SEVEN
Lazare had been pounding a piece of steel since dawn, and he had lost himself in the rhythm of his work. It took many hours to turn an ingot of steel into a blade, and many more hours to shape that blade into a real weapon. He liked the process—the concentration required, the endless ringing repetition of his hammer against the blade, the gradual change that came over the piece of metal. He had not been entirely truthful with Marcos: while he did not create the steel of the sword, he certainly shaped it. He gave it form. Much like Marcos did with his translations of the Arabic philosophers and alchemists.
And in Lazare’s head, tantalizingly out of reach, was an idea. But no matter how he pulled at it, how he tried to extricate it from the dark morass of his thoughts, he could not bring it into shape.
He let the hammer bounce along the blade one more time and then as he turned to thrust the steel back in the forge of hot charcoal, he noticed Brother Crespin standing beside the bellows that blew air into the charcoal-filled forge.
“Brother Crespin,” he said, somewhat startled by his lay brother’s appearance. “I did not see you there.”
“I have been watching you work,” Crespin admitted. “You seemed to be happy.” He offered Lazare a tiny smile. “I have felt the same when I am shaping a block of stone. I can feel God’s hand on mine, guiding my chisel and hammer.”
“We are mere instruments,” Lazare murmured, moving the blade back and forth in the hot charcoal.
“Did you acquire that piece of steel the other day, when you went to the city?” Crespin asked.
“Yes,” Lazare said, feeling only momentarily guilty for not saying more about his trip into Toledo.
“I would have liked to have gone with you,” Crespin said. “I have been told there is some intricate stonework in some of the mosques. I would like to see it. Not today, though, it is too hot.”
Lazare looked out of the open tent that kept the sun off his makeshift smithy. The light was bright and made him squint. His forge was hot and he wore a leather apron over his robes, which made him sweat more heavily. Still, the day itself was warm. May, in France, was still damp and wet; the weather in Iberia was much drier and hotter.
“Perhaps, we could walk to the city in the morning,” Crespin added. “Before the sun gets too high in the sky.”
“Perhaps,” Lazare said.
Crespin watched him work for awhile. “You have been quiet as of late,” he said finally.
Lazare considered making an excuse, offering some mention of the heat or the dust, but it only took a quick glance at Crespin’s earnest face to feel the dull burn of shame creep up his cheeks. “I have been thinking about the purpose of our crusade”—he shook his head and corrected himself—“Rome’s crusade.”
Crespin gave him an odd look. “It is the same as any other crusade against unbelievers,” he said. “Abbot Amairic speaks often of our duty to serve God and the Church—of the necessity of taking up arms against those who would destroy our God. Haven’t you been listening to his sermons?”
Lazare shook his head. “I have heard Abbot Amairic speak as often as you,” he said. “I have heard him quote from Scripture and offer homilies to the men. I have studied the Bible myself. I am not unaware of these things that Abbot Amairic preaches. But…”
“Your heart is conflicted,” Crespin said when Lazare trailed off.
“Aye,” Lazare agreed. “Do you remember when I dragged you up the mountain to see Roland’s Breach?”
Crespin nodded. “I do. The walk was quite vigorous.”
“Are the stories of men such as Roland not a variation of the homilies offered by Abbot Amairic during his sermons? The spirits of the soldiers who may very well give their lives in service of their lords or Church are bolstered by these tales of other men who have fought selflessly. But what if these stories are fabrications?”
Crespin frowned. “Are you suggesting there was no such man as Roland?”
Lazare shook his head. “No, I believe there was, but what if the story we know is a romanticized one? A tale that has been rewritten to make his sacrifice more than it was.”
“That is true of any story told by a troubadour,” Crespin pointed out. “That is part of their charm.”
“Here, in Iberia, I have heard a version of Roland’s story where he is the villain. Charlemagne was the invader, and the local peoples—the Basques—had driven him out. The Frankish army was running away, and Roland was commanding the rear guard. It was only because he refused to go, only because he stood and fought—on land that was not his—that he was slain. If this is true, then why do we glorify his sacrifice?”
“Because his actions saved Christian lives,” Crespin said.
“Is that all that matters?”
Crespin shrugged. “Isn’t it enough?”
“But if Charlemagne had remained within his own borders, if his army had not come to Iberia, would not more Christian lives have been saved?” Lazare lifted the glowing sword out of the forge and inspected its length.
“I suspect that neither I nor anyone will have a satisfactory answer to that question,” Crespin said.
Lazare dropped the sword blade on the anvil and started pounding it again. “Should I not ask the question then?” he asked between blows of his hammer.
Crespin waited until Lazare’s pace slowed—each hammer blow less noisy than the one prior. “If it cannot be answered, then perhaps the posing of the question itself is that which you mean to consider,” he said. “Which is to consider how best to save the largest number of Christian lives.”
Lazare let the hammer skip off the blade. “At what point is violence not the path for peace?” he asked.
“Every time it happens,” Crespin said. “That is the difference between the two. You cannot have peace with violence, and violence does not necessarily beget peace. It typically leads to more violence.” He gestured at Lazare’s work. “Why are you asking this? Is that not the sole purpose of a sword: to create more violence? It is not used to plow a field for God. Or raise a church wall for God.”
“It is used to kill, in the name of God,” Lazare shouted at him, his hand tight around the shaft of his hammer. “Or Muhammad. Or some other pagan deity. The sword is a tool with one purpose.” He was breathing heavily, his body slick with sweat, and his heart pounded in his chest. He wanted to bend the piece of steel around the edge of his anvil, pound it into a twisted shape that would have no use for anyone.
Crespin stared at him, blinking solemnly. “I build churches,” he said softly, “so that men may commune with God. Is that why you make your swords?”
“No,” Lazare said quietly. “I make swords so that men can be free.”
“You do God’s work then,” Crespin said.
Lazare continued to work on the sword until he could no longer lift his arms. He could coax it into the shape of a blade because he had that skill, but he could not divine the answer to the questions that hounded him. He left the blade on his anvil and collapsed on the ground near the forge, letting sleep claim him. He was exhausted, both in body and spirit.
He was dragged out of his dreamless slumber by Brother Crespin, who stood over him, shaking him roughly.
“What…what is it?” he asked. His mouth was caked with dust and his tongue stuck to his teeth.
“The Templars,” Crespin said breathlessly. “They’ve gone to Toledo.”
Lazare did not understand Crespin’s consternation. The Templars were free to ride into the city, much like any other Christian. Why would such news be so alarming that Crespin would wake him?
“They’ve been restless,” Crespin said. “Late this afternoon, after I spoke with you, I saw Abbot Amairic visit the Templar compound.”
“And?” Lazare said, sitting up.
“I do not know if he offered them a sermon or he spoke to Helyssent, but they rode out a little while ago. In full armor.” Crespin shook his head. “I could not help but reflect on our conversation this afternoon, and in doing so, I became concerned about some of Abbot Amairic’s rhetoric. The crusaders have been given a dispensation to fight Rome’s enemies, but who are those enemies?”
Ostensibly, Lazare knew the answer to that question. The enemy was the Almohad caliphate, the army of Miramamolin that was slowly creeping northward from Seville. The crusaders had been in Toledo nearly a month and they were still waiting for Alfonso VIII, the king of Castile, to decide his army was large enough. The Aragonese army had arrived last week, and a force sent from Portugal by Pedro II was due any day. Combined with the thousands of men who had marched south from Toulouse and regions north, the Christian army would number nearly two hundred thousand strong.
An army that size would get, as Crespin put it, restless. Over the last few weeks, he and Crespin had watched their master, Arnaud Amairic, preach on the glory of fighting the enemies of Christendom. The priest’s rhetoric was noisy and inflammatory, prone to hyperbolic rhapsody; more than once, Lazare had found himself politely excusing himself from such sermons, citing distemper of his bowels.
He felt a loose tremor pass through his body now as he accepted Crespin’s hand and got to his feet. “Do you think the Templars mean to harm the residents of Toledo?” he asked, though he feared he already knew the answer to his question. His visit with Marcos of Toledo had opened his eyes to the broad civility of the disparate cultures living in Iberia—Muslim, Jew, and Christian coexisted. It was as if the region thought itself to be autonomous, immune to the greater conflicts that ebbed and flowed across the Holy Land and Christendom. But such equality and peaceful coexistence could easily be overlooked by zealous crusaders. Men who had marched far from their homes and who were easily inflamed by fiery oratory.
Crespin nodded solemnly. “I do, Brother Lazare. I truly do.”
They could see a muted glow in the north as they walked hurriedly along the dry track. Wisps of black clouds floated low in the sky. Lazare walked quickly, Crespin huffing a step or two behind him, and within a half hour, they were able to see that the light and smoke were coming from fires burning within the city.
In the foreground, dark shapes moved, and Lazare pulled Crespin off the beaten road as the horsemen galloped past them. The white tabards of the Templars were dirty and stained, and Lazare held Crespin back as the other man shouted and raged at the Templars as they rode back to their compound. In a few moments, the company was gone, and the only sound was the echo of the hooves against the hard ground and a sobbing wail from Crespin.
Lazare tried to get Crespin’s attention, but the portly Cistercian had fallen to his knees and refused to budge. Lazare left him there and kept walking, anger propelling his steps.
By the time he reached the outskirts of the city, the fires had been contained. A swath of burned timbers and soot-blackened stone cut through the Jewish quarter like a ragged ax wound. The surrounding buildings had been soaked—over and again—with water in the efforts to keep the fire at bay in much the same way that a wound is smothered with poultices and ointments to stop the spread of infection. All such ministrations were after the fact. The Templars had come, and their passage was savage and bloody.
Lazare helped as best he could: hauling buckets of water, attempting to console the grief-stricken, finding cloth that could be used for bandages, distributing food and drink to the exhausted survivors, and assisting families in finding each other among the chaotic aftermath of the Templar assault.
Shortly before dawn, he recognized one of the soot-stained men staggering through the streets, lugging a pair of heavy buckets. He approached Marcos and took one of the two water-filled buckets from the translator. Marcos stirred, rising out of his exhausted daze, as Lazare reduced his load, and he stared at the Cistercian brother, his tongue slowly wetting his blackened lips.
Lazare nodded, indicating there was no need for speech, and he fell in beside Marcos, silently hauling water for the wounded. Carrying the heavy weight of Marcos’s unspoken recrimination.