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.