Balian had escaped from the great hall where the drinking had started in earnest and cautiously followed the vaulted passage that ran north from the chapel to the underground postern. Part of it was curiosity, for he was interested in the defenses of every castle he visited, but mostly he was seeking solitude so he could think. Isabella had been sent to bed long ago, before the entertainment became too crude, but the touch of her lips on Balian’s cheek as she said good night still lingered like a reproach. She knew he planned to depart without her on the morn, and although she had said she understood, it was hard to leave her here after three days “enjoying” the Lady of Oultrajourdain’s hospitality.
Furthermore,
previous visits had also been before the Red Sea raids, and Balian knew that
many of the men sitting at the tables and sharing their meals with Isabella
were mercenaries capable of all the atrocities attributed to the raiders. Like
Oultrejourdain, Balian and Maria Zoё had their informers. Greek traders with
strong ties to Alexandria had provided them with some very gruesome details of
both the raids — and the fate of the survivors. The reports had all spoken of
“mercenaries” and sailors from the gutters of the Levant — led by a blond
knight of great height and strength with a nose that hung straight from his
forehead like the nosepiece of a helmet.
Height
and strength were always attributed to an opponent that was difficult to
subdue, it increased the prowess of the victors in the end, and most Franks
were considered “blond” by their Arab foes, but the detail about the nose was
what had led Balian to believe Henri was the leader of the raid. Barry and
Henri both had a nose like this, but it was most pronounced in Henri’s case.
Barry’s face was otherwise harmonious and attractive so the dominant nose
didn’t jump out at you as much; Henri’s hunger for land, fame and fortune had
carved out his cheeks and left his nose more prominent than ever.
Out of
the darkness that face emerged to confront Balian. It was blackened, however,
as if burned, and encased in a Bedouin headdress. Balian caught his breath and
stepped back, certain he was facing a ghost.
The
ghost laughed. “Afraid of your own brother, are you?”
“Henri!
Where have you come from?”
“Hell.”
Came the simple answer.
The
answer seemed to corroborate that this was his brother’s soul, but at the same
time the image seemed far too substantial. Dust soiled and weighed down the hem
of the Bedouin robes, and the smell of sweat — thick and masculine —oozed from
his brother as he blocked the passageway. Surely ghosts wouldn’t smell.
“Chatillon
tells me you went voluntarily,” Balian ventured.
His
brother laughed harshly. “Oh, that I did, and the Heaven part came before the
Hell. Ever make love to harem slaves? I assure you, it’s like nothing else in
the world!” He laughed again. “And they have wine in Aden, Balian, like the
nectar of lotus that drove Ulysses’ men mad. You can’t imagine what it’s like
to lick that sweet wine from the thighs of dancing girls. And the treasure,
Balian, the treasure was more than we could carry. The men started paying their
whores with ruby rings and ivory bracelets. I could have bought Ibelin ten
times over with what I had in my sea chest alone.”
“Ibelin
is not for sale,” Balian replied, certain now that this was no apparition but
his brother very much in the flesh, who had somehow managed to disguise himself
as a Bedouin and escape the vengeance of the Egyptian authorities.
“No? I’m
not so sure. Even our saintly, little leper might have been tempted by the
treasure I could have lain before him. It was surely enough to build a wall all
around the Kingdom of Jerusalem — or pay a thousand knights from the West.”
“He might
have been tempted,” Balian agreed, “if you had managed to keep it and bring it
here.”
“They
trapped us, Balian,” the tone of voice changed from triumph to bitterness. “We
were betrayed! I killed a dozen of the Pisan bastards — just to set an example,
but it was too late. We had to abandon all we had — the ships, the treasure,
the girls — and headed inland. But the Bedouins led us into a ravine
with no escape and then tried to disappear among the rocks. I chased after them
while the rest of the fools fought off our pursuers. The rock crevices were so
sharp, they cut like the edge of a knife.” He opened his hands and looked down
at the scars on them as if amazed by the jagged, scabbed lines that now
deformed them.
Balian
waited, torn between shock and sympathy.
“I
finally brought one of the bastards down, cut his throat and took his robes. I
dressed his corpse in my armor and kicked it over the edge of the cliff. It
rolled its way back into the ravine to land at the feet of the Egyptian troops,
the face so smashed and ravaged by the rock edges that they never even
suspected the deception. When they looked up, I waved back to them, clenched my
fist over my head and shouted “Allahu Akbar! Allahu Akbar!” The idiots answered
with similar shouts and never even tried to come after me.”
“I’m
surprised the Bedouins didn’t get you,” Balian observed, still trying to sort
out his feelings; he was glad Henri was alive, and yet ashamed of what he’d
done.
Henri
just laughed. “So am I. Of course, I still had some gold in my purse that
helped with some of them. The others I had to kill.”
“You have
a lot to confess, it would seem,” Balian concluded. After all, it was not his
place to judge his brother; that was for God to do.
“Don’t
preach to me, Balian. You haven’t been where I was.”
“No, and
I hope I never am.”
“Barry
always said you weren’t ambitious enough.”
“I’m a
Baron of Jerusalem and an honorable man. That’s good enough for me.”
“Yes, I
know. But not for me. Did Chatillon tell you about the little girl he’s going
to give me?”
“Yes,
with a fief worth more than Ibelin, I know. You’re welcome to it, Henri,
because you are right: I would not have done what you have done to get it. May
God have mercy on your soul.”
“That
sounds rather like you are washing your hands of me.”
“Does
it?”
“Yes.”
Something in Henri’s tone sounded distressed, as if some last, flickering
remnant of decency or maybe just affection had flared up in him. Or
maybe he was just suddenly afraid of losing Balian.
Balian
heard it, but it was too faint to sway him. “You are beyond my help, Henri. Go
collect your earthly reward from Chatillon, and see that you enjoy it. The
Day of Judgment will not be far behind, and I do not want to be in your shoes.” He turned and walked back in the direction of the chapel.
Henri
called after him. “Nor I in yours, Balian! Nor I in yours! For all you goodness
will not help you when Salah-ad-Din comes!”
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