The Last Emir

by S. J. A. Turney

  Saturday, 5 June 1199

  Al-Bulānsa was not what Arnau had expected. For some reason, it being the town upon which they had been focusing since leaving Mahón, he had assumed it to be some kind of thriving metropolis to rival that busy port city where they had first landed. In fact, this place was a small town, more resembling a village that had assumed ideas above its station than a town at all.

  Al-Bulānsa was a collection of white houses and a mosque that spread up the side of a slope, a small walled enclosure at the summit. There were no defensive walls around the town itself, suggesting to Arnau that this place was not ancient, but a more recent foundation of the occupying Moors. If it had no walls, then presumably it had never been under threat of attack.

  What he did appreciate about the place as they rode between lush, well-irrigated fields on the flat ground, was how clean and organised it looked. Even from a distance it was possible to tell how well tended the houses and streets were. As they passed from the surrounding agricultural land into the urban area, selecting one of the less winding streets that marched on up the hill into the centre, that impression grew stronger.

  Al-Bulānsa had been carefully planned and lovingly built, and clearly its inhabitants took pride in their town. As the two men moved into the heart of the place, they passed from blocks of residential housing clustered around small courtyards and into a mercantile area with bakeries and butchers and all the typical shops of a small town, though all were currently closed or unmanned, likely due to the time of day and the heat.

  ‘Where are we going?’ Arnau whispered, close to Balthesar and confident that his voice would go entirely unheard amid the town’s ambient noise and the fact that all the ears in this street were inside their houses and stores, out of the midday sun.

  Balthesar nodded. ‘We make for the souk – the central market. There I can seek information as to any route towards Alaró that does not use the main roads across the island, and I can collect supplies for the journey also.’

  ‘Try not to buy fish this time.’

  The older knight rolled his eyes. ‘Your task is to hold the horses at the edge of the souk and wait in silence for me to return with plans and supplies.’

  With a sigh, Arnau nodded and fell quiet once more. If only he had at least a smattering of Arabic, then perhaps he might not have had to play the mute. He resolved that when they returned to Rourell, he would spend whatever time he could find in trying to learn the tongue of the infidel. It could only be useful. Perhaps Balthesar would agree to teach him.

  The souk came upon them quickly, the street leading to a wide square which radiated other roads. This was bordered to the east by the frontage of a small mosque and madrasah religious school up a low flight of steps and, to the north, at the top of the slope, by the walls of the enclosure patrolled by the men of the Emir of Mayūrqa.

  Red awnings had been slung across the streets leading up to the square, and also across much of the square itself, tied to surrounding buildings or poles planted in the ground for that very purpose. It looked shady and inviting in the summer heat and, despite the practice of keeping inside during the hottest part of the day, the souk was thriving in the cool shadow of the awnings. Men, women and children manned their stalls or shuffled around between them, purchasing their everyday goods. Likely half the population of surrounding towns and villages were here for the market.

  As they reached the edge of the great square they dismounted, and the older knight threw Arnau his reins, wandering across to a fruit stall – all the near ones seemed to sell fruit – and engaging in a brief barter with the owner. A moment later he returned and proffered a large piece of watermelon, which Arnau took with relish. The older man gave a single nod and left him, wandering across into the souk.

  Reasoning that Brother Balthesar would be some time making his enquiries and purchases, the young sergeant found a post where three awnings met and tied the reins of both horses to it, testing it first to make sure it was secure. He then looked around and located a large square stone close by that formed the rear of a decorative fountain, and sank onto it gratefully, beginning to tuck into his melon. The cold juicy fruit was a balm in the steaming heat of a Mayūrqan summer day, and he found that despite his ever-present feeling that they were following a pointless quest, and his ongoing enforced silence, he was actually comfortable and currently enjoying himself.

  As he ate, he paid attention to the souk and its populace. This was a relatively rural area still, and he was sure that many of the stall owners had come from the local farms with their produce, rather than being merchants from the town who traded in the goods of other providers. The people seemed pleasant and content. All the stalls in this part of the square sold fruit and produce, but he could see the stalls of bakers close by, and in the other direction housewares and rugs. The souk seemed chaotic, a riot of colour and noise, but clearly it was far more organised than it at first appeared.

  Lifting his gaze, he scanned the crowd for Brother Balthesar but could see nothing of him, for he was lost in the throng. He would be somewhere in the middle, presumably, for that was the direction in which he had gone. A man wearing a long white robe of light cotton with a simple white skullcap appeared from a road just to Arnau’s left and began to move through the heart of the souk. Possibly the imam – the Moorish priest – he reasoned from the simplicity of the garb and the fact that the crowd parted respectfully to allow him passage. This suspicion seemed confirmed a few minutes later when the man climbed the three steps up to the mosque and entered the dark aperture in the wall.

  Idly, Arnau thought on what was likely about to happen. He knew little of the Moors’ religious observances. They had a rigid prayer schedule, he knew, a lot like the liturgy of the hours back home, based upon the time somehow, perhaps the position of the sun. Five times each day, he seemed to remember hearing, they were called to their prayers. He found himself wondering with interest whether it was compulsory. Did everyone have to drop what they were doing and rush to the mosque? Or just stop and pray where they were? Was there some kind of dispensation for those engaged in important tasks? He’d often wondered that about Sundays at home. It was forbidden for the majority of folk to work on the Lord’s Day, and yet somehow the Church had managed to make exceptions for priests and for the poor, apparently. He tried to picture this chaotic market grinding to a halt as everyone faced east and said their prayers, and somehow the image was amusing, bringing forth a light chuckle.

  A chuckle that died in his throat.

  His eyes had risen once more to those steps before the mosque just as a figure emerged from that darkened doorway, but this was no imam.

  The Lion of Alarcos seemed somehow to dominate the world around him, filling the scene. He virtually radiated power. And menace, though Arnau was perceptive enough to admit that was perhaps only to him. The shock at the sight of the man jolted him and he felt cold suddenly despite the heat.

  Why was he shocked, though? On some subconscious level, he’d been at least half expecting it. Balthesar had suggested that the Almohad lord would have spent the previous night here with his men, and yet the two Templars had blithely walked into Al-Bulānsa as though nothing could be amiss.

  Jesus, Mary and all the saints, why had they not waited a day or two to allow the Almohads to go on elsewhere about their business? It was not as if their wild goose chase was an affair with a time limit, after all.

  Suddenly alert, he focused on the man on the mosque steps. The Almohad lord looked calm, relaxed, his thumbs tucked into his sword belt. What was he up to? What was he doing here? Arnau saw the man nod, once, and turned, scouring the area the man had been facing.

  Two of the Almohad soldiers in their severe black-and-white garb stood at the edge of the souk, not a long way from Arnau. With a sinking feeling he looked about again, this time focusing not on the souk and its occupants, but on the periphery and the streets leading off it. Sure enough he spotted three more groups of the monochrome Almoh
ads, including one in the gateway to the fortified enclosure atop the hill, where other local guards in green patrolled the wall top.

  While it was still possible, though growing less plausible all the time, that this third encounter was yet another coincidence, it did not escape Arnau’s notice that the positioning of the Almohads looked an awful lot like a noose, prepared to tighten, with Balthesar at the centre.

  How could they have known, though? How could they have guessed that the two Christians were here? And if they had known enough to follow them across the water, why had they slipped past the fishing boat last night and not simply confronted them then? Logic still suggested this was mere chance, but the likelihood of this sort of thing happening three times suggested otherwise, as did the worrying positioning of the troops.

  Arnau began to panic. He had no idea where Balthesar was, other than somewhere in the centre of the souk. He couldn’t see the man and, given that the two of them were wearing poor Moorish clothes and so were more than half the market, the chances of spotting him were small.

  Should he move? Indecision surged through him. If they were tightening a noose on the souk, and they knew Balthesar was there, then every moment now counted. If not, he might be better served staying with the horses so that the older knight could find him easily. But what use would that be if the Templar was grabbed by Almohad soldiers somewhere in the market?

  What to do?

  Lead us not into temptation, he reminded himself from the oldest of prayers, forcing himself to calm down and not leap into trouble. But deliver us from evil, he added, which suggested perhaps he should do something about the growing danger.

  His decision fell into place a moment later as he saw the Lion of Alarcos drop a hand to rest on his sword’s pommel. It could so easily be an innocent gesture. It could also be a signal. To his left, two Almohad soldiers began to move forward into the souk.

  So be it, he finished the prayer in traditional form and, ignoring the horses, who were beginning to become bored and restless tethered to a post with no water or grass, he cast the melon rind into a gutter and moved off into the crowded market. His hand fell to his sword hilt, drawing looks of concern and disapproval from several of those calm citizens he passed.

  Having lost his vantage point on the stone at the edge of the souk, he was now effectively blind to the danger. He could no longer see that noose of black-and-white-clad soldiers, who might very well be closing in even now. He caught occasional glimpses of their lord, still standing on the steps at the mosque and surveying the market with interest.

  His panic rose. He could feel it now, in his blood and his bones. They were in danger. Grave danger. He had to find Balthesar and get him out of here. Clearly it was the old knight that had drawn the Almohad lord’s eye back in Mahón, not Arnau, but that was immaterial. The sergeant had to help his brother out of danger.

  He moved into the area of carpet sellers, reasoning that Balthesar would be looking for a merchant rather than a local fruit farmer or the like. If he wanted to learn of less-used paths around the island, that information would more likely come from those who visited the market from other areas.

  He realised he was moving a little fast, almost jostling people out of the way now. His worry over Balthesar rose continually, and he was now leaving a few angry market folk in his wake. But he had no time for niceties. He spotted those two black-and-white-clad men who had moved in from the left. They were walking through the market with purpose.

  Arnau began to move even faster. The noose was clearly tightening. Somewhere in here the knight was in trouble, and probably didn’t even know it yet. Past more stalls now, raising angry shouts. Someone rattled something off at him in Arabic, trying to bar his way, and he ducked past the big man and into the stalls of the leather workers, noting in passing one with saddles. No time to stop and peruse now, though. His eyes were scanning each and every figure, trying to spot Balthesar.

  In fact, he found his fellow knight entirely by chance. Rounding a stall, he was looking off to his left when he walked straight into Brother Balthesar, who was hunched over a table of scrolls, each in graceful Arabic script and decorated with beautiful designs.

  Arnau swore momentarily and stepped back.

  ‘Balthesar!’

  ‘Quiet, you idiot.’

  ‘No, this is important. The Lion of Alarcos—’

  ‘Is standing on the steps. Yes. Thank you, Vallbona.’

  He rose, throwing his bag over his shoulder with difficulty in the press.

  ‘The horses,’ Arnau said, pointing in entirely the wrong direction. Balthesar began to move.

  ‘Do you never follow instructions?’ the older man demanded angrily as they shoved their way through the market.

  ‘But they are here. The Almohads. They—’

  ‘They had no idea where I was, even if they were looking for me, which I doubt. I was just another customer bent over a stall. I would have been near impossible to find if a young man who’s going to get a wallop later hadn’t pushed through the crowd, leaving a very noticeable wake, and drawn attention to me.’

  Arnau felt his heart lurch. It was true. That was exactly what he’d done. He had very clearly pinpointed Balthesar’s position and even identified him by name. He felt sick. Perhaps the Almohads had been here entirely coincidentally, but now they would know.

  His wild eyes scanned his surroundings as they moved, and he was dismayed to see the Almohad lord on the steps was now very animated, pointing and waving. His men would be attempting to converge on them.

  ‘What do we do?’

  ‘We run, you fool.’

  Ducking around stalls and keeping low, Balthesar moved up the gentle incline, keeping to the areas of the souk where the stalls were slightly taller and more densely packed with goods, providing better cover. They rounded a leatherworker’s stall and Balthesar was suddenly gone, disappearing sharply to their left. Arnau started, for his attention had been on their surroundings and he’d not been prepared for the change in route. His heart pounded as he caught sight of one of the Almohad soldiers up ahead, with only half a dozen people blocking the way. The man roared something furious and gestured to some unseen friend before barging ordinary folk out of the way in an effort to reach Arnau.

  Feeling his panic rising, he pushed between two stalls where the older knight had passed moments earlier, and then felt his nerves rise yet another notch as he realised he had lost sight of the old man. Had he gone left or right? He could see no sign of him, and though he paused for a moment, he could hear nothing of Balthesar. The pursuing Almohad was all too close, and without time to think clearly, Arnau turned left and pushed on.

  Alone now, and in a rising state of alarm, he dodged between stalls as fast as he could, trying not to barge people out of the way or fall over anything. After three more stalls, he realised that he was descending the slight slope and cursed himself, remembering that the old man had been climbing. He’d turned the wrong way after all. He paused by an ironmonger’s stall and tried to get his bearings, but at that moment a black-and-white figure suddenly emerged from between two stalls. The Almohad seemed almost as surprised as Arnau, and, sword gripped in hand, opened his mouth to shout something. Instinctively, Arnau’s own hand jerked out, sweeping a large, black skillet from the stall and smashing it into the mailed face of the zealot warrior. He had probably done the man no real harm, thanks to the armoured veil, but the blow was a shock and knocked the man back, silencing him and sending him falling into a pile of pans. Arnau ran once more.

  Now he concentrated as best he could on the gradient, making sure he climbed as he ran. Two stalls further on, he turned a corner and almost yelped with relief at the sight of Balthesar peering left and right irritably. As the old man caught sight of Arnau, he beckoned and ran on. Arnau followed at speed, and moments later they burst from the crowd at the edge of the souk, surprisingly close to the horses. The two men ran over and pulled themselves up, untying the reins. From a mounted p
osition, they could now see black-and-white-clad soldiers moving towards them. Some were dangerously close. Others, at the edge of the market, were grasping the reins of their own horses.

  Balthesar tied his bag to the saddle and began to push through the crowd to a side street, the worried young sergeant right behind him.

  ‘Where can we hide?’

  ‘We can’t, you idiot. You just showed the whole of Al-Bulānsa that we speak Aragonese Spanish. That sort of identifies us as a likely enemy. Word will be spreading faster than we can ride. There will be nowhere to hide in the town within minutes. We have to leave, and fast.’

  Chastened and red-faced with shame, Arnau kicked his own horse into speed and raced off after the older brother, who had cleared the press of people and was now hurtling off up a side street that curved north and east, climbing the slope.

  ‘Where are we going?’ shouted Arnau.

  ‘Into the mountains,’ the older brother bellowed back.

  They crested the hill and Arnau could see now that the street straightened as it descended. Most of the town was built on the hill’s southern slope, and this northern descent was shorter. After perhaps two dozen houses, it petered out into green fields again, with an extensive olive grove on the edge. His sharp eyes picked out a defile that was almost certainly a river or stream running along the edge of town and an ancient arched bridge that carried this road across it. His heart rose into his throat as he realised that the bridge was not unattended. Two soldiers in green – local men, seemingly, like the ones he’d seen on the walls at the summit – stood to one side of the bridge, spears in hand, looking bored.

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  Balthesar threw him a withering look that made his cheeks burn hotter. ‘Later,’ was all the older man said.

  Peril, though, was following them that day, for as Arnau began to feel that perhaps they were almost safe, two mounted figures in black and white emerged from a side street ahead of them.

  ‘What now?’ gasped Arnau.