by J. K. Swift
Mehmet’s shoulders slumped and his fingers clawed at the knots on the rope one last time before he slowly turned around. He squinted up at Badru. Gone were all traces of the unnatural smile he had worn minutes ago. In its place was the miserable, distrusting face of a man who had forged a life in a world where many could not.
“I am sorry, Badru. I had no choice. They threatened my family.”
“Tell me how many and where they are,” Badru said.
“Four, maybe five. Frankish dogs, all of them. They are close. That is all I know.”
Franks. They were always Franks.
He had killed his mistress, Veronique Boulet, eight years ago. After all this time, one would have thought the coin on his head would have dried up. Was it her husband who continued to fund these bounty hunters? Badru doubted it. Like Badru, he was also a free man now. No, more than likely the money was from a consortium of French slavers who could not allow their reputations to be diminished by the actions of a former slave.
“Let me go before they arrive. I can still be of use to you, Badru. Let me prove it.”
Badru glanced to both sides of the road before looking back at Mehmet. “It is an impossible task to go through life without disappointing someone.” He leaned forward over the merchant and held his eyes captive with his own. “My friend and I were talking about this very thing just before you arrived. I feel that the best a man can do is to choose who he disappoints. In this case, you chose well.”
Mehmet’s eyes widened and the miserable look on his face shed at least a few years.
“You will not regret—” His words choked off. He put his hand to his throat to investigate and it came away wet and slick. Badru wiped the short, curved blade of his khanjar on the side of the merchant’s turban. Mehmet followed the movement even as his hand pressed against the gash at his neck, attempting to hold in the blood flowing freely under his beard, giving it a freshly oiled hue.
“You chose wisely,” Badru repeated. “Know that I will do no harm to your family, for you have paid for your treachery.”
It took a few seconds before Mehmet’s legs gave out and he slid down the wheel of the wagon with blank eyes staring up at Badru. He came to rest propped up against the wheel, with his hand still on his neck, and a stripe of blood marring the side of his pale blue turban.
A man stepped from the trees onto the side of the road a hundred yards away. Another emerged on his left, and together they began walking toward the wagon. Badru sensed motion behind them and saw Yusuf staring intently the way they had come.
“How many?” Badru asked.
“Three. Two with crossbows.”
“When the fighting starts, you get under the wagon, between the wheels.”
“No. I can help you, Badru.”
“That is the best way for you to help.”
“You think I cannot fight? You have so little confidence in my abilities that you would have me hide like a coward? I will not!”
The two men ahead were closing the distance. Badru could now see that one had a crossbow while the other had a sword still sheathed at his side. Five men. That in itself was not worrying, but the fact that three had crossbows posed an unpredictable threat. It was a coward’s weapon. One that required almost no skill to use, but so deadly even the best armor was no match at close range. Even the Pope had outlawed its use… against Christians only, of course.
“Yusuf, I cannot focus on my adversaries if you are at risk. Please, do as I say.” Badru was aware of the quaver in his voice. He hated the sound of it.
One of the two men from up ahead pointed at Mehmet and called out in French, “Fantastic! One man less to pay. I was hoping you would do away with that shifty bastard.”
Badru was out of time. He sat up straight in his saddle, well aware that because of his height, his chest was positioned well above his horse’s head and presented the crossbowman with an impressive target. They stopped walking thirty paces away. Badru did not have to glance over his shoulder to know the men behind were still approaching.
“You are a big one,” the leader said, letting out an appreciative whistle. He raised his voice and spoke in broken French. “You come nice. I make big money. You come dead, I make little money. Both good. Nice better. Understand?”
The crossbowman aiming at Badru chuckled and his aim wavered for a second. But he drew in a breath and his weapon was steady once again.
“The Furusiyya demands I allow you to leave if you so wish it,” Badru said in French.
The leader let out another low whistle. “By all that is sacred! The bear can talk. No wonder they want you alive.”
Badru drew his sword. He noted with satisfaction how his young mare’s ears stood at attention, and her muscles tensed, at the soft music of steel gliding against leather and wood.
“However,” Badru continued, “a decent man has already died here today because of your actions. Therefore, you will not be permitted to leave.”
Two quick taps of Badru’s heels into his horse’s side and she leapt forward, hitting a canter after only a single stride. With his scimitar clutched in his right hand, Badru threw his arms wide and allowed the mare’s momentum to bend his body back at the waist, until his shoulder blades came to rest on her rump. The rear edge of the saddle dug into the small of his back, but he exhaled and willed his muscles to relax, molding himself to his horse’s back. There was a buzz overhead, the sound of wind rushing past wooden vanes at great speed. He stretched his right arm back, allowing his horse to support the weight of his sword and shoulder, and then he began his rise.
Halfway up, he felt his blade stick as it made contact with the crossbowman’s chest. There was no need to swing it, for the curved blade drew itself into the cut. Badru wedged his elbow against his horse’s side and let her thousand pounds of momentum take over. Once his sword began its work, there was no more pressure on Badru’s arm. The blade ripped into the man diagonally across his chest, opening him like a ripe peach.
The other man passed by Badru on his left, his sword not yet cleared from its scabbard. As Badru wheeled his horse around, he heard a Mamluk war cry. Two riders thundered up the road behind the three other bounty hunters. One of them managed to loose a frantic bolt in their general direction but the other’s head was separated from his shoulders before he had acquired a target.
Badru was confused for a brief moment. Why were his Mamluks here? He had not ordered them to come. He left the thought alone as he charged the Frankish leader. The man had managed to draw his sword, and by his relaxed grip, Badru could tell he had training. But Badru’s mare also had training, although no real experience. Badru seized upon the opportunity to give her some.
He could have run the Frank down but opted instead to pull back hard on the reins and put his horse into a rear. She rose on her hind legs and kicked out with her fronts, hitting the man in the chest with one of her hooves. He spun like he was caught in a whirlwind and fell to the ground hard. Badru stroked his mare’s neck and praised her in one of the tongues of the desert dwellers as she pranced around her fallen opponent. Mehmet would have been pleased with this one.
Badru walked her to the wagon and dismounted. He handed her reins to Yusuf and said, “Why are Safir and Kemal here? I told them to stay with the ship.”
“I asked them to come,” Yusuf said.
“And the other times I have been alone?”
Yusuf looked away and shook his head. “You have never been alone.”
“You overstep your position,” Badru said.
“And you take too many risks. If we lose you, we lose everything!”
Badru blinked at the intensity in Yusuf’s voice. He did not need to be reminded of his responsibilities.
The two Mamluk warriors walked their horses toward them, leaving one headless body and another bloodied corpse in their wake. A third man dragged behind Safir’s horse with a rope around his neck, his fingers clawing ineffectually at the hemp.
“Only one lives, Emir,” Safir said.
He unwrapped the rope from his saddle and tossed it to the ground.
Safir and Kemal dismounted. The Frankish leader had pushed himself up to a sitting position. His sword was within reach but he wisely left it where it lay.
“Pick it up,” Badru said. “If you defeat me, you and your man will go free.”
The Frank spat on the ground. “I do not believe that for a minute, heathen.”
Badru shrugged. “I may be many things, but I do not lie. It is my intention to stake you to the ground and open up your back in front of your man. Then I will cut the ribs from your spine with this.” He patted the khanjar at his belt. “And when your screams have quieted down, I will pull the lungs from your body and heap them quivering on the ground for all to see.”
Badru looked at the man with the rope around his neck. His face was red, his eyes darted everywhere at once, and a vein throbbed at his temple. “You will live to tell what happened here today. But you will never be the same.”
His next words were addressed to the leader. “As Allah as my witness, so shall it be. Now, take up your sword.”
CHAPTER FIVE
Three knocks sounded on the door. They were tentative, careful even, yet precise. Foulques set his quill down and leaned back in his chair.
“Enter,” he said.
Thomas Schwyzer opened the door, stepped through quickly, and then eased the door closed. The only sound it made was when the latch caught.
“I was told to report to you, Commander,” he said.
The young man standing at attention before Foulques looked to be about fourteen. Certainly no older than fifteen. Foulques motioned for him to approach his desk. He was tall and lanky, yet he moved well enough thanks to the years of physical discipline he had endured. Even so, he almost tripped as his foot snagged the edge of a lush Persian carpet spread over the floorboards.
Thomas’s eyes could not help but stray about the room, taking in the eastern carpets, the tapestries on the walls, and the sheer fabric curtains covering windows of glass so fine you could almost see through them.
Seated behind his uncle’s ornately carved desk, even Foulques himself must look like he had just stepped out of the bazaar. His usual black Hospitaller tunic was replaced by the loose-fitting silks and linens that the Arabs preferred, but his head was uncovered, leaving his mass of black hair to float unfettered around his head.
“The East has much to offer,” Foulques said, sweeping his arm around the room. “Why else would so many Franks come to these lands?”
Thomas shifted his feet, and looked like he was preparing an answer, but he said nothing. After an uncomfortable silence, Foulques stood, walked to the window, and looked out. Even though he could see nothing, he liked to stand there and bask in the sun’s light. “Your studies go well?”
“Yes, Commander,” Thomas said, finding his voice.
“Weapons Master Glynn speaks highly of your abilities,” Foulques said, turning back to face Thomas. “Especially with the dagger. Not the noblest of weapons though, I must say.” It was a curious choice of weapon, Foulques thought. While most young men were seduced by the nobility of the sword, Thomas had recently all but given it up and specialized in mace and dagger.
“I have been told you requested extra hours working in the hospital. Do you seek to replace your martial training with something you see as less strenuous?”
“No, Commander. I would use the hours I have free in the evening after Vespers.”
Foulques nodded. “It is good you have an interest in medicine, for that is the founding vocation of our order. However, God has willed you should become a soldier, not a physician. Do you understand this?”
Thomas looked down at the ground. “Yes.”
“How many patrols have you ridden out on?”
“One a week for the past year.”
“Have you taken the lives of any of the enemy?”
Thomas looked up and one of his dark eyes twitched.
“I have killed a boy,” he said, finally. “Though I thought him a man at the time.”
Foulques had already known the answer to his question. But he wanted to hear how the event was weighing on the young man’s soul.
“Boys grow into men. Men who would undermine the one true faith. You carried out God’s will and that is the end of it. Think no more on it, for there will be more. Many more.”
Foulques turned back to the window and gazed out. “If I grant you permission to work extra hours in the hospital, then you must do something for me.”
The boy’s head snapped up and he straightened. “Of course, Commander!”
“You will learn to read and write. First in Latin, then Arabic.”
A confused look flooded Thomas’s face. “Arabic, Commander?”
“Of course. Latin may be the word of God, but Arabic is the language of medicine. Although Frankish doctors are loath to admit it, the Arabian hakim are vastly superior. The works of the great Greek and Roman physicians have been lost to the West for centuries, but not to the East.”
“But the writings of Galen and Hippocrates have already been translated to Latin,” Thomas said. “One of the monks showed us copies.”
“Copies, yes. Copies of Arabic texts. The originals are long lost, so the Latin versions are translations of Arabic works. I feel the Latin copies possess a sometimes diluting layer of interpretation that the Arabic texts never intended.”
“You have read them?”
“Yes, and so should you, provided it does not interfere with your military training. But not only the works of Galen and Hippocrates. Arabic medicine is the medicine of the Islamic world, not just the Arabs. That means that the Persians and Nestorians in the east and even the Spanish and Jews in the west have all contributed to Arabic medicine. You will become familiar with these works as well.”
“The Jews? But they are the enemy of Christ,” Thomas said.
“So we are told. But as His soldiers, then is it not our duty to learn from the enemy? The truth is, as Hospitallers we owe the Jews and Muslims a great deal for keeping the knowledge of the ancients alive. Knowledge long ago lost in the west, due in no small part to the Church’s fear of the common man exploring the divine mysteries of the human body. The Church is content to have us refuse medical treatment and pray while sickness ravages our body, leaving our lives in the hands of God alone.”
Foulques felt his face begin to flush, but he could not help himself. To the horror of many priests and monks, he saw nothing wrong with using the corpses from battlefields to further medical knowledge. Surely some good could come from the violent deaths of both Mohammedans and Christians alike. So long as they were buried or cremated properly after an examination, where was the harm in furthering their knowledge if it could save lives?
“But surely the Church’s position has changed,” Thomas said. “We are, after all, an exempt Order subject only to the Pope himself. If the Church was truly against the study of medicine, why would they have allowed the Hospitallers to form in the first place?”
Foulques’s eyes narrowed at the boy’s question and he wondered if he, himself, had ever been so naive. “Although both the Templars and the Hospitallers are sworn to poverty, we control vast fortunes that rival that of many monarchs. In fact, a good deal of that fortune has been earned by lending money to Kings. But often wealth is merely the illusion of power. For the moment only the Pope himself has the power to command us, but that will not always be so. Change is the only constant in life.” Foulques spoke the words, but in them he heard his Uncle Guillaume’s conviction, a certain righteousness that he was not certain he possessed.
Foulques fixed his gaze once more on the window. He thought of his uncle, somewhere in England, and the games he must be playing to keep the supply ships coming with grain, weapons, and men. Supply ships that could just as easily be sent under a Templar flag, or even the black cross of the Teutonics. Word had it that support for the Germans grew greater in England with every passing year. “We
tread softly here,” Foulques said, continuing to stare out the cloudy glass. “Much softer than you can possibly imagine. Especially now. The Mohammedans are not the only wolf baying at our door.”
Foulques took a deep breath, then wheeled around. “But I did not summon you here to lecture. In return for me allowing you to study in the hospital, I have a task that you are to complete for me. But it is for me alone. No one is to know of our conversation today. Is that clear?”
“Yes.” Thomas’s eyes darted around the room once before answering. Foulques could tell all this talk was making him nervous. He reached down to his desk and lifted a rolled up scroll with the names of three hundred of the original Schwyzers. With the help of Glynn and Brother Alain, Foulques had created the list, but the marshal would only allow him to take one hundred. He needed someone closer to them, an insider, to make the final cut.
“First you must learn to read the three hundred names on this list. Then you will learn to write well enough to prepare your own list of the one hundred young men you think are the most suitable. They must be strong of arm and skilled in combat. But above all, loyal. Select only those you would trust with your life, and make no mistake on it, for that is precisely what you will be doing. You have sixty days to complete your task before we depart.”
Thomas’s eyes widened. “Depart? Where are we going?”
“Our hospice on the island of Cyprus,” Foulques said. “Ready all your possessions to take with you, Thomas, for once we leave, Acre will no longer be your home.”
Or my home.
Foulques turned back to the window so the boy would not see his own eyes cloud over.
CHAPTER SIX
Al-Ashraf Khalil stood at attention beside his seated father. He held his helmet under one arm and watched the three Hospitallers approach slowly through a gap in the Mamluk army. In the distance, behind the Christians, were the towers of Margat squatting against the blue waters of the Mid-Earth Sea.
The sun glinted off the armor of the knights as they approached and the front man held aloft a flag pole bearing the white cross of the Order on a field of red. From afar, they made a brilliant display, but as they neared the small hill where Qalawun had set his pavilion, Khalil could see the grime on the men’s armor. Their stilted gait hinted at a weariness set deep in their bones and the dullness in their eyes told the story of a siege that had gone on long enough. They had come to surrender the fortress and seek terms with the sultan.