In the Heat of Anatolia
The fog had been thick all morning, hanging low and heavy over the entire coast. Even the sea, which could be heard crashing upon the shore and the ensuing mist felt on the skin, was lost in the pale grey void. The men of the guard on the old high wall occasionally shouted to one another, reassuring themselves that they were not alone.
Maurinus stepped from his quarters, his lamellar armor jostling against itself as he strode through the chilling wet curtain. His work as a sergeant in the Constantinople garrison had not gone unnoticed, and thus he had been assigned to command a fort of his own, Kólasi̱; a dilapidated and crumbling castle of the classical era which nearly always reeked of old rotting meat and stale seawater. A single day wouldn’t pass without his commander’s parting words: “Glory unto Rome” echo through his head. However, on this morning he was in quite high spirits. He would embrace anything that allowed him to forget where he was, and the fog was doing absolute wonders for his morale.
He made his way up the centuries old cobble steps and onto the ramparts, whereupon he nearly ran face-first into Ammonianus, the captain of the watch. Ammonianus was an ugly fellow, complexion destroyed by pox scars and nose crooked and upturned like a pig. He was shivering in his armor, soaked through and to the bone by the ocean spray and heavy mist.
“Good morning, Ammonianus. How went the watch?”
“Just fine, sir. The lord has blessed us with fairer weather than most nights.”
“I’m sure he has. Any incidents to report?”
“None, sir. Bonifatius attempted suicide by leaping from the wall but we managed to restrain him. Unfortunately in the struggle Opilio got carried away and stabbed him. He passed a little after ten, and we tossed him from the wall.”
“Have you notified the priest?”
“Indeed, sir.”
“Good. Where’s Opilio? I should have a word with him concerning this incident.”
“Under Brother Carinus he was sentenced to die for his crime, and so we threw him from the wall. He passed shortly before the half hour after ten.” Maurinus nodded, approving. While the antics of these frontiersmen had initially disturbed him, he soon came to find their incredible lack of discipline rather entertaining. Romans they were in name, yet in practicality they were nothing of the sort; and it was a refreshing change from the proper and politically correct atmosphere of Constantinople.
“Thank you for your report, captain.” Saluting him, Maurinus continued on his circuit of the wall. Many of the men were asleep at their posts. The archers, Christophorus and Georgius, were taking turns shooting at a chicken which was ducking in and out of view in the central yard below. Brother Carinus was talking to two local prostitutes down in the collapsing chapel. Neither spoke Latin, or even Greek for that matter, and were both waiting very patiently for him to dip into the fort reserves for their gold coins. Iovivus, Maurinus’s lieutenant, was trying to play a game of chess with Ziper, a peasant conscript. Iovivus had proven himself incompetent in nearly every way so far, and Maurinus was amused to see that Ziper had managed to place him in check and leave poor Iovivus with only a knight and two pawns to his name.
Maurinus was making his way back to his personal chamber, intent on napping for the remainder of the day, when a cry came from the gatehouse. He rerouted and jogged along the wall, grabbing Iovivus (who was busy shouting at Ziper and threatening to throw him over the side) on his way. He saluted the guard as he arrived.
“What seems to be the problem?”
“Two men at the gate, sir. Could hardly see them. They claim they’re pilgrims.”
“Have they got gold?” The guard shrugged, then shouted the question to the two men out of sight below. A unison “no” came back from the void. “Shit,” Maurinus muttered, “Alright, go ahead and let them in. We’ll see what they want.”
With only a minimal amount of moaning, the gates were opened and the two men let in. They were both draped in rags and covered in dirt from head to toe. Their beards hung to their chests and were matted with grime and sea salt. The only belongings between them was a rucksack of molded biscuits (which was promptly taken by Georgius and carried back up to the wall), and a Latin Bible. Both their eyes were wide and they were shaking in their sandals.
“This isn’t an inn, friends. State your name and business,” ordered Maurinus, moving his sword into a more easily accessible position. The one who was clutching the Bible stepped forward and spoke.
“We are but simple pilgrims, sir, en route to the Holy City. We are Roman citizens of Greece. My name is Eusebios and this is my friend Kynikos.”
“Pilgrims, eh? You understand the road isn’t safe for unarmed beggars?”
“No shit,” muttered Kynikos. Eusebios looked horrified.
“What my friend was meaning to say,” he mumbled, “was that we have witnessed this first hand, and were merely seeking refuge within your walls until the threat passes.”
“What threat?” Eusebios shifted his gaze upon the troops. His eyes bore a kind of poorly-masked horror.
“Marauders, sir. A band of hundreds, heading along the coast. We barely managed to avoid them and make our way here. Praise the heavens you are hospitable.”
Maurinus’s gut sank. Through the rampant cases of suicide and desertion, the garrison was almost entirely local conscripts and at last head count he had no more than fifty under his command. Kólasi̱ was small, but it was still large enough to require a force of perhaps three times the size to be adequately defended. To make matters worse, many had sold off their armor or weapons to pay for whores and barrels of ale.
“Maybe they won’t head this way,” offered Eusebios.
“A Christian fort on their flank? They’re going to burn this place to the ground,” responded Kynikos. Maurinus looked at them, and then at his men, their faces still mostly obscured in the cold sea fog.
“Fuck.”
___
By early afternoon, the high Anatolian sun had burned the fog away and Maurinus could plainly see the full gravity of the situation at hand.
The pilgrims had been completely absurd in their estimations. The best he could guess was that what they had encountered, and surely led to his very doorstep, was a mere scouting party for the rest of the force.
Assembling in the plains below were several thousand individuals, their crude armor and weaponry gleaming dimly in the sunlight. They seemed to be almost entirely on foot, devoid even of support wagons, and massive swaths of dust were now filling the empty space left by the retreating morning fog; kicked up by their dragging boots. A bristling forest of spears reached for the sky, the lines occasionally broken by the banners of a dozen minor noble houses.
Maurinus gathered with Iovivus, Ammonianus, and the hastily re-dressing Brother Carinus atop the gatehouse. Far below, two of the raiders approached under a white cloth suspended between their bodies. The pair were clad in rags not much more extravagant than those of the pilgrims and bore crudely hammered iron greaves strapped to their shins and forearms. One wore a rusting mail vest while the other’s head was topped by a rotting leather cap. Both their faces were obscured behind a layer of grime and sweat.
“What do you want?” Maurinus shouted. The pair stopped moving, looking up at the tower; their hands shielding their eyes from the sun. The one with the cap spoke, revealing a mouth of decaying brown teeth.
“We are servants of the Lord, going to Jerusalem. We intend to seize this place in the ever sacred and eternal name of the savior Jesus Christ.” Maurinus rolled his eyes, uttering a slight groan.
“Fucking Crusaders,” he muttered to his lieutenants, “I thought this shit was over.” He turned back to the crusaders, cupping his hands over his mouth as he shouted.
“Are you taking the fucking piss? Do you know who we are?” The crusaders looked at one another, discussing something among themselves before the man with the cap spoke again.
“What?”
“We are Romans, you twit! We’re Christians too!” The crusaders went back to discuss with one another, the one with the vest slapping the other in the back of the head, nearly tossing his cap to the ground. This time, he spoke, his mouth devoid of teeth.
“We on’ ‘eeleef yoo.”
“We’ve got a priest!”
“Wha?”
“WE. HAVE. A FUCKING. PRIEST.” Iovivus turned towards Brother Carinus.
“Show your face, brother.”
“I have no desire to deal with such rabble.”
“You’re kidding me,” Maurinus snapped.
“Get going,” Iovivus ordered, with a firm push in the square of the priest’s back. Unprepared, he stumbled forward. While the wall normally rose above waist level, that particular section had been slightly disassembled to make chips with which some of the men gambled when playing dice. Thus, nothing protecting him, Brother Carinus fell from the wall without realizing what had happened. His scream was almost immediately cut off by the crunch of his body hitting the rocks dozens of feet below. One of the crusaders began praying, his garbled Latin faintly ringing through the air.
Maurinus turned to face Iovivus, his jaw clenched firmly shut. Iovivus took a cautious step back. The garrison commander enunciated his words slowly as he finally spoke, his tone low and measured.
“What exactly made you think that was a good idea?” Iovivus shrugged his shoulders coyly. “Right. Well… we’ll see how we hold diplomatically.” He could hear the cap-wearer shouting back at them. He went to wall, mindful of the gap.
“What?”
“Divine retribution will find you, heathen!” On his knees, the one in the mail was praying, his Latin completely slurred and filled with more spittle than sanctity.
“No, we didn’t do that. He fell! I swear, we’re Christians!”
“What?”
“Jesus fucking Christ. WE HAVE PILGRIMS TOO!”
___
“On the blood of the Virgin.”
“Wha?” Clerebold rose from his knees, inflexible in his rusted mail vest.
“You didn’t hear them?”
“‘O.”
“They’ve got pilgrims in there too!”
“‘Oher ‘Ary!”
“We must alert the captain.” Clerebold nodded emphatically. Geoffrey turned to face the high ramparts, adjusting his cap. The defenders were but silhouettes in front of the high afternoon sun. “We’ll be back!”
“WHAT?”
“WE ARE LEAVING.”
___
“What’d they say?” Maurinus turned to face Iovivus.
“Maybe if you stood closer you could hear what the fuck they’re saying, you moron.” Iovivus looked the wall over, then took another half-step back, shaking his head.
“I think I’m alright.” Maurinus rubbed his eyes with his fingers.
“Well, they’re leaving. Thank God. I don’t think I have the patience for any more of these freaks.” The slapping of sandals could be heard coming up the steps. From below arrived Eusebios and Kynikos, the Bible still held firmly in the former’s arms.
“How goes the word?”
“They’re leaving.”
“Praise be unto you, our sentinels, and the ever-merciful Lord in heaven!”
“They’re gonna be back,” Kynikos muttered.
“Shut up, you dirtball. I like this guy’s idea,” Maurinus gestured at the joyful Eusebios, who was now in full prayer on his hands and knees. Kynikos peaked around.
“Where’s Carinus? Didn’t he come up here?”
“Yep,” Iovivus coughed.
“They pulled him off the wall.”
“Bullshit. We’re forty feet up.”
“THOSE BRUTES! TO SLAY A SERVANT OF GOD!” Eusebios rose from his prayer, face red with rage.
“Right. Well we’ll have a service for him, and then I expect the two of you to move along your way. We're not a charity.”
“I don’t think it’d hurt you to hold us for the night.” Eusebios slapped his friend on the arm.
“Don’t be ungracious of our hosts. Come, we’ll prepare final rites for our brother.” Kynikos shot the Romans a final glare before he was dragged back down the stairs.
___
“You speak the truth?” Clerebold and Geoffrey sat at the feet of their commander, Sir Alard. An impoverished knight and son of a disgraced nobleman, he wore a tattered tunic bearing his family crest, which was indecipherable under the dirt which covered him from head to toe. He sat with the regal posture of one who still very much considered themselves worth anyone’s time.
Underneath the tent and around the procession stood hundreds of onlooking crusaders, teeming with excitement.
“I ‘aw i’ wih ‘y ‘are eyes!”
“Indeed, m’lord. And they have pilgrim hostages within the walls as well.”
“How many?”
“‘Ey ‘in’ se’ify.”
“What?”
“Possibly hundreds, sire.” Clerebold shot him a glare.
“Wha?”
“We must rally the men at once! This cannot stand!” Alard spoke as he rose from his seat. He turned to Hannibalius, a Roman commander who was sitting in the corner of the tent, trimming his nails. “Captain!”
Hannibalius looked unsure of things, making sure that the knight was addressing him.
“What do you want?”
“Tell your men to prepare for battle!” The commander rolled his eyes, slapping his hand on the table.
“What’s wrong with yours?”
“They’re tired.”
“Yeah, mine too. But we’re not here to fight your battles. I’m here to ensure you don’t rape or murder any more Romans."
“But surely your men have expertise in siege warfare, no?”
“Yes.”
“What?”
“Yes. They have expertise in siege warfare. If you’d recall they had to take several installations back from your cohorts; one of which, I remind you, you continue to hold at odds.”
“Indeed! And mine have none. Peasants, for the most. They will be slaughtered on the ramparts.”
“Yeah, that’s war. Perhaps you should’ve considered that before you decided you wanted to come out and sack half the Levant.”
“When can they be ready by?” Hannibalius sighed.
“By dawn tomorrow. They need to be refreshed.”
“Their hostages may be dead by then!”
“So they may be.”
“And you call yourself a child of God.”
“I mean I don’t think I ever said anything regarding-”
“BARDOLPH!”
Sir Bardolph, a minor knight and Alard’s lieutenant, stepped forward from the crowd of onlookers. He towered above the others, and his wide face was framed by a fiery red beard, extending to his collarbone; resembling the mane of a lion. From his back hung a massive sheathed broadsword, and his armor was mismatched and rusted nearly to pieces.
“Aye, sir.”
“When can your company be ready to assault the wall?”
“Give us no more than an hour, sir.” Alard shrugged his shoulders sarcastically at the haggard Hannibalius, who had returned to trimming his nails and was no longer paying attention.
“Excellent, my good man, excellent. Take with you these two,” he gestured at Clerebold and Geoffrey, “As they know the walls best.”
“What?” Geoffrey lifted the earflap of his cap.
“The good Lord’s work, my son.” Alard patted the two on their heads before exiting the tent into the hot Anatolian sun. They looked at one another.
“s’i’.”
___
“They’re back.”
“I’m sorry, what?” Maurinus had been busy watching Eusebios praying intently in Latin down in the courtyard. Most of the troops weren’t in attendance, instead watching two chickens race along the length of the far wall; save Iovivus, who was the sole attendant of the funeral and looked on with meek embarrassment.
Ziper gestured out towards the plain, where indeed, the crusaders were mustering; although this time in a force of a few hundred.
“Goddammit.”
“No no no, don’t worry too much. Look closer.”
Maurinus scrunched his eyes, but could see nothing notable among the mob.
“They’re hardly armed. Tunics, clubs, hide boots. These men aren’t exactly professional.”
The garrison commander gleefully clapped his palm on the wall.
“Oh, this is going to be a delight.” He whistled at Christophorus and Georgius, who were preoccupied sketching one another with bits of charcoal. They came to his side quickly.
“Aye, sir?” stated Christophorus. Maurinus gestured to the rapidly encroaching gang. The two nodded.
“On it,” the two retorted in unison.
___
Clerebold and Geoffrey struggled under the weight of the siege ladder in their arms as they jogged behind Bardolph. The crusaders were roaring in several different languages yet all with the same grim determination as they sweated under the sun.
“Those walls will be ours by the evening meal, boys!” Bardolph shouted, drawing another cheer from the troops. None seemed to notice that they had but one ladder among them.
A fast-moving object whizzed through the air, driving into a soldier's head with a thwack of exploding brain and smashed bone. Several lept back in horror.
“Ha! A single arrow won’t stop the army of God!” The men cheered again.
Dozens of arrows began slicing through the air, cutting men down left and right. They fell in the dust, tripped over and crushed underfoot by their comrades. Those who weren’t killed outright struggled and wailed on the earth, holding onto wounds from which their very life was pouring, making mud with the soil. Geoffrey shrieked as his tunic was painted with the blood of the man on his immediate right, who fell with a barbed arrow jutting from the side of his throat.
First just one crusader turned and ran; as he tried to go against the flow of the mob he was thrown to the ground and trampled. However, this first attempt spread the idea through the company, and soon those who wished to continue pushing forward were now going against the tide. Weapons were dropped as the attackers, spirits broken, fled.
“A’mos ‘her.”
“Yep yep yep.”
They hit the cover of the foot of the wall and flung the ladder up against it.
“See you boys on the ramparts!” Yelled Bardolph as he clambered up hand over hand. Geoffrey nervously put his hand on the first rung to follow, before Clerebold tugged on his sleeve.
“What?”
“‘o wo’ el’.”
Geoffrey found Clerebold to be wholly correct; the entire company laid either dead and dying in the plains; or sprinting helter-skelter back to the camp, weapons abandoned in their rapidly growing wake.
___
“Just a few more moments lads!” Bardolph placed his gauntleted hand on the rampart, pulling himself face to face with the castle commander, a young Greek man adorned in gleaming lamellar armor and a streamlined kettle helmet. He bore a welcoming grin. Behind him stood two archers, cracking their knuckles and stretching their bowstring arms.
“Hello.” Bardolph looked him head to toe. The well-kept uniform, the clean-shaven face, and the Latin insignia on his shoulders.
“You’re Roman.”
“Indeed I am.” With that, the commander flicked Bardolph on the forehead with his index finger. Thrown off balance, he fell off the wall and plunged to the ground below.
___
Being it the second time that day, Clerebold and Geoffrey weren’t quite as astonished to see another man fall to his death before them.
They trudged their way back to the camp among the dead, dying, and abandoned equipment, and promptly returned to Alard’s tent. The knight was pinching his brow. Hannibalius tried to hide his amusement as he sipped from a cup of water.
“Would it be too much to hope that Bardolph is behind you?” They said nothing, instead sitting back at his feet. “Right. Well, Hannibalius my friend, do you care to assist us now or do you wish to remain at opposition with this sacred task?”
“My orders come from the Emperor, friend. Although I must admit I pity you. Tomorrow my men and I will take those walls. Just know that by day’s end, they will belong to the Empire, not any army of the Pope.”
Alard sighed in exasperation, and slumped back in his chair.
___
“You know, if I wasn’t convinced they were going to drown us all in the ocean I would’ve just given them this fucking place,” Maurinus spoke between bites of an apple, standing above a small fire being tended by the reclining Ziper. A few feet away the pilgrims were sleeping quietly. High above, the stars were gleaming gently in the now-clear air; the dust of the battle having settled. Ziper grunted in agreement. Maurinus looked at him. “I mean, you know what I taste when I eat this damn thing? Shit. Everything here reeks of shit. Looks like shit,” he rolled the half-devoured fruit in his hand, glancing it over, before chucking it into the open fire. It burned away with a fizz-pop. “It’s cold at night, hotter than Hell in the day. We’ve got rapist zealot morons from the west. The Seljuks in the east. And all we can do is sit here and watch this pile of rocks rot. Glory unto Rome. What a crock of shit. Have you ever even been to Rome?”
“This is the farthest I’ve been from home.”
“Yeah, this was my biggest move. Not that it matters. Nobody in this empire even speaks Latin anymore. Rome? The Goths have controlled it for centuries. So we’ve got this garbage instead. We’re protecting those dipshits out in that field. Without us, they would’ve all been speaking Arabic two hundred years ago. How do they repay us? They kick around Anatolia killing and raping without any consideration to that fact.”
“They’ve been ordained by God to go to war. You can’t blame them for wanting to have a little bit of fun. I promise you where they’re from it’s a hundred times worse.” Maurinus snorted.
“I almost just want to walk away. Go home. We can tell Constantinople they took it.”
“They’d kill you the second you stepped outside.”
“Somehow I’m skeptical of their ability to do so. They may have received God’s blessing but that doesn’t change the fact that they’re also disastrously incompetent.” They were interrupted by Ammonianus walking upon them, his helmet under his arm. Maurinus nearly lept back at the sight of his ghastly face in the shadows cast by the fire. The captain took notice, nodding in embarrassment.
“Apologies, sir.” Maurinus sighed.
“It’s fine, but Jesus fucking Christ. Get something done about that. Grow a beard or something, fuck.”
“I care not to change how the Lord made me, sir.” Maurinus patted him on the back.
“No hard feelings, Ammonianus. How went the watch?”
“Fine. The attackers are mostly sitting around their fires. They haven’t attempted to retrieve their dead. We must’ve given them quite the fright.” Maurinus shook his head.
“Or they’re convinced that they’re going to capture this place tomorrow and don’t wish to waste the effort on something they could do later with far more ease.” Ammonianus looked at him blankly.
“You’ve become quite the pessimist, sir.”
“No matter how good Christophorus and Georgius are, they’re not good enough to shoot four thousand crusaders. Aside from the fact they don’t have nearly enough arrows. Today we were lucky. They’ll do far better en masse. They have nothing to lose. Either they take these walls or they die fighting for the kingdom of Heaven. Unfortunately I’m inclined to believe the former to be the most likely outcome.” He sat down between them, tucking his knees up to his chest. For some time none of them spoke. Eusebios rolled over in his sleep.
Gleeful laughter came from behind, and they turned just in time to see Iovivus, gagged and restrained, hopping in circles as the archers fired at his feet. Maurinus swore, then threw a rock at them, hitting Georgius in his arm. Iovivus fell in the dust, tears streaming down his panicked face.
“What is it you two are doing?” Christophorus shrugged his shoulders.
“We were bored.”
“For fuck’s sake,” he looked at Iovivus in disgust. “Get over here you goddamned fool.” The lieutenant inched like an earthworm, dragging himself until he could reach the hearth. Maurinus cut his restraints and tore off his gag.
“Commander, they-” he tried to choke out, before he was cut off by Maurinus.
“Shut up. You probably deserved it.” He knocked on the man’s oversized helmet with his closed fist, disorienting him. Ziper looked thoughtfully at the ropes, then at the sleeping pilgrims. He glanced over at the archers.
“Have you got any more of that rope?” Georgius nodded.
“Yeah we’ve got a bit more. Why?”
“I think I’ve got an idea. But I need some paint too.” Maurinus looked up from Iovivus, his attention nabbed.
“And what exactly is that, soldier?”
“We thin their numbers, sneak along the sea to take their camp, and make a bold break for Tarsus. We could get there in a week. And they’ve got enough supplies to keep us all fed and hydrated.” A log in the fire collapsed, and sparks rose in the smoke. Maurinus was looking at the conscript intently.
“Have you got any idea on how to accomplish that?”
“They’re crusaders, right? Let’s give them a purpose for being here. Show them they’ve got enemies other than us.”
___
With the rising sun too rose most of the men in the crusaders’ camp. Their spirits were low, and they were haggard. The previous week’s march from Tarsus hadn’t been easy, and such a humiliating defeat had left them questioning their own competence. The word had spread through the camp that their Roman escort intended to assault the fort on their own, and to take it for the Empire. Many of the men were bitter, swearing amongst themselves as the legionnaires filtered through the camp, preparing to assemble in the field.
It was in this state an old farmer was sitting by the campfire, playing with the thought of desertion, when something caught his eye.
There, on the hill, not a hundred yards away, were two individuals carefully stalking past the camp. At first he didn’t make much of a mental note of it. And then he saw a flash of blue on one of their tunics. He scrunched his eyes, peering hard through the early morning haze. Yes, the shape was indistinguishable. The overlapping triangles, the symmetry of the six-pointed star. He lept to his feet, grabbing for his spear. His campaign wasn’t done yet.
___
Eusebios and Kynikos were taking their time past the camp of the crusaders. They had been torn from their beds early in the night by the Romans and pinned down. Bound and gagged, stars of David were painted onto their backs before they were forced from the fort at swordpoint in the warming dawn light. Even Eusebios was muttering curses through his gagged mouth. Thus far, it seemed the crusaders had not yet taken notice of them, and perhaps they could reach safety and get themselves freed to continue along on their pilgrimage. And then, a massive cry came from the camp, stopping them dead in their tracks and piercing them with fear.
“JEWS!”
The entire crusading army, reeling like some great monster, rose to its collective feet in a hurry, grasping for any weapon which happened to be within reach. They came sprinting full-bore, nearly tripping over themselves in their eagerness.
The pilgrims looked at one another, then turned and fled.
___
“WHERE IS EVERYBODY?” Alard’s hands were on his head as he looked upon the camp in astonishment. Clerebold and Geoffrey sat in the dirt, looking at their feet. Hannibalius was bent over in laughter. Even his troops, who were standing in formation, were having trouble stifling their own amusement.
“They spotted some Jews on the hill, sir,” Geoffrey offered. Alard slapped himself.
“We’re here for a PURPOSE. They can embark on all the pogroms they want back home.” Clerebold shrugged. Hannibalius patted him on the back, trying to compose himself.
“Don’t worry, friend. By the time they return the fort will be securely under our control.” He turned to his troops, motioning them to begin the march. Like a well-oiled machine with surgical precision, the Roman lines advanced towards the walls, shining like a star under the rising sun; the very Earth shuddering under their boots. “I trust you to reach Antioch on your own.” With those parting words, Hannibalius saluted the defeated knight, then ran to catch up with the head of his company.
___
“They left a note, sir,” the legionnaire said simply, handing Hannibalius a piece of parchment covered in scrawled Greek; the ink still drying. The fort had been entirely deserted when they scaled the walls, yet fires of the previous night were still smoldering in their pits. A small side gate which led down to the beach lay open. He had ordered them to hoist an imperial banner over the guardhouse, then to begin garrisoning the installation. They executed his orders with reluctant haste, still exhausted from their early morning rally.
He held the note up to the light.
Fuckface,
If you actually managed to make it this far without stabbing yourselves to death then we're likely already en route to Tarsus. I'm skeptical of your ambitions for Jerusalem. This fort would itself desert if given the opportunity. The Holy City is controlled by the greatest empire in the world. Regardless, I wish you luck. I am sorry for having so many of your men killed. Perhaps you should do a better job of ensuring that who you’re fighting truly is your enemy before you make one of them.
See you in Hell,
Maurinus Virgilius Gracchus
Commander of the Roman Garrison at Kólasi̱
Hannibalius chuckled to himself, crumpling the letter in his hand. A lieutenant looked at him quizzically.
“We’ve been making war with Romans. And they’re on their way to Tarsus.”
___
Alard was drawn from his tent to the sound of boots on the ground and the clanking of steel armor. Prepared to reprimand his men, he emerged into the morning sun to come face to face with the former commander of the castle guard, who looked at him with a sly grin; accompanied by the entire Roman garrison itself.
The heads of Clerebold and Geoffrey were dropped in the dirt at his feet. Alard looked back and forth between them and the arrogant grin of the commander, gritting his teeth.
“You are allies of Satan. Enemies of the Lord. Heretics in the purest sense, those to be eradicated. My men will come back and personally send you onto a path of eternal damnation.” The commander cocked his head, looking at the knight quizzically.
“We’ve all been baptized, friend.”
With that, he swung his sword, cleanly cleaving Alard’s head from his shoulders.
___
Without support wagons, the crusaders had been quite limited in supplies; although inadequate resources for several thousand men could more than suffice for a mere fifty.
The trek to Tarsus had been difficult, although they still arrived ahead of schedule; making the journey in a mere four days. The men had held content; they were more than happy to be leaving their post behind. When the imposing walls of the Anatolian city came into view on the distant horizon, the troops quickened their pace, eager for good meals, warm beds, and sexually liberal street urchins.
Maurinus glanced at Ammonianus.
“What is it, sir?”
“Nothing feels off to you?” Ammonianus shook his head, looking intently along the road. The men were chatting amongst themselves. Ziper was lecturing Iovivus on Euclidean geometric proofs, the archers kicking a small rock between them, and yet another sect placing bets on who would be the first to contract syphilis.
“Nothing that I can see.”
“Look along the road. At the gate. There’s nobody here. No travelling merchants, no troops.” The captain scrunched his ugly pig-like face, peering through the growing haze of the day’s heat. Indeed, the road was devoid of any movement. A few wagons lay alongside, axles smashed and wheels shattered in the ditch. Siege ladders abandoned at the base of the city’s walls, and the ruins of tents and fire pits dotted the plain. The column pressed on.
___
“Goddammit.” Eusebios rose, awoken by Kynikos’s sudden exclamation.
The pair had passed the night on the city’s ramparts, doing their best to avoid the carnage passing in the narrow streets below. The sun was beginning to cast its light upon the aftermath, revealing many of the crusaders still razing the city with the same vigor which had carried them through the previous evening. Gangs of armed men held kicking and screaming women between them, hauling them to dark, quiet alleyways. As they moved they had to weave between their comrades carrying armfuls of gold coin and other loot to their own personal hideaways. Brawls broke out between the few remaining Roman forces and the overwhelming numbers of crusaders. Blood ran thick through the gutter. Massive swaths of the city, which had already been ransacked for all they held, were laying in smoldering heaps; columns of black smoke reaching for the heavens. The old and the young, crying to themselves, were ushered into pens. Men of fighting age were decapitated, a neat pyramid being formed out of Roman heads.
“What is it, brother?” Eusebios asked, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. He followed Kynikos’s pointing finger. Out along the great avenue towards the city was marching a column of troops, walking underneath an Imperial banner.
“They look familiar to you?” Eusebios shielded his eyes from the hot sun. Leading the column, perhaps worse for wear than when they last met, was the commander of the Roman castle’s garrison; Maurinus.
“On the blood of the Lamb.”
“Yep.” Kynikos scrambled alongside the old sandstone bricks, clambering towards the fallen body of a Greek soldier. He quickly stripped the man of his armor, rushing to don it. The suit was too large for his wiry frame, and he struggled to stand.
“What are you doing?”
“Problem solving.”
___
“Who goes there?” Maurinus looked up into the sun, locking his gaze onto a guard standing high atop the gatehouse.
“What?”
“Identify yourself!”
“Maurinus Virgilius Gracchus, commander of the garrison at Kólasi̱, and a soldier of the Roman Empire!”
“What?”
___
The crusader, finding himself without a young Greek woman to take by force, had taken instead to wander the streets in solitude. His friends were off looting or burning, and he felt suddenly homesick. He longed for the wide rolling hills of Alsace, where a fine young bride, his cousin of 13; was awaiting him patiently with three children to care for. He missed their asymmetric eyes and weak chins, the overwhelming stink of pig shit, and the sweet giardiatic glacial streams which cut the fields near his homestead.
He had committed himself to kicking stray stones from a burnt home, its residents still smoldering in the street, when he was interrupted from his thoughts by the sound of distant shouting. The language was foreign and strange; while it reminded him vaguely of the tongue in which his priest taught, it was different. This was the language the defenders had spoken in: Greek.
He followed the source of the sound to see, up atop the gatehouse, a lone Roman soldier standing aside the battlements. The crusader rubbed his eyes to ensure what he was seeing was true. Yes, indeed, the well-constructed mail and lamellar armor was indistinguishable.
He drew his sword, quickening his pace for the ancient sandstone steps. He could still find glory.
___
“Is it him?”
“Yeah, that’s them. Fuckers.”
“Should we tell the crusaders?”
“Fuckin Hell, may as well. Pricks left us to die.” Kynikos leaned over the battlement, cupping his hands around his mouth. “We’re going to open the gates!”
“What?”
Kynikos sighed, then inhaled deeply; ready to muster a shout back at the Romans. However, he was interrupted by the sound of clattering armor. He turned just in time to see a crusader, blinded with zealous duty, charging towards him with a sword in hand. He tried to put his hands out, but it was too late. The soldier rammed him with his shoulder, driving him over the rampart and plummeting to the ground. Eusebios placed his hands together in prayer.
“Please, brother. We too are Children of-”
The crusader ran him through the stomach, causing the pilgrim to double over as his last breath escaped. A grin spread across the man’s face as he dropped to a knee, head dipping in piety. His duty had been done; paradise awaited.
___
Maurinus wiped the blood from his face as he looked at the mangled corpse of the pilgrim Kynikos, crumpled and shattered among the rocks at the base of the wall.
“Jesus fuck,” he muttered. Iovivus fainted, who was instinctively caught by Ziper, before being dropped in the sand in a moment of clarity. Ammonianus silently blessed himself. The archers collectively yawned. Maurinus scanned the wall, then his men, then the city again. He sighed heavily before he spoke.
“Well, you gotta admire the little twit’s resilience. I didn’t think he’d make it this far.” A few of the men chuckled. On the other side of the wall, the distant sounds of shrieking and chaos were wafting up through the air. He gave the wall another glance-over, then shrugged. “And I think we best give these warrior priests a little more credit.” He bent down, closing Kynikos’s eyes, then took a deep breath. “To Constantinople?” He ventured.
A couple of the troops mumbled in the affirmative.
“It’s decided then,” he ordered, gesturing them westward. He lingered for a few moments beneath the battered walls of Tarsus, running his hands along the worn sandstone bricks. They felt tired, and bits crumbled off under his fingertips. He looked to the east. The day was clear, and he felt he could almost see Kólasi̱, rotting by the sea. He raised his middle finger, a grin breaking on his dust-covered face.
A dry wind blew from the west, warm and ancient. He let it blow through his salt-encrusted hair, before jogging to catch up with his troops.
___
The freezing ocean fog soaked Hannibalius through to the bone, and he shivered in his armor. His once military-rigid posture had vanished, and he slouched over the fort’s ramparts, looking out into the void. The ocean waves were crashing far below, out of sight, casting globules of cool seawater onto the fort’s walls. His formerly regal tunic was thickly coated in a layer of salt, dried from the many days of hot Mediterranean sun.
The crusading army, without its leadership, had sat aimlessly in the plains, trying multiple times to enter the fort, Hannibalius refusing them each time. Finally, a preacher had taken charge, reminding them of their purpose and urging them forward to Antioch.
He looked over the side of the wall. The ground was out of view, and it looked as if the molding and algae-covered bricks went on to eternity. The thought crossed his mind to jump. A soldier settled up next to him, staring out into the grey. Hannibalius turned to face him. He was a Greek youth, hair dark and curly, his face still dotted in acne.
The soldier looked at Hannibalius.
“What is it, sir?”
“This place fucking sucks.”