Then Arn mounted the horse, and cautiously they moved off toward the fence, which Khamsiin gently jumped over in almost feline silence. They walked slowly for a while, finally increasing speed so much that they must have been the fastest horse and rider ever to cross Danish soil. They stormed along like the horsemen of the apocalypse through the soft, rolling landscape and the sparse beech woods. Some nights they went all the way out to the sea, knowing that they risked having to keep up the same pace on the way back to be able to arrive in time for morning mass.

   Rumors soon spread in the region about a ghost rider, an omen, a bad sign, a spirit who rode as no mortal man could ride even in dreams, a dwarf with evil sharp teeth and a glittering sword of fire.

   The sword, however, was made of wood with an iron core inside for the sake of weight. But in his fantasies Arn rode with a sword that could well have been of fire. He swung it back and forth with his left hand, switched the sword and reins at full gallop and then brandished the weapon in his right hand. But the sword was not the most important thing. It was more as if he were placating his guilty conscience by doing a little work while he was out riding for pleasure instead of sleeping the sleep of the just, which was recommended by God.

   It was the speed that captivated him. As young as he was, Khamsiin had a power in his legs that no other horse Arn had ridden could ever match. Arn imagined that Khamsiin was being carried forward by a supernatural power, as if this speed was something that only God could have created, and as if on Khamsiin he was flying closer to God than at any other time.

   It was a sinful thought, of course. Arn knew that. He said the prayers and denied himself what he must to seek forgiveness.

   But what speed! he thought. Shamefully enough, even during his most remorseful prayers.

Chapter 5

On Christmas Day in the year of Grace 1144, the Christians in the Kingdom of Jerusalem suffered their greatest defeat since they conquered the Holy Land. In Christian Europe there were many people who realized that the fall of the city of Odessa was a catastrophe. But nobody could imagine that what had happened was the beginning of the end of the Christian occupation.

   At that time, a half century after the victory that had cost the Christians more than 100,000 lives, the Kingdom of Jerusalem consisted of a cohesive coastal region that stretched from Gaza in southern Palestine through Jerusalem and Haifa to the coast of Lebanon and up to Antioch. But north of Antioch, there was a large Christian enclave around the city of Odessa, which together with Antioch on the coast controlled all the roads between the Christian Eastern Roman Empire in Constantinople and the three cities of Baghdad, Jerusalem, and Damascus. Second only to Jerusalem itself, Odessa had been the Christians' most important fortress.

   But now the city had been conquered, plundered, and relegated to the oblivion of history by a commander whose name hardly anyone in Europe knew. He was called Unadeddin Zinki. The conquest ended in a bloodbath in which 5,000 Franks and 6,000 Armenians and other local Christians were massacred after the walls fell. In their stead Zinki let 300 Jews move into the city in an attempt to bring Odessa back to life. The Jews were much closer to the Muslims than to the Christians, since the Christians had the peculiar custom of murdering all the Jews they encountered.

   Zinki was a powerful, ambitious, and ruthless commander. He made no secret of the fact that he wanted to take Damascus, the next most important city after Jerusalem, and from there draw the noose tighter around the Christians.

   The Muslim inhabitants of Damascus, however, felt not the slightest enthusiasm at the thought of having this unpredictable and cruel ruler inside their high city walls. And when Zinki was on his way to Damascus, he was forced to stop and lay siege to the town of Baalbek. He grew angry that it was taking so long, so when Baalbek finally capitulated after the garrison had been given the usual assurances of safe conduct, he had all the defenders beheaded and the commander flayed alive.

   Perhaps he thought that such actions would strike terror into the inhabitants of Damascus and encourage them to offer less resistance. But the effect was the direct opposite. Damascus formed an alliance with the Christian king of Jerusalem, because both cities, regardless of religion, had just as much to fear from a conqueror such as Zinki.

   When his troops understood that the war was over for the time being, and that they would never succeed in conquering and plundering Damascus itself, they headed for home well loaded with booty and satisfied for now. Zinki's army melted away. At this time, he came upon his Christian eunuch secretly drinking wine out of his personal goblet. He contented himself with hurling threats about what the punishment would be for such a display of insolence, but decided first to sleep on the matter. The eunuch decided it was better to stick his dagger into him while he slept.

   This too might have looked like a favorable matter for the Christians, for now Zinki's conquests would be divided up among his sons, and that would take time and possibly lead to minor wars among themselves. The second avenging crusade could hardly wish for a more advantageous situation.

   But Allah had something else in mind. Of Zinki's sons, the one who now pulled the ring, the sign of the ruler, from his dead father's hand was Mahmud; he would soon be given the surname Nur ed-Din, the Light of Religion.

   Nur ed-Din soon created a revival movement. But he was careful not to try to take Damascus before the time was ripe, and instead made Aleppo his capital.

   With Nur ed-Din and above all the one who would come after him, Salah ed-Din, the Christian presence in the Holy Land was doomed to destruction. It was now only a matter of time before Jerusalem would fall. But only someone who writes with the wisdom of hindsight and who knows the true sequence of events can tell this story.

When the news of the fall of Odessa spread through Europe, it aroused as much gloom as consternation. If Christendom did not strike back soon and hard, the unbelievers might decide to attack Jerusalem itself; that was the purely military conclusion even men of faith could understand.

   Pope Eugenius III began working at once to promote a second crusade that would secure Christian access to the Holy Sepulchre and all the other destinations for pilgrims.