Under Zion's Sun

PROLOGUE

Under the half moon's silvered swirls
the City lay in restless sleep.
Her grace sought by men of the world
her treasured holy tears to keep.
Set on a hill by Yahweh's hand,
she reigned supreme in man's esteem.
No tribute paid as conquered land
but pure devotion's richest dream.
Pilgrims of the world came to her
seeking peace and healing regard
of the Savior whose touch profferred
or to gain the Prophet’s reward.

From below, sore eyes gazed upward
in hope to Zion's blessed jewel.
Challenged, a pious king answered,
sought to wrest her from heathen rule.
Bound prostrate 'neath the Turkish horde,
fair Jerusalem lay vanquished.
By three faiths exalted, adored;
to one her freedom relinquished.

                   
Stretched before her, the desert lay
in shadows foreboding and bleak.
Wadis to peaks in shades of gray
hid secrets the ages would speak.
Centuries gone, centuries nigh
and still caravans crossed the sands.
Timeless, endless, the desert sighed
under the grip of human hands.
Its moods, quixotic and untamed,
offered death to the unwary
and graves, unmarked, for men unnamed;
to others a sanctuary.


Seeking relics from Christ's own hand,
and release from Ottoman reign,
an army from a distant land
lay camped in the dark desert plain:
hundreds of Christians, soldiers all,
led by the righteous English king
intent on seeing Muslims fall
and their prize to Christendom bring.
They’d traveled far, lifetimes ago,
fighting enemies on the way.
Not all men with sword and arrow;
hunger and thirst grew worse each day
and disease thinned warrior ranks.
Thousands began; hundreds arrived
leaving graves along the sea’s banks
and the dead of glory deprived.
Now their king, stalwart and devout,
Richard, called Lionheart, lay ill,
unable to lead his men out
and Zion’s loss a bitter pill.
                   

The City's palaces and halls
held the Muslim occupiers.
Undeterred by forbidding walls,
they turned her cook fires into pyres.
So to Saladin she came, on her knees,
ruled firmly by his rod and knife,
shown mercy where only he pleased,
his, sole power of death or life.


Both men of military mind
and renowned for honor and heart.
Each against the other aligned,
held respect for his counterpart.
Matched in the goal of their travels,
they fought once to Christians’ esteem.
But time and vict’ry unravel
while knaves at the English throne schemed.



In the plain below, a Christian paced
without benefit of soothing slumber,
praying honor be not abased
nor his soul to Hell encumber.
A squire he was, to a Templar Knight
with hopes such status to gain,
eager to set this wrong to right
and its perpetrators arraign.
Apprentice Otto de Montchamp,
in service to a knight renowned
youngest man in this army camp,
bore a chinful of thistledown.
His thoughts turned not to fear or death,
but glory he'd surely accrue.
Unconcerned if tomorrow's breath
be drawn in Hell or this purlieu,
his fate tied to a stalwart knight,
his service must be true and good:
sharpened swords by stone and firelight
and spears of smooth hardened basswood,
tended for the morrow's battle
to favor both his knight and horse.
Quietly, without a rattle,
he crept, eschewing sleep perforce.


                 

Ibrahim bin Mehmed slept well
embraced by golden dreams
of  battle and Christians to quell
when wakened at the morrow's gleam.
Nephew of mighty Saladin,
named for holy Allah's true friend,
he yearned for his life to begin
and this dull existence transcend.
Sure of his personal vict'ry,
he rose first to study and pray.
He took each moment's policy
from the Qu'ran's words that day
and set his face to far Mecca
for protection and fortitude.
He longed to hear Allah beckon,
and extend His beatitude.



Through still halls of a darkened manse
a sleepless maiden's steps retraced,
heart claimed by fear, her fate by Chance,
her household for battle now braced.
Charming Adira bath Amit,
a beloved and pampered child,
thought of her days as bittersweet
and to her dreams unreconciled.
She loved her ancient hallowed town
but loathed those by whom it was held.
Wary of Turks who took its crown,
fearing the Christian ranks that swelled,
she greeted distress each sunrise
hearing the call to prayer ring out.
And though some called Christians allies,
she feared for the Jewish devout.


All watched the moon as it fell from the sky
and gave way to the newborn sun,
none seen worthy in the others’ eyes
of naught but Hell's affliction.
Each unaware of the others' perseity,
would still have deemed it waste
and such lives' preservation asperity
with like regard misplaced.


     
The day began at the rising sun's call
for both Turk and Christian alike.
Preparing to fight, perhaps to fall,
by seeking the favor of a killing strike
from Yahweh and Allah each,
desires for vic'try and honor,
and last for life beseech.
Echoing across the broad plain
adahns called infidels and true,
and throughout the treasured domain
prayers of faithful men ensued.



BOOK ONE

OTTO

Sir Jacques Belliveau, Templar Knight,
found Otto collapsed in the hay.
Yet no offense could he indict
for the boy kept thiev'ry at bay.
In his arms he clutched swords and shields,
and the knight’s armor by his side
with daggers beneath him concealed.
Unaware his squire’s eventide,
he kicked his boot, " 'allo, Otto!
Rise, sleeper!  No battle today!
Explore the City, the grotto.
But watch!  And defenses assay."

Otto gazed sleepily upward
and rubbed the night sand from his eyes.
"No battle?  But that is absurd!"
“Nay.  Low with fever our king lies,
his life at risk.  He cannot lead."
Swords a-clattering, Otto rose.
Disheartened, he could but accede.
Belliveau appraised his squire's clothes.
"Dress you as they and guard your head.
Do not speak, but proceed as mute.
Avoid all thieving and bloodshed.
This day Sir Otto I depute."

“Was that wise?” asked a fellow knight
overhearing Sir Jacques’ commands.
“What if he’s caught?”  “Then he will fight
though he be for certain outmanned.”

                 

The market shimmered in the heat,
packed mobs adding intensity.
Otto moved through the dirty street
fearing the crowds’ immensity.
Taking in the noise and the smells,
he willed discomfiture subside
and advanced to the wares, impelled,
amazement only amplified.

Exotic incense and perfumes,
shimmering silks, silver and gold,
rugs and carpets from master looms,
new foods with flavors manifold,
all gems in a Turkish setting
of skilled intricate filigree,
and his blind wonder abetting
provocateurs he failed to see.
Pursuing him from stall to stall
soldiers slipped between the shoppers.
A reflection in a brass ball
warned him of movements improper.
Sliding between black-robed matrons
at a busy cloth and rug mart
he hid 'twixt tables and patrons
and strove to calm his pounding heart.
Realizing he'd dropped from sight,
Ottoman guards searched shop to shop.
Soldiers eager for a fight,
they’d spotted him at his first stop.
His skin was fair, as well his eyes
and he moved with a dif'rent gait.
His dishdashah could not disguise
nor ancestry eradicate.
Slipping toward his awkward haven,
a hand came surreptiously,
then a face, rugged, unshaven,
leered at him, avariciously.
"'ey, Christian. You hide from Muslims?"
Otto nodded, then asked  "How much?"
"How much to give you asylum?
Hmph.  How could you repay me such?
I think you have no money.
With what would you pay me to hide?"
“Comes your shop under scrutiny,
I am squire to a Templar Knight,
a valued protector, indeed.
My knight will be your defender
if you assist me when I need."
Fist in hand, "Done!" roared the vendor ,
"Stay where you are."  The guards drew nigh.
One reaching to spill the shop's goods
stopped at the seller's blade held high.
"Do not harm a man's livelihood
unless you are ready to pay."
"We're searching for one."  "He's not here."
The two grumbled and backed away,
knocking down a man standing near.
Otto climbed out of his retreat,
stiff, but grateful for his freedom.
"Your name?”  "I am the Jew, Amit."
"Good.  Send word for help.  We will come."


IBRAHIM

"But Uncle, we could surprise them!

Our victory would be assured!"
"What?  Would you have us be condemned?
In Islam's walls we are immured.
And every war has its rules
our cause be forfeit to forgo.
We must let their king's fever cool."
Saladin had sent men for snow
to soothe the English king's sickness.
Ibrahim set his heel and turned 'round,
leaving with frustrated quickness,
his soft-soled boots making no sound.
His steps took him to a garden,
and to a bench unoccupied.
Enchained by a steadfast warden,
his ambition intensified.
Though young and by war untested,
his mind and heart labored to fight.
In training, he’d not been bested
and pride usurped wisdom’s birthright.
Fully immersed in self-pity
and rejecting all common sense,
he began to blame the City
and its plethora of accents.
Were it not freely welcoming
his uncle would reject a league
and contemplate the fight coming.
Instead he must tend to intrigues.
Thus engaged in sardonic thought,
unaware of the building storm,
he was surprised by its onslaught.
Attacking like a locust swarm,
a violent wind unbenched him.
Prostrate he heard a frantic cry.
Once again came the sound, now dim.
The wind screamed and intensified,
carrying sand, sharp and stinging.
Struggling to stand, fighting the wind
he searched for the voice, hands clinging
to a sapling.  Then it flashed. ************