The Last Emir

by S. J. A. Turney

  The arguing atop the wall became more frantic, and many of the figures disappeared from view. Arnau felt sure he heard a muffled scream, gagged as it emerged. He noticed the parapet had emptied of black-and-white figures, though whether that was a good sign or bad, Arnau couldn’t tell. Almost certainly things would follow the course predicted by the emir and Balthesar. It was just a matter of whether they were admitted to the palace first or not.

  The time was almost upon him. Arnau glanced across at Balthesar, who gave an almost imperceptible nod. The young sergeant slipped his left foot from the stirrup and made sure he was loose in the saddle and his sword was swinging free in its sheath. Lastly, he checked the hang of the weapon they had each been gifted at the estate.

  Whatever had been discussed atop the wall, the result clearly came down in favour of the emir, for moments later the gate to the Al-Mudaina groaned open. The column of riders began to move once more, guards to the fore as well as behind, four in particular staying very close to the emir with their heart-shaped shields up, ready to protect him from any would-be assassin with a bow. Arnau and Balthesar, close to the rear of the column, readied themselves. As they neared the gate in line with everyone else, Arnau passed over his reins to the man beside him and, with only moderate pain in the rump, slipped from the saddle and down to the ground with a gentle thud and shush of mail that was lost in the din of the walking horses. Balthesar did the same a moment later, and then they were both off and moving.

  Walking swiftly along beneath the palace walls, the two men were virtually invisible from the parapet unless the guards leaned over to look straight down. That, added to the fact that the bulk of attention would now be on the head of the column and the emir himself who had emerged through the gate into the gardens within, meant that the two Templars were as hidden from the palace soldiers as they could hope to be. Still, they hurried. Time was almost as important as stealth. The road and gardens had cleared of the bulk of pedestrians and those who would be watching the palace and the activity with interest would likely make nothing of two of the emir’s guard separating from the column and moving off down the slope.

  The last of the riders disappeared inside the palace behind them, and the gate clonked shut with ligneous finality. This was it. They had gambled on several things being the case, else what they were attempting would fail. There was nothing they could do now but carry out the plan and pray that all fell into place. As they headed west, down the slope towards the river and the corner of the Al-Mudaina, Arnau could hear the emir’s raised voice in the gardens of the palace. He couldn’t understand the words, of course, but it mattered not, for he knew what the man was saying. That had all been part of the plan.

  All ambassadors, nobles, servants and soldiers of the Almohad caliph were being ordered to leave Mayūrqa on those ships of theirs docked in the port. They were being given just one hour to do so. The emir was reminding them, and his own people besides, that Mayūrqa was an independent taifa, with no fealty and no obligation to the caliphate, and was declaring that any attempt at resistance and any refusal to depart would be considered a criminal act and a provocation to war. That, of course, would not worry the Lion of Alarcos or his men too much, and Arnau couldn’t imagine any of them complying readily, but it would certainly make any of the emir’s former supporters who had thrown in their lot with the Almohads think again. Loyalties would waver once more with control of Madina and the island itself in the balance. To strengthen his case, the emir claimed publicly that the Crown of Aragon had taken a personal interest in the island’s future and that with Aragon, Genoa and Pisa in support, Mayūrqa would become a bastion of independence. A complete untruth, of course. Genoa and Pisa had no intention of supplying men or ships in the defence of the island, their interest being purely commercial, and Aragon would sympathise and perhaps even speak in favour of the emir, but they would simply not commit militarily. Still, the crown had sent ambassadors, and most of the palace’s population would know only that, and not what had been concluded with them. Moreover, the Aragonese ship would now be long gone from the dock, and so no Christian mainlander would be there to deny it.

  The emir finished his announcement and silence fell in its wake. Arnau and Balthesar, though, would hear nothing further, for they had rounded the corner of the Al-Mudaina’s walls and were now hurrying down, no longer worrying about stealth or noise, towards the small postern gate that abutted the walls and gave out into the port. As they neared, they slowed. A single guard stood beside this gate, which was a military one and not open for the public. They could have made for the main port gate, of course, but that would add precious minutes. Instead, as they approached the small postern, Balthesar rattled off something authoritative in Arabic, and once more Arnau heard the emir’s name invoked. The guard, clearly still a man loyal to his true master, nodded and swung open the gate, and the two Templars, disguised as the emir’s men, emerged into the corner of the city port beneath the walls of the Al-Mudaina.

  It had been a gamble moving this far through the city with the emir and then trying to disappear right outside the palace walls on their clandestine mission, but with every discarded plan it had become clearer that it would be the only feasible way. They could not have been certain whether they would make it through the city walls or safely through the streets on their own, whatever they wore. Two of the emir’s men on their own might be suspected by the current power in Madina, but in any other guise they would be in even greater danger, their descriptions undoubtedly having been circulated by the Almohad lord to every pair of watchful eyes in the city. The only way they could realistically guarantee their safe arrival at this place was among the emir’s men.

  And so now the emir was in the Al-Mudaina itself, awaiting compliance with his demand, or more likely lack thereof. There was no din of violence arising from within the walls, although all sound would be muffled and distant from here. But still, no signal blast had rung out, and so the Lion of Alarcos remained in control of the palace proper. Both the emir and Balthesar had been convinced that even if they were admitted through the outer gate of the palace, the building itself, shaped around its small courtyard, would be sealed against them on Almohad orders. If the soldiers loyal to the emir that remained there wished to throw open the doors to their master, they would have to overcome the might of the Lion’s men to do so.

  There was, therefore, an impasse. The Lion would not depart and abandon his plan, and the emir did not have enough might to storm his own palace, and so the Almohads remained besieged inside the building, the emir locked outside, facing one another as the hour the emir had given his enemy continued to count down.

  An hour should be long enough, though, unless something went horribly wrong.

  Balthesar now stepped aside and allowed Arnau to take the lead, as he was the man who knew this area. Feeling cold nerves tingling at the memory of the last time he had been here, the young Templar pushed on, walking fast around the edge of the port, past a couple of old men mending a net and out onto the breakwater. Here, they clambered across the large, heavy stones that comprised the sea defence until they were close to the palace’s perimeter wall and the waterside of the private docking facility.

  Arnau slowly turned the corner first, pausing at the wall to look ahead at their destination. He gave a strangled groan.

  ‘What is it?’ Balthesar hissed from behind.

  ‘I thought the dock would be empty now the Aragonese ship has gone, but there’s an Almohad ship in there instead.’

  ‘People?’

  Arnau peered around again. There seemed to be precious little activity. Likely the ship had been in dock since the Christian vessel left the previous day, and all loading or unloading would already have occurred. All there would be on the ship was whatever skeleton crew or watchmen had been set there by its captain. A few figures moved around aboard. He could also see a couple of palace functionaries at the far end of the port messing with a pile of baskets. What was happening on t
he far dock, he did not know, for it lay behind the ship from here.

  ‘Not many.’ He paused, listening carefully. Whatever the men on the ship and those around the other end of the dock were doing, he could not hear it over the lap of waves, groans and clonks of the ship timbers and the cacophony of screeching from the ever-present gulls. He thanked the Lord for that small mercy. If he could not hear anything of them, then they in turn would not hear him.

  ‘We shall just have to chance it until we get to your warehouses,’ Balthesar whispered.

  Arnau nodded, largely to himself. Dressed as they were, they had legitimate reasons to be within the palace, yet there were certain places and certain activities that would draw unwanted attention. Leaping from the port breakwater to the private dock was one of them.

  Moab is the cauldron of mine hope. Into Idumea I shall stretch forth my shoe, aliens being made friends to me.

  Who shall lead me forth into a strong city? Who shall lead me forth into Idumea?

  Whether not thou, God, that hast put us away; and, God, shalt thou not go out in our virtues?

  Fortified with prayer, Arnau took a deep breath. He rounded the corner of the wall and without pause ran three steps and jumped to the private dock. He landed with a thud and a jingle of mail and harness and was off and running. The morning sun was high enough that its glow filled the dock uninterrupted and there was no real shadow to keep to. This was about speed now, anyway. Arnau hurried off to the large doorway of the nearest of the two huge warehouses on the western dock. Once inside, he quickly scanned the place and heaved a sigh of relief to find it empty. As Balthesar hurried in behind him, he then peered out towards the Almohad ship in harbour. There was no more activity aboard than there had been while he prayed on the dock. It appeared they had not been seen, and the alarm had not been given.

  ‘We cannot hope to maintain this sort of luck,’ Balthesar hissed. ‘Something will go sour shortly. Be prepared.’

  Arnau nodded. He was already sure of that and prepared for it. For now, the next step was to move to the far dock beyond the ship, and that would be a simple bare-faced stroll. The two Templars nodded to one another and, adjusting their equipment, they emerged from the warehouse at a casual pace, striding out onto the dock and making for the end, where the workers unloaded the baskets.

  The Lord God remained watchful over them, for the bored and tired-looking slaves at work gave them not even a glance, continuing on with their mind-numbing work as they strolled past them. The two interlopers moved past the stern of the Almohad vessel and rounded it, heading for the far dock.

  ‘One guard,’ hissed Arnau, spotting a black-and-white figure not far from the door whence he had emerged yesterday, battered and bruised, and for which they now made.

  ‘He cannot be allowed to raise the alarm,’ Balthesar reminded him, somewhat unnecessarily. Arnau nodded. There was, of course, a good chance that the small door that led into the slave tunnels was locked anyway. A lot of today’s activity depended upon luck. But the emir had reasoned that with the disappearance of Balthesar and Arnau, there was little need for that door to be so secured, and furthermore the slaves used it several times a day. To keep it locked would be inconvenient, and posting a guard before it would probably be deemed enough. Arnau prayed he had been right. But even if the door was unlocked, one call from the guard and someone could rush to lock it, even if he didn’t slip inside and do so himself.

  ‘One guard,’ Arnau said again, ‘but I can see three men on the ship. Can they raise the alarm?’

  ‘Possibly,’ Balthesar replied. ‘They don’t have the same authority, but enough clamour and they’ll get the attention of someone who does. I fear we must deal with them.’

  ‘Then the time is now, but the guard has to come first.’

  They continued to stride forward, and the Almohad soldier over near the door turned his mailed face to them, expression hidden by the chain veil. Arnau could not see the eyes within that shadowy gap between helm and veil, but he could picture them widening in surprise and perhaps horror as the two soldiers of the emir striding towards him suddenly slipped the light, powerful composite bows from the bow-quiver at their belt and drew a narrow-pointed arrow of Damascene style from the far side.

  The guard’s hand went to his sword hilt, his protective, heart-shaped shield coming up in defence as his head tipped briefly towards the wall top. Somewhat inexpertly, the two Templars pulled back the strings with the unfamiliar thumb hooks. Arnau raised the weapon, closing his eye in the manner he’d done the few times he’d used a bow, hunting in the Catalan woodlands, arrow nocked on the right of the shaft over the thumb, as Balthesar had told him to. Sighting briefly, he released.

  The young Templar was unfamiliar with bows in general, for the skill was not one usually taught in the cloisters of the order, and certainly not these strange Arab designs. His arrow, released poorly, struck the stone flags of the dock some two feet in front of the guard, skittering off between his legs in a bounce. Balthesar’s, on the other hand, flew true, and as the old man gathered and nocked a second arrow, Arnau noted that the older man was not sighting along the arrow, but raising the bow to chin level, both eyes open, and releasing with an almost instinctive aim. The old knight had fought for decades as a bandit hunter and mercenary among the Moorish armies and likely this was far from the first time he had handled such a weapon.

  Balthesar’s first arrow would have been a good shot but for the fact that the guard managed to put his shield in the way and the missile tore through fabric and leather and lodged there, the point inside but with insufficient momentum to carry on and pin the shield to its wielder. The guard bellowed something as he brandished the transfixed shield, and Arnau felt cold fear that the warning had now gone up. Even as the older man’s second arrow flew free, Arnau nocked and raised his own, feeling oddly uncomfortable with simply visualising his target as he prepared to release.

  Balthesar’s second shot had been higher this time, while Arnau’s had been once more accidentally low, though considerably better this time. The guard reacted urgently and sensibly, his shield rising to ward off the greater threat of the old man’s projectile, which would have taken him in the throat had the shield not moved into place and caught the arrow, robbing it of sufficient power to punch through to the inside.

  Despite his improved aim, Arnau had been aiming for the man’s chest, but the arrow instead thudded into his thigh below his mail shirt’s hem. The guard howled in pain, though the cry was somewhat stifled by his veil. Shouts were now also going up from the ship.

  ‘Finish him,’ Balthesar snapped as he turned and began loosing expert arrows at the figures visible aboard the docked vessel.

  Arnau nodded and simply dropped the bow, drawing his sword. The guard had staggered back but miraculously had not fallen despite the shaft protruding from his thigh, though he was clearly in pain and struggling, his sword dipping and waving as he tried not to collapse.

  Arnau was on him in seconds, attacking with uncharacteristic silence, determined to keep the alarm from going up any more than he had to. His sword came down and the guard managed to throw his shield in the way, blocking the blow. The sword thudded into the heart-shaped, decorative shield and left a huge long dent in it. The guard yelped again as the shield splintered into his arm, possibly breaking it and certainly causing fresh agony.

  The blow was enough to fell the man. Driven back and without the strength in his wounded leg to hold him up, the guard fell back with a metallic crash, grunting. Arnau was on him once more like a savage, sword hammering down again and again as the desperate, wounded guard tried to defend himself. The third blow finished it, skimming off the rim of the battered shield and smashing into the man’s chest. The blade’s edge would never penetrate the chain shirt, of course, but Arnau heard the ribs crack and the man gasped, his arm spasming and the sword falling from his grasp.

  Arnau rose. For a moment he contemplated mercy, as a good Christian, but these were no
t men who deserved mercy. These were invaders and murderers, torturers and usurpers. Arnau snarled and delivered the killing blow not with his blade but with his boot, slamming it down onto the man’s chest, where the ribs were already broken. He felt the man’s weakened chest collapse under the weight of the sudden blow, organs crushed within.

  The guard died in three gasps as Arnau stepped back, half relieved that it was over, half reviling himself for his own brutality. Breathing heavily, he lifted his head. They had made far more noise than he’d intended, but there remained no figures atop the wall above them. Likely what was happening on the other side of the Al-Mudaina was occupying everyone’s attention.

  He turned, suddenly recalling the men with the baskets who must have seen all this, and noticed that they had disappeared. Perhaps they had rushed inside to give the warning, or perhaps they were cowering out of sight. Likely they would stay as far out of all this as possible. As slaves they probably held no allegiance as such, and if they did it would likely be to the emir in whose uniform Arnau was dressed rather than to the Almohad invader he had killed.

  He turned again, to see that only one of the men on the ship remained standing, hands cupped around his mouth, bellowing up to the walls, seeking to warn his countrymen of this new danger. He managed just a few words before Balthesar’s arrow struck him in the chest and threw him back to the deck, dying even as he fell. The old knight’s arrows were unnervingly accurate, and the sailors were entirely unarmoured.

  In moments the two men were alone on the dockside with just corpses for company. Arnau shivered as the old man dropped his bow too, since the weapon would be of little use inside the palace itself. Both men also unfastened their quivers as they hurried over to the small door, letting those too fall away.

  The young Templar, once more taking the lead as the man familiar with their route, closed on the door, again intoning that line from Psalm 108.