The desert was hot, lonely, expansive. Sand stretching off to infinity. Rolling dunes, vast skies, an immensity that could be wondrous even sublime if one were in the right frame of mind.
But it was a land stolen by heathens and infidels who had driven the one true church from the holy lands. They had overrun and plundered the ancient sacred sites. Their Sultans had denied Christian pilgrims permission to journey to Nazareth and Jerusalem.
Pope Urban II called upon the knights and princes of the west. He exhorted them to respond. The birthplace of Christianity had been usurped, their churches desecrated by barbarians. An army must be formed, a holy legion and the region brought back to the bosom of Christ our Lord. This Christian army must march to the holy lands and liberate the Holy Sepulcher as well as the territories conquered by the infidels. It was a holy war of restitution and salvation. It was a spiritual quest: a crusade for Christ. The princes and knights responded, forming armies of enthusiastic and fervent soldiers, ready and anxious to leave Europe for the east and their spiritual reward. But the only incentive the crusaders really needed was sharing the earthly rewards from the spoils of this holy war.
They were the crusaders of Christ. Kings and Emperors led them into battle. Their flag was the white cross. Their password was Jerusalem. The quest was “Deus lo volt”, the will of God. There were so many crusades they had to be numbered.
Under the leadership of Robert of Normandy, the armies of the Christian west moved east. The Sultan of Rum and the Seljuk Turks were defeated and Byzantium reclaimed. The Papacy proclaimed the victories substantiated the righteousness of the crusades. There were the victories of Godfrey of Bouillon, Baldwin of Flanders, Bohemund of Tarentum, Christian princes under the auspices of the papal legate, Bishop Adhemar.
The papacy reached the pinnacle of its power. Its influence stretched from England to Byzantium. Meanwhile in the holy lands, the crusaders were struggling to establish and hold a fragile beachhead along the Mediterranean coast. There were immense losses conquering Jerusalem and Antioch only to lose them back to the Moslem infidels within a few years.
The blood ebbed and flowed as Christian and Islamic tides on the beaches of the holy land.
The Emperor Frederick I of Barbarossa had placed himself at the head of the third crusade. He swept eastward with his crusading warriors. There were victories at Iconium, Famagusta, Tyre and Hatten.
Other worldly princes made their own pilgrimages to the holy lands. Richard the Lion Hearted first sailed to Sicily. Offended by the King, he conquered Messina and then returned it for 40,000 ounces of gold. Having ensured profitability, Richard joined forces with Philip Augustus, King of France. Along the way they conquered Cyprus. Finally they reached the holy lands, meeting up with the Emperor’s forces and conquered Acre, Tyre and Jaffa.
Much had been gained. But there had been losses. Emperor Frederick had drowned in the river Saleph just after his greatest triumph at Iconium. His son, Duke Frederick, was killed less than a year later.
The papal envoys spoke of eternal salvation, peace and happiness for the dead martyrs. Their blood now one with the blood of Christ. Their souls carried to heaven by the heavenly hosts. The heavenly hosts were very, very busy. Hundreds of thousands of people, men, women and children, both Moslem infidels and crusading Christians died fighting for their Gods.

Now he wondered. If they had known they would die on the crusade, would they have gone? If he knew he was going to die on this crusade, would he have gone?

He was Avi, one of King Richard’s horsemen, a lieutenant in the Order of Knights. He was to be going home soon. King Richard had secured the armistice with Salidan. Jerusalem was opened for pilgrimages, some of the lost lands re conquered, the power of Christianity restored. There were no more battles to fight for now. Avi was part of a small contingent of soldiers going to Acre to rendezvous with Richard. There was talk he had secured payment of 200,000 gold pieces, 1600 selected prisoners and the restoration of the True Cross. Soon they would head home to enjoy the rewards of their victory.
Avi of All was chosen among the Knight Crusaders to be the bearer of the Holy Lance. The lance used to spear Christ on the cross. The Holy Lance that had been recovered in the first crusade and brought back to Rome. It had been entrusted to him by the Pope himself to bring it back to Rome after the third crusade’s triumphal undertaking had been accomplished and all the heathens were dead or Christians.
Less than 10 yards away, awkwardly lumbering towards him through the shifting sands was Ame of Ome, fellow knight and closest friend. A friendship that had its beginning back in England fighting for the Lion Heart. They had been through much together, sharing the battles and the years There had been no question in their minds that following Richard on the crusades was part of their destiny.
A destiny that they never imagined included their death.
That Avi might die, that he might not return to France and his hometown of All was unimaginable, inconceivable to him. Yet many had already died. He thought of the deaths and he realized he hadn’t really thought about it. His feelings were covered by his limited thinking. Superficially, yes, deaths were to be expected in any war. They were part of the price that had to be paid for these kinds of affairs. He didn’t feel the blood flowing into the shifting sands, the bones becoming dust in the heat and the hopes and dreams dying in the sun and blown away in the wind. He hadn’t felt he or Ame might be one of those deaths. He never thought they might be among them, the martyred crusading messengers of the teachings of Christ.
They had delivered foes into his jaws and felt exultance and satisfaction. They had lost friends and felt sorrow and grief. They had seen death take loved ones, members of their family, blameless children and mothers dying to give birth. They had felt pain and loss, rage and frustration. They had felt impotence and helplessness before this mysterious, implacable enemy: death. They had felt guilt and shame, revulsion and fear. They had cried out when the hand of death ripped a loved one from them. Death had made them feel many things.

But the feelings of men have nothing to do with the feeling of death.

Death was a stranger to them. They didn’t understand the meaning of death, the immanence of death, the power of death, the fear of death. They didn’t understand death’s finality or know life’s impermanence. They had no appreciation for death’s purpose in being.
Now for the first time they felt death in their presence, moving towards …

The attack had come quickly, unexpectedly. The bandits rose up from the dunes around us. I don’t know how many there were. They formed a vast circle around us. Arrows rained down from the sky. Chaos and screams. Animals and men, startled, flesh pierced by arrows, became wild beasts battling for survival. In full armor, we were thrown from our steeds. Then the arrows came more deliberately. Blood and sand mingled. I had been lucky. I looked around. Bodies of animals and men lay around assuming grotesque positions in the sand. Ame was less than ten yards away, moving towards me. Slowly it dawned on me, we were the last. Those without armor were helpless and now dead. Swords and knives useless against an enemy that stayed out of reach. The arrows relentlessly, mercilessly cutting them down.
But we had survived. The arrows were clanging vainly against the riveted plates of impenetrable metal. We were safe for the moment. The arrows were useless against an armored knight. But armor is equestrian not pedestrian. Assets carry liabilities. I slipped in the sand. I felt better as an arrow thudded harmlessly off my back. I panicked as I started to fall over from the impact, hurting my arm. My leg was slow in moving, the sand and the weight of my soleret and greaves made me feel like I was under water. Ame and I had to get back to back quickly. Individually we were vulnerable. Enough of them could overwhelm us and knock us over. We would die like insects, like cockroaches. Ponderously we moved around each other trying to get into position. It was slow moving. The weight, the sand, the heat of the sun conspired against us.
Tank-like we moved towards each other.
Fortunately the bandits didn’t move, probably frightened by our armor. The arrows were coming with less frequency but greater accuracy. At a safe distance they searched for a weakness in our armor. They aimed for our eyes, they aimed for our joints. But the suits had been designed well. Metallic brows covered the openings from above so hot oil and arrows raining from above would find no way in. Critical surfaces were convex or concave depending on location and the best way to deflect the enemies weapons. The finest metal and chain mail, tempered, then held together with hardened rivets. For centuries the armorers had been crafting the suits, improving them as each weakness was discovered. The scarred and dented metal skin was testimony to the blows we had endured..

Immobile, standing back to back in their reflective, impenetrable armor, the two crusaders stood stoically, desperately, as the arrows continued to rain down on them. Their human vulnerability protected by the metallic armor.

Avi, rigid, expectant, full of emotion stood silently with the Holy Lance clutched in one glove, and his shield in the other. His family’s crest was emblazoned on the shield’s face for enemies to ponder and fear: a white rose and a bright red heart, the rose’s stem curling around the heart, curling as you might put your arm around someone you love. And on each thorn a tiny drop of blood.
Behind him stood Ame. In his right gauntlet was Borkan, the sword given to his family by Merlyn the Magician. Made by the makers of Stonehenge, Merlyn said it would last forever. A sword to be used in the war between good and evil. Merlyn knew the future held many more of that war’s battles, that it was a war that would last until the end of time.
Ame had carried his shield as long as he could with his wounded left arm, but the weight had eventually been too much. He had dropped it. He needed all his strength just to move across the sand. The shield lay facing the cloudless blue sky overhead. Sand was already blowing across the shield. Soon it would cover the crest of the house of Ome: a bright yellow sun and from above, striking at its core, almost splitting it in two, was a black bolt of lightning.

Unexpectedly the arrows stopped. Avi looked out through the slots in the beaver of the helmet. The bandits weren’t moving. There was no motion, no sound except the beating of his heart inside the armor. Everything seemed frozen. A kind of wild irrational fear came out of nowhere and possessed him. With immense effort he turned and looked to the sides. No movement. Nothing. They didn’t advance. They just stood there. He moved back and the fear subsided as he felt the dull thud of contact with Ame. He took a deep breath and calmed down. Then he noticed. He felt a chill inside of himself. He was sinking, sinking into the sand.

An armored grain of sand in a perverse kind of hourglass.

He looked down. The sand was up to the middle of his greaves. It was only a matter of time before he would disappear. He struggled to lift his leg. Movement was becoming impossible. He’d better do something. He yelled out: “I’m sinking.” The words reverberated inside his suit. From off in the distance he heard Ame’s faint words: “I am, too.”
Avi moved his mouth as close to the face plate as he could and yelled to Ame: “Turn around. Turn around.” Lifting a leg meant lifting a foot of sand. Each movement took an eternity. Exert, rest, another push, another rest. His wounds opened up, he could smell his own blood. The cuts stung as salty sweat dribbled through them. Perspiration blinded him inside his armored haven.

The savage bandits stood frozen watching the slow motion movements of the metal men.

Avi was burning up, heat radiating from his flesh then reflected back by the armor, making him still hotter. Sweat poured out of his body in a desperate attempt to stop the rising heat. Humidity filled the air. Steamy, hot sweat. Trapped inside his suit, Avi experienced hell. Everything good, everything that had protected him in the past had suddenly turned against him. His armor, instead of providing security, had been transformed into a death trap. He felt that God had forsaken him. Jesus’s last words echoed in his mind. He felt utterly alone and powerless, trapped by man eating sands.

The bandits didn’t move or speak. In an instant their role went from attacking protagonists to passive audience, witnesses of a drama that didn’t include them. No longer participants they were transfixed by the spectacle before them.

The next thing Avi knew, he and Ame were facing each other. In turning around they had somehow reached the surface. When they stopped struggling they began to sink again. Soon they couldn’t see their feet as the sand covered their solerets.

“We have to get out of the suits!” Ame yelled as he slid his sword into the scabbard on the side of his suit. He was going to need his good arm.
“The barbarians will shoot us down” Avi responded.
“We’ll die in the suits.”
“We’ll die without the suits.”

Silence.

“We can stand on my shield!” Avi shouted.
“What good will that do?” Ame said.
“We won’t sink.”
“It’s just delaying the inevitable.”
“We must try.”

The air of expectancy collapsed as nothing changed.
Exasperation was heard as each stopped straining against the impossible.

“I can’t do it, I can’t lift my foot at all.” said Ame. The sound of sadness and resignation echoed in his voice. “I’m sorry, do what you can, don’t worry about me.” Ame’s words trailed off into the wind. Ame looked over but all he could see was the top of Avi’s head through the beaver on his helmet.
Slowly Avi looked up and out at Ame.
They looked at each other.
They said nothing. There was nothing to say.
He felt an immense love rise up in himself and flow to Ame. He looked out, then from out of Ame’s eyes he saw himself, felt that same love. Back and forth, inside each other, inside the other, he felt the changes, the memories, feelings, sensations, thoughts, dreams and fears, but always there, constant and unchanging was that love whether he was aware of it or not but somehow making everything right. And that love, that joy of being and becoming washed away all that was detrimental, unreal and unnecessary in them.

The sand was up to their hips.

Still transfixed by the spectacle, the bandits were drawn closer to stage. Wordlessly they approached, surrounding the armor clad knights. No one made a sound. Finally their leader stepped forward. Avi felt the chief barbarian’s tentative hand on his pauldron.

Avi looked over at Ame, free to wonder what new drama was going to unfold.

Emboldened, the leader reached for Avi’s half buried lance, Avi’s hand securely on the butt. The bandit king strained to pry Avi’s gauntlet off the handle. It was more than a battle of strength, it was a battle of wills. The immovable hand holding the Holy Lance met the irresistible force of the barbaric fist of Death.

If I am going to be buried here, by God, the lance is going to be buried with me, Avi thought decisively. It was as if the lance had become a part of him. A feeling of irrevocable finality and resolution filled him. The barbarian’s grip weakened and he let go.
The bandit king’s attention moved to the sword in Ame’s scabbard. Like a lightning bolt Ame’s good right arm ricocheted off Avi’s chest plate and blasted the startled barbarian’s hand aside as he reached for the hilt of the precious sword.

The king of the bandits backed off uncertain about what to do. His eyes were searching for clues as they wandered over the scene. He paused hoping for a solution, searching for what to do, looking for some indication from somewhere, in the sky, in the sand, anywhere. His gaze focused on Ame, then on Avi. Both saw the barbarian leader’s frustrated, probing eyes, eyes that were asking for help.
His followers watched in anticipation. They watched as their king struggled to claim the lance and then gave up. They had seen the metal man’s arm move like thunder and lightning, grasping the handle knocking their leader aside. And they watched the metal men as they sunk helplessly deeper into the sand. They felt awe at these strangers.
They saw their king was shaken, vulnerable, uncertain, his will challenged and tested twice. His will and dominance had made him their king. His invulnerability made them invulnerable. His failure would make him vulnerable, would invite challengers. His leadership was at stake.
Suddenly the leader stood up, he turned and looked at his followers. He walked around the two half buried knights watching them slowly sinking into the sands. Avi and Ame watched as he looked directly at every follower, right into their eyes, right into their hearts. And they felt fear, each follower wincing at their leader’s unwavering, probing eyes, before turning away.
It was a victory of sorts for the leader, but he knew it would not be enough to maintain power, to maintain control. The ambitious ones would remember the lance and the sword. Their gossip would eat at the edifice of invulnerability that surrounded him and kept him on top. He needed to do something more.
He turned towards the two knights. Kneeling he grasped the top of Avi’s half-buried shield, the rose and heart barely visible above the sand, and pulled. Avi tightened his grip. The shield didn’t budge. The leader strained again. Nothing. The tension was building. In desperation he peered in the eyeslots at Avi, beseeching him, admitting his helplessness. Avi paused and compassion mixed with a feeling of sublime absurdity at the unfolding drama. Then he sighed and nodded obligingly, releasing the shield. Relieved, the bandit king acknowledged the favor. Then in a grand gesture he triumphantly pulled the shield from the sand. Standing up, he raised it above his head for all his men to see. A cheer erupted from his followers. There was bedlam.

Avi and Ame were up to their gorgets in sand.

The leader signaled for silence. His words filled the desert around him. “This shield contains the power of the metal men. It is mine now. I have taken it from them.” He paused to let the words sink in. “This day will live in the tales of storytellers for centuries to come.” He paused again and looked over at Avi and Ame. “We will leave the metal men to their fate. Let the sands consume them. It is the will of Allah. It is my will. Let us go.”
Within a few minutes, the shifting sands had obliterated even the footprints of the barbarians.
Avi and Ame looked at each other. The wind was blowing sand into their visors, blowing harder, obscuring their vision until neither could see the other. They closed their eyes as the sandstorm raged outside. Soon they would be covered. Exhausted and numbed they slipped slowly into unconsciousness.
The light of dawn awakened them. A sliver of the sun had pierced the desert sky. Through their visors they looked at each other, then down.
The tide of sand had retreated during the night. Avi raised his arms and removed Ame’s helmet, followed by his own. Then they climbed out of their suits and stood as men on the sands of the desert at dawn.
The day seemed somehow sublime.