And the Rest Is History(99)

They fell upon the fleeing people, most of whom were only women and children and all unarmed. They just hacked them into pieces. Not one swift, sure, almost merciful stroke. They fell upon them in a frenzy, hacking them apart. Limbs flew through the air, trailing arcs of scarlet blood. The man closest to us stabbed wildly into the tightly packed throng and, somehow, a bone must have locked on his sword. He tugged and tugged but to no avail. He shouted for help. Two others came to assist, laughing and tugging with him. His victim – a little boy of about ten – dead already, thank God, jerked like a hideous puppet as they pulled and pushed. It was a great game. Eventually, they had to use their own swords, hacking the body into pieces until finally the knight was able to wrench back his weapon. He aimed a final kick at something that really wasn’t recognisable any longer and followed his comrades back into the smoke.

We watched all that in silence.

I thought – that could have been Matthew. That could have been my own little boy. Where was his mother? Was she watching in anguish, unable to protect her own child? Or, more likely, was she already dead?

Under the guise of passing me my helmet, captain Ellis said softly, ‘Don’t look, Max. I know what you’re thinking, but for your own sanity, don’t look.’

I did look of course. I had to. It’s my job. Someone has to bear witness. I’ve seen brutality. I was up with the archers at Agincourt as the French cavalry crushed itself underfoot and drowned in the mud. I saw the Persian revenge on the Spartans who dared stand in their way at Thermopylae. I’ve seen Joan of Arc burn. I thought I’d seen it all, but I’ve never seen anything like the ferocity with which Christian fell upon Christian this day. It was beyond violent. Beyond brutal. The events of these three days would cast long, dark shadows over the next eight hundred years. Popes would apologise to Patriarchs but the Venetians still have the famous horses. Millions of tourists gawp at them every year and have no idea of the price paid for them.

Ellis turned to the woman in the right-hand seat. ‘How long have we got?’

She swiped a few screens on the console, bringing up maps and figures. ‘We have seventeen minutes before their estimated time of arrival.’ She enlarged a display. ‘Look for them in a north-easterly direction from this pod. Approximately five hundred yards. In about seventeen minutes. I’m sorry I can’t be more precise.’

‘No, good job. Listen up everyone. Everyone stays in their teams. One security detail to each medical team. One medical team to each casualty.’ He turned to the driver. ‘Get that ramp up as soon as we’re gone and be ready to have it back down again in double time. We do not want to hang around here. Max, you will stay with me at all times. Ready everyone? On three.’ He flipped down his visor. ‘Good luck, everyone.’



The ramp came down and we moved out, plunging ever deeper into the artisan quarter. The narrow streets were like a maze. Some were no wider than the width of a skinny donkey. There were ankle-twisting steps up and down, or right-angled bends appearing out of nowhere. Sometimes we had to squeeze between two buildings. There were doorways and alleyways leading in all directions. It was almost impossible to take a direct path. Sometimes we were beaten back by flames, or the narrow streets were so choked with rubble we had no choice but to go back the way we’d come and find another way. Wooden balconies, burning thatch and roof tiles fell on us from above. I had thought our main problem would be avoiding the gangs of Crusaders roaming the streets, drunk on blood and lust and stolen wine, but actually we were in more danger from the inhabitants themselves, so blind with terror that they would run straight over the top of anyone or anything in their way.

I caught a flicker of movement in the corner of my eye. A leather curtain hanging across an open doorway twitched. Someone wanted to see us without us seeing them. I guessed the family was still inside. They would remain there until the very last moment because no matter how dangerous it was to remain in a burning house, it wasn’t half as dangerous as being out on the streets. As we were.

I’ve never seen so many people in so many tiny spaces. They were everywhere, lugging useless household possessions, trying to drive terrified goats or sheep. They surged first one way, and then discovering they couldn’t get out, would attempt to turn back the way they’d come, only to become inextricably entangled with those desperately pushing from behind. We were continually buffeted by people who never even saw us, so desperate were they to get away. I saw people lying pinned under rubble, feebly calling for help, struggling to get free before they were trampled. Or burned. Or fell victim to the Crusaders working their way through the city. And there were dead people everywhere.

There was no order. No one was in control. I knew that the army had fled. The Varangian Guard, the elite, would hold their ground and fight, but they were hopelessly outnumbered. And they were a long way off by now. They would be guarding what was left of the churches, the monasteries, the palaces. This was one of the poorer parts of the city. The people here were on their own.

The real downside, as if there weren’t enough of those already, was that because there was nothing of value here, those roaming these streets would probably not be Crusader knights at all, but the very worst kind of soldier. If they could be dignified with the name. Most of these men were not wearing the traditional white surcoat emblazoned with the red cross. Many wore no uniform at all. Some wore workmanlike leather tunics and boots and carried professional-looking weapons. They were mercenaries, maybe – here only because they were paid to be, and eager to enrich themselves with as much treasure as they could carry, and woe betide anyone who got in their way.