by Paul Doherty
‘And now our Grand Master wishes us to do business with them?’ de Payens asked.
‘Why not?’ Parmenio’s tone became taunting. ‘They say the Templars and the Assassins have much in common.’
‘Never!’
‘Edmund, they do indeed have much in common: their own rule, obedience to their master, a kingdom within a kingdom, dedication to war, their own vision. Ah well.’ Parmenio sighed as he got to his feet. ‘Tomorrow, I am sure we will meet them.’
The next morning, they left the cave and began their ascent to Hedad. They had to dismount and lead their horses and pack ponies. At first the air was so bitterly cold, de Payens thought it would crack the rocks. A mist closed in like an army of wraiths, deadening all sounds and muffling their hearing. Occasionally a bird would shriek, a piercing, harsh call. One of the Provençals thought it was not a bird but the warning call of a sentry. Another maintained it could be a lost soul. Then the sun rose fast and strong and the mist disappeared to reveal a landscape of ragged cliffs, stunted trees and wiry gorse. They rounded a bend and stopped. Over a huge boulder near the trackway were blood-stained clothes, neatly laid out as if to dry in the sun. Further along hung a naked corpse, fastened securely to the rock face. The man, a Turk, had been shot by arrows. The cadaver was ripe, and already the carrion-eaters had been busy. Even as the Templars passed, kites and buzzards floated down to the rock, flashing their blood-tinged feathers, impatient to continue the feast.
‘A warning,’ Parmenio whispered.
They passed other grisly sights: skins and skulls pushed into crevices, now nesting places for birds and lizards; more bloodstained garments and gibbeted corpses. They reached a narrow pass through a needle-thin culvert, the rocks on either side rising sheer above them, and went through on to a plateau, green and gorse-covered, which stretched away to the craggy summit of Hedad and the castle of the Assassins. The Old Man’s masons had been most cunning. They had used a broad, jutting ridge just beneath the summit to build their fortress, a long line of crenellated walls, soaring donjons and towers. Any besieging army would find it impossible to take. The bare, windswept countryside would provide little food or fodder, whilst the rock face of the castle rose sheer on all sides. The main fortified gateway was separated from the plateau by a deep gorge, a long gash through the earth that could only be crossed by a swaying rope bridge, which could be easily cut or rolled back in any attack. Even if a hostile force managed to cross that, the fortifications beyond were impressive. The gateway was flanked by towers of polished square stone blocks; each tower was at least a hundred feet high and ten feet wide. On either side of these stretched a vaulting curtain wall, crenellated and fortified, interspersed with narrower towers. De Payens and his companions stared in astonishment at this fearsome house of war, black and threatening against the lightening blue sky, a mass of hard stone, an eagle’s eyrie to protect those within from attack. De Payens studied the fortifications. Impossible to take, he concluded: Hedad could be held by a hundred men. In many ways the fortress reminded him of Templar castles built in similar desolate places.
‘Empty,’ Mayele observed. ‘It’s like a castle of the dead!’
De Payens studied the fortifications. Mayele was right. Hedad looked deserted, forsaken. No fires flared along the ramparts. No lantern glow, no fluttering banners or pennants. No glint of armour or movement of watchmen. They mounted their horses and moved slowly towards the bridge. The ominous silence was abruptly riven by the clatter of chains as the drawbridge fell. They reined in. A horseman thundered out through the gateway. He was dressed in a flowing white robe with a broad red sash around his waist, and his long black hair streamed in the breeze as, without any hesitation, he galloped across the rope bridge and headed directly towards them. The small but agile Arab courser’s galloping hooves pounded the earth like the threatening roll of kettle drums. De Payens turned his own horse, hand going to the hilt of his sword, but the rider reined in close before them, his dark, bearded face breaking into a grin. As he bowed, he gave a brilliant display of horsemanship, his mount rearing and turning until at a quiet word it stopped still. The rider gently stroked its grey, sweat-soaked neck, then pointed to de Payens and his companions, speaking quickly in the lingua franca of Outremer.
‘Templars, Genoese, sirs, whatever you call yourselves. You are most welcome. I am Uthama, captain of the guard. On behalf of my father, I welcome you to Hedad.’
‘A captain without a guard?’ said Mayele. ‘Without a sword or shield?’
‘Magister Mayele, my sword, my shield, my buckler and my defence stand right behind you.’
De Payens turned abruptly. A line of horsemen clad in blue cloaks, their heads and faces masked by chain-mail hoods, had come silently up behind them. A long, threatening line of men, their horn bows notched, the arrows pointed directly at the Templars. De Payens turned, pulled back his own hood and rode towards Uthama, hand extended.
‘Friend,’ he smiled, ‘I thank you for your warm reception.’
‘And friend you are.’ Uthama clasped the Templar’s hand firmly. ‘Here in the mountains, as in the desert, there are no strangers, only friend or foe. But come, my father waits.’
They followed Uthama back across the rope bridge over the narrow but sheer-falling gorge. They were grateful to reach the rocky shale path leading up under the arched gateway into the central bailey, dominated by a lofty four-square keep. De Payens hid his surprise; it was not the dusty yard he had expected, but a sea of lush green grass that stretched either side to outer courts. Uthama led them through to the bailey on the left. It reminded de Payens of a prosperous village, with its thatched houses, stables, granaries and smithies. Again a rich stretch of lush grass, wells and fountains, a small waterwheel, gardens and herb plots, a busy, harmonious place. Now that they had arrived, fires that had been banked and doused were rekindled, their smoke billowing up against the sky. The Templars dismounted, their horses taken away by servants, who bowed and grinned in a display of white teeth. The Provençals were led to their lodgings at the far side of the enclosure, where, Uthama assured them, they would have soft beds and good food. He then snapped his fingers at his escort and whispered to one of them. The man hurried off. Uthama turned back to his guests, openly amused at their surprise.
‘What did you expect, Magister Edmund? A band of cut-throats, of vagabond robbers from the slums?’
‘We passed corpses.’
‘Not as many as I see when I enter Jerusalem or Tripoli,’ Uthama retorted. ‘Come, my father waits.’
‘Your father is Shaikh Al-Jebal?’
‘Yes and no,’ Uthama laughed. ‘Our Grand Master shelters in Alamut; my father, Nisam, is his caliph in these mountains, though he can, if he wishes, use his lord’s titles.’
He led them back into the central bailey and across into the great keep. De Payens was surprised. Frankish donjons were cold and bleak, squalid places of war. This was different. The windows were broad and cunningly placed to catch the sunlight at every hour of the day. The floor was a mosaic of hard tiles laid closely together, each displaying intricate geometrical patterns in a variety of colours. Brilliant cloths softened the walls. Baskets of crushed flowers and strewn grains of delicate spices perfumed air already cleansed and sweetened by myrrh sprinkled over caskets of burning charcoal.
In a large antechamber, supervised by Uthama and his escort, they took off their outer clothes, leather boots and gauntlets. Mayele wanted to keep his sword, but de Payens shook his head, whilst Uthama murmured that such weapons would not be necessary. Platters of unleavened bread and goblets of wine were brought. All three Templars ate and drank, knowing that once they had done so, their safety was assured. Afterwards they washed their hands and faces in rosewater, drying themselves on soft woollen napkins. Robes and slippers were offered. Uthama, his face all serene, quietly whispered a prayer in Arabic and anointed each of their foreheads with a sweet-smelling chrism. He then stood back and bowed without any trace of sarca
sm.
‘Come.’ He led them up some stairs, their stone flags covered with soft material, a polished wooden rail driven into the wall serving as an aid. They passed enclaves, stairwells, and narrow apertures, in each of which stood a blue-garbed guard, his face hidden by a chain-mail mask; all were armed with a silver shield boasting a crimson boss and a curved sabre in a scarlet scabbard.
The audience chamber Uthama led them into was truly remarkable. It glistened like a treasure house; the carved wooden beams of the ceiling were inlaid with gold, silver, malachite and precious jewels. Great windows, open to the sun, were covered by pure white gauze veils, which allowed in air and light but not the flies, insects or dirt. The walls were covered in carvings of exotic birds with silver enamel feathers, large rubies serving as their eyes. The floor was of the finest cedar of Lebanon, polished and ingrained with scent, covered here and there with the most luxuriant turkey rugs. The furniture was of delicate gleaming acacia; around the walls were ranged deep divans stacked with plump, gold-fringed cushions.
The main seating area was cordoned off by a double curtain of gold-edged cordovan leather intricately studded with silver twine. This was pulled back, and the three Templars were ushered to cushions placed before small square tables. Heaped bowls of fruit, platters of sweet bread and filigreed goblets brimming with wine stood next to exquisite chalices of Venetian glass crammed with slowly melting sherbet. On the other side sat Nisam, flanked by his Fedawis, dressed in sheer white gowns, red cords around their waists. Dark-faced, long-haired warriors, they stared unblinkingly as their guests bowed and squatted down.
‘In the name of the Compassionate,’ Nisam’s lips hardly moved, but his voice was strong and carrying, ‘I greet you, travellers, friends, honoured guests.’ He was white-haired, his beard and moustache neatly clipped; he had a round, genial face with smiling eyes and full red lips. He was dressed in a silver gown with a gold-brocaded blood-red cape over his shoulders. He smiled at de Payens and suggested that they should all eat and drink. Uthama placed the leather panniers containing the chancery pouches beside de Payens.
‘Eat and drink,’ Uthama whispered. ‘My father will say when you should hand your letters over.’
De Payens obeyed. The Fedawis grew more relaxed, chattering amongst themselves. Nisam ate slowly. Now and again he smiled at Uthama, then at de Payens. The Templar tasted the wine. It was delicious, undoubtedly the best grape of Gascony or Burgundy. Eventually Nisam leaned over and asked about their journey and the news from Jerusalem. He was courteous, and in the flow of gossip that followed, he showed himself well apprised of what was happening elsewhere. At last he gestured that the chancery pouches be handed to him. De Payens did so slightly uneasily. Nisam’s stare was now cold and calculating, as if he recalled some grievance or grudge. Uthama whispered that they should withdraw. Once out of the antechamber, Mayele demanded to know when a reply would be made. De Payens just stared out of the window, still concerned at that hostile glance from Nisam. Beneath the courtesies and the lavish hospitality, this was a place of intrigue, a house of blood. Uthama was busy talking to the other two Templars, though when de Payens joined them, the young Assassin gave him that gracious smile.
‘All will be well,’ he declared, then insisted on showing them personally to their chambers on the floor above.
Mayele and Parmenio were given one to share. De Payens had his own, small, comfortable and well furnished. They ensured their baggage was brought up, then visited the Provençals, who, like any soldiers, had quickly made themselves at home, sitting outside, boots off, backs against the wall, enjoying the sun and fresh air whilst sharing a jug of wine. At Mayele’s question, Uthama replied that in his view, the drinking of wine was not an infringement of the Prophet’s teaching. He then asked his guests to forget their mission and join him on a tour of the castle. De Payens suspected this was to be a show of strength. In the end, both he and his companions were deeply impressed. Hedad was a fortress built on a sheer ridge, its formidable walls and towers dominating every approach. Fresh water was brought in from underground streams and springs, enough to soak the spacious gardens as well as the private paradise that lay behind the wall of one of the outer baileys. The fortress was well stocked with arms, mangonels, catapults and all the other impedimenta needed to counter a siege. Smithies, forges and the infirmary as well as stables and storehouses were in good order. Parmenio questioned Uthama about Nisam’s deep knowledge of affairs beyond his castle walls. The Assassin clapped his hands in glee and took them to the pigeon cotes, where he explained how these ‘horses of the air’ carried messages in small cylinders attached to their legs. Both de Payens and his companions knew about this device for collecting information and were full of questions. Uthama simply shrugged and explained that the homing instincts of the birds would carry them to their destination.
‘Of course,’ he tapped the side of his nose, ‘that means that we must own places in the plains that they know, secret places, but,’ he lifted his hands, ‘apart from that, and the danger of marauding hawks, the birds fly true and straight. Let me inform you,’ he stood, hands on hip, face all rueful, ‘King Baldwin III has unfurled his standards and proclaimed war. He has summoned all Franks to the siege of Ascalon. Oh yes,’ he continued, enjoying their surprise, ‘Ascalon, the Bride of Syria, the southern key to Jerusalem, the port for Egypt, is under siege.’
‘You seem pleased,’ de Payens said.
‘Of course. If Ascalon falls, the mulahid,’ Uthama used the Islamic term of abuse for heretics, ‘the mulahid of Egypt will be weakened.’
‘Your father …’ De Payens steered Uthama away from Mayele and Parmenio’s heated discussion of what they’d learned.
‘What about my father, Templar?’
‘He looks at me as if he knows me. Not as a friend.’
‘As an enemy?’ Uthama breathed. ‘And so you should be. As you Franks say, usque ad mortem – to the death.’ He drew his dagger, swift and menacing.
The rasp alerted Mayele and Parmenio, who hurried over. De Payens stepped back, but Uthama handed the dagger to him.
‘Look, Templar, stare into the blade, see your face!’
De Payens did so: the polished steel served as a mirror, slightly twisting his features.
‘The eyes,’ Uthama turned to acknowledge Mayele and Parmenio, ‘deep set, light green. The black hair, streaked with grey. The face dark, harsh and bearded, the furrows in the cheeks. A warrior, perhaps an ascetic, a man not sure of himself. My father may see all that, but most of all he sees the face of de Payens, his mortal enemy.’
The Templar lowered the dagger, then swiftly turned it so the Assassin could grasp the hilt. Uthama resheathed the blade and stepped forward.
‘Didn’t you know, Templar? Your great-uncle, Hugh de Payens, your grandfather, Theodore the Greek? They once hunted my father through these mountains. They failed, but they killed his two brothers. A blood feud exists between us. Didn’t your Grand Master, Bertrand Tremelai, warn you?’ Uthama’s face was now unsmiling. ‘Apparently not, since you do not even know the story!’
Chapter 4
The brethren of the Temple held certain fortresses adjacent to the lands of the Assassins.
‘So will I, despite your safe conduct,’ de Payens retorted fiercely, trying to hide the fear curdling within him, ‘now be murdered, my naked corpse fastened to a rock?’
Uthama stared at him solemnly, then burst out laughing, head going down, slapping his thighs.
‘You think that?’ he gasped, his face turning abruptly solemn.
De Payens wondered if this man’s wits were wandering.
‘You think that?’ Uthama shouted, grasping de Payens’ arm. ‘You are safe here. I shall show you who is fastened to rocks.’ He yelled orders at his guards, and one of them hastened away as Uthama almost dragged de Payens out on to the steps of the keep. The day was drawing on, the sky dulling. The garrison was now busy, as the first evening coolness made itself felt. All paused
at the appearance of Uthama and the Templars. Retainers scurried about. One brought Uthama a powerful horn bow and a quiver of arrows. The Assassin issued a stream of orders as he slung the quiver over his shoulder. Notching an arrow, he stood on the edge of the top step. From behind the keep his retainers pushed a man, his wrist and ankles chained. Plucked from the dungeons, he was covered in dirt and wet straw, but he still yelled a tirade of abuse at Uthama. The Assassin retorted in kind and pointed to the gateway. The prisoner laughed and did a mocking little jig. The chains were loosened. De Payens sensed what was about to happen. The prisoner was being given a chance. The manacles were released, and the prisoner broke into a run, deliberately swerving from side to side. Uthama brought up the curved bow, pulling back the twine cord. The barbed arrow, with its eagle-feathered flight, was loosed. De Payens thought he’d missed, but Uthama’s accuracy was chilling. The arrow struck the fleeing man just beneath the neck, flinging him forward. He crashed to the ground, rose, then staggered a few paces before the second arrow drove deep into his back. He lifted his hands as if in prayer and collapsed once again. The rest of the garrison went back to their business as Uthama loped down the steps. He raced across, dagger drawn, pulled the man’s head back by the hair and sliced his throat. The blood splashed out, a deepening red pool darkening the earth. Uthama wiped his knife clean on the man’s corpse and strode back. He smiled up at de Payens.
‘Templar, he’ll be exposed on the rock! A murderer sent here by the Princes of the Plain to kill my father. You’ve not come to do that, have you?’
De Payens simply stared back. He recognised Uthama’s soul, no different from Mayele’s or his own, a killer here in this house of blood.
Over the next few days, de Payens and his companions discussed what they’d learned: the attack on Ascalon; the blood feud between Nisam and his own family; the failure of the Grand Master to inform them of this.