Tom Harper: Siege of Heaven

I did not see any of it. Before Ascalon, before Godfrey had taken his throne, even before the embers from the funeral pyres had cooled, I began the long journey home. Before we left, I visited the Holy Sepulchre. After waiting almost three hours in a line of weeping pilgrims, I stepped inside the cupola, past the stone where the angel had announced the resurrection to the two Marys, and ducked into the small chamber beyond.

It was empty, of course.

We travelled in easy stages back to the coast, walking at dawn and at dusk, resting during the heat of the day. At Jaffa, we found the last ship from Saewulf’s fleet, which had been away on patrol when the Fatimids burned the harbour. As August winds furrowed the sea, it slowly nosed its way west. The sun shone, and I spent the hours reaccustoming myself to food and water, nursing strength back into my limbs. I had not realised how far my body had withered until I tried to heal it. There were days when my joints were so stiff I could barely move; other days when my stomach rebelled against even water. Through all this, Anna was at my side: preparing my food, teasing the knots out of my sinews, or just sitting in the shade of a canvas awning watching dolphins play in the water. We did not speak much. The ordeals we had endured loomed too large, mountains in our minds that we could neither conquer nor comprehend. Only by skirting around them, chiselling away small pieces each day, could we gradually reduce them and build the fragments into the houses of memory. It was as well we had Everard to distract us. If ever thoughts of the past grew too melancholy, there was always the sight of him running up and down the sloping deck chasing after gulls to lift our spirits. Amid thoughts of death and despair, his energy provided a necessary reminder of life.

We put into Cyprus and Rhodes, then turned north. One day we sailed past Patmos, the island where Saint John the Divine received his revelation of the world’s end. I stared at it, a rocky outcrop barely distinguishable from the mainland behind, and wondered how much evil had come from the visions he saw in that cave. I was glad to see it slide into the distance behind us. The days were getting shorter now, the winds fresher: the sea was crowded with ships all hurrying to their harbours before the onset of autumn. The urgency affected all of us, and instead of watching the wake or the waves we began to gather in the bow, staring at the sea ahead.

At the beginning of October, we reached the port of Tenedos. According to some authorities, it was where the Greeks had hidden their fleet during the siege of Troy, but there were few ships there now — only a gaggle of merchantmen waiting for the wind to change so they could navigate through the Hellespont and up to Constantinople. Here, Saewulf announced, he would leave us.

‘I could spend a month waiting for the wind to change,’ he explained. ‘And another month waiting to get out again. You can get a boat to the mainland and be home in half that time.’

I looked at the grey sky and the white wavecaps beyond the harbour. ‘But you can’t take to the seas again now. I thought they were closed in winter.’

He grinned. ‘The seas are never closed to an Englishman. And I’ve been away from home too long. Even if it’s cold and wet and stinks of Normans.’

His was not the only farewell we had to make on Tenedos — nor the hardest. On the night before we parted, I was sitting by the mast with Everard on my knee, pointing out the constellations to him, when Sigurd and Saewulf came on deck. In a few short words, Sigurd told me his plans.

‘I’m not going back to Constantinople.’

I looked up in surprise. ‘Where will you go?’

‘To England — with Saewulf.’

On my knee, Everard tugged at the sleeve of my tunic, peeved to find himself forgotten. I ignored him. The delicate peace in my soul, so patiently stitched together on the voyage, was torn apart again. ‘To England?’ I stared from one to the other. Neither looked happy with the decision. ‘I thought you swore you would never return while the Normans ruled.’ Every atrocity, every insult, every obloquy that I had ever heard against the Normans raced through my mind, and I wanted to hurl each one back at him. ‘You’re a captain of the palace guard. Would you give all that up to live the life of a peasant in a captive land?’

Sigurd sighed. ‘The emperor doesn’t need me — any more than he needed Aelfric or Thomas or Nikephoros — or even you. If anyone asks, tell them I died at Jerusalem.’

Saewulf looked no happier than I did. ‘It’ll break your heart,’ he warned. ‘The country you remember vanished a long time ago. Better to stay here and cherish it as it was.’

Sigurd shook his head. ‘If you believed that, you wouldn’t have gone back yourself.’

‘But Constantinople is your home,’ I said.

‘Constantinople is your home,’ he corrected me. ‘It was mine, too, for a time. Now I must go back. When you get to Constantinople, find my family and tell them to follow as soon as they can. They’ll understand.’

I realised then that I could not dissuade him. I pulled myself to my feet and embraced him. As ever, it was like putting my arms around an oak tree.

‘Try not to kill the first Norman you see.’

He grunted. ‘Try to keep out of trouble yourself. Remember you won’t have me to protect you any more.’

They sailed away next morning. I sat on the quay, watching the ship diminish until it slipped over the horizon. Then, surrounded by my family, I turned east and set out on the final stage.

Those last two weeks were the happiest of the entire journey. Though we were late in the year, the weather blessed us with a succession of clear days, each more brilliant than the last. The sun shone, and in the evenings a dewy haze descended to cloak the world in soft mystery. All around us we could see the world gathering itself in for the winter. Fields had been harvested and ploughed, flocks brought down from the summer pasture, firewood piled up ready for burning. If we did not speak much now, it was because we did not need words to describe how we felt. Each of us was seized with hope, and with sweet anticipation.

It was evening when we arrived at Constantinople. We came over a hill and there it was — the eastern suburbs of Chrysopolis falling away to the Bosphorus beneath us, and the domes and towers of the city rising in their splendour across the shining water. I could see Ayia Sophia, majestic on its promontory, and the many terraces of the palace cascading down the hill. The autumn sun was setting behind a cloud in the west, casting the sky, the water, the city, the whole world in molten gold. From across the strait, I thought I could hear the chant of the priests at vespers.

‘I don’t think I’ve ever seen it from this side before,’ murmured Helena. ‘It’s beautiful.’

We went down to the water’s edge, and waited for the boatman to ferry us across.