The Last Emir

by S. J. A. Turney

  His finger tapped somewhere in the middle, and he moistened his lips. ‘There seems to have been some local debate over Saint Stephen. Remember that he was connected to Manûrqa, since that was where his miracles manifested. As such, he came to the attention of the Moorish conquerors. Saint Stephen has never been a popular figure with the Jews – remember that they stoned him for berating them – and their actions towards his worship in Mahón were harsh. It seems at least that one imam, the one assigned to this new mosque, lobbied for Stephen to be considered a nabī – a minor prophet in their religion. After all, though we Christians only regularly hear of Muhammad, there are many thousands of prophets respected in their faith, and few know them all. The thing is, miracles are one of the things that mark out a Moorish prophet, and so there was actually a surprisingly strong case for it.’

  ‘Fascinating,’ Arnau said, and meant it. ‘But what of the bone?’

  ‘I was coming to that,’ the old knight replied. ‘I can see no record of the relic being found or brought to Madina, but this very document records its placing in the new mosque at the bidding of the imam there, with the consent of the emir. It would appear that with the death of Father Lucas and the destruction of his hermitage, the bone of the blessed Saint Stephen disappeared from records for a century only to reappear in a mosque in Madina Mayūrqa.’

  ‘Can we find the mosque? Is it still here?’

  ‘Patience, young Vallbona. That question is very easily answered. Come.’

  With care and reverence, Balthesar rolled up the scroll once more and slipped the ribbon around it, tying it neatly before replacing it in the compartment in the rack. Satisfied that they had got what they sought, the pair left the office and strolled back to the main door. There they were given a brief search, cursory enough to remain polite, but thorough enough to determine that no scroll had been stolen from the archive. As soon as the guards were happy that all rules had been obeyed, the two names were marked in the ledger and their swords and bags returned.

  As Arnau fastened his sword belt around his middle, the grey-bearded brother gestured to one of the nearby clerks. What he asked, Arnau couldn’t translate, but it clearly included the name ‘masjid Al-balad’ and so the young sergeant presumed it to be an enquiry about the mosque.

  As they finished with their swords and shouldered their kit, one of the clerks sidling past them to escort them from Al-Mudaina, Balthesar smiled. ‘The road to the town of Manaqûr leads out of the city via a gate to the north-east. It is called the Al-balad gate. The mosque is nearby in an area of fields and orchards.’

  Arnau grinned. ‘Sounds idyllic. And a long way from here.’

  The two men followed their clerk guide through the warren of the palace and finally out into the courtyard. He was about to lead them out into the gardens when Balthesar engaged him in further conversation, steering him away, and instead they crossed towards that lesser servants’ entrance.

  As they turned, heavy footsteps suddenly drew Arnau’s attention. He turned along with the old knight and his heart thumped, his blood turning cold at the sight of the Lion of Alarcos at the top of the stairs beside which their own door had opened. The Almohad lord was accompanied by several of his veiled, monochrome henchmen, and a man in very expensive clothes beside him had two of the emir’s men at his shoulders. Arnau’s immediate thought that this must be the emir himself was quickly dashed as he realised that life was still going on around them, and not even the servants had stopped to bow. Still, he was plainly a figure of importance in the court to be attended by guards and escorting the Almohad nobleman.

  Balthesar cleared his throat meaningfully and turned his face away, subtly suggesting that Arnau do the same, but it was too late. The man at the top of the stairs had clearly seen them. Arnau registered surprise for a moment that the Lion of Alarcos did not simply bellow out orders for their death, and then realised that the Almohad could hardly initiate such a fight in his host’s own courtyard, especially with so many of the emir’s guards present.

  The struggle in the man’s face was fascinating. Despite clearly being prevented from having his men rush to detain the two scruffy figures below, his lips were moving, trying to force out the words regardless. He was patently almost willing to start a war with the emir just to get to Balthesar.

  ‘Come on,’ hissed the older knight, grasping Arnau by the shoulder and pulling him along. They followed the clerk across to the small postern door, where it was opened for them with a smile. As Balthesar thanked the man profusely and stepped out into the street, Arnau turned and looked back. The Lion of Alarcos was on the move. He had clearly made his excuses to the emir’s man and he and his soldiers were now trotting down the staircase in almost casual-seeming pursuit, trying to move fast yet without drawing too much suspicion from their hosts.

  ‘They’re following us,’ Arnau breathed as he himself stepped from the door.

  Behind them the door shut with a clonk; they heard two bolts sliding home and then, with barely a pause, a muffled shout and the sound of the bolts sliding open once more.

  ‘Run,’ Balthesar said, and Arnau did not need to be told twice. They disappeared around the edge of the mosque that stood beside the palace just as they heard the door slam open. Shouting echoed from the palace gate, but Arnau was too busy running to pay it a great deal of attention. He wondered for a moment if they could have simply hidden in the mosque and let the Almohads run past, but logic intervened. There were plenty of witnesses around watching them run. It would not be hard for the Lion and his men to follow the trail. Their only hope was speed and subtle evasion. Lose them, and lose them fast.

  Balthesar ran between the trees in a small square dotted with palms and at the far side jogged left into a street between shops selling all manner of wares. Arnau hurtled after him, leaping any goods that had been placed too far out into the street and running like a madman. At the bottom of the street the old knight turned left again, and Arnau followed once more. He could hear urgent shouting behind him, back up that last cluttered little commercial street, which proved how close the Almohads were on their trail.

  As they ran up this new street, Arnau suddenly realised they had come out of the palace in such a way that a left and a second left had sent them back towards the front wall of the Al-Mudaina once more. Had Balthesar planned on that, or was it the unhappy accident of running blind?

  ‘Quick,’ shouted the old knight, short of breath, and ducked in among those perfect gardens where many others were now strolling. As Arnau darted in behind him, Balthesar threw down his bag and ran on, yelling, ‘Drop your kit.’

  Arnau did so, though with no small regret, and the two men hurried past the next set of manicured hedges where the old man suddenly slowed to a sedate walk. As he did so, he brought up his hand with his ghifara hat that had been stuffed into his belt while they were inside the palace, and jammed it on his head. The transformation was simple but extraordinarily effective. In but a moment Balthesar went from a running, bare-headed man with a pack on his back to a strolling local in a traditional cap. Arnau noticed also that somehow during the run, the old man had managed to slip the sword beneath the folds of his off-white burnous. The sword was quite obvious if you were looking for it, but at first glance a passer-by would probably miss it.

  Balthesar had gone, to be replaced by an average local. Arnau immediately tried to hide his own sword but failed dismally, tangling it and getting his own burnous caught in the belt. Moreover, he had not thought to put his hat in his belt like the old man, but had stuffed it into his bag, which now lay on the ground back across the gardens.

  ‘Stop fidgeting,’ hissed Balthesar, and Arnau reluctantly left his sword hanging only half covered. The two men strolled through the gardens, and suddenly they heard a commotion behind them. The young sergeant almost turned to see what was going on, but stopped himself just in time. He could hear voices raised angrily in Arabic. Questions being bellowed. No answers forthcoming.

  Keep
ing his gaze locked on Balthesar in front and trying to move as casually as possible – and only now did he realise how difficult it was to walk casually on purpose – they moved out of the gardens and across the street. Arnau had wondered where they were going, but now he realised. Ahead sat the tavern where they had first rested, eating lemon mutton and watching the palace. The outer benches were still shunned by guests due to the blazing sun of midday.

  As they approached, the noisy commotion still going on behind them, seemingly heightened somewhat by the discovery of their kit bags, the innkeeper emerged from the door and greeted them cheerily. Arnau marvelled at his companion’s relaxed manner as Balthesar responded in kind and politely ordered tea and two more pastries before sliding back into his former seat. Arnau was about to sit next to him, but the older knight lifted his foot and pushed out the chair opposite. ‘Sit with your back to the square.’

  Arnau did so, obediently. They could hear the noise coming closer.

  ‘Do you remember the Arabic you learned these past few days?’

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘Then whenever I tap your left leg with my foot say something negative and banal, and when I tap your right, agree with me.’

  Arnau nodded.

  Balthesar began to expound on some unknown subject in Arabic, rattling it out fast, yet no signals came. Moments later the innkeeper returned with food and drink. Arnau took a bite of the pastry, which now tasted like ashes in his mouth, and Balthesar lifted his cup and cradled it in his hand, turning it this way and that and looking into it as though it might answer a question. He paused in his monologue and then suddenly picked it up again.

  When was he going to demand an answer in his speech? Worry hit Arnau. Had the old man already nudged his leg and he’d somehow missed it? Was that what the cup swirling was about? And if so had he drawn suspicion upon them by blithely not answering? His tense gaze lifted under heavy brows, glancing this way and that at the people nearby. Two were looking at him. Had he messed it all up by missing a cue? He looked at Balthesar and almost jumped to see the old knight glaring at him meaningfully. He almost blurted something out before the old man resumed, and the sergeant realised that Balthesar was silently reproving him for looking about so suspiciously.

  He was lowering his gaze once more as he caught a glimpse of black-and-white figures among the crowd. He looked down at his food, bending with infinite slowness, certain that by trying so hard not to be conspicuous he was inadvertently becoming more so with every second.

  Balthesar continued in mild tones. How could the man be so calm?

  More tea. More pastry. Arnau’s leg began to tremble with the sheer tension of it all. Balthesar paused once more, drawing breath, and in the momentary lull, Arnau heard a brief angry exchange not twenty paces from where they were sitting, and the shush of chain mail as two men came closer and closer.

  Arnau’s head remained dutifully lowered, but his gaze flitted hither and thither like a panicked butterfly, taking in anything he could make out in his peripheral vision, working out how he would react when the men reached him and something went wrong.

  He could see the mailed calves of the Almohad soldiers now, tucked into hard-wearing leather boots. They were so close. There would be room to leap up and draw his sword if he was fast, but he would have his back to them and he would be between them and Balthesar, which was inconvenient. The door. He could probably get across the table and in through the door, though that would again leave Balthesar in the lurch. Perhaps as one of the soldiers reached for him he could draw his blade and stab backwards?

  The tension was becoming unbearable. His whole world now seemed to consist of a melody of three strains: Balthesar’s lilting conversation, the low shush of Almohad chain mail, and Arnau’s pulse, which beat out a tattoo loud enough to drown out almost everything else.

  The two warriors had to have been right behind Arnau when Balthesar stopped again, his speech ending in a questioning tone. Arnau felt the tap on his left leg.

  Sweat poured from his brow. He couldn’t remember a damn thing. The Almohad soldiers were maybe two or three feet away, and he couldn’t remember a single word. He felt panic course through him.

  Balthesar frowned and repeated that same last refrain.

  ‘La ‘aetaqid dhlk,’ Arnau said suddenly, surprising himself

  Balthesar threw him a worried frown and said something else, kicking his left leg again.

  ‘La,’ said Arnau firmly, hoping he was going down the right path with this. ‘La, la, la.’

  Was this too much? The sweating was becoming unbearable. With a metallic shushing noise, he heard the soldiers moving on. They peered briefly inside the tavern, checking its patrons as Balthesar went on doggedly in his Arabic diatribe. Arnau felt his right knee being kicked.

  ‘Ah,’ he replied, as if to close a conversation, hoping to God he was right.

  Balthesar seemed happy, and the two soldiers walked on, checking out the next few shops. Once they were some way down the street, Balthesar sighed. ‘That was rather close, was it not? Congratulations on your first convincing Arabic conversation. I can see Abd al-Azīz still, standing close to the Al-Mudaina door again. He does not look pleased.’

  ‘What were we talking about?’

  ‘Whether your wife was ugly,’ grinned Balthesar.

  They stayed at the table for another ten minutes as the search concluded fruitlessly, and then remained for another half-hour just to be sure, and then Balthesar paid for their food and drink, and they left the tavern.

  ‘I hope this is the last breadcrumb,’ Arnau said as they headed towards the Manaqûr road. ‘I don’t think we’re going to remain in this city for much longer before the killing starts.’

  Chapter Nine

  Tuesday, 8 June 1199

  2 p.m.

  The journey across town was tense. They had clearly given the Almohads the slip by the Al-Mudaina, but the very fact that the Lion and his men were in Madina Mayūrqa, and knew that so too was Balthesar d’Aixere, the Qātil wariʻa, meant that now no alleyway or door could be considered safe. It was astounding, having now seen the Lion of Alarcos’s face in more than one encounter, just how much the man wanted Balthesar dead. Arnau was privately of the opinion that despite his piety and the zealotry of his people, Abd al-Azīz would renounce Allah and break every rule in their holy book to skin the old Templar.

  The Baron de Castellvell would react little better. An enemy of the Christian, and a Christian himself, both set stolidly against the Templar house of Rourell and its knights. The longer they stayed in Madina, the more dangerous it would become. And so, as they crossed the city, Arnau’s eyes slipped this way and that, paying attention to every possible shadow.

  Still, soon they found themselves on the Manaqûr road. As they descended through a street that seemed to be mostly home to haberdashers, silk merchants, clothiers and hatters, Arnau could see the gate ahead that bore the same name as the mosque they sought. It resembled strongly the gate through which they had first entered the city, at one and the same time beautifully decorative and militarily impressive. Once again, a small cemetery sat beside it, but they turned off before then into the fields.

  The mosque was a squat, heavy building with a large welcoming arch, an odd apsidal end, and a small tower that looked more fortified than sacred. It definitely resembled some sort of castle more than it did a place of worship, and Arnau already had misgivings as they approached. The door stood open, and Arnau followed Brother Balthesar towards it with a certain trepidation.

  As they reached the door, and Arnau peered inside, he was surprised to see the floor covered in expensive carpeting, deep and rich and of a duck-egg blue colour, rather than the bare, unforgiving stone flags of a Christian church. It occurred to him as the older knight stepped inside that he, Arnau de Vallbona, had never been inside a mosque. But then, why would he? Had a single mosque remained standing in Iberia when the Christians had taken the land back? His perceptions were certai
nly being tested on this journey.

  The first thing that struck him as he stepped into some sort of porch area was not the wealth of differences between this and a Christian church, beyond simple carpeting. It was, instead, the unsettling similarity behind it all. On the surface this was a heretical, dreadful parody of the Church, loaded with anti-Christian symbolism and celebrating a version of God that denied the Bible.

  And yet, as he relaxed and felt the atmosphere flood into him, he realised to his surprise that he got the very same feeling here as he did in a Christian church. Perhaps it was simply a matter of faith? Balthesar kept telling him to have faith, after all. But what was faith? The priest in the village when Arnau was growing up had believed that faith was the force in all men that drove them to believe in the Lord. Yet faith was clearly also what drove the Moor to bring his beliefs to the world. Was it perhaps more important to have faith than to worry what that faith was in?

  His religious musings were pushed aside as Balthesar nudged him and indicated that he should remove his boots and his sword. Frowning, he did so. That would make any quick getaway all the more difficult, for sure. Balthesar then made his way inside, barefoot and unarmed. Arnau followed suit and was surprised as they rounded a corner at the strange homeliness of the Moors’ temple. The churches of northern Iberia were at once both severe and austere, yet golden and opulent. It had always seemed to Arnau odd that his local priest had harangued the nobles over the fact that a rich man had far less chance of entering heaven than a poor man, and yet the Church had contained more gold and silver than the castle of any noble knight Arnau had seen.

  The mosque was different. It seemed built for comfort and community more than self-aggrandisement. The decor was light, airy and comforting, despite the strong presence of the Arabic script that Arnau could not translate and which had for decades signified his enemy.