away, said: Sing to us a hymn of Zion.

            How shall we sing the song of the Lord in a strange land?. . .

            . . . Remember, O Lord, the children of Edom, in the day of Jerusalem:

            Who say: Rase it, rase it, even to the foundations thereof.

            O daughter of Babylon, miserable:

            Blessed shall he be that shall repay thee thy payment which thou

            Hast paid us.

            Blessed be he that shall take and dash thy infants against the rock.

And dashed the infants they did, Little Peter could not control them – old and young, men and women, the healthy and infirmed; they drove spits up the rumps of infants and out the tops of their heads, then roasted them. Cannot a five-year-old be taught to cut throats? Little Peter fled back to Constantinople.

As the rabid force marched inland towards the city of Nicaea, Kilij Arslan, the Sultan of Roum, amassed his army and waited. “From where do these mindless infidels come from, and why does the Basileus, my ally, cross them into my lands?”

The People’s Army came roaring out of the hills into the Dracon Valley where Kilij Arslan massacred them nearly to a man. He ordered the corpses gathered in heaps for all to see, filling the air with poison – a warning to any infidel force that would invade. For the buzzards it was an inexhaustible meal, which they would re-scatter far and wide. So much Kilij Arslan thought of the Army of Christ and turned his attention to more pressing needs – rivals to his throne from Seljukid nobles in the east. Alexius coddled Little Peter while the remnants of the People’s Army were circumcised and marched into captivity as converts to Islam. So the way of it . . .

And now came the Army of Robert Curthose.

*******************

“Jerusalem!” the common folk cried. “It is Jerusalem! Jerusalem floating in the heavens! A miracle!” They wept in astonishment. “God has transported us to the Navel of the World!”

Was it a miracle? Had God taken them in their sleep to the center of the creation? Taken them in the palm of His hand, that broad hand that can scoop the earth without the slightest jostle and place it where He will, and them, in his grasp, without the least perception? If ye have the faith the size of a mustard seed . . . Hope can cause a dip in reason. Hope can mine a logical defense, for before them stood the most glorious city.

Constantinople floated upon a shimmering reflection and afire in the golden hour of the day. The Walls of Theodosius, a marvel of stone and brick, flashing the sun’s setting rays, forty feet high, seventeen feet thick with its ninety-six towers spanning from the Golden Horn to the Sea of Marmora. Rising behind the ramparts were golden domes, marble buildings with shingles of red slate. Too beautiful. That a single city should hold such glory.

Aile, for one, sucked a breath. She knew the place from an auspicious sixth sense: the lines of its walls, the towers, the way the trees swayed in the wind. She could imagine the gardens and streets with clarity even though she’d never been beyond Normandy’s borders. She’s been here in her dreams, in her memories – memories more felt than remembered and saw it with her heart’s eye.

She reached out to Tìbald at her side. The warhorse’s ears flattened and whipped back its head at Aile’s arm. It bit her, its teeth clicking against her chainmail sleeve. And Tìbald just as quick with a slap. It did not flinch, its skull giving back better than it received.

Aile’s elation plummeted. “I hate that thing.” In the horse the world’s cruelty that acts without concern. Better to stay low. But the city . . . She glanced at Ysobel walking in her shadow and subject to her ‘bites’. Does Ysobel hope. Aile pondered? Though she knew, or thought she knew – Ysobel came for the forgiveness of her sins . . . and because I ordered her and will endure whatever comes. She is secure in her misery as are all peasants---

The warhorse whinnied, tossing its head.

“I hate it,” Aile repeated. “Why must you keep it? Buy another.”

“It serves us,” Tìbald’s matter-of-fact answer.

It better, she thought and turned back to the city. I will have it. God put me here and despite all odds, it will happen. Even to Jerusalem and back.