by Robyn Young
“They are Western spies,” the landlord said in Arabic to one of the black-robed figures, a tall, slender man who bore a band of scarlet cloth on his upper arm. “I looked through their belongings when they were sleeping. They have no wares to sell, only swords. They are not merchants. What they want with you I do not know. But I thought you would want to be warned.”
“You were right,” said the slender figure. His voice was flat, cold. “Take them,” he said to his black-robed companions.
Robert tried to protest as one of the men pushed him forward, but he fell silent as a sword was put to his back. Will watched as his comrades were led away. He heard the cracking of dry leaves behind him. Turning, he found himself looking at the gleaming tip of a crossbow bolt. The man holding the weapon was clad in a black robe and kaffiyeh. Will could only see his brown eyes as the man gestured, with a nod of his head, for him to stand.
14
Kabul, The Kingdom of Jerusalem 15 APRIL A.D. 1276
Elwen’s fingers closed around the arrow. The sun was blinding after the darkness of the barn, and it hurt her eyes. Ahead, his back to her, the Mamluk soldier was struggling with Catarina. The two soldiers hauling the lyre player had passed the wagons and were entering the market square. To the left and right the street was empty. Elwen hunkered in the dust, the arrow shaft clenched in her fist. It was about thirty inches in length, with gray and white speckled flight feathers, perhaps from an eagle. The tip was barbed. Terror had quickened her heart. She couldn’t move. Her instincts were roaring at her to go back into the barn, to hide in the darkness. She stiffened as the Mamluk gave a shout. Catarina had bitten him. He wrenched his hand from her mouth and it came away bloody. Spitting words through his teeth, he back-handed her across the face. As Catarina crumpled, Elwen began to run.
A cry loosed itself from her lips as she plunged the arrow into the man’s neck, pushing as hard as she could. It was a cry of horror and anger and revulsion. The iron tip sunk into the soft skin, then caught on the tougher muscle within. Blood welled instantly. The soldier yelled in pain and shock. As he turned to see Elwen, he reached for her, hands wrapping around her throat. Elwen gasped and tried to prise him off. Panic rose, obscuring her thoughts, smothering her like his hands. The soldier continued to squeeze. Then he coughed abruptly. Blood spilled from his mouth and his breaths rattled wetly in his throat. As his grip slackened, Elwen’s mind cleared and she slammed her knee into his groin. The soldier sank to the ground and curled over, the arrow still protruding from his neck. Elwen reached for Catarina and hauled her to her feet. Dragging the girl beside her, Elwen sprinted down the street. They had only gone a short distance when they heard hoofbeats coming toward them from beyond a cluster of mud-brick homes. Elwen threw herself into the shadow of a low doorway, pulling Catarina in after her, as two soldiers galloped by outside.
There was a smell of blood in the gloom, dark and metallic. Elwen picked Catarina up and held the trembling girl to her. Catarina’s lips were flecked with red where she had bitten the Mamluk. Her dress was wet at the back and Elwen realized the girl had wet herself. She went forward cautiously. On the floor behind a table a man lay on his stomach. His throat had been cut. Elwen put her hand gently on the back of Catarina’s head, to make sure she didn’t turn around, as she crossed to a window, where a piece of sacking was blowing in the breeze. Through it, she could hear incoherent sobs and whimpers, angry shouts, gruff commands. Her breathing slowed. With something to focus on other than her own fear, she felt oddly calm. She was responsible for Catarina. The girl needed her. She parted the curtain slightly and felt Catarina’s arms tighten around her neck as a scream sounded outside.
The little window looked out on Kabul’s market square, where it seemed all the people left alive following the attack had now been gathered, some sitting, some kneeling, others lying wounded on the ground. For a moment, Elwen could only see women in this group, and she wondered what had happened to all the men. Then, as her gaze moved toward the church, she saw they had been corraled in a separate group, of about one hundred or so, and were lined up on their knees, their backs to the women. Some of them were Westerners who had been at the market; others were merchants, and quite a few were locals. Around the square on foot or on horseback, the Mamluks waited, swords and bows trained on the crowd. There was another scream, and as Elwen watched, two soldiers dragged a young boy from the group of women. He must have been no more than ten. One woman, presumably his mother, was shrieking as the Mamluks tried to pull him from her arms. Elwen averted her eyes as one of the Mamluks clubbed the woman in the face with the hilt of his sword. When Elwen looked back, the boy had been freed and was being carried off. The woman was on the ground.
Elwen scanned the men, but couldn’t see Taqsu. There were, however, many bodies around the square, where people had died in the first few minutes of the attack. Perhaps Taqsu was dead, or perhaps he had fled. Either way, she couldn’t think about him now. One Mamluk on horseback near the church raised his hand, and a line of soldiers moved toward the kneeling men. This mounted Mamluk seemed better dressed than the others. A long coat of mail glimmered beneath his jade-colored silk cloak, and golden feathers flew from the crown of the helmet that covered his face, with shadowy slits for his eyes and mouth. For a moment there was silence, broken by sobs and whimpers; then the first of the Mamluks reached the men. Before any of the shocked crowd realized what was happening, one Mamluk had grabbed the hair of a youth in front of him, yanked back his head and wrenched his sword across the boy’s throat. Elwen flinched and dropped the sacking. It fell across her view as a chorus of screams and cries tore through the air, and the butchery began.
“What’s happening?”
Elwen glanced down as Catarina whispered the words into her neck. “We have to leave,” she said quietly, moving from the window and stepping over the dead man. She set Catarina down near the door. “I need you to stand here while I find food.”
Catarina’s eyes were dazed and glassy. “I’m not hungry.”
“You might be later. Can you do as I ask and be a good girl?” Elwen murmured. After a moment, Catarina nodded and let Elwen turn her gently toward the wall, away from the corpse.
Elwen looked around the room, trying to block out the screams from outside that were pushing maddeningly into her mind, setting all her senses on edge. There was a hunk of bread that she whipped from the tabletop and four wrinkled oranges in a bowl. She couldn’t see any water, but Acre wasn’t much more than a day or two’s walk and she thought the fruit would quench their thirst. She was about to head back to Catarina when she realized that she still only had one shoe. She had lost the other in the barn. Steeling herself, she removed the hide shoes from the dead man’s feet. They were far too big for her and so she ripped a few strips of cloth from her torn skirts and stuffed the material inside, padding them out. Her hands were shaking again now. Ripping another length from her dress, she bundled up the oranges and bread in it and went to Catarina. The girl let Elwen lead her to the doorway, but there she halted. “Come on,” Elwen coaxed her.
Catarina shook her head.
“We have to go, Catarina, whilst the soldiers are ...” Elwen swallowed back the dryness in her throat. “Whilst they are busy.”
With Catarina clinging numbly to her hand, Elwen led them out of the house. Keeping close to the buildings, they slipped unseen toward the road that led from the village. Behind them, the sounds of slaughter and terror spiraled into the air like ragged birds, clawing fear into every part of them.
As the Mamluks began the executions, their commander, a middle-aged man named Usamah, watched on, his sight channeled into a direct line by the slits in his visor. It was bloody work. Some of the men tried to run, but were cut down or shot by waiting archers. There was nowhere to go to avoid this death. For each of these men and boys it was inevitable. Some, realizing this, simply knelt in silence, others prayed as the blades of the Mamluks rose and fell, cutting throats, hacking into necks like
axes into firewood. Women tried to help their husbands and sons, throwing themselves at the soldiers. But the Mamluks held them back.
Behind his helmet, Usamah’s face was grim. He had patrolled this region for the past six years and had never been asked to do work like this. He had seen plenty of battles as a slave warrior, but sending men to fight for their country against enemy soldiers was a different matter than sending them against unarmed men, women and children. Already, he had seen one of his soldiers, fresh from training, wheel away from the massacre to vomit. Others were blank, holding back emotions as they killed on his orders.
When he had received the scroll from Cairo two weeks ago, Usamah had been surprised. Kabul had been ceded to the Franks when the peace had been signed and was under the protection of the treaty. He had known that there were rumored to be spies in the village, but, even so, the orders from Cairo had been exceptionally aggressive, instructing him to leave no man or boy alive. He had also been commanded to undertake the attack during the spring fair, presumably when the most damage could be done. Usamah had guessed that an example was being made. He had not liked it, but he had not questioned the order that had come direct from Sultan Baybars. It was not his place to do so.
ULA, ARABIA, 15 APRIL A.D. 1276
“I thought this Kaysan was one of ours,” said Robert in a low voice, crossing to the door of their prison to test the sturdiness of the slender wooden poles that were latticed together to form a cage. The poles flexed as he shook them, but showed no signs of breaking.
Will looked up from the bundle of hay where he had been sitting since the black-robed men had ushered them into the cage, some kind of animal pen, several hours ago. It stank of dung and straw. “He’s one of our spies. It doesn’t necessarily mean he’s a friend.”
“But you would think he might be expecting us, or at least not entirely surprised that a group of Westerners would show up asking for him?”
Will glanced at Zaccaria, who was standing at the back of the cage with Alessandro, Carlo and their nervous-looking guide. Zaccaria appeared as calm as ever. He met Will’s questioning gaze. “I cannot offer any advice. I have never dealt with this man, nor any spy in this region before.”
Will wondered, by the Sicilian’s tone, whether that meant Zaccaria thought the assignment unusual. But before he could think of a neutral way to ask the question, he heard voices outside in the yard. They sounded angry.
Robert stepped away from the entrance as a figure appeared. It was the man with the scarlet band on his arm. He had removed his kaffiyeh, revealing his face. He was in his mid-forties, deeply tanned, with a black beard and dark eyes that held a watchful intensity. An old scar drew a thin white line down the side of his face. “Where did you get this?” he asked in Arabic, looking at Will. He held up the scroll case.
Will understood what he said, but something stopped him from answering. He had presumed this man was Kaysan from what the landlord had said outside the inn, but before he gave away anything of himself, he wanted to be certain. Will rose and went to the pen’s door. “We came here looking for Kaysan,” he said slowly in Latin. He pointed to the scroll case. “That is for him.”
The figure’s eyes narrowed as he studied Will. “As was I told,” he replied after a moment, in hesitant Latin. “I am Kaysan.” He raised the scroll case again. “Where you getting this?” His voice was hard.
“From the grand master of the Order of the Temple. We were told to deliver it to you.”
“Templars?” questioned Kaysan, gesturing to Will, who nodded. Kaysan looked around as another man appeared outside the cage. “What is it?” he asked, switching into his native tongue.
“The others are concerned, Kaysan. They want to know who these men are. And what the scroll says.”
“I am questioning them now,” replied Kaysan gruffly. “They are Templars.”
“Then our friend at the inn was right,” said the second man, his gaze flicking to Will, who had adopted a frown to disguise his comprehension of their conversation. “Western spies.”
“No.”
“How can you be sure?”
“This.” Kaysan showed him the scroll. “I know who wrote it.” He glanced at Will, then walked away from the pen into the sunlit yard. His comrade followed. They began speaking in hushed voices. Will turned away from them, but stepped closer to the pen’s door, trying to hear what they were saying.
Robert crossed to him. “What’s happening? Can you not understand him?”
Will gave a small nod of his head. The knight looked puzzled, then seemed to understand. As Robert moved away, Will heard Kaysan’s comrade utter two words in Arabic in a tone of stunned disbelief. Two words that carried to the cage.
“Al-Hajar al-Aswad?”
Will looked around sharply, forgetting to conceal his awareness of their language. But Kaysan and his comrade were so engrossed in their conversation they didn’t notice. Their voices were low again, low and urgent. Will strained to hear them.
“They are mad,” Kaysan’s comrade said fiercely. He continued in a quick stream of words, of which Will only caught a few: death, hell, destruction.
Kaysan said something about a reward, then looked over at Will. His expression subtly changed from one of cold intensity to one, Will thought, of hope. After a moment, he walked away, followed by his comrade.
“What now?” said Robert, looking at Will. “What were they saying?”
“I don’t know. I only caught a few words and they didn’t make much sense.”
Robert frowned at their guide. “What about you? Did you understand any of it?”
“I am sorry, sir.” The guide rose. “I was too far.” He sat back down as Robert swore.
“We could probably break down the door if we all put our weight to it, Sir Campbell.” It was Alessandro who had spoken.
Will noticed irritably that he half-looked at Zaccaria as he said it, as if he were really asking the question of the Sicilian. “No,” he told the knight. “I do not believe they intend to harm us.”
“But this makes no sense. We were told the scroll contains information Kaysan must verify. Why does he not just do that and let us leave?”
“The grand master knew what he was doing when he sent us here,” replied Will. “We wait until the assignment is complete.”
“Or until we are turned into camel food,” muttered Alessandro.
Zaccaria stirred, his blue eyes moving to the knight. “Our commander is right, Brother. We should wait.” His tone was quiet, yet absolutely implacable.
Alessandro bowed his head, chastised.
The knights waited as the minutes turned into hours and the sun moved gradually around. They were all tired, thirsty and uneasy when at last, almost three hours later, Kaysan returned. With him were five of his black-robed companions, all with crossbows in their hands. The knights rose, their expressions tense.
Kaysan raised the beam that locked the pen’s door in place and opened it. “Out,” he said.
The knights filed from the pen, followed by their guide, the crossbows of Kaysan’s comrades trained on them.
Kaysan moved to Will and held out the silver scroll case. “For your grand master.”
Shadowed by the black-robed men, the knights were led across the yard. At the front of the mud-brick house, where skinny children were playing in the dirt, they found their horses waiting. The sun was red and low in the sky, and the warm air buzzed with insects. Will stowed the scroll case in his saddlebag, dug his foot into the stirrup and mounted.
Kaysan pointed along a track bordered by palm trees. “Leave that way.”
With a tug of the reins, Will headed out of the yard, followed by the others. As the sun melted behind the rocky hills to their left, throwing the desert plain and the road ahead into gray-pink shadows, he eased himself into the rhythm of his horse. When night fell and they stopped to rest, he would open the scroll. As he rode, he tried to piece together the fragments of conversation he had overheard between Ka
ysan and his comrade. Most of it made no sense, out of context as it was, but those two words Kaysan’s comrade had uttered in that stunned tone rolled over and over in his mind.
“Al-Hajar al-Aswad.”
The Black Stone.
THE ROYAL PALACE, ACRE, 15 APRIL A.D. 1276
There was a sticky smell of incense in the chamber. Cloying, overpowering, it reminded Garin of his mother. When he was a boy and she was in a rare good humor, she would sometimes play a game with him, where he would have to guess the names of spices she kept in a locked box. Closing his eyes, he drew in a draft of the incense. “Sandalwood,” he murmured, then opened his eyes, hearing a bolt rattle on the other side of the door.
A servant clad in an embroidered tunic appeared, looking sartorially superior to Garin, still in his shabby cloak and bloodstained shirt. “His Royal Highness, the esteemed king of Jerusalem and Cyprus, will permit you an audience.”
“It’s about time,” said Garin tautly, his voice sounding slightly nasal from the punches to the nose he’d sustained in the fight with the sailors. “I’ve been waiting almost nine hours.” The servant didn’t respond, but ushered him into the passage. Pushing back his irritation, Garin followed.
He had seen little of the palace when he had passed through the heavily guarded gate that morning, the letter with King Edward’s seal on it granting him entrance. From the outside, it looked the same as any Western castle: high curtain walls with corner and flanking towers and a prominent keep. Inside, however, it was very different. Garin remembered the Temple in Acre being grand, but sparse, military order and fortifications being of greater importance to the knights than worldly comfort. This palace extended into its interior the Eastern grandiosity that existed in its dimensions. The vaulted corridors were tiled with intricate mosaics, there was glass in many of the windows, and rich hangings lined the walls, which were smooth with plaster and whitewashed. The surroundings were a far cry from Garin’s chambers in the Tower of London: a dark, cramped room that was always chilly, with a pallet for his bed and a slit window that looked onto the leaden Thames where the Tower’s sewage was discharged.