The man crouching next to Raphael shivered and looked like he was about to vomit. His name was Eptor and he was a year younger than Raphael. A farmer’s son, his family lived less than a day’s travel from Petraathen, the stronghold of the Shield-Brethren. He, Raphael, and a dozen others in this company had all taken their oaths together. The Fifth Crusade was their first fielding as knights of the order.
In addition to the sword and shield carried by each of the Shield-Brethren, Eptor had a flail to which he had added several extra lengths of chain, as if to mirror the chains that spanned the river. It was a farmer’s weapon, more useful for threshing grain than killing infidels, and Raphael was more nervous about being struck by an errant chain than a Muslim sword. Eptor clung to it, though, like a child hanging onto a protective totem.
The boat swung back to port, and the stone wall of the tower hove into view once more. The barge shuddered as the Nile lifted the heavy boat and hurled it directly at the tower.
Calpurnius had blessed each one of the Shield-Brethren, loudly proclaiming that God would protect each of them from the arrows and stones of the Muslim infidels. As he had clasped each man to his chest, he had whispered a private evocation of the Virgin in their ears. She will be waiting for you, he had said. As she does all of those who take up arms in her name.
The boat quivered beneath them like a horse about to expire. Overhead, something struck the hide roof, and the water-soaked leather hissed and steamed. A roaring noise like the howl of angry demons made the men flinch, and long black fingers of ash began to smear through the protective cover.
Eptor started to moan, his face slick with sweat.
Raphael shook his head, trying to catch the other man’s gaze. Eptor, caught up in the shame of his terror, refused to look at Raphael.
Raphael grabbed the chain of the other man’s maille and hauled him close. They were going to cross the bridge together. He needed Eptor to not panic. As the hide roof began to smoke and crumble to fiery ash, he put his mouth close to Eptor’s ear and began to shout the Virgin’s Prayer.
The deck lurched beneath them as the boat collided with the rocky spur that supported the chain tower. Wood splintered far beneath them, and the tenor of the river changed as water began rushing into the shattered hull. “Attack!” Edzard screamed.
The ropes holding the bridge were cut. The narrow crossing fell, bouncing as its end collided with the rough ramparts of the tower. The men surged forward, eager to cross the exposed bridge.
There was no more time for prayer.
Take up your arms, my brothers, and fight.
She will be waiting for us.
Verna, 1224
Raphael’s admission of being in Egypt did little to diminish the lay brothers’ enthusiasm. Welcoming the young man as an honored guest, they practically dragged him to the oratory, where he couldn’t escape their queries. Initially reticent to talk of his experiences in Egypt, Raphael finally relented after some earnest coaxing from Piro and the younger men. At first he spoke hesitantly, clearly having trouble settling on a story, but after a few minutes of haphazard storytelling, he fell into an oft-told tale. He spoke plainly and easily, with a natural oratorical grace that reminded Brother Leo of a young Brother Francis.
Brother Leo had at first assumed Raphael to be nothing more than an itinerant student, a minor son of a wealthy Ghibelline family from Arezzo who had joined one of the military orders. After listening to Raphael speak, Brother Leo was struck by the similarity between who this boy had become and who Brother Francis might have been. Francis, eager to wear the mantle of chivalrous knighthood, had taken up arms along with many other sons of Assisi against Perugia. When the battle had been lost at Collestrada, Francis had been captured and held for ransom—a captivity that was to last a year. If God had not chosen Francis, would he have become like this man? Brother Leo wondered.
“This fire you speak of,” Brother Cotsa asked. “Greek fire. What is it?”
“It is an alchemical mystery,” Raphael explained. “It is water that burns. It was the Byzantines, I believe, who mastered it first. They used it against the Persian Empire, and since then their alchemists have been attempting to create their own version. Naft, they call it. They put the liquid in a flask and wrap the flask in leather and cloth, which they set alight. The mangonel hurls these flaming flasks with enough force that they shatter upon impact, spreading a large wave of burning liquid.” He held up his hands as if he were cradling a skull. “Something not much larger than this—” He spread his arms, indicating the sparse space of the oratory, “—and...” He faltered, suddenly at a loss for words. Realizing what he was implying with his gesture.
This entire room, Brother Leo realized, filled with fire. “Let us speak no more of these atrocities of war,” he interjected quickly. He fumbled for the wooden cross attached to the loose strands of cord around his neck.
He said this more for the benefit of the others, but it was clear that his words broke through whatever spell had come over the young man in the telling of his tale. “I am sorry,” Raphael stuttered suddenly. “I...That is not why I came here.” His eyes widened as he seemed to realize how small the oratory was, how hemmed in he was by the others. The frightened face of a trapped animal.
Brother Leo shoved his way through the crowd and inserted himself between Raphael and the lay brothers. “Enough,” he said. “We have been neglectful in our hospitality. Did our guests not bring victuals? We should investigate as to the possibility of a bottle of wine. And some cheeses perhaps. Those would be a proper cause for celebration, especially in this house of God.” He glared at Cotsa and Mante, the two who had been most vocal in their desire to hear the young knight’s stories.