by J. K. Swift
Khalil found himself smiling. It had been over three years since he had executed those Knights of Saint John who had sided with the Mongols. His father had promised him then that the knights would be punished for breaking their truce, but three years was an eternity for a young man, and Khalil had almost lost hope that this day would come. But come it had. The sultan had, in secret, begun to raise an army in Damascus. No small feat in a land filled with spies and court officers forever trying to clamber into better positions with little regard for those they must throw to the lions. The sultan had raised an elite force of over fifty thousand men before he mentioned it casually over a roast lamb dinner one evening to his son. Three days later Khalil was marching beside his father at the head of a good portion of that army.
The knights of Margat had mounted a strong defense, until, one by one, the towers of the fortress began to drop to the sappers of the sultan’s army. In a few more days their walls would be on the ground and they would be defenseless. The Christians had no choice but to surrender.
At the bottom of the hill, Turuntay and his men relieved the knights of their weapons, but when they tried to take the flag bearer’s pole he pushed the Mamluks away and clutched the flag to his chest. Turuntay looked to his sultan for guidance and Qalawun gave him a nod to let him keep it. For now.
Turuntay guided the men up the hill and presented them to the sultan. The shortest and eldest of the three stepped forward and introduced himself as the Prior of Margat. He spat his words and curled his lips in disdain at the sultan himself.
Though Khalil had been studying French for the last few years his efforts were half-hearted at best and he struggled to understand the uncouth knight. In his mind, it was these invaders who should be learning Turkic, or at least Arabic. Why should he have to twist his tongue with the Franks’ barbaric language?
Khalil looked back over his shoulder and picked out Ibn al-Salus from the group of soldiers standing nearby. He was the son of a merchant from Damascus and held the position of apprentice clerk in the sultan’s court. The young man wore no armor, which was just as well, for judging from the strength of his build he would not be able to bear anything heavier than leather. But Ibn al-Salus had been a playmate of Khalil’s when he was growing up and was the closest thing Khalil had to a friend. Khalil always found ways to keep him nearby even though the difference in their societal classes often made it awkward. He summoned Ibn al-Salus with a nod of his head and the young man came to stand behind Khalil.
“What are they saying?” Khalil whispered as his father began to speak directly to the Frank.
“The sultan offers terms. If the Hospitallers surrender their walls and weapons, they will all be allowed to leave with as much as they can carry,” Ibn al-Salus said.
Khalil bit his tongue. Allowed to leave? With whatever they could carry? These were the same traitors who had sided with the Mongols and now his father would simply allow them to walk away bearing treasures?
The Frank muttered more unintelligible words. Khalil cast an impatient glance toward Ibn al-Salus.
“I think he said that would be acceptable. His men-at-arms would relinquish their weapons but the knights must be allowed to retain their swords.”
The sultan coughed a few times into his hand and then sat up straighter in his seat as he fixed the Hospitaller in place with his dark eyes. After a long moment of silence he nodded once and said a few words in French.
“You father says he is only interested in taking the fortress of Margat, not the dignity of the brave men who defended it.”
Khalil had heard enough. He shrugged away from Ibn al-Salus’s hand on his shoulder and backed away from the throng of Mamluks around the sultan’s dais. Ignoring the harsh looks from them all, he turned and strode swiftly away, his fists clenching uncontrollably.
He could not comprehend his father’s thoughts. For three years he had labored to punish these men and now he let them walk away like they had never done anything wrong. Where was the justice in that? He found a flat rock overlooking the castle in the distance. The fortress was bleak and gray, in the middle of nowhere. Hardly a strategic position worth all this fuss.
Minutes later he heard footsteps crunching on the rocky path behind him. He turned, expecting to see his boyhood friend Ibn al-Salus, but was surprised to see the helmeted head of Turuntay, his father’s highest ranking emir striding toward him.
“Khalil, there you are. I have been looking for you,” Turuntay said.
“And you seem to have found me,” Khalil said.
Turuntay walked up to the boulder Khalil sat on and took a step closer than Khalil felt comfortable with, no doubt trying to intimidate the younger man. Khalil stood straight up, his face almost grazing the chain hauberk of the stocky warrior general.
“Well?” Khalil said, his face inches from Turuntay’s own.
“The sultan summons you,” Turuntay said, his eyes and tone of voice did not show the slightest hint of respect.
“And I will attend him once the stink of the Christians has faded from his presence.”
Turuntay’s lips spread into a line. “You will attend him now. For he sent me to bring you to him, and unlike some, I bend to the will of my sultan. Now, you can follow me or I can drag you kicking and screaming like a petulant child. Think carefully on your next words.”
The general’s speech hit Khalil like a slap in the face. Never before had he been so direct and insulting.
“And why should he so suddenly desire my counsel? He showed little need of it just now.”
“You are correct. He has no desire for counsel. We are to break camp and begin a forced march at dawn tomorrow.”
“March? The army is not to be disbanded?”
“Disbanded?” Turuntay laughed. “You think we have spent these past months raising an army this size for the sole purpose of taking one remote Hospitaller castle manned by a handful of knights? But I need not tell you any of this, if you had stayed at your sultan’s side instead of running away to sulk.”
“Tell me what? Where is our destination?”
“We march to gather our forces and swell our ranks until our numbers are greater than any force ever assembled in the lands of Mohammed. With this force we will drive the Christians back into the foaming sea, and with time, the stain they have made upon this land will be washed away and forgotten.”
Khalil’s heart began to hammer. Drive them into the sea? But that could mean only one target, one destination…
Turuntay seemed to read Khalil’s mind, for he smiled and nodded eagerly, his eyes moistening with emotion.
“Yes, Khalil. The time has come. We march first to Tripoli, then on to the last great city of Christendom. Acre herself. Once we have control of the Christian stronghold, there will be nowhere from which they can launch any further counterattacks. The only direction they will be able to run is back into the sea.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
Pirmin called it the shining star of the Pisan Quarter. A place fit for princes and princesses, the hidden jewel of Acre that welcomed only the most deserving of patrons. And yet, the first thing Thomas thought when he stooped to enter the door of The Three-Legged Goat Taverna and Inn was what was that smell?
Physik Rafi had said on more than one occasion that Thomas had a good nose about him. A skill that came in handy in the Order’s apothecary when identifying unguents and herbal concoctions. But this was one of those moments when it would have been desirable to be less gifted. As he stepped into the low-ceilinged, dimly lit room, an odor hit his face with the force of a slap. It was a sour combination of smoke mixed with equal parts sweat, urine, and honey. Overwhelmed by that and the noise, Thomas stood rooted in place just inside the entrance.
“Come on, get in there,” Pirmin said pushing Thomas in the back. He skittered a few steps forward until his thighs smacked up against a table with three men sitting at it with clay mugs of ale in front of them. One of the mugs performed a rocking motion back and forth, back
and forth, and for its finale tipped over and covered the table in a deluge of sticky ale.
“Hey, boy!” shouted a squat man with black hair and a thick, spiky beard crisscrossed with white lines where scars on his face would not allow any hair to grow. “By a witch’s cold hole, you—”
“Watch that foul mouth of yours, Manny,” Pirmin said as he wormed through the doorway. He came to stand beside Thomas and rose up to his full height, his golden hair brushing the lowest of the ceiling beams that supported the floor above like he was built in place when the building itself was erected. They both wore non-descript tunics of brown linen without any crosses or other insignia that might mark them as men of the Hospital. At fourteen, Thomas was taller than many men, but still had the willowy build of a youth. Pirmin, being three or four years older, had an impressive physique and seemed to be adding another five pounds of mass every week.
“Ah, Pirmin. Did not know the boy was with you. He surprised me is all. I just spent my last copper on that mug.”
Pirmin produced a small purse Thomas had never seen before from beneath his belt. He slapped two coins down on the wet table. “Well, I will not have a man spend his last copper on a drink. Unless it is for me, of course.”
Manny covered the coins with a wet slap of one broad hand before either of the other two men at his table could blink. “Thanks, Pirmin. I will get you back next time.”
“You seen Jean around?” Pirmin asked.
“Yeah, he was in the back last I saw. You wrestling tonight?”
“Did not plan on it, but you never know. Me and Thomi are here to celebrate.”
He slapped Thomas on the back and motioned for him to follow. They pushed their way further into the long, narrow room and sat at a small table two men had just vacated, leaving behind two mugs. Pirmin inspected the mugs and gave a satisfactory nod.
“Drinks are cheaper if we use a dirty mug. Shaping up to be a good night already, Thomi.”
Pirmin waved to catch the attention of a girl with a tray warping under the weight of three full serving pitchers, but he need not have. Thomas had noticed her glancing in the big youth’s direction several times already. She set the tray in the middle of a long table full of men. She told them to fill up their own mugs, and after slapping away a couple of hands reaching for her breasts, she took up one of the pitchers and carried it over to Pirmin and Thomas.
She and Pirmin locked eyes as he held out his mug. She poured using both of her slender hands. Thomas was struck by how tiny and graceful they were in contrast to the thick, callused hands of his friend. And yet, she showed remarkable strength in the casual way she controlled the heavy pitcher. Thomas was still staring at her hands when Pirmin spoke.
“You are a sight for thirsty eyes, Corrine.”
Thomas had the feeling that the same comment from any other man in the room would have elicited a slap from those porcelain hands, but instead, she blushed and the hard lines around her eyes softened as she looked at Pirmin. Then she seemed to notice Thomas for the first time.
“Who might your friend be?”
“This is Thomas. And he is more brother to me than any man ever had.”
She reached out one of her hands, and just like that, cupped it under his wrist. Her touch was warm and softer than the finest calf hair glove.
“If you want that mug filled, you will have to hold it steadier than that.” It was Thomas’s turn to redden, now. He lifted his mug a little higher and her hand left his own to help with steadying the pitcher, but the warmth on his wrist stayed with him as she boldly looked him over. Her gaze lingered on the old scar stretching the skin from the corner of his eye to his jawline, as most people’s did. Thomas looked down at his full drink.
“You should bring him around more often,” Corrine said.
Pirmin pulled two coins from his purse. “One for the drinks, the other for you.”
“Pirmin, are you trying to buy my favors?”
“The sweetest things in life are never bought,” Pirmin said, subjecting her to one of his best white-toothed grins.
She shook her head. “And what would Emma say if she heard you talking like that?” She turned and took a step in the direction of her abandoned tray and pitchers, but looked back over her shoulder. “Good thing she is not working tonight.” The fingers of her left hand performed a graceful dance along her hip as she walked away.
Thomas was still watching her thread through the crowd when Pirmin said, “What a beautiful night, eh Thomi?”
Thomas smiled and remembered he held a full tankard in his hand. He took a sip and it made his eyes water. A thought occurred to him. “Where did you get the purse?”
“The purse or the coin within?”
“Both.”
“The purse was a present from Emma. She sewed it herself, but it came with nothing but a sprig of lavender inside.”
Pirmin was being evasive. He wanted Thomas to ask about this Emma, but Thomas would not be deterred. “And the coin?”
“I would rather not say,” Pirmin said.
Thomas was quiet for a moment. He took another drink. “Did you steal it?”
“No! Of course not. I earned it, fair and simple by doing a few things for Max. Do not look at me like that.”
Max was well known as the “procurer” for many of the boys in the Hospitaller compound, and a good number of the monks, as well. He always had some trinket he was trying to sell or trade. No one knew how he came across these items, but it was starting to all make sense to Thomas now. In fact, both Pirmin’s knife and the loaner at Thomas’s belt had come from Max. Neither of them had their own weapons. All swords and armor were returned to the armory at the end of training each day.
It was not easy to get leave of the Hospitaller fortress and enter the city proper. But Pirmin had been sneaking out of the compound since he was a young boy. Of course, he had also been caught more times than Thomas could count. Pirmin may have had the good looks of a Greek statue but he had the striped back of a slave. Father Dusseault liked to say that Pirmin was more half-wild dog than man, and no amount of punishment could curb his desire to wander.
“Relax, Thomi. I smuggle things through the gates to Max. Sometimes I pay merchants, or go with Max when he does. All honest work. Go ahead and drink up. Nothing I have done to earn this coin will make Saint Peter’s list, I swear.”
Thomas knew Pirmin had already flirted with more than his share of sin in his short life, but lying to friends was not one of those. Thomas gave in and took another long pull off his ale. It was warm, thin, and had a bitter bite. It was undoubtedly inferior to the brews the nuns made in the Hospitaller compound, but at that moment, Thomas was convinced it was the best thing he had ever tasted.
Pirmin nodded and gave Thomas a knowing grin. “Did I not tell you? Look around at this place. Have you ever seen more life anywhere in the Kingdom of Jerusalem?”
Thomas laughed. Pirmin was a lord of exaggeration. Neither one of them had ever been anywhere but Acre, not that the current Kingdom of Jerusalem extended far past her borders these days.
“I can think of a half dozen taverns that come close,” Thomas said. “But you are right. This place has no rival in all the Levant. Here is to the Goat.” He held out his mug. Pirmin held aloft his tankard and they clanked them together. They each drained off a good third of their mugs before coming up for air.
“Speaking of lists and my good friend Max,” Pirmin said, “did he make yours?”
Thomas was not prepared for the question. “Pirmin, you know I am not supposed to talk about that with anyone.”
“Come on. I am not anyone.”
“Is that why you brought me with you tonight? Did Max pay you to bring me here?”
“Thomi… it is not like that.”
Thomas leaned back against the wall. The fact Pirmin did not get angry at the accusation meant Thomas was closer to the truth than he liked. He should have known.
“I never should have told you about the
list,” Thomas said.
“You had to. It was driving you crazy spending all those extra hours with the monks and their letters. Max just thinks it would be a good business opportunity for him to go to Cyprus for a while. He wanted me to put in a word for him in case he was not already on the list.”
“And what did you say?”
Pirmin shrugged. “I said he was probably already on the list. But I would bring it up next time we spoke.”
“And he filled that fancy purse for you,” Thomas said.
Pirmin grinned. “What are friends for if not to buy one another the odd tankard?” He leaned forward and put both elbows on the small table. Thomas had to pull his drink away to keep it from being spilled. “So? Is he on it?”
“He is not,” Thomas said, holding Pirmin’s stare. “I am only permitted one hundred names and Maximillion is not one of those.”
“Yah, but he could be, right? Do you know how to write it? I think Max does. I could get him to show you how if need be.”
Thomas let out a breath. Pirmin would dog him forever on this. When he set his stubborn mind to something…
“Thomi. He is a friend. And he wants to go see a bigger piece of this world. I said I would do what I could.”
Thomas had never had much cause to interact with Max. Like Pirmin, he was three or four years older and was a little gruff at times. It would be a simple matter to put his name on the list, as he had not yet submitted it to Master Foulques.
“All right, I will do it,” Thomas said. “But I will have to take someone’s name off, first.”
Pirmin clapped him on the shoulder. “Excellent. It should be a simple thing to pick someone that does not know about it.”
