The Road West
Ships with Latin crosses on their sails, like a flock of predatory birds, glided across the dark waters of the Bosphorus. Richard Wytard stood at the prow of the dromon, clutching the fragment of the Virgin's girdle. The wax binding the relic seemed to melt beneath his fingers, as though the fate of Byzantium itself were slipping through his grasp.
"Think the Pope will believe it's genuine?"
Glyph—the short, squat soldier leaning against the mast—chewed on a date, spitting its pit into the sea. His nickname was well-earned: every question struck like a snake's bite.
Richard did not turn. Instead, his eyes lingered on the crate with the "tomb of Joseph of Arimathea." The forgery was exquisite: the cypress carvings echoed the motifs of Vatican sarcophagi, and within lay the bones of an Armenian martyr, purchased from a Constantinopolitan slave dealer.
A sin? No. A sacrifice for the salvation of brothers, he told himself.
"Faith in symbols fuels ambition," he said at last. "And why would the Pope destroy faith, when it serves him better to sustain it? He would accept even an Egyptian sarcophagus—so long as the people believed it holy."
Upon arriving in Clermont, Richard and his companions were received by the servants of the papal court—pale as monastery walls, eyes cast humbly downward. The crew was quartered in an inn that smelled of stale hay and incense. Michael, tightening the strap of his dagger-hand, ran his finger along a crack in the plaster.
"Cracks everywhere, young Saxon. As in your scheme."
Richard ignored the jibe.
The streets of Clermont twisted like a sinner's confession, leading them to the church of Saint-Pierre. Its spire stabbed the heavens like the spear of an archangel.
The chambers of Urban II resembled a stone labyrinth, where candlelight danced upon frescoes of the Last Judgment. Golden lamps cast fleeting halos upon the faces of saints, their painted eyes following every step of the visitor.
Behind an oaken table that looked more altar than desk sat the Pope himself. Fingers heavy with rings toyed with a scroll sealed in wax, as though weighing the souls it contained. At his side stood Bishop Adhémar of Le Puy, his face smooth and expressionless—yet ready to flare at the slightest spark.
Richard crossed the threshold, his dust-stained armor a stark contrast to the rich hangings adorning the chamber. Bowing, he touched his hand to the mosaic palm tree upon the floor, the symbol of victory through faith.
"Your Holiness, it is an honor to tread beneath your vaults," he said without lifting his gaze.
"Peace of heart is a blessing to the soul," the Pope replied, his voice cool. "Yet if the Emperor of Byzantium sends his envoy not through an archbishop, but directly to me…" He fell silent, eyes fixed upon his amethyst ring. "I suspect this is no matter of prayers."
Richard nodded, and with a gesture summoned servants to bring forth a chest inlaid with ivory and gold. Within gleamed coins, chalices of silver, and relics. On top lay the fragment of the Virgin's girdle, bound in waxen threads.
"Accept these gifts, Your Holiness. The Emperor wished them placed in your hands—yours, and no other's."
Urban's eyes brightened; his interest awakened.
"And that is not all." Richard signaled again. Four servants staggered in with a second coffer of black wood, silver stars inlaid upon its lid, the relief of a sleeping Joseph of Arimathea carved upon its face.
"Holy relics," the Pope whispered, rising. His shadow stretched across the frescoed wall like a hand reaching for the coffin.
Richard lifted the lid. On crimson silk lay decayed bones wrapped in linen embroidered with crosses. The air thickened with incense and the faint tang of rot—a mingling of sanctity and death.
"Joseph himself, who gave his tomb to the Lord," Richard proclaimed solemnly. Yet irony flickered deep within his gaze. "May his blessing consecrate our union."
Adhémar bent over the relics, his thin fingers brushing the bones.
"Strange…" he murmured, raising his eyes to Richard. "It is said the relics of Joseph were lost."
"It is said?" Richard countered without blinking. "Do you believe rumors—or the word of an emperor?"
For an instant, the tension coiled like a drawn bowstring. Richard's hand strayed unconsciously to the hilt of his dagger. If he presses me further… what then?
The Pope broke the silence with a laugh, dry as crackling parchment.
"Sharp-tongued envoy. Byzantium's gifts… have many faces." He let coins trickle through his fingers like grains of fate. "But where are the words of your emperor?"
Richard drew forth a scroll sealed with the double-headed eagle of the Komnenoi. The wax was split clean in half—like the empire it represented.
"A letter from the August Alexios," he said, handing it over. "He asks not only for alliance, but for justice."
Urban unrolled it. Ink laced with golden dust shimmered in the lamplight:
"To the beloved brother in Christ… The Turks profane the Holy Sepulchre, their sultan calling himself the sword of Allah. Is it not our duty to be the shield of Faith? Let the swords of the Latins strike down the impious, and Byzantium shall be your bridge, not your wall…"
The Pope closed the scroll slowly, his eyes resting on Adhémar.
"You hear, Bishop? We are summoned not to war, but to salvation." He cast the scroll upon the table, where it coiled like a serpent waiting to strike.
Richard stood tall, his hand upon his dagger's hilt.
"The Emperor's intentions are noble," Urban said at length, "but the decision to take up arms against the infidel must be weighed with care. Rumors of Saracen cruelty reach us—yet are they true?"
"I am witness myself, Your Holiness!" Richard tore back his collar, revealing the scar at his neck. "A memory from my pilgrimage to the Sepulchre with my father… from which he never returned."
The Pope and Adhémar made the sign of the cross.
The bishop's waxen face flushed with fervor.
"In Le Puy, I hear tales daily: Saracens do not merely rule the Holy Land—they defile shrines, persecute Christians. Some even whisper they consort with demons. We appear weak, Your Holiness, if we keep closing our eyes."
Urban folded his arms, pacing toward the window. The plight of Byzantium troubled him, yes—but a more immediate threat loomed closer to home: the German emperor and his antipope in Rome. To stir the West, more than sympathy was required.
Richard pressed the opening:
"Europe starves, while the Holy Land overflows with plenty. Your knights, in freeing Jerusalem, would not only save their souls—they would win lands and treasure."
Adhémar nodded eagerly.
"Holy Father, this is our chance. If we give the Emperor allies, he will help us reclaim Jerusalem. Otherwise…" He spread his hands. "We remain with nothing, as after the fire of Ravenna."
Richard added softly:
"The Emperor will cover all the expenses of your preaching… His generosity will flow like the rivers of Mesopotamia."
Urban and Adhémar exchanged a glance. The gold of Byzantium might serve them well against the German emperor and his puppet-antipope, Clement of Rome.
Silence fell, broken only by the rustle of monks' robes.
Urban stood at the window, gazing across Clermont. His eyes sought the horizon, as though answers might descend from heaven itself.
"This is a grave decision," he said at last. "I must pray and reflect before speaking further. Return tonight, my son, and you shall hear my answer. Brother Jacques will show you to your quarters."
"Follow me, my lord," a monk said softly, swinging the doors open. "The brethren have prepared your blessing."
Behind the Shadowed Walls
Richard remained alone in the cell, where stone walls breathed dampness and the narrow window sliced the light like a bread-knife. On the table, beside wine and cheese, lay a pomegranate — a token of "blessing" from the papal kitchen. Its rind reminded him of the scars on his neck.
He closed his hand around the fruit, feeling the uneven skin under his palm. Outside the cell, the lights of Clermont flickered, but the town felt foreign, like the prayers that clung to the palace walls. "Urban…" The name scorched him. The Pope was no saint, but a merchant trading in heaven. His eyes, hungry for gold, betrayed far more than his talk of "saving souls."
Richard traced the hairline crack in the table with his finger — thin as the blade between truth and lie. Isaac had forbidden yielding to the Latins on matters of faith, yet were the Pope's oaths not towers of sand that would crumble at the first storm? He didn't much care for Isaac's injunctions; he would cut a bargain with the devil himself if it would send Latin troops to Palestine.
Meanwhile, behind closed doors, the Pope and the bishop argued with mounting heat.
"Personally, Your Holiness," Bishop Adhémar stepped forward, his mantle fanning out like a crow's wing, "if not for that envoy from Constantinople, we ought to have raised such calls ourselves!" His voice twanged like a taut bowstring. "In Le Puy they whisper of war with the infidel in every tavern. The peasants would march to hell itself just to escape the prison of hunger…"
The Pope raised a hand to silence him. As if on cue, a cloud slid across the moon, and the chamber was plunged into momentary gloom.
"The people…" Urban spoke the word with bitterness, tasting it like a rotten fruit. "They will hear the sermon, yes. But what use are ragged crowds?" He rose, and his elongated shadow fell across the map of the Holy Land spread upon the table. "Noble people, Adhémar: counts and dukes! Their tables groan with game while peasants starve. What will make them take the cross?"
Adhémar's eyes glowed like embers in the hearth.
"Not by bread alone!" He struck the map with his fist; the wax markers jumped. "They crave glory that will outlast their dust. Lands that will immortalize their name." His finger drew a line from Clermont to Jerusalem, leaving a scratch on the parchment. "The Lord led Moses through the wilderness with the promise of a land — we will offer them two promised lands: one for the soul, and one for the flesh."
The Pope paused, his gaze flicking to the crucifix above the door. Christ on the cross looked down reproachfully, but Urban already saw not suffering, but a banner under which thousands would march.
"Are you proposing we deceive them?" he asked softly, lifting a goblet of wine. The ruby liquid swayed, reflecting the candlelight.
"No." Adhémar drained his cup in one draught. "I propose direction. As the Lord directed His people by Moses and Joshua. Let them fight for spoil… but let a spark of faith burn in every heart. Especially when they see the walls of Jerusalem…" He let the sentence hang.
Urban moved slowly around the table; his silk shoes whispered over stone. At the window he threw back the shutters. The night wind rushed in, snuffing candles, and for a moment the moon alone lit his profile — sharp as a blade.
"So, you would give the Pope the part of Moses, lifting his hands in prayer… and to you would assign the role of Joshua, leading the host to battle?" His tone was ironic, yet a fire flashed in his eyes.
Adhémar bowed his head, a faint smile hidden on his lips.
A door banged open. A servant stood in the frame with a smoking censer, but the Pope waved him away. When the footsteps died, Urban turned, his shadow falling upon Adhémar.
"Raymond of Saint-Gilles. Without him, all this is child's play." He seized the letter-opener from the table and jabbed it into Jerusalem on the map. The blade trembled and threw a cold gleam across his face. "They say he loves God… but he loves his lands more. How will you make him leave them?"
"He loves power and glory," Adhémar replied, dragging the tip of the blade along the Syrian coast. "We shall promise him to be… first at the gates of Paradise."
That evening, when Richard crossed the threshold of the papal chambers once more, the air was thick with myrrh. The Pope sat like an icon framed in gold cloth, Adhémar standing above the map with the knife as if choosing the next victim.
"I trust you have rested?" the bishop turned, his voice warm while his eyes scanned Richard like a scalpel across a seam.
"Thank you, monsignor. Your hospitality… unexpectedly bountiful." Richard bowed, noting how the shadow of the cross on the wall trembled behind him.
The Pope rose; his mantle rustled like a bat's wing.
"We shall proclaim a holy war." He pronounced it plainly, as fact — yet in the hush the words fell like a thunderclap. "But first — Saint-Gilles."
Adhémar stepped close and laid a heavy hand on Richard's shoulder. His touch felt like armor.
"Tomorrow you will go with us to Count Raymond. He must see in you… an ally. Not an envoy."
Richard met his gaze, feeling the hilt of his dagger grow cold beneath his cloak. "He knows. Or suspects?" flashed through his mind.
"I will present him… the Emperor's request," he answered evenly.
The Pope extended his hand for the kiss that marked the end of the audience. Richard flinched inwardly, but kept his composure and performed the ritual.
As they left, Michael jabbed with a sneer behind them:
"Looks like you bought him, as one buys a dog… But don't forget: dogs bite the hand if they sense deceit."
Richard said nothing. Instead he remembered a lesson from one of his tutors: "The truth is a knife. Hide it until the right moment."