by Simon Acland
And so I rode on. For all my impatience to reach my journey’s end, I forced myself to travel with more care than speed. I stayed away from thoroughfares and cut through the wilderness. In the dark under whose cloak I rode, my progress was slow. I knew too that Mohammed and other Assassin da’is would be looking out for me. Perhaps they might attempt to relieve me of my burden and leave me lying by the wayside. Mohammed might have orders from his father to strip me of the book. I of course now knew that finishing me off would be harder to achieve than they might think; nevertheless I wished to take no risk of failing to reach my destination. I lived on my thoughts of Blanche, mixing memory and desire. I heard the inviolable voice of the nightingale filling the desert.
As I came further north, closer to Alamut, the summer turned to autumn. The minatory sounds of the waste land around rang out louder, the growls and roars of hunting predators echoing through the obscurity. Sometimes my horses would twitch and shy at unseen dangers and I would have to spur hard to drive them through the darkness. The desert nights became cold, and I chilled also with worry. When Hasan-i Sabbah had his book, how could I force him to keep his part of the bargain and set Blanche free? He would know all my secret when he had read the book. Then I shuddered – perhaps he already did, for I did not know exactly what was contained in the Colchean document that had governed my initiation, my baptism. Yes, Hasan, of all people, would know how to kill me if he wanted. But why would he do so? Perhaps I could be useful to him. Perhaps he would need my help to translate the book. Perhaps he would want me for other services. One like me could be a valuable and powerful servant. Perhaps, even if Hasan would not release Blanche, we could at least live our lives together at Alamut.
Thoughts of becoming Hasan’s instrument troubled me and I began to be tormented about the use he would make of the information in the book. The Assassin was driven by an insatiable hunger for knowledge, that much he had admitted. But did he also plan to use the Gospel of Lazarus for some evil end? Would he endeavour to replay the Lazarus trick so that his Imam, his Mahdi, could be reincarnated and take the Moslem world by storm? Perhaps, having consolidated the Shi’a sects and after sweeping away the Sunni objections to his Mohammedan beliefs, he would turn his attention to the Christians and drive them from the Holy Land once again. Would the gospel add fuel to the fire of war; could it even be used to discredit all Christian beliefs? Was it an act of evil for me to deliver Hasan his desire?
And then, as my horse moved beneath me through those dark nights, I had dreams of power of my own. How could I use the book myself? Armed with my knowledge, could I become a great leader? Perhaps, strong and invincible in battle, I could persuade other men to follow me. I remembered the influence of my prowess on the wall at Antioch and the enjoyment I had taken from my fellows’ respect. I remembered my exhilaration leading my troop of pseudo-saints over Mount Silpius. But how could I tell of the secrets of the book? Who would believe the tale of the Lazarus Gospel? All the vested interests would deny it, brand it a fraudulent heterodoxy, and stamp what had been done to me as heathen witchcraft. I would be a pariah, an outcast. They would stop at nothing to destroy me, the only living proof of a cataclysmic truth. Death at the executioner’s axe would be my fate.
These thoughts churned around in my head until I banished them with my picture of Blanche. Nothing else mattered, not power, nor wealth, nor knowledge. All I needed was Blanche and her love. Then fear turned my adoration to ice. What if I had been forgotten? One year and a half had passed. What if Mohammed had not delivered my message from Antioch? What if another had taken my place in her heart during my long absence? But then I remembered the passion of our love, the clear sincerity in her sad blue eyes, and I knew that I had nothing to fear, from her at least. I spurred on my horse, the optimism of love assuring me that I would find a way to deal with Hasan, that the Nizari could be made to honour his word, that when I saw Blanche again everything would be right.
Perhaps it was this state of lonely turmoil that drove me one cold night towards campfires in the distance instead of skirting safely around them. At least I had the sense to dismount and walk my horses quiet and unseen to the edge of the light cast by the fires. But then I was delighted to see that men of my own race were moving around in the warm welcoming glow. I remembered the pleasure I had taken even in the boorish company of Geldemer Carpenel, a familiar face when I arrived at Jaffa after long loneliness. Perhaps here were some old comrades from Antioch. Worn by solitude, and thinking with pleasure of some tasty rations and a draught of wine, I moved forward into the camp and made myself known to the sentries. They challenged me with suspicion, for they scarcely expected a lone Crusader knight travelling in the darkness, but they appeared impressed by my rapid improvisation of travelling north on a secret task for my master, Duke Godfrey of Bouillon.
“We’d better take you to our commander, then,” they said, and led me towards the lavish tent at the centre of the camp. I waited outside as one of the men entered with nervous respect, showing that its occupant was a man whose moods were to be feared, to ask what should be done with the new arrival. Then from inside I heard the sibilant voice that belonged to the last man on earth I wished to see. But it was too late, and instantly I found myself standing before the serpentine figure of Baldwin of Boulogne, who was comfortably coiled on a luxurious silk-covered divan. He could not conceal his astonishment when he saw me entering. Amazement quickly turned to cruel delight. An unaccustomed smile split his thin mouth and his black eyes sparkled with sadistic amusement.
“Well, well, if it isn’t brother Godfrey’s little monk. Here I am, travelling south to witness the unwelcome spectacle of his triumph as Advocatus Sancti Sepulchri, Defender of the Holy Sepulchre. And now you turn up. What false humility on your master’s part to turn down the title of King of Jerusalem! But I had no choice but to go. Even in Edessa they are beginning to mutter that I have failed to fulfil my Crusader vow to worship at the Holy Sepulchre. Are you bringing me a message from my beloved brother? No, I see that you are not. So you are deserting him. You are a renegade. What a shame friend Bagrat isn’t here. He would have so enjoyed seeing you.”
Baldwin’s glimmer of humour was replaced in his expression with his habitual cold malevolence. He read plainly my discomfiture on hearing Bagrat’s name.
“So you did have a hand in his death. I always suspected so. And do you have no greeting for me? You should pay the Count of Edessa due respect.”
The men around me could sense Baldwin’s antipathy. I felt their hostility building. Furtively I glanced sideways to see if any were also veterans of Tarsus and Mamistra. Then, at Baldwin’s gesture of command, they grabbed me on both sides and folded me down onto my knees, grating my head on the ground in obeisance to the Count.
Down in that position I did not see the first kick coming. I realised that Baldwin had given another sign to his henchmen, for a torrent of blows now began to pummel my ribs. They knocked the wind out of my lungs. I heard several bones crack. A brief respite came and I managed to suck in a breath of air, gasping at the stabbing pain in both my sides. Then I saw the finely stitched black leather of Baldwin’s boots just in front of me. The Count joined in the fun. His first kick smashed my nose, so that it bubbled blood over my face as I struggled to breathe. The kicks to my head continued, and Baldwin’s cruel laughter faded away into the distance. The others started again, moving lower down my body, kicking my genitals so that I doubled up in pain. From a long way off I heard Baldwin telling his men not to kill me, saying that he wanted to spare me for execution in the morning.
“I’ll enjoy seeing the blood spurt from his severed neck,” came the thick voice of one.
“No,” hissed his master, “that death would be too quick and easy for this murdering renegade. We’ll string him up and choke him slowly.”
Relief washed over me as I passed into unconsciousness. But then I was immediately awake again, soaked with ice cold water. I shook uncontrollably in a broken he
ap on the ground outside Baldwin’s tent. My left eye was closed and would not open; the right was swollen and felt crusted with blood, so that only a narrow slit showed me the dawn light. Rough hands pulled me up, and half dragged, half carried me toward a tree at the edge of the camp. A coarse rope was noosed around my neck. I sagged to my knees when my tormentors let me go. Only the cord stopped me from collapsing flat in the dirt again. My shaken wits told me that the other end of the rope must have been looped over a branch and held me up.
Through the slit that had once been my right eye, I made out Baldwin’s baleful presence. With the best show of defiance I could summon I raised my head to meet his gaze. Baldwin sneered.
“Now you see the fate of those who dare to defy the Count of Edessa. This is what happens to people who murder his men. Beg me for mercy. Go on, beg. Maybe I will be merciful, or at least make sure that your end on that rope is quick.”
I shook my head as firmly as I could, immediately regretting the movement as I retched and everything span round. Baldwin dealt me one last kick in the groin for good measure and barked the order to the men behind.
“Strangle him slowly.”
The rope jerked me to my feet, and then raised me up, so that I dangled there, choking as my windpipe closed. I tried to suck air into my lungs through my battered lips, but could not. Nor could I stop the involuntary jerking of my legs, as with a mixture of shame and amusement I felt my priapus stiffening and rising in a mixture of pleasure and pain, the pleasure winning over the pain, the amusement over the shame. Then, for the second time that I could remember, everything went black.
SAINT LAZARUS’ COLLEGE
“No punishment could be bad enough for him.”
“I never liked him.”
“I’d like to see him swing.”
The Fellows were all venting their spleen on their murderous ex-colleague.
“I have never believed in the death penalty,” said the Chaplain. “But he certainly deserves the most severe punishment permitted by the law.”
“His attack on the Master was effectively an admission of guilt.” The Oxford Detective looked very pleased that his case was solved. “And he has formally confessed to sabotaging the Maserati. My suspicions were aroused when my investigations showed that he had worked in a garage before coming here. He obviously knew what to do.”
The Classics Fellow rolled his eyes. “To think that we nearly admitted a mechanic to the Senior Common Room.”
“And I am sure that after a bit more interrogation he will own up to the attempted poisoning of the Master and to the murder of the Modern Languages Tutor. Of course, that is the big one we want to get him for. Attempted murder does not carry much of a sentence these days.”
“Well, he certainly demonstrated how mindlessly malevolent he is when he ran amok in the wine cellar,” said the Master. “He smashed pretty much every bottle in the place with that monkey wrench of his. In some ways though he has done us a favour. The insurance money will be welcome and we will be able to restock the cellar for the future. Quite a lot of what we had needed drinking or was past its best already.”
“Talking of malevolence, what really surprised me was that extraordinarily virulent letter he seemed to be working on,” mused the Classics Fellow. “It appeared to be a rant against everything – his old teacher, presumably meaning the Modern Languages Tutor, the Master, albeit he talked of you in rather strange terms! Perhaps by calling you ‘assassin’ he meant to refer to when you were chairing that secret service committee. He seemed to have a go at pretty much all of us, certainly you, Chaplain, and then God, and some ex-girlfriend. He was obviously still working on it, otherwise it would not have been on his desk. But to rewrite it so many times and craft it so carefully…it was done almost the way one would translate something.”
“Maybe he was translating something,” said the History Don with his usual interest in factual material. “Could he have dug another document out of the library somewhere? Was anything found in his rooms?”
The Chaplain shook his head. “Poor fellow, one does have to feel some compassion for someone who was so bitter and mixed up. He must have had a screw loose.”
“That’s not a bad way of describing a mad mechanic!” said the Best-Selling Author. “I must use that in my next book!”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
SOLITUDE IN THE MOUNTAINS
It is finished. Why did I forsake my God?
I awoke to feel Mohammed’s dagger at my throat a third time. This time though, the blade pointed away from my skin to slice through the tight knotted noose. I managed to crack open one eye and saw a face blurring above me. My body burned with bruises, battered and broken surely beyond repair. The fear and shock that I dimly made out on Mohammed’s indistinct face must have reflected my awful state. I groaned at the gentle efforts to wipe some of the grime and blood from my face, and moaned when my head was lifted so that my lips could be moistened with a little water.
“Allahu Akbar, so it is true,” Mohammed muttered.
I summoned enough strength to inch my untied hands towards the pouch inside my clothes where I had sewn my precious package. Finding it still there I relaxed back into unconsciousness. When I next awoke the sun was past its zenith. I lay in the shade of a makeshift shelter constructed from a cloak and a couple of lances. I now saw that Mohammed had two companions with him.
I croaked out a question. My voice was so hoarse and weak that Mohammed had to lean forward to catch my words.
“How long did I swing there?”
“We were close on your tail,” the Assassin replied. “I lost you in Jerusalem but we rode north and picked up your trail after Damascus. It must have been midnight when we reached the camp. We guessed that you had joined your compatriots. Then, when dawn broke, all we could do was watch helplessly from a distance as you were hung out. But we had to wait until the Franj packed up their camp and left. They were in no hurry and it must have been three hours before they were out of sight. Only then could we safely come out of hiding to cut you down. I had hoped to find you alive, but I scarcely believed that it was possible.”
I began to smile weakly but stopped as pain slashed across my face.
“So I hung there for hours. So it is true after all…”
Once more Mohammed moistened my lips with some water, and then lifted my head gently to pour something like porridge through my teeth. I tried to swallow, coughed, and felt a sharp stabbing pain in my side from my broken ribs. I leant back again and allowed my one half-open eye to close. I wondered again how much of my broken body would mend; what use would Blanche have for a cripple? These melancholy thoughts pushed me back into sleep.
When I woke again the sun told by its position that it was another morning. I looked up at its orb with both eyes open. Closing them in turn I found with relief that both worked. My ribs still hurt but the all-enveloping pain of the previous day had gone. I could distinguish separate aches. My overwhelming sensation now was itching; ants were crawling over my whole body – and it felt like they were not just over my skin but all about underneath, even inside my veins. I propped myself up on one elbow, cursing my companions for carelessly placing me on top of a termite heap, and ready to brush the tickling creatures away, but I saw nothing. Mohammed saw the movement and hurried over. I could now see his face clearly. Why was there a look of such astonishment written across it?
“It is extraordinary. Yesterday I thought your wounds would take days to heal but the marks on your face have almost gone already. Some bruises are left, yes, and some scabs, but the swelling has nearly subsided.”
Now I realised that I could smile without feeling that my skin was cracking.
“I itch all over, but I suppose that is better than the pain. I feel hungry – is there anything to eat?”
Mohammed gestured over to one of his comrades who answered this request by bringing a dish of porridge. This time I was able to spoon it out for myself.
“When do we le
ave?” I asked. “I want to reach Alamut as soon as possible.”
With a bit of help I was able to mount one of the pack animals. Mohammed’s two companions avoided my gaze. I saw one surreptitiously making the sign against the evil eye behind my back. I found myself enjoying the awe in which I seemed to be held. That afternoon we covered only a short distance before I had to beg Mohammed to call a halt, but the following day I was able to survive a full day’s ride at a gentle pace, and on the next I was back almost at full strength. Mohammed now also had wonder and respect in his eyes when he looked at me. My spirits rose as I began to imagine again all the great feats that I could achieve in my armour of invincibility. How proud I would make Blanche! And then my doubts returned about my reception by Mohammed’s cruel father. I longed to ask what lay in store for me, but I knew that my friend could not have been back at Alamut since our encounter at Jerusalem. Not wanting to show unnecessary weakness, I held my tongue.