At the foot of the Mosque's steps, Oliver knelt in the dust, his hands bound behind his back. The ropes cut deep into his flesh, and blood slowly seeped down his forearms. His knees were raw, the blood soaking into the dirt, but his spine remained straight, like a long spear that would break before it bent.
His armor had long been stripped away, leaving him in nothing but a tattered surcoat. The cross on it was so covered in dust and grime that its color was nearly invisible.
His mouth was bruised, and a deep gash marked his forehead. Dried blood had formed dark scabs along his temples.
His face was pale, but his gaze remained fierce, like a wounded wolf that would rather die fighting than show a hint of weakness before its enemy.
Surrounding him was a crowd of furious Eastern Orthodox. The Greeks, Syrians, and Armenians of Damascus had faces etched with grief and hatred, their trembling fingers pointing at the Knight who had murdered their loved ones the day before.
