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transemacabre) wrote2005-09-25 02:39 am
transemacabre) wrote2005-09-25 02:39 am
Crusader Fic: Paths of Gods and Monsters
This is one of my Crusaderfic snippets. Paths of Gods and Monsters, set during the First Crusade, concerning the march to Jerusalem.
Paths of Gods and Monsters
A Tale of the First Crusade
The rabble.
They number a few thousand, nameless and faceless, an army of pilgrims and mercenaries, princes and false prophets. The Franks with their long hair hanging to their waists, the Spanish carrying Saracen-made weaponry, and the Normans, grandsons of Vikings and just as fierce. Strange languages fill the ears, not just their native tongues, but many learned ones as well. The last few months have made every Crusader a linguist, fluent in such phrases as "die, you son of a jackal" and "pretty lady, stay with me awhile" in a half-dozen tongues. Some bear weapons, some bear crosses, some walk barefoot and a lucky few ride horses or camels.
The princes ride at the front, a pride of lions. The rabble follow behind, singing or beating their drums or sharpening swords. They are the forgotten ones. Their names will never be known, or remembered, by history. Perhaps one in twenty will return home to the lands of their births. Yet every one is the hero of his own epic, the villain of his own tragedy. They are led on by their princes, drawn to Jerusalem as if to a lodestone rock.
Robert of Normandy leads the smallest group, mostly comprised of Normans and Franks and a few Englishmen, adventurers like himself. He is short and dark and inclined to fat, but now he is in the prime of his life. The soldiers mock him as "curthose", short boots, behind his back. At night, when no one can see, he rubs his aching eyes and wonders if his vision is fading, like the colors of his tunic fading in the hot sun. His followers are young and hearty, and have a reputation as the rowdiest group. Most of the camp whores follow in Robert's wake.
Tancred is the youngest leader, younger even than Robert. He is tall and fair like his uncle Bohemond, but has not his uncle's charisma or talent for raw brutality. He leads a ferocious army of Normans, Italians, and a few Greeks, bequeathed to him from his uncle's army. He begged his uncle to take him on Crusade, entranced by the thought of being a warrior for Christ, but now he wonders if Christ's name can ever be writ in blood. His followers love him because he sweats and bleeds beside them, and eats dead horses just as they do.
Raymond is the Count of Toulouse, an aged man past sixty, and very wise. He is dressed as a pilgrim, and walks among his own men freely. He lost an eye fighting the Saracens in Spain, and now he wishes to die in the Holy Land. He scorns the extravagance of Robert, who spends money he does not have, and the idealism of Tancred, that untried young warrior. His men worship him as a prophet, a holy man, a worker of miracles. The Spaniards and Toulousains speak his name with reverence.
They are marching south along the coast of the Mediterranean, leaving the shattered walls of Ma'arrat behind them, the gleaming walls of Jerusalem before them. The pilgrims weep to think they are walking in the footsteps of Christ. Some boys kick around a severed head, the souvenir of a recent battle. Swords thirst for blood. Voices raise to glorify God. The army marches on, inevitable as the seasons, unstoppable as the tide. They are walking in the path of gods and monsters.
Finis
The rabble.
They number a few thousand, nameless and faceless, an army of pilgrims and mercenaries, princes and false prophets. The Franks with their long hair hanging to their waists, the Spanish carrying Saracen-made weaponry, and the Normans, grandsons of Vikings and just as fierce. Strange languages fill the ears, not just their native tongues, but many learned ones as well. The last few months have made every Crusader a linguist, fluent in such phrases as "die, you son of a jackal" and "pretty lady, stay with me awhile" in a half-dozen tongues. Some bear weapons, some bear crosses, some walk barefoot and a lucky few ride horses or camels.
The princes ride at the front, a pride of lions. The rabble follow behind, singing or beating their drums or sharpening swords. They are the forgotten ones. Their names will never be known, or remembered, by history. Perhaps one in twenty will return home to the lands of their births. Yet every one is the hero of his own epic, the villain of his own tragedy. They are led on by their princes, drawn to Jerusalem as if to a lodestone rock.
Robert of Normandy leads the smallest group, mostly comprised of Normans and Franks and a few Englishmen, adventurers like himself. He is short and dark and inclined to fat, but now he is in the prime of his life. The soldiers mock him as "curthose", short boots, behind his back. At night, when no one can see, he rubs his aching eyes and wonders if his vision is fading, like the colors of his tunic fading in the hot sun. His followers are young and hearty, and have a reputation as the rowdiest group. Most of the camp whores follow in Robert's wake.
Tancred is the youngest leader, younger even than Robert. He is tall and fair like his uncle Bohemond, but has not his uncle's charisma or talent for raw brutality. He leads a ferocious army of Normans, Italians, and a few Greeks, bequeathed to him from his uncle's army. He begged his uncle to take him on Crusade, entranced by the thought of being a warrior for Christ, but now he wonders if Christ's name can ever be writ in blood. His followers love him because he sweats and bleeds beside them, and eats dead horses just as they do.
Raymond is the Count of Toulouse, an aged man past sixty, and very wise. He is dressed as a pilgrim, and walks among his own men freely. He lost an eye fighting the Saracens in Spain, and now he wishes to die in the Holy Land. He scorns the extravagance of Robert, who spends money he does not have, and the idealism of Tancred, that untried young warrior. His men worship him as a prophet, a holy man, a worker of miracles. The Spaniards and Toulousains speak his name with reverence.
They are marching south along the coast of the Mediterranean, leaving the shattered walls of Ma'arrat behind them, the gleaming walls of Jerusalem before them. The pilgrims weep to think they are walking in the footsteps of Christ. Some boys kick around a severed head, the souvenir of a recent battle. Swords thirst for blood. Voices raise to glorify God. The army marches on, inevitable as the seasons, unstoppable as the tide. They are walking in the path of gods and monsters.