Fate | Baldwin IV

Kerak

We rode for three days straight, rising before dawn each morning to cover as much distance as we could. Every moment mattered, yet our pace was never what I wanted. The march was slow, for our yoke was heavy; my weakened body the heaviest out of all. I had hoped to reach Kerak in two days at most, but God had other plans.

It rained on the third evening, hard and sudden, stopping us from our tracks. With no shade in sight, we changed our route toward a wadi lined with a few small date palms, where a Bedouin tribe had gathered their flock near a caravan well. I didn't even have to negotiate with the head of the tribe for safe passage, for they welcomed and ushered us to their tents, even helping the army servants bring in the litter so I could rest before our men began setting up our camp. They covered their women and children before moving them to another tent, keeping them far away from us. I turned my eyes aside as women gathered their belongings, which were few, and left hurriedly. They vanished into the rain, and that was the last I saw them so close.

After we were settled and left alone, I thanked the man of the house for the hospitality he showed me. He said the armor on our backs mattered not in times of need but on the battlefield only, for a man must help another if he can.

I looked down at the cross adorning my armor. I said he helped before I even asked, he said what difference would he make if he didn't.

We spent the night in the wadi, and the morning too. Men were exhausted, and so were the horses. Forced march had worn us all thin. A couple knights had fallen ill, coughing and shivering with fever. They stayed in separate tents, and Suleyman no longer exposed himself to us without covering his nose and mouth first when he came in for treatments. He feared it might be more than a common cold, something contagious.

I was not getting any better, but my symptoms were not as severe—I did not cough as much. My body, however, was worn out the most; my strength had left me almost completely. My limbs ached like none of the others' did, my legs barely supported me if I stood for too long. I had to hold onto something, lean on someone nearby—whatever kept me on my feet. I forbade unnecessary comments; I could not bear to hear another pathetic excuse as to why they looked at me the way they did, and apologize for the words they didn't mean. But most of all, I couldn't bear another plea, begging me to rest as they desperately tried to keep their gazes on the ground to hide the pity in them.

The storm kept us from travelling on the fourth day. We were meant to leave the wadi by afternoon, but the road ahead would not have a shade until Kerak, and it was only a day away at most, one of the leading knights said. We could stay and spend another night here, gather our strength for the rest of the ride and prepare ourselves for the battle when we reached the borders. Farrukh Shah wouldn't arrive before us anyway. He was riding all the way from Damascus. The storm would slow him too.

So we stayed. But Guy refused, as I expected he would. It was the first time he outwardly spoke since the beginning of our journey. He said why waste time on the road when we could be ahead on our way and meet the Saracens outside the borders of Kerak, that way we could take them by surprise and attack first, and be done with all of this. Why bother with diplomacy when the enemy is clearly seeking violence? We could deliver it ourselves instead of waiting for them to strike us.

It was a tempting proposal for many. The Templars, already restless and half-mad from the journey, seized on the thought immediately. I told them to save it; we were not going there to attack but to defend ourselves. "The enemy comes to attack because Raynald attacked them first," I had to remind them, for they seemed to have forgotten it already. How easy it was to twist the truth, to yield to bloodlust and call it valor when one turned a blind eye to his own arrogance.

Now, as fierce as they were, I believe it was the fatigue that made them give up on their argument so easily. Guy tried again, said it didn't matter because those people Raynald had attacked weren't Christians anyway, but he lacked conviction this time. Christians had been slain in these lands not so very long ago, by our own people too, and it still didn't matter. Being Christian hadn't spared them, because the issue was never about their faith but what they were. And they were not one of us. Why would it ever be different now, when Raynald had the same thoughts as those that came before us? Who would believe he wouldn't have attacked those Arab Muslims had they been Christians instead, when their religion would still fail to conceal their darker skin, and they still spoke in different tongues and were dressed in long garments and looked nothing like us?