The streets along which they passed were eerily silent, the houses vacant and, for the most part, quiet-except where looters still worked: furniture, clothing, and valuables of the dead were often hurled from the upper windows into the street below, to be more easily collected and carted off. The Temple Mount had been turned into a huge repository for the treasure hoard prior to its division and distribution.

Dark stains still marked the paving stones, and the stench and clouds of flies were formidable, but the number of corpses to be found lying untended in alleyways and courtyards was not so many as Murdo had feared. In all, they encountered only five wagons piled with bodies, each making its slow way to the bone fires; the disposal of Jerusalem's dead had been accomplished with remarkable efficiency.

They came upon a procession of monks who had already commenced the reconsecration of several of the city's smaller chapels and churches which had fallen into disuse under the Muhammedan occupation. Upon inquiring of the bishop, they learned of Bohemond’s arrival and his seizure of Iftikhar's commander's palace. 'Find Bohemond,' Ronan declared, 'and there we shall find our king and companions.'

A short time later, they arrived at the palace of Jerusalem's former warlord – a handsome and imposing edifice, which the other crusader lords deemed unsuitable, owing to its former association with the Muhammedan infidel. Bohemond had no such scruples; his brief residence in Antioch had given him a taste for Arabian opulence. Murdo and the monks found the Norsemen firmly ensconced in the apartments lately occupied by Amir Iftikhar's physician and his retinue of advisors.

Murdo, tired from the previous night's activities, found himself a quiet corner and promptly went to sleep. He was roused some time later when King Magnus returned to the palace with Bohemond. While the king dined with his liege lord and benefactor, his house carles sat at meat in the hastily-altered hall, discussing the day's inconclusive events.

'Mark me: it will come to blows. The kingship will only be settled by combat.' Lord Orin took another swallow of wine from his cup.

'Hey-hey,' agreed Jon Wing. 'But it is not Bohemond's fault that he was not here. It is a long way from Antioch to Jerusalem. If the siege had lasted longer, he would have been first through the gate, I think.'

This sentiment was greeted by a general growl of approval from all those looking on and listening. More than one cup was lofted to drink the prince's singular courage.

'It is not his bravery they are doubting,' pointed out Magnus' pilot, a man named Sven Horse-Rope. 'Rather, it is his right to share in plunder he did not help to win. If it was my place, I do not know that I would be so quick to divide my treasure with him.'

The Norsemen rejected this line of reasoning with loud grunts of protest – not because it was wrong, but because, if followed rigorously, it would deny them their own share of what they reckoned was an immense fortune. King Magnus, in siding with Bohemond, had bound himself to the rise and fall of the prince's fortunes. They had gained but little for themselves out of the fall of Jerusalem, and were hungry for more. For better or worse, Prince Bohemond promised to be the most likely source for gaining a portion of the vast hoard of Jerusalem's wealth to be carved up among the western lords.

'The fighting lasted but a day;' Torf Bent-Nose pointed out, 'many of Count Raymond's men did not lift a blade, either. Yet, they still claim a full portion. Also, we have collected as much plunder as anyone else -'

'And as many bodies!' grumbled Sven, frowning at the stink, still fresh in his memory. This sentiment was shared by one and all around the board.

'This fact should be put to the lords at the council tomorrow, I think,' said Torf, to which everyone heartily concurred.

The next day's discussions were followed with keen attention by the king and his mercenary vassals. Each feint and counter-thrust in the subtle struggle of swagger and bluff was duly noted and reported that night in the hall over cups of raw Palestinian wine. Murdo, too, listened to all the talk, although it failed to ignite in him the same fiery itch that inflamed the others. He already possessed a fortune in plunder and, as he was not interested in the crusade or its leaders, cared nothing for their interminable squabbles over position and power. He viewed them all with the same weary indifference-save one: Baldwin. Whenever that name was mentioned, Murdo drew near to hear.

His brothers were with Lord Baldwin, he knew, and he was anxious to join them as soon as possible. To this end, he listened to all that was said, and learned that Lord Baldwin was brother to Duke Godfrey of Bouillon. Godfrey, it seemed, was a truly pious man and a fierce warrior-the same who had gained and held the wall during the first assault of the recent battle, and his fearless action did more than any other to bring about the fall of Jerusalem.

Younger brother Baldwin's esteem had slipped considerably lower, because he had not fulfilled his crusade vows, preferring instead to assume the rule of Edessa, a city a few days' march to the north. Murdo spent much of the next day pondering how he might undertake the journey to find his brothers, when word arrived at the palace that Baldwin and his war band had arrived at Jerusalem and were encamped on the Mount of Olives. He wasted no time finding Emlyn to tell him.

'My brothers are here,' he said, 'I am going to find them.'

'It will be dark soon,' the priest pointed out. 'Perhaps you should seek them tomorrow.'

Murdo would not contemplate even the slightest delay. 'I am going now,' he insisted. 'If I hurry, I can be there before nightfall.'

'I will accompany you,' Emlyn said. 'Only give me time enough to take our leave of the king.'

The monk hurried away, returning a short while later with a staff for himself, a spear for Murdo, and a waterskin to share between them. Leaving the palace, they entered the street outside the amir's residence, and hurried down through the city to the Jaffa Gate. Owing to the lateness of their start, Emlyn thought it best to find their way to the Mount of Olives outside the walls, rather than try to navigate the tangle of unfamiliar streets in the dark. So, they departed by the western gate and, once outside the walls, struck off onto the road which encompassed the city. This track was continually joined and divided by other roads which led off to various settlements and cities-Hebron, Bethlehem, Gethsemane, Damascus, and others-and was ringed by clusters of little farms, each with its tiny patch of green behind low white walls, or dense hedges of thorn and cactus.

The heat of the day was slowly releasing its hold on the land, though the sky was still flame-coloured in the west. The air was warm and still, and held an arid, woody scent which seemed to emanate from the small dusty shrubs all around. The road was nearly deserted; they met only the occasional farmer or labourer, and these, seeing Murdo's spear, recognized the couple as Franks, giving them a wide and wary berth. They walked along, keeping the city wall on their left hand, their eyes on the olive-planted hills rising before them. The hills were dull purple in the evening light, and the gnarled trunks of the olives pale blue, their leaves black.

They walked along in silence for a time, and Murdo found himself thinking about all that had taken place in the last two days. He thought about their midnight flight to the monastery, and his vision of Saint Andrew in the catacombs. Build me a kingdom, brother, the apparition had said. I will do what I can, he had promised. His cheeks burned with shame as the weight of his unworthiness descended over him-like a mountain shifting and settling full upon his soul.