Wolves and Jackals (Part 2)

What happened next utterly surpassed everyone's expectations.

The guide's choice to seize Count Étienne as a hostage was beyond reproach. Among so many people, only he was a "noble lord," and he bore the title of Louis VII's special envoy to the Holy Land. No matter what, he would not be the one abandoned.

Better still, he had only moments ago begged for Saint Pelagius's favor and was weak and powerless—that made taking him hostage far easier and safer than taking anyone else.

Count Étienne and his attendants were stunned for an instant. Their excessive exhaustion and tension truly had slowed their reactions—the count was knocked flat by the guide, who reached out with one hand to choke him while clutching a "Mercy" dagger tightly in the other.

This dagger took its name from its purpose—when a knight in full armor fell to the ground with his spine or ribs broken and no hope left, friend or foe would draw this triangular-bladed dagger, thrust it through a gap in the armor, and put him to death.

Naturally, the guide held this dagger for no damned mercy. Its greatest advantage was its sharpness—it was like a slender pointed awl, requiring hardly any force to drive straight in to the hilt...

As a man who had been on more than one battlefield, Count Étienne's instincts were ultimately a step faster than his thoughts. Though the guide's charge had knocked him to the ground, he still seized the other man's arm firmly as he pounced, raising his knee against the guide's chest.

Malicious flames burst from the guide's eyes—if he failed to seize the count, the gallows alone awaited him. He did not think he could be as lucky as that Isaacite called Witt.

"One of us has to die!" he roared through his throat. Before death and resentment, the lean man erupted with strength he had never possessed before. He twisted his shoulder, dragged the count's cloak tight, and used all his strength to strangle him with it. The count had once lavishly praised the goldsmith who made his brooches both splendid and sturdy; now he wished it were not so sturdy. With that sudden tightening, his vision went black at once.

The attendants and Templars had already rushed over, but the two men were wrestling together. Geoffrey gripped his hand axe, and after only a moment's hesitation, discovered that the two people rolling on the ground had suddenly vanished.

Everyone present felt their hair stand on end. The two soldiers following behind the Templars even instinctively pulled out the "holy medals" hanging around their necks—small images of saints blessed by priests—and clutched them in their hands.

At that moment, Count Étienne's nephew displayed courage beyond the ordinary. Holding up a torch, he rushed forward shouting, "My lord!" Then his foot slipped—he nearly fell in as well, if Cesar had not grabbed him in time.

"What is that?" Geoffrey craned his neck to look. The monk beside him cautiously lay flat and brought his torch close to the ground. Now they could all see clearly: it was a long, narrow, deep fissure. It had been hidden beneath fluffy pine needles and thin ice, invisible to all, waiting only for a person or beast to step upon it—an inborn trap.

Count Étienne's nephew was immediately seized by lingering fear, and the monk's face went deathly pale as well. Rising, he lifted his torch high. In such deep darkness, the torchlight did less to illuminate the path and surroundings than to illuminate the man holding it—but he did not need others to see anything. He merely pointed the torch toward their previous campsite, then toward the hills on the other side. Geoffrey walked a few steps and looked toward a place where faint light flickered in the distance. "It's a stream," he said. "It's dried up."

He returned, took the torch from the monk's hand, and threw it down. The torch fell into darkness, then struck something, scattering sparks in every direction. After that, it tumbled farther down, leaving a trail of fleeting glimmers before finally coming to rest somewhere below, utterly still.

Geoffrey prostrated himself upon the cold, wet earth as though paying homage to the suffering Savior on Good Friday. Not only did his knees touch the ground, but his entire body lay flat against it. He lowered his head to peer down while straining with all his might to listen.

After a while, he stood up, his expression as ugly as the monk's. "This isn't merely a streambed," he said. "It's Devil's Mouth."

The moment those words left his mouth, everyone present involuntarily cried out to Jesus Christ. The monk swayed on his feet, while Count Étienne's nephew could no longer hold back his tears.

Cesar hesitated, unsure whether he ought to ask what Devil's Mouth was at such a time. The soldier beside him shook his head and explained it to him, and only then did he understand—the so-called Devil's Mouth was a fissure in the earth caused by an earthquake, without any obvious displacement.

Sometimes such fissures closed after swallowing people, animals, trees, and houses. Sometimes they remained.

People of this era could not understand what an earthquake was.

In ancient Greece, Aristotle overturned the theory that earthquakes were caused by weather phenomena such as droughts or floods. He believed that the earth was riddled with long, narrow passages and cracks, and that when wind rushed through these "pipes," it caused the passages and fissures to tremble, thus bringing about earthquakes.

Later scholars had theories of their own—the comet theory, the poisonous gas theory, the dragon theory...

After the Christian Church had occupied more than half the world, explaining earthquakes became even simpler. There was no need for investigation, nor for debate. The people merely needed to know that whenever an earthquake struck somewhere, there must have been some unspeakable sin there, one that had driven God beyond endurance. They need only carry holy images and crosses in procession, or attend Mass in church; at the very least, they had to hang portraits of saints on all four walls, and they would be safe and sound...

Of course, as everyone knew, none of these acts of penance helped earthquake victims in the slightest. Worse still, there had once been a place where those who ran into a church to pray during an earthquake were buried along with it when the church collapsed.

"Devil's Mouth" was the name Christians gave to the ground fissures produced by earthquakes. They did not understand what earthquakes were, so naturally they did not understand how such byproducts came to be. A fissure that swallowed all things and could vanish in the blink of an eye, and that even when it remained lay beyond their comprehension—was it not like the gaping mouth of a devil to those who survived?

This Devil's Mouth had concealed itself with extraordinary cunning. When the stream still held water, it had been a "lake" hidden beneath calm flowing water. When winter came and the water dried up, it froze over. Dry, fluffy pine needles fell upon it, ripening over three or four months into a thin layer of humus. The humus caught more fallen leaves, broken branches, animal fur, and soil, eventually forming a beast pit so exquisite that even the most seasoned hunter might not see through it.

No one knew how deep Devil's Mouth might be. Even dropping down torches and ropes could not determine it.

A fissure like this could never be as smooth and even as cheese cut by a knife. If someone could draw a cross-section of it, they would find it winding and undulating like a saw blade. At times, protruding tree roots or buried stones made the gap even narrower or more twisted.

They lit more torches—fortunately, they were in a pine forest—and the result of their inspection made their hearts sink further. The fissure was probably only one and a half of Geoffrey's shoulder-widths across. The count's attendant soaked a bundle of coarse linen underclothes in oil, lit it, and lowered it down, but could see only five or six feet deep. At that depth, the fissure was only wide enough for one person to pass through.

They called into the depths, hoping to hear something—moans or curses, anything—but apart from wind whose source they could not tell, they heard nothing. Geoffrey even shuddered; he thought that wind sounded more like devils laughing.

"Fortunately, you already rubbed him with oil," said the Templar. His words drew a smile even uglier than weeping from the count's monk. "Is there no way?" he asked.

Geoffrey remained silent. Everyone here had been through battle, and naturally knew that a wounded knight found it difficult to escape death's claws. Much less Count Étienne, who had fallen into a fissure they could neither see into nor hear through. He might already be dead; even if he was not, he could not possibly still have the strength to grasp a rope and climb back up...

They were all in trouble now. They would have to bear Amalric I's wrath, while Count Étienne's attendants would be held accountable by Louis VII.

"I... might have a way."

Everyone looked over. The speaker was unexpectedly the youngest among them, his green eyes gleaming beneath the torchlight.

A trace of impatience rose in Geoffrey's chest. He did rather like the boy, that was true, but at a time like this, such presumptuousness was irritating.

The Templar did not believe he could offer any good suggestion. Cesar was only nine and not yet grown, not even qualified to be a knight's squire—if he had undergone the "Selection" and been chosen, there might perhaps be some hope. It would not be faith in him, but in the saint he had sensed.

"Tie me with ropes and lower me down." He could search along the bottom of the fissure bit by bit.

The count's monk was first stunned, then delighted.

Of course they had ropes. Every party traveling far from home had to prepare them. The count had some, more than one coil, and the Templars had some as well. Together, they had at least fifty royal feet of rope. So long as this fissure did not lead to hell, his suggestion could not be called the ignorant babbling of a child.

But this method carried great risk. Those remaining by the fissure might encounter bandits, heathens, or the returning wolf pack and other beasts. They might be forced to abandon this place, leaving him in the darkness to call out in vain.

He might break a leg, be struck in the head by a stone, bitten by a venomous snake, stung by a scorpion, or go mad from darkness and confinement. Or Count Étienne might be dead or unable to move, while that hateful traitor—the bribed guide—might still be alive. If he saw Cesar, he would surely drive a dagger into his chest.

Geoffrey frowned. His fondness for Cesar had not yet grown strong enough for him to forsake Amalric I's reward for the boy's sake. "Are you sure?" What worried him was that the child might show courage in words, only to become a coward in action. He had seen such people before. In nearly every battle, a few squires taking the field for the first time became everyone's laughingstock.

Cesar said nothing. This was no longer his stage; he could only wait for these people to decide.

The count's attendants and the Templars discussed it briefly—they could not refuse. In the end, they would at most lose a young servant. Even if Prince Baldwin asked, the Templars could simply say that wolves had dragged him away, or that he had died suddenly of illness along the road.

The count's monk did consider sending someone else to do it. This was not out of any care for Cesar, but because he shared Geoffrey's concern. He feared that before Cesar even reached the bottom, terror would seize body and soul, and he would sob and scream for them to pull him back up. That would waste both time and strength.

But among these people, Cesar was surely the smallest. Even attendants had to be at least twelve years old, squires fifteen, and knights need not even be mentioned. Their shoulders were broad and their bodies robust. Even if they could enter the fissure, after descending some distance, they might become wedged fast somewhere below.

The monk brought over a bottle of wine. This was no time to worry about the harm of alcohol—the fissure would be far colder than the ground above, with a chilling wind that pierced straight to the bone. Cesar took it, gritted his teeth, and drank it all.

Geoffrey untied the sheepskin mantle from his body—Templars were not meant to wear luxurious furs, but because winter in Jerusalem and its surrounding regions was truly harsh, they had been specially permitted to wear sheepskin. Cesar hesitated briefly before taking it and putting it on. The sheepskin mantle was much too large, its hem brushing his ankles.

Geoffrey laughed at the sight. "How interesting," he said. "You look quite like a Templar."

They recited the Lord's Prayer fifteen times—this was essential!—before winding the rope around Cesar's armpits and legs and tying secure knots. One end was fastened to a tree, while two strong knights held the other.

The monk gave Cesar a bell and agreed upon signals with him: one shake meant everything was fine, but he had found nothing; continuous ringing meant he had encountered an obstacle or danger he could not overcome, and they needed to pull him up quickly; one shake, another shake, then another meant good news—he had found Count Étienne!

"Let's begin," Geoffrey said.

The light before Cesar's eyes dimmed inch by inch as the rope lowered him. He held the fire striker and flint Geoffrey had given him, with a torch tucked at his waist. He closed his eyes slightly—he could not see anything anyway—and relied only on feeling to judge his surroundings.