Tom Harper - Siege of Heaven

Three boulders rose into the air and hurtled towards the walls, flung by the mangonels we had brought up in the night. They struck home against the ramparts, and the rhythmic chant of Deus vult swelled into a chaotic roar of triumph. And so the battle for Jerusalem began.

As Godfrey clambered down from the roof of the wooden tower, Arnulf removed the golden cross from its staff and fastened it to an iron spike that protruded from the top of the tower. It gleamed like a crown. Perhaps it seemed right to him that men would die under fragments of the same wood that had crucified Christ, but I did not think that the man who died on that cross had intended it to be stained with blood again. All around me, men were running about to prepare the assault, while the bombardment from the mangonels flew overhead. I had just started moving towards the tower when I heard a voice calling my name. I turned, to see a Frankish knight looking at me commandingly. His name was Grimbauld, one of Godfrey’s lieutenants. He had lost the lower part of his left arm in the battle for Antioch, but had adapted the slings on his shield so that he could bind it on to what remained. Too unbalanced to wield a sword with skill, he now carried a club-headed mace in its stead.

‘You!’ he barked. ‘Get to the ram.’

I stared at him, my eyes dry and hollow. ‘Duke Godfrey told me my place was on the tower.’

‘I tells you where you go, and that’s where I tell you.’ He took a half-step forward, and one glance into his bullbrown eyes convinced me he would not hesitate to wield his mace on me if I defied him. Cursing my bargain with Godfrey, I led Sigurd and the others towards the ram.

It was a squat, brute thing, built low like an animal crouched to pounce. Because they could not find a tree big enough for their purpose, they had taken three trunks and bound them together into a giant arm, then capped its fist with iron. They had mounted this horrendous weight on a ten-wheeled carriage whose axles were themselves almost as thick as tree-trunks. Wicker canopies covered it from above, protruding like wings, while wooden stakes bristled from its side like arms for men to push it. Ropes had been fastened to it as well, so that the whole machine took on the appeareance of a monstrous beetle, or a scorpion caught in a snare. They called it Apollyon, the angel of hell whose name is Destruction. Now, men flocked to it, lining its sides and taking up the ropes like draught animals. Sigurd and I were lucky: we found spaces by the side of the beast, pushing on its staves rather than hauling on the ropes. That put us under the canopy, which shielded us from the sun and would presently shield us from hotter things, though it also meant we were blind to everything except the stooped backs of the men in front of us. Glancing around, I saw Thomas and Aelfric two rows behind us. I could still hear the crack of the mangonels, the rush as the stones flew overhead and the thud as they collided unseen with the walls. Mercifully, I did not hear any response: as yet, the Fatimids did not seem to have managed to bring their own battery to bear on our new, unexpected position.

Grimbauld lifted his mace. The men on the ropes pulled them taut, while those on the wooden bars tensed their arms against them. Now I could not look at anything except the rough wood beneath my fingers, and the ground below. If I lost my footing here I would be trampled by the men behind me in an instant — or, worse, ground under the wheels.

I did not see Grimbauld’s mace drop, but I heard the command that accompanied it.

‘Begin.’

With a groan that seemed torn from the wood itself, we heaved on the ram. It rocked forward an inch, and for a moment the sum strength of three hundred men held it there. Then it rolled back. A dispirited moan shuddered through us. My arms, already sore from the night’s labours, burned anew.

From the corner of my eye I saw Grimbauld walking back. He disappeared from my sight, but he must have taken up a position at the rear of the machine for a moment later I heard the cry of ‘Ready’, and then the beat as he rapped his mace on the end of the tree-trunks. We hauled again. The ram edged forward, tottering, but fear of failing must have given us new strength, for this time it rolled forward. An inch, no more, before it shuddered to a standstill.

‘I’d like to find whoever made these wheels and tie him to the rim,’ muttered Sigurd grimly.

I had neither breath nor time to answer. The mace struck its beat again, and again we pushed forward with all our strength.

It was not how I had hoped it would be — a headlong charge, a terrifying scramble up the walls, and then victory. It was not even the dense, desperate melee of hand-to-hand combat I had feared — not yet, at least. Instead, the battle for Jerusalem was nothing more than drudgery. For what seemed like hours we heaved, hauled and cursed the machine forward, inch by terrible inch. Some men fainted with exhaustion and had to be dragged away, but I stayed in my place, refusing to let go. I was tiring badly, but if ever I failed to move forward with the others I immediately felt the harsh touch of the bar behind striking me across my shoulders. The wheels barely seemed to move — as often as not, we had to drag the ram forward rather than roll it, leaving two great welts in the earth where we had passed. When I looked back, it was pitiful to see what little distance we had come.

Meanwhile, the sparks of battle began to take hold and burst into flame around us. Alone among the Franks, Tancred’s company had kept their horses: they rode in a loose screen on either side of us, shielding us from any counter-attack and peppering the ramparts with arrows. They had to be nimble, for although the Fatimids still did not seem to have brought up their heavy siege weapons, they had by now managed to deploy smaller slings and rock-throwers, which lashed us with well-aimed stones. To all that I had already lost or diminished on that pilgrimage — my family, my strength, my faith — I now added my humanity. I saw the men on the ropes dying, their faces smashed in or their necks broken, and all I felt was relief. When rocks hit the wattle roof above me and bounced away, I did not just feel gratitude for my protection, but jealous pleasure that I had what others did not. And when I saw the arrows begin to fall around me, cutting men down, I was glad, for it meant we must at last be nearing the walls.

The end, when it came, was sudden. We were stooped like slaves, pressing our bleeding hands against the staves to drive the beast forward, except that this time the ram did not stop when we did. It rolled on. Those who held on to the handles were dragged forward, while those who had let go found themselves knocked down by the men behind. Standing at the end of the bar, and far enough forward, I just had time to see what was happening. I jumped clear, pulling Sigurd after me as we stumbled into the fevered mass of men around us.

The Franks had chosen the line of their attack well. The ground here sloped quite steeply to the outer walls: as soon as the ram crossed the rim its head went down, and the full power of its dead weight was unleashed. The men who had given every ounce of their strength to move it that far suddenly found themselves left behind or — unable to move themselves fast enough — trapped beneath it.

It struck home with a thunderclap, shattering the wall like glass and blasting it into a thousand fragments. Through the dust cloud that engulfed it, I saw the ram lumbering on. With a second crash, deeper and more profound than the first, it slammed against the inner wall. Deep cracks exploded through the stone, but it did not break. Only then did the ram come to rest.

The break in the battle lasted a heartbeat longer, while bricks and dust slowly settled. Then, in an instant, the fighting erupted again, fiercer than ever, and this time I had no roof to shield me. Through the choked air I saw Grimbauld standing defiant, his shield held over his head and his mace pointing towards the walls. ‘ Forward! ’