Dreamer: A Prequel to the Mongoliad

DAMIETTA, 1219

Almost a year had passed since the Crusaders had taken the tower in the Nile, and still Damietta remained inviolate. The catapults on the walls hurled their deadly payloads less frequently, and most of what came tumbling out of the sky was loose rock — the stores of the alchemical fire had long been emptied. The defenders hurled rocks at the Christian war parties without much enthusiasm, as if their efforts were expected as part of the dialogue of war, but they had no heart for it any longer.

The Crusaders had little heart left for the siege either. Over the last six months, it had become apparent to John of Brienne and the few noblemen who stood with him that Damietta held little military value. As difficult as it was for the Christians to get in, it would be equally difficult for them to get out again, especially if the Sultan’s armies filled up the flood plain behind them.

Saphadin, the man who had been Sultan when the Crusade began, had died shortly after the tower assault. His son, Al-Kamil, who had been ruler of Egypt when the Crusade began, now held sway over the entirety of the Muslim domain. While his father remembered some of the atrocities of the previous Crusade and never relented in his desire to drive the Christians out of the Levant, his son appeared to have a different perspective. He had offered, more than once, terms of peace that seemed too good to be true.

The legate from Rome, Pelagius, believed this offer of peace was a lie, facile words offered by a heathen who could not be trusted. Rome wanted Damietta, he insisted, and Rome would have the city.

Of the original company of Shield-Brethren who had joined the Crusade at Acre, only eighteen remained. Of those, four could still carry arms — and would do so at a moment’s notice — but they would not ride to meet the enemy. The enemy would have to come to them.

Eptor, the farmer’s son who had charged across the narrow bridge with Raphael, was one of those four. The wounds still plaguing him were not physical. His body had healed and his spirit remained resolute, but his mind was dimmed by the presence of a shadow. At first he had merely been prone to fevers, but as the winter passed, his bouts of night sweats gave way to more disturbing signs. Eptor began to speak of their dead brothers as if they were still alive.

Raphael, with whom the stricken farmer’s son had formed an unshakeable bond, was tasked with keeping his ailing comrade within the clutch of Shield-Brethren tents. While the Shield-Brethren did not abandon one of their own, regardless of his mental condition, there would be others in the Christian camp who would not be as tolerant of their brother’s disturbed speech. The last thing this morale-stricken camp needs is a rumor of witchcraft and demonic possession, Calpurnius had instructed Raphael. Keep him — and us — safe.

The task had been fairly simple at first, in that Eptor was more than happy to follow Raphael like a faithful dog. And then the priest — Francis of Assisi, the founder of the Ordo Fratrum Minorum — arrived, and his revolutionary exhortation for peace changed everything.

It was not uncommon to see John of Brienne walking through the Christian camp. Though he was King of Jerusalem, he had never sat in its throne. His marriage to Maria of Montferrat had been one of political expediency, and his dowry had been the privilege of leading the Christian Crusaders in their vain effort to retake the Holy Land. Sir John governed from the ranks: listening to complaints of the men-at-arms; attending to the needs of the landed nobility who made up the bulk of the Christian cavalry; sitting and discussing tactics with the noble lords from France, Frisia, and England; and strategizing the best use of the diminishing number of knights from the three military orders. The Crusaders all knew him by sight, and while he allowed them to show some deference, he insisted on no title other than the one warranted by his numerous feats of arms.

It was curious then for him to present himself anonymously at the Shield-Brethren camp, wrapped in a nondescript cloak and hood. Most of the Shield-Brethren were drilling with the Templars, a mock display of martial readiness meant to confuse any Muslim scouts that might be observing the Christian camp from the south. Raphael and Eptor were engaged in the tedious but necessary task of repairing maille when the mysterious figure approached. Setting aside his tools, Raphael rose to greet the visitor and was shocked to recognize the face peering out from within the shadows of the hood.

“I am but a poor penitent,” Sir John admonished him in a low voice. “A nameless wanderer, seeking to bless your company.”

“Of course,” Raphael recovered smoothly. He made the sign of the cross toward John.

Sir John was a dark-haired man, quick to laugh and slow to anger. He would make a good king, Raphael surmised, if they were ever successful in their efforts in Egypt and to the north and west. “I wish to speak with your master, Calpurnius.”

“He is…” Raphael stopped and turned, glancing toward the large tent that served as the Shield-Brethren chapter house. Calpurnius should have been with the others, engaged in the exercise with the Templars, but he suddenly recalled seeing the Shield-Brethren master not long after the other members of the company had departed. He had thought nothing of it at the time. Men came and went at all hours within the camp, and the endless cycle of drilling and fighting and waiting had become tedious. “I suspect he is waiting for you,” Raphael amended.

Sir John offered him a slight smile. “I suspect he is,” he said.

“A convenient distraction offered by today’s exercise,” Raphael noted.

“Yes,” Sir John agreed. “Sometimes it helps to be the one who can arrange such things.” Looking past Raphael, he caught sight of Eptor. “Is that the boy who converses with the dead?”

“It is. His name is Eptor.”

“Are you his keeper?”

Raphael shrugged. “Sometimes he keeps me. Today, for example. I am missing an opportunity to train, yet again, with our Templar brothers. I fear I might miss some brilliant new stratagem that is being concocted on the field.”

“I suspect not,” Sir John said. “Join me, if you would. What I have to discuss with your master may benefit from your insight.”

“Mine?”

Sir John clapped Raphael on the shoulder as he started to walk toward the main tent. “Yes. You pretend to be nothing more than your brother’s keeper, but your exploits are known to me, Raphael of Acre. I hear the men call you ‘The Thresher.’”

Raphael blushed. “It is an unwarranted title, Sir John,” he said.

“All titles are unwarranted, Raphael,” Sir John said. “Whether or not we live up to them is what matters.”

Sir John gestured that Raphael should follow him. After a passing glance over at Eptor — ensuring that the simpleminded lad was well ensconced in the minute work of repairing maille — Raphael followed the King of Jerusalem into the large Shield-Brethren tent.

Calpurnius was seated behind a rough-hewn desk that had been crafted from driftwood rescued from the Nile. A large map of the Egyptian territory was laid across it. Small chips of charred wood were arranged to indicate the physical terrain, and clusters of colored beads stood in for troops. Calpurnius set aside the tome he had been studying and stood as the two men entered the tent. “Sir John,” he said, striding around the table to clasp Sir John’s outstretched arm. It was the old style of greeting, one that had its origins in ancient Greece, but was used among the Shield-Brethren as a way to indicate brotherhood. Grasping the forearm allowed one to feel the initiation scars of another.

The Shield-Brethren were quite strict in who they accepted into the order — the initiates could not have any other ties that might compromise their vows to the order — but they also took the sons of kings and lords under their tutelage. In a flash, and feeling quite foolish for not having recognized it earlier, Raphael realized Sir John had been one of those students.

“Old friend,” Sir John said. “Our diversion with your men and the Templars will afford us a welcome opportunity to talk freely. I am surrounded by sycophants of the legate’s. They cannot think for themselves, and all they do is echo back to me the ridiculous drivel spewing from Pelagius’s mouth.”

“He still insists on taking Damietta, does he?” Calpurnius asked. He glanced at Raphael briefly and seemed unconcerned about the young knight’s presence.

“Even after our disastrous attempt at the beginning of the month,” Sir John sighed.

The previous attempt to storm the city had involved a quartet of freshly arrived boats from Christendom and an audacious plan to fill in the moat along the southern wall. For a few hours, it seemed as if the Crusaders might prevail, but the Muslims had only been waiting for them to get close enough. Fire and rocks destroyed most of their ladders, and flights of arrows from the walls had done the rest. They had lost more than a hundred men.

“The legate has a new idea,” Sir John said, shaking his head. “He claims to have proof of our victory.”

“Proof? How?”

“Prophecy,” Sir John said. “I know you have tried to suppress knowledge of your man’s addled visions, but the camp knows of his…peculiarity.”

“It wasn’t me,” Raphael protested, suddenly alarmed at the reason he had been summoned to this meeting.

“I have every confidence that it wasn’t,” Sir John said gently, “but no secret is safe in an army this large and this desperate for good news.”

Calpurnius had already discerned the root of John’s concern. “Pelagius wants to create his own prophecy, doesn’t he?”

Sir John nodded. “Aye, he does. Your man Eptor has given him a dangerous idea.” He looked at Raphael. “Will you have the strength to say ‘no’ to a holy man?”

“Will I?” Raphael looked at Calpurnius for guidance.

“This is a dangerous game,” Calpurnius said to Sir John after a few moments of thought.

“It is far from a game,” Sir John replied sadly. “Pelagius seeks glory that only the sacrifice of others can grant him. He is — not unlike me — a king without a country. Or, in his case, a patriarch without a flock. If he cannot have Antioch, he will have Jerusalem and the Holy Lands, and it does not weigh on his soul in the slightest the number who must die to achieve this mad dream of his. But he knows he cannot be the recipient of a message from God. He needs an innocent to receive it.” He looked at Raphael.

“Me?” Raphael asked.

“No, the boy. Eptor. But more importantly, he needs a witness. Someone who will attest to what the boy has said; someone who will spread the word.”

“He wants me to…” Raphael struggled with the idea of what was being suggested. “But he is the voice of Rome,” Raphael said. “He speaks on behalf of the Pope. If he commands that I serve him — in any way that I am capable — and I refuse…Am I not condemning myself? And the order too, for that matter.”

Calpurnius let out a low chuckle. “This one thinks too much,” he said, jerking his thumb at Raphael. “It will always be his greatest flaw.”

“I do not,” Raphael protested.

Calpurnius made a face. “Ah, you are correct. I am exaggerating. There was that one instance where you did not think. Where you simply acted. And what a glorious moment that was.”

Raphael felt his face get hot. “Any one of us would have done the same,” he mumbled.

“Perhaps,” Calpurnius mused. “But you were the one who did.”

“It…it seemed like a good idea at the time,” Raphael offered lamely, wishing the conversation would turn away from discussion about the tower assault a year ago. He and Eptor had made it to the ramparts and, in the crush of bodies, had gotten separated from the other Shield-Brethren. The Muslims had fought ferociously, and it had been here that Eptor had received a savage blow to the head that Raphael believed to be fatal. The farmer’s son had fallen, and the press of Muslims had threatened to overwhelm Raphael. His sword had been knocked from his hand, and having fallen to his knees, he waited tensely, anticipating the sharp edge of a Muslim sword against his neck.

And then…Eptor’s body, lying nearby, and the flail, unused and forgotten.

Raphael grabs the weapon, whirling it about his head as he turns to face his enemies. He snarls at them, defiant in this final moment. The chains chime and ring about his head as he swings the flail, and he feels the metal tear at the face of the nearest man. His heart thunders in his chest, a war drum that drives him forward. The Muslims hesitate, wary of his whirling chains, and he plunges into their midst, not caring who he strikes. They are all his enemy. He is alone and in battle — where he should be — and the flail is rising and falling. A wild abandon is surging through his body…

“The legate needs you,” Sir John said quietly, starting Raphael from the horrible reverie into which he had fallen. “He wants the hero of the tower to give credence to this prophecy.”

“Do not let the legate sway you,” Calpurnius said, his voice cutting through Raphael’s confusion. “He is a small-minded man who will never amount to more than the bite of a gnat.” He made a flicking motion with two fingers, brushing something so small as to be invisible from his surcoat. “Your vows are not to the Church or the man who says he speaks for the Church. You swore to protect your brothers and to protect the spirit of the Virgin. Nothing else matters.”

Raphael rested his fingertips against his forehead. “This is — ” he began.

Calpurnius put his hands on Raphael’s shoulders. “Remember your vows,” he reiterated, looking the young man straight in the eye.

“Nothing else matters,” Raphael echoed, trying to let go of the panic twisting in his gut. “Aye.”

“This will not be an easy thing. The legate will insist,” Sir John said, “and he may threaten you. And he may…” He trailed off, unwilling to give credence to his suspicions.

Raphael nodded, realizing what he was being volunteered for. “Aye,” he said, his voice weakening. “I will not falter. I will protect my brothers.”