00 - Templar's Acre

by Michael Jecks

  ‘I will go to him, if you want,’ Baldwin said.

  ‘You?’ There was a smile hovering on the Grand Master’s lips. ‘Tell me, how much of the Muslim tongue can you speak? How would you tell what was in his mind?’

  ‘I am not an expert in the language, but I could watch and listen,’ Baldwin said. ‘I can understand men’s faces, and I would be able to tell much from how they look and speak.’

  ‘I think not,’ the Grand Master said.

  ‘Who will go?’ Ivo asked.

  ‘I have two messengers. I will send a small guard with them.’

  ‘Templars would be killed as soon as they arrived.’

  ‘Yes – I intend sending secular members of our Order.’

  ‘Then let Baldwin join them. He can do little harm, and his extra eyes and ears may just help,’ Ivo said.

  The Grand Master glanced at the Marshal. Neither spoke for a moment, and then Sir Geoffrey gave a faint nod. Guillaume de Beaujeu turned back to Baldwin.

  ‘So be it. You will ride with my men to Cairo, and there you will listen carefully and watch, to see if there is any clue you can pick up that tells us what the Sultan plans. Be careful and beware! There are many dangers in Muslim cities for men who are friends of the Temple.’

  That night, Lucia’s back was still sore from the beating, but she had no broken bones. She had not cried, she had not wept or sobbed. That satisfaction she refused them.

  A week ago, she would have welcomed death. The toil during the day was bad; the fumbling rapes at night worse, but now she could at least hold her head high again. She only regretted not having pushed the stick further into the Kurd’s good eye until it found his brain. With luck he would develop gangrene and die.

  She had expected death. Even as she thrust the stick into the Kurd’s eye, she welcomed the thought. For a slave to harm another was punishable by death. But the overseer made it clear that she would not escape her torment so easily. Her life itself was to be her punishment.

  She rolled over, the pain in her back agonising as the weeping scabs pulled where the whips had lashed. The overseer had used every ounce of malice in him. No matter that it was he who had brought the Kurd to her each night. She was a slave, she had no rights.

  Her hand on her belly, she prayed not to bear a child. There was no sign of it – only a deep soreness that seemed to start at her brain and ran through her body to her groin. He had hurt her so much, than Kurd; more in the mind that between her legs. It made her want to vomit, remembering his hand grabbing her, wrenching her knees wide, smiling down at her.

  She had no regrets about blinding him. It had felt good. Never again would she sit back and endure. Even if it meant death, she would gladly accept it as the price of her freedom.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  They had arrived by ship at the coast near Damietta, a voyage of some two hundred miles, and Baldwin was fascinated to see the land as the galley deposited him, along with Roger Flor and three others, at the mouth of a wide river.

  Their route took them down to Damietta, thence to Mansourah, and onward to Cairo, a journey of another four days.

  The huge city stood on the side of the river. Gold glittered from its domed buildings, and the minarets gleamed white. All about the city was a vast series of canals and smaller waterways. Baldwin had heard how the river broke its banks each year, and he guessed these channels were dug in order to take flood waters, but it was a passing thought as he took in the citadel on its own prominence behind the city.

  ‘Grand sight, eh?’ Roger Flor said as they trotted towards a gateway with tall towers either side.

  Baldwin nodded. Roger Flor’s presence on the journey had been a worrying development, but the other man had gone out of his way to be pleasant. Neither had mentioned the riding out, and Baldwin found his company refreshing although he heeded Ivo’s warning to beware and watch Flor during the journey. Ivo had been more worried about Flor than Baldwin thought necessary, but it was worth being on his guard.

  Roger Flor shook his head. ‘It would put Acre to shame, this. By Saint Peter, it would put even Jerusalem to shame!’ He smiled at Baldwin, but then caught sight of the young man’s expression. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Look!’

  They had come around a small hill, and beyond it Baldwin had caught sight of a vast gathering of men. The land rose behind them, so the full immensity of the camp was plain. Black and white pavilions stood dotted all over, with gaily fluttering flags, but it was the sheer number of men that shocked Baldwin. It was as if a giant had kicked over the top of an ant heap, and exposed these teeming black-clad figures

  ‘Sweet Christ’s cods!’ Roger swore with shock. ‘How can they feed and maintain such an army?’

  The rest of their party were, like Baldwin and Roger, staring with wild speculation. It was a relief to ride nearer the city and lose the view behind other hills.

  Cairo was a maze of small alleys on either side of one broad road that cut through the middle, paved and clean. Shops lined the streets, and above were living quarters; their owners stood and discussed their trades, all falling silent as Baldwin and his party rode past. Baldwin wondered for some while what it was that caused the people such concern. ‘You would think that they have never seen horses before,’ he muttered from the side of his mouth. ‘The army outside the walls had horse-lines, I am sure.’

  ‘No, horses they have aplenty,’ Roger chuckled. ‘It’s you they’re interested in. They won’t have seen too many Franks here in the city. Not since King Louis was captured.’

  ‘That was more than twenty years ago, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Nearer forty. An entire Crusading army destroyed by the French King,’ Roger said, and spat into the street. ‘And he destroyed the Templars who were with him. All for no gain.’

  They were riding through the city and then they were out the other side and heading towards the main castle – but before they were halfway there, their guide took them over to a large lake, and here Baldwin and the others could at last drop wearily from their horses and take in their surroundings.

  ‘What a city!’ Baldwin said. ‘It is vast!’

  ‘Beats Genoa – or even Paris,’ Roger agreed.

  ‘Cairo is the leading city in the whole of the Mameluk lands,’ a voice said, and Baldwin saw a tall, turbaned man walking towards him. ‘Salaam aleikum.’

  Baldwin responded politely, studying him. He was chubby, and carried a curved sword at his side, but for all that he was heavily bearded, and had a face as dark as any Saracen, he was plainly not a natural Muslim. He smiled and grasped Baldwin’s hand before waving the party to a pavilion by the side of the lake. ‘Come, you will need to refresh yourselves. I have water and juices to slake your thirst, and there are many fruits. Please, come and rest.’

  Baldwin sat on thick cushions in the pavilion. It was held aloft on four tall shafts like spears, and cords anchored the roof to pegs. There was a soothing snap and rustle overhead, and it was good to feel the air soughing past. He opened his neck to it, allowing the breeze to cool his skin. After the ride in the hot sun, the soft wind from the lake waters was giving rise to a sense of well-being. He could happily have closed his eyes – but were he to do so, he knew he would be unable to stop his snores. Even so, it was difficult to keep his eyelids open, and he had to smother many a yawn. Food was brought, delicate cakes and pastries. He ate and drank with relish, gratefully accepting juice from another servant.

  Refreshed, he took in his surroundings. There were many of the strange palm trees he had come to recognise, and plenty of bushes. Roses bloomed in profusion, and other flowers. This garden belonged to their wealthy host. He was about five years older than Baldwin, who thought he looked rather dissolute. Perhaps he had spent too much time here with the Saracens.

  ‘How long have you lived here?’ he asked when there was a moment’s pause in the conversation.

  ‘I have lived here all my life,’ the man said. ‘My father is the Emir al-Fakhri.
I am his son, Omar.’

  Baldwin was thrown into embarrassment. ‘My apologies. I assumed you were Christian.’

  ‘No, but my mother was, and I have lived amongst Christians. You hold less terror for me, than for my countrymen.’

  ‘How is that?’

  ‘I have dealings with your masters, the Templars,’ Omar said easily.

  Baldwin nodded, but immediately felt less secure. He disliked the thought that he was surrounded by Saracens, in a Saracen land, being fed by Saracen hands. Never before had he felt so entirely vulnerable.

  Roger Flor saw his face and laughed, reaching for dates. ‘My young friend is anxious.’

  ‘Why? He is our guest,’ Omar said, bemused.

  ‘He doesn’t realise that you earn much of your money from trading with the Templars,’ Roger said.

  Baldwin bridled at being ridiculed. He listened as the two discussed the present situation, and Omar expressed sadness that matters had reached such a pass.

  ‘He will not draw back from the brink, I think. Qalawun has a pretext for war in all the dead Muslims. Why did your people have to kill them? It was ridiculously stupid.’

  ‘They were drunk,’ Roger said with certainty. ‘Peasants and wine. A bad mix.’ He spat out a date stone.

  ‘Such rashness. It is a miracle the Crusaders have held their lands all this time,’ Omar said.

  ‘So, will we meet the Sultan?’ Roger asked.

  ‘Perhaps, or perhaps one of his officials. I do not know. He will expect good compensation to save Acre.’

  ‘So his armies will march on the city?’

  ‘Of course. Men have been killed. That, to the Sultan, means you have broken your treaty of peace, so he must come to enforce his peace over the land.’

  ‘What would he accept to prevent it? Money?’

  ‘Perhaps.’ The man considered, leaning back on his elbow and gazing over the water. ‘But if you would know my mind, I would say that if he does demand money, it will be only a shortlived peace. He is determined to take Acre and all within it.’

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  Baldwin and the others were led to a huge house that seemed more of a palace than a home. There, quarters were made available. To his surprise, Baldwin was not to share a bed with his companions. Each had their own mattress. Baldwin’s bed had clean linen sheets smelling of roses, and when he tumbled between them, sleep took him swiftly.

  He slept well, and for the first time in ages, he dreamed of Lucia. He was desperately searching for her in a crowd of veiled women who were similarly clad in emerald. He rushed from one to another, seeking her eyes amongst a multitude of brown, blue, hazel ones. But they were never hers. Never the ones he sought. Then, as he came to the last woman, he saw it was her, and ran to her, pleading for her to marry him . . . but even as he drew near, Maria appeared behind her, and he saw the knife’s blade draw slowly across Lucia’s throat. She collapsed, the gush of blood turning her beautiful gown to black, and Baldwin could do nothing but clench his fists. Even his wail of despair was somehow stifled. He could do nothing, say nothing, to save her. Then Maria’s face changed, until it became that of Emir al-Fakhri’s son. He smiled as he stared at Baldwin over Lucia’s body, and Baldwin saw more bodies lining the streets. All the women he had seen were dead.

  A hand on his arm shook him from his dreams, and he grabbed for his sword, until the world returned, and he recognised a servant. The man bowed low, and Baldwin realised it was daytime. For a while he could not move, as his heart returned to its usual rhythm. He only hoped no one had been disturbed by his dreams. He would be a laughing stock.

  Baldwin did not like being so far from those whom he trusted: the grim but homely Ivo, the stern, resolute Otto de Grandison, the Templars . . . He felt like an exile.

  He rose, washed his face in water that held rose petals to give a delicious scent, and dressed himself. His clothes had been washed, and now the tunic that had been filthy after more than a week of travelling, smelled fresh and looked almost new, apart from the many marks of fading.

  On a paved terrace outside, he found Roger Flor, who was glancing at the rich decorations and gilded figures with the eye of a man who could assess the value of goods from thirty paces. Servants brought meats and watered wine, bowing low, as though Baldwin and Roger were royalty.

  ‘Where are the others?’ Baldwin asked.

  ‘Already gone. We weren’t necessary. With luck they’ll speak with Qalawun, and we can soon return to Acre. Have you seen the quality of this workmanship?’ he asked, lifting a goblet of glass. ‘The best the Venetians could produce, this is.’

  ‘Venetian?’

  ‘Aye. They don’t make much, but what they do make is very good. Look at this! Fine, light and robust.’

  ‘What of it?’ Baldwin asked.

  ‘I was thinking: the Venetians make good profits from trading with Egypt. How hard will they fight to protect Acre if it’s against the will of Qalawun?’

  ‘They have the best location in Acre,’ Baldwin pointed out. ‘They would be mad to compromise their position for a little profit. They need Acre as much as anyone.’

  ‘I hope they remember that.’

  Baldwin left him, following the path they had taken the previous day to the water’s edge, staring out over the smooth, still lake, and he was there when Omar appeared with an older man.

  ‘Good day, my friend,’ Omar said. ‘This is my father, the Emir al-Fakhri.’

  The Emir was shorter than Baldwin, and above his black, glistening beard, his face was sorely pocked. His belly asserted his wealth, and his eyes were surrounded with laughter lines – but today those eyes were not merry. He looked troubled.

  ‘Please, you will walk with us,’ Omar said, a hand indicating a path that led about the lake. Columns rose on either side, as if it had once been a building. ‘My father speaks your language only poorly, so he has asked me to come and translate for him.’

  ‘Of course,’ Baldwin said. ‘How may I serve him?’

  ‘Your envoys are with Qalawun now,’ Omar said, watching his father’s mouth. ‘They are in the chamber with Qalawun’s men even as we speak. He will demand money.’

  ‘I suppose it will be a vast sum,’ Baldwin said.

  ‘A vast sum, yes. But worthwhile, if the Franks wish to remain. However, it is high in his mind to remove the Christians from Acre. You must let the Grand Master de Beaujeu know this: if the city pays this money, it will buy a little time. In a year, perhaps two, Qalawun will see Acre demolished.’

  ‘What of the value of the city as a trading centre? Without the Venetians and Genoese, how will he sell goods to the Christians?’

  The older man stared at Baldwin with amusement before speaking to his son.

  ‘My father says, “Why would he care?” You have to understand that to a Muslim, the sight of your people is an abomination. They do not belong here. We have a duty to protect our holy places, and those of your religion do not honour them.’

  ‘But it must be good to have so many ships bringing money to buy your goods?’

  ‘If Acre is destroyed, we shall have more ships come to Cairo, or to one of Qalawun’s other cities. But the merchants who earn the money will be Muslim, and our people shall wax strong and wealthy, while yours will wane. Do you think Muslims may not negotiate for themselves? We are perfectly competent to buy and sell without your intervention.’

  His voice had grown angry. Baldwin placated him. ‘I meant no insult to you or your peoples, Omar. It was my only desire to learn.’

  ‘And now you have. Be assured that before four years are passed, your city of Acre will be destroyed. Qalawun will take it apart stone from stone, just as he did Tripoli. And then the churches will be consecrated in the True Faith, and all vestiges of Christian rule will be eradicated. Only then will the Nation of Islam rise again.’

  ‘Why does your father tell me all this?’ Baldwin asked.

  ‘Because your Templar master pays us well and because t
here is nothing you may do to prevent the inevitable. So while we speak, it will not benefit you. We do not betray our peoples or Islam. We tell you what must be.’

  ‘Should we pay the ransom?’ Baldwin asked, staring at the Emir.

  ‘My father says, “It is up to you. Pay the sum demanded, and see the Sultan’s armies destroy Acre in a year or two; or do not pay and see the city laid waste in weeks”.’

  ‘Is there nothing we might do to protect ourselves?’ Baldwin asked, feeling a cold certainty that the Muslim’s words were spoken from conviction.

  ‘Nothing. Acre will cease to exist, and all those within her walls may expect the same pity as those who lived at Tripoli.’

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  It was eleven days later that Guillaume de Beaujeu marched into the broad space before the castle with the Marshal and five knights at his back. His white tunic was spotless, and gleamed in the sunlight as he pulled off his helmet, loosening the thongs that bound his mail hood. He pushed it back, and stood, left hand on his sword, the right gripping his helmet as he surveyed the men ranged about.

  It had fallen to him, perhaps, to be the last Templar Grand Master to address the Commune of Acre. That was a sobering thought.

  He had no misapprehensions as to the severity of their situation. All the Christians of this city, forty thousand souls or more, were dependent upon his ability to convince these men of the danger they faced. The reports of the envoy he had sent to Cairo had been uncompromising, as had the impression of the young man, Baldwin. He was a strong-willed fellow. Knew the value of a clear report.

  Their news was appalling, but it only supported Guillaume’s own convictions. There was no man so stupid as one who could not read the signs when they lay all about him – and yet there were men here in this room who were fooling themselves into believing black was white.

  Constable Amalric appeared, and Guillaume took a deep breath. ‘My Lord,’ he said, ‘I have news from Cairo.’

  ‘Please share it with the Commune,’ the Constable instructed him.