Dreamer: A Prequel to the Mongoliad (The Foreworld Saga) by Mark Teppo Page B

Followers of Francis of Assisi?” When several of the monks nodded
in response, he continued, “I belong to the Ordo Militum Vindicis Intactae .”
    “See?”
Piro said, proud of his command of Latin. “ Ordo .”
    “No,
Piro,” Raphael said, laying a hand on his guide’s shoulder. “It’s not the same
thing.” He looked apologetically at the monks. “I am sorry for the confusion.
Piro has been very helpful, and I fear I may have inadvertently taken advantage
of his enthusiasm.”
    “ Milites ,”
Brother Leo explained to Piro. “It means fighting men — soldiers.” He
translated the name. “Knights of the Virgin Defender,” he said, pointing at the
blade hanging off Raphael’s hip. “We are not Crusaders. We have no use for a
sharp tool such as that.”
    Piro
scratched his head. “Crusader?” he asked, jerking a thumb at Raphael.
    “The
Fifth?” Brother Mante blurted out.
    “Aye,”
Raphael said. “That is the one.”
    The
last Crusade, the Fifth, had ended a scant few years earlier. Already the word
from Rome was that it had been a failure and that another would be called soon.
Rome had no appetite for the continued presence of Muslim infidels in the
Levant. Raphael’s acknowledgment released a flood of questions from the monks,
and even Brother Leo found himself leaning forward to hear the young man’s
answers. The Fifth Crusade! Could he have been in Egypt at the same time
as…?
    Taken
aback by the enthusiasm of the Fraticelli , Raphael held up his hands to
quell the torrent of voices. “Yes,” he said, ducking his head in mild
embarrassment at the mix of confusion and fascination offered by the group of
monks. “Yes, I was at Damietta,” he admitted. “I was there when Francis came on
his mission to convert the Sultan, Al-Kamil.”



DAMIETTA, 1218
    “P ull!”
    The
crier was a haggard Frisian named Edzard, a bald man with a tangled beard and a
voice that reminded Raphael of surf battering against a cliff. He limped, and
sitting on a horse pained him, but aboard a ship, he moved with a supple grace.
He stalked up and down the line of the massive raft, howling at the men.
    “Don’t
stop, you miserable sons of tavern wenches,” Edzard shouted at them. “This
river hates you. The infidels hate you. God even hates you for being weak.
Pull!”
    The
company — three hundred strong, a mixture of Frisian Crusaders, Templars,
Hospitallers, and Shield-Brethren — huddled beneath a canopy of waterlogged
skins, their only protection from the Greek fire hurled at them from the walls
of Damietta. Their vessel, a ponderous construct created by lashing two boats
together, moved sluggishly in the violent waters of the turbulent Nile. The
sheer size and weight of their floating siege tower was the only reason the
river had not already claimed them.
    The
city of Damietta sprawled to the east of the eastern fork of the Nile. Seizing
the city was a critical goal in the conquest of Egypt — it would give the
Crusaders a much-needed stronghold in Muslim territory — but the assault was
complicated by the difficult terrain that surrounded the city. From the north,
east, and south, Damietta was protected by the sprawling saltwater lagoon of
Lake Manzala — an impenetrable maze of shallow pools and shifting mud.
Attacking from the west was the most prudent route, but any force had to cross
the Nile in order to assault the thick walls. In the past six weeks, the river
had gone from a turbid impediment to an inchoate elemental fury.
    The
Crusaders were not without means. They had crossed the Mediterranean to
assemble an army on Egyptian sand, and they had a number of boats at their
disposal. The captains of the boats were loath to brave the river, though, for
not only was the channel treacherous and mercurial, but they also had to
weather a storm of stones and fire from the mangonels and trebuchets atop the
walls of Damietta.
    As
a final deterrent to any crossing, the Muslims filled the river with a swarm