‘No. All this suffering is born of fear and hate. It bothers you that they are different. Just as it bothers you that I am different.’
Altaïr’s gaze went to the archers in the galleries. Feeling a twinge of disquiet he moved to his side to inspect the galleries on the other side of the courtyard. There, too, the bowmen had lined up. He swung round. It was the same behind them. They were not drawing their bows. Not yet, anyway. But, if Altaïr was right, the moment wouldn’t be long in coming. And when it did they had the whole courtyard covered. He moved closer to one of the surrounding walls. Not far away, a man began spluttering and coughing, setting his companion off in more fits of laughter.
‘Compassion. Mercy. Tolerance,’ continued Nuqoud, from the balcony. ‘These words mean nothing to any of you. They mean nothing to those infidel invaders who ravage our land in search of gold and glory. And so I say enough. I’ve pledged myself to another cause. One that will bring about a New World – in which all people might live side by side in peace.’
He paused. Altaïr watched the archers tense. They were about to open fire. He pressed himself against the wall. The man was still coughing. He was bent double now, his face red. His companion went from looking concerned to coughing also.
‘A pity none of you will live to see it,’ finished Nuqoud.
More guests began to splutter. Some were holding their stomachs. Of course, thought Altair. Poison. Around him some guests had fallen to their knees. He saw a corpulent man in golden robes frothing, his eyes rolling up in their sockets as he lurched to the ground and lay dying. The archers had readied their bows now. At least half of the partygoers were in the death throes, but there were plenty who had not supped the wine and were scrambling for the exits.
‘Kill anyone who tries to escape,’ ordered the Merchant King, and his archers opened fire.
Leaving the carnage behind, Altaïr scaled the wall to the balcony and crept up behind Nuqoud. There was a guard at his side, and Altaïr dispatched him with a slash of his blade. The man fell, twisting, his throat opening, spraying blood across the tiles of the balcony. Nuqoud spun to see Altair and his expression changed. Watching the massacre in the party below, he had been smiling, enjoying the show. Now, Altaïr was gratified to see, he felt only fear.
Then pain, as Altaïr sank the blade into his neck above the clavicle.
‘Why have you done this?’ gasped the huge man, sinking to the smooth stone of his balcony.
‘You stole money from those you claim to lead,’ Altaïr told him. ‘Sent it away for some unknown purpose. I want to know where it’s gone and why.’
Nuqoud scoffed. ‘Look at me. My very nature is an affront to the people I ruled. And these noble robes did little more than muffle their shouts of hate.’
‘So this is about vengeance, then?’ asked Altaïr.
‘No. Not vengeance, but my conscience. How could I finance a war in service to the same God that calls me an abomination?’
‘If you do not serve Salah Al’din’s cause, then whose?’
Nuqoud smiled. ‘In time you’ll come to know them. I think, perhaps, you already do.’
Puzzled once again, Altaïr asked, ‘Then why hide? And why these dark deeds?’
‘Is it so different from your own work? You take the lives of men and women, strong in the conviction that their deaths will improve the lot of those left behind. A minor evil for a greater good? We are the same.’
‘No.’ Altaïr shook his head. ‘We are nothing alike.’
‘Ah … but I see it in your eyes. You doubt.’
The stink of death was on his breath as he pulled Altaïr closer to him. ‘You cannot stop us,’ he managed. ‘We will have our New World …’
He died, a thin trail of blood trickling from his mouth.
‘Enjoy the silence,’ said Altaïr, and dipped his feather into the Merchant King’s blood.
He needed to see Al Mualim, he decided. The time for uncertainty was over.
21
‘Come, Altaïr. I would have news of your progress,’ said Al Mualim.
‘I’ve done as you’ve asked,’ replied the Assassin.
‘Good. Good.’ Al Mualim looked hard him. ‘I sense your thoughts are elsewhere. Speak your mind.’
It was true. Altaïr had thought of little else on the return journey. Now he had the opportunity to get it off his mind. ‘Each man I’m sent to kill speaks cryptic words to me. Each time I come to you and ask for answers. Each time you give only riddles in exchange. But no more.’
Al Mualim’s eyebrows shot up in surprise – surprise that Altaïr should address him in such a way. ‘Who are you to say “no more”?’
Altaïr swallowed, then set his jaw. ‘I’m the one who does the killing. If you want it to continue, you’ll speak straight with me for once.’
‘Tread carefully, Altaïr. I do not like your tone.’
‘And I do not like your deception,’ replied Altaïr, more loudly than he had intended.
Al Mualim darkened. ‘I have offered you a chance to restore your lost honour.’
‘Not lost,’ countered Altaïr. ‘Taken. By you. And then you sent me to fetch it again, like some damned dog.’
Now the Master drew his sword, eyes flaring. ‘It seems I’ll need to find another. A shame. You showed great potential.’
‘I think if you had another, you’d have sent him long ago,’ said Altaïr, who wondered if he was pushing his mentor too far, but carried on anyway. ‘You said the answer to my question would arise when I no longer needed to ask it. So I will not ask. I demand you tell me what binds these men.’
He stood prepared to feel the point of Al Mualim’s sword, hoping only that the Master considered him too valuable. It was a gamble, he knew.
Al Mualim seemed to consider the options also, his sword wavering, light glancing off the blade. Then he sheathed it and seemed to relax a little.
‘What you say is true,’ he said at last. ‘These men are connected … by a blood oath not unlike our own.’
‘Who are they?’
‘Non nobis, Domine, non nobis,’ he said. Not unto us, O Lord.
‘Templars …’ said Altaïr. Of course.
‘Now you see the true reach of Robert de Sable.’
‘All of these men – leaders of cities – commanders of armies …’
‘All pledge allegiance to his cause.’
‘Their works are not meant to be viewed on their own, are they?’ said Altaïr, thinking. ‘But as a whole … What do they desire?’
‘Conquest,’ replied Al Mualim, simply. ‘They seek the Holy Land – not in the name of God but for themselves.’
‘What of Richard? Salah Al’din?’
‘Any who oppose the Templars will be destroyed. Be assured they have the means to accomplish it.’
‘Then they must be stopped,’ said Altaïr, with resolve. He felt as though a great weight had lifted from him.
‘That is why we do our work, Altaïr. To ensure a future free of such men.’
‘Why did you hide the truth from me?’ he asked the Master.
‘That you might pierce the veil yourself. Like any task, knowledge precedes action. Information learned is more valuable than information given. Besides … your behaviour had not inspired in me much confidence.’
‘I see.’ Altair lowered his head.
‘Altaïr, your mission has not changed, merely the context within which you perceive it.’
‘And armed with this knowledge, I might better understand those Templars who remain.’
Al Mualim nodded. ‘Is there anything else you want to know?’
Altaïr had solved the mystery of the Brotherhood to which his targets had referred. But there was something else … ‘What about the treasure Malik retrieved from Solomon’s Temple?’ he asked. ‘Robert seemed desperate to have it back.’
‘In time, Altaïr, all will become clear,’ said Al Mualim. ‘Just as the role of the Templars has revealed itself to you, so too will t
he nature of their treasure. For now, take comfort in the fact that it is not in their hands, but ours.’
For a moment Altaïr considered pressing him on the subject but decided against it. He had been lucky once. He doubted it would happen a second time. ‘If this is your desire …’ he said.
‘It is.’
The atmosphere in the room relaxed as Altaïr turned to go. His next destination was Jerusalem.
‘Altaïr – before you go?’
‘Yes?’
‘How did you know I wouldn’t kill you?’
‘Truth be told, Master, I didn’t.’
22
Stupid Altaïr. Arrogant Altaïr. He was in trouble. Majd Addin lay dead at his feet, the wood slowly staining with his blood. At his back were the accused, lashed to stakes and hanging from them, limp and bloody. The square was emptying of spectators, but not of Majd Addin’s guards, who were advancing on him. Approaching the platform. Beginning to climb the steps at either end while blocking him from jumping at the front. With fierce eyes they were slowly hemming him in, their swords raised, and if they felt fear it didn’t show. That their leader had been publicly cut down by an Assassin at Jerusalem’s Wailing Wall gallows had not thrown them into panic and disarray as Altaïr had hoped. It hadn’t instilled in them a mortal fear of the Assassin who now stood before them, his blade dripping with Addin’s blood. It had given them resolve and a need to exact revenge.
Which meant that things hadn’t gone according to plan.
Except … the first of the guards darted forward, snarling, his job to test Altaïr’s mettle. The Assassin retreated, parrying the strikes of the Saracen’s blade, steel ringing in the near-empty square. The guard pressed forward. Altaïr glanced behind to see others advancing and replied with an attack of his own, forcing the Saracen back. One, two, thrust. Forced hurriedly to defend, the guard tried to skip away, almost backing into one of the bodies hanging from the stakes. Altaïr glanced down and saw his chance, coming forward once again, launching a wild attack aimed at panicking his opponent. Blade met blade and, sure enough, the Saracen was forced messily backwards and into the pool of blood on the platform – just as Altaïr had intended. He slipped, his footing lost, and for a second his guard was down – enough time for Altaïr to dart inside his sword arm, impaling him in the chest. He gurgled. Died. His body slipped to the wood, and Altaïr straightened to face more attackers, seeing doubt and maybe a little fear in their eyes now. The Assassin’s mettle had been duly tested and he had not been found lacking.
Still, though, the guards had the advantage of numbers, and more, surely, would be on their way, alerted by the commotion. News of events at the square would have spread throughout Jerusalem: that the city regent had been slain on his own execution scaffold; that his guards had set upon the Assassin responsible. Altaïr thought of Malik’s glee at the news.
Yet Malik had appeared changed when Altaïr had last visited the Bureau. It wasn’t as though he’d welcomed Altaïr with open arms but, nevertheless, open hostility had been replaced by a certain weariness, and he had regarded Altaïr with a frown, not a glare.
‘Why do you trouble me today?’ He’d sighed.
Grateful not to have to spar, Altaïr had told him his target: Majd Addin.
Malik nodded. ‘Salah Al’din’s absence has left the city without a proper leader, and Majd Addin has appointed himself to play the part. Fear and intimidation get him what he wants. He has no true claim to the position.’
‘That ends today,’ Altaïr had said.
‘You speak too readily. This is not some slaver we’re discussing. He rules Jerusalem and is well protected because of it. I suggest you plan your attack carefully. Get to know your prey.’
‘That I already have,’ Altaïr had assured him. ‘Majd Addin is holding a public execution not far from here. It’s sure to be well guarded, but nothing I can’t handle. I know what to do.’
Malik sneered. ‘And that is why you remain a novice in my eyes. You cannot know anything. Only suspect. You must expect to be wrong. To have overlooked something. Anticipate, Altaïr. How many times must I remind you of this?’
‘As you wish. Are we done?’
‘Not quite. There is one more thing. One of the men to be executed is a brother. One of us. Al Mualim wishes him to be saved. Do not worry about the actual rescue – my men will take care of that. But you must ensure Majd Addin does not take his life.’
‘I won’t give him the chance.’
As he’d left, Malik had warned him, ‘Don’t foul this, Altaïr,’ and Altaïr had mentally scoffed at the thought as he began the walk to the Wailing Wall.
23
As he had approached the Wailing Wall, Altaïr had seen crowds beginning to gather: men, women, children, dogs, even livestock. All were making their way through the surrounding streets of the square towards the execution plaza.
Altaïr joined them, and as he passed along a street that was filling with more and more eager spectators heading in the same direction, he had listened to a town crier whipping up enthusiasm for the coming attraction – though it hardly seemed necessary.
‘Take notice,’ called the crier. ‘Majd Addin, most beloved regent of Jerusalem, will attend a public execution at the western edge of Solomon’s Temple. All able citizens are requested to be there. Hurry! Come and witness what becomes of our enemies.’
Altaïr had had an idea of what that might be. He hoped he would be able to change the outcome.
Guards at the entrance to the square were trying to control the flow of the crowd inside, turning some back, allowing others in. Altaïr hung back, watching the masses eddy about the entrance, bodies pressing against him in the street. Children darted through the legs of the spectators, sneaking their way into the plaza. Next he saw a knot of scholars, the crowd parting to make way for them, even dogs seeming to sense the reverence reserved for the holy men. Altaïr rearranged his robes, adjusted his cowl, waited until the scholars were passing and slipped in among them. As he did so, he felt a hand tugging at his sleeve and looked down to see a grubby child staring at him with quizzical eyes. He snarled and, terrified, the boy darted away.
Just in time: they had reached the gates, where the guards parted to allow the scholars through, and Altaïr came upon the square.
There were rough stone walls on all sides. Along the far end was a raised platform and on it a series of stakes. Empty, for now, but not for much longer. Jerusalem’s regent, Majd Addin was walking out on to the stage. At his appearance there was a surge, and a shout went up from the entrance as the guards lost control and citizens came pouring in. Altaïr was carried forward on the wave, now much closer to the rostrum and to the feared Majd Addin, who was already stalking the stage, waiting for the square to fill. He wore a white turban and a long, ornately embroidered gown. He moved as though he was angry. As though his temper was just moments from escaping his body.
It was.
‘Silence! I demand silence,’ he roared.
With the show about to start, there was a final surge and Altair was carried forward once more. He saw guards stationed by the steps on either side of the platform, two at each end. In front of the platform he saw more, to prevent the crowd scrambling on to the scaffold. Craning his neck, he spotted others around the periphery of the square. At least the latter would find it difficult to move through the crowd, but that still gave just seconds for the kill and to fend off the nearest guards – the four at either end of the platform at the very least. Maybe those standing guard on the ground as well.
Could he better them all in that time? Ten or so loyal Saracens? The Altaïr who had attacked Robert de Sable on the Temple Mount would have had no doubts at all. Now, though, he was more wary. And he knew that to attempt the killing immediately was madness. A plan doomed to failure.
Just as he’d made up his mind to wait, the four prisoners were led on to the scaffold and to the stakes where the guards began binding them in place. At one end there was a woma
n, dirty-faced and weeping. Beside her stood two men, dressed in rags. And finally the Assassin, his head lolling, beaten, obviously. The crowd hissed its displeasure
‘People of Jerusalem, hear me well,’ shouted Majd Addin, his voice silencing the crowd, which had become excited at the arrival of the prisoners. ‘I stand here today to deliver a warning.’ He paused. ‘There are malcontents among you. They sow the seeds of discontent, hoping to lead you astray.’
The crowd murmured, seething around Altaïr.
Addin continued: ‘Tell me, is this what you desire? To be mired in deceit and sin? To live your lives in fear?’
‘We do not,’ screamed a spectator from behind Altaïr. But Altaïr’s attention was fixed on the Assassin, a fellow member of the Order. As he watched, a bloody string of saliva dripped from the man’s mouth to the wood. He tried to raise his head and Altaïr caught a glimpse of his face. Ripe purple bruises. Then his head lolled once more.
Majd Addin grinned a crooked grin. His was a face not used to smiling. ‘So you wish to take action?’ he asked agreeably.
The crowd roared its approval. They were here to see blood; they knew the regent would not leave their thirst unquenched.
‘Guide us,’ called a voice, as the roar died down.
‘Your devotion pleases me,’ said Addin, and he turned to the prisoners, indicating them with a sweep of his arm. ‘This evil must be purged. Only then can we hope to be redeemed.’
Suddenly there was a disturbance in front of the platform, a voice crying, ‘This is not justice.’
Altaïr saw a man in rags. He was shouting at Majd Addin: ‘You twist the words of the Prophet, peace be upon him.’
He had a companion, also clothed in tatters, who was similarly upbraiding the crowd. ‘And all of you stand idle, complicit in this crime.’
Altaïr used the disturbance to edge closer. He needed to climb to the platform at the end where the Assassin stood bound to the stake. Couldn’t risk having him used as a barrier or hostage.
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