Behold, the Lord maketh the earth empty, and maketh it waste, and turneth it upside down, and scattereth abroad the inhabitants thereof.
‘Look.’ The Archdeacon points. ‘Look, the fires are still smoking.’ smoking.’
Desolation and destruction. Vines stripped, corn trampled, trees felled. Even the floating water-mills have been demolished, cut free from their hawsers and sunk into the river. To look at it, you’d think that the invaders must have come and gone.
But they haven’t, of course. All this was done by the people who tended the vines, and planted the corn, and owned the trees.
They must have wept tears of blood when they did it.
‘Father, do you remember that scene in Livy? Where Verginius kills his daughter rather than let her become a slave?’
‘ ‘There is only one way, my child, to make you free’,’ the Archdeacon quotes, gazing out over the battlements at the ravaged fields, the smoking bonfires. ‘It is a bit like that, isn’t it? What a terrible waste. But it must be done. We can’t let the enemy have that food or that fuel.’
The enemy. When will they come? What will they do? What does an army look like, encamped around a city?
I’ve read so much, but I just can’t imagine it.
‘This really takes me back,’ the Archdeacon observes, stopping at an embrasure. ‘This takes me back to the siege of Jerusalem. I remember standing on the walls of Jerusalem, with Roland, watching Saladin’s army approach.’
‘How long did that siege last?’
‘Oh, about ten days.’
‘And did – did you have to eat mice, then?’
‘What?’ He swings around to face me. ‘What on earth are you talking about?’
‘Did you have to eat mice and weeds, and chew leather thongs?’
A pause. He’s squinting in the glare; he puts his hand up, to shade his eyes from the sun. It’s so hot on this parapet.
‘All right,’ he says at last. ‘What have you been reading?’
‘Father –’
‘I’m not stupid, Isidore. What is it, Livy? You mentioned Livy. Are you reading The History of Rome?’
‘Book twenty-three. The siege of Casilinum.’
‘Who was that? Remind me.’
‘It was Hannibal, Father, and –’
‘Hannibal!’ he exclaims, and laughs. ‘In God’s name, Isidore, if Hannibal were heading this way I really would be worried!’ He reaches out, and takes my hand. ‘Listen. You’ve got to stop all this reading. I’m going to have to put my foot down.’
‘But –’
‘No wonder you’ve had so many fits, these last few days. I realise it probably has something to do with the heat – that’s why I brought you up here, because the air’s always fresher on the walls – but I’m sure it’s partly all that reading. You know what I’ve said about reading.’
‘Yes, but –’
‘Besides, you’re just scaring yourself. The siege of Casilinum! This isn’t Casilinum, and Arnaud Amaury isn’t Hannibal, thank God. Though even if he were, I wouldn’t despair for a moment. Lots of cities resisted Hannibal. Puteoli, for instance.’ He drops my hand and grips my arm, pulling me towards the embrasure. ‘Look at those barbicans. Look at those galleries. Look at the walls. You don’t understand military engineering, so you don’t know what a marvel we’re standing on. I’ve seen a lot of cities, in my life, and not one of them was as well fortified as Carcassonne. Not one of them.’
‘But Father, it takes more than walls to defend a city.’ (Livy himself said that. He said that good fighters wish to defend their walls with their arms, rather than themselves with their walls.) ‘It wasn’t the weakness of its walls that defeated Béziers. It was the foolishness of its people.’
The Archdeacon turns his head. He peers into my face, intently, silently, almost fiercely. ‘By God,’ he says at last. ‘By God, you’re a wonder.’
‘But isn’t it true?’
‘Of course it’s true! You’re absolutely right. There are fools everywhere, even in Carcassonne. Fortunately, however, they’re not in charge around here.’
He begins to walk again, heading north; sunlight flickers on his black robe as he passes embrasure after embrasure, arrow-slit after arrow-slit. Apple cores and nutshells, scattered underfoot. Lots of dirty sawdust. A distinct smell of urine (someone’s been pissing against the wall). The next tower is one of the old ones, small and round, with lots of red brick inserted between the grey stones. Didn’t someone say that the Romans had built it? Through a postern, and into the murky guardroom beyond, which is full of wood and tools and animal skins. (Why animal skins?) An even stronger smell of sawdust here, sawdust and leather. Someone’s talking in the room below, but I can’t quite make out what he’s saying.
Leather buckets, lined up under the window.
Bang! Bang! Bang! What’s that? Is that hammering? Out into the sunshine, and here’s the next wooden gallery, slung out over the huddled roofs of the Bourg. I wouldn’t like to be living in the Bourg right now. It looks so vulnerable, pressed against the base of the city walls, like a child clutching its mother’s skirts for protection. Not that it doesn’t have its own walls – it does – but they don’t seem very sturdy. And poor old Saint Vincent! Sprawled over there beside the river, no walls, no towers, no nothing. Why would anyone want to live in a suburb? You’d feel so exposed.
‘They’re doing a good job here,’ the Archdeacon says, admiringly. He pauses to examine the nearest joist, and gives it a satisfied pat before moving on. (I wonder if that joist used to be a choir-stall?) Two men in helmets stare as we pass: they’re carrying a ladder between them, and they move aside to give us more room.
All these preparations. Should we be making it so obvious? In The History of Rome, the inhabitants of Casilinum all hid and were silent, so that when the Carthaginians arrived they thought that the town was deserted. And when they came up to the gate, to force it open, the people of Casilinum suddenly burst out, and cut their enemies to pieces.
Of course, those particular Carthaginians were only an advance party. But shouldn’t we be following Casilinum’s example? Shouldn’t we be taking the crusaders by surprise?
‘If you have to read books, Isidore, I don’t want you reading Livy,’ the Archdeacon suddenly remarks. ‘I’m going to lock that book away, and give you something else. Horace’s Odes, perhaps. Something light and frothy, about the gods of Olympus. No history or politics.’
Olympus. That’s it. I knew I had a question to ask him.
‘Father?’
‘Yes?’
‘What’s a Ganymede?’
He stops in his tracks. His mouth falls open.
‘A what?’ he says.
‘A Ganymede. What does it mean, when you call someone a Ganymede?’
He’s gone all red. He seems lost for words. Why doesn’t he answer? Why is he looking away?
‘Does it mean that you’re a drunkard? Is that what it means?’
‘No, I . . .’ He clears his throat. ‘No,’ he says again. ‘No, it means something else. Urn . . . let’s see, now. How shall I put it?’ He gazes around at the drifts of smoke; at the afternoon sky; at the roofs of Carcassonne. ‘Do you know Leviticus, chapter eighteen? Do you know where it says ‘thou shalt not lie with mankind as with womankind: it is an abomination’?’
By the Lamb of God! It can’t be – it’s not possible –
‘Do you know what that means, Isidore? That verse?’
A sodomite?! Lord Jordan?
‘It means men fornicating with other men. Lusting after other men.’ He’s staring at the ground, and running his fingers through his hair. ‘And . . . um . . . well, as you know, Zeus was so taken with Ganymede, who was a beautiful young boy, that he carried him off. The way the Romans abducted the Sabine women. And that’s why certain men – especially younger, more effeminate men – are often called Ganymedes. They’re also called hyenas, because hyenas change sex from year to year. And mules, of course. Mules being eunuchs.’
It can’t be true. Lord Jordan? But Lord Jordan is married. He has a wife and a son. He’s a warrior. No, I must have misheard. I was so sleepy, I must have misheard. Either that or Guichard was lying.
‘Isidore?’ It’s the Archdeacon. He’s squinting at me. ‘Has someone called you a Ganymede?’
‘No, Father.’
‘Has someone called me a Ganymede?’
‘Oh no, Father!’
‘Then who’s the Ganymede?’
‘No one.’ (I can’t tell him, it’s too embarrassing.) ‘No one, Father, I just heard somebody say it. On the street. I didn’t understand.’
‘Mmm.’
He doesn’t seem to believe me. I can feel the hot blood rising in my face. What an ugly, squalid subject – can’t we leave it alone? I don’t want to talk about this.
‘What direction will they be coming from, Father? The crusaders, I mean. Which road will they take?’
‘You know, you mustn’t fret about this kind of thing.’ He’s still staring at me. ‘Even Ganymedes are God’s creatures, and they’re generally pretty harmless. I’ve met one or two, in my time, so I know what I’m, talking about. But if you’re worried – if there’s someone threatening you –’
‘No, no!’ (God, can’t you leave it alone?) ‘I don’t know any sodomites! I’ve never even met one!’
‘Well, you can’t be sure of that,’ he says, with a little half-smile. ‘Sodomites tend to look just like ordinary people.’
‘They do?’
‘Oh yes.’
‘But . . . I thought that sodomy was like a disease. I thought that it turned men into women.’
‘Not exactly –’
‘Don’t sodomites look like girls? Don’t they lose their beards, and grow their hair long, and speak in high voices?’
‘Not all of them, no.’
‘Then how can we know who they are?’
‘Isidore, don’t worry about it. They’re not going to hurt you.’
‘But what about the Cities of the Plain? God overthrew them with fire and brimstone, for harbouring sodomites!’
‘If we’re going to be overthrown, Isidore, it’s much more likely to be the crusaders who do it. Now calm down. Sweet saints preserve us, I’ve never met such a worrier.’ He takes my elbow, and points. ‘To answer your question, the crusaders will be coming from the north-west. That direction.’
‘Do sodomites get married?’
‘What?’
‘Do sodomites get married and have children?’
‘Isidore –’
‘I just want to know!’
‘Why?’ He shakes my arm. ‘What is this? Mmm? Have you been reading something? You’d better tell me.’
Should I? Should I tell him? If it’s all a lie – if Guichard has been lying – what will I look like, passing on such tales? Lord Jordan will despise me. The Archdeacon will laugh at me. There’s already a twinkle in his eye as he stands there, peering up into my face.
The bells are ringing for Nones: we’ll have to go back soon.
‘Father –’
‘Shh!’ He lifts his hand. He turns his head. Somebody’s shouting: it’s the watchman stationed on top of the tower. He’s pointing and jabbering and waving down the wall, and the other guards spill out of their guardrooms, hoisting themselves onto the embrasures, shielding their eyes from the sun.
What is it? What’s happening?
‘I can’t see!’ The Archdeacon’s shoving me from behind. ‘What is it, Isidore? What are they pointing at?’
‘I don’t know –’
‘Look, damn you!’
I’m looking, I’m looking! Plumes of smoke from the Bourg: beyond them, flat yellow fields and green forest. Mountains in the distance. Wheeling birds.
A glint, like water. No, it can’t be water – that’s the river, over that way. It’s a kind of flash, like sun on glass. Or like sun on – sun on –
Steel?
‘It’s them!’ There’s a soldier nearby: he’s dancing up and down with excitement. ‘They’ve come, they’re coming! Sound the alarm! Ring the bells! Summon Lord Raymond!’
‘Father –’
‘Yes. Yes, I know.’ The Archdeacon sounds breathless, but confident. He reaches up, and pats my shoulder. ‘It’s all right, Isidore. We’re going to be all right.’
Deliver me from mine enemies, O my God: defend me from those who rise up against me. Deliver me from the workers of iniquity, and save me from the bloody men.
Unto thee, O my strength, will I sing – for God is my defence, and the God of my mercy.