The German philosopher Carl von Clausewitz rightly noted that war is the continuation of politics by "other" means. Likewise, when the political objectives of a conflict remain illusive -- or the price of conflict becomes too high -- most parties seek to resolve differences by non-violent means. At that point negotiations with "the enemy" -- whoever that may be -- become necessary, and compromise essential.
From
the top of the escarpment, Sir Galvin and Ibelin’s other men watched anxiously.
They shared Ibelin’s assessment of the sailors, and while they could not see
Brother Zotikos’ eyes, they hardly needed to. His every gesture exuded
hostility and aggression, so much so that [the dog] Barry lowered his head and curled his
lips in a threatening stance.
Sir Galvin glanced over his shoulder to Sir
Sergios. The Maronite Syrian had served the Count of Tripoli at Hattin, but had
been fighting under Ibelin’s banner ever since the great armed pilgrimage from
the West that had wrested control of the coast back from Saladin. He was a
superb archer, and he already had his bow out of its case. His quiver hung from
the pommel of his saddle.
Sir
Galvin nodded to him, and he fitted an arrow onto the string, lifted the bow,
pulled the string back to his ear, and looked down the arrow with narrowed eyes
at his target: the Greek monk’s broad chest. He nodded, then gently eased the
string back to the uncocked position, yet kept the arrow notched. At this
range, he was confident he could kill the Greek monk before he could do any
harm to their lord.
None
of Ibelin’s men could hear what was being said, but they could see the monk
gesturing wildly with his arms. He threw them out wide, then rotated his right
arm like a windmill. Then his hands formed fists that he held under Ibelin’s
nose. A moment later he thrust out an index finger and jabbed the air in front
of Ibelin’s face―eliciting an angry warning bark from Barry, whom John was
visibly restraining from attacking.
Throughout
it all, Ibelin appeared impassive. His stance was relaxed, his arms akimbo, his
weight on his right leg with his left bent and slightly forward. His men
recognized he was actually poised to swing his weight forward with his right
fist if he needed to. Compared to the apparent flood of words that accompanied
the dramatic gestures of the monk, Ibelin appeared to say very little. Once or
twice he lifted his head as if to make a short remark. Each time his words
provoked a new round of angry gestures from the monk, followed by increasingly
violent gestures from Barry.
Once
Father Andronikos tried to intervene, only to harvest a series of stabs with an
index finger in his direction from the younger monk. John, meanwhile, was having
trouble holding his dog, and was clearly distressed, confused, and a little
frightened. He looked at his father for guidance, but the elder Ibelin remained
calm, signaling for him to restrain the dog.
“I
don’t think things are going well,” Sir Galvin observed generally, and Georgios
shook his head sadly.
Abruptly,
Ibelin turned his back on the monk and started back up the escarpment. The monk
shouted furiously after him, making Georgios wince at the crude threat. Sir
Galvin looked over, on the brink of asking for a translation, but then thought
better of it. On the beach Father Andronikos was evidently trying to reason
with the angry young monk, his hand on the latter’s arm. The younger man shook
him off, and with a violent, dismissive gesture started striding toward his
boat. The sailors were already shoving it back into the water; the stern
floated while the bow remained on the sand, ready for Zotikos to re-board.
Ibelin
reached the top of the escarpment slightly breathless from the climb, and held
out his hand for his sword belt. “Hopeless!” he announced to his men, snatching
the belt and wrapping it around his waist to buckle it snugly. “He insists that
they will keep fighting until we are either driven from the island like the
Templars, or all dead.” He grabbed the reins of his stallion, threw them back
over the horse’s head, and gathered them up as he pointed his toe in the
stirrup to haul himself into the saddle.
He
was so agitated that he swung his horse around and started to ride off before
John had had a chance to mount. Then he caught himself and waited, his
expression grim.
“So
they wouldn’t consider exchanging the abbot for Toron?” Sir Galvin asked,
puzzled and disbelieving.
“No.
That monk is a fanatic. He is incapable of compromise or negotiation. Saladin
was pure reason compared to him!”
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