I ask: Shall a man be condemned by his works? Even so if his intentions be good?
Why do you answer me not? Shall it be there is no you? Shall it be there is no heaven? Shall it be there are no consequences?
For those we help? For those we hurt?
For those we kill?
“NOCK YOUR ARROWS!”
Perhaps there is no sin in war.
Perhaps there is no sin in killing.
Perhaps there is no sin in sinning at all.
“FIND YOUR MARK!”
I blame you not, Lord.
It was not you who put me here.
It was those who speak in your stead.
“DRAW . . . LET LOOSE!”
Six men know if there is a hell.
Six men know if there is a devil.
Six men lay dead and can tell us nothing.
“Take over the wall, Captain. Seek me in the chapel if need shall call.”
“Yes, Commander. Nock your arrows!”
It matters not whether you are real. This castle is real. And so are its foes.
† † †
You know I never pretended to be a saint. It was the sinner’s face I wore. Absolution was a sword on my shoulder, a title to my name . . . and freedom once the war was over.
What other lies have I been told?
“Dóminus vobíscum, Commander.”
“Et cum spíritu tuo. Forecasts are grim, Father. No three hundred men ever made stand a chance against the hordes of Mohammed. The Sultan has us cornered like rats in our own nest.”
“Your words linger with the smoke of defeat. Perhaps you trust more in your own power than that of the heavens?”
“I try, Father. My thoughts betray me. What if there is no creator? What if no salvation awaits my men? What if . . . forgive me, Father. I know not what I speak.”
“Rather, you speak the thoughts of every man since the outer ward was lost. Not a moment ceases when your men harbor those same doubts.”
“My men . . . they are naught but farm boys and orphans, and they should be here not.”
“Commander, draw your sword.”
“Father?”
“Just do it. There. Hold it so. Like that, yes. What do you see?”
“. . . I see a sword, Father.”
“And when you turn it around? Like so?”
“A cross.”
“A cross, indeed! For you are never alone, and verily not in the fields of battle. The Lord has ordained this day, and the outcome of this war, Commander. Whether the sun shall descend o’er our victory or defeat, his will be done.”
“I understand, Father. But shall I not consider the lives of my men?”
“Of what do you speak?”
“Surrender—this is my speak. Such a call rests in the hands of the grandmaster, and his alone, you know this. Yet his presence is not among us. Suppose I gave the order, without his blessing. Would I be in sin, Father?”
“I think, Commander, that your place is among your men on the wall.”
“Yes, Father. Deus vult.”
“Deus vult.”
A loaf of bread sets urchins in fetters.
Absolution sets them in armor.
Only death sets them free.
† † †
Some fight for you, O Lord. Others fight for glory. Still others, freedom.
Are they not all fools?
“There is no shame in being afraid.”
“I am not afraid, Commander.”
“The rattling of your armor betrays you. Still I say: there is no shame.”
“And again I say: I am not afraid.”
“Then why did you retreat when I gave the order?”
“For it is my duty to obey.”
“So, it is. Then you may further obey by sparing me your lies.”
“Yet I speak truth, Commander. I fear not this day, nor tomorrow, nor the day thereafter. I fear not the hordes of Mohammed nor the arrow that takes me to paradise. I fear only the day of the Lord.”
“You speak with a fool’s tongue, yet you speak with conviction, soldier. I admire this. Report to the captain. He may have use of your faith.”
“Yes, Commander. Deus vult.”
“Deus vult.”
The prisoner fights for freedom. The adventurer fights for glory.
But who fights for you: the Christian or the Mohammedan?
Both lay in their graves so willing.
† † †
You once said that man cannot live by bread alone. I should know; for I have done without such for seven days.
“You there, soldier. Have you finished the count?”
“Yes, Commander. We’ve only a fortnight left.”
“A single fortnight? You said that half as long ago.”
“Half as long ago, you had twice as many mouths to feed. Ah, forgive me, Commander. My words are harsh. There are other knights in the region. Perhaps they shall yet send aid?”
“Be not a fool, soldier. It has been not less than thirty-six days. They either know not we’re surrounded or care not. We are alone. Tell me, soldier. Do you pray?”
“Three times a day, Commander.”
“Then add a fourth. For I fear not even God knows our plight.”
That, or you care not.
† † †
A million souls have graced your sordid earth. Each with their own story to tell. Does it not bother you that none shall remember them?
“How is she, doctor?”
“Better than we shall soon be, I shouldn’t think, Commander. Quite the pity. She is from the village, worked the stables across the babbling little brook, the one we purchased those stallions. Why shall they do this: send arrows against the innocent?”
“Arrows know not to choose between those with sword and those with plowshare.”
“Yes . . . yes, I suppose you are right, Commander. Pity.”
“Does she have a name?”
“Who does not? She stopped speaking before I could learn it.”
“Very well. Tend to the children lest they share the same fate.”
Ashes to ashes. Dust to dust. Tell me, Lord: were we ever anything more?
† † †
A sword has no allegiance save for the arm that bears it. But what of the arm that shall fail to stop such?
“Commander! A letter from beyond the wall.”
“Read it.”
“Yes, Commander. ‘I hereby grant perfect pardon unto the knight in command at Krak des Chevaliers to surrender himself and those under his care unto the hands Baibars, the Sultan of Egypt. Signed . . . Hugues des Revel, Grandmaster of the Order of Knights of the Hospital of Saint John of Jerusalem. Dated this eighth day of April in the year of our Lord, 1271.’”
“Let me see that. Yes. It would seem your prayers were heard, soldier. Here, I’ll need this carried to the Sultan. God spare you, soldier.”
“Yes, Commander . . . God spare us all.”
And God, spare me from your wrath.
† † †
Shall it be there is a you? Shall it be there is a heaven? Shall it be there are consequences?
For the times we help? For the times we hurt?
And the times we lie?
“Dóminus vobíscum.”
“Et cum spíritu tuo. I seek pardon, Father. I have given the order to surrender.”
“Of this, I am aware. Yet you do so with the blessing from the grandmaster. There is no need for pardon in what you have done.”
“So it would seem, if it were not for the matter I bear no such blessing.”
“No such . . . ? You had better sit down. There. Now, tell me all about it.”
“That letter, Father, is a forgery, crafted by none other than the Sultan himself. Yet despite its flaws naked to my eyes, I have chosen to disregard its illegitimacy.”
“But why would you do such a thing, child? Have you gone mad!”
“I cannot say with certainty, Father, but I believe the Sultan means to spare us.”
“Spare us? Hmm. Maybe so. But the grandmaster—he will see this as treason.”
“Then I shall stand before the throne of judgment to plead my innocence, knowing that I have forsaken my name for the good of those whose lives depend on me.”
“You have taken a delicate matter into your own hands, Commander. This is indeed a work of folly. But I judge you not. For I too have my doubts. I pray only the Sultan honors the conditions of surrender.”
“As do I, Father. Deus vult.”
“Deus vult.”
Shall a man be condemned by his works? Even so if his intentions be good? Perhaps we shall never know; for some things under the sun may never be understood.[1]
