Pope Innocent III
Entering
the city [Jerusalem, July 15, 1099], our pilgrims pursued and
killed Saracens up to the Temple of Solomon, in which they had
assembled and where they gave battle to us furiously for the
whole day so that their blood flowed throughout the whole temple.
Finally, having overcome the pagans, our knights seized a great
number of men and women, and the killed whom they wished and
whom they wished they let live.... Then, rejoicing and weeping
from extreme joy, our men went to worship at the sepulchre of
jour Saviour Jesus and thus fulfilled their pledge to Him....
They also ordered that all the Saracen dead should be thrown
out of the city because of the extreme stench, for the city was
almost full of their cadavers. The live Saracens dragged the
dead out before the gates and made piles of them, like houses.
No one has ever heard of or seen such a slaughter of pagan peoples
since pyres were made of them like boundary marks, and no one
except God knows their number."
-- [Histoire anonyme de la premiere croisade, L. Brehier, ed.
Paris: Champion, 1924 (From The Portable Medieval Reader, Ed.
James Bruce Ross and Mary Martin McLaughlin)]
Yet Other Looks at Crusades
MODERN
CRUSADE?
James
Carroll
of the Boston Globe
A step back
into lethal
history
Medieval
Sourcebook:
Soloman bar Samson:
The Crusaders in Mainz, May 27, 1096
|
Crusades Are
Not Made for Girlie-men --
Jim Culleny
A
saga of faith-based wars jam-packed
with sex, violence, and religion
-- the 3-legged stool of ancient and modern
theocracy !
Abdullah ibn Abdullah
 Abdullah
ibn Abdullah stood on the battlements of Acre. The citadel was
situated on a promentory jutting into the waters of the Great
Sea -- in fact, this sea was so great that when the ancients
stumbled upon it, their first thought was, "What a great
fucking sea!"
Anyway, the western end of this sea was situated in the area
of Jabal at Tarik (often referred to as the "Prudential
logo" --but also by another name even more familiar to westerners,
"Gibraltar"). From there it undulated all the way back
east to find its waves breaking at the feet of Abdullah ibn Abdullah
right there on the beaches of Asia Minor.
So sited, with its north, west
and south walls dropping into the sea, and thick ramparts on
its landward end, Acre was a strong fortress. It was held, at
that moment, by Abdullah ibn Abdulla and his brothers in Allah.
The year was 1188 as dated by Christians.
Ibn Abdullah braced his hands
against the parapet and leaned forward through a crenel. He looked
down the forty odd feet to the bottom of the limestone wall.
A refreshing westerly riffled the loose sleeves of his blouse
and cooled the perspiration-soaked hair at the base of his tarboush.
An end of turban cloth fluttered against his shoulder.
With the sea behind him and flanking him on three sides he enjoyed
a temporary sense of well-being. But across the plain before
him, arrayed in a wide semi-circle, were his enemy's camps and
engines of war. A fierce army of Christians.
These Christians, so its told, had been issuing south for years
from their backward north countries. They came and they came
like sectarian locusts. They routed and they raped (you can actually
find this stuff out in history books!). And they came regaled
in many outfits, depending upon class. They came in mail suits
and helmets. They came in albs and chasubles, and they also came
in rags and matted hair. They came to honor their god and, not
incidentally, to dismember infidels.
Abdullah ibn Abdullah slowly ran a hand along his arm and felt
its thick sinews and the bulge of bicep (called a "schwarzenneger"
in European parlance) and the hard outcropping of bone at his
elbow. He admired the way his extremities cohered. It would not
be good to view my limbs from afar, he thought.
As Ibn Abdullah scanned this fresh contingent of self-agrandized
barbarians he had
to concede that despite his
initial assessment of their resolve, they'd turned out to be
more troublesome than Negev grit in a goat stew. Now acutely
aware of their strength in numbers, and understanding their zealous
and myopic faith --so like his own-- the Sacracen chief absentmindedly
raised scimitar to hand and slid his thumb along its blade assessing
its edge.
Sir Howarth
 Peering
up at Ibn Abdullah at that moment, Sir Howarth the Prevaricator,
the Duke of Crawford, fondled the scabbard of his sword. He gazed
up the face of Abdullah's wall which rose from the Palestinian
soil as the cliffs rose from the sea of his beloved Normandy.
A flock of sparrows, abruptly shifting and turning; rising and
diving, like political candidates reacting to polls, circled
the turret above Abdullah's head. Sir Howarth watched as this
warrior, running his thumb along the blade of his scimitar, withdrew
it quickly and, spitting epithets in Arabic, shook it violently
and shoved it into his mouth for a long moment. Then he pulled
it out, examined it, and dropped from sight nursing his wound
still spewing semitic locutions.
I must spare that infidel's swordsmith after the dust settles
and have him maimed and baptized, he memoed himself --for he
is apparently an excellent craftsman.
Sir Howarth, shifting his gaze, followed the sparrows' course
as they continued their turns over the spot Ibn Abdullah's had
stood and, flying west, dipped below and behind the fortress
battlements. Howarth tapped the sword slung at his side and blessed
himself. He imagined it's blade separating the majority of Abdullah
ibn Abdullah from his thinking member. He envisioned the infidel's
soul descending to the place infidel souls go when the righteous,
in fits of pique, discontinue their vital signs. God is good,
he thought, and returned to his compatriots who were undoubtedly
having similar reveries while praising the Lord.
But First A Little Back Story
It seems that Howarth the Prevaricator had
set out from Amiens about a year earlier with a motly crew of
princes, dukes, counts, viscounts, knights, squires, esquires,
pages, earls, and girls (for girls always accompany men-at-arms
for moral support, nocturnal consultation, and to run the canteens).
And because this was a fanatical religious campaign, there were
also bishops, priests, monks, deacons, sub-deacons, and altar
boys (for altar boys always accompany the clergy on religious
campaigns for moral support, nocturnal consultation, and to call
numbers for Bingo).
Following these VIPs were the common folk -- the smiths, bakers,
and candlestick makers-- who'd grabbed whatever was at hand in
way of arms: cudgels, hay forks, hammers, rolling pins, pastry
scrapers, butcher's cleavers, corkscrews, and smart bombs --any
potentially lethal implement-- and had made off after their lunatic
leaders. These folk were lumped under the term "rabble",
which in the middle ages (as well as in corporate boardrooms
of any age) meant anyone making under fifty thou a year.
Thus did European Christendom head off half-cocked on one of
its sporadic cleansing operations. The like of it would not be
seen again until the advent of the Inquisitors and later, in
the mid-to-late 20th century with the rise of the Third Riech,
the campaigns of the Bosnian Serbs, and finally -- no, perhaps
terminally (because, by then, their weapons had grown
so enormous) -- with certain ruthless fools at the beginning
of the 21st.
In fact history teaches that God's lovers may never be safe from
God's war mongers.
Brother John
In the Northern provinces of medieval
Europe the years prior to the departure of Howarth's crusade
had been marked by impassioned rhetoric denouncing the Muslim
infidels who, at the time, occupied Christian holy sites in Palestine.
The curious thing about this was that for many Muslims (not to
mention Jews) Palestine was their ancestral home, so they felt
at least as proprietary of it as the Christians. The Christians
had simply arrogated the territory on religious grounds, justifying
their decision by reasoning that a good and wise rabbi named
Jesus --a man who was the focus of their faith-- had been born,
had taught, and died there. Ultimately this Jesus had sanctified
those lands by suffering torture and death, the latter of which
he'd rendered null and void by (so they believed) rising from
the grave to become (and this was the real miracle of the resurrection)
a European Christian gentile!
It happened that during one of these wild and sactimonious dark-age
harangues, a monk named John the Blind (a latter day deciple
of Paul the Temporarily Blind) had taken to the top of a stone
abuttment at the edge of the town square just outside the walls
of Sir Howarth's castle. Pacing back and forth in very short
circuits because the top of the abuttment measured just two paces
by two, he'd ranted against all infidels --foreign and domestic.
"These infidels," he intoned, "are a curse and
abomination to our faith! They're even worse than the Franks!
They dare call God "Allah" when everyone know his name
is "God"! They deny Christ our Lord and Savior, and
arrogantly practice their own brand of monotheism! They ...blah,
blah, blah... "
He went on and on like that, with profuse dogmatism, gesturing
to the crowd with one hand while covering naked statues with
the other, and yelling all the time that according to The
Law he was authorized to suggest (firmly, but with spin)
that all infidels, starting with the most convenient (which in
1099 were frequently Jews) be hacked to pieces
at once --or at least raped if their sex was appropriate, or
not.
"In doing this," he bellowed, "we will please
not only our Lord Jesus in the short run, but warm up for possible
future sanctified serial massacres as we slice toward Jerusaleeeeeeeee..."
Becoming so lost in invective he forgot where he was, poor Bother
John had taken one step more than the appropriate two and walked
off the end of the abuttment. He landed in the arms of the town
whore knocking her to the cobbles where they sprawled like lovers
engaged in private acts.
"What, again love?" she whistled through corrupt dentures.
Shaken, but undeterred, the monk leapt from the woman's arms
and screamed, "Death to infidels!" and took off down
the alley beckoning the rabble to follow. And follow they did,
hearts ablaze for the Lord.
Unfortunately John's paramour did not move quickly enough and
was trampled to death by the mob whose glazed eyes were fixed
solely upon the pale tonsure of the monk receding through the
narrow street. They poured after the little brother toward the
Jewish quarter filling the square with threats and curses. The
air was thick with hate.
Many infidels were killed that day. Many deaths to please God.
In this way the Christian Armies of medieval Europe
launched their crusades to the Holy land and began making their
mark upon history.
Al Hikmat
After slicing himself with his scimitar Abdullah
ibn Abdullah bolted from the fortress parapet and appeared a
minute later at the door of Al Hikmat's clinic with his hand
wrapped in a piece of damask.
Oil lamp sconces lined the walls. A chandelier hung just above
Hikmat's head it's circle of candles sending spirals of smoke
toward the high ceiling. The room was bright for one so removed
from the windows of the bastion's outer walls.
Al Hikmat the Physician was facing the far wall leaning over
a high table preparing poltices. But when he heard the familiar
footsteps of Ibn Abdullah he immediately turned from his work
to receive him.
"What have we here, brave Abdullah, a war wound? But how
can that be? We've had no fighting since two nights ago when
Sali sliced off Amoud's ear in an argument over a honey cake."
"Never mind, Doc," Ibn Abdullah replied. "I need
a quick fix. We're expecting an onslaught tomorrow, and this
is my dagger hand."
He stepped forward, unwrapping
his hand and extended it to Al Hikmat. The doctor took it, gently
grasping the injured digit between the thumb and index finger
of his free hand. He rotated it this way and that, then lifted
it toward the light of the nearest sconce.
"Hmmm, this is a nasty cut,
Abdullah. How'd it happen?"
"Never check the edge of a freshly honed blade with your
fingers," ibn Abdullah said coyly.
Releasing the thumb, Hikmat reached over to a nearby shelf upon
which several small jars were arranged in order of ascending
size. He took the third from the left, removed its stopper and,
with his index finger, scooped out an oily amber substance. He
slathered it onto the injured thumb, then wrapped it deftly mumbling
something about dull men with sharp swords.
"What was that," asked Abdullah?
"Forget it," answered
the physician, " ...but tell me about this onslaught we're
expecting."
"No doubt you'll be busy. We all will." Then, checking
his bandage he asked, "Will I be able to use this tomorrow?"
"There is no better medicine than Arab medicine," answered
Al Hikmat, "except, maybe, that of the Jews." But forget
those German and Frank quacks. And the Normans? phhhht...,"
he aspirated, flicking a dismissive hand in the air.
"Why just the other day I heard they still leech wounds
and blame demons for dysentery," Hikmat continued. These
infidels must be driven from our lands. They're idiots. They
believe in at least two Gods, one of which was, or still is a
carpenter (if you're into resurrection myths), and another whose
name, inexplicably, has no vowel sounds. And to top it off, they
think they own everything."
"This is true," replied
Abdullah, "Thier ignorance is great. The truth is, we own
everything."
"Praise Allah," said the doctor.
And More Back Story
Abdullah ibn Abdullah and
Al Hikmat had been friends since youth. Their relationship had
always been symbiotic. They'd both completed their undergraduate
studies in Baghdad. Then Ibn Abdullah had gone on to earn a master's
degree in Comprehensive Woundery and become an accredited warrior,
while Al Hikmat had been drawn to the treatment of deep gashes,
puncture wounds, and camel bites. It could be said the work of
one cancelled out the work of the other --but not quite.
Abdullah loomed large as a reaper of limbs, while Al Hikmat,
for his part, was a healer in good standing with (Allah forgive)
Blue Cross, a Saracen HMO franchise of the Christian Hospitalers,
which boasted headquarters in Rome taller even than the great
pyramids at Giza.
Reaching their majority during the height of the Christian holy
wars, the old friends had ample opportunity to practice their
respective arts and rise to the pinnacle of their professions.
For instance, it was known that Ibn Abdulla could, with a single
stroke, split hairs with a scimitar, and had done so many times
when performing non-medical decapitations. And though Al Hikmat
could not hope to repair hairs so thoroughly split, he could
honestly boast an excellent suture as well as a perfectly presentable
corpse for viewing, head and all.
Reflecting upon the many battles they'd survived, each serving
Allah in his own way, Al Hikmat said, "We've been through
a lot together Abdullah, but these Christians are as crazy as
we are, and I fear what dawn will bring."
"Yes," Ibn Abdullah replied, "the clash of fierce
nations leads to great tribulation. But the clash of religions
beats all."
Warriors Wax Poetic
While Al Hikmat treated Ibn Abdullah behind
the walls of Acre, in the Christian camp men were psyching themselves
for battle. They petitioned Jesus for supremacy. They lit votive
candles. They raffled indulgences and confessed to their priests.
They boasted and strutted like Texan cowpokes and played down
the likelyhood of their imminent demise. Some became philosophical.
Some waxed poetic. Some turned to drink. A few resorted to all
of the above.
For example, Sir Howarth the Prevaricator and Brother John the
Blind, caught up in personal reveries, stared across the plain
of Acre watching the backlit turbaned heads of Saracens as they
paced the citadel parapets. It was night and Arab torches glowed
orange through its crennels. The tops of the walls rising behind
the battlments danced with the oscillation of flames as if they
were delicate canopies of saffron silk teased by breezes from
the Great Sea. Everything else in that direction was bathed in
shadow.
But in the camps of the Christians lights flickered everywhere.
And the hubbub of men preparing for a fight carried from the
grassy plain in the north to the sedges and river channels to
the south. It was certain they could be heard from the tops of
the fortress walls as well.
Transfixed by the apparent undulation
of the castle stones Sir Howarth mused uncharacteristically,
"Something there is that doesn't love a wall."
Brother John, seated in a camp chair to his right nodded and,
inspired by Howarth's remark, reiterated it and added, "...that
spills the upper bolders in the sun and makes gaps even two can
pass abreast..."
"Yes, that's very nice," said Howarth. "Or how
about this, "...makes gaps even two mailed knights with
battle axes, swords, and sheilds can pass abreast seeking infidel
heads to smash? ...knights upholding the honor of Christ, we
should add. How about that?" He swigged another mouthful
of warm brew.
"Or," added the Blind, "Knights excercising their
rights to rape and pillage." And for some reason, he thought
at that moment of his hapless Hilda after her run-in with the
mad feet of Christendom that afternoon after his misstep.
Then both burst into laughter, Sir
Howarth spewing beer into Brother John's lap and wiping his mouth
on his jumpsuit sleeve.
"That's good, that's good," said Howarth, mopping another
remnant of spittle on his cuff, "but let's get serious monk.
This is going to be a no-fun battle we're in for tomorrow. These
Muslims are no slouches when it comes to war. You saw what they
did to us at Hattin. It was a rout. That young horseman I've
heard about, what's his name? Saladin, I think. They say he's
a take-no-prisoner kind of guy. There were corpses all over the
place --most of them ours. It was ugly. Made you wonder whose
side god was on."
"Indeed," said the
little brother, "but only for a moment until I remembered
that the lord works in mysterious ways. The truth is, what happened
at Hattin was probably just a catastrophic success.
Sir Howarth went silent. With this monk, he thought, it always
comes down to cliche's or doubletalk --not that he was innocent
of those himself.
Tiring of their exchange and, in fact, considering Brother John
no more than a self-righteous control freak with a fetish for
prayer, he turned away from the monk and directed his attention
elsewhere.
Considering the war machine that sprawled before him, and hearing
in the background the increasing shouts of blood lust required
to grease it, Sir Howarth mulled over several possible immediate
futures and wondered if there was not some way to avoid the most
obvious.
Now subtlety was not a trait foremost in Sir Howarth's repertoire
of virtues, and he'd come to understand
early on never to look too long for answers there. But he did
possess an overarching stubborness, so he just kept at it. He
mulled and he mulled.
It finally came to him in a blinding
flash, as if God had finally smacked him in the temple with an
original idea, that he could just as well talk to the Saracen
as slice off his head. That way they might learn something about
each other and mitigate supicion. Considering the options, it
was worth a try.
Howarth beckoned an aide who lent his Lord his ear, then turned
on his heel and diasappeared between two tents.
The Emissary
Ibn Abdullah sat quietly in his chamber
within the light-circle of a dampened lamp when he became aware
of echoes in the stairwell behind him. Someone was taking the
turret steps two at a time. The in-and- exhalation of breath
crescendoed; the rhythmic rustling of linen; the soft impact
of boot leather on step stones.
Abdullah rose and turned as a
young warrior slid to a stop at the threshold --though the blade
of his scimitar, caught in the grip of inertia, continued and
slammed into the jamb with a clang.
"Ibn Abdullah," said the young soldier, "the Christians
have sent an emissary."
Without immediately responding Abdullah studied the man. So young,
he thought. So full of zeal. If he could he'd lop off that Christian
messenger's limbs at the drop of a tarboush and shishkabob what
remains. Look at the fire in his eyes, the couched snarl ...that
zit on the end of his nose. This is just a boy, he thought, and
too young to be contemplating early dispatch to paradise no matter
how many fantasy virgins are available to him for religious rites.
I wonder, what is it, exactly, that Allah expects of him? Doesn't
he want him to embrace life? To love? To be out pushing the creative
envelope of passion with a compliant woman under the cedars of
Lebanon? To settle down some day with a few wives to father many
children? To acquire herds of goats, some camels and asses and
cultivate olives? Shouldn't he have time to grow old and die
a prosperous grandfather? Or is it Allah's plan that he kill
or be killed in a mad clash of deluded, semi-conscious knights
with a lot of half-baked metaphysical theories and xenophobic
philosophies?"
"Where is this Christian," Abdullah finally asked.
"Just inside the east gate, my Lord, surrounded by twenty
or so of our men with drawn swords wearing ugly expressions.
The man looks uneasy and is sweating buckets --and he may have
wet himself," replied the messenger.
He went on, "He says his Lord Howarth would like to counsel
with you tonight before the youth of both Christendom and Islam
really work themselves into a lather and cause a lot of heads
to roll --which, in this case, Lord Abdullah, is neither a figure
of speech or hyperbole." The young warrior absentmindedly
raised his hand and touched the blemish on his nose.
Noticing this, Ibn Abdullah said, "Perhaps if I send him
away with an insult ...something like, 'May the devil take you,
Christian dog!' or 'Tomorrow Allah shall send your evil-doing
infidel souls to hell!" Maybe if I do that, by the time
the sun sets tomorrow you'll have no more need for mud plasters
for your complexion problem. Ha ha!" He landed a playful
blow on the lad's shoulder, who staggered when struck, but remained
expressionless.
"Lighten up Mohammed, it was a joke."
"Not a good one, if I may
be so bold, my Lord."
"You may, Mohammed; at least this time."
Ibn Abdullah turned slowly away from the mamluk and
walked to the only opening in the cubicle's walls. The window
overlooked the infidel  camp.
He saw thousands of flickering torches, camp fires, and lamps,
as well as the diffuse light of internally illuminated tents.
He listened to the distant laughter of hard determined men, the
muffled thud of horse hoofs, spooked perhaps by the clang and
clash of weapons being readied for battle. He stood silently
for what, for the waiting messenger, seemed like many slow minutes.
"Wait outside," Abdullah said softly. "Come in
when I call."
Abdullah ibn Abdullah surveyed the Christian host thoughtfully.
The Parley
When all is
said and done (which is sure to be a water-shed event for everyone
concerned, especially historians), it will be told that the sincere
desire to circumvent a skirmish led both Sir Howarth and Abdullah
ibn Abdullah to a prudent decision: a pre-dawn parley.
Not long after sending Howarth's emissary back with his reply,
Abdullah, confident his offer would be reciprocated, emerged
from the gates of Acre and walked to the head of the embankment
which dropped gently to the plain. He stood where he could see
and be seen by all. Fifteen of his fiercest mamluks did likewise,
arraying themselves at his sides, six to the left, nine to the
right, spitting in the face of symmetry.
After standing there for some time for dramatic effect, Ibn Abdullah
raised his arms and summoned a cry from the depths of his soul
that was both position statement and prayer.
"Praise Allah!" roared Abdullah. And his warriors roared
also.
Making a great show, Abdullah and his men then strode across
the expanse separating them from the Christians. Nearing Howarth's
tent they bulled their way through a phalanx of paparazzi who
sketched furiously while trying not to spill their ink pots,
then barged into a dense pack of strange people who shot inane
questions at this Muslim entourage while gripping small club-like
objects in their fists that they shoved into Ibn Abdullah's face
as he brushed by.
"Mr. Abdullah, are you optimistic your talks will lead
to an end of the bloodshed?"
"Lord Abdullah, what's your reaction to the leak from Sir
Howarth's camp that he's called your religion, quote, less than
redeemable and pretty scary, unquote."
"Mr. Abdullah, Mr. Abdullah, have you ever committed adultery
in an oval office? Ok, ...how about a square one?"
"Excellency, as a died-in-the-wool monotheist, what are
your views of a triune God?"
Tracking Ibn Abdullah's course from the castle through the entire
Christian army, Sir Howarth, was impressed at how his adversary
handled himself as he made his way, especially, through the mob
of media.
When Abdullah and his men had reached a point about thirty paces
from his tent Sir Howarth raised his arms also. Abdullah took
several more steps and halted. Then Sir Howarth, like Abdullah,
summoned a cry from deep within his own soul which amounted to
the Christian equivelant of Abdullah's.
"Praise our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ!" he bellowed
along with Brother John and thirty thousand club-wielding faithful.
Their spine-tingling roar surely reached to heaven. Ibn Abdullah
could feel his scimitar vibrate against his thigh as the hairs
rose on the back of his neck.
Having now established their basic differences in sectarian shorthand
they came together to have a few drinks, swap war stories, and
talk shop, after which they'd probably return to their respective
enclaves and prepare to eviscerate their new friends.
But, as the monk, John, had observed; god works in mysterious
ways and by dawn a remarkable thing happened. By the time the
first rays of the rising sun lit the Saracen banner flying above
the fort of Ibn Abdullah, both armies had laid down their arms.
In one of the most amazing transformations in history the leaders
of the two factions had come to full accord. In a rare flash
of common sense and humility, each had discarded their religious
conceits and conceded complete ignorance of the will of God.
Each acknowledged, once and for all, the stupendous, eternal
mystery enfolding them, and realized the futility of rating myths.
"Neilson knows nothing of the human spirit," said Sir
Howarth.
"And if he does, God help us all," replied Abdullah.
However, Brother John, the monk,
who was not yet ripe for new age theology, kept insisting upon
keeping certain medieval doctrines that suited his inclinations.
But he was emphatically silenced by Sir Howarth's immediate Vice
Knight, Sir Halley of Burton, who jammed the little brother's
foot while threatening him with slow martyrdom out of the side
of his mouth.
Epilogue
Now, this strange meeting on the plan of Acre has, for centuries,
confounded scholars who haven't been able to uncover any conclusive
proof as to what went on that night between Abdullah ibn Abdullah
and Sir Howarth. Some blame it on bad intelligence, some on biased
reporting by Sir Rupert of Merdock; regardless, all that's ever
been recovered is a cryptic fragment of scripture telling of
an enigmatic troubador called John the Smart One who one
day rode into the Christian camp upon a large scarab singing
utopian jingles:
"Imagine there's no heaven
and no religion too..."
|
Riding with him, joined at the hip was (as can best be deciphered)
an exotic dark-haired warbling woman wearing shades.
Only this much is known for sure: whatever realization the two
parties came to that night, whatever understanding, it was short-lived.
In less time than it takes to say "Blessed are the peacemakers",
new armies coalesced around fresh charismatic megalomaniacs and,
driven by diverse fervors, incinerated Europe.
Myths clashed. Stories collided. Blood flowed.
As far as our protagonists are concerned, legend has it that
Ibn Abdullah and Sir Howarth were so taken by the teachings of
John the Smart One and his warbling consort that they jettisoned
their swords and scimitars to spend their last weeks in bed at
an inn in the Kingdom of the Franks holding forth with scribes
and sychophants spouting platitudes of peace. Whether their stint
between the sheets had any positive effect could never be determined.
But it must be said, their hearts were in the right place.
As for Brother John the Blind, while pining for his hapless Hilda
and the theocratic state he so zealously envisioned, he was caught
several more times in the act with a sex worker; but continued
to have a rag-tag following. He appeared regularly on the tent
circuit quoting scripture and became a well known Christian grafitti
artist famous for painting non-trendy clothing on naked classical
statues.
All the other participants of those bizarre conflicts --the rabble--
returned to their homes and simple lives to live their joys and
sorrows while biding time until the birth of either Rush Limbaugh
or Al Franken. And they prayed that in God's good time, all would
be revealed --or at least leaked at intervals by reliable sources
at the Almighty's right and left hand.
The way they saw it, this would not be too much to ask of any
diety.
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