Crusade

by Robyn Young

  “My Lord Consul, I must protest,” said Benito, before the consul could speak. “The grand master’s offer, while appreciated, is unnecessary. As I said, I have worked closely with the Mamluks. A stranger might upset the delicate relationship I have formed with them.”

  “My man has liaised directly with Sultan Kalawun on my behalf in the past,” said Guillaume smoothly. He looked to the consul. “And presents an unbiased voice in this matter.”

  “But I—”

  “The knight will go with you, Benito,” said the consul, interrupting the masked man. He crumpled the silk cloth in his hand and rose. “I would think you would be glad to have a Templar Knight accompany you. The roads are not without danger.”

  With that, the council was brought to a close. Will couldn’t see the expression on Benito’s face, but he had the impression that it wasn’t a happy one. He sympathized. A journey to Cairo was the last thing he’d had planned.

  THE SINAI DESERT, EGYPT, 6 NOVEMBER A.D. 1288

  Will shifted uncomfortably in his saddle and took the reins in one hand to flex the other, which was cramped and aching. The sun was going down, and his shadow stretched long beside him, swaying in time with the horse. He glanced over his shoulder to see the rest of the company a little way behind, five squires on their packhorses, the sturdy beasts loaded with supplies, two guards sent along by the consul and, in the middle, Benito. This was how it had been for much of the journey. Benito and his attendants kept their distance, eating, sleeping, even riding apart from Will, and he had hardly spoken to any of them since they left Acre, ten days ago. For Will, this had been just fine; he hadn’t been in the mood to make polite conversation.

  He understood why de Beaujeu had wanted someone to accompany the Venetian to Kalawun’s court, and he knew why de Beaujeu had picked him for the task. But over the past few years, he had grown used to spending most of his time in Acre, and he hated being away from Rose and Elwen. It made him feel restless and sort of prickly inside, as if the thread that connected the three of them were being pulled too taut. Displeased though he was to be on the assignment, however, he was glad to have the chance to talk to Kalawun. There had been rumors of unrest in the Mamluk court, murmurs of dissension over some of the sultan’s policies, namely his leniency toward the Franks, and Will could use this opportunity to gauge the significance of this.

  He turned back to the road ahead, but before he did so, his gaze locked briefly on Benito. There was no way of knowing through the blankness of that mask whether the merchant was looking at him. But somehow, Will felt he was. He had felt it all the way through the desert, like an itching sensation at the back of his neck. His speculations that Benito was afflicted with some disease seemed confirmed one evening when Benito had taken off his black gloves to pick up a bowl of soup. Will had stared out of the corner of his eye at the misshapen claws that had been revealed, the skin shriveled and knotted.

  After another mile, the Venetian called a halt, suggesting they make camp by a series of low, jagged rocks, which lay off the track they were following. The squires dismounted when they reached the area, but before Will could climb out of the saddle, Benito hailed him. “We need more water, Commander.” His voice came out with a whispery lisp through the mask. Benito jerked his head eastward. The sun caught in the metal, making it flare like fire for a second. “There’s a well the Bedouin use about two miles from here.”

  “The Bedouin aren’t usually amenable to people trespassing on their land,” replied Will.

  “They are amenable enough if you offer them money. I’ve used the well without any trouble in the past.”

  Will was silent for a few moments. “Why do you need me to go?”

  “Just because I’ve not had any trouble before doesn’t mean I’m going to be reckless.” Benito cocked his head. “Didn’t the consul say I should be glad a Templar was coming with me?” Will had the impression that the man might be smiling. “Isn’t it your job, Commander, to guard Christian travelers on the road? Unless I am mistaken, that is the reason the Temple was founded.”

  Will wanted to refuse, but thought it petty to do so, and so the two of them set off across the desert, leaving the squires making camp. They had been easy on the horses for the last leg of the day’s journey, and the beasts still had some pace left in them. As they rode, Will kept his eyes alert and his hand never strayed far from the pommel of his sword. The sun was almost down, and his shadow was now spindly and elongated, racing ahead. Benito rode a straight course, seeming to know exactly where he was going.

  If it had been any darker, Will doubted he would have seen the well at all, for the stones were almost the same brown-pink color as the desert. They approached cautiously, but the sweeping sands were empty in every direction, the view halted only, here and there, by distant rock formations.

  “Looks like it might be free today,” Will said to Benito, who didn’t answer. Swinging himself down from his saddle, Will walked over. The rim of the well was crumbled and fell away into black. On the other side, he found a wooden pail, half-buried in sand. It was bleached gray, the wood brittle, and a frayed old rope was curled around it like a dead snake. Will picked it up and tested it. A few hanks of hemp came away in his hand, but the central core of the rope held fast. One end was tied to an iron ring, fixed to the side of the well.

  “Is there water?” Benito asked, setting down the skins he had brought.

  Will leaned over and peered in. “I’m not sure.” His voice stretched down the hole, diminishing. “Only one way to find out.” Knotting the free end of the rope to the bucket, he swung it over the side and let it sink out of sight. He let out the slack on the rope, bit by bit, waiting for contact. Something, movement perhaps, made him glance up. On the ground was a shadow, coming at him; an arm raised, something tapering from a closed fist.

  Will’s head whipped around in time to see Benito advancing on him, a dagger in his hand. He dropped the rope and managed to half turn his body, ducking away from the arcing blade. The Venetian shouted in rage as the dagger sliced into air, inches from Will’s shoulder. Will snatched at the man’s wrist and caught it, digging his fingers into the flesh, pressing down for all he was worth. Benito yelled again, this time in pain, his limp fingers releasing the blade, which skittered into the well after the bucket. Letting go of Benito’s wrist, Will went for his sword, but the Venetian moved quickly, shoving him viciously in the chest. Will went backward, hard. As his lower back connected with the lip of the well, he felt himself lift, begin to keel. Reaching desperately out, he clutched at Benito. His fingers caught the man’s cloak, pulling him forward. His other hand immediately reached for better purchase and found the rim of the mask, which jutted up over Benito’s skull. For one infinitesimal second, Will hung there, suspended. Safe. Then there was a snap as the leather strap around Benito’s skull broke against the pressure and the mask came away in Will’s hand. The Venetian stumbled forward with a grunt, knocking into him and pushing him those last few inches to send him toppling over the edge. Will felt warm metal clutched in his hand, felt space, sickening, inevitable, at his back. He saw a deformed face before him. Then it was gone, along with the rest of the world, as he fell into darkness.

  The Venetian ran to his horse. The other beast he slapped hard on the rump, sending it galloping away. He mounted and rode back to their camp, the early evening air surprisingly cool on his bare, shriveled skin. “Pack up!” he shouted to the startled squires as he galloped into the camp. “Quickly!”

  “What happened?” asked one of the guards, running over.

  “Bandits. They killed the Templar. We leave now!”

  The squires needed no further encouragement. Within ten minutes, they were mounted and riding out into the dusk, the two guards watching behind them for an unseen foe.

  THE SINAI DESERT, EGYPT, 6 NOVEMBER A.D. 1288

  There was darkness and there was cold. Bitter, merciless cold. Water seeped into him from somewhere. Every part of him was frozen, his l
imbs locked and solid like ice, like stone. His bones ached with it. When he tried to move, even the tiniest motion would awaken a pain deep within. Like a monster, this pain would rise and scream inside him, terrifying, overwhelming in its intensity. Far above, he could see a circle of sky, scattered with stars. He drifted in and out of consciousness.

  Sometimes, Will was back in Acre; other times he was falling again. But always, in dream or when awake, there was a face. One half of it was blistered and hairless, wrinkled and mushy like rotten fruit. The other half was startlingly whole, and shockingly familiar. Still handsome, still cold and arrogant, that half was the face of Angelo Vitturi.

  39

  The Docks, Acre 13 NOVEMBER A.D. 1288

  Garin’s eyes fluttered open. Sunlight stabbed down into them and he winced, throwing an arm over his face. The movement made his head

  throb. A sloshing, creaking sound filled his ears. The bright light was blocked out by a shadow. He blinked up at the hulking silhouette.

  “Didn’t you hear me?” came a gruff voice. “I said we’re here.”

  “Bertrand?” murmured Garin. The shadow didn’t respond, but moved off, dropping out of the sun, which blinded Garin again. He sat up, wiping his mouth. He had drooled and his dark blond beard, which was long and tangled, was soggy. Dazedly, his head pounding, he looked around, the sleep gradually fading and reality seeping in, juddering, discordant. The man he had called Bertrand was clambering up to the quarterdeck and wasn’t Bertrand at all. He had been dreaming again, dreaming he was back in Outremer, somewhere in the desert, looking for something he had forgotten. Something important? There was a forlorn crying sound whirling above him, faint, now close by, now faint again. It was a familiar sound, but one he hadn’t heard in weeks. It was ... gulls. Garin frowned and, gripping the side of the boat, pulled himself up. And there it was. Unchanged, unwelcome, unbearable. Acre. Those immense, arrogant walls encircling over 120,000 inhabitants, all pressed in together with their filth and their excrement, their sins and secrets; whores, knights, cut-throats, priests, lunatics and kings. God, how he hated it.

  Having staggered to where his pack was stuffed against the side of the boat, Garin picked it up and made his way unsteadily to the gangplanks, which had been thrown onto the harbor wall. A few of the crew nodded or called farewell, but he didn’t notice. There was warmth in the sun, but he was freezing. Half-walking, half-stumbling across the dockside, he headed toward the iron gates that would take him inside. The smell from a heap of fish guts rotting in the sun turned his stomach, and he leaned up against a wall and dry-retched, his eyes smarting. He needed food. He hadn’t eaten properly in weeks, and his stomach was sore and bloated from all the beer he’d been drinking on board the ship. He dropped his pack, then crouched down and dug inside, looking for the skin of wine he had saved. He found it with relief. A square of parchment was dislodged and came partially out with it. Garin stared at it balefully. It was the second letter he had to deliver.

  Pope Nicholas had been delighted with Edward’s promise that he would take the Cross when able. He had been planning to begin discussions about the Crusades with his advisors in the papal court and believed the pledges of Philippe and Edward to this cause would go a long way to convincing them to support the launch of a new holy war. He told Garin to inform Edward that he intended to send legates out around the West to call upon the citizens to take the cross for the liberation of Jerusalem. Eyes shining, Nicholas talked of how it would be like Clermont, two hundred years earlier, when Pope Urban II led the first call to arms for the holy mission and the first pilgrims set out for the East, his words ringing in their ears, sweet with the promise of absolution, a cloth cross in their hands.

  Garin scowled and jammed the parchment back into the bag. The delivery of the second letter could wait. He couldn’t bear the thought of seeing Will sober. He put the skin to his lips. It tipped back and back. A few drops splashed onto his tongue. He cursed and threw it aside. Standing, Garin swung his pack over his shoulder and looked around. His eyes came to rest on the row of taverns that bordered the waterfront. He lurched toward them, passing a few scrawny whores haunting the dockside, none of whom were desperate enough to call to him as he shambled past.

  FUSTAT MISR, CAIRO, 13 NOVEMBER A.D. 1288

  The two men headed through the twisted alleys, shadowed by the buildings that hemmed them on all sides, a labyrinth of dusty facades lined with barred windows and low doorways. Smells of meat and spices lingered in the warm air; a baby cried and a woman shouted.

  “Where are we going?” murmured one of the men, his voice muffled through his kaffiyeh.

  “It’s not far now,” replied the other, leading them into a tighter, darker set of alleys and finally through a doorway covered by a cloth that swung limply closed behind them.

  Inside, a few lamps burned, giving off an oily smell. Men sat at tables playing chess, clay jugs and wooden bowls set beside them. One, lounging against the back wall, nodded as they crossed to a table away from the other occupants. He disappeared through a door and came out a moment later carrying a jug and two wooden bowls that he set on the table.

  “It’s wine,” murmured Nasir, peering into the jug as the man left them.

  “I’m not asking you to drink it,” responded Angelo, his Arabic smooth and precise. He poured wine into the bowls and slid one across the table to Nasir.

  “Baybars closed the taverns years ago.” Nasir looked around the room at the other men who were drinking. He wondered how many were Muslim.

  “Sultan Baybars has been gone for a long time.” Angelo picked up the bowl in both hands and lifted it to his face. “Things have changed.” He slurped at the wine, some of which drizzled down his chin.

  Nasir watched, unable to look away, as that ravaged mouth worked against the bowl. Angelo had a strip of cloth covering half his face, tied at the back of his head, but the scars beneath became visible whenever he talked or moved, the cloth lifting to reveal the blistered skin. “What happened to you?” he whispered, unable to contain the question any longer.

  Angelo set the bowl down and looked at him. “The Temple tried to kill me. They failed, mostly.”

  Nasir shook his head questioningly.

  “The day you came to me in Acre,” said Angelo flatly. “It happened that night.”

  Nasir recalled the day, eleven years ago, when Kalawun sent him to warn Will that Baybars was coming for him. He had instead gone straight to Angelo to tell the Venetian that Campbell had ruined their plans and saved the Stone. He demanded his promised reward: he had kept his end of the bargain, and even though the Venetian’s designs had failed, he saw no reason for him not to receive it. But Angelo refused him. It hadn’t worked; his business was still in jeopardy. There was no reward. In that moment, all Nasir’s plans had crumbled. The shock was overwhelming. Everything he had done to try to secure his freedom and to rebuild his shattered life had been in vain. Something died in him then. Hope, for so long the only thing that had sustained him, at last had withered inside.

  “I went after the grand master, to limit the damage done,” continued Angelo, not noticing the bitter look on Nasir’s face. He wrapped his gloved hands around the bowl. “I failed, and when my father and the other men we were working with met that night in an abandoned church, de Beaujeu came for us.” He lifted the bowl to his lips, but paused. “My father’s death saved me. Part of the building collapsed in the fire, killing him and the others, but opening a hole in the wall. I escaped.”

  “You stayed in Acre?”

  Angelo set the bowl to his lips and drank. “Only until my wounds healed. The grand master had seized my family’s house and wealth.” Angelo shook his head. “We lost our empire in the East that night, an empire four generations had built. I returned to Venice, where my family had fled, and set about rebuilding what we had lost. I came back two years ago to restore our business here. This is where the wealth lies. Confined to the West, a slave trader cannot survive. I cannot se
ll Christians to Christians. I need Mongols, Turks, Arabs. It is the way of it, as you know,” he added, noting Nasir’s expression. “Now,” he said curtly, “did you do as I asked in my letter?”

  Nasir felt anger lance through him. “Why did you come to me, after all this time?” he demanded. A few of the tavern’s occupants looked around, then returned to their games of chess. “You had no right!” hissed Nasir. “I should have gone to Sultan Kalawun when your letter came.”

  Angelo stared at him, surprised by the outburst. Then he laughed. It was a mocking sound. “But you wouldn’t, would you, Nasir? How could you, without implicating yourself? Your fate at Kalawun’s hands would be worse than mine.”

  “You promised me freedom. I lost my brother because of you.”

  “Freedom?” countered Angelo, sharply. “That you could have gained any time you wanted. You did not need me.”

  “I needed money.”

  “Money you could have stolen from your masters’ coffers. Be honest, Nasir,” growled Angelo. “Why did you stay? Will you not answer?” He leaned forward. “Then I shall tell you. You stayed because you are afraid of freedom.”

  Nasir fell silent at these words. To Kalawun and everyone around him, he was a loyal Mamluk and a faithful Sunni, but in his heart he was neither, and he had resented every day, every second he had been forced to pretend otherwise in this desperate parody of a life. But much as he despised them, the Mamluks were the closest thing to family he had left.

  It was a fact that had rung all too true when he had discovered that Kaysan was dead, killed by Ishandiyar on Kalawun’s orders. Raging with grief, Nasir had avenged his brother with the murder of the amir, but it had been a hollow victory. He had thought for a time of taking Kalawun’s life, but had been afraid that to kill his master would ruin his chance for freedom. Even then, fury and anguish still raw inside him, he had known that this was an excuse. He was afraid to kill Kalawun not because he might not escape, but because then he would have to. When freed, animals bred in captivity most often died in the wild, unable to survive alone, unable to fend for themselves. After so many years, Nasir’s prison had become his home. Angelo was right; he had simply been too scared to leave its walls. “Then why should I help you?” he muttered, pushing the bowl of wine away, untouched. “When there is obviously nothing you can offer me?”