MILES CHRISTI

Chapter Twenty-Two

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MILES CHRISTI

Chapter Twenty-Two

The army revived at Iconium. The Christians threw open the gates and supplied them with provisions and prayer.

“They took our children,” the Iconium Christians wailed. “They heard of your approach and ripped them from our hands. Our children screamed and they murdered us when we tried to stop them. They tethered them together by their necks. They beat our boys and ravished our girls. They’ll make them slaves, and those they cannot use, they’ll sell or kill. The infants they slay out of hand and laugh, our dear ones . . . They who were once tolerant took our children.” Parents and grandparents shook their fists to Heaven. Their eyes swelled and strings of tears pearled on their lips. Rachel weeping for her children. They embraced the pilgrims, touching their faces. “Kill them, brothers, please. And if not, kill us. That we could kill ourselves . . .”

The pilgrims collapsed and wept. Together they prayed through the night, offering Mass and supplication. What could more comfort than the Body of Christ? He must be returning soon . . . Come Jēsu, come! The world is going mad. Come Jēsu, come! The millennium is nigh . . . It is past. You tarry. Must the world die like Lazarus? It is dying now and not on its back . . .

“Beware of the coming terrain and treacherous mountains,” the Iconium Christians warned. “The Devil waits for thee . . . Saracens are gathering to the east, not just the Seljukid, but Danishmend emirs, proclaiming your death in the ‘Um al-Mar’rik’ (Mother of all Battles). Only three days to Heraclea then over the mountains to the great fortress city, Antioch, the key to Palestine and Jerusalem beyond.” Go. Go. And please, go. Not a day more should Jerusalem suffer. “Fight for us and grind their bones. Save our children.”  

The army took up its baggage – new pack animals, fresh horses, water and food all blessed by the local bishop, the pilgrims determined and ready. How their mood could swing. Count Raymond miraculously recovered – Extreme Unction had done the trick; Duke Godfrey could ride without flinching, displaying his scars with pride – he’d saved a lowly villein. Wasn’t he the perfect seigneur? Would’ve done it if the man was a Jew . . . How courageous. Holy were his wounds . . .

God be with you brothers. Go. Go. And please, go.

They passed through the heat with ascetic endurance, so much so when encountering the enemy at Heraclea, they attacked at once, Bohemond leading a charge into the Saracen center seeking combat with the emir himself. Kill those who took the children. Grind their bones. As if he cared . . . He did care . . . at the moment.

The Turks withdrew immediately.

“Let us not oblige these fanatics who care not if they live or die,” the Saracen commanders said. “The weather will settle them.”

It did. One could not imagine the heat. It cooked them in their metal skin and they peeled like bark on a roasting pig and died. But they came to die and kept going.

Elōi, Elōi lema sabachthani. Such mutability . . .  

An apparition appeared in the night sky over the camps. A comet – white hot and brilliant with a fiery tail, and so low, it could fall into their midst.

“A sign!” the pilgrims cried. “A sign!” The heat had induced them. Yet, all religions mark signs – every whirlwind, every hurricane; heat on cold days, cold days in summer (Mother is speaking, the goddess Epistími) . . .

They rushed to the priests. But none could answer. Who is holy enough?

Little Peter.

Little Peter where have you been? You abandon your mob before its slaughter. You who stirred it up with dancing fools who so believed because you believed. Do you believe still, now you’re with the princes? You claimed no need of them. Isn’t that the way? Speak, Peter, speak. Return to the melodrama . . .

The little monk shook his head. “Most assuredly a sign from God, but I cannot portend its meaning. It appears like a sword pointing to the East.”

Is that what Epistími says? Say more, Little Peter. Say it with authority. Let your ‘R’s ring. Other ‘Peters’ yet to come are longing to replace you.

The bishops, on a practical note, reproved the frenzy: “Regardless of its meaning, trust in God. Do right in His eyes and that will be the surest sign He is with you.”

Then his eminence, Adhemar, ordered a gathering of his peers. “The princes are becoming more concerned for kingdoms, and the commoners have no faith without signs and wonders. False prophets will sprout and run wild without our vigilance. The closer we come to the navel of the earth, the more Satan will fight us. Be cautious and watch. The enemy works from within.

Indeed.

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

The princes assembled to discuss the best route to Antioch. They met outside of Count Raymond’s pavilion. Bohemond wanted it outside his and made the fact known under no uncertain terms. He was the war chief . . . But the French, always the French spoiling, and the worst, the Provençals with their straightforward arrogance – yipping little dogs. Good fighters, though ‘good’ in a competent manner, but no Spartans for god’s sake. They scream and shout, so easily offended. This war is theirs and the rest are support. So the Comte de Toulouse would have it, though he would not say. He would not need to say, Raymond Sainte-Gilles.

“He is still recovering,” Bishop Adhemar intervened. “The malady almost killed him. It had. The blessed sacrament pulled him back. Raymond is weak and it would be an act of kindness.”

Bohemond reconsidered if only to save face. That the old man would’ve died. He wants to, then he could be a saint and look down as Bohemond takes the lead.  

Tìbald stood in his usual place at the back of Curthose’s escort. Raymond’s marquee put all to shame as intended, though a mere dining fly when compared to that of the Basileus. And the princes all dignified. Their reserve screamed. Bohemond and Raymond did not like each other, however for Raymond, it didn’t matter with nothing to lose except legacy. Though how important is legacy (what you’re reading here). Young men haven’t the slightest idea, immortal young men (‘persons’ I should say), knitting the world together in their new way, which is the same old way with its unseen calamities – ambition, greed, and envy never change. Vanity. We are doomed. ‘Look at me.’ ‘Look at me.’ ‘Look at me.’ – this generation . . . But legacy too is vanity. Maybe the greatest of all vanities. ‘Look at me.’ . . . And Raymond. Poor Raymond, (he tries so hard) for all his piety. How the rich and powerful become obsolete . . . Raymond is not obsolete; it’s his holy war and he will wage it if everyone falls away. He’ll attack Jerusalem alone, charge the gates alone with his lance and give it back to . . . to God (as if God ever lost it) and ride into sainthood . . . or he could die like a pede – no effigies on their tombs. They have no tombs. Let your legacy be in Heaven . . . If you get there.

Bohemond, as always, itched, the covetousness an ointment in the pours of his skin. As if he had no will – ‘O’ woeful man that I am, that I do not do the things I would do but do the things I would not do.’ Bohemond could not admit it. A too clever man, him. But of this he was certain – Raymond held Adhemar in the palm of his hand.

The rest were the usual characters: Godfrey (displaying his scars of course), brothers Baldwin and Eustace, Tancred and Hugh, Count Stephen and Robert Curthose, and the scapegoat who could bear all their folly – Taticius, Alexius’ general and envoy.

They gathered around a crude map to determine the best route to Antioch.

“I recommend,” Taticius began in a precise Latin, “the highway to the east, to Caesarea Maracha. It is in Christian hands. From there, we can take the great Military Road of Byzantium across Anti-Taurus and down to the Gates of Amanus to the Antioch plain.” Most reasonable.

They shook their heads. It would take them days out of their way when they could cut straight south over the Taurus Mountains and pass over to Antioch by the Cilician Gates.

“The Cilician Gates are a great danger and most difficult to traverse,” Taticius said.

“No, no, no,” Tancred injected without tact. Pushing next to the Greek, he stabbed the map with his finger. “This is the most direct passage.”

“The roads are poor. Narrow and steep. The army will be slowed and can be attacked by a small force in control of the heights; the Turks possess the pass now. Beside the climate is at its most hazardous. It is deadly---”

Tancred huffed.

“---Even if you breach the Cilician Gates, you will have to turn east by a difficult pass of the Syrian Gates . . . But if you cross over to Caesarea Maracha, you’ll be given aid along the way. It is the main road from Antioch to Constantinople and has been for hundreds of years.”

An Armenian prince standing next to Baldwin, Duke Godfrey’s landless brother, whispered to him: “He’s deceiving you. He fears Armenian Christians would rather be ruled by you when you liberate their kingdoms than by Alexius.”

The slightest turn of Baldwin’s chin and he waited.

“A coward’s route,” Tancred said. “The pagans have not defeated us when twice our number. They now flee at the sight of us . . . Un grek rouse,” he muttered in his Norman tongue.

Raymond, still weak, spoke with authority. “We must rely on Taticius’ good judgment. We do not avoid the enemy, but we cannot suffer another desert march. We no longer belong to ourselves but to God and must preserve ourselves in His service. If we are to lose our lives, let it be in battle and not heat.”

Bohemond listened without expression, though Tancred answered: “Je ne fais pas confiance à l’empereur ou à ce chien arabe borgne.”

Taticius got the gist.

“Ces Grecs nous craignent plus que les Turcs. Je me demande s’ils sont là pour verifier notre objectif?”

Again, Bohemond silent.

“Taticius est notre noble allié,” Raymond said, “et l’a prouvé au combat. Les soldats du Basileus sont braves et courageux . . .”

Taticius leaned into an aid who interpreted for him: “‘Taticius is a noble ally. The Basileus’ soldiers are brave and courageous . . . Taticius, by his council, risks his own life. He too realizes to jeopardize our course would condemn his soul.’”

Old fool, Tancred thought of Raymond and looked to Bohemond.

“I agree with Tancred,” said Baldwin in Latin so all could understand. “There are kingdoms to be won. The Basileus is weary of Frankish ambition; Bohemond and his great father were, at one time, at the gates of the capital itself. The Basileus fears the lands we will win, once his, will not be returned to him – a concern great indeed when he stays behind. If he is our leader, why isn’t he here? I’ve no quarrel with Taticius other than he is a servant. We are not snug behind the lines, sending our servants to fight our wars. My brother, Godfrey, is a noble prince. Prince Hugh has vast holdings in France. Count Raymond . . .” He threw up a hand. “Can any of us boast to the wealth he sacrificed for the Tomb? You ask why there are those of us who resent the Greeks or distrust their counsel? Not because they lack courage or that we depend upon them as guides. It is because they risk so very little, and we, who have risked all, should be subject to their decisions. What are the dangers on one route over another when we have come this far? We, who have travelled from the edges of the world guided by faith only, must now rely upon earthly schemes from a race that lost the realm God entrusted to them. I say – thrust toward the enemy whenever we find him.”

Taticius reduced.

“We are moved by your conviction, Count Baldwin,” said Stephen de Blois (ah, the opening – a salute before the blow). “I too want to see God’s Co-Regent here with us (‘Co-Regent? Co-Regent? Is he now Greek? . . . But what can you expect from a dominated man, his wife can reach him though she be in Normandy), but the Basileus is here in Taticius who acts in his stead. If the Basileus has harmed you by his absence, forgive him as you should. Taticius is here to support us for our good. There are Christian cities along that way who will give and receive encouragement from us.”

“There are cities to the south in need of liberation,” Baldwin countered. “How do we tell those Christians they are expendable? To the south is a direct route to Antioch.”

Tancred began to open his mouth, but Bohemond shut it and said, “The army must not divide. It is a danger to us all.

Baldwin dared to stare the war chief down; he was his own crusade and it was time they knew it. Baldwin for Baldwin and nothing else. He will lie, but not to himself. How much they lie to themselves.

Adhemar, ailing and perturbed, spoke: “Brothers, our goal is to free the tomb of Christ. Whatever the route, this should be your purpose only.” Well said – the one, true Christian.

“That is my purpose, eminence,” Tancred said, “to win kingdoms for Christ that I may rule to make certain they are grounded in the faith. My sword is pledged to stamp out the evils that threaten God’s reign. God’s judgment on us if we tolerate---”

“Yes,” Curthose interrupted with the piety of a simpleton. “Kingdoms grounded in the true faith.” – nothing of his own to say. “We cannot tolerate. What terrors our children will see if we fail.”

Toleration – a species of power, largess; of hegemony – the ultimate dominance.

Oh, Curthose, Tíbald thought. Is God laughing? Curthose who had taxed his subjects to poverty, who brutalized his people with war – a royal pawn ready to support whichever robber prince who could sway him. Good thing he’s brave and can swing a sword.

‘Good morning, dómini.’ ‘God keep thee, dómini.’ ‘Peace be with thee, dómini.’

Duke Robert smiled affably, Tíbald detesting him despite himself. Who are these men? . . . And back again, Little Peter.

Stultorum Cohortem.

Come to Jerusalem. Meet Me there.

They returned to their squabbling.

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

Tancred with one hundred seigneurs and accompanying infantrymen marched silently out of camp before sunrise. Without baggage or women, they made straight for the Cilician Gates. Baldwin, upon learning this, gathered two thousand of his own men and set out behind him to win kingdoms for himself. Deus lo volt. So much for the Iconium children.