by Robyn Young
Kalawun was staring at Will. There had been a look of surprised concern in his face when Will entered, but that had been covered quickly. “Speak,” he said gruffly. “Why have you come?”
Will held out a scroll. “We have come on the orders of Grand Master de Beaujeu, my Lord Sultan.” The scroll was taken by one of the guards and conveyed to Kalawun, who opened it.
The chamber was silent as the sultan read. When he had finished, he looked up. “I will speak with the Templar alone.”
“My lord,” began one of the men behind him.
“We will finish our discussion later, Amir,” responded Kalawun brusquely. “You are dismissed.”
The man pursed his lips, but bowed. He and the other men on the dais headed down to a side door.
“And you, Khalil,” said Kalawun, gesturing to the young man with the mop of hair.
“My lord, I ...”
Kalawun looked at him sharply, silencing him with his stare.
With a stiff bow, the young man descended the dais. His gaze lingered on Will for a second in a mixture of hostility and interest, before he pushed open the door. The Mansuriyya soldiers were also reluctant to leave, but Kalawun refused to listen to their careful protests, and they too were forced to head off, along with the servants. The knights who had accompanied Will were escorted out, and within moments, only Will and Kalawun remained.
Kalawun rose from his throne, the scroll gripped in his fist. He strode down the steps, brandishing it at Will. “What happened?”
Will faltered. “I thought you would have known by now what—”
“I know what happened,” Kalawun cut across him angrily. “Our people in Acre told me. Why? Why did it happen?”
“We don’t know for sure. A group of Italian peasants came on a Crusade, sanctioned by the pope in Rome and supported by King Edward of England and King Philippe of France. It’s believed the violence started when some of these men heard a rumor that a Christian woman was raped by two Muslims.”
“This is your excuse?” demanded Kalawun.
“No,” said Will quickly, “of course not. There is no excuse for what happened in Acre. But you wanted a reason, an explanation.” He shook his head. “It is the only one we have.”
“Do you know,” began Kalawun, his voice brittle with rage and emotion, “how difficult it was, after Tripoli, to halt the campaign against your people? It took months to convince my court that the Franks did not intend to attack us, that men within your forces had corrupted the information for their own ends. It took every ounce of strength left in me to persuade them that it would be in our best interests to renegotiate a truce with the Franks.”
“With all due respect, my lord, Tripoli was an unprovoked attack. You and your forces had no just cause to besiege the city. You say it as though we were fortunate that you decided to spare Acre. You say it as though it were an indulgence on your part, rather than a legality bound by your own signature!”
“Legality matters little to my court when it comes to the Franks,” countered Kalawun roughly. “Most of my men want you gone. They will accept any excuse for this.” He pushed a hand through his silver hair. “And you have certainly given them one now.” His eyes narrowed. “Over a thousand dead. Corpses left in the streets, unburied. Children orphaned. Homes and livelihoods destroyed. It was one of the most brutal assaults I have heard of in years. It wasn’t trained warriors these animals attacked; it was booksellers, jewelers, bakers, fishermen, all of whom had lived peacefully among your people for decades. My spies tell me how men were stripped naked and carried through the streets to places where they could be strung up.” Kalawun thrust out the scroll, now crumpled. “And your grand master thinks we will be placated by an apology?”
“It is little compensation I realize,” said Will quietly, “but Christians and Jews were also killed in the massacre. The Italians were not under orders from any ruler in Acre. We did not even want them in the city.”
“No? It wasn’t so long ago that your own grand master was seeking a war with my people.”
“Not anymore, my lord, and even those of our leaders who would still welcome a Crusade did not want this. These men weren’t trained soldiers, sent to fortify our strongholds and augment our forces. They were half-starved peasants, enticed with the usual promises of wealth and absolution, noncombatants with no understanding of Outremer and her people. We tried to stop them, believe me. Many Muslims were slain, yes. But more were saved by the quick actions of our people.”
Kalawun shook his head. “That logic will not penetrate the fury of my court, Campbell. My people demand retribution for this. It has been all I can do to stop them taking up arms under their own volition and heading north for blood.”
“We have worked hard, Kalawun, together and separately, to maintain the peace between our people. I know that fragile balance we created faltered with Tripoli. But I’m begging you again: do not let the mindless actions of a few dictate the future of many.” Will held Kalawun’s tense gaze. “Do not allow your court’s need for vengeance to destroy what we have built. Do not let our own sacrifices for this cause be in vain.”
“What have we built, Campbell?” said Kalawun tiredly. “Can it even be measured anymore? Is it worth all of this? Any of it?”
“You know it is,” responded Will, “or you wouldn’t have called your forces to heel after Tripoli.” He sighed roughly, wishing, as he often did these days, that Everard were here. It was exhausting, trying to hold the world together, when all it seemed to want to do was spin out of control. “You wouldn’t have worked so damn hard to keep the peace. You would have just let it end. Lesser men would have,” he added. “When you met my father and agreed to this alliance, against the knowledge of Baybars, against the knowledge of your family and your people, you didn’t do so because it would be easy. You did so because you believed, as he did, as I do, that our people can benefit from peace.”
Kalawun closed his eyes as Will’s words penetrated his rage, breaking it down, turning it into weary confusion. Was this true? Had he done the right thing by his people, by his family? With so many of his men telling him, day after day, year after year, that he must confront the Franks, he had started to forget why he’d fought so hard against that counsel; he had begun to lose his convictions.
“You believe,” continued Will, “that Christians and Muslims and Jews do not have to be at war with one another, that, in many senses, we are all the same and that when we fight, it is against our own siblings that we raise arms. We are all children of God. You know this.”
Kalawun’s eyes opened as something awakened within him at this. It was anger, bright and sharp. But it wasn’t directed at the Christians; it was directed at his own people, at the men who had made him doubt himself, who had shaken his faith. Do not let our own sacrifices for this cause be in vain. He had given up too much to turn his back on everything he had been working toward now, when it mattered most. He had lost so much in pursuit of the cause, to give up the cause itself would render his entire life meaningless. No. He had to believe that he had been guided to this end for a reason. He had to believe that God had a purpose for him, that he was right. “I’ll need compensation,” he murmured, looking at Will. “It is the only way I will be able to hold my generals in check and retain my position.”
“We expected this. As well as sending me to convey his deep regret and a personal apology for the atrocity, Grand Master de Beaujeu wanted me to ask for your terms of reparation.”
“I want the ringleaders of the violence arrested and sent to me for trial,” said Kalawun. He paused. “And I want one Venetian sequin for every citizen in Acre.”
Will frowned. “That’s over one hundred and twenty thousand gold pieces, my lord.”
Kalawun nodded. “It will make a statement. A statement my people will heed. I’ll play my part, Campbell. Now you play yours. Go to your grand master and persuade Acre to agree to these terms and I will hold my people back.”
In t
he tight gap between the wall of the servants’ passage and the throne room, Khalil watched his father and the Templar shake hands. His whole body was humming with suppressed energy, which, as yet, hadn’t transformed itself into any coherent emotion. He was still reeling.
As he had left the throne room, Khalil had realized where he had seen the Templar before. It was at the siege of Tripoli, in his father’s pavilion. Something, curiosity or rebellion, had made him turn aside outside and squeeze into the gap in the wall, which Khadir had always used to spy on the court. He hadn’t liked the feeling of spying on his father. But, as soon as Kalawun and the Templar began to speak, this compunction vanished.
Khalil stood in stunned silence as the knight’s footsteps receded. Through the crack in the wall, he watched his father wearily ascend the dais and sit slumped in his throne. All at once a stranger to him.
THE CHURCH OF ST. CROSS, 23 SEPTEMBER A.D. 1290
Guillaume de Beaujeu was red in the face from shouting and his eyes were blazing. He stood behind the altar, his gaze raking the assembly. The Church of St. Cross was packed. Lawyers from the High Court, legates and bishops, the patriarch, the grand masters of the military orders, princes, consuls and merchants had crowded in, jamming the aisles. On the platform with Guillaume were Grand Commander Theobald Gaudin, Marshal Peter de Sevrey and the seneschal, along with several high-ranking commanders, including Will. The council had been going for less than half an hour and tempers were already fraying. The atmosphere was hostile, and Guillaume was struggling to make himself heard.
“You must understand that Sultan Kalawun has every right to attack us,” he was bellowing. “We aren’t pandering to his wishes with this offer, we are bargaining for our survival!”
“We shouldn’t treat with the infidel!” shouted one merchant, but his words were drowned out by others, not quite as fanatical, but nonetheless adamant.
“The men of Lombardy and Tuscany were not acting under the orders of any man here, Master Templar,” called a haughty voice from the side of the aisle, rising above the others. It was the bishop of Tripoli. “Why should we be made to pay for something that was no fault of our own? One hundred and twenty thousand sequins? It is an absurd amount of money.”
Guillaume’s eyes fixed on him. “I would think, Bishop, that you more than most would understand the price we will pay for inaction at this juncture. You saw your own city destroyed by Kalawun’s troops. Will you stand by and witness the same fate befall Acre?” He swept the agitated gathering with his stare. “Will you let your arrogance kill us all? No, we did not order the Lombards to commit the atrocities, but it was our pope who sent them here and our people who were put in charge. If we will not take responsibility for the actions of our citizens, who will?” His eyes flicked back to the bishop, who scowled.
Will gripped his sword, his heart thumping, as the crowd churned with agitation. He couldn’t believe that they were arguing so stubbornly against the grand master’s proposal, not with what was at stake.
“I agree with what you say, Master de Beaujeu,” came a croaking voice from a wintry, white-haired man with a stooped back. His voice was so frail that those near the back couldn’t hear him and began shouting over him, until they were quieted by their fellows. He was Nicholas de Hanape, the patriarch of Jerusalem. “I agree that we must take responsibility for the outrage that has happened here.” He looked around the church. “Good Christians died too in this mindless slaughter, and nothing can excuse it.” He peered up at Guillaume. “But the sultan of Egypt asks too much. We have imprisoned some of the men who were believed to have carried out the attacks, but the trials against them are still continuing as far as I am aware. The atrocity happened on our own soil and we must be the ones to dispense justice. In Egypt, any man we send would face execution, regardless of his guilt or innocence.”
“They face execution here also, Nicholas,” said Theobald Gaudin sternly, beside Will.
“Only when their guilt has been ascertained,” responded the patriarch. He shook his head. “And the monies the sultan asks for are simply too high.”
“With respect, what price would you put on the lives of those slaughtered?” demanded Guillaume.
Will found himself nodding vigorously, as if to lend credence to the grand master’s words.
The patriarch, however, wouldn’t back down. “There is no price high enough to compensate for those deaths, Master Templar, as we both know. The sultan knows it also. The money we give to him would most likely be used to fund a war against us in the future. We should not arm him out of our own pockets. Let us find another solution.” He spread his hands. “Perhaps if we send him the Muslims from our jails?”
“Kalawun has given us his terms,” said Guillaume firmly. “We not do have time to barter with him. We are in no position to negotiate.”
“What about Kabul?” It was an official from the High Court who had spoken. A few people turned to look at him, but his gaze was fixed on Guillaume. “What about the atrocities the Mamluks committed in their attack on the village? Men butchered? Women and children defiled?”
“That’s right!” someone else interrupted. “Hundreds of Christians were killed then and the Mamluks placated us with a few bags of gold!”
Guillaume threw up his hands as others nodded and called out in agreement. “Are you not listening? What happened in the past is irrelevant. Unless we give in to Kalawun’s demands, the Mamluk Army will march on us and Acre will face destruction!”
The crowd was pushing forward now, fists clenched and lifted as men tried to make themselves heard. Will tensed even more, seeing the sea of angry, resentful faces swelling in front of him. He looked at the grand master, who stepped forward to meet them, hands raised behind the altar like a desperate priest trying to save his congregation. There was irony, Will realized, in the fact that the one man now trying to safeguard the city had put it in such grave danger only thirteen years before. But Guillaume de Beaujeu was no longer the same man who had tried to steal the Black Stone in an attempt to launch a new Crusade. He had seen the error of his judgment the day he learned of the plot’s failure; had almost died because of it.
In the years since, he had learned to be a diplomat as well as a general. It had not come easy, and his passion and ambitions could still run away with him, but he solved more disputes than he started and he’d learned to listen as well as to lead. He had lost some of that fiery, unpredictable energy and had become more measured in his dealings. Guillaume wanted Acre to survive, wanted Christendom to maintain its hold in the Holy Land, and Will’s relationship with Kalawun offered him a chance to work toward this, without violence. The fleet he’d had built, years ago had never been sent to blockade Egypt, the ships instead used to transfer goods and pilgrims. But very few people were aware of this change in the grand master and that was apparent now, as the men in the church harangued and challenged him.
“Listen to him, god damn you,” Will murmured beneath his breath.
Then, within the turmoil, one clear voice was lifted louder than the others. “Master de Beaujeu is right,” said a stocky, broad-chested man, nodding brusquely to Guillaume. “We should accept Kalawun’s terms. It is a small sum to pay for our continued existence.”
The church went quiet.
Will looked in astonishment at the man who had spoken in Guillaume’s defense. It was the last person he had ever expected to do so. It was Jean de Villiers, grand master of the Knights of St. John. The Temple and the Hospital had been bitter rivals for decades. If there were two opposing sides, they would be on them. Like the Genoese and the Venetians, theirs was a hatred ingrained in the fabric of their communities, inherent in their histories, caused by competition and feuds not forgotten. Will stared out at the crowd, holding his breath in the silence, certain the fact that the two grand masters were in agreement would make a difference to the outcome of the council. But although many people were visibly surprised, tempers, he soon realized, were running too high to be extin
guished, even by this unexpected turn of events.
“How will we find the funds?” asked one of the magistrates. “Our citizens will not pay them. Whose coffers will be drained?”
This question resulted in a barrage of shouting as everyone tried to make himself heard.
“Acre’s walls can withstand an attack! Let the Saracens dash themselves upon our ramparts in vain!”
“Do not give in to their demands!”
“No fortress, no city can withstand a prolonged attack indefinitely,” countered Guillaume. “We have weaknesses. We are not invincible.” His voice was becoming hoarse with the effort. “Western forces took this city from the Arabs two centuries ago! How complacent you have become to forget this. And complacent without reason. Tripoli, Antioch, Edessa, Caesarea, Jerusalem.” He punched a fist into his palm as he named each city. “All of them gone, fallen to the Muslims. Acre is our last stronghold, by God!” he roared, as they tried to argue over him. “If we lose it, we will lose the Holy Land!”
“The West will not forsake us,” barked the bishop of Tripoli, turning to the crowd in defiance of Guillaume. “Do not listen to the Templars. If the Saracens come, our people will send men and arms to aid us. The Church of Rome will not let the Holy Land fall to the infidel. And neither,” he said harshly, looking back at Guillaume, “will our God.”
Guillaume’s eyes flashed. “There is a time for faith, Bishop, and a time for action. It would be a foolish man who stood on a battlefield and faced an army with a Bible in his hands. We are here to do the bidding of our Lord Almighty, but it is through deeds, as well as piety, that we serve Him. We cannot hold back the Saracens with prayers alone. Even if the West were to send aid, it would not come in time should the Saracens move against us. And it was the West, brothers, who sent us the very men who may have sealed our doom. Why do you think only shepherds and farmers came on this Crusade? Because no one else would!” His voice cracked across them. “The West no longer cares, embroiled as it is in its own wars and politics. We stand alone, Brothers!”
