by Paul Doherty
‘No accident,’ he murmured.
‘What was that?’
De Payens glanced to his right. Mayele, grasping the bar of the pavise, was staring quizzically at him. There was no sign of Parmenio. De Payens shook his head. ‘The snares of the tomb surround me,’ he whispered, ‘the deep pit of death yawns.’ This was not the life he’d yearned for. Nisam was right. Everything was an illusion, a phantasm: no white-robed paladins on swift destriers, no chanting of the psalms during the cool grey light of dawn, no true friendship or camaraderie. This was more a valley of death, a glade of pits and traps he had to pass through. De Payens was determined he would.
They reached the bottom of the ramp leading to the camp. A hot breeze licked up the dust. Cries of help for the wounded rang out; stretcher-bearers ran forward gathering these up, dragging them back like battered sacks. Three serjeants brought wicker baskets containing the severed heads of the enemy; these were thrust on the tips of the forest of stakes to the wailing of bagpipes and yells of defiance towards the walls of Ascalon. Men lowered their breeches and performed obscene dances, taunting the city defenders. The enemy gave their bleak response. A mighty roll of kettle drums echoed across the gory remains of battle. A black banner was hoisted. Figures moved along the parapet and a cluster of naked bodies were flung over to jerk and dance as the nooses tightened around their necks. The Franks replied. Prisoners were hustled forward, struggling, and stripped and impaled alive on stakes. Blood spurted amidst soul-raging screams. Buzzards and vultures swooped low, only to drift away to wait for the carrion.
De Payens scrambled to his feet and staggered back into the stinking camp. When he reached his tent, he pulled back the flap and collapsed on the pile of sacks and blankets that served as a bed. Images, memories and thoughts swept his soul like a blizzard of sand: turning to meet those assassins back in Tripoli; Nisam’s cynical gaze; the secrecy of Tremelai, the Grand Master’s sly, watchful smirks. He felt the small pouch around his neck containing the cipher Nisam had given him. He found it impossible to translate the Arabic numbers, but he suspected their secret. Had Tremelai, knowing of the blood feud between the Assassins and the de Payens family, deliberately sent him to Hedad to be killed? Had he also been marked down for slaughter in Tripoli? But why?
He was awakened from his sweat-soaked sleep by an anxious Parmenio. De Payens peered at the tent flap: the light was dying; the evening breeze provided a welcoming coolness. Outside echoed the creak of ropes, the rumble of wheels, the screech of axles, shouts and cries, the harsh crack of a whip.
‘What is the matter?’
‘The siege tower is ready.’ Parmenio paused at the blare of trumpets. ‘Edmund, the Grand Master has summoned us. An all-out assault on the Jerusalem Gate is imminent. Everyone is summoned to the standards.’
Cursing and muttering, de Payens pulled himself up. Still dressed in his mail, he was sore, sweat-drenched, parched with thirst, his lips sticky, his tongue slightly swollen. He grabbed a waterskin, splashed his face and drenched his mouth. Mayele came in. Both knights fumbled around for sword, helmet, shield and dagger, then followed Parmenio out, the Genoese looking slightly ridiculous in the pot helmet squeezed on to his head. They gathered before the armour stand and altar outside the Grand Master’s gold-fringed tent. Tremelai stood in a cart from which fluttered the order’s sacred standards. He bellowed for silence. Serjeants imposed order. The great six-storey siege tower, open at the back, its other three sides draped with vinegar-drenched ox-hides, lumbered to a halt. Looking around, de Payens also noticed the siege sheds, trebuchets and catapults; behind these stood the carts of war, crammed with pots of tar, bundles of hay, wool, rope and wood-shavings ready to be fired. The smell of oil and pitch thickened the air. Parmenio was right: this was going to be a great assault during the cool of the evening. Tremelai confirmed this, explaining how all the Franks’ great siege engines, monsters dubbed with names such as ‘Bad Neighbour’, ‘God’s Vengeance’ and ‘The Fires of Hell’, had been entrusted to the Templars. They would force a breach in or around the Jerusalem Gate, and establish a holding line whilst the rest of the Frankish army poured in. A weakness in the fortifications had been observed; they would concentrate on that.
Tremelai’s speech was greeted with a roar of approval, followed by the blare of trumpets. The order’s black and white banners and pennants were solemnly unfurled and blessed, the incense smoke rising in thick grey clouds. A hymn was sung, ending with the order’s great battle paean to God: ‘Non nobis, Domine, non nobis.’ War horns brayed. The Templar host formed a broad, deep phalanx with archers out on the flanks. They began their march, trudging across what de Payens privately called ‘The Land of Deep Shadow’. He still felt weak after that first attack, his body aching, his belly frothing like a cauldron. On either side, Mayele and Parmenio were lost in their own thoughts. They paused for a moment to drink water and loosen weapons in scabbards. Then they were ready. The great engines of war breasted the rise in a fearful clatter and rolled towards the walls of Ascalon.
De Payens glimpsed the shimmering glare of the enemy awaiting them. Smoke poured up from the fires boiling the tar, oil and other incendiary materials. The tops of catapults and mangonels could also be seen, black against the sky. The coolness of the evening breeze was now offset by the swirling sand stirred up as the Templar host made its way towards the Jerusalem Gate. They were protected by the great siege tower trundling ahead. Orders were shouted. The keen-eyed reported how the defenders had thrown thick rolls of cordage and rope over the walls as protection against the tower. De Payens gripped his sword and shield as the final orders were issued. The attack would be a feint. Tremelai had chosen the narrow postern door in the tower flanking the Jerusalem Gate as his real target. The attack earlier in the day had provided information that the door was weakened and could be forced. De Payens tried to distract himself with more peaceful memories: of walking with Theodore through the woods of Lebanon, his grandfather describing the various trees and shrubs, marvelling at the majesty of the myrtle or the strength of the oak.
A scream shook him from his reverie. The siege tower and other engines of war were now close to the walls. The evening sky was seared by flashes of flames, trails of smoke and an ominous orange glow as the defenders launched a fire storm at the approaching enemy. There was the screech of cord, the whoosh of projectiles, and boulders, hay, tar and linen bundles smashed around them, as if the fires of hell had broken through the crust of the earth. Men died in a myriad of grisly ways, scalded, burned or struck by arrows, boulders or flying metal. The screams, shouts and battle cries conjured up the burning landscape of hell. In de Payens’ eyes, they were no longer men but creatures of the dark massing in their mailed might, ready to force, plunder and kill.
The Frankish engines of war crept closer, and they loosed volley after volley to sweep the parapets above them. At last the siege tower reached the gate, crashing against the thick curtain of protective cordage. Templars climbed the ladders within the tower, ready to reinforce those fighting on the two top platforms. De Payens and his companions, however, stayed outside; protected by the tower, they could only witness the horrors of the attack. Men reeled away, drenched in oil, engulfed by fire, which melted their bodies so that mail and flesh became one. Soldiers, blinded by bags of lime, staggered back to be struck by arrows or stones. Bodies fell as if from the heavens to bounce on the ground. Ladders were tipped or ravaged by bursts of crackling Greek fire. A stifling blackness descended. Smoke curled about. Mayele was cursing Tremelai’s stupidity even as engineers brought up a battering ram alongside the siege tower to hammer the wall to the right of the postern gate. The gate had been blocked from the inside, but a weakness had been found in the masonry alongside, some flaw in its construction. Tremelai, helmet off, bellowed that those on the third storey pound the postern gate, whilst the battering ram under its shield-shaped roof thundered against the wall. The attack was now spreading to both sides of the Jerusalem Gate. The distrac
ted defenders did not know which way to turn, and still Tremelai shouted his orders. De Payens, sheltering in the shadows, could only watch, tense and fearful at the death and destruction swirling about him.
‘Deus Vult! Deus Vult!’ The war cry greeted a thunderous rumble of stone and masonry. The wall next to the postern gate had been holed and breached, and there was a great fall of masonry, followed by a gust of thick dust, which thinned to reveal a gap about three yards high and the same across. Tremelai came running back, helmet now on, his sword scything the air, and pointed at the waiting Templars, screaming at them to follow. De Payens was pushed and shoved around the tower as he and the rest, their shields raised against the missiles raining from the walls, rushed towards the waiting ladders and clambered up into the gaping black hole, where dust and smoke billowed like a fog, flinging themselves in, gasping and panting. Waterskins were produced and quickly emptied, then they were up, shields to the front, swords out, a mailed mass of about forty men edging along a paved passageway, its murky darkness lit only by flickering lamps and cresset torches.
‘We came through a chamber!’ Parmenio gasped. ‘We must be in a passageway leading out of the tower. We …’
The rest of his words were drowned, as a host of men appeared as if out of nowhere to block their way. The Templars, giving vent to their fury and fear, burst forward in a savage melee of stabbing and clubbing. Men clutching wounds fell screaming to their knees. The ground grew slippery with blood. Then they were through, out of the tower, gasping the cool night air. They hastened down steps, spreading across the cobbled area stretching down to the alleyways leading into the city. An ominous rumble echoed behind them. Parmenio clutched de Payens’ arm. The Templar tried to shake him off. He was still blood-crazed from that ferocious clash in the passageway, where his sword had hacked flesh, the hot blood of his enemies spurting against his skin; haunted by fierce dark faces, whirling steel, the stench of gore and sweat, the pervasive odour of burning.
‘Edmund, Edmund, here!’
They had now reached the bottom of the steps. The Templars were forming an arc, ready to advance. De Payens heard his name being shouted, but Parmenio was pulling at him, pushing him across the cobbles. De Payens stumbled away. He did not know why, but he had caught Parmenio’s sense of dread. They reached the mouth of an alleyway. A cool breeze swept along it, chilling his sweat. Parmenio was tugging at his shield.
‘Edmund, Edmund, for the love of God, take it off.’
De Payens let his shield fall; his sword slipped from his hand. He took off his helmet and, like a sleepwalker, stripped off his hauberk even as Parmenio’s hissed warnings alerted him to danger. He stared across the cobbled expanse. The other Templars, about thirty in number, had drawn together, shields locked, no longer an arc but a circle. Parmenio’s whispers calmed his battle-crazed mind. They were alone, cut off. De Payens recalled that second rumble of masonry. The walls had collapsed further, sealing off the breach; the Templars outside could no longer help. The distant sounds of battle carried. The attack would be beaten off, and then the Turks would deal with the enemy within.
De Payens watched in horror. The Grand Master and his lieutenants who had led the foray realised they were trapped: they could not go back, whilst further advance was futile. The small phalanx tightened even further, a ring of steel, shields locked. There were shouts and cries. De Payens made to go forward.
‘Foolish!’ Parmenio whispered. ‘Foolish,’ he repeated, ‘another death for nothing!’ He grasped de Payens, pulling him back, and the two men stood watching. Ominous speckles of light appeared. Torches were thrown, shadows shifted. The city garrison, surprised by the savage turn of events, could not believe what had happened. The breeze carried the fading sounds of the grand assault. The Franks outside the walls were retreating. More torches were lit and hurled at the waiting Templars. De Payens leaned against the filth-strewn wall as a powerful Frankish voice intoned the De Profundis – ‘Out of the depths, O Lord, I have cried to thee. O Lord, hear my voice.’
More torches were flung. The singing became intense, the sheer power of men hurling their defiance back in the face of certain death. Templars would never surrender. They would ask for no quarter and be offered none. Arrows whipped through the air as the shadows moved. The shafts clattered against shields, the war cry ‘Deus Vult!’ rang out and the phalanx retreated, shields still locked, up the steps, back towards the tower. Now a river of men poured out of the darkness, racing up the steps, hurling themselves against the phalanx in a whirl of steel and strident war cries. The shield hedge remained unbroken; the Turks in their spiked helmets and heavy cloaks were beaten off. More torches were hurled, followed by a fresh assault. In the light of the darting flames de Payens, cold-eyed and tense, glimpsed blood dripping down the steps. A gap was made in the shield wall, but again the attackers withdrew. Templar corpses littered the top steps. No more cries or psalms; just a watchful silence. The attackers swept in afresh. A great war cry echoed as the shield hedge was finally broken. The Templars were dispersed, one man against many in solitary fights to the death. The attack faltered; the enemy retreated. Archers sped forward, horn bows strung; one volley after another was loosed, whilst the master archers chose individual targets. Templars fell, weapons slipping from their hands. Another horde of men rushed up the steps with axe and club, sword and dagger, then at last it was over.
The Turks searched amongst the corpses. The occasional glint of steel flashed, followed by a coughing sound as they finished off the wounded. Tremelai’s lifeless body was hauled up, stripped and hung from an iron bracket fixed on to a wall. The exultant Turks danced in glee as they realised that they had trapped and killed the Grand Master of the Temple. Trumpets sounded. City dignitaries in red and white robes hurried across the bailey to inspect the dead. Orders were given. Torches were placed beneath Tremelai’s hanging corpse. De Payens glimpsed the straggling red hair of his once proud lord, his dirty-white cadaver streaked with blood from the gaping wounds in his head, neck and stomach. The rest of the corpses were now stripped and gibbeted, the Templars’ clothes and armour piled together in a basket.
‘They’ll hang those from the battlements.’ Parmenio’s breath was hot against de Payens’ face. ‘And they’ll do the same to the corpses.’
De Payens flinched as the point of the Genoese’s dagger dug into the soft part of his throat.
‘Master Edmund,’ Parmenio whispered, ‘this is not the time for brave and noble charges. We’ve had enough of those for tonight, and see what has happened. Do not be a fool. If you reveal yourself we shall both die, slowly, so come.’
De Payens followed Parmenio deep into the darkness, then paused and turned. He could not go, not yet; he had to watch. The bodies of the dead Templars, now stripped naked, were being lashed with ropes, ready to be dragged through the city. Already the trumpeters were proclaiming the news along streets fastened shut against the attack. Ascalon was coming to life, even in that stinking alleyway. Lamps were being lit, windows unshuttered, doors opened. Parmenio scooped up de Payens’ cloak, helmet and armour, and thrust them into a midden heap, kicking the dirt over them. A voice called, strident and querulous. Parmenio answered in the same language, then, grabbing de Payens by the arm, pushed him into the blackness.
For the next few days they lived as beggars. Parmenio told de Payens to act the mute as they sheltered amongst Ascalon’s swarming legions of poor, who lurked in the shadows during the day and slunk out at night. Parmenio, a master of tongues, acted the part, whining and wheedling. He begged or stole bread, rotting fruit, a pannikin of water and on one occasion a bulging wineskin. No one bothered them. Dirty and dishevelled, they were simply two of the despised. Moreover, the city thrilled with the news of how the attack had been repulsed, the Grand Master of the Temple killed, his corpse and those of his company gibbeted naked over the walls. The citizens rejoiced that all who had entered the walls had died.
De Payens felt as if he was in a dream. Any shame
at not dying with Tremelai soon disappeared. In truth, he reflected, the Grand Master had acted maliciously towards him, whilst the foray into the city had been hasty and ill planned. He wondered what had happened to Mayele. Parmenio informed him that his brother knight had been behind them; he’d either been killed in the attack or fortunate enough to retreat. Such conversations were carried out in hushed tones in the corners of filthy recesses. For the rest, they had to survive. Parmenio continued to be adept at begging; a consummate actor, he could weasel scraps of food and present himself and his companion as two more beggars in a city of beggars. He also listened carefully to the chatter of the bazaars and tawdry markets. How the Templar corpses had been dragged through the city at the tails of horses before being gibbeted on the battlements. Such humiliation, however, had only made the Franks more obdurate. They were now pressing the siege harder. Even more dangerous, they had beaten off a fleet sent from Egypt carrying much-needed supplies for Ascalon.
‘“Put not your trust in Pharaoh,”’ Parmenio quoted from the psalms, ‘“nor his horses, nor his power.” Listen, Edmund, we must remain hidden here. Act as we do now until the siege ends, either way.’
Parmenio insisted that they keep to the poorest quarter of the city. It was like a vision of purgatory: black-mouthed alleyways snaking between crumbling houses; trackways crammed with ordure; hot, dusty tunnels of reeking stench. No rest, no shelter, each mouthful of food and water gratefully acknowledged. De Payens recovered from his shock and grew more vigilant. Parmenio he now trusted. If he’d wanted to, the Genoese could have killed him a hundred ways. Instead, he ensured the Templar ate and drank carefully, even sharing his takings after being hired as a temporary porter in the oil bazaar. At the same time he comforted de Payens, insisting that Tremelai had brought his own death on himself. They continued to live like scavengers, mixing easily with a myriad of races; as Parmenio remarked, ‘Who really looks at the poor, especially at a time such as this?’