And the Rest Is History(100)

The very worst of them were covered only in rags and carried sticks with a stone lashed to the end. These men weren’t even the jackals snapping around the edges. These were the utter dregs, here only to rape and kill. They had papal dispensation for any acts committed on a crusade and they intended to take full advantage of it.

The emperor, Alexios V, had abandoned his city and his people to the invaders and there was nothing and no one to stand in their way. Every soul here was doomed.

Whichever way we went, we always seemed to be swimming against the flow. Everyone else was always running in the other direction. We closed ranks and barged our way through, knocking people aside. The noise was tremendous. Thousands and thousands of people – all shouting and screaming as they fought to escape the burning city.

Away in the distance, I could hear the clatter of horses’ hooves, but these streets were too narrow and too filled with obstacles. No horses could get down here. And why would they? There was nothing of value here. No churches full of gold and jewels. No fine buildings. No palaces. Just ordinary little homes and the people who lived in them. The defenceless people who lived in them. There was no one here who could put up any sort of fight. A few men had picked up pieces of wood but what use would they be against broadswords wielded by men with nothing on their mind but treasure and slaughter?

I remember the heat. The heat prickling the backs of my hands and coming up through the soles of my boots. The perspiration running down my face and making my eyes sting.

I also remember the isolation. I was alone inside my helmet. I could hear my own breathing rasping in my ears. I could hear other people’s voices, clear but tinny and remote. I could also hear roaring flames, crashing buildings and screaming people. Biometric readouts flashed before my eyes and there seemed to be some sort of sit-rep trickle down. Red and green symbols and figures clustered at the edges of my vision. I had no idea what they meant and neither did I care. I ignored them.

I remember the piles of bodies lying everywhere like discarded dolls. Some of them were small enough to be discarded dolls. They lay half in and half out of doorways. Whether fleeing the burning building or seeking shelter from the slaughter, we’ll never know. They lay heaped against the walls against which they’d huddled. Men lay in front of the families they had tried and failed to save. Dead women curled protectively around dead infants.

But mostly I remember the blood. Everything was red with it. We ran through sticky pools of it. I gave thanks for the breathing filters in my helmet. That I didn’t have to breathe that distinctive copper smell or taste the metal in the back of my throat.

Everything around us was being destroyed. Flames licked around roofs and billowed from doors and tiny windows. And it wasn’t just this street or a few streets around us. A whole city was burning. Constantinople – the queen of cities – was being devastated. Churches, palaces, monasteries – ancient and beautiful buildings were being torn apart for the treasures they contained.

The same went for the people. They too were torn apart for the treasures they carried. Necklaces were ripped from dead necks. Arms were hacked off for the bracelets and armbands they wore. Hands were chopped off living people and thrust into a bag because there was no time to prise the rings loose now. That was for later. Later – three endless days later – when some semblance of sanity would return to the invaders, they would find a skin of wine and a quiet corner, and rummage through the stinking, fly-swarmed bags for the treasures therein. I saw a woman standing motionless in shock, handless arms held rigid in front of her, screaming a long, high, thin scream as she watched her life blood arc through the air.

So I ignored Captain Ellis’s well-meant advice and I looked. I saw it all. It was far worse than anything I had ever seen and I’ve seen a lot. This wasn’t a battle between more or less equal forces with some rough sort of soldiers’ code – this was armed men, blind with lust and greed, pitted against an unarmed, abandoned population.

Ellis kept us moving. Emerging from a dank, dark alleyway, we found ourselves in a small square. On another day, this would have been a pleasant place. Someone had placed a bench against a sunny wall. A few pots of herbs stood nearby. On another day, their scent would have filled the air. But not today. Today, something bad was happening here. A group of about twenty people mostly women and old people were grouped against a wall. They were surrounded by a group of laughing men, their swords drawn. A small pile of probably valueless trinkets lay on the ground in front of them, and even as we watched, a few coins were tossed down as well. Were they trying to buy their safety?

Satisfied they had extorted everything of value, the group of men lifted their swords. It was obvious what was going to happen next. Women screamed and cowered against the wall while one of the old men made useless appeals for mercy. At the same time, another man appeared at the other end of the square. A Crusader, it seemed, wearing the traditional long white surcoat emblazoned with the red cross – although the cross was no redder than the wet blood streaked around his hem. He was helmeted but his visor was raised. Shouting, he strode forwards, gesturing the men to keep away.

Reluctantly, they obeyed him. It was obvious this man held authority. Still shouting, he placed himself between the helpless civilians, many of whom were crying and wailing hysterically.

The mercenaries paused. I imagine greed was warring with discipline, but eventually their leader, a big man in a leather jerkin, bareheaded but wearing a breastplate, nodded. He stepped back, motioning to his men to do the same. It seemed this lucky group of people might be allowed to live after all.