James Patterson - The Jester

Laughter broke out from all around.

“I don’t get it,” Robert said behind me. “I thought there was a brothel.”

“Never mind.” I rolled my eyes. Nico’s trick had worked. For a few moments, our burden had seemed bearable. All I wanted was to get off this ridge.

Suddenly I heard a rumble from above. A slide of rock and gravel hurtled down at us. I reached for Robert and pulled the boy toward the mountain’s face, gripping the sheer stone as huge rocks crashed around us, missing me by the width of a blade, bouncing over the edge into oblivion.

We gazed at each other with a sigh of relief, realizing how close we had come to death.

Then I heard a mule bray from behind, and Nicodemus trying to settle it. “Whoa…” The falling rocks must have spooked it.

“Steady that animal,” an officer barked from behind. “It carries your food for the next two weeks.”

Nicodemus grasped for the rope. The animal’s hind legs spun, trying to catch hold on the trail.

[39] I lunged for the harness around its neck, but the mule bucked again and stumbled. Its feet were unable to hold the trail. Its frightened eyes showed that the animal was aware of the danger, but the stone gave way. With a hideous bray, the poor mule toppled over the edge and fell into the void.

As it did, it caused a terrible reaction, pulling along the animal behind it to which it was tied.

I saw disaster looming. “ Nico ,” I shouted.

But the old Greek was too slow and laden with gear to get out of the way. My eyes locked helplessly on him as he stumbled in his long robe.

“Nico,” I screamed, seeing the old man slipping off the edge. I lunged toward him, grabbing for his arm.

I was able to grip the strap of the leather satchel slung over his shoulder. It was all that kept him from plunging to his death.

The old man looked up at me and shook his head. “You must let go, Hugh. If you don’t, we’ll both fall.”

“I won’t. Reach up your other hand,” I begged. A crowd of others, Robert among them, had formed behind me. “Give me your hand, Nico.”

I searched his eyes for panic, but they were clear and sure. I wanted to say, Hold on , Professor. Jerusalem is near.

But the satchel slid out of my grasp. Nicodemus, his white hair and beard billowing in the draft, fell away from me.

“ No !” I lunged, grasping, calling his name.

In a flash he was gone. We had marched together for a thousand miles, but for him it was never far, always near … I didn’t remember my father, but the grief emptying from me showed that Nicodemus was as close to one as I’d ever had.

A knight pushed up the trail, grumbling about what the hell was going on. I recognized him as Guillaume, a vassal of Bohemond, one of the nobles in charge.

He peered over the edge and swallowed. “A soothsayer who couldn’t even predict his own death?” he spat. “No great loss.”

FOR DAYS TO COME, the loss of my friend weighed greatly upon me. We continued to climb, but each step, all I saw in my path was the wise Greek’s face.

Without my noticing it at first, the trails began to widen. I realized we were marching through valleys now, not over peaks. We were heading down. Our pace quickened, and the mood in the ranks brightened with anticipation of what lay ahead.

“I’ve heard from the Spaniard there are Christians chained to the city’s walls,” Robert said as we marched. “The sooner we get there, the sooner we can set our brothers free.”

“Your buddy’s an eager one, Hugh,” Mouse called to me. “You better tell him, just because you’re first at the party doesn’t mean you get to sleep with the mistress of the house.”

“He wants a fight,” I defended Robert, “and who can blame him? We’ve marched a long way.”

From behind came the clatter of a warhorse galloping toward us. “Make way!”

We scattered off the trail and turned to see Guillaume, the same arrogant bastard who’d mocked Nico after his death, in full armor astride his large charger. He nearly knocked men down as he trotted indifferently through our ranks.

“That’s who we fight for, eh?” I bowed sarcastically with an exaggerated flourish.

[41] We soon came to a wide clearing between mountains. A good-sized river, perhaps sixty yards wide, lay in the column’s path.

Up ahead, I heard nobles disagreeing on the proper spot to ford the river. Raymond, our commander, insisted that the scouts and maps suggested a point to the south. Others, eager to show our face to the Turks, the stubborn Bohemond among them, argued why lose a day.

Finally, I saw that same knight, Guillaume, shoot from the crowd. “I will make you a map,” he shouted to Raymond. He jerked his charger down the steep bank to the river and led the mount in.

Guillaume’s horse waded in, bearing the knight in full chain mail. Men lined the shore, either cheering or laughing at his attempt to show off in front of royalty.

Thirty yards out, the water was still no higher than the horse’s ankles. Guillaume turned around and waved, a vain smile visible under his mustache. “Even my mother’s mother could cross here,” he called. “Are the mapmakers taking notes?”

“I never knew that a peacock would so take to water,” I remarked to Robert.

Suddenly, in the middle of the river, Guillaume’s mount seemed to stumble. The knight did his best, but in his full battle gear and on unsteady footing he couldn’t hold the mount. He fell from the horse, face first into the river.

The troops along the riverbank burst into laughter. Jeers, catcalls, mock waving. “Oh, mapmakers …” I laughed above the din. “Are you taking notes?”

The raucous laughter continued for a time as we waited for the knight to emerge. But he did not.

“He stays under out of shame,” someone commented. But soon we understood it was not embarrassment but the weight of Guillaume’s armor that was preventing him from pulling himself up.

[42] As this became clear, the hooting ceased. Another knight galloped into the water and waded out to the spot. A full minute passed before the new rider was able to reach the area. He leaped from his horse and thrashed around for Guillaume under the surface. Then, raising the knight’s heavy torso, he shouted back, “He is drowned, my lord.”

A gasp escaped from those on shore. Men bowed their heads and crossed themselves.

Just a few days before, the same Guillaume had stood behind me after Nicodemus was swept off the rocky cliff to his death.

I looked at Robert, who shrugged with a thin smile. “No great loss,” he said.

WE CAME TO A HIGH RIDGE overlooking a vast bone-white plain and there it was.

Antioch .

A massive walled fortress, seemingly built into a solid mound of rock. Larger and more formidable than any castle I had ever seen back home.

The sight sent a chill shooting through my bones.

It was built on a sharp rise. Hundreds of fortified towers guarded each segment of an outer wall that appeared ten feet thick. We had no siege engines to break such walls, no ladders that could even scale their height. It seemed impregnable.

Knights took off their helmets and surveyed the city in awe. I know the same sobering thought pounded through each of our minds. We had to take this place.

“I don’t see any Christians chained to the walls.” Robert squinted into the sun, sounding almost disappointed.

“If it’s martyrs you’re looking for,” I promised grimly, “don’t worry, you’ll have your pick.”

One by one, we continued along the ridge and down the narrow trail. There was a feeling that the worst was over. That whatever God had in store for us, surely the coming battles could test us no more than what we had already faced. The talk, again, was of treasure and glory.