Джеймс Миченер - The Source

It was a beautiful room, and much life had passed through it, for in the preceding hundred and eighty years the Volkmars had contracted family alliances with most of the great Crusader families, except only the Bohemonds of Antioch and the Baldwins of Jerusalem, who had always refused to marry with the line of Ma Coeur. Marriages had been performed in this room and coronations, and in August of 1191 month-long celebrations were launched when the castle was recaptured from Saladin by Richard the Lion Heart of England and restored by him to Volkmar IV. Richard had stayed in the castle for two weeks, recuperating from his siege of Acre. The princes of Galilee had graced this room, the Embriacos from Genoa and John of Brienne. Here the emissaries of the Comnenus emperors of Constantinople had come, and the Ibelins, a local nobility, and the queens of Armenia. How great they were, the lords of Tyr and Cesaire, the counts of Tripoli; but in the history of the distinguished room one name stood out above the rest.

“Let us drink to Saladin, cursed be his memory,” Volkmar proposed, and the old trader raised his glass, even though as a Muslim he should not have taken wine.

“I love wine,” the old man said, adding, “Saladin was so noble he should have been an Arab.”

“He killed two of my ancestors,” Volkmar observed.

“If both sides had listened to him,” the old man reflected, “we should have long ago devised a way of living on this land.”

“That much I grant you,” Volkmar agreed.

At this point the count’s son, a boy of eleven, came in from his studies and greeted the Arab, who had often brought him unexpected gifts from Damascus. The two spoke in Arabic, and Muzaffar asked the count, “Have you ever shown your boy the Horns of Hattin?”

“No,” the count laughed. “Our family prefers to stay away from there.”

“You should do it next spring,” Muzaffar suggested. “The more we know about history, the better.”

Countess Volkmar interrupted to summon the men to a smaller room where a generous meal was spread across a heavy wooden table. The principal dish was roebuck, taken from the hills opposite Acre, but there was also grouse brought to the castle by Muslim traders from Jerusalem. About the table were placed bronze bowls of damson plums and apricots from Syria, oranges and late melons from fields near Ma Coeur. Volkmar judged that Muzaffar’s men must have already sold the castle new supplies, for he was offered a small silver dish from Athens containing Persian violets crystallized in transparent sugar. These were flavored with cinnamon and were intended for dessert.

“I have always loved to eat from your plates,” Muzaffar joked. “They almost make me feel a Christian.” He lifted the proud old plate, designed in Jerusalem years ago but baked in the potteries of Egypt, and studied it again. It was handsomely crazed and bore only one design, in red: a large, stupid-looking, gape-mouthed fish, and for nearly two centuries each Crusader fortress in the Holy Land had owned a set of such dishes, for they had become the most popular emblem of Christianity: centuries before, someone had discovered that the Greek letters for the word fish, ichthys , formed an acrostic which could be translated “Jesus Christ, Son of God, Saviour.”

As they ate, Muzaffar looked at the folios that stood in cases along one wall of the room. Ma Coeur owned seventy volumes, a notable library for that day, and most had been brought there by Muzaffar. In Aleppo, Smyrna or Baghdad, wherever he had happened to be, he had acquired old works for his friend, for like many Arabs of his day he thought it strange that the unlettered Crusaders took so little interest in learning.

When the leisurely meal ended he took one final gulp of wine, kissed the countess farewell, gave young Volkmar some coins from beyond Persia, and took the count’s arm, walking him out to the camels. When they were alone he asked quietly, “And at the end of the truce?”

Count Volkmar considered for some moments, then said, “The men at Acre are hopeful, but I’m cautious. The Mamelukes may drive us from the land.”

“I think so. What will you do?”

“I shall not leave this castle.” The count suspected that Muzaffar might have come as a spy; if he did, the Mamelukes had driven him to it. On the other hand, if they had sent him they had better know the facts. “I’ll resist,” he repeated stubbornly.

“And the boy?”

“There’s the question,” Volkmar replied in undisguised perplexity.

“Why don’t you send him back to Germany?” Muzaffar suggested.

“My father made a visit to Germany and I can remember his telling us that compared to the way we lived at Ma Coeur, the Germans lived like animals. And for their part, the Germans felt that he had become an Arab and they wondered if his religious attitudes could be trusted. He told us that between him and his cousins there had been little understanding: he loved learning and they couldn’t read; he liked philosophical discussion, but all they knew about was hunting. In short, he had been civilized by the Arabs while they had been allowed to remain suspicious barbarians. At the end of his uncomfortable visit everyone was relieved to see him go—he most of all. I don’t think my son would like Germany.”

“But I warn you, Volkmar. He should leave.”

“I know. But where?” The two old friends embraced and the Arab returned to his camels.

On a sunny morning in late April, 1290, Count Volkmar rousted his eleven-year-old son from bed and took him to a room where waiting men had spread upon the floor the boy’s first full suit of armor. “We shall be riding over dangerous countryside,” the count explained. “A safe-conduct is no protection against stragglers and robbers.” After the men had dressed the boy in his usual underclothes, they fitted him with a padded tunic made of thick folds of linen stuffed with cotton wadding that had been soaked in vinegar. This would withstand arrows. Over it they put a light, flexible coat of mail whose joints worked easily and whose edges fell to the boy’s knees. It was slit in the back, so that he could sit astride his horse. His feet were slipped into iron shoes from which a long tongue extended upward to protect the shinbone. And because the pilgrims would be riding in hot sun, over all was thrown a thin gauze cloak upon which had been stitched in blue silk the seal of the castle: a round tower flanked by another.

Proudly young Volkmar clanked in to greet his mother and to kiss her farewell. He carried no lance, but he was allowed a token sword and a stout wooden shield covered with hard leather and studded with iron. In the courtyard he saw with satisfaction that each of the knights was dressed like him, except that they were heavily armed, and all wore iron helmets which looked like buckets but which allowed them to see and breathe through small slits.

The drawbridge of the castle was lowered, the iron gates were swung open, creaking in sunlight, and the entourage spurred their horses across the moat and down into the mud-walled town, past the Catholic church of Rome, past the Maronite church of Syria, and up to the old Byzantine basilica called Sancta Magdalena, at which pilgrims had been halting for nine hundred years, seeking blessing before they headed east to the Sea of Galilee on a visit to the scenes of Christ’s ministry. Resting their horses by the entrance the knights dismounted and made their way into the darkened chapels, where they knelt and asked blessing on their venture. A faltering priest in ragged vestments mumbled Greek words over their bared heads, and they crossed themselves, returning to their horses and the lovely green countryside of the principality of the counts of Gretz.

How beautiful it was, how achingly beautiful to the senses was Galilee that spring morning. The forests of cedar and pine had not yet been completely chopped away; olive orchards and the far vineyards still flourished; fields produced rich harvests of wheat and oats and barley, while small plots were kept aside for sesame, from which sweet candy was made for children. And at every fifth or sixth mile some new village of Volkmar’s fief would appear, each with its ninety-six Muslims and four Christians working together. It was a land, Volkmar thought as he surveyed it for what he sensed might be the last time, which truly flowed with milk and honey, and he was depressed to think that no way could be devised for holding on to it. As a descendant of the Family of Ur, Volkmar loved the land not only because it was his principality, but also because it was a good and beautiful thing of itself. It was worth preserving in its richness, and he knew that when the Mamelukes captured such land they took no pains to keep it productive. They killed the farmers, chopped down trees, destroyed the irrigation and abandoned the valleys to the Bedouins and goats. It would be cruel to see these fields laid waste, Volkmar reflected.