Talon glanced at the last rays of sun that gleamed though the distant trees.
“Come, it is time we left. I pray God that we will be in Cyprus two days hence, and back with our own people soon after.”
They slipped out of their chambers without being accosted by their landlord. Talon had paid him well enough so that, although their absence would be noticed in the morning, there would be no outcry.
They walked unobtrusively along the darkened streets towards the harbor, watchful for anyone who might be acting suspiciously. This was the time when thieves and whores came out of the shadows to accost the unwary or those looking for the pleasures of the flesh. The crowds had thinned considerably as darkness descended upon the city.
The evening meal was being prepared in many courtyards, and the wafting scents of chicken, goat’s meat or fish being grilled on fires and made Talon realize that he was still hungry. He would obtain some food to take with them on the trip, he decided.
They could see the masts of the ships in the harbor several streets away, and the cry of those few sea gulls that were still searching for food was indication enough that they were nearing the dirty harbor water. Talon picked up the pace and, with his companions in tow, strode onto the stone quayside that ran the length of the harbor. There was more traffic here than in the city, as the port never seemed to sleep.
Ships were preparing to leave on the tide and give way to others which had been waiting their turn. The merchants were impatient to lead their camel trains onto the quays and to unload their cargo. The camels already there were squatting patiently, waiting for crews to take their wares off their back and load the ships. Talon noticed many long white ingots, one on either side of some of the camels, and curiously touched one as they walked by. Its grainy surface was slick. He touched his fingers to his tongue after first sniffing his fingers. It was salt. He did not think he had seen so much in one place. The lighthouse on Pharos Island threw a blaze of light across the dark oily waters of the inner port.
None of them noticed the soldiers on the quay side until it was too late. Talon saw enough in the descending dusk to realize that they might be heading into a trap, and turned away hurriedly.
“I think they are waiting for us, my friends, we may have been betrayed,” he muttered. He had just glimpsed the thin man from the inn with the soldiers. He must have seen them as they turned away, because he pointed toward them and yelled excitedly at the leader of the soldiers.
“There…there they are! Look, you! Those three men over there! They are Kharagi. Those are your quarry, quickly, catch them!”
The soldiers saw Talon and his companions escaping through the tangle of cordage and cargo, dodging between the laden camels which were everywhere. Their shouts as they gave chase added to the already noisy roadway.
Running was to no avail, as others among the crowd pointed at them and tried to obstruct them as they ran. It was only when Talon and his friends drew their swords and waved them menacingly that the drovers and others backed out of the way, falling into each other to avoid getting cut by a blade.
But the crowd had slowed the three men enough for a spear to clatter to the stones near their feet, and then some arrows whispered by, thudding into bales beside them. Men shouted and dove for cover. Talon turned to his friends.
“I shall delay them, but you must escape!”
He had absolutely no idea how his companions would manage that, as neither was equipped to survive in the city without him, but he knew he had to attempt something. His heart was pounding and his breath short with the anticipation of having to fight for their lives.
Montague, red in the face with rage, pushed him aside and growled, “No, you escape. I shall stay and fight them, Talon. It is time I stopped skulking around in disguise and fight as I am meant to. Go you with God, and say a prayer for me!”
He threw off his over robes and, brandishing his sword high, he let out a roar and charged the soldiers. He so intimidated them, that an archer, who could have shot Montague point blank, weakly let his bow wobble and his arrow flew off harmlessly into the harbor. It was the last thing the man did as Montague decapitated him then and there. The body stood bolt upright for a moment before falling over backwards, spraying his fellow soldiers with blood. The head bounced onto the stones.
Montague paid it no heed. He dove in among the shocked soldiers and hacked and stabbed with a fury. Talon and Max, after the slightest hesitation, ran to join him.
“If it is our fate to die here, Talon, then so be God’s will!” Max yelled over his shoulder as he parried a spear and hacked a man’s arm off with his sword. The man shrieked and fell to the stones, writhing and clutching at the stump of his arm.
Talon followed. He had a sick feeling in his stomach because he knew they could never hold off this many men and survive, but his companions had committed themselves to the fight, and so now must he.
He parried a slashing sword, stabbed a man in the face and then whirled and caught a thrust spear just in time to slide his sword up and take the spearman’s fingers off at the hand. The screams of the injured men and the bellows of Montague combined with the yells of Talon and Max so surprised the soldiers that they fell back in confusion.
There was a brief pause before an officer screamed at the soldiers to attack and take them prisoners. Talon, meanwhile, saw their betrayer just behind the nervous soldiers, urging them on.
Pointing at Talon, he yelled, “There, that man, he speaks Arabic! He is for sure a spy! Kill them…”
His words were choked off as the spear Talon grabbed from the ground and hurled in one fluid motion pierced the betrayer’s chest. The man stood transfixed against a huge bale, his arms flapping feebly at the shaft, his life’s blood pouring onto the slippery ground. The soldiers looked at him with shock and fear, but their officer slapped at them with the flat of his sword and shouted that they must take the fugitives prisoner.
Then there was a pounding of feet, and more soldiers came from behind. Talon and his companions became aware of this when an arrow pierced Montague in the back. He stood in the middle of a pile of corpses, himself already covered in gore. But the arrow from the soldier was true and Montague fell onto his knees, dropping his sword with a gasp of agony, trying to reach the shaft protruding from his back. His face was a mask of anguish.
“Talon, Max, I am done! Pray for me…my… Lord, receive me!” He fell forward onto his face, dead.
Talon and Max had no time to even say a prayer. They were surrounded by a horde of angry soldiers who prodded them hard with points of their spears and shouted at them to lay down their weapons.
They looked at one another, both realizing there was no purpose in fighting on, other than to die. Their weapons clattered to the stones and they stood still. The angry and frightened soldiers proceeded to beat them and punch them to their knees.
Oblivious of the rough handling, Talon gazed down at Montague and murmured the prayer for the Knights. Max was doing the same, even as he was struck on the head and face by angry men who shouted abuse at them. Leaving the body of their companion behind in a pool of his and others’ blood, the two were hauled to their feet and hustled off.
As they were shoved along the quay near the side of the galley they were to have sailed on, Talon saw the Master lean over the hand rail. The man was watching him and gave a wry shake of the head and a shrug, as though to say, “I could do nothing about this.”
It was little comfort to Talon, who was trying to pay attention to their surroundings and to where they were being taken. His despair at having lost his companion and the desperate future they faced left him feeling numb. He barely noticed the buffeting they were receiving from their captors. Their arms had been bound painfully behind them, making it difficult to stay upright against the blows they were receiving from all sides. He realized that blood was running down his front from a blow to his face and nose, but he was too numb to feel the pain.
By the time they arrived at the g
ates of a large fortification, both of them were bruised and bleeding and could barely stay on their feet. They were followed by a curious and boisterous crowd of onlookers, who described the fight to one another, exaggerating the story of the battle more and more as they repeated it to passersby.
The officer in charge banged on large wood doors with the haft of his sword, shouting for entrance. Rough hands shoved them inside the courtyard. The massive doors were slammed shut in the faces of the excited people outside, and the bars dropped with a thud. The noise of the crowd abated somewhat, but their captors continued shouting at one another, still excited by the engagement and their catch.
A man in fine clothes approached their group, and after a brief talk with the commander of the soldiers he waved the guards aside and approached Talon and Max, who stood shakily waiting.
He looked them over. “Who are you, and why were you trying to escape on the ship?’
Through bruised and cut lips, Talon tried to bluff it out. “We are merchants from Cyprus, my lord. The man who betrayed us owed me money and lied to these men. We were not trying to escape!”
“So…you speak Arabic. Where did you learn our language this well?”
“My lord, I am a merchant from Armenia. I have travelled over many lands and learned the languages of many places. This man is one of my companions, as was the other who has been murdered wrongly by these soldiers. They do not speak your language. But merchants like me have to know the language of the countries we trade with, to ensure we are not cheated.”
“Then why did you not tell the captain of my soldiers these things? Instead you fought them and killed many. That is not the behavior of a merchant. I think it is you who lies, and by the Prophet I shall find out in due course.”
The officer who had been with the soldiers interjected, “He killed one of the men from the ship, my lord, the very man who informed us about him. I saw him do it. No merchant could throw a spear the way this man did, my lord.”
“Take them to the prison. I shall find out what they were doing before too long and then they can go in front of the Emir before they are sent to the executioner.”
Without further ado, the two prisoners were hurried over to a large mud and stone building with slits in the walls for windows. A door opened and they were forced up worn stone stairs and down a long corridor with doors on either side. One was opened and they were flung into a small stone cell.
The door slammed shut and the soldiers tramped away. There was silence in the cell, except for the labored breathing of the two men lying on the floor. Their captors had not bothered to release their tied arms.
Talon lay where he had fallen, breathing through his mouth because his nose was full of blood. He did a mental inventory of his injuries. Some of the blows had been very hard, and at one time the shaft of a spear had been rammed into his ribs. They hurt badly, but he could still breathe, so he did not think they were broken.
He rolled onto his back and whispered, “Max?”
Max stirred. “Talon,” Max grunted.
“I am sorry, Max…so sorry.”
“Don’t be, Talon. This was bad fate. We were betrayed…by that scum, the Master of the ship and his weasel. At least you killed him…that was a good throw. He can enjoy his Judas money in Hell now.”
“Max…do you remember when we were ambushed in France?”
There was a silence, then a sigh. “Move over and I shall see if I can get to it.”
Max wiggled along the floor by scooting his knees and elbows until he reached the knife that Talon always kept in his boot and gingerly began to cut Talon’s bonds. Finally they both sat against the wall in the darkness and rubbed their wrists in an attempt to restore the circulation of blood. Talon asked, “How badly did they beat you, Max?”
“I can still breathe, and my legs and arms work, sore as hell though they be. I think I have three black eyes instead of two, because they hit me twice on the same eye. Bastards!”
Talon chuckled…then groaned from the pain. He was relieved that Max was alive, and where there was humor there was a chance. Max was not giving up yet.
“I shall miss Montague…he was a great warrior. We needed men like him in the Holy Land. God bless his soul,” Max muttered. His voice was low and full of regret.
“I agree, Max. I too will miss him. God receive his soul…but he died the way he wanted to, as a warrior, and God will receive him kindly, of that I am sure. I shall pray for him at the church of the Holy Sepulcher when we arrive there.”
“Do you think we will, young Master?” Max asked tentatively.
“I am sure of it, Max,” Talon lied. “But first we have to get out of here, change our plans and find our way across the great river, the one they call the Nile. I have heard a lot about it but have never seen it. They say it is vast.”
They talked for about an hour of their chances, and although both of them tried to sound optimistic, neither felt any confidence in their future at all.
Finally Max said, “For now, I think we must rest and then plan on getting out of here tomorrow, as there will be no time to waste. Get some rest while you can, Talon.”
Talon heard his friend shuffle next to him and then Max lay quietly. Talon did the same, but his mind would not stop worrying. He relived the incidents of the day, trying to think of what they might have done if they had had more warning. He finally slept a fitful and uncomfortable sleep, plagued by ghosts and demons, tossing restlessly on the cold stone floor.
The last sound he heard was that of squeaking rats somewhere in the dark cell.
Treacherous time has put me in prison
Where I’ve chirped away like a bird in a snare
How pure and fine my inspiration
Is and was and will be there.
— Todros Abulafia
Chapter 4
Prison
Talon and Max spent a bad night in their prison cell. The walls were made of thick sandstone which cut them off from all sound from the outside other than what they could hear through the cracks of the thick wooden door. These sounds were mainly from other prisoners, who cried their despair to the indifferent walls. There were no windows in their cell, which made the air stifling, and it was difficult to know what time of the day or night it might be.
Even in the darkness one could tell that the cell was filthy as though it had never been cleaned. There were small bones, picked clean, rags and other objects that the previous prisoners had left behind, strewn over the eight foot by six foot area of the floor space. Chains hung from the walls where other luckless creatures might have hung; they did not bear closer inspection, as there were strips of something hanging off the shackles. The stink of the place was enough to make Talon gag and there were rats competing with an army of cockroaches and other biting insects for whatever was left over. They all somehow came and went as they pleased.
The first thing Talon did upon waking was to scratch himself vigorously, as did Max. Talon’s eyes were barely used to the dark; he could just make out his friend’s pale features. Max’s face was swollen and cut, and his eyes were puffed from the blows he received the previous evening.
“How are you today, Talon?” Max asked, licking his parched lips with a dry tongue. They had received neither water nor food during the night, and both were ravenously hungry and thirsty to the point of desperation.
“I am as well as can be expected, Max, but we must think of how we are to escape, because to stay here is to surely die.”
Max nodded somberly. “I think I am going to envy our dear companion Montague before very long,” he grunted. “I am sure that he would have had something to say about this lousy accommodation. I preferred the seaside with all its hardships, to this!” He scratched himself again. “I am already covered in fleas!”
They heard noises in the corridor, which appeared to signal the day had commenced, but no one came their way. In the distance they did hear high pitched screams and shouting.
The noise died
down and they were left alone for many hours, still without food or water. They wiled away the time planning how they might escape.
“If we can get out at night, we might have a chance. If we attempted to escape during the day, the whole city would join in to chase us and there would be nowhere to hide. But we must find a way to get out of here, and as soon as possible,” Talon stated more firmly than he felt.
Max nodded grimly. “I shall follow your lead, young master.”
Talon shook his head in distress. He simply did not know what was to become of them, and he had a deep sinking feeling in his stomach about their future. While they waited, he honed the blade of his knife on the stone of the wall one more time and then hid it under the filth in the cell, as there was a fair chance that their gaolers would remember to come and search them sooner or later. After the excitement of the battle, their captors had thrown them straight into jail without searching them. They were careless, and Talon counted on the security to be lax enough to provide a way out, when the moment presented itself.
It seemed like many hours later that they heard footsteps, and the door to their cell slammed open. Several well armed men crowded the doorway. The leader, who carried a sword at the ready, shouted at the two prisoners to get up and come out. Pretending to be injured, Talon struggled to his feet and limped, seemingly painfully, towards the men. They grasped his arms and tied his wrists behind his back. They did the same with Max and then jostled and pushed them down the dark corridor, towards another opening where they could see daylight flooding in. The guards clearly did not remember that they had tossed the prisoners into the cell with their hands bound the night before.
Talon blinked in the harsh sunlight as they exited the prison and were pushed down the stone steps. He stumbled, limping in an exaggerated manner.
“Water! For the love of Allah, water, I beg of you!” he cried, pretending to be near fainting. Max, whether from real or feigned exhaustion, fell to his knees, signaling he wanted water as well.
Assassination in Al Qahira Page 5