Aymeric shook his head, and Barbarossa sighed again, knowing it was a lost cause.
“Then go and see your grandmother. She at least will be pleased to see you.”
1309
THE LONG ROAD HOME
Samira had been riding for two weeks, and judging by the changing landscape thought she might be home in three more days, when the Mongol horse went lame, turning its leg in a hole in the dark on the way up a rocky slope.
Samira did not know enough about horses to tell if the injury was permanent, but she knew she did not have it in her heart to kill the beast, so she removed the saddle and halter, and gave it its freedom.
While she prepared a fire in a secluded hollow and got ready to make a meal of a goat she had trapped and berries she had foraged, the horse wandered off in search of grass.
She never saw it again.
Samira felt raw and saddle weary, and sorely missed the familiar comforts of home; she pined for Javed’s black tea, and to hear him talk as the stars hung overhead, wondering what stories he had left to tell from his rich life. Now that she would have to walk, it would take longer to return, three days becoming more than a week.
◆◆◆
After her meagre meal – the goat too dry and stringy where it had died frightened and tense, and the berries overripe this late in the season – Samira crouched by the fire, staring into the flames. She thought through the moments of the Khan’s death in her mind. It was her first kill, and she’d expected to feel something, whether remorse or exhilaration, but instead there was nothing beyond a sense of finishing the task she had been set by her master. She had been more afraid of losing her footing on the high ridge than she had been of the Khan when she’d faced him in the dark
Is this what it will always be like? She wondered.
A single word came to her in reply, whispered in the breeze.
Fedai.
She looked up.
A shadow, no more than a wisp of darkness among many others, sat across the fire from her, but the ripples it made in the space it occupied were as distinctive and familiar to her as the back of her hands.
“Father?”
It did not speak again. A breeze came up off the hill and the shadows were dissipated as it blew through the hollow.
Samira broke camp quickly, snuffing out the small fire with scuffed up dirt. She covered the ashes, leaving no trace of her presence.
She left the hollow at a run.
A week was going to be too long; Javed needed her now.
She sped down the slope in the dark, unheeding of the danger, willing him to stay alive.
1309
BOLOGNA
Aymeric’s grandmother shed tears of joy at his arrival, tears that quickly turned to pain when he told her what little he knew of her son’s fate.
The estate was larger than he had ever imagined it, a sweeping hillside of olive groves and vineyards, a wooded valley where the hunting would be testing and the game plentiful, and, high on the slopes, a long blue lake, with a villa at the far end.
He’d been told the villa was Roman, from the days of Empire, but hadn’t realised how magnificent it would be.
He felt like an imposter when he rode through the gates but was immediately treated as Lord and Master here.
His grandmother was as aged as old Reynard but had lived a more sedate life. The wrinkles around her eyes, and the silver in her hair betrayed her, but she could pass for a woman several decades younger than her years, despite the puffy redness left by her sore weeping.
They sat together on a balcony overlooking the lake and valley beyond.
Aymeric had been bathed and dressed by a manservant, which was a new experience for him, and one if he was honest, he did not entirely enjoy. He had been fed and watered; fresh bread, olives, hard cheese and thin cuts of meat, washed down with a sweet heady wine that he was careful to sip. Now, sitting on the balcony, he felt more content than he had in many months. There was temptation in this life. It would be easy to do as Barbarossa had urged, and simply live here, but he had work to do in Paris.
His grandmother seemed to read his thoughts.
“You could stay, you know,” she said, with the sad smile of someone knowing her offer was about to be refused. “This is all yours, your inheritance by rights.”
“I could, nonna, but for how long? The Church is stripping the Order of its assets. There will come a day when they turn up here with their swords, looking to claim this place too. And when they do my presence here damns you and everyone else in this place.”
“The Cardinal of Bologna is a friend,” this grandmother said. “He will not allow it.”
“One thing I have learned this last year is that cardinals can be persuaded…and those that can’t be persuaded can be replaced,” Aymeric replied. “Greed conquers all friendships.”
She touched his cheek gently.
“So much anger,” she said. “And so much like him it breaks my heart to look at you. He would not want you to take undue risks, you know that?”
“He was a man of fidelity and honour, nonna. He was a man of the Order. It flowed through his veins. If I am truly his son how could I turn my back on that duty? Why would I even want to?”
“Even when there is no Order to speak of?”
“I still have the pardon from Chinon, the words that expose the lies of the King and his men. That will mean something, it has to. I must return to Rome and make them listen.”
“Then you will not go alone,” his grandmother said. “I will find men willing to accompany you; you are my flesh and blood, the last of us. I will not lose you as I lost your father, not so soon after finding you.”
Aymeric smiled. “Companionship on that long road would be most welcome,” although it was not the road itself he was thinking of, but the King’s men and their hounds.
“It will take me several days to make the arrangements,” she said. “Rest, take the time to regain your strength. I see the toll the journey took on you. You need some meat on your bones, boy.”
He smiled at that. “Keep feeding me this well and I will happily grow fat.”
“You should visit the University. Old Barberino has the sharpest mind in the country. I trust he will give you wise counsel; he was your father’s tutor, and has been a family friend for nigh on fifty years. You can trust him.”
When they parted, nonna had tears in her eyes again.
“One more thing, son of my son, a favour for an old woman.”
“Anything, nonna,” he promised, and the tears came stronger, although her voice was strong and firm.
“Bring him home to be laid in the ground with his kin? Promise me that if you get the chance, you will bring him back to me?”
It was a promise he was happy to make, even though there was little chance of being able keep it.
1309
THE YAZIDI VALLEY
Night had already fallen by the time Samira ran into the valley.
She could barely make out the darker domes of the village huts in the gloom.
There was no flicker of flame up on the mountain slope above.
She had run for four straight days, over hills and through desert lands pausing only to find water and snatch more overripe berries where she could. Every part of her screamed in pain and burned from exertion, she was so stretched and dried out she might snap like a dry twig if caught in a strong wind. But none of that mattered; all that mattered was the old man up above, and home.
She rushed up the familiar sand track without thinking about her footing in the darkness; she knew every step intimately, the path seared into her soul from years of familiarity.
She arrived in the cave mouth with the Dagger of the Martyrs in her hand.
“Father? I have brought you a gift,” she said, stepping inside.
No one was there to answer.
The cave was empty, and the hearth lay cold; it hadn’t seen a fire in several days at least. She tested the ash. Longer, proba
bly. Samira made a quick search of the cave; the goatskins all hung on their strings, the fishing nets too, and the fur cloak Javed used when walking on the hill in inclement weather was folded at the foot of the alcove he used as a bed. The straw bed itself was as cold as the hearth; nobody had slept here in a while.
Panic rose in her that she struggled to quell.
He is on the hill somewhere, tending the goats. He has to be.
She was tempted to rush out into the dark but remembered there was an easier way. She sat cross-legged by the cold hearth and closed her senses one after the other; it was harder this time than it had been in a long time, as she faced down her fear, but it was there, the breath of Allah felt cold in her face, its touch like ice on her cheek.
“Find our father,” Samira whispered, then closed her eyes to see with the spirit sight.
◆◆◆
She rushed out in spirit, her flight taking her over the mountain slopes, as clear to her now as though broad daylight. She moved fast, like a hunting hawk quartering each piece of ground below before moving on, moving every higher up the hill.
It was colder up here, silvery ice coating the sparse grass and rock, but Samira felt no trace of it as her spirit soared.
Father? Where are you?
Then she sensed a familiar ripple at the highest point of the slope, beside the tall stone where Javed so often sat to survey the surrounding lands.
Father!
She opened her eyes and ran out of the cave, bounding up the slope, her haste scattering the grazing goats in all directions.
The old man sat at the base of the tall stone.
He said nothing as Samira knelt before him.
“Father?”
He did not reply; he would never reply again, for he was frozen in place, thick frost coating beard and hair. The mountain crows had got to him, leaving black holes dripping with frozen blood trails where his eyes had been. He’d gone sitting in his favoured spot, looking down the valley.
Waiting for her return.
◆◆◆
She gave Javed to the winds on the top of the hill, burning him on a pyre with the Dagger of the Martyrs laid on his chest.
Afterwards it was the only thing left whole.
She crushed the old man’s burnt bones between stones and scattered the ash on the mountainside, saving the last handful for herself.
Later, back in the cave, she mixed the ash with a brew of strong black tea and drank it down, saving part of him inside her forever.
But she did not feel the old man’s spirit enter her or sense his presence in the cave.
He had said his goodbye around the campfire four nights past; it was the only farewell she was to get, though he had named her Fedai.
◆◆◆
She walked off the hill the next morning, not looking back lest tears blind her. She carried a rolled up blanket and a goatskin of water, which along with the clothes on her back and the Dagger of the Martyrs tucked into the belt of her kilt was everything she owned as she walked out of the valley.
The blade was tarnished where smoke and flame had blazed around it.
As she left the valley, there was but one word in her mind, an old word, but the fire still burned in her at the thought of it.
Bologna.
1309
THE UNIVERSITY, BOLOGNA
The next morning Aymeric left his grandmother making preparations for his return to Rome and rode the ten miles back into the city. The centre of learning lay in a sprawling, open area in the oldest part of Bologna. The University comprised a clutter of buildings spanning the ages from Imperial Roman times to the present, some in considerably better repair than others, but all conveying a sense of gravitas and import that left Aymeric feeling humble as he rode between them.
He sought his father’s old tutor, Francesco da Barberino. This time, at least, he was dressed more appropriately than his audience with the Bailli, having been provided with a suit mail, greaves and a clean tunic; he’d insisted on wearing the tabard cross of the Templars, despite his grandmother’s protestations. He rode the same horse that had served him so faithfully since Rome but carried a new sword. Like the armour, the blade had belonged to his long-dead grandfather. Aymeric had avowed on taking it from nonna that he would not rest until the blood of his father’s killer stained the blade red.
She had nodded, understanding.
◆◆◆
He had no trouble finding the old man’s chamber; people, on seeing the cross on his tabard, were all too keen to help, and make haste in the other direction as Aymeric journeyed deeper into the old university.
He came to a stop outside a squat stone building that looked like it could well predate even the earliest days of the Empire and tethered his horse to a gatepost.
He didn’t knock on the door as he entered.
The place felt empty; a long hallway stretched away from him, with four doors on either side.
His footsteps echoed on the cold flagstones.
But still no one came.
He tried the nearest doors, believing he had found the room he had come to visit on his second attempt. He opened the door wide and entered a tall, two-story library crammed on every shelf with scrolls, parchments, illuminated manuscripts and maps. The air held that musty aroma of wisdom. A long oak gallery ran around the upper floor and the ceiling was bowed, also wooden, giving the impression the room had been covered by an upturned boat. Thick, brightly patterned rugs covered the floors, and faded tapestries, long past their vivid bright best covered any patches of wall not already hidden by the oak shelving. It was by far the most impressive collection of learning Aymeric had seen, dwarfing, in comparison, the library in the Paris Chapterhouse.
A figure sat, head bowed, in a tall, winged chair by a fire that was roaring high in the hearth to stave off the first chills of winter.
It was only as Aymeric walked towards the fireplace he realised the old man he was meant to see would be grey haired. The figure in the chair was stout, dark haired and black bearded.
When the man looked up and smiled, Aymeric recognised the malicious grin more than anything else; this wasn’t a professor. It was Domic Cantella, the Inquisitor’s man.
◆◆◆
“Ah, young Templar, I was beginning to think Barbarossa had you wrong, but it seems he is a better judge of character than I gave him credit for,” Cantella said, rising from the chair.
Realisation hit Aymeric hard.
“You? You are the emissary from Rome?”
Gui’s man bowed at the waist.
“At your service,” he said sarcastically. “Did you think the Hospitaller to be your friend? I would have thought the one lesson these long months of betrayal would have rammed home to you is that friendship that is easily bought is no kind of friendship at all.”
All of Aymeric’s training told him that this man was dangerous; he held himself like a fighter, watchful for an attack yet relaxed and ready for action should it be required. In build the Inquisitor’s man reminded Aymeric of his old Master at Arms in the Chapterhouse. A man he never even came close to besting.
Cantella must have seen something of Aymeric’s thoughts in his eyes.
“You do not want to fight me, boy,” Cantella assured him. “And I do not want to fight you. I came here to make you an offer.”
“There is nothing you can offer me that I can possibly want, unless you can bring my father back from the grave, reinstate the Order, releasing my imprisoned brothers with a full pardon and apology from the Crown.”
Cantella laughed. “A big ask, young Templar. I like that.” Aymeric noted that the man had a hand on the hilt of his sword, and that he was wearing mail under the red and black tunic. Despite his words, he had come prepared for a fight. “Nevertheless, I do have an offer, and I would urge you to take it. Like Barbarossa said, you could have a good life here. Stay here in your homeland, farm cattle, grow olives, drink wine and grow fat with serving girls happy to suck your cock. Lea
ve all thoughts of the Order in the past. You have the word of the King and the Church that they will not pursue any further charges against you or your family.”
“A generous offer, I am sure, to keep what is already mine. And if I do not concur?”
“Then the full weight of Church and Crown will fall upon you and yours, and the name de Bologna shall be wiped from the annals of history.”
That malicious smirk was back again.
“My father would never agree to such terms,” Aymeric replied.
Cantella laughed. “But your father always was a stubborn fool. You do not have to share his fate, but if you are so eager, I can dump your corpse in the same shit smelling sewer where I left his.” There was no offer, of course. There never had been. Cantella proved that by drawing his sword from its scabbard. “I have changed my mind. A different offer. Die like a man, or die like your father, which would you prefer?”
◆◆◆
“You are the only one dying here today,” Aymeric said, and drew his grandfather’s blade.
They faced each other across the floor of the library.
“What can you hope to achieve, boy?” Cantella said, starting to circle to his left. Aymeric went left too, maintaining the distance between them, watching the way Cantella’s muscles moved.
“I have this,” Aymeric replied, and, one-handed, took the Chinon scroll from its pouch around his neck. “A full pardon from the Cardinal of Chinon.”
“The former Cardinal of Chinon,” Cantella replied, that malicious smirk spreading like a slit throat across his face. “The new cardinal does not share the previous holy man’s enthusiasm for your cause, I am afraid. Your scrap of paper is worthless.”
Dagger of the Martyrs Page 17
