Professor, we called him. Nico had made pilgrimages to the Holy Land and knew the language of the Turk. He spent many hours on the march teaching it to me. He had joined the quest as a translator, and because of his white beard and moth-eaten robe, he had the reputation of being a bit of a soothsayer too. But every time a soldier moaned, “Where the hell are we, Professor?” and the old Greek muttered only, “Near …,” his reputation as a seer suffered.

And there was Robert with his goose, Hortense, who had sneaked into our ranks one day as we passed through Apt. Fresh-faced and chattering, Robert claimed to be sixteen, but it didn’t take a seer to divine that he was lying. “I’ve come to carve the Turks,” he boasted, brandishing a makeshift knife. I handed him a stick that would be good for walking. “Here, start with this.” I laughed. From that moment on, he and the goose were great companions to us.

It was late summer when we finally came out of the mountains.

“Where are we, Hugh?” Robert moaned, as another interminable valley loomed before our eyes.

“By my calculations…” I tried to sound cheerful. “A left at the next ridge and we should see Rome . Isn’t that right, Nico? This was the pilgrimage to St. Peter’s we signed up for, wasn’t it? Or, shit, was it the Crusade?”

A ripple of tired laughter snaked through the exhausted ranks.

Nicodemus started to answer, but everyone shouted him [28] down. “We know, Professor, we’re near, right?” taunted Mouse, a diminutive Spaniard with a large hooked nose.

Suddenly I heard shouting from up ahead. Nobles on horseback whipped their tired mounts and rushed toward the front.

Robert bolted ahead. “If there’s fighting, Hugh, I’ll save you a spot.”

All at once, my legs seemed ready to comply. I grabbed my shield and ran after the boy. Ahead of us was a wide gulf in the mountains. Hundreds of men were gathered there, knights and soldiers.