by Dan Davis
In a few moments, I was ready to leave.
“Bartholomew,” I said. “Give Eva your robe so that she may disguise herself.”
“I shall not!” he said, quivering.
“No,” Eva said. “I will stay here.”
“We must not separate,” I said. “This could all fall into pieces at any moment. We must stay together.”
“And who will watch them?” she nodded at the monks, and then at Bertrand and Hughues, both tied up on the floor. Faces bloodied and full of anger. “We leave, they will raise the alarm. No, I will stay. You will return.”
“I will,” I swore, then raised my voice. “If any of them give you cause for fear, you should run them through, do you understand?”
“It would give me great pleasure.”
“Thomas,” I said. “You will do nothing to hinder my wife, will you.”
He looked me in the eye. “I shall do as honour dictates.”
I turned to Eva. “Run him through first, my love. Stephen, come on. Abdullah, you are coming with me to translate.” He was terrified but he did as he was told. What is more, he had already discerned where in the city the Assassin envoy had been quartered. It was the centre of the new city, in one of the many mudbrick houses built there. Most were two storeys tall, and some higher than that.
With a final glance back at Eva, I ducked outside. The cold attacked me and I pulled my Mongol coat tighter and tied the fur-lined hat under my chin.
Men were in the streets, hurrying to complete the day’s business before retiring for the freezing night. Few of them gave us even a glance but I was nervous. Ready to fight.
“The Assassins are not to be trusted, my lord Richard,” Abdullah whispered as we walked through the dark main street. The Sun had only just set and the sky looked like a pale blue silken shroud soaking up a pool of blood.
“Truly, Abdullah?” I said. “You are advising me that I should not trust the Assassins?”
Abdullah explained to the pair of stony-faced Persian fellows inside the entrance to the Assassins’ quarters that the young monk had come to perform a blessing for the men within, and that I was his escort and assistant. They were suspicious, and I told Abdullah to simply say we had come with gifts for their lord. They let us further inside, opening the sturdy door from the antechamber and calling out for their master while we entered the building proper behind them.
I stepped through into a large central room with doors to either side and steps at the far side leading to the floor above. The room was well-lit with lamps all around the walls.
A dozen or so Assassins were busy within, carrying and stacking boxes and sacks in neat piles about the room. All wore thick woollen clothing, with trousers and some wore coats even though they were indoors. Servants busied themselves all around, with footsteps and banging and dragging noises sounding on the floor over our heads.
Their leader was called over, the fine-looking man I had seen earlier in the palace hall. He was no longer dressed in silks like a Persian lord but wore similar sturdy travelling clothes, like his men.
“This is Hassan al-Din,” Abdullah said, introducing us with a clumsy attempt at formality. “And this is Richard of Ashbury.”
Hassan surprised me when he responded in superb French. “It is an honour to meet you, sir. Welcome. How may I be of service?”
“You are leaving,” I said, for it was obvious they were making preparations for travel though I was surprised that they would be free to do so.
He inclined his head. “At first light. Our embassy is completed and now we return to our lands.”
“To Alamut?” I said. Every man in the Holy Land knew of the home of the Assassins, and half the men in Christendom, too.
He smiled but there was steel behind his eyes. “Why have you come here?”
“To ask you what you know of my brother,” I said, unwilling to say too much right away.
He looked at me for a moment, his dark eyes glinting in the lamplight. Perhaps he was wondering whether to waste his time with me. “Your brother is William, yes? The Englishman who has bewitched Hulegu Khan.”
“That is indeed my brother. In what way has he bewitched Hulegu?”
The elegant Saracen lord’s mouth twitched beneath his glistening beard. “Your brother is a master of blood magic. This is well known. They say that he cannot be killed. And they also say that with his blood magic he has made Hulegu into an immortal with the strength of ten men.”
I felt as though I had been kicked in the guts. But I should have known that William would use his blood to forge powerful alliances. He had done that very thing in England.
“He has made Hulegu into an immortal?” I said, half to myself.
“Well, sir,” Hassan said, with a slight smile, “that is what people say.”
“How do you know this?”
“We have ways to know. Hulegu is an enemy of my people, even more than the Great Khan Mongke. His brother Hulegu is set on turning his strength against us, to conquering all Persia and destroying our people. We were surprised when this Frankish knight William was welcomed into Hulegu’s court and given so much power at the Khan’s side until we discovered that he had promised everlasting life to Hulegu, his chief captains and his keshig. That is to say, his most elite bodyguards.”
My own blood ran cold. “You say it is not just Hulegu who is immortal but other lords at his court also? How many others?”
“We have been unable to determine this precisely,” Hassan said, apologetically. “His keshig bodyguards may number ten or so. And his chief captains may be half as many. But what does it matter how many? Unless you also believe in this blood magic?” He looked closely at me but continued when I gave him no response. “Our people have been meeting with increasing resistance from Hulegu’s court for years. We have sent a number of men to kill Hulegu but all who have tried to carry out their mission have been killed. There is an inner circle of five or so senior captains around Hulegu, each a great lord of Mongols in his own right. The keshig bodyguards are great individual warriors, honoured with a place at Hulegu’s side, night and day. With William a key figure at the court, we would expect his presence to be resented by the Mongols, and yet he is respected. Feared, even.”
“They are right to fear him,” I said.
I felt my plan crumbling beneath my feet. I felt confident that I could cut my way through a number of mortal men, even trained warriors such as Hulegu would have in his ordus, and protecting his ger. But a dozen or more with the power of our blood would be a terrible danger. I recalled with horror the efforts it took to bring down John Little the former bailiff of the Sheriff of Nottingham. He was a huge man but was not a trained fighter, and he had almost killed Eva, even though he had received a sword thrust to the hilt up into his guts from his rear end.
Hard to kill. Even harder to kill quickly.
What is more, the Mongols were on their guard against attacks by the Assassins. The precise method of attack that I intended to use to kill my brother was the one that they would be most prepared for. To infiltrate the camp in the night without being detected.
“I am deeply sorry. These were not the answers you wished to hear,” Hassan said. “You are to be executed tomorrow, I believe. A very sad state of affairs.” He spoke lightly, barely even attempting sincerity. “You wished to seek clemency from your brother?”
“I swore an oath to kill him. I cannot allow myself to be killed before I fulfil my oath.”
“And how will you kill him, sir?” Hassan was amused but growing impatient. He and his men were ready to leave. “Even a hundred of our finest men could not reach Hulegu, nor any of his captains. Or, perhaps, you, in fact, claim to have the same blood magic as your brother?”
He knew. This Assassin lord knew, just as the Great Khan Mongke had known, that I was immortal, that I had the power that William my brother claimed.
The Assassin was sceptical, of course. But he wanted something from me, or else he would not hav
e granted me so much of his time.
“I have no wealth,” I said. “I cannot bring you men or fortresses. But, yes, I do have the blood magic, as you call it. I do not age. I am stronger than any mortal man. My body heals wounds that would kill any other man. Perhaps these things would be useful to you. After all, the Mongols have chosen your people for destruction, have they not? Surely, you could benefit from such power.”
Hassan raised his black eyebrows. “You claim to have the strength of ten men?”
I shrugged. “I never truly tested the limits of my strength. Ten men? Two or three, certainly. Perhaps more.”
He smiled. “In Acre, and in Tiberius, I have watched Frankish knights training in war. You have this contest which is called grappling, do you not?” As he spoke, he called out to his men and waved two of them forward.
The biggest two.
They dropped the loads they were carrying and strutted over. Both were well-built. One was thick-set and older and the other younger and wiry but with big hands and wide shoulders. Perhaps they were cousins or an uncle and nephew. Both listened while Hassan explained what he required of them.
“Grappling, yes,” I said. “We engage without striking blows, and without weapons.”
“As do we.” He reeled off a few terse words at his men, who nodded and stepped forward. Hassan, smiling, stepped back. “No blows, no weapons.”
Everyone else in the room hastily scrambled to the edges of the space.
The burly Assassins launched themselves at me with considerable enthusiasm. They each took a hold of me, one on each arm and shoulder, and tried to force me backwards, then the other way, and then they tried to throw me down to the floor. It took discipline to resist striking them both.
I planted my feet, bent my knees, and resisted. They held on and twisted and heaved against me, our shoes slipping on the tiled floor.
Pushing into their grasp, I snaked my hands up to the top of their arms, squeezed their shoulders with my fingers, digging them in hard, and heaved down. Both men gritted their teeth and the fat one growled but neither could resist my strength. One man after the other, their legs buckled beneath them and they fell to their knees.
They attempted to pull away and get up but I held them there and turned to Hassan. “I could demonstrate my strength further by tearing their arms from their shoulders?”
The Assassin lord was not pleased. “Release them, sir, if you please.”
They glared at me as they stood but I smiled at them. “You have seen my strength. Now you must believe what they say about my brother and I.”
Hassan pursed his lips. “Some men are born with great strength and perhaps you are one of those. And yet you claim also that your body heals wounds that would kill other men?”
I sighed, seeing where these tests were heading. “I am able to resist great wounds and heal quickly, yes. But the effect is far greater when I drink a man’s blood after I am wounded, and that wound will heal so rapidly that one may witness the flesh restoring itself even as you look upon it.”
“Well, this is something we must see with our eyes, is it not? This is a thing that would give credence to your words, no? We must cut you open.” He drew a wickedly curved dagger from the sash about his waist. “And then, once you are dying, we will blood for you to drink?”
I am not taking a mortal wound for you, Saracen. I am desperate but not utterly witless.
“I will cut my flesh superficially, and you shall watch it heal.”
“I have seen too many conjurors’ tricks to allow you to administer a wound yourself,” Hassan said, in an apologetic tone. “I shall do it, with my own knife, and then I shall know it to be true.”
It was not so simple a thing to receive a wound anywhere other than my face, as I was bundled up in a coat and clad in my hauberk. But I stripped them off quickly and pulled up the sleeve of my gambeson and undershirt and indicated that he should perform a shallow cut into the meat of my forearm.
The Assassins all stopped their preparations and gathered around Hassan. I felt extremely vulnerable, and especially when turning my back on them to hand my sword to Stephen, who trembled so much he had trouble taking it from me.
One of the servants held a wooden bowl under my arm while Hassan held my wrist in one hand and placed the cold blade of his dagger against my bare skin with the other.
Then he paused, his face close to mine. The scented oils in his beard filled my nose.
“Do you feel pain?” he asked.
“Oh yes.”
His cut was deep. Far deeper than I had indicated and his dagger sliced down, through the skin, and through the muscles, down almost to the bone. I winced, sucking air through my teeth and watched as my blood welled out and ran down my arm, dribbling into the bowl beneath. Hassan recoiled and let go of my wrist before any reached him.
Another of Hassan’s men sliced open his own palm and squeezed his blood into a cup.
I glanced at Abdullah and Stephen, who were so close they were practically clutching at each other, united in their horror of what they were witnessing.
The smell of the Assassin’s blood was intoxicating and when he passed it over I drank the contents of that cup like I was dying of thirst. It had been some years since I had consumed blood. It was like coming home after a long absence. Like embracing an old friend. It was fire in my stomach, dull ache and a burning warmth that spread and spread through my body, up my neck so my face flushed and down to my fingers and toes.
Hassan and the others around me muttered and stirred, staring at my forearm. A servant poured water over my wounded flesh and swiped away the blood with a cloth.
When the blood was cleaned off, the wound beneath was already closed, leaving just an ugly pink line.
“This scar will soon fade into nothing,” I said, quickly pulling my hauberk back over my head and wriggling into it.
Hassan stared at me. “The reports of this William’s blood magic. I had always thought it to be a conjurer's trick.”
“Now you know,” I said. “And this blood surely has value to you.”
“How is this possible?” he asked. “What did you do to gain this power?”
I hesitated. “I did nothing that I am aware of. Certainly, I did not ask for it. Perhaps I was born this way. Whether it was through the seed of my father or by the hand of God, I know not.”
He was suspicious, believing that I deceived him even though I spoke sincerely. The Saracens, and the Assassins most of all, were well versed in deceit and because it was in each of them, they saw it in everyone else, also.
Hassan pointed at the bowl of my blood that one of his servants held. “But if I drink this, I will become like you?”
“No. Not like me. And there is a cost.”
“I will pay any price.”
“Not that sort of cost. You must first be drained of much of your blood, and at the point of death, you must drink down a pint of mine. It takes half a day or so to bring you back from the brink of death and not all men survive. You may die. If you come back, you must yourself then drink the blood of men, or women, every two or three days, else you will become weakened, then ill, and then you will lose your mind in raving madness. And you will never be able to father a child, no matter how often you lay with a woman.”
“A heavy price.”
I nodded, taking my sword and other things back from Stephen.
“And you, Richard, you must drink blood every three days?”
I hesitated, for I was giving my secrets to an enemy. But if I did not take drastic action then William would seize me come morning and then I would be no more. Besides, all I would have to do to keep the secret would be to kill every man in the room.
“No. Not me and not William, either. We are different. We are stronger.”
“Why? Tell me, good sir, what made you as you are?”
“I do not know,” I said. He still thought I was lying. “Truly.”
“The tasks that my men could achieve, if
they had this power,” he said, looking through me into a future only he could see. “We might even resist Hulegu’s assault.”
“I want you to help me kill my brother,” I said.
He snapped back to me. “In exchange for your blood? We can do this. Yes.”
“Tonight.”
He gaped at me, then spoke to his men in a bust of rapid guttural words. They all laughed, and he allowed himself a smile.
“Tonight, truly, sir? It cannot be done.”
“We could kill Hulegu, also.”
“We certainly would. But such a thing is not possible.”
“I will do it myself, then,” I said.
Hassan al-Din, the Assassin lord, and emissary, hesitated. I could see that he was weighing up a series of choices. One of which was surely to simply kill me, and the two men with me. He could deliver me to Mongke or to Hulegu or William, in exchange for favours from those men.
“Perhaps I might suggest a different course of action? You should come with us, Sir Richard. Back to Alamut. We leave at sunrise.”
“Mongke’s men would bring me back and punish you all. Kill you all for such an affront.”
“My men are all prepared for death. None of us truly expected to leave here with our lives and if we do not return then our master shall know the outcome of our embassy just as surely as if we told him with our mouths. But perhaps they would allow us to leave? The Mongols are truly evil and yet they value greatly the role of ambassador and seek always to deliver envoys safely through their lands, even if they are emissaries from mortal enemies. That is also why we are not closely guarded within Karakorum, even though my master has sent four hundred individual men to murder Mongke in any way that they can. I would gladly risk the lives of my men to bring you and your blood magic away from this place.”
“No, that would not be successful. I have delivered myself into my brother’s hands, like a fool, and he will not let me go.”
“Emissaries are used to negotiating terms,” Hassan said. “What do you have that William might want? Or do you have something that Hulegu may want?”