00 - Templar's Acre

by Michael Jecks

  ‘Your clothes,’ he said, pointing.

  ‘They were my son’s. I leave them as reminder of why we must punish the people of Acre, for their violence towards the people of Islam.’

  The Sultan called to the Mameluk, ‘Let him come to me.’

  Abu al-Fida made his way to the Sultan’s throne, standing with his head downcast.

  ‘Do not be fearful in my presence,’ the Sultan said. ‘I am Qalawun, friend to all Muslims. I am here now to listen to your petition, not to punish. Tell me, these clothes were those of your son?’

  ‘Yes, Sultan, my son Usmar.’

  ‘Have you lived long in Acre?’

  ‘For five years.’

  ‘You know the city well?’

  Abu al-Fida nodded.

  ‘Can you sit with my people and draw with them a map of the city? I need to know the walls, where the strong points are, and the weak, where they keep their stores of food and weapons. Everything you can tell me. Can you do this?’

  ‘Yes. I was once the servant of Baibars and served in his army at Antioch. I understand what is needed.’

  ‘Ah! That was a great battle,’ Qalawun said, ‘and the Christians still have not returned there.’

  ‘We destroyed them all,’ Abu al-Fida said. ‘I was with the party at the middle who stormed the walls.’

  ‘It was a brave battle. You were fortunate to be with the first of the men there.’

  ‘Yes, lord.’

  In his mind’s eye, Abu al-Fida saw that battle again and it almost turned his stomach. His bloody sword hacking at infidels, blood spattering his arms, breast, face; blood in his mouth. At first, he recalled a blood-madness, when all he could see was the sunburned crusaders, eyes flashing with hatred beneath their helmets. A lunatic scramble up rubble and bodies, slipping on a man’s arm cut from a body, almost soiling himself as an arrow flew straight at him, and he ducked and it rattled against his helmet, and then he and his friends were on the wall, and dealing death.

  It was a truth that hand-to-hand fighting was deadly, but this could not describe the slaughter that began when the Christians fled from the holy rage of the besiegers. It was a massacre such as he had never before seen. Abu al-Fida recalled with shame how he and his comrades screeched their war-cries as they rushed down the inner ramparts and into the fleeing enemies.

  And afterwards there were the searches of the houses. In one, he found three children – and when he tried to save them for slavery, other men slew them all. Grandmothers were found in a house, and they too had their lives taken. The city was a stinking charnelhouse. Bodies lay everywhere.

  It was that which deterred him from war.

  When you have once had a man on his knees before you begging for his life, a woman – perhaps a sister, perhaps a wife – wailing and pulling at her hair with horror and despair as you thrust the sword in, hoping to kill quickly but failing, and witnessed the man scream with the pain, writhing, and not dying – and then seen your companions rape the woman before killing her . . . how could any man of honour who loved beauty and God want to destroy men and women in this manner?

  But according to Qalawun, he was ‘fortunate’ to have been there.

  ‘We shall avenge your son, Abu al-Fida. We will wash the streets with infidel blood.’

  Abu al-Fida nodded. He thought again of that man, curling into a ball on the ground before him. At least he had tried to kill quickly and kindly. He had not wished to make the Christian suffer. Others were not so scrupulous.

  He had no scruples about Christians dying now. Not even the women and children . . . If it removed the infidels forever from these lands, it was worth it. No man should ever suffer the death of his son, like Abu al-Fida had.

  Qalawun called a servant and muttered in his ear. Then he said, ‘Abu al-Fida, go with this man and help my secretaries draw up plans of the city. In return, is there anything you would like?’

  Abu al-Fida fell to his knees and would have prostrated himself, but the Sultan called on him to stop.

  ‘No, my friend, I would not have you worship me. I am only a man.’

  ‘Then permit me this one thing, my Lord. When you march on Acre, let me join you, and let me once more use my sword in the destruction of our enemies.’

  ‘I can make use of any number of men. I would be glad of your sword.’

  Abu al-Fida hesitated. Then, ‘I am not only a soldier, Sultan. When Baibars took me to Antioch, it was not for my sword, but for my skill with artillery. I built him catapults.’

  ‘You can build them still?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then build me a monster, Abu al-Fida. Build me the biggest catapult in the world. We shall call it al-Mansour – Victorious – and with it you shall destroy the city that killed your son.’

  BOOK THREE

  WARRIOR, AUGUST 1290–APRIL 1291

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  The great courtyard before the castle was ideal for open-air discussions for the whole commune. It was a square space, with ornate stonework that reflected the history of the city, and Baldwin joined Ivo near Sir Otto de Grandison’s men.

  Baldwin had never seen such a congregation before. There were the four Orders, the Templars and Hospitallers eyeing each other distrustfully, the German Order with their black crosses watching sternly, their Grand Master Burchard von Schwanden glowering about him, while the Leper Knights stood slightly apart.

  More and more men were pouring into the square, and already the Hospitallers and Templars had grumpily moved closer as they were jostled by newcomers. All the commune’s richest and most important representatives were there.

  ‘Look at all these people,’ Baldwin marvelled. ‘How could the Muslims expect to take the city when there are so many knights of great standing?’

  He was overwhelmed: he had never seen so many nobles and lords gathered together. Mail and helmets shone, and the white tunics of the Templars gleamed so brightly it was painful to look at them. Here, Baldwin thought, was the reason for the survival of Acre. No godless army could defeat so many men dedicated to the defence of His Holy Land.

  Ivo cast a measuring look about him. His tone was half-weary, half-contemptuous. ‘Do you think they will look so marvellous when they are spread thinly over one mile of city walls? I just want to know why we’ve been summoned.’

  Baldwin frowned, but then the city’s herald bellowed for silence, and the Constable walked in from a door behind the throne.

  Sir Amalric stood before the throne and gazed about him. Baldwin was struck by his expression. There was a savage anger there. When he spoke, his voice reflected the fury within.

  ‘My Lords, Sir Knights, and Gentlemen, I have today received a message from Sultan Qalawun.’

  There was a quickening of interest. The men exchanged glances, and Baldwin heard a muttered oath.

  ‘He demands we submit to him all those responsible for the riots and the murder of Muslims in our city. They will be tried in his court and punished.’ He gave a frosty smile. ‘Who would advise me on this?’

  ‘You cannot send Christians to a heathen court,’ Sir Burchard shouted. ‘It is unthinkable! None could agree!’

  There was a rumble of approval from the German Order and the Hospitallers; the Templars too were nodding. Only Guillaume de Beaujeu maintained a calm demeanour.

  Then, from behind Baldwin, a voice demurred. ‘Those fools brought it on themselves. What, do you want to incite a war to defend the murdering bastards who put us in this position? I say they should pay the price.’

  ‘These men were brought to Acre by the galleys of Venice.’ This was a stout, red-faced shipmaster, who glared towards the merchants as he spoke. ‘I would not have it said that men brought here under the protection of Venice could be so easily discarded. They are Christian.’

  ‘No! These men were murderers, and if the price of our safety is their lives, so be it!’

  ‘What of the other Orders?’ Constable Amalric asked.

  �
�It is said we may not send Christians,’ Sir Guillaume de Beaujeu said slowly. ‘But if we do nothing, how will he react? We should placate him if we may.’

  ‘He is a heathen,’ Sir Burchard grated. ‘We need do nothing. He demands, but his threats are empty. Meaningless.’

  ‘Have you forgotten Tripoli?’ the merchant spat.

  ‘He had no treaty with them,’ Sir Burchard said dismissively. ‘He has agreed a peace with us. He won’t break that.’

  ‘So, he is a heathen with a sense of honour,’ Sir Guillaume said. ‘But he has cause, if we refuse to provide him with the felons who committed these gross acts of violence against his people. These rioters caused the trouble.’

  ‘What do you suggest?’ Constable Amalric said.

  ‘For my part, I would empty the prisons of all those convicted for felonies, and send them to him. It would cost us little, and they will die anyway. Let him execute them. We appease him without damage to our ability to protect this city.’

  A merchant shouted, ‘Are you mad? You think to give up our people to this monster?’

  ‘I think to protect our city!’ Sir Guillaume roared. ‘What, would you prefer to see Acre fall and your wives and children slaughtered or enslaved? These men are felons in any case!’

  ‘You just seek to protect your Order! Templars make money from the Muslims!’ a man shouted.

  ‘It’s because he is a coward!’ another bellowed.

  There was an immediate uproar. Guillaume de Beaujeu was white with fury, and at the accusation of cowardice, he and two Templars behind him had to be restrained by their Marshal, who snapped an order as they began to step forward, gripping his Grand Master’s sleeve and whispering urgently.

  Sir Guillaume swallowed his wrath. ‘I have the fortune to enjoy good relations with some Muslims, yes, and I make use of them. If you had invested in understanding your enemy a little more, perhaps you would not be so poorly advised now, Master Mainboeuf! My friends tell me that Qalawun seeks only a pretext to destroy our city and God’s Kingdom here on Earth once and for all. You do his job if you seek to defy him now. He can gather an army in weeks.’

  The man whom de Beaujeu had addressed eyed the Grand Master coolly. Baldwin was impressed by his patrician manner, and then saw, over his shoulder, a face he recognised: Edgar. Edgar gave him a faint smile, and Baldwin had the distinct impression that he was being patronised.

  Mainboeuf stepped forward and addressed the whole gathering. ‘I have my own men in Egypt. They tell me that Qalawun is perfectly well aware of our importance to him. Look at us! He has made us the most powerful city in Christendom! We have ships and we have merchants – and he needs both. Do you think that because he is a heathen he must be a fool? No! Qalawun knows that with us here, he can control the flow of silks and spices. These trades are valuable. Would he willingly destroy the most important market he has? Is it likely? By God’s grace, we are in the fortunate position of being able to do His will while also making profit. Qalawun will leave us in peace. Besides, he has more important troubles in other lands on his borders than with us. But, to send a Christian to a heathen’s court to be tortured and killed like a slave is not doing God’s will. God will protect us from Qalawun and his armies if we stand firm, but if we were to send these poor Crusaders to Qalawun, God would abhore our cowardice.’

  ‘Cowardice?’ The Grand Master’s hand was on his sword. Through clenched teeth, he said, ‘God did not defend Tripoli!’

  ‘That is blasphemy!’ was shouted, and Baldwin saw that the Patriarch had risen to his feet, and stood pointing accusingly at the Templar. ‘You dare suggest God was responsible? It was the unholy behaviour of the people living in Tripoli that caused their downfall, just as Sodom and Gomorrah collapsed after leaving the true path of God’s will!’

  ‘God did not save Tripoli, whatever His reasons,’ Sir Guillaume said. ‘We must protect Acre ourselves.’

  ‘I say we are strong!’ the merchant shouted. ‘And if we hold to our faith, we shall remain so! The Sultan has no interest in destroying us.’

  ‘The monopoly serves your interest, not his,’ Sir Guillaume pointed out. ‘If he wishes, he can crush us without hurting his treasury.’

  ‘It’s your treasury you care about,’ Mainboeuf sneered. ‘Isn’t it said that the Temple was founded on money, and the greed of the Knights?’

  ‘That is a lie!’ Sir Guillaume bellowed, and in an instant the room degenerated into furious accusations and insults.

  Merchants tended to side with the Templar Grand Master, while the Hospitallers and Teutonic Knights agreed with Mainboeuf and the commune. Sir Otto held his counsel, while Ivo shook his head, but Baldwin was concerned. He liked the Grand Master, but to suggest that Christians should be sent to be killed in a Muslim city, no matter what their crimes, was not to be borne.

  He was pushed by a man behind him who stepped forward waving a fist in the air, and then another, whose face was puce with bellowing rage, and suddenly there was movement. Sir Guillaume took a pace to one side, while his Marshal and others spread themselves. The Leper Knights moved imperceptibly, but now they too formed a fighting line, for all that their swords were still sheathed. It would take them no time to draw their weapons.

  Ivo looked at the Swiss next to him. ‘Sir Otto, we cannot afford a fight.’

  ‘No.’ Sir Otto held his hands high, and spoke in a calm voice. ‘Gentles all, we are Christians discussing possibilities. Come! If we bicker amongst ourselves, the winner will be Qalawun. Do you wish to do his work for him? Be still! Let us talk.’

  His words had an immediate effect. Merchants and barons muttered to themselves, but the shouting ended, and men returned to their places.

  ‘This is not possible,’ the Constable said when order was restored. ‘As a Christian city we cannot send these ruffians, no matter how vile their crimes. They must suffer punishment here in Acre.’

  Baldwin nodded his approval. But when he looked at Ivo, he was sure that there was a glistening in his eye, as though Ivo was close to tears.

  ‘In that case,’ the Grand Master declared, ‘we must prepare the city. Because if Qalawun is not impressed with our refusal, he will send an army to take the city apart: stone by stone.’

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  Philip Mainboeuf’s house stood overlooking the harbour. From his door, a street ran straight to the water’s edge, and from the roof, a man could see all over Acre, from sea to city wall. Edgar liked to walk about the roof. It reminded him why he was here: wealth and comfort. Edgar of London was glad to be living in such a prestigious house.

  Today, Philip Mainboeuf hurried back before the end of the discussion, and then rushed upstairs to the roof where his clerks worked under a canopy. Edgar went with him, and peered at the harbour a quarter-mile away. The sea was a fabulous turquoise, and waves glistened as if filled with pearls. From here he could see the cathedral, and heard the tolling to announce the service, a moment or two after the bells within the Temple, and then those of the Hospital. Each of the Orders had their own bells, which pealed in a discordant cacophony, but Edgar didn’t care. To him, their sound was just one attraction of this exotic new life.

  There were many – especially the women. He was enthralled by their dark skin and their lustrous brown eyes gazing at him from over their veils.

  There was no comparison between this and his past life. Here, people had luxuries he had never dreamed of, from sweet sugars to silks. When he thought back to London and the filthy, dark alleys and streets, the grey Thames, it was as though he was harking back to a nightmare in comparison with this sumptuous grandeur. Heaven must be like this.

  There was a loud knocking at the door below, and Edgar strode to the front of the house to peer down into the street. There, he saw a woman in green with three guards. Soon she was up on the roof with Philip and Edgar.

  He had seen her before, of course. This was Lady Maria. Edgar saw her eyes go to him as Philip stood, and Edgar held her gaze with a s
mile on his face. She was a forward woman. The sort who would be a challenge. Not that he could hope to bed her – she had her sights set far over Edgar’s head.

  ‘You can leave us,’ Mainboeuf said to his clerks, and they gathered up their tablets, inks and reeds, and made their way to the stairs.

  Edgar made no move to follow them. His attention was still fixed upon Lady Maria.

  ‘Edgar, you can leave us too,’ Mainboeuf said.

  ‘While there are these strangers with you?’ Edgar said, indicating the three men who had come to the roof with Lady Maria.

  ‘I am safe with Lady Maria. You can leave us.’

  Edgar paused before obeying. There was no reason for him to remain, because after all, if the three men wanted to attack his master, they would simply kill him first. He walked to the stairs at the side of the building, and as he was about to descend, he saw Lady Maria go to Mainboeuf’s side, and he heard their voices clearly on the warm, humid air.

  ‘You must send to Cairo. We cannot afford to leave him in any doubt.’

  ‘He will seek profit. This is a negotiation.’

  ‘Then we must ensure he wins it.’

  Baldwin found Ivo sitting in a nearby tavern, muttering to himself, a quart of wine before him.

  ‘I was here with my Prince, and I would’ve laid down my life happily for him and the Kingdom of Jerusalem, but this? It shows how low the Kingdom has sunk. Putting God’s land in peril to support drunks and murderers! In Christ’s name, don’t they realise what they’re doing?’

  ‘We shall be all right,’ Baldwin said, and he truly believed it. The debate had been harsh at times, and the men had been determined to push forward their views with force, but the right decisions had been reached.

  ‘Baldwin, if you live to be an old man, you will never forget the coming weeks,’ Ivo said sourly. ‘And when the end comes, my friend, remember your words.’

  ‘I will.’ Baldwin smiled, and was relieved to see that Ivo returned it, albeit weakly.

  ‘What is that cur doing with you still?’ the older man asked, glancing down.