Harry Turtledove (Editor) - Alternate Generals II

The wound hurt like Greek fire, which was, frankly, a subject he didn't like thinking of. It was one thing to roast a spy or two and make his men yell " Voici Mardi Gras. " But that damnable clinging stuff you didn't dare get close enough to cut away-it would take a Greek to come up with such a thing, dishonor at long range, and a Greek like that fox Emperor Alexius to use it.

Bohemond was hardly the only one to wobble through the mass. None of the peers who'd taken Antioch were particularly steady on their feet.

The Papal Legate elevated the Host. It looked like a giant eye and smelled like bread. The men tracked it with hollow eyes, more a case of hunger than piety.

His Grace Adhemar of Puy had imposed yet another of his favorite three-day fasts. So communion would be the first food anyone had had for three days unless some sly bastard had sneaked off to gorge on some of the spoil from the city. If Bohemond had had a moment alone since they raised his banner-as purple as the Emperor's-near the citadel that had yet to fall, he'd probably have tried to sneak a little food himself. He'd have bet his second sword his nephew Tancred's belly didn't growl with emptiness. But, he told himself, hole-in-corner gluttony was hardly the feast worthy of a Prince who had won his city by the sword. The time for wine and fat roasts would come.

Are you surprised, Father? You told me, if I wanted an Empire, I would have to fight for it.

Marcus Bohemondus, named after the giant in the folk tale, son of Robert, called the fox, crossed himself, then swiped his hand over his face. Sweet Jesu, he was tired. Fasts too damn often and scant rations the rest of the time were a hell of a thing to heal on, let alone if a man had to fight four wars at once.

He counted them out. One against Kerbogha, camped beneath the city walls right where Bohemond had camped less than a month ago. A second against those stubborn bastards who'd holed up in the citadel after the rest of Antioch fell. A third, and a disgraceful one, against those pigeon-hearts among the Franks who tried to escape the siege by sliding down the walls on ropes-by God, he'd make the next coward dance at the rope's end! And finally, a secret war against Alexius of Constantinople and anyone-like Raymond-who thought that the wily Emperor of the Greeks who'd deserted them had a right to the city Bohemond had bled to take for himself.

I wonder if the wine in that chalice-not that it's worth drinking-will set Adhemar reeling. Now that would be a sight.

Just that day, Peter the Hermit and Herluin had ridden back through the gates with the not-completely-unexpected news that the emir Kerbogha had rejected peace terms. So, it all boiled down, like last week's stew (assuming the plague of locusts Bohemond called his men had had meat to stew last week) to a fight. God wills it, God save the right, but Bohemond was glad he had sharp swords, good armor, and some damn useful spies to rely on.

He only hoped Kerbogha had bigger stones than Yaghi Siyan, whose head stank on a post above the stinking city engulfed by stinking camps. When they'd arrived here over a damn nasty hill passage, the plain before the city had looked like it was full of milk and honey. They'd eaten all the food, and now it was full of carrion instead. Not even the stinking Tafurs could haul the bodies out fast enough, and when Bohemond had tried to talk with le roiTafur , who'd become in some strange fashion a vassal of his, that crazed death's head on legs had damn near raised his scythe to him.

Yaghi Siyan's son had tried to use the citadel to retake the city and failed. So he'd been deposed by Achmed ibn Merwine, another of those damned unpronounceable names. Son of a pagan whore could fight, though.

Adhemar was still praying, which was no surprise. Bohemond let his eyes unfocus. Torchlight glowed on the lance that Raymond de Saint Gilles always kept near him, making it shimmer. Finding that piece of scrap and calling it the Holy Lance that pierced Christ's side had been one of Raymond's better ideas, much as Bohemond hated to admit it. To think it was Bohemond who called himself the son of the Fox! Crafty Raymond had set a dozen men with more piety than sense to dig for the Holy Lance.

What if Raymond could outmatch him? Bohemond broke into a sweat. Thoughts like that could make a man defeat himself just when he stood on the threshold of the principality he'd fought for all his life.

Bless me, father . Bohemond crossed himself. At least, his hand didn't tremble. You've got to keep the men in heart. Hell, a good meal would do better than all these pious mutterings. Did anybody really think they could take Jerusalem and keep it anyways?

It wasn't as if he could challenge Raymond on a fake relic; there was always the chance there really had been a miracle, and there Bohemond would be-out of luck. Again.

He'd fought too hard for that. He didn't particularly like leaving Raymond, who had this superstitious reverence for the oaths he'd sworn His Imperial Majesty Alexius Autokrator of the Romans, and whatever other titles the man could hang around his overdecorated neck, behind in the city while he rode out yet again to fight, but my lord the Count of Toulouse was a sick man and someone had to stay behind to keep an eye on the citadel.

No man could fight like Adhemar and still claim to be a milky innocent, but Bohemond would have bet half the bribes Alexius had lavished on him that the Papal Legate thought they wanted to receive the Body of Christ, rather than a round of bread. Even if it did look like a very eye of God.

It was Bohemond's turn to limp forward and receive the Host. Christ, he could have swallowed the whole loaf without chewing!

Bohemond only saw bread, tasted bread, and not enough of it. What did Adhemar see?

Whatever, it was none of Bohemond's business, and if that's how he was thinking, he was taking fever from his wound and they'd have to burn it again tonight. If he had half the brains that had gotten him from a younger son's fealty in Taranto to the point where he could claim to be Prince of this city and be half believed, he'd take to his bed tonight alone, drinking little, and eating less.

But he knew he'd be out, prowling his city as he'd done every night since the gates opened to him and his banner went up.

Steady there… the peers were watching him. He might have wound-fever, but those others-they'd taken the infection of plotting from the Greeks, even though Alexius' pet Turkish general Taticius had long since abandoned the armies. Plots, nothing but plots. Give Bohemond an honest battle any day.

Antioch at night, Bohemond thought . I lift up mine eyes unto the hills, whence cometh my help -from the strength of my right arm and the valor of my knights. He'd pushed away a host of knights turned nursemaid and insisted that, yes, by Jesu, he was going to walk about his city, maybe up as far as the approach to the citadel, and who among them was man enough to stop him?

When they'd fallen back, murmuring among themselves, he'd flung a cloak about himself, picked up his sword, and set out. And damned glad to have done so, he thought as he paused, breathing hard, to look down at his city.

Surely not even Jerusalem could be more magnificent than his city with its walls, higher than Jericho's, with their hundreds of towers; his city, lying in the lap of the mountains. The night winds had blown the stink away. If you ignored the sections laid waste, the quarters burned by Bohemond himself to force Frankish slackers out of their houses and into the streets where they could be put to the serious work of fighting, his city was beautiful.

Do you see, Father?

Robert Guiscard had acknowledged Bohemond's quality. But he had chosen to make Roger Borsa, Roger the Purse, his heir. Well, my lord Roger shouldn't have one of those ungainly copper coins the Greeks called a follis to put in his purse-much as Bohemond would like to watch him try.