Джеймс Миченер - The Source

“Why?” the mustachioed governor asked.

“Because this city is holy to the Jews,” the man replied.

“Why?” Volkmar inquired.

“Because the Bible was written down in this city and because the Jerusalem Talmud was, too.”

“What’s the Talmud?” the knights asked.

“The Jewish book of law,” the man explained, and he was allowed to walk on.

For a perverse reason Volkmar was pleased that his son had finally seen a Jew, for none had stopped in Ma Coeur for two hundred years, yet when the boy grew older and read the chronicles he would surely come upon that cryptic passage that had caused the Volkmars so much irritation. An unknown priest had put his suspicions into writing, nearly two hundred years before:And after a while men reasoned thus: On her deathbed the Countess Volkmar said only that the religion of Christ and the religion of Muhammad were folly, and in the great halls the rumor circulated that this was because she was herself Jewish, in a secret way, and it was recalled that often friends had asked her, “Why do you not drop your name Taleb and take a Christian name?” and she had oft replied, “Because I was born Taleb and it would be foolish to change.” And then others remembered that her father, known as Luke—for he did take a Christian name—had borne all the signs of a true Jew. He was good in medicine. He ate no fat of the meat. He could read and write. He knew mysterious matters. And he was unusually skilled in handling money, which he did for Count Volkmar so long as the count lived, then for Sir Gunter. And the suspicion grew and it was for this reason that some of the great houses like Antioch and Jerusalem refused to marry with the Volkmars, but others, seeing how the principality prospered, above all others, were in great speed to ally themselves with it.

Count Volkmar laughed at the old tale and recalled “the great houses” which had refused to intermarry with his ancestors. “Where are they now?” he asked. “They vanished so long ago.” Then he chuckled. “Taleb is about as perfect an Arab name as you can find. She wasn’t Jewish. She was stubborn, and would to God her descendants had been more stubborn that night when they allowed the idiots to argue them into fighting at the Horns of Hattin.” He shook his head as if loose things—ideas, memories—were floating therein, unconnected, and then he fell back in his chair and stared at the lake.

From Tabarie the pilgrims rode north to Capharnaum, a lovely deserted spot where rich fields drifted down to the water and where Jesus Christ had fed the multitudes by hundreds and by fifties, with only five loaves of bread and two small fishes: “And they did all eat, and were filled. And they took up twelve baskets full of the fragments, and of the fishes. And they that did eat of the loaves were about five thousand men.”

“Could it have happened?” the boy asked.

Volkmar looked at his son in astonishment. “Of course!” he said. “If you had caught a fish from the lake you’d have seen that it was only half a fish, swimming around with a piece bitten out. It was thrown back into the lake by Jesus after the fragments were collected. Of course these things happen. That’s why we come on pilgrimages.”

The boy studied Capharnaum with new interest, whereupon his father explained, “The five thousand men were seated here. The two fish were carried in a basket up that path. And Jesus stood exactly where the altar of that ruined church used to be. When I was a boy you could see on the floor of the church a picture of the fish,” and he led the knights into the ruined sanctuary and rummaged about the rubble until he found the mosaic which once had been kept polished by priests of Byzantium; and the two stone fish were as real to him as the living flowers of the fields outside. Here Jesus had stood. Here He had fed the five thousand with the two fish represented in the panel.

“This is why our land is called holy,” he said quietly, and the knights resumed their climb into the steep hills until they came at last to the mountain village of Saphet, where they were to meet Muzaffar coming his own way from Damascus.

This was the most painful moment of the trip, more so even than the silent Horns of Hattin, for that battle had occurred a century before, whereas the loss of Saphet was still a gaping wound in Crusader memory, and after the knights had presented their safe-conduct to the Mameluke garrison they passed into the courtyard of what once had been a notable Christian castle. High on a hill, with precipitous falls on each side, the soaring castle of Saphet had been a beacon to the surrounding countryside. From its battlements one could see the Sea of Galilee far below, and the plains of the north. It commanded the road from Damascus to Acre and dominated a dozen lesser passes. When the signal fires on its highest turrets were lighted they were seen on the seacoast, and Acre could be assured that all was well along the eastern marches. It was the hilltop castle par excellence, and in 1266 one of the real tragedies of the Crusades had occurred here—one that still struck terror in the European heart.

The first Mameluke sultan had laid siege to Saphet, and after a brilliant initial resistance the defenders were driven to realize that the winds of history had changed and that they would no longer be able to hold such outposts. Gallantly they offered to surrender so that no more lives need be lost, and terms were faithfully agreed upon: open the gates and each man would receive safe-conduct to Acre. The Mameluke sultan gave his binding oath, and the long siege ended. But not according to the pact. As soon as the sultan was within the gates his men pinioned the defenders and every knight was beheaded on the spot. “We wanted them to know the kind of enemy they faced,” one of the Mameluke generals explained, and thus the war of extermination was launched.

Now Saphet was a ghost town. The lovely settlement that had once clung to the flanks of the hill, outside the fortress walls, had been erased by the Mameluke attackers and had not yet been rebuilt, so that the fortress stood alone, its massive walls beginning to crumble. “We’ll pull them down one of these days,” the officer-in-charge stated. He seemed a likable person, not one given to beheading prisoners. His head was shaven and bore a deep scar at which young Volkmar stared. He ordered refreshments to be served on the battlements, where cool breezes drifted across the mountains.

“It’s a marvelous spot,” one of the garrison said in Arabic as he pointed to a village that nestled below on the flank of a hill. “I often wonder about that village. In all the wars that have been fought over Saphet I suppose it’s never been touched. But up here … battles … bugles … beheadings.” He looked directly at Volkmar as if he regretted the facts of history.

Crusaders and Mamelukes enjoyed two fine days at Saphet. Archery contests were held, with the Mamelukes winning by a consistent margin, but in sword play the Crusaders prevailed. “That’s how I got my scar,” the Mameluke officer explained to the boy. “One of your swords at Tyr.” Horse races were arranged within the castle walls, and here the smaller Turkish mounts had such advantage that the Crusaders could scarcely keep up on their lumbering beasts. “But on a long march to be followed immediately by a battle,” Volkmar said, “our horses are better every time.”

The baldheaded Mameluke replied, “For your tactics, yes. For the quick dash and retreat of our warfare, your horses would be too heavy to handle.” The men traded a big horse for one of the swift Turkish animals, and young Volkmar was given the beast to ride back to Ma Coeur.

Then the Mameluke captain asked a most bold question: “How long do you suppose the sultan will allow your fortress and Acre to exist?”