James Patterson - The Jester

I stared in horror at her bloody shape. In her clutched fist, I saw a cross. Good Lord , she was Christian.

A moment later, from the same building, a fiery-eyed Turk, maybe her husband, charged at me with a scream. I stood [56] paralyzed. An image of my own death rose in my mind. All I could think to utter was, “It was not me…”

But just as the man’s spear was inches from my throat, his rush was intercepted by Robert, thrusting his knife into the Turk’s chest. The man staggered, his eyes horrifically wide. Then he toppled onto his wife, dead.

I blinked in amazement. I turned to Robert with a sigh of relief.

“See, it’s not just God who watches over you.” He winked. “It’s me.”

He had just uttered these words when another turbaned warrior charged toward him, brandishing a long blade.

The boy’s back was turned, and I saw I could not get there in time. He was tugging on his knife, but it remained stuck in the dead Turk’s chest. His face was still lit with that innocent grin.

“ Robert !” I screamed. “ Robert !”

THE ATTACKER HURTLED into Robert and swung his sword with both hands. I had only an instant to intervene. I tried to pivot around Robert, but I was blocked by the Turk. All I could do was scream, “ No …!”

The sword caught Robert just below the throat. I heard the sound of bones cracking, and his shoulder fell away from his body as the massive blade lodged deep in his chest, seeming to split him in two.

At first I stared in horror. It was as if the boy had seen that he was powerless to stop his own death and, instead of turning to face his attacker, had turned toward me. I will carry his expression with me for the rest of my life.

Then, gaining hold, I lunged, piercing the Turk with my sword. I ran him through again as he fell. When he was on the ground, I continued to hack at him, as if my ferocity could bring back my friend.

Then I knelt beside Robert. His body was asunder, but his face was still as boyish and smooth as when he had first joined our ranks, his goose comically trailing behind. I fought back tears. He was just a boy. … All around me, madness boiled out of control. Red-crossed soldiers stormed through the streets, running from house to house, looting, burning. Children Wailed for their mothers before being hurled into raging flames [58] like kindling. Tafurs, mad with greed, slaughtered Christian and infidel alike, stuffing anything of value into their filthy robes.

What kind of God inspired such horror? Was this God’s fault? Or man’s?

Something snapped in me. Whatever I thought I was fighting for, whatever dream of freedom or wealth had brought me here, burst. And there was nothing in its place. I did not care about Antioch. Or freeing Jerusalem. Or freeing myself. I only wanted to go home. To see Sophie once more. To tell her I loved her. I could deal with the harshness of laws and taxes and the wrath of our lord, if only I could hold her one more time. I had come here to set myself free. Now I was free . Free of my illusions.

My regiment went on, but I stayed behind, consumed with grief and rage. I did not know where I would go, just that I could no longer fight in their ranks. I staggered around, wandering among burning buildings, passing from horror to horror. Carnage and screams were everywhere. The streets ran ankle deep with blood.

I came upon a Christian church. Sanctum Christi … St. Paul’s … It almost seemed funny to me: this… this old tomb was what we were fighting for. This empty block of stone was what we had come to set free.

I wanted to lash at the church with my sword. It was a host of lies. I finally staggered up the steep stone steps in a fit of rage.

“God wills this?” I screamed. “God wills this murder ?”

I HAD NO SOONER STEPPED INSIDE the dark, cool nave of the church than I heard a cry of anguish coming from the front. This madness just wouldn’t stop!

On the steps of the altar, two black-robed Turks hovered over a priest, pummeling him with kicks, cursing him in their tongue, while the fearful cleric did his best to defend himself with a rough wooden staff.

A moment before, I had hesitated. A friend had died. I had no fealty to this priest, but this time I charged full force toward the assault.

I ran with my sword drawn and a loud cry, just as one of the attackers thrust a dagger into the belly of the priest. The other infidel turned, and I leaped upon him. The blade of my sword penetrated his side. The Turk let out a chilling howl.

The other assailant rose and faced me, wielding the dagger that was still covered with the priest’s blood. He lunged, spitting words I recognized, “ Ibn Kan …” Son of Cain.

I pivoted aside and brought my sword over the back of his head. It sheared through his neck as if it were a weak limb of a tree. The Turk fell to his knees, his head rolling away from him. Then he toppled forward, landing on what would have been his face.

[60] I stood, transfixed by the awful corpses of the Turks. I no longer knew what was inside of me. What was I doing here? What had I become?

I went over to the fallen priest, to help if I could. As I knelt beside him his eyes grew cloudy. He exhaled a final breath. The useless wooden staff fell from his hand.

Too late … I was no hero, only a fool.

Just then, I heard a rustling behind me. I spun to see a third attacker, this one bare chested and monstrous, the size of two men. Seeing his comrades slain, he rushed toward me, his sword poised for attack.

In that instant I saw my helplessness. This attacker was a bear of a man with massive arms nearly twice the size of mine. I could no more hold him off than I could a tornado. As he charged, I raised my sword, but the Turk’s stroke was so strong it knocked me backward over the dead priest. He charged at me once more, his eyes focused and fierce. This time, my sword flew out of my hands, clattering across the church’s floor. I lunged after it, but the Turk intercepted me with a vicious kick, sucking the air out of my belly.

I was going to die … I knew it . There was no way to defeat this horrible monster. In a last effort, I reached for the priest’s wooden staff. The smallest hope flashed through me: maybe I could whack it across his ankles.

But my attacker merely took a giant step, pinning the staff uselessly under his sandal. I peered into the bastard’s black eyes. I was out of tricks. Above me, his blade caught the glint of a torch. I was about to die …

What profound images filled my mind as I tensed, waiting for the blade to fall? It did not occur to me to pray, to ask God for the forgiveness of my sins. No, God had taken me where I belonged. I bade farewell to my sweet Sophie. I felt I had shamed myself, to leave her this way. She would never know how I died, why, or where, or that I was thinking of her at the end.

[61] What did flash through my brain was the incredible irony of it all. Here I was, dying in front of an altar of Christ, on a holy crusade that I never really believed in.

I didn’t believe … Yet I was dying for this cause anyway.

As I looked at my murderer, my fear left me. So did my urge to resist. I peered into the Turk’s eyes. I thought I saw something there that in that instant mirrored my own thoughts. The strangest urge overcame me. I could not hold it back.

I didn’t pray, or close my eyes, or even beg for my life.

Instead , I began to laugh .

THE TURK’S SWORD hovered over me. At any second he would strike the final blow. Yet all I could do was laugh.