Alternate Generals II

And the Glory of Them Susan Shwartz

Bohemond stood with his knights near God's table. In sad truth, the table was a ramshackle bit of carpentry rendered temporarily splendid by a bolt of brocaded silk liberated after Antioch's fall from a man-at-arms who wouldn't have appreciated it anyhow; and Bohemond didn't so much stand as try not to lean on his nephew Tancred, but if that old death's head Count Raymond de Saint Gilles could get through one of Adhemar's services without sitting down, Bohemond was damned if he'd show weakness-even if hehad taken a cut in the final battle for the city that damn near had made a Greek official of him.

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 cowarddance 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 hadhad 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 withle 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 wasBohemond 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 afollis to put in his purse-much as Bohemond would like to watch him try.

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 itwas 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 ofreal 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, butle 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. "Wouldhe 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."

He looked down, found the flask in his hand, and had another gulp of the wine before, a little belatedly, handing it back to its owner.

"For that matter, whatwas his errand?" Bohemond asked. "Or would it be safer to askwho?"

"He was to seek the life of a man named Firouz, that filthy traitor with horns on his head."

Bohemond barked laughter. "The man you seek's died to that name. Washed in the blood of the Lamb or whatever. He's my godson Bohemond now. You'll just have to give up your grudge," he added and held out his hand for the flask.

The man shook his head. "You are too trusting!" he chided. "How do you know I haven't poisoned the wine?"

"You drank," Bohemond pointed out.

"And that is incontrovertible proof that I did not poison the wine? I think not. I might be willing to assure your death with my own. Or, like the ancient King Mithridates, I might have accustomed myself to poisons, a little at a time, until what would kill you and your knights would affect me no more than a surfeit of sherbet."

Bohemond shrugged, trying to shift his position so he could get a glimpse of the face beneath the silksand ease the ache in his leg. "Poison's for Greeks. If you'd wanted me dead, your assassin there would have taken me out. Or tried. You pagans fight like men. Look at you now, come down from up there-" he gestured at the citadel, "-rather than hide like a woman…"

"Or like one of your-you call them ropewalkers, who run away?"

Bohemond bit his lip. Even in the East, they knew that red hair meant a temper of fire, and it would help him not at all if this shadowy emir provoked him into losing his judgment.

He heard a ghost of a chuckle, which improved his temper not at all.

"And what makes you so sure," said the stranger, "that I am from… up there, as you say?"

The night wind erupted, whistling through the charred remnants of the trees on the ground here between city and citadel. Bohemond felt his cloak billow around him, but the other man's garments scarcely stirred. Good metal hidden within them: best not fight him. And a fine mail scarf probably lay beneath the silk that now concealed all of the man's face except his eyes, exceptionally piercing, and so pale for a pagan that Bohemond thought he could practically peer within the fellow's skull.

The wind roared again. Bohemond shifted position, but his enemy moved not at all.

His mouth suddenly dry, Bohemond lifted the flask he still held to drain it.

That was when he saw the interlocked triangles, above and below, forming the six-pointed stars he'd seen in Jewish quarters before his men ran wild with fire and sword. Solomon's Seal, it was called hereabouts, and attributed to mages and to the demons called djinn.

Bohemond let the flask drop from his hand, then crossed himself. It was a costly toy; a human man would bend to retrieve it, and then Bohemond would have the advantage. A djinni… possibly a djinni could beckon, and the flask would fly through the air to his hand and be miraculously filled.

"Such a conclusion you jump to," said the stranger. "I offer you peace and wine. You take the wine, then let my flask fall on the ground, and make holy signs as if I were some creature sent by Shaitan to confound you, not an honest warrior."

The moonlight struck him, turning his burnished splendor all pale. His long eyes gleamed, and he lowered the scarf over his mouth, revealing a jaw fully as stubborn as Bohemond's. He drew his sword, a beautiful movement accompanied by the sweet sound of steel, water patterns glistening down its deadly length. Slowly extending it, he caught up the flask's strap, and held it, dangling from the point, out to Bohemond again.

"Look within, I tell you. There are no djinn in my flask. And no wine."

Bohemond barked laughter. "Of course not. You already left your bottle." His heart sank about the level of the repairs to his boots. If this emir or whatever he was were sorcerer as well as warrior…

Then Adhemar would have been Bohemond's best defense this night, assuming the Legate were in shape for so long a walk. Or Tancred, whose Arabic might have been good enough for a feeble curse or two.

Bohemond leapt forward, though his leg felt as though it had been wounded all over again, and grabbed the stranger. What felt like honest steel and flesh lay beneath his gripping fingers. The man held firm. Either he had a dagger-a deadly little final weapon, poisoned or not-tucked in among those folds of costly robes, too clean for a proper man, or he really was one of the unclean creatures known as djinn.

"Have you come to offer me all the kingdoms of the earth?" Bohemond demanded.

The djinni, if such he was, twisted free.

"Well asked, my lord Bohemond," he said. "So you read the Book of which you are a child, in which the saint we call Issa fasts in the wilderness and is visited by Shaitan. Walk with me now, and let me show you all these kingdoms of the earth."

I am a fool and the son of a fool, Bohemond told himself, knowing both to be a lie. Nevertheless, as if he had been bespelled by the moon or-the wine! This son of Satan may not have poisoned it, but put some drug in it to render me witless!

Christ, it would be hard to be Prince of Antioch and then cut down with no more of a fight than Yaghi Siyan put up, fleeing after he'd lost the city.

Or maybe it was just the fever, playing tricks with the light and his judgment. He heard himself murmuring, "Again, the devil taketh him up into an exceeding high mountain, and showeth him all the kingdoms of the world, and the glory of them, and saith unto him, all these things will I give thee, if you will fall down and worship me. Then saith Jesus unto him, Get thee hence, Satan, for it is written, Thou shall worship the Lord thy God and him only shalt thou serve. Then the devil leaveth him and behold, angels came and ministered unto him."

But he found that he'd taken a few steps to an outcropping of rock, built up with a wall on which it was possible to lean out and overlook the entire valley. Unsteady as he was, the djinni probably could pick his moment to push him over. Well, he could try.

The djinni nodded.

"But you haven't left."

He gestured at the city lying at their feet. "What will you ask?" he demanded. "A princedom? The Emperor's crown?" He took a deep breath. "The Holy City of Jerusalem itself? Will you beg for it?"

"Antioch is mine by right of conquest," said Bohemond. "And I beg for nothing."

He was Antioch already, if he could hold fast, despite Godfrey and Adhemar's holiness and Raymond's mewlings that Antioch belonged to the Emperor. And Jerusalem? A dream men had died for. Bohemond preferred gold and honest stone to dreams.

"You wouldn't care to step off this height and let me help you fly?" There was laughter in the stranger's voice.

"You offer me cities, honor, gold," said Bohemond. "Emperors have done that, and I've taken what I chose and only what I thought I could hold. You offer me more than any man could guard, and for what price? My soul? Poor scarred thing that it is, assuming I have one at all. I would not bargain with you for so little."

"Then if your soul means nothing to you," said the djinni, if such he was, "why not clasp hands and say 'done' on our bargain?"

He held out his hand, scarred with battle, but long and fine. Would those fingers be ice-cold or warm as honest human flesh?

Knocking his hand away might make the djinni bring down the lightnings, or whatever weapons besides steel that djinn used. Instead, Bohemond put his own hands behind his back. A boy's gesture, and it would leave him vulnerable for a perilous second or two, but it went with what he was about to say.

"If Jesus Christ appeared on that rock over there right now and offered me Antioch, all unearned, I'd say 'thank you very much, my Lord, but I cannot accept honor I have not earned for myself. Do you understand that?" Bohemond demanded. "I won this city with fire and sword and sweat and blood, and no one, human, djinni, or God Himself, is going to take it from me!"

He heard his voice echo off the rock walls of the citadel. In the valley below, men raised a cheer. He had heard them cheering like that, "Bo-he-mond!Bo-he-mond!" at dawn when they looked down from the city's walls and realized that they'd won it, at least until Kerbogha could arrive. Screamed like fugitives from the Pit, their faces black with smoke and sweat and rust, their eyes red, and blood pouring from unfelt wounds. He'd beggared himself to bring them here, cursed them for gaping mouths, greedy guts, and weaklings when their courage faltered; yet here they were, in Antioch, and he loved every one of them.

Would anyone lower himself to win Antioch by magic or even the gift of God when he could have this ferocious glory? Not Bohemond.

"You poor, miserable bastard," he all but purred at his adversary. "Let me explain it to you. See this city? It's mine. Won bymy hand,my sword,my men,my blood and my bone and the courage God gaveme as a knight. And you offer me trickery instead. As well offer me water and call it wine, or a leather glove and oil when I want a woman. You know about the wine, at least. Do you damn djinn have any balls, or are you like Greeks that way, all cut off?"

Those were fighting words. If the man drew, as he expected, he'd have God's own battle on his hands. Roused as he was, he thought he could take him. And if not, it was better than wondering if his leg wound would rot.

Sweat was breaking out all over him. His matted hair was drenched with it. Waves of hot and cold rushed over him, but he managed not to reel until they subsided and he realized: I've got the turn. My fever's broken, and I'm going to live. Live and rule Antioch.

He drew his sword and waited.

And waited longer.

His adversary laughed. "My lord, if you could see the expression on your face! I believe you're actually disappointed we won't be able to hack each other to pieces."

Bohemond found himself laughing, with relief among other things. "It would be a shame to spoil that pretty coat. Maybe, when we take the citadel, I can get me one as spoil."

"I will remember that," said the other man and saluted him in the pagan fashion-touching heart, lips, and brow with a grace that any perfumed courtier from the south of France might envy.

He drew in a deep breath, looked up at the sky, flying the same banners it had flown the night Bohemond won his city, and veiled the lower part of his face once more.

"I have found out what I wished to learn," he said. "Are you well enough to walk down alone to where you're quartered?"

"Walk?" Bohemond replied, as he gazed down the way he had come a long night before. "I could fly!" Then, as the other man laughed, he added hastily, "But I won't!"

"I never expected it," he answered. "But I am pleased to hear you are well. If you feel the need, send a messenger to the citadel. Some physicians still survive. May God be with you."

To Bohemond's surprise, he used the proper word, not "Allah."

Tancred came riding toward Bohemond and the assembled lords with the sort of eagerness you beat out of pages and worked out of squires. His horse's hooves struck sparks from the city's stones, but though it stumbled, it didn't fall.

"Hell of a way to use a good horse," Bohemond muttered. Didn't Tancred realize this idiocy reflected badly on his uncle?

"Uncle! My lord!" he was shouting.

Splendid. Now, he was interrupting a council to which he hadn't been invited, and Raymond was already shooting Bohemond little «control-your-nephew» glares that Adhemar was bound to have to back up.

Tancred reined in so suddenly that the horse reared, sending him into a fall that only a knight's skill turned into a form of dismount.

"They're surrendering up there!" he shouted. "The citadel! The flag's up, not Raymond's but my lord uncle's! The gates are open, and the commander swears he'll yield to Bohemond or no one."

Adhemar rose, his face transfigured.

Jesu,not another three-day fast, Bohemond thought and cast round for a distraction.

"Assemble our men, nephew."

"They're coming," Tancred said, his eyes ablaze. He, like Bohemond, knew what it was to be poor, to want, and to hack and fight to win one's heart's desire.

Bohemond could hear heavy footsteps. He could see crowds approaching, faces he knew, voices he recognized, and some he saw only in his heart.

"My lords, with your permission," he began. Christ, he was a boy again, on his first campaign, with all his dreams untarnished. Joy erupted in him. Generous enough to give the others grace, even the sour, disappointed Raymond, Bohemond shouted, "Not by my hands, not by our hands… non nobis, Domine… sing it, you bastards! Sing with all your hearts!"

As the knights, any one of whom would have regarded the name of bastard as sufficient reason to fight to the death, burst into song, Bohemond marched them up the battered streets of Antioch and didn't halt before he reached the citadel. The hell with the leg. He'd have time to collapse later, and skilled pagan physicians to attend him.

Behind them rose the cheering of the host. For some, the cheer would be their last word-no bad way to go.

Do you see that, Father? First, a princedom, and now this public glory.

Adhemar would counsel him to avoid the sin of pride. He would try not to show just how proud he was.

And please God he could manage not to burst out laughing.

The pagans formed up in a double line from the citadel's gates. Even in surrender, they were splendidly tricked out in fine silks and gleaming mail and swords the knights would make them surrender unless Bohemond stepped in. The wailing of those weird pipes they carried and the rapid beating of their round drums erupted all about the citadel as their commander walked through the gates.

So this was Achmed ibn Merwine: a bronzed man, silk-robed, long-eyed, his face half-veiled. As Bohemond waited, he unhelmed and removed the scarf that hid his face.

"You!" Bohemond gave in to the great shout of laughter he'd felt building since Tancred almost fell off his horse and bounded forward.

"Some soldiers told me you were the true commander, the only leader, of the Franks. And then I met you and saw for myself that, truly, you would not be defeated."

"And they were right," Bohemond said. It wasn't his fault if this emir wanted to rub salt in Raymond de Saint Gilles' wounds, now, was it?

"I cannot endure the destruction of more of my men. Or of this city. It is written that you shall rule Antioch, and thus…" The man removed his sword from his belt, knelt, and offered it to Bohemond.

He took it, drew it and heard the sweet rush of fine steel cutting air, then held it over the enemy commander, who was certainly no djinni.

"So," he asked, "what shall it be? We can give you safe conduct out of here-no doubt Kerbogha will receive you. Or will you stay with us and be baptized in the True Faith?"

Achmed ibn Merwine saluted Bohemond, heart, lips, and brow, the way he had the night before. "My lord, I offer you another godson named Bohemond. If you are willing to stand with me before the altar."

Heedless of Tancred's sudden watchfulness or Raymond's glare, Bohemond strode forward.

"I would be honored," he said.

He raised the emir, drew him into an embrace.

"My son," he intoned formally, and damned near broke his hand thumping him on the back, thanks to the fine steel sewn into ibn Merwine's fancy coat. Despite the ache in his hand, he could feel laughter under the silk and the steel.

Another one from whom I'll have to guard my back, thought Bohemond, Prince of Antioch. The sounds of rejoicing rose all around him. The killing would probably resume tomorrow.