by Dan Davis
The Saracen scholar needed no time to ponder it. “The Syrian Gate leads northwest, and the Kufa Gate to the southwest.”
“Word is that Kufa surrendered to Hulegu’s armies,” Hassan said.
I nodded. “And the Syria Gate road leads to Damascus. And from there, he could travel to Acre and back to Christendom.” Looking around at my men, I was struck for a moment by the uniqueness of each of them. They were powerful, grave, reliable. Almost all of them wanted revenge on Hulegu and not William. “Are we agreed that we shall travel across the city and cut William off before he flees through the Syria Gate? If he has already left through it, we shall pursue. Once William is dead, we shall withdraw.” I held up my hands at their protests. “We shall withdraw from this Hell and prepare for an assault on Hulegu when he moves against Damascus. It is too dangerous here, we have pushed our luck far enough already and now we must push it further, travelling across the city. If we stay and wait for Hulegu we shall be caught for sure. This way is best, is it not?”
Some were unhappy but they acquiesced.
Quickly, we collected everything we needed, wrapped our Mongol clothing tighter about us, and set out once more into the boiling chaos.
In spite of the thousands of men rampaging through the streets, we made it all the way across the city and were closing on the Syria Gate when we met with disaster.
***
It was growing late in the day and I prayed for the night to envelop us. We kept together as we moved through the smaller streets, heading north, then west, then south, and west again. The city was scarred and bloodied. The frenzied first days of the sacking was fading into exhaustion, as the easiest pickings had been plucked and countless thousands of the residents of the city had already been slaughtered. Most doors were thrown open and the rooms within dark and covered in debris and blood. We cut through the side streets and alleys until we came to the main road.
That roadway, leading from the centre of the round city to the edge through the three concentric walls, led right the way through all three gatehouses. The road was itself bordered by walls with open arches every few yards, leading to the streets to either side. Beside one of those arched entrances, we paused and my company gathered in a loose group, looking outward along the main road.
“We are now between the outer gatehouse and the centre gatehouse,” Abdullah said, peeking out.
“Orus,” I said, pointing up. “Climb the wall. Look for a Frankish man. Any man who looks like me.”
The Mongol nodded, and Khutulun—always at his side—scrambled up beside him. After only a moment, Eva followed, pulling herself up the ornate stonework of the wall all the way to the flat top.
“We cannot go this way, Richard,” Hassan said, pointing to the enclosed roadway. “We could be surrounded and trapped.”
I did not bother to disguise my contempt. “That is why it is the perfect place to ambush William.” He began to argue but I stepped up to him and lowered my voice. “Flee, then, if you are so afraid.”
He was gravely insulted but he did not have time to voice his protestations for a shout came from above my head.
“By God, Richard,” Eva said from up on the wall. “He is there!” She pointed toward the outer gatehouse. “Dressed in Mongol attire.”
My heart hammered in my chest and my people stirred all around me.
“You are certain?” I asked.
She glanced down at me and her eyes were cold as the winter winds of the steppe. Eva had been his prisoner. William had held her and he had cut her throat, bleeding her to the point of death. It had been decades but I could picture it in my mind’s eye. Of course she was certain.
“How far?” I said as she and my two Mongols jumped down.
She grabbed me. “He is right there. Close enough to spit on. A hundred yards. He stood out as he is alone, on foot, walking swiftly.”
I grinned. My quarry was about to be under my blade. “Come,” I ordered my people.
“But if he is dressed as a Mongol and not even mounted,” Stephen said, “how can we be sure it is William and not some—”
I shoved him aside and ran out into the roadway. It was wide enough for two wagons to pass each other and as straight as an arrow. Far ahead was the massive, squat, outer gatehouse with its shining cupola on top. Close behind me was another gatehouse. These structures turned the roadway into a tunnel, and I knew I had to reach William before he reached the outer one.
For there he was. A solitary man up ahead, dressed as a rich Mongol warrior—in mail armour and steel helm—but his tall frame, upright posture, and loping gait marked him out as an Englishman in a barbarian’s clothing. At the pace he was making, he would be through the gatehouse and outside the round city walls in little time.
There were other men about. A group of three riders ambled in my direction. Behind, in the centre gatehouse, a dozen or more men joked and shouted, drunk and belligerent.
But William was alone. Without followers.
Without protection.
My feet pounded on the paved surface as I ran headlong at my brother. There was no thought of honour in my head, simply the urge to slay him. I would draw my sword and assault him without challenge, and then my companions would assist me in cutting him into pieces. There were so many of us, and so few of him.
It was so close that I felt that my task was already done. I could taste the victory on my lips.
But God is cruel.
He had given me that taste, had brought me and William together on that road from across a city of a million people as though it was fated that I would finally fulfil the destiny that He had set out for me.
Only to snatch it away.
Just behind William, a group of Mongol warriors streamed out of a row of archways in the side of the road on their horses. They came out quickly, a half dozen, then quickly more followed behind. They spilled out to fill the road from one wall to the other. They were not looting, they were a zuut of close to a hundred sober soldiers, mounted and armoured, clutching their lances and bows.
William was lost from view beyond them.
I wanted to push my way through but there was a wall of horse and metal in my way. Behind me, my companions drew to a stop and looked to me.
Eva, Thomas, Hassan, Orus, Khutulun, Jalal. Stephen and Abdullah.
We were outnumbered more than ten to one.
“Are they here for us?” Thomas said, his voice tight and anguished.
The enemy were indeed taking an interest in us, and many rode toward our position. We must have looked incredibly suspicious. A few of them already had their hands on their weapons.
Every moment we delayed, William was getting further from my grasp.
“It does not matter,” I said, drawing my sword. “I am cutting my way through.”
Would my people follow me? Eva would, and Thomas too. Would Stephen flee for his life? Would the Saracens and my Mongols turn tail and decide that Hulegu was their only target after all?
There was no time to discuss it or to force them into obedience.
One of the dozens of Mongols just ahead saw me for what I was. A foreign enemy with a drawn sword. He pointed with his spear and raised his voice to his fellows riding at his side and they were not the sort to hesitate.
Then again, neither was I.
So I charged them first.
The sturdy horses were mostly unarmoured and so I slashed my blade into the animals’ faces and eyes and sent many reeling. I moved into the mass of enemies, laying about me at man or beast who ventured near. Some riders fought to hold on to their injured animals, but a few slid off their horses and came at me on foot. Spear thrusts and sword blades flashed, clanged against me. Something smacked into my helm, and I was struck hard on the shoulder. My armour held but my anger built. I cut at whatever flesh I could see, and punched and shoved, always moving forward.
Sounds of battle grew behind me, and I knew that at least some of my men were fighting.
But the
enemy were too many. The horses were like mountains of flesh and the air grew close and the shouting loud. I could not find my way through and clear. Their number appeared endless. It was difficult to see in any direction but for a moment I had a glimpse through the chaos.
Behind me, my company was surrounded and attacked on all sides. Eva was swarmed by furious Mongols, their lances thrusting at her all from all directions as she twisted and danced in an ever-smaller space. Thomas thrashed at the spears that jabbed down at him. A blade flashed at Abdullah, who screamed as he fell, blood gushing from his neck, before an axe crashed into the top of his head.
My people needed me. And yet, with every moment, William’s escape grew ever more certain.
Marshalling my strength, I threw down the men around me and climbed up onto a horse. It tried to throw me but the others were crowded so tight around it that the beast could not even turn. There was a half dozen mounted between me and the nearest wall. I struck down the men in my path, avoiding or turning their blows. A weak spear thrust from an overextended Mongol hit me on the chest, checking my progress. I seized the weapon and heaved. The foolish man attempted to hold on to the shaft of his spear and he fell from his horse amongst the stamping hooves. As he fell, I jumped over him to the back of the next horse. Those Mongols had never faced an enemy as strong and fast as me and as brave as they were, they were also afraid. I powered through them all the way to the wall and leapt up to the jutting stonework over the archway. My sword blade scraped against the plaster but I dragged myself up onto the top of the wall. It was flat and level and wider than shoulder width. On the other side, the street leading into the city was also packed with Mongol horsemen. I was wrong about it being a single zuut of a hundred men. It was two zuut at least, crowding the streets and ready to kill us when they got clear.
Glancing behind me, I saw my company engaged with the Mongols down on the road, making little headway. They were surrounded. Orus and Khutulun fought back to back. Thomas stabbed into the horses with a fury I had never seen in him before. Stephen crouched behind Eva, who ducked and slipped from the blows while striking back at the Mongols who tried to kill her. Hassan, Jalal, Radi and Raka fought together and cut a swathe into the enemy at an oblique angle away from the others. But all four Assassins looked wounded already, Radi with a great gash across his crown, and Raka being supported by Jalal. The air reeked of blood. Writhing Mongol bodies littered the path and more fell with every moment. The shouts and screams echoed between the walls as they died. But there were so many. How long could my people survive against such odds?
Glancing the other way, I saw William still hurrying away, now almost at the massive gatehouse. Almost free. He seemed to half turn at that moment but I did not know if he saw me or not.
I had to kill him. It was my last chance.
But it meant sacrificing my people.
Losing Eva.
An arrow struck the wall at my feet and snapped, just as another slashed the air by my head.
I ran.
Along the wall, heading for William.
My leather shoes slapped on the stones that capped the top of the wall, and I raced along it faster than any mortal man. A Mongol archer can hit a bird on the wing but none of the arrows shot at me brought me down. In no time at all, I left the roaring mass of men behind me and the gatehouse loomed ahead. It was the size of a squat castle keep but was a simple structure. I considered climbing from the wall up onto the top of the gatehouse, running across the roof and then dropping down the other side to cut him off.
If only I had made that choice. I may have ended William’s life there and then and so saved the people of the world from centuries of his evil.
However, I saw men up there on the top of the gatehouse. Mongols or their allies had seized the building and I would have to avoid them or fight them. I was afraid that any delay on the roof would mean William escaping beneath me and so decided on the direct approach. Nearing the gatehouse entrance, I stepped down the stonework over the last archway in the sidewall and then dropped to the road, landing heavily in my Saracen armour. Ahead of me, the road became a dark tunnel. Inside the gatehouse, William fled.
Shouts behind me. It was the Mongol zuut. Of course, they were chasing me. Of course, they would never have simply watched me run away in full view and done nothing to follow. There were at least a dozen riders, perhaps many more.
I felt dread descending. A sense that, on that day and in all the years since I left Constantinople, I had always been making the worst choice in every moment.
But what could I do? I had to fight on along the path before me.
So I ran for William, ran into the chill darkness beneath the mass of the gatehouse.
“William!” I roared, in my battlefield voice. His name echoed from the black walls and the low ceiling above.
Ahead, halfway along and silhouetted against the square of light at the end of the tunnel, he stopped. He turned.
Despite the darkness, and his Mongol garb, I could see it was certainly my brother. His build, his stance and the outline of his features in the gloom. And he would have been in no doubt who it was that challenged him. Finally, after so many years in pursuit, we would face each other in combat, one man against the other, with God alone as our judge.
And William ran.
The coward turned back and ran away from me toward the outer city and freedom.
Even though I should have known, I was outraged by his cowardice. My anger gave my feet wings and I gained on him while I outpaced my mounted pursuers. William grew so close that I could hear his shoes slapping on the stone, could hear his breath heaving. He was in front of me, so close that I could almost reach him with the point of my sword.
And then there was a sound. At first, I thought it was the thundering of hooves closing on me. But it was instead a great clanging sound that came from all around and especially from above me. Instinct slowed me as I searched for the source of the danger. A metallic clashing of chains running and a rumbling sound that grew in volume and pitch as if some mighty armoured monster descended from the sky.
It came from above.
At the last moment, I looked up and saw something massive rushing toward me and so I checked my run and fell backwards. I scrambled away, terrified and confused by what it could be.
The huge portcullis crashed down with an almighty bang, closing off the tunnel. It had missed my outstretched feet by a few inches. For a long moment, the only sound was my panting breath and the blood pounding in my ears. Then, behind me, dozens of hooves echoed and I rolled and jumped to my feet.
On the other side, William rose and turned. He looked up at the thick timber and iron portcullis that divided us.
He laughed.
William looked through one of the square gaps at me and he laughed.
“Do you doubt that God is with me, brother?” he asked, smiling like the devil.
I was struck dumb. Stood there, breathing heavily, shaking with rage. After a moment, I dropped my sword, grabbed the portcullis and heaved upward. I was ready to jump back from him in case he attacked me through the square spaces but William simply watched me, an amused expression on his face.
Of course, I could not move it. Not even an inch. Not even with my great strength. I may as well have tried to lift a castle wall.
“Are they friends of yours, Richard?” he asked, pointing behind me. “Or should you be concerned?”
I snatched up my sword.
Mongol soldiers from the zuut filled the entrance of the tunnel from wall to wall. Gathering in a mass of horses and men and approaching slowly, cautiously. No doubt unsure about what was happening, and frozen in indecision by their race’s unwillingness to be trapped in an enclosed space. Yet they still approached, and when they decided to attack, they would have me cornered and outnumbered at least twenty to one.
“Friends of mine?” I said. “Friends of yours, you heathen bastard.”
He made a sound like a snort. “I do
not know those barbarian filth. And they do not know me.”
A mad, faint hope that he would be able to call them off died into nothing.
I looked back at him, keeping an eye on the Mongols. “Ah yes. You have fallen into conflict with Hulegu, your lord and master.”
His grin fell from his face. “I have no master. Lords and princes serve me.”
It was my turn to laugh. “You are a damned fool. You gave the gift of your blood to these barbarians and you expected them to stay subservient. You were always mad but now you have betrayed your people.”
He scoffed. “My people are whoever I chose them to be. You cannot understand, Richard. You lack the wits to see it. You lack the courage of thought. My plans are beyond you.”
“Your plans?” I said. “Like granting your gift to certain lords in France? Who are they, William? Who did you turn into an immortal?”
The Mongols argued with each other behind me.
William tilted his head, a frown creasing his forehead. “You have been speaking to Bertrand, I take it? How is our friend? Is he with you?”
“I cut off his head. As I will do to you.”
He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Richard, that is the difference between us. You had him in your power. A knight, a lord. Immensely rich. Known to the King of France. You could have turned him into a follower, an acolyte, and strengthened yourself immensely. Instead, you destroyed him. You are a fool.”
“Is that what you were doing in France, then?” I said. “Who there did you turn into a follower?”
His eyes flicked to the Mongols and back to me. “Are you not concerned that you are about to be murdered, Richard? I hope you have a plan to escape? I would hate to witness your death.”
“Save your jests. And do not tell me, then. It matters not. I will undo your plans, wherever you have laid them in France.”
He waved a hand, casually. “I gave the Gift to many people, great and small, and not only in France but all over.” William grinned at my shock. “But you should not be concerned about them. If you do return to Christendom, you should seek our grandfather. The Ancient One.”