Pierre Boulat

In the footsteps of the Crusaders

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They were tattooed with bloody crosses in the middle of their foreheads and carried the cross of Christ between their shoulders. At the cry of “God willing!” they slaughtered their enemies, roasted Turkish spies and, when too hungry, ate corpses.

“They” were the Crusaders. Paris from Flanders, the kingdoms of France, Germany and Italy, to deliver the tomb of Christ. It took them three years to reach the end of the road. Three years of exhaustion, of misery, of constantly renewed hope. Three years of the most insane trials. And we don’t know how many made it.

But when, at the end of their journey, they finally discovered Jerusalem, the capital promised to all, they felt they had reached the end of themselves, at the junction of the land of men and the kingdom of heaven.

Then these barbarians, struck by emotion, fell with arms in the air. The West had just been born.

If some adventures have their share of the sublime, then this one has its own. This great Western is one of those epics that founded civilizations.