The Templar Knight

by Jan Guillou

  When Saladin’s brother Fahkr came to visit Arn, all these reports from the outside world were soon confirmed, even though such matters were not the first things they discussed.

  They were both moved by the meeting and immediately embraced each other as if they were brothers. Everyone in the beautiful garden who observed how they greeted each other was greatly surprised, for they recognized Saladin’s brother.

  The first thing that Fahkr reminded him of, which was unnecessary because Arn had thought about the matter several times already, was how they had joked when they parted in Gaza. That was back when Fahkr had been Arn’s prisoner and was about to board the ship for Alexandria, and they had laughed about how amusing it would be if the roles of captive and guard were reversed. The present situation made them both think that God had seen fit to jest with them.

  Arn pretended to be worried and upset that Fahkr might have complaints about the time he had spent as a prisoner in Gaza. Fahkr replied with the same feigned concern that his only objection was that he’d been forced to eat pig meat, which Arn heartily denied. And then they fell into each other’s arms laughing again.

  Then Fahkr turned serious for a moment and asked for Arn’s word of honor that he would not try to escape or raise his weapon against anyone as long as he was Saladin’s guest. If there was any rule against this, then they would unfortunately have to treat him more prudently. Arn explained that, first, there was no rule that forbade a Templar knight from keeping his sworn word, which he gave to Fahkr without protest; second, he could not be regarded as a Templar knight any longer since his time in service to the Order had expired on the evening after the battle at the Horns of Hattin.

  Fahkr instantly turned serious and said that it must be seen as a sign from God that Arn’s life was spared at the very moment that his time as a Templar knight ran out. Arn countered that if that was the case, he probably believed more in Saladin’s mercy than in God’s mercy, even though he no longer remembered exactly how things had gone.

  Fahkr didn’t reply, but hung a large gold medallion with Saladin’s monogram on it around Arn’s neck. Then he took him by the arm and led him out to the street. Arn still felt a bit naked in his borrowed clothes, since he missed the weight of the chain mail. He was also bareheaded, and his short blond hair gleamed, making it impossible for him and Fahkr to walk along the street unnoticed. He seemed to arouse greater curiosity in the company of Fahkr than with Moses ben Maimon; as if it was more natural for a Jew and a Christian to walk together than for a Christian to walk with the sultan’s brother.

  A bit vexed by all this attention, Fahkr led Arn into the great bazaar located next to the mosque and bought a piece of fabric that Arn could wrap around his head a few times. Then Arn had to choose between some light Syrian mantles in the next stall; when he saw the blue color of the Folkungs held out to him by an eager merchant, he made up his mind at once. Shortly after making these purchases it was as if Arn and Fahkr finally melted into the crowds among the stalls.

  Now Fahkr led him through the winding alleys of the bazaar until they came to an opening leading to a courtyard, where there were piles of Christian weapons and shields and helmets. Fahkr explained that it was Saladin’s express order that Arn should now select a new sword, preferably the most beautiful one he could find. As Saladin said, he owed Arn a costly sword. The merchant had separated all the Christian swords into two small piles and one giant one. In one of the two small piles lay all the articles of great value, swords that could have belonged to Christians of royal lineage, decorated with gold and precious stones. In the little pile next to it lay the swords that were considered the next finest, and in the large pile all those that were of lesser value.

  Arn went straight over to the large pile and pulled out one Templar knight’s sword after another and looked at the number marks. When he had found three swords with the proper size numbers, he compared them hastily and then handed one of them to Fahkr without hesitation.

  Fahkr gazed with disappointment at the plain, unembellished sword and emphasized that Arn was passing up a fortune out of sheer stubbornness. Arn said that a sword was considered a treasure only by men who could not use it. A Templar knight’s sword of the proper weight and size, such as the one he had just handed to him, was the only thing he would ever want to hang at his side. Fahkr tried to persuade him otherwise. Arn could choose the most expensive sword, sell it, and then buy the inexpensive one, which he could probably get for one or two dinars, and keep the difference. Arn snorted at this suggestion and said that it would hardly be honoring Saladin’s gift to behave in such a manner.

  But Fahkr wouldn’t let him take the sword at once; instead he handed it to the merchant and whispered something that Arn didn’t hear. Then they left the bazaar without the sword and made their way to Saladin’s palace, where they would spend the evening and night. Perhaps Saladin himself would come home to Damascus tonight, and in that case Al Ghouti was one of the men he would want to see immediately; it was important to stay nearby, Fahkr explained.

  Saladin’s palace was located far from any of the larger buildings around the great mosque. It was a simple two-story house with few decorations, and if it hadn’t been for the forbidding Mameluke guards outside the gate, nobody would have guessed that this was the sultan’s residence. The rooms that they walked through were sparely furnished with rugs and cushions, while the walls were adorned only with beautifully painted quotations from the Koran, which Arn amused himself by reading and reciting as they walked past.

  When they finally came to one of the rooms facing a long balcony covered by an arcade, Fahkr served cold water and pomegranates and then sat down with an expression that was easy to understand. Now he wanted to turn to more serious matters.

  What remained of the Christian reign in Palestine were Tyrus, Gaza, Ashkelon, Jerusalem, and a few fortresses, Fahkr told Arn with restrained triumph in his voice. First they would take Ashkelon and Gaza, and then it was Saladin’s desire that Arn should accompany him. After that they would take Jerusalem itself, and Saladin also wanted to have Arn on hand as advisor when that time came. Saladin himself would convey this wish to Arn as soon as they met, so it would be wise for Arn to prepare his mind for what attitude he would take.

  Arn replied sadly that of course he had known for a long time that things would go this way, and that the Christians had only themselves and, above all, their own sins to blame for this great misfortune. And indeed he was no longer bound by his oath to the Knights Templar. But it would be too much to ask that he join the side of his former enemy.

  Fahkr tugged at his thin beard and replied pensively that Arn had probably misunderstood the sultan’s wish. It was not a question of asking Arn to draw his sword against his own, but rather the opposite. A sufficient number of Christians had already been killed or driven from their homes in flight; that was not the issue any longer. But it would probably be best to allow Saladin to explain all this himself. Arn would, as he no doubt already had divined, still be released when the time was ripe, for Saladin had not spared Arn at the Horns of Hattin only to kill him later. Nor was Arn a prisoner for whom they could demand a ransom. But it would also be best if Arn spoke with Saladin in person about this. In the meantime they could discuss what Arn should do with his freedom.

  Arn said that as far as he was concerned his twenty years of service in the Holy Land were at an end. If possible, he wanted to journey home to his own country as soon as that could be arranged. Yet he was concerned because even though he had indeed served the time bound by his oath, the Rule required that he be relieved of his duty by the Grand Master of the Order of the Knights Templar; otherwise he would be counted a deserter. And he had no idea how that could now be arranged.

  Fahkr was apparently mightily amused by Arn’s musings, and he explained that if Arn rubbed his thumb twice on the oil lamp in front of him, this wish could easily be granted.

  Arn gave his Kurdish friend a dubious look and searched for an explana
tion for the jest in his eyes. But when Fahkr merely nodded stubbornly toward the oil lamp, Arn reached out and rubbed it with his thumb.

  “See now, Aladdin, your wish is fulfilled!” shouted Fahkr happily. “You shall have any document you want, signed and sealed by the Grand Master’s own hand. For he is also our guest here in Damascus, although in somewhat less friendly circumstances than those rightfully vouchsafed to you. Simply write out your document, and the matter will be arranged at once!”

  Arn didn’t find it hard to believe that Gérard de Ridefort was a prisoner in Damascus, because he had never believed that the man would fight for God’s Mother to his last drop of blood. But would he sign anything at all?

  Smiling, Fahkr just shook his head and assured him that it would be so. And the sooner the better! He called a servant and ordered the proper writing implements to be brought from down in the bazaar. Then he promised Arn that he would be able to watch as the Grand Master signed his name.

  A little while later a servant trudged upstairs with parchment and writing tools, and Fahkr left Arn alone to compose the document after having a small writing desk brought in. Then he went to spend some time in prayer and in preparation for the evening meal.

  Arn sat for a while with the blank parchment in front of him and the quill pen in his hand, trying to see clearly both himself and the world’s order at this extraordinary moment in time. He was to write his own document of release. And this was happening in the sultan’s palace in Damascus, where he sat on soft cushions before a Syrian writing desk with his legs crossed and with a turban wrapped around his head.

  Many times in recent years he had tried to imagine the end of his time as a Templar. But even in his wildest speculations he had never come close to the situation in which he now found himself.

  Then he collected himself and with a steady hand quickly printed the text he knew well, since during his time as Jerusalem’s Master he had composed numerous similar letters. He also added a sentence that occasionally appeared in such documents: that this knight, who was now leaving with great honor his service in God’s Holy Army, the Order of the Knights Templar, was free to return to his previous life, yet whenever he found it suitable, he had the right to wear his Knights Templar garments displaying the rank he held at the time he left the Order.

  He read through the text and recalled that Gérard de Ridefort did not know Latin, so he wrote down a translation into Frankish.

  There was still room left on the page, and he couldn’t resist the small pleasure of writing out the text a third time for the Grand Master, who was barely literate, this time in Arabic.

  He sat for a moment, waving the document to dry the ink. He cast a glance outside at the sun, and saw that there were at least two hours left until the evening prayers for both Muslims and Christians. Just then Fahkr returned, glanced at the document, and picked it up with a laugh when he saw that there was an Arabic translation; he swiftly read through it and then picked up the quill pen to write in the vowel marks more clearly. It was really not a bad joke on His Holiness the Grand Master, he said with a smile as he took Arn by the arm and led him outside to the city once again. They had to walk only a few blocks before they came to the building where the most valuable Christian prisoners were held. It was larger and more expensively decorated than Saladin’s own palace.

  But there were guards here, of course, and an occasional locked door, even though it was difficult to see what an escaping Grand Master would do once he was on the streets of Damascus. Fahkr explained all the precautions as no more than an empty gesture, occasioned by the fact that the Grand Master and King Guy had both explained that an oath to unbelievers was not valid.

  King Guy and Grand Master Gérard de Ridefort were locked up together in two magnificently furnished halls with furniture in the Christian style. They were sitting at a little carved Arabic table playing chess when Fahkr and Arn came in and the doors were demonstratively locked behind them.

  Arn greeted them both without exaggerated courtliness and pointed out that it was against the Rule for Templar knights to play chess, but that he didn’t intend to bother them for long. There was just a document he needed signed, and he handed it over with a bow and flourish to Gérard de Ridefort. Unexpectedly, the Grand Master seemed more abashed than angered by Arn’s less than submissive manner of speech.

  The Grand Master pretended to read the document and tried to frown as if he were pondering the contents. Then, as expected, he asked Arn what was the intention of this, and formulated the question so that the answer might explain the text, which he could not read at all. Arn carefully retrieved the parchment page, read the text aloud in Frankish, and then quickly explained that everything was in order since he had been sworn for only a specified time into the Order of the Knights Templar, which was not a rare occurrence.

  Gérard de Ridefort now turned angry at last, muttering that he had absolutely no intention of signing such a document, and if the former Jerusalem’s Master had plans to desert, then it was a matter between him and his conscience. He waved his hand as if to remove Arn from his sight and stared hard at the chessboard, pretending to contemplate his next move. King Guy said nothing, and merely looked in astonishment from the Grand Master in his Templar attire to Arn in his Saracen clothing.

  Fahkr, who understood enough of the situation, went over to the door and knocked lightly on it. It was opened at once, and he merely whispered a few words before the door was again locked.

  Then he went over to Arn and said in a low voice, as if he unconsciously believed that the other two men in the room might understand, that this would only take a few moments, but that it would go more smoothly with a different interpreter than Arn.

  On his way out Arn met a Syrian, who judging by his clothing was a merchant, not a military man.

  He didn’t have to wait long outside the doors before Fahkr came out holding up the document, signed and stamped with the Grand Master’s seal. He handed over Arn’s release document with outstretched hand and a deep bow.

  “What did you say to make him change his mind so fast?” Arn wondered as they made their way back toward the sultan’s palace, where the crush had now increased with all the throngs on their way to evening prayers.

  “Oh, nothing very serious,” replied Fahkr, as if discussing a mere trifle. “Only that Saladin would appreciate a favor to a Templar knight whom he esteemed greatly. And that Saladin might perhaps be upset if this small favor could not be done for him, something like that.”

  Arn could imagine a great number of ways to formulate such a request, but he had a feeling that Fahkr may have expressed himself a bit more harshly than he wanted to admit.

  Just before evening prayers Saladin returned to Damascus at the head of one of his armies. He was cheered by people in the streets all the way to the great mosque, for now more than ever he deserved his title: al-Malik al-Nasir, the victorious king.

  Ten thousand men and women prayed with him as the sun went down; there were so many that they filled the gigantic mosque as well as large parts of the courtyard outside.

  After the prayers Saladin rode slowly and all alone through the crowds of people to his palace. To all his emirs and others who were waiting for him with a thousand missives, he had said that on this first evening in Damascus he wanted to be alone with his son and his brother; he had been in the field for two months now and had never had a moment to himself. No one found it hard to submit to those orders.

  As Saladin, in a radiant mood, made his way through the palace, greeting and embracing all his friends and relatives, he seemed set on leaving all the affairs of state behind on this evening. And so he was all the more surprised, and for a moment even seemed a bit disturbed, to find himself suddenly eye to eye with Arn.

  “The vanquished salutes you, victorious king,” Arn greeted him solemnly, and the happy murmur around them subsided at once. Saladin paused before he suddenly seemed to change his mind. He took two quick steps forward and embraced Arn
and kissed him on both cheeks, which sent a ripple of whispers through the gathering.

  “I greet you, Templar knight. It is perhaps you more than anyone else who has afforded me the victory,” Saladin replied, motioning for Arn to walk beside him to the banquet table.

  Soon big platters were brought in with roast pigeons and quail, and tall carafes of gold and silver misted with ice-cold water.

  Next to Saladin and Arn sat Saladin’s son al Afdal, a slender young man with an intense gaze and sparse beard. He waited a long time before he bade leave to ask Arn about something.

  He’d had the command of seven thousand horsemen at Cresson’s springs the year before, and some of his emirs had said that Al Ghouti was the one who carried the flag of the Knights Templar. Was that true?

  Arn was now reminded of the doomed attack which Gérard de Ridefort had forced them to make, a hundred forty knights against seven thousand, and of the ignominious flight in which he was forced to take part. He looked clearly embarrassed when he confirmed that he had indeed been there, and that it was he who carried the flag away in flight.

  The young prince didn’t seem very surprised to hear this, and he mentioned that he had given orders to all the emirs that Al Ghouti had to be taken alive. But what he could not understand, either at the time or later on, was how Christian knights could so deliberately ride to their deaths.

  There was silence around the table as they all waited for Arn to reply; he flushed because he had no answer. He shrugged his shoulders and said that for his part it seemed just as foolhardy as it must have looked to al Afdal himself and his men down below. There was no logic in such an attack. At such an instance, faith and reason parted ways. Such things happened sometimes; he had seen Muslims do similar things, but perhaps never as extreme as this. He went on to say with an unmistakable expression of disapproval that it was Gérard de Ridefort who ordered the attack and then decided to flee as soon as he had sent all his subordinates to their death. Arn, as the confanonier, was then compelled to follow his highest leader, he added shamefaced.