Richard Blake: The Sword of Damascus

‘Might?’ I sneered. ‘Might?’ I paused at the twang of Joseph’s bow and the soft thud a moment later. I listened to the low, terrified murmur of the other monks and boys behind us. I didn’t bother turning. I’d already seen Joseph in action. He didn’t miss. ‘My dear Benedict,’ I said with a change of tone, ‘you never open a gate to these animals. You’ve seen what they did to the other villagers they caught. My age and your vows may have made them a superfluous treasure. But I rather fancy dying with my testicles still attached.’

I looked again at the fire. The mist was blotting out most of the sound. But if I listened hard, I could hear those dancers barking like a whole pack of rabid dogs.

Down in the great hall, Brother Cuthbert was making trouble again.

‘O ye of little faith!’ he bellowed, waving his arms in what he doubtless thought a dramatic gesture. ‘Do you not see the sinful folly of sheltering within these walls? Are not these devils sent here to call us to our duty? Do they not hold out, though in reeking hands, the violet crown of martyrdom?’ He wheeled round and, as if in supplication, held out both arms to the barred and bolted gate. ‘Let us cast aside this pitiful shelter and receive the blessings that are without. Why fear ye death when it is but a second birth – a birth to a new and glorious life in the world that is to come? Every cutting and searing of the flesh, every snapping of bones, every dismemberment – what can it be to us but so many steps on the hard ladder that leads to Paradise?

‘For all of us, our heavenly birthday is at hand. O Lord, Thy will be done! O Lord, Thy will be done!’

I got to him just as he was pretending to pluck out his eyes. With a hard prod of my walking stick to the back of one of his knees, I had him on the floor. As he rolled over, I jabbed hard into his belly and looked down at the face creased into a mask of unexpected agony.

‘If you value your front teeth,’ I said softly, ‘you’ll keep your cunty mouth shut.’ I glanced briefly about the hall. The local villagers were huddled into a tight mass at the end furthest from the brazier. Cuthbert had been raving in Latin, and they hadn’t followed a word. The other monks and boys, though, were looking decidedly scared. Worse, I could sense that many of them felt at least a vague duty to agree with him. I took in their pale, tense faces and looked back down to Cuthbert.

‘Haven’t you lived long enough already?’ he jeered up at me, his breath recovered.

‘No,’ I said shortly. I could have quoted Lucretius on the unending sleep that is death. But it would only have confirmed his opinion about my own beliefs. ‘Let me tell you,’ I went on instead, ‘that if I hear you so much as breathe another word of this nonsense, I’ll set the boys on you with sticks. If you go anywhere near that gate, I’ll have Brother Joseph strike you dead.’

‘You wouldn’t dare!’ he cried, sitting up. ‘You know that my person is sacrosanct. You know the damnation due to any who lay hands on a man of-’

I shut him up with the best knock I could deliver to his chest. He fell back again, his head smacking nicely on the flagstones. No point, for sure, in quoting Lucretius or any of the poets. Certainly none in pointing out the inconsistency of not wanting to be killed before he could commit suicide.

‘Don’t presume to tell me what I would and wouldn’t dare,’ I said, now louder. ‘Joseph will have a knife in your back before you lay hands on that gate. And I’ll see he gets the sort of penance for it that boys get for scrumping. If you don’t believe that, you still don’t know me.’

I left him nursing his head and made my way to the top of the table. It was evening, and we’d be safe enough now till morning. Benedict was up in the bell tower – as if the lookouts needed any encouragement to stay awake – and he’d not be down to claim his place. I carefully seated myself. Just behind me, the brazier was glowing bright. I looked round. Just three evenings before, Benedict had sat here. Then, he’d been all smiles and jollity as he dispensed the Christmas bounty of the Church to us and anyone else of quality who felt inclined to join us.

Now, the cups and platters were gone. The lamps were burning low. No one had thought to move the big table back into the refectory. But the few who were sitting round it picked nervously at the stale crusts that had been doled out. The other monks and boys stood about clutching at their rosaries or trying not to cry with terror.

Joseph poured me a cup of hot cider mixed with beer. I motioned him into a chair beside me and looked at the jug. He poured another cup for himself. We drank awhile, keeping to our own various thoughts.

‘My Lord is still convinced,’ Joseph asked eventually, his cup now empty, ‘there will be no proper attack?’ He spoke again in Greek – not that anyone was paying attention to us. I looked about the hall. It had been so very jolly on Christmas Eve. I’d been too pissy drunk at first to follow what the boy was saying when he’d burst in unannounced with the dreadful news. But I’d staggered out into the damp night air and had seen the flames of the village not a half-mile away. I’d seen the more fortunate villagers hurrying towards us with whatever they’d been able to pick up and carry. The arrival, come dawn, of the raiders outside the gate had finalised the gulf between the secure jollity of Christmas Eve and the impending horrors of the present.

‘A regular storming of the walls?’ I asked with a faintly satiric smile. ‘By these wankers? Even with fewer men than the dozen of that rabble outside, you or I would have had the gate smashed open days ago.’ As if on cue, the slow banging started again. The gate was at an angle to its porch that made a battering ram useless. Instead, it was a matter of trying to hack into three inches of seasoned oak. With the more vigorous blows, the bars on our side shifted slightly in their housing. We could hear the muffled shouting of the attackers as they went about their work.

‘Oh, I’ll not deny we’re in a weak position,’ I went on. ‘We’re in the middle of nowhere. There’s only one of us who’s up to fighting.’ I nodded towards one of the monks. He’d covered his ears to blot out the sound of the horrors that just a few inches of wood held at bay, and was rocking backwards and forwards in his place. ‘We can be sure these people won’t fight. As for the villagers’ – I wrinkled my nose – ‘it’s their people who got carved up out there. But they’ve no discipline or experience for fighting.’ For just one moment, I let my defences slip, and thought again of that poor gutted boy. I squeezed my eyes shut and forced the bleakness and despair back out of mind. I looked Joseph in the eye.

‘Against all this,’ I said, ‘the walls of the monastery are high and solid. We’ve no shortage of piss and shit to pour on the heads of anyone who tries climbing them. Gone at with hand weapons, the gates should hold till Easter.’ I took a sip and burped. This was good stuff. Whatever it might later do to my head, it dulled my wits now. I giggled softly and took another sip. ‘And do bear in mind that time is on our side. It’s cold out there, and we know there’s a growing shortage of food. Aldfrith will eventually get wind of the attack, and prestige requires him to do something about it. Given luck, he’ll get here before these creatures can run back to their little boat. We can then look forward to a most edifying public spectacle. All we have to do is sit here and wait – and hope the gates remain shut on our own side.’

‘My Lord thought more activity in order at his last siege,’ Joseph responded, a strange tone to his voice. I raised my eyebrows and looked at him. The fire had now dried my clothing, and I could feel it was beginning to toast my shoulders. He looked back at me, then broke the silence. ‘It was at the last moment in the crisis. The Great City, cut off from its remaining provinces, had the barbarians on the European shore and the Saracens everywhere else. They were outnumbered in men and ships. All food supplies within the City were exhausted. Just as the orders had been given for the final assault, I saw you appear at the highest point on the sea walls.’ He shut his eyes and thought back. ‘I saw you on a white horse, dressed in golden armour that caught the morning sun. I saw you raise your sword and how, in answer, the chain went up, unblocking the Golden Horn. Five ships came forth – five ships against ninety. Straight they raced at the Saracen flagship. The laughter of seventy thousand Saracens was like thunder that rolls across the water. Then I saw-’