He raised his head and looked again. The thread was slightly thicker now, and a little darker, rising out of the west. It was Jaffa!
Rolling to his knees, Murdo looked out, shielding his eyes with his hands. The sun was beginning its long, slow slide into the west, its fierce light all but drowning out the faint smoke trail. He dragged himself to his feet, and climbed to the top of the gulley for a better look – only to find that he had to go all the way back to the road in order to see down to the distant horizon.
One quick look confirmed his suspicion: the smoke was coming from the walled city.
Hurrying back to the thorn bush, he quickly pulled his siarc off the branches and drew it back on. He then knelt and shook Emlyn awake. 'You were right about the smoke,' Murdo told him. 'Jaffa is burning.'
'They must be fighting there,' the monk said.
'Maybe,' Murdo granted. 'It is still too far to see.'
'I hope the ships are not in danger.'
'The ships!' It had not crossed his mind that the ships might be at risk in any conflict. What if the Turks were attacking the port? 'Hurry!'
'Murdo, wait!' Emlyn called after him. He struggled to his feet and started up the side of the gulley, remembered the camel, and paused to untie the rein rope.
Their short rest had far from restored either of them, and here they were, starting out again in the heat of the day. It was madness, thought Murdo; even if he reached the fighting in time, what could he do?
'Murdo, slow down,' called Emlyn, struggling up out of the gulley and onto the road. He held tight to the camel's rope, all but pulling the beast after him.
Ignoring the monk, Murdo charged on, head down to keep the sun out of his eyes. Though more desperately thirsty than ever, he kept his mouth shut, and concentrated only on putting one foot in front of the other. How long this continued, he could not say. Time seemed to melt into a stagnant pool; he was no longer aware of its passing. This strange state persisted until he heard Emlyn say, 'Look, Murdo! I can see the harbour.'
Murdo raised his head and was amazed to see how far they had come. The city lay on the shelf of the sea plain below them, its white dwellings shimmering pale gold in the light of a low-sinking sun. The sea stretched out on either hand in a broad band of shining white silver. Smoke rose in a dark column from the city walls in the vicinity of the central gate, where, judging from the darkly writhing stain on the plain outside the city, the battle still raged. But the ships rode at anchor in the bowl-shaped harbour, as yet untouched by the fighting outside the walls.
'Can you see who it is?' asked Emlyn, toiling up beside him. The cleric sank to the road and rested on his haunches in the dust.
'No,' answered Murdo, 'they are still too far away. I suppose it is Godfrey's troops-the ones that passed us earlier. No doubt the Turks were waiting for them.'
With that, he started off again.
'Murdo, for the love of God, man, can you not wait even a moment while I catch my breath?'
'Catch your breath later,' Murdo called back to him. 'We must get down there.'
'Murdo, stop!' cried the monk. 'We can await the outcome here.'
He hastened down the track leading to the city. Behind him he heard Emlyn call out, 'Murdo, if you cherish your life at all, do not go down there!'
He stopped and looked down upon the broad plain. Emlyn was right; there was nothing he could do down there except get himself killed. He returned to where the priest was waiting, took the rope from his hand, and led the camel off to the side of the road where they found another low bush and settled down to watch and wait until the battle was over.
FORTY-FOUR
From their high vantage they watched as the movement on the plain gradually ceased, whereupon the greater mass separated itself from the lesser, and moved off, skirting the city and disappearing up the coast. Murdo stood slowly. 'It is over. The Turks have gone.'
They then started down the hill track once more. By the time they reached the plain, the battlefield had been invaded for a second time-by a host of people from Jaffa, many of whom were yet streaming out of the city and onto the plain. Murdo and the monk hurried to meet them, proceeding to the edge of the battleground where the first corpses they encountered were those of crusader knights, struck down by Seljuq arrows. There were more horses than men, and several of the animals were still alive, thrashing in agony on the ground as they hurried by.
Closer to the centre of the fighting, the corpses became more numerous. They came upon the body of a knight who had fallen beneath his mount. The horse still lay upon its rider, whose arm extended from beneath the animal's neck, the hand still clutching the sword. Murdo paused and regarded the unfortunate, then looked at the waterskin on the horse's saddle.
'He has no further use for it,' Emlyn said, 'and is past caring in any event.'
Murdo nodded, stooped quickly and untied the strap holding the skin; he removed the stopper and put the skin to his mouth. The water slid over his parched tongue and down his throat in a cool deluge. He drank down great greedy gulps, pulling the waterskin away reluctantly and passing it to Emlyn with a gasp of relief.
They shared the water between them until the skin was empty, whereupon Emlyn replaced it. He made the sign of the cross over the fallen warrior, and offered a death blessing. The water revived them wonderfully well, and they moved on towards the centre of the field where the battle had been most fierce. The dead became more numerous, the parched ground beneath them black with spilled blood. Though they looked, they could see no wounded. Most of the soldiers had suffered both arrow wounds and sword cuts. 'Felled by arrows and finished with the sword,' Murdo observed grimly. 'The enemy showed no mercy.'
'It is because of Jerusalem,' remarked Emlyn. He stood gazing sadly upon the slaughter, his round shoulders bending under the weight of a terrible vision. 'Now begins the season of revenge, when Death reigns, and evil is loosed upon the world.'
At these words, Murdo saw again the ghastly carnage unleashed upon the Holy City in a veritable storm of hate and greed and butchery. He saw himself wandering through the blood-rich desolation, fearful, lost, and alone, while high above him, sailing through the smoke-filled air with leathery wings outstretched, laughing with wicked glee, the Ancient Enemy rejoiced in the slaughter and chaos.
Murdo looked around him and saw the same grisly destruction, and heard the same demonic laughter streaking through the empty heights. What was begun in Jerusalem will last a thousand years, he thought; of war and revenge there will be no end. These dead, still warm upon the blood-soaked earth, are but the first of a blighted race whose population will grow more numerous than the stars.
Somewhere, thought Murdo, there must be a refuge, a haven from the storm of death and destruction. Somewhere there must be a place of peace and prosperity-if only to remind men that such qualities could still exist this side of heaven.
Build me a kingdom, Saint Andrew had said. Establish a realm where my sheep may safely graze, and make it far, far away from the ambitions of small-souled men and their ceaseless striving. Make it a kingdom where the True Path can be followed in peace and the Holy Light can shine as a beacon flame in the night.
As Murdo stood gazing upon the field of death, the words of the ghostly monk quickened in his heart: All you possess was given to you for a purpose. I ask you again, said the voice from the catacombs, will you serve me?
At the time, he had pledged to do what he could. Now, looking upon the wanton, senseless waste of life in the ignorant service of rapacious, power-mad avarice and ambition, he knew, knew beyond all doubt, what he was being asked to do.