by Robyn Young
He turned to a man beside him, who had a tankard in one hand and a money pouch in the other. By the cut of his clothes Will guessed he was a merchant, but not a particularly affluent one. “Do you know Sclavo?” he asked in Latin.
The man focused on Will with difficulty, then shoved his tankard in the direction of the barn. “There,” he slurred.
Following the merchant’s unsteady gesture, Will picked out a group of men seated on benches away from the press of the crowd. One, at their center, was better dressed than the others in a floppy green silk cloak that ill-fitted his scrawny frame. He had pale wispy hair and a patchy beard, and his face was lumpy with the scabs of some disease. At his feet were two huge hounds. As one of the armed men crossed to him, leaned in close and said something, the dogs raised their huge heads and snarled uneasily.
Will questioned the drunk man. “The one in green?”
The merchant nodded and staggered against him. “That’s him.”
Will pushed his way back through the crowd as the thin youth was led into the yard, compelled by the swords of Sclavo’s men.
“They’re doing what?” said Robert, when Will returned to the alley and told the knights what he had seen. His nose creased in disgust. “Animals.”
One of the other knights, a stoic, middle-aged man called Paul, gave a shrug. “This isn’t our business.” He looked at Will. “If you want my opinion, Commander, I think we should concentrate on what we came for.”
“I agree,” responded Will. He went on as Robert started to protest. “There’s over one hundred men in there and at least nine armed guards. We would need a stronger force to deal with what’s happening here tonight. And, however much I want to intervene, it isn’t our place. When we’ve got Sclavo, we’ll report it to the Genoese consul. He must be the one to close it down.”
“If he’ll do anything,” said another of the knights, called Laurent. “If Sclavo’s bought them, then they’re his slaves to do with as he will. There’s nothing anyone can do about that.”
“There is if the Temple puts pressure on the consul,” said Will firmly. He looked at Robert. “And I’ll make sure we do. If Baybars found out about this outrage, he would demand retribution. The peace is weak enough without dogs like Sclavo tearing at it.”
Robert conceded after a pause. “How should we proceed?”
“From what I could see, other than through the tavern itself, the only obvious exit from the yard is down an alley that leads between a barn on the lefthand side and the wall. Robert, you and Laurent will cover that alley in case Sclavo tries to run.” Will described the landlord.
“Green cloak, lumpy face,” said Robert, nodding. “I’m sure we’ll recognize him.”
“I’ll lead the others through the tavern.”
“Are we going in disguise?”
Will pulled off his black cloak and stuffed it into his saddlebag. “No. I want them to see us for who we are.”
Robert grinned wolfishly. “That should put the fear of God in them.”
“Exactly. Most of them will be lower-class merchants and laborers. I doubt they’ll give us any trouble.”
“And the guards?” asked Paul.
“They look like thugs, not warriors, and their weapons are pretty basic. It’s death to any who wounds a Templar. They know that as well as we do. I think we can handle them.”
With that settled, Will let Robert and Laurent go first to reach the alley, before leading the other three knights to the tavern. He worried about leaving their mounts untended, but he needed the men with him. All that mattered was that they got Sclavo.
He shoved at the Saracen’s door and entered the thick gloom of the chamber, hearing the sounds of cheering again. “He has dogs,” he murmured to the knights.
Paul nodded and reached for his sword.
The scattered occupants of the room were either too drunk or too shocked to react as the four Templars strode through their midst and thrust open the doors to the courtyard.
For a few seconds, the men in the yard, their attention fixed on the fight in the center, didn’t notice what was happening. Then, as Will and the knights began to push through, they started to realize that all was not right. The knights’ coming caused a ripple effect through the crowd. The ones closest to the doors saw them first. Gazes that had been locked eagerly on the combat ground swiveled around in surprise. Men who were snarling cheers and shouts grew silent, fearful, as Will and the knights drew their swords and advanced. Those near the front of the ring shouted as they were pushed further into the yard, where the thin youth Will had seen being dragged out earlier was locked in a vicious, desperate fight with a Mongol boy. A shout went up: Templars! Men jostled and shoved one another to get out of the way, some already heading for the doors, streaming around the knights. The fight in the center was continuing, but the armed guards were now coming over to see what the commotion was.
“Hey!” barked one, shoving his way through. “What’s happening here?” The guard paused in his stride as he saw Will move out of the fretful crowd, followed by Paul and the others. Then he steeled himself and came forward to meet them. “What do you want?” His words ended in a yelp as Paul elbowed him savagely in the face. The other guards hung back, seeing their comrade reel away, blood gushing from his broken nose.
But the disturbance had reached Sclavo’s attention, and he was crossing the yard with more guards and his two hounds that strained at their leashes and growled thunder. The fight had stopped, the youths falling back from each other, looking around in fearful confusion.
“What is the meaning of this?” demanded Sclavo. His voice was gritty and coarse, like sand scratched over paper. He eyed the knights warily, but stood his ground. Five of his guards moved in around him, forming a protective ring. “This is a private house. The Temple has no jurisdiction here.”
“Tonight we do, Sclavo,” responded Will coldly. “We’re here to arrest you.”
More men were melting from the yard, slipping down the alley by the barn.
Will’s eyes moved to the guards surrounding the scrawny landlord. “You should stand down. Unless you plan on fighting us?” There was a natural power in his voice, but the words resonated all the more strongly coming, as they did, from a man dressed in that white mantle. Two of the guards lowered their weapons and began to back away.
Sclavo turned on them. “Stay where you are, you rats!” he snapped. His gaze flicked to Will. “Arrest me for what? What charge do you lay on me?” His dogs were hauling desperately at their leashes and Will wondered how he had the strength to hold them. “This is my property,” Sclavo went on. “Everything here belongs to me.” He jerked his head toward the youths in the ring. “Them too.”
“Your property doesn’t concern us,” answered Will. “We are here to arrest you for the attempted murder of the grand master of the Temple. That is the charge we lay on you.”
Sclavo’s eyes widened. Instantly, he released the dogs’ leashes and fled. This seemed to signal the last of the crowd that it was time to leave, and a final stampede began. Will whipped his falchion at one of the hounds as it leapt at him. The blade opened a red streak through the dog’s flank and it fell writhing to the ground. “Get Sclavo!” he shouted to the other knights as the mob surged. Three of the guards protecting Sclavo had fled with him, but two remained. Paul advanced on one, who, after a moment, dropped his club and ran. Will went for the other, a colossal Italian with a hefty-looking blade, expecting him to do the same, and was brought up sharp when the man came at him.
Will dropped into a fighting stance, but barely had time to gain his footing before the Italian lunged at him. The blow was forceful. The man had been trained well and, despite his size, was quick and light on his feet. Will himself was a fast fighter, but he was wearing chain mail and the extra weight hampered him. The Italian, by comparison, wore only a leather jerkin and woolen hose. The man’s brazen courage was disturbing: he had no need to fight. But perhaps it wasn’t need that was
driving him. Indeed, by the eager look in his eyes, it seemed he wanted this. Will locked his concentration on his opponent, letting everything around him fade away. He was a little out of shape. He had spent so much time trying to track down those behind the attack on the grand master that he’d forsaken some of his routine training. But the sword in his hand soon found its familiar rhythm and he was cutting and thrusting back and forth across the bloodstained yard.
The two youths had gone, vanished with the spectators, and the prisoners left in the barn were shaking their cages, yelling in different tongues for the knights to free them. Will skidded in the dust and the man stepped in and slashed at his chest. The chain mail deflected the blow and the blade only succeeded in tearing Will’s surcoat. It was a shock nonetheless, and Will, galvanized by the rush of fear that shot through him, stepped up his attack. The man’s face changed subtly, the first signs of concern showing through his grimace. Their swords clanged together, flew apart, came in again. Will pushed him back toward a pile of crates to hamper his movements. The Italian tried to force him off, but couldn’t. His growing fear was now apparent. Will’s sword was whirling in his hands. He was grinning, green eyes shining in the torch flames, heart racing.
“Pax!” shouted the man suddenly. “Pax!” He dodged Will’s blade and flung his own to the floor, holding up his hands. “Pax!”
Will came to a stop, his blade inches from the man’s side. He was breathing heavily, sweat beading his forehead.
“Will!”
Will glanced around to see Robert and Laurent coming across the yard with Paul and the others. Between them, they were dragging a bloody-faced Sclavo. Robert’s own face was bruised and he was looking murderous. He went to call something, then his expression changed to one of alarm.
At the same moment, Will sensed movement behind him. He whipped around as the Italian grabbed the fallen sword and jabbed it at him. He got his falchion in the way, barely, and the blades screeched together. Pushing the sword aside and down with a chopping cut that left the man’s defenses open, Will brought the falchion back in a fierce arc that struck the man in his exposed shoulder. The blade sheared through flesh, to bone. The Italian howled, his weapon falling from his useless hand, nerves severed. Will kicked the sword away and staggered back as his comrades came running.
“My God,” said Robert, eyeing the screaming man. “I distracted you.”
“I’m fine,” panted Will, looking at Sclavo, who was staring agape at his shrieking guard. “I’m just glad you got him.”
“He put up a fight though,” responded Robert grimly. He poked his tongue gingerly into his bruised, puffy cheek. “I think the bastard knocked a tooth loose.”
Sclavo’s eyes went to Will. “You’ve got the wrong man,” he hissed.
“That can be decided back at the Temple.” Will nodded to Paul. “Open those cages. Tell the prisoners they are free to go. Robert, Laurent and I will escort Sclavo to the Temple. I want the rest of you to go to the Genoese consul and tell him what has happened here. I’ll speak to the grand master myself, see if we can’t have this place closed down by morning.”
“That shouldn’t be too hard,” said Robert, looking at Sclavo.
“I hired the man who attacked your grand master for someone else,” growled Sclavo. “If you give me clemency I’ll tell you who.”
“Let’s take him back,” said Will to Robert.
“It’s my only offer,” shouted Sclavo. There was fear in his face, but his tone was obstinate. “I’ll tell you here and now who wanted him dead if you spare my life.”
Will hesitated. It wasn’t his decision to make; that would rest with the grand master or the seneschal. But it was his task to find out who wanted the grand master killed, and if it wasn’t Sclavo, then his job here wasn’t done. “Who was it?” he said finally.
“Swear you’ll spare me,” demanded Sclavo.
“I swear,” said Will. “Tell me.”
“A Genoese merchant,” replied Sclavo instantly, “called Guido Soranzo.”
THE TEMPLE, ACRE, 12 MARCH A.D. 1276
Angelo pushed down his animosity with effort as the door to the solar opened to reveal the imperious figure of Guillaume de Beaujeu. As the eldest son, favored by his father, Angelo had rarely been in a position of subservience to anyone, and it didn’t come easily to him, especially when angry. Nonetheless, he made himself bow to the grand master.
“Thank you, Zaccaria,” said Guillaume, ignoring Angelo and nodding to the Sicilian.
Zaccaria inclined his head, then moved away and stood to attention a little way down the passage.
Leaving the door open, Guillaume headed back into the chamber.
Gritting his teeth, Angelo entered. “My lord,” he said, pushing the door to. “I am somewhat surprised by your summons, given our strict agreement that I would be the one to contact you, and only when absolutely necessary.” He followed Guillaume into the solar, which was stiflingly warm, illuminated by the blaze of a fire in the hearth and the hazy shimmer of candles. “I was planning on coming to you later this week. I have the message from Cairo that your knights are to deliver.” His voice hardened, losing some of its taut courtesy. “But your man gave me no chance to collect it, insisting, on your orders, that I come straight here. I will have to return with the scroll later, and every time we meet poses a risk to our secrecy. My lord?” he demanded, his black eyes fixed belligerently on the grand master, who was pouring a goblet of wine. “Are you not concerned by this?”
“Why would Guido Soranzo want me dead?” questioned Guillaume calmly, turning to Angelo, goblet in hand.
Angelo stared at the grand master. “Where did you hear this?”
“Here, an hour ago, from the man Guido hired to find someone willing to murder me.” Guillaume took a sip of wine. “One of my knights arrested this man earlier this evening. I have since questioned him myself and it is clear he is telling the truth.” The grand master’s eyes bored into Angelo. “I take it you know nothing of this?”
For the first time, Angelo felt a twinge of concern. “No, my lord,” he said quickly. “I have no idea why Soranzo would do this.” He shook his head, thinking furiously. “He made it plain that he wasn’t happy working with us when my father first revealed our intentions to him, but since then he has been aiding us willingly. His business stands to gain as much as any of ours from this strategy.” Angelo spread a hand to Guillaume. “I do not see why he would remove our best chance of achieving it.”
“His business?” Guillaume’s reserve fell away at these words. “I am not doing this to help any of your businesses, Vitturi. Remember that.” He drained his wine and swung away from the Venetian.
“Of course, my lord, of course,” said Angelo with mock gravity, claiming back some of his authority as the grand master’s poise slipped. “I was just trying to divine his possible motives.” He watched Guillaume pace the chamber. “The most important thing now is to discover what damage has been done. We need to know if Soranzo has betrayed us all. If he has exposed our plan.”
“What do you suggest?”
“I will go to his house immediately and speak with him.”
Guillaume stopped pacing. He looked at Angelo derisively, his composure returning. “You expect him just to offer up this information to you? No, I do not think so. And he will have personal guards, will he not? If he is the one responsible for my attack, he will know that his death will be required as punishment. I doubt you would have much opportunity to question him with a sword in the gullet.”
Angelo drew himself up. “Then let me lead a company of your knights and I will arrest him by force.”
“A merchant lead a company of Templars?” Guillaume went to the door. “I will send them myself.”
“I know Guido, my lord,” called Angelo at his back. “He won’t speak to your knights. We are not the same as you. We deal in money, commodities, not swords and battle lines. I understand him. I can make him talk.” Guillaume halted at the
door. “It is not just you who has been affected by his betrayal,” continued Angelo. “Indeed, if we have been exposed, out of all of us, you stand to lose the least. We came to you with this plan, my father and I. Let me deal with Soranzo in my own way.”
“No Templar would ever be led by you,” said Guillaume, turning back to him.
“They would if you ordered it,” countered Angelo. “Tell them I’m a former associate of Soranzo’s, brought in by you to interrogate him. Put one of your men in charge, by all means, but let me question Soranzo. You know I’m right,” he added. As Guillaume’s eyes flashed with anger, Angelo thought he had gone too far. He was searching for some way of retracting his words when Guillaume opened the door. “My lord,” said Angelo, worriedly.
“Zaccaria.”
There came the sound of footsteps.
“Yes, sir?”
“Gather the others.” Guillaume paused. “And find Commander Campbell. He will escort Angelo Vitturi to Soranzo’s house.”
Angelo felt a surge of triumph. A moment later it faded into a simmering rage. For months he had been forced to put up with Guido Soranzo’s snide comments and foul temper, and now it seemed that all the while he had been plotting against them. How much damage had been done to their plans for war, and, ultimately, to his plans to salvage the Vitturi business, he did not know. But one thing he was certain of was that Guido would pay for this. And pay dear.
11
The Genoese Quarter, Acre 12 MARCH A.D. 1276
“Secure the gates. Don’t let anybody through.”
“Yes, sir.”
Guido Soranzo watched the guard head down the corridor, sword in hand, but felt no reassurance. He jumped as a hand touched his shoulder. His wife was behind him, her face filled with confusion and worry. She was wearing a richly embroidered cloak over a white silk nightshift that ballooned around her ample middle.