The imam, a reedy figure in a black robe with a simple hat, was polishing the rail of his pulpit. Another thing Arnau noted there – he couldn’t imagine most Christian priests lowering themselves to cleaning their own church. As they approached, the man in black bowed. He had a strange smile that looked a little to Arnau like a man trying to eject a particularly difficult turd, but he seemed friendly. He approached with the traditional greeting.
‘As-salāmu ʿalaykum.’
Balthesar replied in kind and Arnau, aware that he was unlikely to understand a single thing said here, played the mute once more, standing back well out of the way. He paid attention to the decor and the architecture as the other two men chattered away in Arabic, wondering why the place felt so spacious and airy until he realised that there were no seats. Of course, the Moors knelt for their services, and faced east, he seemed to remember. Recalling the route they had taken to get to this place from the centre of the city, he turned slowly until he thought he might be facing east and was interested to note that he was now looking directly into a strange, arched and very decorative alcove in the mosque wall. Though he couldn’t imagine precisely what its significance was, it clearly had a purpose.
‘Kam,’ Balthesar said suddenly, and from the tone, Arnau realised the command was meant for him, one of the words he knew: ‘come’. He did as requested, turning and following the old man, who was already on his way out of the mosque’s main room. They gathered up their boots and swords in the porch and re-equipped swiftly before leaving under the benevolent if constipated smile of the imam.
As they emerged into the street once more, the bulk of the population had retreated from the streets for the qaylulah – the afternoon rest – and they were more or less alone, barring a beggar sitting nearby at the roadside, his legs ending in stumps at the ankle. Balthesar automatically crossed the road and fished his purse from his belt, removing one of the precious few remaining coins and dropping it into the grateful beggar’s hand.
‘It did not go well, then?’ Arnau said quietly.
‘Not entirely satisfactorily, no,’ Balthesar sighed. ‘We have not secured the bone of the blessed Saint Stephen, but equally we have not reached a definite failed end to our quest. The imam has the history of his mosque committed to memory in great detail, almost as thorough as the records office in Al-Mudaina. He confirmed that the relic was brought here by the first imam, who considered Stephen a possible prophet and was therefore unwilling to simply dispose of the bone. He kept it secured here in a new container, for the original had been melted down and recast by the emir’s administration.’
‘So they were here, but now they are not?’
‘Precisely. It seems that at the height of Almoravid control of the island…’ He noted a glazed look fall across Arnau’s face, and pursed his lips. ‘Mayūrqa has been a taifa twice. When the Almoravids first built their caliphate some eighty years past, they seized control of the islands in the same way as the Almohads threaten to now. It then became an independent taifa once more, which it remains to this day. But when the Almoravids first came, they brought a new wave of Islamic zealotry and there was a great deal of unrest on the island.’
Arnau nodded. He’d always seen the Moors as just Moors, some good and some bad, until coming face to face with the Almohad raiders that day by the Ebro. Now, he was beginning to understand that there had been as many divisions, dynasties and empires among the Moors as there had been among the Christians.
‘The first Almoravid ruler of Mayūrqa,’ Balthesar continued, ‘was a hard and unforgiving man – Muhàmmad the First. The imam tells me that under his rather oppressive reign, the Christians and Jews on the island revolted more than once and there was serious bloodshed. Muhàmmad put down the revolts and initiated a sweep of the entire island, increasing his military presence, building a series of fortresses and removing all traces of Christian worship. By his orders the bone of Saint Stephen was removed from the mosque. This happened sometime around the year eleven hundred and thirty something – the imam is a little vague on the precise date. He is also unaware of the fate of the bone once it was removed.’
‘I would assume it was simply disposed of,’ Arnau said, feeling a little deflated. ‘Assuming it was caught up in anti-Christian fervour.’
Balthesar nodded. ‘That is a very distinct and disappointing possibility. For the sake of our mission, though, we must cling to the hope that it remained cared for somehow.’
They began to walk back up the street, still talking. ‘But who would care for it?’
‘That is what we must seek to discover,’ the old knight replied. ‘We must find out what happened when it was removed. We have leaped forward another century in our story. We know the bone was in that building less than seventy years ago.’
‘But how will we learn anything further?’
Balthesar turned a pained expression on his young companion, and Arnau shook his head. ‘No.’
‘Yes. The only place where there might be any further record is back in the diwān of the emir’s Al-Mudaina.’
‘We cannot go back there, Balthesar. You know how dangerous that place is now.’
‘We have little choice other than to abandon our mission entirely and return to Rourell as failures. While there is still a chance to recover the relic, it is our God-given duty to attempt to do so. This is my own fault to an extent. I should have thought of this while we were last in the office. The fact that I was reading from right to left – back to front – should have made me think of it. For some blind, idiotic reason I began my search with the earliest reference in order to find out what happened when the bone was brought to Madina. What I should have done was to begin with the latest records and work backwards. What use was it finding out how the bone arrived in Madina? What I needed to know was what had happened to it most recently.’
Arnau nodded again at the sense of that, but the very notion of returning to that place seemed insane. ‘Then we were in the wrong office to begin with?’
‘Quite. Though since the more recent documents are not gathered into one place but divided by category, it will be difficult even to know where to start. I suspect that this time we will need to enlist the aid of a friendly clerk after all.’
‘Going back into the Al-Mudaina is still lunacy,’ Arnau reminded him.
‘Yet it is necessary. As God’s chosen we have a duty.’
Arnau fell into a gloomy silence. The very last thing he wanted to do right now was step back into that nest of vipers, but the grey-bearded brother was quite right that the only alternative would be to leave the island and return home empty handed, knowing that they had not done all they could.
The first he knew of trouble was when a short, chisel-bladed knife thrummed through the air and missed his face by less than an inch. The weapon had been thrown with enough force that it thudded into one of the poor quality wooden houses in the long street and jammed there, vibrating slightly.
The young sergeant’s eyes swept left in the direction from which the knife had come, his hand already going to his sword hilt. They were passing a narrow alley, which Arnau automatically assumed to be the source of the attack. Sure enough, as he took a few steps forward, drawing his sword, and managed a direct view into the alley, he could see two figures. One was already hefting a second knife, and Arnau ducked back as it hurtled from the darkness and hissed past him again.
‘Watch your back,’ Balthesar called, and Arnau spun. Two more figures were stalking up the street behind them, the direction from which they had come. With a sinking feeling, the young sergeant turned and looked up the street. Sure enough, two more figures emerged from a side street and began to edge down towards them.
They were trapped. Six against two. Fortunately the others all carried swords, and it appeared that the man in the alley was out of knives, for he too was now drawing the blade at his side. Still, the odds were not good.
What to do? If they stayed here they would inevitably end up surro
unded and fighting back to back. Their chances if that happened would be poor. Rush the ones up or downhill? Likely they would not be fast enough to break through, and they would end up once more surrounded. The alley, then.
Arnau peered into the narrow lane at the two men stepping cautiously towards them. The place looked a little tight for the swinging of swords, but the two villains both brandished theirs, so it was just about possible.
‘The alley,’ he shouted, and began to run. Balthesar said nothing, but Arnau could hear the older knight running behind him, so the knight had both heard and understood.
The two men in the alley were almost out into the street now, and Arnau picked up the pace. They had to get into that alley if they were to stand a chance. He wondered for a moment what kind of men these were. They were dressed in ordinary clothes and without armour. They seemed to be common criminals or thugs, which was a relief. That meant they were not trained fighters, and might get a nasty surprise when they realised they were attacking experienced swordsmen.
The lead figure in the alley, the one who had thrown the knives, reached the street just as Arnau ran at him full pelt. He tried to bring his sword up, but by the time he had, the sergeant, moving at an impressive pace, was inside his reach. Arnau cannoned into the man and both the figures in the alley were thrown back. The rear one fell, and the nearer one stumbled backwards over his friend, only just managing to remain upright, shocked at the impact of Arnau’s collision.
Recovering his balance, the man warily stepped back a few more paces and Arnau, his momentum stalled, stepped forward menacingly, making sure to stand on the head of the man who had fallen and who now yelped in pain. As the young sergeant continued to advance on the former knifeman, he heard behind him the sound of a blade slamming through flesh and a cry of agony, and prayed that it was Balthesar despatching the man on the floor and not a sword slicing into the older Templar.
The ruffian ahead gripped his sword with both hands and waved it this way and that threateningly. Arnau was relieved to note that there seemed to be more enthusiasm than skill on display. He feinted to the right with his sword and sure enough the man inexpertly thrust his sword that way to parry.
‘This is not your day,’ Arnau smiled.
The thug glanced nervously over his shoulder for a second, perhaps pondering his chances of flight. He appeared to come swiftly to the correct conclusion that if he even attempted to run he would die with a sword in his back in moments.
The ruffian licked his lips and took another step back, then suddenly lunged with his sword, aiming for the sergeant’s belly, an easy target and a central strike that made the most of the minimal space in the alley. Arnau, though, had watched the man’s feet. Days of practice last year against the implacable German knight had taught him well to anticipate an opponent’s moves, to look for his ‘tell’. The moment the man stepped back but braced his left foot, the sergeant knew the lunge was coming and, with the distinct lack of room here, it would almost certainly be a central strike. Consequently, it was a simple thing to sidestep the blow. The sword whispered through the air where his belly had been moments earlier and its wielder, taken by surprise, staggered forward. Arnau lifted his own sword as the man lurched past, and brought the pommel down on the back of his neck, the best blow he could achieve in the tight space. He was rewarded with a cracking noise and a scream from the villain who tumbled forward, sword dropping from his fingers.
Arnau’s satisfaction was short-lived. He’d thought only of his own predicament but the falling man, suffering agonising and paralysing neck pain, fell into Balthesar’s back, sending the older knight staggering into his own opponent.
Somehow the old man managed to keep his footing, but the mistake cost him dearly. A lucky strike from the lout in front of him tore through Balthesar’s side. The knight yelped, his free hand going to his middle. Blood blossomed on his torn gandura and burnous. Guilt washed through Arnau at the knowledge that the wound was entirely his fault.
Hurriedly, he bent and swept up Broken-neck’s fallen sword, pausing only long enough to ram his own blade into the man’s back to put him out of his misery and stop him shaking. A shaking body underfoot could cause havoc in a fight.
Despite the wound to his side, Balthesar was still engaging with the man before him, swords clashing, teeth bared. The old man let go of his side to better deal with his opponent, and the blood flow into this clothing increased worryingly. The grey-bearded knight stooped with a grunt of pain as his opponent lunged, and Arnau realised the manoeuvre had gone wrong in an instant. Balthesar had intended to duck under the attack and drive his own sword upwards in a killing blow, but it was not to be, for as he ducked the pain lanced through his side and he gasped and failed to lift his sword.
Arnau was there in a heartbeat. Before the ruffian could recover and strike at the hunched knight, the young sergeant swung both swords down in a chop. It was not an elegant move and would never appear in a manual on swordsmanship, but with such limited space with which to work and no time to plan, his reaction bore fruit. Both swords slammed down into the man. The right, Arnau’s common sword arm, smashed into the man’s left shoulder so hard it almost separated the limb, crushing the joint that held it on. The left sword also smashed into his right shoulder, though with less force, being his off-hand.
The man screamed and fell, knocking Balthesar to the side.
Arnau was now facing another Moorish thug with a sword, though he realised with a great deal of respect for his comrade that this was the last man facing them. While Arnau had managed to deal with the two in the alley, Balthesar had already despatched the front two of the men who’d followed them in.
The last criminal looked extremely nervous, and well he might. He was alone and a poor match for a knight. He began to step back, slowly, carefully and gingerly, across the bodies of his fallen comrades and out towards the street. Arnau advanced on him implacably. The man reached the end of the alley and, seizing the only chance he was likely to get, turned and ran.
Arnau couldn’t quite get to him to stop him and so, trusting to the Lord and praying for accuracy, he threw his sword.
It was not a good throw. Swords were not meant to be thrown weapons, of course, and he’d never expected a serious hit, but he achieved what he’d intended. The sword slammed into the man’s back, side-on, the crosspiece hitting first. The man stumbled in surprise and fell to the road. Arnau was on him before he could rise.
‘May the Lord Jesus protect you and lead you to eternal life,’ Arnau said quietly, and thrust his blade down into the man’s back.
The ruffian squawked, then gurgled and slowly passed from the world of men. Arnau collected his own sword, noting with irritation a nick it had picked up when it fell on the road. He briefly considered keeping the other blade, but decided that it was a poor quality weapon and not worthwhile.
On the way back to the alley, he checked for movement among the fallen, but they were all lifeless. Balthesar was on his feet now, wiping his sword on a piece of material torn from one of their assailants.
‘A struggle full of accidents, both happy and unhappy,’ the old knight declared.
‘I am so sorry I caused that,’ Arnau said, contrition filling him.
‘It is of no consequence. Such things happen in battle. I have survived, and I consider that a boon, given the odds. Your choice of the alley for our battleground was inspired. I suspect it saved our lives.’
The old knight sheathed his sword and staggered out of the alley, wincing as he touched his side.
‘We need to find a doctor,’ Arnau said.
‘No. We need to get out of here before we become the centre of attention, and we need to lie low for a while.’
Arnau frowned. ‘You don’t think this was a random attack?’
Balthesar shrugged, wincing again. ‘It may very well be, but we cannot discount the possibility that these men were somehow retained by Abd al-Azīz. We may have escaped him earlier, but even with you
muted we are not too hard to find, for we tend to stand out, especially when we speak Aragonese as we are now. And whether they were or were not sent by the Lion, we still need to be away from them. Once the authorities learn of this, questions will be asked, and I think we would be far better served not being the subject of those questions, don’t you?’
Arnau nodded. ‘Do we have time to search them?’
The grey knight shook his head, nodding towards the windows of the street where nervous faces were appearing, perusing the carnage in their neighbourhood. ‘They will have nothing incriminating and likely no valuables, so a search would be fruitless. Let us move.’
The two men hurried off up the street at the fastest pace the old warrior could manage, turning several corners until they were far away from the site of the attack. At last, after a quarter of an hour of climbing the steeper streets, they rounded a corner and Arnau realised they were facing that second great fortification he had seen when they first arrived.
‘The Gumāra fortress,’ Balthesar breathed, nodding towards it. ‘A recent addition to the city’s defences. They were building it when I was last here. Now help me.’
The old man staggered over to the edge of the street and sank onto the side of a water trough. Carefully, he undid his sword belt and propped the weapon by the stone tank. Then he grasped his clothing and pulled it up at the side, hissing with pain, to reveal the wound.
Arnau was relieved. Though there had been a lot of blood, the blow had been a poor one, causing a flesh wound – just a small slice in the side that did not look as though it had gone deep enough to do any real damage.
‘Doesn’t look too bad,’ Arnau said, peering at it.
‘I do not think it has injured me permanently. It is painful, but the blood is a normal colour and I am not experiencing discomfort or difficulty inside. If I eat and it fails to come out of the other end, we will know that my gut has been cut, though other than that I suspect it will heal in no time. But I need you to stitch it.’
Arnau stared. ‘What?’
The Last Emir Page 14
