The Templar Inheritance

by Mario Reading

  Hartelius watched as the man spoke closely to his commander, indicating with one arm the Templars’ position, which, now the dust had largely settled, was clear for everyone to see.

  The man in the blue thawb listened intently to his subordinate. Then he broke away from him and spurred his horse onwards until the animal came to a halt ten feet from where Hartelius was standing.

  ‘Assalamu alaikum wa rahmatullah wa barakatuhu – may the mercy, peace and blessings of Allah be upon you.’

  Hartelius loosed the burnous from around his face. ‘Wa’alaikum salam wa rahmatullah wa barakatuhu – and may the peace, mercy and blessings of Allah be upon you too.’

  ‘Ah,’ said the man, with a half smile on his face. ‘It is Johannes von Hartelius of Sanct Quirin, is it not? I thought to find you here.’

  Hartelius took a further hesitant step towards the mounted figure. He craned his head forwards and raised one hand to shade his eyes against the dust-laden sunlight entering through the entrance to the cave.

  Then he threw back his head and laughed. He repeated the salute he had seen the Saracen soldier give his commander a few seconds before, ending with the very same flourish over the forehead which he knew was the Muslim equivalent of saying ‘I place you in an exalted position over my eyes’.

  ‘Amir Maan Ibn Fakhr-al-Din, of Baakleen, in the Chouf. I salute you.’

  TWENTY

  At the Amir’s suggestion, Hartelius ordered his Templars to set up the princess’s pavilion in a far corner of the cave, so that she and her handmaiden would not be subject to the gaze of his Saracen warriors.

  ‘They are not accustomed to seeing uncovered women outside the home, Commander. It is wiser to be discreet.’

  Hartelius sat across from the Amir on a series of carpets laid upon the floor of the cave. Outside, the Khamsin was still raging, but inside all was peace. The horses – both those of the Templars and those of the Saracens – were tethered down by the underground lake, and the two forces, thirteen on the one hand and somewhere close to a hundred on the other, had split up and were hunched over their individual campfires, the tendrils of smoke joining together twenty feet over the soldiers’ heads, before being swept towards the cave entrance by invisible currents of air.

  ‘And your wound?’ said Hartelius. ‘It was in your upper back, if I recall?’

  ‘Your administration of moss was most effective. I had no infection. Haly Abbas would have been proud of you.’

  ‘Haly Abbas?’

  ‘Ali ibn al-’Abbas al-Malusi. He wrote the Kitab al-Maliki. The Complete Book of the Medical Art.’

  ‘Ah. I am flattered.’

  ‘You should be.’

  The two men looked at each other for a long time, drinking in each other’s faces. Hartelius was the first to break the silence.

  ‘You said “I thought to find you here” after you first spoke my name. What did you mean by that?’

  ‘Can you not guess?’

  ‘I would rather you told me.’

  A servant provided water for both men to wash their hands in, and towels with which to dry themselves. Dates were brought, and sweetmeats rolled in honey. Mint tea was served, with the teapot held high above the beakers so that the tea would cool slightly between the spout and the receptacle.

  Each man took his tea with the right hand, looking the other in the eye. When the third cup was finished, the Amir clapped his hands together, and one of his Saracens appeared leading Hartelius’s stallion.

  ‘You don’t mind, I hope? I needed very much to look at him. His father is dead, you see. Killed beneath me three weeks after I left you in that hidden valley where you tended to my wound. I wept long and hard over his body. His was the greatest loss I have ever encountered. Worse even than the loss of my own father, who was a wayward man. To this day I often awaken at night imagining I am riding Antar into battle.’

  ‘He was a mighty horse.’

  ‘He was my soul. He was my heart.’

  ‘And yet you offered to give him to me?’

  ‘You gave me my life. He was my life. The gift was appropriate.’ The Amir looked at Hartelius’s stallion, his eyes travelling over every inch of the horse. After a while he stood up. He turned to Hartelius. ‘May I touch him?’

  ‘Of course.’

  The Amir ran his hands across the flanks, then down along the belly and over the hindquarters of the stallion. Then he moved up to the neck and head. He turned his back to the horse, and allowed the stallion to rest his head on the shoulders of his robe. Then he rubbed the horse’s chest with both his hands while the horse idly plucked at his besht with its teeth. ‘He is exactly like his father. Exactly. I prayed so many times to Allah that Antar would be prepotent. For I must tell you this, Hartelius. Your stallion is his only son. His only descendant. I held Antar back from knowing mares while we were at war, thinking that this would weaken him. In this way he was forced to find your mare for himself, while I was injured. I have always regretted my presumption.’

  ‘Have you a mare you would like covered?’ said Hartelius. ‘More than one, perhaps? If so, Gadwa will be happy to oblige.’

  ‘You call him Gadwa? An Arabic name?’

  ‘Yes. Because he was a gift. From God. And from you.’

  ‘Aah.’ The Amir closed his eyes and bowed his head. ‘In truth I have three mares I would like Gadwa to cover. They are my best girls. Beautiful beyond imagining. But they are back in the Chouf. I would be honoured, therefore, if you and the princess, and any of your knights who may wish to do so, would accept to be my guests in the Chouf for as long as you choose to grace the land of my birth with your presence.’

  Hartelius glanced towards the princess’s pavilion. ‘But to get to the Chouf we would have to return in the direction of Beirut, would we not? Which is towards Acre?’

  ‘This is true. But you would have the protection of my men along the way. And once in Baakleen I would be in a position to guarantee your safety for as long as you decide to reside with me and share my hospitality. No one would dare molest you there.’

  ‘So you know from whom we are fleeing?’

  The Amir laughed. ‘The entire Outremer coast from Gaza to Antioch knows from whom you are fleeing. The tyrant, von Drachenhertz, has offered a reward for your head and for the return of his intended bride of ten thousand Fatimid dinars. Gold that he no doubt plundered from our people during the Siege of Acre. This man is a monster. Second only to Raynald of Châtillon in the annals of infamy. But ten thousand gold dinars is enough to turn any man’s head. Three days’ ride from here, in a pass near the Crac de l’Ospital, the Assassins already await you. They know there is no other way for you to travel. That you must traverse this pass in order to reach the Hospitallers’ redoubt.’

  ‘So even the direction we are going is known about?’

  ‘It seems so.’

  ‘And you? Is our meeting happenstance?’

  ‘Nothing is happenstance, my friend. All is the will of God. And I wished very much to see your horse.’

  Hartelius sighed. He would get no more from the Amir. And further questions would embarrass both of them.

  ‘I cannot speak for the princess, Amir. But I suspect that I already know her answer, which I will confirm presently. My Templars and I accept your kind offer of hospitality. You have no objection to our bearing arms?’

  ‘None whatsoever. You are my guests. We are not at war. Perhaps the enforced proximity between our followers during this Khamsin, and later, when we ride for the Chouf, will serve as a lesson for them both?’

  Hartelius threw his head back and laughed. The Amir laughed with him. From all sides of the cave their men watched in awestruck silence.

  TWENTY-ONE

  ‘He is the one, isn’t he?’ The princess was watching the Amir through a gap in the entrance flap of her pavilion. ‘The one you told me about? The one whose life you saved?’

  ‘Yes. It is he.’

  The princess cocked her head to one sid
e and narrowed her eyes. ‘And he tells you he only came to see your horse?’

  ‘Yes. That is what he says.’

  ‘But you know he really came to save us?’

  ‘Yes. Without a doubt.’

  ‘How do you know this?’

  ‘Because I know him as I know you. Totally. More completely, even, than I know myself. In here.’ Hartelius struck himself above the heart with his clenched fist.

  The princess shook her head in wonder. ‘Men. I will never understand them. Why does everything between you have to be unsaid?’

  Hartelius grinned. ‘Because all our words are kept for you women. Then, when the moment comes when men must talk between themselves, there are no words left to be shared. So we are forced to remain silent.’

  The princess stared at him, an unbelieving expression on her face. ‘Hah. I have heard such silences between men. They are filled with words. They ooze with words.’

  ‘Then I have been misinformed.’

  The princess struck Hartelius a glancing blow on the upper arm. ‘That is your punishment for teasing me.’

  Hartelius bowed his head. ‘I accept my punishment willingly.’

  ‘Good. It is only your just dessert. I wish, though, that you would not wear chainmail when I need to punish you. See? I have hurt myself.’

  Hartelius took the princess’s hand in his and kissed her knuckles, one by one. ‘Is that better?’

  ‘Yes. That is better. Much better. Now tell me more about your friend. Not suppositions. Facts.’

  Hartelius composed himself. But it was hard. He dearly loved the games he and the princess played, and longed for their continuance. They were his recompense for a youth slipped out of too early and regretted. ‘The Amir is a chieftain or commander. You might even call him a prince. Someone exalted above other men.’

  ‘Why is such a man here? Patrolling this benighted desert?’

  ‘For many reasons. His main task will be to scout the lands beyond the thin strip of coast we Christians call our own. To make sure that no one encroaches on Muslim territory. He will have many spies to this purpose. He will know everything that goes on between Acre and Tortosa. I suspect that when he recognized my name, and subsequently heard that von Drachenhertz had put a bounty on my head, he would inevitably have wondered why. Later, perhaps, he might have heard tell of an unattached band of Templars riding through no-man’s-land. He would immediately have deduced who we are.’

  ‘So we are his hostages now? Is that what you are telling me? He will trade us for money?’

  ‘No. We are the Amir’s guests. He hopes to protect us from von Drachenhertz, whom he hates. Not sell us to him.’

  ‘Why does he hate him?’

  Hartelius gave an irritated shake of the head. ‘Because your monster of an intended husband raids the Silk Routes whenever the whim takes him. Because he tortures Muslims and forces them to renege on their faith. Because he acts like Raynald of Châtillon used to act before Saladin killed him. Personally. With his own sword.’

  ‘You sound as if you approve of what Saladin did.’

  ‘I do. All sides must strive to behave honourably in a war. Only that way will there be discipline in victory and magnanimity in defeat. Saladin spared Guy de Lusignan for this precise reason. To make a point to his men. That kings do not kill kings.’

  ‘But bestial things do happen. You have told me so yourself. Isn’t it true that Saladin ordered all Templar and Hospitaller knights he captured to be beheaded immediately?’

  ‘The exception proves the rule. We are all human. And all humans err when the heat of battle is upon them. Saladin believed us to be cultists who would never cease to make war against him in the Holy Land. He was right.’

  The princess closed the flap of her tent, effectively sealing them off from the outside world. She walked towards the area that contained her bedchamber. Without turning her head, she said, ‘Do you intend to sleep with your friend then, tonight, Hartelius? Or will you make an exception to your rule and sleep with me?’

  ‘Rule? What rule? I sleep with you every night.’

  The princess cast him a coquettish look over one shoulder. ‘So. I have your attention again, do I, Hartelius? Listen. You can moon over your new friend during the day, when you are both stinking of horses and ordering people about. But during the night you are mine. Do you understand me?’

  Hartelius was already pulling off his chainmail. ‘I understand you very well.’

  ‘Good. Ghislaine has drawn us both a bath with water from the lake. She has warmed the water over the fire and had her lover bring it in. I have given her permission to lie with him in my antechamber later tonight as recompense. I suspect that we will have little privacy on our ride to the Chouf. Might we not take advantage of the privacy we have now?’

  ‘Are you suggesting I stink of horses again and need a wash?’

  ‘That, and other things.’

  He ran after her and caught her up in his arms. She was already in the process of slithering out of her bliaut. ‘Hartelius, no.’

  ‘Hartelius, yes.’ He upended the princess and held her so that her head was just above the bathwater, with her hips on his shoulders and her legs scissoring around his head.

  ‘No. Hartelius. Have some decorum. I am a royal princess. I am with child.’

  Hartelius slapped her on the bottom. ‘I know. I made you so. But I feel a sudden urge to inspect for myself this extra merchandise you claim to be carrying.’

  TWENTY-TWO

  The hawk swung free from the Amir’s arm, her jesses trailing. She swept high into the desert air, soaring on the spirals of warm air burgeoning beneath her, her wings working tirelessly. The Amir, Hartelius and the Amir’s falconer watched her as if there was nothing more important in this world than the progress of a bird.

  When the hawk reached an altitude of five hundred feet, she hovered for a moment to take stock of her surroundings. It was then that she saw the crane.

  The falconer looked at his master and grinned. ‘She has seen him, Afandi.’

  The Amir nodded. ‘But he has seen her too. Look. He is veering off his course.’

  ‘Nevertheless. She will catch him, Afandi.’

  ‘No. He is too big for her.’

  ‘Not so, Afandi. She will take him from above, then tear him with her claws. He will have no chance.’

  ‘What do you think, Hartelius?’

  Hartelius shook his head. ‘I think we are about to receive a visit from the princess.’

  All three men turned in the direction Hartelius was indicating. Five of the Amir’s Saracens were already riding hard to cut the princess off and escort her safely towards the hawking party.

  ‘Is your princess a hunter then, Hartelius?’

  ‘All women are hunters, Amir. Look at your hawk. She is a female, is she not? And larger than the male of her species?’

  They laughed, and returned their attention to the hawk.

  The hawk was stooping towards the crane. The crane seemed absurdly lumbering compared to the extraordinarily mobile hawk, which twisted and turned through the air, constantly varying her direction, until she was thirty feet above her quarry, and ready to strike.

  Gradually, by increments, the crane had been descending all the time the hawk had been tailing him. Now he threw out his wings, just a few seconds before the hawk was due to strike him, and dropped like a stone towards the ground.

  The hawk hesitated, twisting in the air and turning a full circle – even flying for a moment on her back.

  The crane struck the earth, its limbs taking the full force of its descent, its wings stretching out to steady itself.

  The hawk, too, landed, and stood a few feet away from the crane, studying it, her head cocked to one side. The difference in their relative sizes was now clearly apparent.

  The Amir clapped his hands. He struck his falconer lightly on the arm with his riding crop. ‘The crane has outwitted your hawk. See. In the air, she is his master. On the
ground, he fears no enemies such as her.’

  The falconer shook his head. ‘But he dare not fly again, Afandi. He is locked onto the ground. If he attempts to take off she will kill him. He has no way of defending himself.’

  The princess pulled her horse up near to the Amir’s. She was wearing neither veil nor headdress. Von Szellen, who was accompanying her, shrugged his shoulders at Hartelius, as if to say, ‘What could I do? She is a princess.’

  ‘So,’ said the princess. ‘A stalemate, it seems.’

  The Amir bowed his head in acknowledgement. ‘It would seem so, Princess. At first glance, at least. Do you enjoy hawking?’

  The princess threw back her head and laughed. ‘I have been contained within the walls of a convent since the age of ten, Amir, and forced to attend only to matters that the mother superior felt were suitable for my limited female mind. Prayer and humility, in other words, alongside chastity, constancy and forbearance. My father, Frederick Barbarossa, took me hawking with him once when I was six years old, and I loved every moment of it. I have never had the opportunity again. When I saw you on the skyline during my early-morning ride, I decided I would invite myself to your hawking party. Please forgive my intrusion.’

  The Amir inclined his head. ‘It is no intrusion. I am delighted always to show off my hawks. And you are my honoured guest. No doors are closed to you.’

  ‘You are very kind.’ The princess allowed Hartelius to help her from the saddle. ‘May I ask what occurs next?’

  The Amir gave a half bow. ‘The crane has won by default. My falconer will lure the hawk back to his glove, and we will strike off in search of further prey. My hawk must taste blood this morning or I fear that she will leave us and look elsewhere for her entertainment.’

  ‘Is this what usually happens?’

  ‘No. My hawk would normally kill the crane with ease. That is the way of things. But this crane was exceptional. He out-thought the hawk. One would have expected him to use his wings. He used his brains instead. He chose the battleground. Turned the thing to his own advantage.’