“Am I not worthy?”
Raphael hesitated, seeing the trap before him. Beside him, Eptor shuffled nervously. “Worthy of what, Your Grace?” Raphael replied. It was an impudent reply, but after having suffered through a lengthy speech already on the glory that awaited each of the Crusaders in Heaven once they had accomplished God’s will here in Egypt, he had found himself recalling Calpurnius’s assessment of the man—a gnat with a tiny bite. “The Pope has granted you honorifics that you wear with exceptional pride, including the title of Patriarch of Antioch. This army of Crusaders seeks to—as you said so yourself not a few minutes ago—provide the Church with the bounty that God has set for us. Yes, our reward for our committed service. As I am but a simple soldier who seeks God’s blessing, how could I not find all of this splendor worthy of my devotion?”
The legate stalked up to him, putting his face close to Raphael’s. There was a curious dry smell about the man; it reminded Raphael of the dried herbs hung near the hearth in the great kitchen at Petraathen. “I do not care for your tone,” the legate said.
“My apologies, Your Grace,” Raphael said. “This desert air is drying. It makes my words harder than they warrant.”
“It makes hard men of all of us,” the legate sneered. “And we must make difficult choices. Choices that may appear to be in opposition to what we believe, but which are for the greater good of all.”
“I understand that God seeks to instruct us with this manner of trial,” Raphael said. “Did he not test Jesus thusly during his time in the desert?”
The legate’s cheek twitched. Behind him, Raphael heard Sir John shift nervously.
“Our morale is dangerously low,” the legate said, ignoring Raphael’s question. “I—we—need a miracle. We need a sign from God that our victory is pre-ordained.”
“I hope—with all my heart—that such a sign would present itself,” Raphael said, once again feigning ignorance as to what the legate was suggesting.
He was doubly thankful for the meeting the previous day with Sir John and Calpurnius, otherwise he would not have been prepared for the unexpected summons to the legate’s tent. He had had time to prepare for the audacity of what might be asked of him so as to better pretend to not understand the legate’s request. As Sir John had warned him, the man from Rome wanted what he could not ask for directly, not without tainting the very thing he sought.
It sickened him—this subterfuge, this willful effort to manipulate the Crusaders—and at the same time, he knew it was his own innocence that prompted such revulsion. And he loathed that he was so weak and foolish.
The legate meant to sigh, but it came out more like a growl. Eptor started at the noise, drawing the legate’s attention away from Raphael. The legate put his hand underneath Eptor’s chin and raised the young man’s head.
Eptor had had another visitation last night, and his sleep had been disturbed—as had Raphael’s. As a result, he was more addled than usual. He stared at the legate, eyes big and round like those of a dumb ox, and he seemed content to simply match the legate’s stare.
“He is a fool,” the legate said. “There is nothing left in this man’s head.” He looked over at Raphael. “Your master is equally a fool for keeping him.”
“Would you have me slaughter him like a pig, Your Grace?” Calpurnius spoke from the back of the room. Raphael heard the rasp of steel as a knife was drawn from its sheath. “Shall I do it now? Does God require an immediate demonstration of my devotion?”
“Stay your hand,” the legate snapped. He let go of Eptor’s chin roughly, and Raphael was the only one who saw the ghost of a reaction flicker across the young man’s face. “You Shield-Brethren are nothing more than brutish heathens,” he growled, glaring at Raphael. “I should have you lead every charge.”
“And we would do so gladly,” Raphael heard himself whisper, “for it is nothing more than our eternal duty.” The words sprang from his mouth before he could stop them, but as soon as they were out, his heart sang at having said them.
The legate recoiled as if a serpent had just crawled out of Raphael’s mouth, and to hide his shock, he stormed back to his chair and hurled himself into it, the petulant response of an angry child. “We will attack the day after tomorrow,” he announced rudely, reasserting himself to those present. “It is the Feast of the Beheading of St. John. A fitting day for our glorious victory over the infidels within the city.”
“It is too soon,” Sir John said, his calm voice carrying across the tent. “We lost more than a hundred men in our last assault. As well as all four of the ships so recently arrived from Venice and Pisa. We cannot continue to hurl ourselves so egregiously at the walls.”
“Those walls are weak,” the legate scoffed. “They cannot—they will not—keep us out.”
“We should wait,” Sir John continued, undeterred. “We have captured deserters who have managed to climb over those walls. The people of Damietta are starving. Why should we waste Christian lives when the city will open its gates for us in a few weeks?”
“Why should we wait?” Pelagius snapped, his face reddening. “If the infidels are so enfeebled, then why are we not strong enough to conquer them? Is our faith lacking?”
Eptor stirred at Raphael’s side. “She is waiting for us,” the young man whispered. His voice was so soft Raphael almost thought he had imagined hearing it. “She is waiting for the faithful.”