‘Who shall lead me forth into a strong city? Who shall lead me forth into Idumea?’
His fingers fell to the door’s handle and he grasped and tried it.
His relief when the door groaned open was expressed in a sigh.
‘You can remember the way?’
Arnau nodded. That journey in the choking dark tunnels was ingrained in his memory forever. He could remember every corner and every brick between this door and the cellar in which he’d been incarcerated. ‘I can get us past the baths. From there, there was a side passage that led to the public area. If I’m right, that door will emerge somewhere in the long corridor with the wall hangings we’ve passed through several times outside the baths. From there it should be easy enough to locate the stairs up to the throne room. You think that’s where he’ll be?’
‘It is as good a guess as any,’ Balthesar murmured. ‘The Lord will see us right. Have faith, Vallbona.’
Arnau threw the old man a sour look, then pulled the door wide and stepped inside.
Chapter Eighteen
Friday, 11 June 1199
11.35 a.m.
It took time for the two men’s eyes to adjust to the gloom of the passageway, and despite the urgency and importance of their quest, Arnau slowed to a halt just half a dozen paces in.
‘What is it?’ hissed Balthesar at his shoulder.
Arnau shivered. ‘Nothing,’ he replied, though it took a supreme effort of will to force his foot another step in. Every pace he traversed of that dark corridor brought him one pace closer to the cellar where the Lion of Alarcos had tortured him, and where he had realised how swiftly he would break. Where he did break, in fact, on their very first session of interrogation. Shame, anger, fear and hunger for revenge all flooded through him at the memory of what had happened in these tunnels, and that heady combination made it ever more difficult to push on.
He forced resolve upon himself.
Revenge. Exodus over Matthew. Old Testament over New.
Soothly if the death of her followeth he shall yield life for life, eye for eye, tooth for tooth, hand for hand, foot for foot, burning for burning, wound for wound, sore for sore.
Of the swirling and powerful emotions coursing through him, he grasped hold of the mane of revenge and rode it to the exclusion of the other beasts. Fear, anger and shame swiftly fell behind, and once more he was pacing down the corridor, for of all those feelings that had hit him as he entered this place, revenge was the only one that might drive him forward rather than hold him back.
Picturing the Lion of Alarcos, wide eyed as he clutched a spear that transfixed him through the middle, Arnau felt a silent feral snarl fall across his face and pressed on. He passed several turns or side passages, certain of his course, and quickly felt the rise in temperature and the smoke begin to build as he closed on the baths.
Despite his new-found resolve, he began to wish that he had agreed with the notion that the entire emir’s guard could have entered the palace this way and simply taken the complex from below by stealth. Just the two of them entering the place now felt very foolish. The fact remained, though, that they had rejected such a plan for twin reasons: that the emir needed to be seen by his people to do things nobly and honourably, and also that a force of fifty men in these tunnels would be about as stealthy as a drunken ape in a nunnery. It would not have taken much for the Almohad defenders to trap them down here and neutralise any threat they posed.
No, they’d had to go in alone, while the emir was seen to make reasonable and honourable demands at the gate.
Damn it.
Favouring alertness and stealth over protection now they were inside, Arnau unfastened the chain veil with his free hand as he walked, pulling the helmet from his head and dropping it to one side. The roar of the furnaces came thundering in with his hearing freed, and the choking smoke made him momentarily wish he had kept the covering on. His heightened alertness made itself manifest, though, as Arnau noticed the slave before the man even heard him.
The young slave, dressed in poor and basic, hard-wearing clothes to serve in the tunnels, turned in shock as an armoured man in the emir’s colours suddenly emerged like some demon from the black cloud of smoke. He cowered back as Arnau bore down on him, face locked in a grimace, soot-stained and furious with a naked blade in his hand.
But Arnau was set upon his course and would be no demon to this man. The two men were not here to kill indiscriminately. Not even to kill Moors, for after all, was he not now working for a Moorish emir as a mercenary sword, much as Balthesar had done in his youth? Today, Arnau was a Templar and a servant of God second, and the emir’s man first.
Only Almohads would die by his hand today.
The shaking, quivering slave stared as Arnau leaned very close and placed a finger to his lips in the age-old gesture for silence. The slave, baffled but grateful at this seeming reprieve from an agonising death, simply nodded over and over as Arnau slipped past him and a second figure followed, an older man in the process of removing and discarding his helmet.
Ahead, as the smoke began to clear somewhat, Arnau could see the log store and the corner that would carry the passageway back towards the cellars where he had been kept. Despite his sense of purpose, he still faltered for a moment then, shivering at the memories, feeling that pain in his shoulders, his throat, his buttocks, as he peered ahead into the gloom. With great effort, he turned away from that dark place and its darker memories and took the side passage that led to the door he’d spotted during his escape.
He took a deep breath, coughed at the smoke still swirling in the air, and approached the door. The last time he had been here he’d been focused solely on escape and on the directions he had been given by the wazir, and so had paid only passing attention to this door, assuming – determined, even – that upon escape he would never again set foot in the Al-Mudaina. He had presumed that the door would lead out either into the front of the bath complex where the small store and the changing room stood, or otherwise into the corridor close by, which they had traversed several times over the past few days. He could not, of course, say for sure whether that was truly the case. Moreover, he could not be certain that the door would not be securely locked. Just another aspect of this task that relied upon luck.
He could make out the door in the gloom, largely thanks to the faint light around the edges, but it took some feeling around to locate the lock and handle. There was an empty keyhole, and above it a handle shaped into a slender grip and decorated with geometric patterns. Arnau marvelled once more at the Moorish devotion to art. Even here, in the dark, where only slaves would grip such a handle, still it was delicately and beautifully designed.
His heart in his mouth, aware that here, once more, he was at one of those junctures where simple chance could ruin everything, he reached and gripped the handle, pushing it down. It moved easily without a sound, and as he pulled hard, the door swung open with the gentlest of creaks.
Breath held, teeth clenched, and ready for anything, Arnau stepped through. The corridor into which he emerged was a wide, decorative one, with hangings on the walls displaying the arms of the emir, his dynasty, and every region, town and noble line of Mayūrqa. It was indeed that one that they had used time and again. For a moment as he peered left, past the entrance to the baths and towards the complex of offices where they had spent so much of their time, he thought that by God’s grace they had emerged into an empty corridor.
But as he stepped further out and Balthesar appeared from the dark and the smoke behind him, Arnau turned to see a servant in the centre of the passageway, a bundle of folded linens in her arms, her face pale and eyes wide in fright, her mouth opening into a wide O, ready to scream.
Even as the young sergeant felt a momentary panic of indecision, the older knight leaped past him and grabbed the woman, one strong arm pinning her to him, the other slapping across her mouth to stifle the howl of terror that tried to escape. The linen fell to the floor, forgotten, and lan
ded in a heap as Balthesar leaned close to the woman’s ear and murmured something to her. Still he held her tight, stifling a scream, until she nodded. When he finally released her, she stepped back and, though clearly still frightened, bowed her head and scurried off.
‘We are the emir’s,’ the old knight explained. ‘She is also the emir’s. We are not enemies.’ Balthesar smiled, and they turned to head into the heart of the palace.
Pausing at each door as they went, and carefully peering ahead, they moved through eerily empty halls and corridors. Arnau felt the tension building as he recognised that they were close to emerging into the courtyard. Clearly all the tension of the emir’s arrival and ultimatum had drawn the bulk of the palace’s population towards the outer gardens. At the penultimate door Arnau paused, and they could now hear voices in the distance, outside.
At a signal from Balthesar he stopped for a moment, the old man listening intently.
‘It is the emir,’ the older knight confirmed. ‘His deadline draws close. Half an hour has passed and he is reminding them of his demand.’ Other voices were raised also. ‘There seems to be much heated discussion within the palace buildings. I cannot imagine the Almohads intend to relinquish their position. There is—’
The whispered conversation went unfinished as a figure suddenly rounded the corner of the doorway beside which Arnau lurked as he paid attention to Balthesar. The young sergeant caught the warning in the old man’s eye and turned in a flash to see an Almohad warrior in his black-and-white burnous, white eyes burning in the darkness of his mailed face. There was no cry of alarm or anger from the man, and even as Arnau prepared to defend himself he surmised that this warrior probably had no idea that these two were anything but ordinary guards from the palace. They wore the emir’s colours just like everyone else, after all. He remembered then, though, that they were no longer wearing helmets and their features would most certainly be known by the Lion’s men. Moreover, even if he could not be recognised, the fact that these two men of the emir’s guard were filthy, faces streaked with soot and sweat, would raise an alarm of some sort in the man.
They were too close for Arnau to immediately bring his sword to bear, which, of course, meant the same applied to the Almohad, and they each reacted on instinct. The enemy warrior reached down and wrenched a small knife with a gentle curve from his belt, preparing to stab the Templar.
Arnau was not armed with any such weapon. His sword hung useless in his hand, too long to swing here. His instinctive act was as effective as it was unwise.
He slammed his head forward, butting the enemy warrior hard in the face.
He regretted the move immediately. The Almohad wore both helmet and chain mail veil, while Arnau’s head was bare. His forehead smashed into the mail, and he felt the edges of the man’s helmet scrape the skin at his temple even as the links of chain bit into the skin of his face. The pain was shocking, and the only relief from the blow was the fact that the damage must have been equally bad for the man he had butted, as there was a distinct crack, muffled by the veil, and the warrior gasped in shock and pain.
Arnau staggered aside, stunned by the pain in his face, unable to recover fast enough to do anything more, but his unorthodox attack had been enough and he watched the fight end even as he reeled and blinked away the pain. The Almohad similarly staggered, blood soaking the mail of his veil from the ruined face beneath, and he had little chance to do more than sigh with regret as Balthesar, further back and with more room to manoeuvre, simply swung his sword with all his might into the man’s torso. The Almohad warrior folded over the blow, which failed to penetrate the mail shirt but pulverised the chest beneath.
The man fell, unable to shout, gasping for breath from his ruined lungs, and the older knight reached out with his free hand to steady Arnau. ‘Are you all right?’
‘Urgh,’ was all the young sergeant could say immediately, reaching up and probing his forehead. His hand came away covered with blood where the chain links had scored bloody lines in his face, but he appeared to have escaped real wounding, and nothing was broken. His mind began to recover from the daze, and he nodded. ‘Nothing serious, I think. Am I still pretty?’
Balthesar snorted. ‘Prettier, in fact,’ he laughed. ‘Not that that would be hard. Come on,’
The older man was now in the lead, since they were once more in the open areas of the palace and not the tunnels that only Arnau knew to navigate. They peered around the corner, and the room appeared empty. They could both see the next doorway that led to the small inner courtyard with the lion fountain and the staircase leading up to the higher level. Possibly there was some other way up, but they could not be sure and could hardly afford the time and leisure to thoroughly search the place. Thus they concluded that they must brave whatever dangers lay in the way and take the route to the throne room along which they had been escorted for their interview with the emir.
They passed into that empty room and approached the door. Arnau felt his spirits plummet at the sight of a small knot of nobles standing out in the courtyard, accompanied by soldiers in green and also in black and white.
There was no chance of them reaching and ascending the stairs unnoticed and, with the best will in the world, in the state they were in they were not going to pass as ordinary palace guards without being questioned over the soot and blood. It appeared that the time for stealth had now passed, and the time for bare-faced bravery and confrontation had arrived. Arnau looked at Balthesar, an unspoken question in his eyes, and the older knight nodded. They stepped out into the sunlight, walking with speed and purpose through the doorway, across to the foot of the stairs and then turning to climb them. They did not run, in order to draw as little attention as possible and yet get them as far as possible before the inevitable alarm was raised.
They were on the third step when an angry, alarmed shout went up from the men in the centre of the courtyard. There had been more than a dozen of them and both knights knew that, strong and skilled as they were, two men against twelve or more was a death sentence.
‘Run,’ barked Balthesar, and they did, pounding up the steps towards the upper floor. Behind them, the Almohad warriors in the courtyard bellowed their war cries and charged after the intruders, two of the green emir’s guard joining them. The other green-clad soldiers remained with the nobles in the courtyard, driven to stay either by loyalty to the emir or perhaps by duty to protect the courtiers with them.
At the top of the stairs, the two Templars burst into a wide corridor and Arnau pulled himself up short as Balthesar stopped at the threshold.
‘Help me,’ the old man said as he swung shut the doors at the head of the stairs. Arnau turned and grasped the other side, heaving the door closed. The doors were more ornate and artistic than robust, designed here in the middle of a palace to be decorative rather than defensive, but there was still a latch and Balthesar dropped it into place just as the soldiers reached the other side.
There was a series of thuds and shouts in Arabic, and the doors shook, bending inwards until only the iron latch prevented them bursting open.
‘That won’t last long,’ Arnau said.
‘Not against such force,’ agreed Balthesar, ‘so let’s move.’
They turned and ran along the corridor, but before they could reach the far end, where another flight of stairs led to the antechamber and the throne room, another party of soldiers suddenly emerged from the bottom of the steps and, catching sight of Arnau and Balthesar, shouted and drew their blades.
‘Shit,’ said Arnau, with deep feeling.
‘In here,’ the older knight said suddenly, grabbing Arnau’s arm and directing him to a side door. For a moment the young sergeant wondered why they were running, but common sense quickly told him. Half a dozen men now lay between them and the stairs, and any time now the far doors’ latch would give and the men chasing them would also flood into the corridor. There was simply no hope of fighting their way through that lot.
Balthesa
r pulled him forward, pushing open the door and slipping through. They were in a vestibule with doors in all the walls, those ahead seeming to be the main ones, larger and more ornate than the others. Balthesar moved quickly, ducking to the right and trying that door. It opened instantly and they found themselves in a small chamber with a narrow stairway leading down. Balthesar closed the door behind them and they ran on, clattering down the steps to the lower level once more, taking the pair ever further from their goal, which worried Arnau.
They emerged at the bottom of the stairs into a gloomy room and Balthesar stopped, finger to his lips. They listened. The door of the vestibule upstairs must have opened, and the soldiers were arguing as they thudded around upstairs, making for the various doors. As quietly as he could manage, the old man paced across the small room and pulled at the door. This one again opened without trouble and with little sound and Balthesar slipped through it, beckoning to Arnau, who followed in a similar manner.
As the young sergeant entered, he was surprised to see three servants or slaves huddled to one side, shying nervously away from the two intruders. Balthesar gestured for Arnau to deal with the door, while the old man held up his hand in a gesture of calm and peace and stepped over to the three figures, speaking calmly and quietly in Arabic.
Arnau closed the door and was immensely relieved to see that it was lockable and that the key sat in the hole. He closed it, turning the key and sealing the pursuers out for now. By the time he had done so, the three servants seemed to have calmed down and were in quiet conversation with Balthesar, nodding here and there as they spoke. Arnau looked about. The room was not large, and was clearly some sort of servants’ access. From here a second door led out and, if Arnau’s sense of direction and memory were to be trusted, headed off into the areas of the Al-Mudaina where the slaves and servants would be concentrated: store rooms, kitchens and the like. With the stairs leading up to the more noble areas of the palace complex and a trapdoor that should lead down into the cellars, the servants would have easy access to most of the palace from here, enabling them to move without offending their masters with their presence.
The Last Emir Page 27