Harry Turtledove (Editor) - Alternate Generals II

He could see men going to and fro on the plain, Tafurs dragging bodies out of the city, his nephew Tancred riding in a cloud of knights and dust to whatever errand he had tonight. He didn't trust him, not as far as he could throw him, fully armed, and his horse, assuming Tancred hadn't eaten it on the sly. His nephew's pride was too hot and his Arabic too good. Not that Bohemond was above profiting from it. If Tancred hadn't been able to speak to that turncoat Firouz, who'd turned a blind eye to the knights who climbed into the tower he commanded, they'd still be outside the city walls, and Kerbogha, coming down from the hills, would have cracked them against the walls like eggs.

And he'd have had no new godson. Firouz, who'd opened the city to him, had agreed to receive baptism and had taken Bohemond's name.

Bohemond looked up from the Orontes in its silvery flow to the greater silver of the moon. Milk and honey? The others could have Jerusalem and the hereafter, and he'd take this and the power and the glory of this world.

The moon was making him dizzy, like one of those fools who faints at Mass, mazed with sanctity. Or maybe it was the fever.

But the river Orontes running through the plain wasn't the only water for leagues; Antioch was a city rich in water. That had helped it hold out under Yaghi Siyan and was helping them now.

A stream… two steps forward and he'd damn near have measured his length in it. He knelt, a movement painful enough to force a grunt out of him now there was no one to see and to whisper he was losing his strength.

He scooped up a palmful of water and slopped it down, dripping onto his cloak and armor: another, and another; and it wasn't enough. Taking off his helm, he filled it and lifted it. A moment longer and he'd have sluiced its contents over his head and maybe have quenched the fire in him that seemed to be turning his face and hair ruddier hues… But the image of the city, reflected in the water, beautiful as one of those mosaics in the Greeks' churches, captured him, and he stared at the city, his city, while the wind whipped up about him and he was alone, truly alone, as he hadn't been since his vigil before his father knighted him. Knighted him and sent him off to make his own fortune while making Roger Borsa, Master Purse with his little puckered mouth, his heir.

Bohemond shivered in the moment. He supposed it ought to be shared with the men who'd fought for him, with him: not to mention the ones who'd never see dawn and those who'd already died.

Bohemond didn't want to share this. Or his city. Damn, for once, he would have something, something magnificent, something that was only his. All his life long, he'd all but turned himself into coin. He'd helped Tancred deck himself out like a warrior prince. He'd armed and horsed as big a troop as he could borrow money to support, not that he'd been doing so well until Alexius had tossed him that roomful of treasure with no more thought than he'd have thrown alms at a beggar. Damn the man, to have so much and to rub Bohemond's nose in it, and dole out never a crumb of real power.

Before setting out for the Holy Land, he'd had little more than his sword, his horse, and his armor. But he'd torn his best cloak into crosses the day he vowed to go on what his-holy-lordship Raymond, who'd never had to worry where his gold would come from, called a pilgrimage and he knew, perfectly well, it would be the struggle that would win him land and lordship or lose him his renown and his life.

The man who should see you take seisin of this land is dead. Take it for yourself . Ignoring the now-familiar pain of his wounded leg, Bohemond lowered himself to one knee and scooped up a handful of earth, which crumbled in his hand: rich, well-watered, his. He set it down gently, with more respect than he'd been using for the spoils he'd won, rubbed his hand on his cloak, then dipped it in the stream. This damnable fever made him thirsty, made him dizzy…

… made him think he was seeing ghosts… and what was that, creeping up stealthy as a cat behind him?

Dark-skinned, white-clad, the smell of fresh-baked bread about him, the man was fast but, even faster, Bohemond ripped sword from sheath and hurled himself to the ground (and halfway into the stream, if the truth be told). And when the pagan pounced with one of those bloodcurdling yells with Allah in it that always meant all hell had broken loose again, Bohemond spitted him on his outthrust sword.

Blood from the death wound spurted out, fresh stains against the others that stained his cloak. Le roi Tafur would call this a baptism, but le roi Tafur was probably the craziest thing to come out of France, notwithstanding the competition.

"What an emir you'd be if only you weren't…"

Another voice.

Whirling, Bohemond tugged his sword free of the man he'd slain. Another pagan to be slaughtered. Next!

"Show yourself!" Bohemond ordered. Perhaps he should order them to get in line.

"If that will content you, Lord Bohemond," said this new enemy. " Dominus meus excellentissimus ac gloriosus Boamundus inspiratus a Deo . You will pardon, I hope, any errors in direct address. Your own fellows stumble in your holy language, separate as it is from the common speech. Your hair betrays you. And your courage, to come out alone at night so close to your enemies."

Sarcastic, sneering bastard, making free with honest knights' errors. They were warriors, not scholars.

"I told you, show yourself!" he snarled, hand on hilt.

The stranger moved out from the shadows into the light. Clearly, he was no mean fighter; Bohemond could see that from how the newcomer carried himself. One hand rested almost casually near the hilt of a sword that could probably chop good Frankish steel into slivers without taking a nick itself. Clearly, the man was either sure enough of his skill, or he had men in hiding (in which case Bohemond was in deep trouble, if not neck deep in a midden). Or both.

There was always the possibility that he was even crazier than the king of the Tafurs. But Bohemond didn't think so.

Madmen didn't wear heavy robes of bronze-and-green silk, embroidered with those symbols the pagans claimed were honest letters, that hung with the weight of the armor they concealed. Madmen didn't watch mortal enemies with steady eyes above a mouth and chin and throat concealed by the same glittering silks.

And madmen didn't laugh like nobles in a quiet room, didn't move their hands away from their weapons, and above all, didn't detach and unstopper richly chased flasks, silver and gold over leather, hanging from their belts.

A sapphire glinted black on the stopper in the starlight as the man pulled down the scarf that masked his face, drank, then passed the flask to Bohemond.

Bohemond tasted, then downed a lusty swallow. Wine, and good wine at that, not the combination of horsepiss and vinegar that even Adhemar called wine these days. "I thought you pagans didn't…"

"Virtue is what Allah pours into your heart and mind, not down your throat," said the stranger. He was well-armed, well-dressed, if not with the elaboration of Yaghi-Siyan or his son. One was dead, the other fled.

Incongruously, the man laughed, then went on in the blend of Frankish, Latin, and Arabic that had become the common tongue of the pilgrimage, "Just because your lord turned water into wine doesn't mean you're drunk all the time. You couldn't fight like that if you were."

"Maybe we'd fight better," Bohemond said with a chuckle that startled him. He nudged the assassin's body with one muddy boot. "Would he have drunk?"

"I think not," said the stranger. "But then, I also thought he would not fail me."

Bohemond laughed and planted his fists on his hips. "Let's work that one out. You had such faith in this… this assassin of yours that you followed him to make sure he carried out your wishes. That doesn't sound like faith to me."