Saladin laughed.
“I presume that you’ll give me these camels at a ‘bargain rate’ because you cannot now make the journey to Aleppo without the necessary writs?”
“Well,” Khalil replied, “I wouldn’t say, ‘bargain rate.’ These are fine beasts, Salah al-Din, and it took many years for them to mature in the hot sun of the Nafud. If need be, I suppose I could go eastward to Baghdad to sell them; we were on our way there, and then learned that your camp was nearby — as a fellow Muslim, I thought that I might offer them to you first.”
“‘On your way there’?” Saladin asked. “Khalil, we’re too far north and east of Caesarea if you were heading to Baghdad. I think that you’re trying to take advantage of my fondness for your family and inflate your price beyond my means.”
“Now, Great Salah al-Din,” Khalil replied, eyeing the chests filled with treasure as he got down to the haggling. “Let’s not think of money so much as the intrinsic value of the animals themselves, the years of transport they’ll provide. You know our reputation. You’ll not find better animals this side of the Euphrates….”
Both men took a certain relieved pleasure in the subsequent conversation, finding in it a welcome respite from their respective troubles.
Chapter 17
Assassins at the Gate
Only a little while after shadows fell on the pavilion and tents of Saladin’s camp before Hisn al-Akrad, the sun’s light faded on the uppermost chambers of the Krak des Chevaliers. The Hospitallers gathered in Arcadian’s solarium held thoughts and words in check as two female servants brought in food and drink, built a fire, and lit the wall sconces.
When the two women departed, Ríg resumed speaking: “We simply don’t know what information this ‘Codex’ provides, Khajen.”
“From the size of that book,” Father Damian added, “it might be some time before we learn anything from it that would be relevant to our situation, if, indeed anything of the sort were to be found in there.”
From his sick bed, Mercedier looked from Damian to Ríg, then settled his gaze on Ibn-Khaldun who sat listening quietly to the men talk.
“I think that what Master Ibn-Khaldun was trying to tell us – correct me if I am wrong, Khajen – was that the very possession of the Codex Lacrimae itself is of some import. Oui ?”
“C’est vrai,” Ibn Khaldun replied. “There’s grown a story among my people that concerns this Codex Lacrimae. We simply call it the ‘Dark Book.’ Its tale is one that is told in whispers when all other stories have been exhausted and the winds of a sandstorm press against our protective tents.”
“I’m still not sure why,” Ríg commented. “From what you’ve said about Raj’ al-Jared, the warlord couldn’t read it, and what he supposedly ‘did’ with it sounds like atrocities that could be done by anyone with a mind to torture.”
“Yet,” Ibn-Khaldun disagreed, “I’ve thought long upon this matter, and there’s something of critical importance in the fact that, until you just read portions of it, no one’s been able to translate the Codex’s words.”
Mercedier groaned as he shifted his position on the bed. “I vote that we just let Ríg read the damned thing, and see if there’s anything in it that helps against a siege: the recipe for Greek-fire, poisonous potions for dipping arrowheads, where to find djinni in bottles…that sort of thing.” He gave a curt nod at the book that lay on the coverlet at his feet. “A book that size ought to take you, what, Ríg, five or six hours to get through?”
“More like five or six months,” Ríg gamely replied, although he hadn’t shared with his friends the translation of the book’s first sentence. He greatly feared what those words portended for the rest of the work.
“I believe whatever any translation from the Codex would be as incomprehensible as all our efforts in trying to read it,” Ibn-Khaldun said, echoing the thoughts of his apprentice.
“Hold a moment, Master,” Ríg interrupted, as a commotion arose at the door.
Pellion burst inside the room with Jacob next to him. The younger boy was out of breath, but spoke immediately to Ibn-Khaldun.
“Sir!” Jacob exclaimed, “There are men outside in the inner courtyard!”
“How many are there,” Ríg asked, and are you sure they’re not guards?”
“I counted nine men, and they wore black clothing…,” Jacob started to reply, then he looked at the ebon robes of Ríg and the other knights Hospitaller, “Oh. You’re all in black.”
“Most of us, yes...,” Ríg started to say, but his words were interrupted by Perdieu exploding again in complete frustration.
“Qu’est-ce que c’est? Boys running into a private meeting of the Grand Master?” The baron moved quickly toward Jacob as if he intended to personally throttle him. “What language does this brat speak?”
Jacob gauged the speed of the onrushing man, then dove aside under a table, evading Perdieu’s grasp.
“Bernard!” Ibn-Khaldun shouted, “Leave the boy be! He came with me and speaks Aramaic! He warns of spies in the castle. Invaders!”
The burly knight stopped his attempt at swiping under the table to reach Jacob and glared at Ibn-Khaldun. “He came with you?” he asked as he rose to his full height. “What is this — wait, Ríg, stop right there! Where are you going? Get down from there!”
Ríg had jogged to the window and was peering into the gloomy shadows below. He could see nothing along the glacis, or slope, below the inner wall.
“The boy has a good head on his shoulders, Master,” Ríg commented to Ibn-Khaldun as they reached the window together. “These men he saw might be ours, but coming over the curtain wall removes that possibility.”
His words tapered to silence as he spied a furtive movement on the ground far below.
“There.”
“I see them,” Ibn-Khaldun sighed as Ríg hopped lightly onto the sill.
“Ríg, what are you doing?” Perdieu shouted. “You get down here right now! We’ll send a squad — Bartholomew, send a detachment immediately to the front gate. Alert the lower yards that we’ve got intruders.”
Ríg said nothing, leaping from the ledge into the open space that lay between him and the cypress tree next to the window.
In seconds, he’d adroitly descended the tree and was sprinting over the grass towards the walkway that led to the next courtyard. If he could intercept the shadowed men before they reached the front gate, he could then shout a general alarm and pen them in the corridors of the lower quadrangle.
Ríg came upon them sooner than expected, almost immediately after he rushed into the Gothic-arched walkway that ran the length of the Krak’s inner western wall. Two Hospitallers lay at the entry to the colonnade, their throats sliced and blood pooling in viscous puddles on the flagstones.
In the flickering light of the torches, Ríg saw only six of the intruders, which meant that either Jacob had miscounted, or the other three were near the front gate already. He saw another figure come around the corner to hiss a warning at the group, his eyes widening slightly when he saw Ríg coming at them. Ríg couldn’t make out much of the man’s identity besides a shock of blond hair and clean-shaven face, but the man’s black Hospitaller robe was indictment enough.
Traitor !
Ríg didn’t hesitate, quelling the impulse as he drew his sword to shout at the guards who patrolled the rampart above the gate. He’d made such a warning once before in his life and almost been killed in the attempt. He must surprise the enemy if he were to have any chance at all!
One of the intruders fell, decapitated before the others even realized death had fallen on them. Ríg felt no misgivings about attacking from the rear; he was certain that the killers themselves had given no such thought to the Hospitaller guardsmen. He could show no hesitation now. No second thoughts about anything to do with battle. The castle of Mecina would be lost if they succeeded in opening the gate to the Muslim forces beyond.
Not Mecina, Fool! He swore to himself. The Krak will be lost if
they open that gate. The Krak des Chevaliers! You’re in a different place, now. A different time! Move!
“You? Already?” The blond-haired Hospitaller shouted without moving from his position at the far end of the colonnade. “This is better than we could have hoped!”
Ríg frowned at the man’s words — he didn’t know him did he? — as he made a left-handed swipe with his dagger across the turning head of a second man. He felt the jolt of slicing through something in the man’s skull, and pushed his body along with the the falling corpse so that he could get an angle to parry the descending saber stroke from the third man.
He heard shouts from somewhere near the curtain wall and front gate and hoped that it was the clanging of steel here that alerted his brethren and not the sounds of an invading army.
The other four assassins were rushing him with sabers, coming within range of Ríg’s fast-moving sword. As the young man began to fight for his life, he noticed that the blond-haired Hospitaller was withdrawing something from his robe and making his way down the corridor.
What’s he got — a sword? Grande, uno contro cinque! One against five, and two more somewhere ahead or behind.
One of the assassins got past Ríg’s guard and nicked his shoulder.
Angrily, he brought his dagger up, catching the offending blade in the prongs of his trident main gauche and thrusting it away as he backpedaled out of the corridor and onto the lawn at the top of the sloped hill that descended to the curtain wall.
A dagger was flung into the throat of the assassin who’d wounded Ríg. The man fell backward and Ríg took the offensive against his partners, not bothering to look at who saved him. He assumed that reinforcements were beginning to arrive, so turned his attention to the other three Assassins, expecting all the while that the blond-haired Hospitaller traitor would make his move.
And where are the hidden two? Ahead, behind...where?
A flash of skin next to him almost distracted Ríg to the point of getting killed.
“Ori, Ori, Ori — Khajen-Père ibn-Khaldoooon!” A half-naked Marcus giggled as he jumped next to Ríg and engaged one of the two assassins that Ríg was defending against.
“Buon Dio !” Ríg exclaimed. “Marcus, what are you doing here?”
Marcus didn’t reply, but began humming a troubadour song as he dispatched one of his opponents with a lunge that brought him swiftly under the man’s guard, leaving only the two battling Ríg and the now-fast approaching traitor.
Then the other missing intruders jumped from the roof of the colonnade onto the grasses behind Ríg and Marcus, cutting off their retreat.
Well, Ríg thought as he kept close to Marcus and began fighting back to back with his friend, at least now we know that they’re all here and not yet at the front gate!
“Tag, Ori,” Marcus giggled, as he shoved Ríg aside, “you’re it!”
The motion saved Ríg from an arrow he hadn’t even seen coming. He continued his roll forward over one a dead man, coming to rise before the blond-haired Hospitaller with sword and trident main gauche at the ready. He saw the traitor glaring at Marcus and raising a Saracen bow to take aim at the still singing, sword-wielding boy whose fast movements against the two remaining assassins were as balletic as they were deadly.
“Ori ? Oh, I don’t think so! That won’t do at all —,” the blond-haired man shouted as he loosed the arrow at the same time as Ríg threw his dagger. The blade tinged against the fletches of the projectile, diverting it enough so that it glanced off Marcus’s shoulder instead of burying itself into the boy’s heart.
“Owwww ! Marcus hurt!” The youth grunted as he spun and ducked, slicing into the midsection of one of the Assassins, killing him in such a painful way that the man lost his intimidating composure and started shouting Arabic curses as he collapsed to his knees clutching his abdomen. Marcus yanked on the shaft in panic, ripping wide the wound as he brought the barbed arrowhead out of his madly bleeding shoulder. “Ori, Ori, Ori...Marcus is hurt!”
“Marcus, get out of here! Run to get help!” Ríg shouted after him, but the remaining assassin was already grappling at close quarters with his friend, and they tumbled down the hill and out of sight.
Oh, Dio, fa Marcus ricordare le sue lezioni, Ríg thought grimly. Oh, God, let Marcus remember his lessons now. He heard the sounds of shouts by the front gate, recognizing the imperious boom of Brother Perdieu and others making sure that no one got through the entrance.
Ríg kept his sword defensively raised, blocking another incoming strike from the remaining swordsman. Even if he defeated this one, though, he knew that the distance from the Hospitaller traitor with the arrows was too great. The man had the advantage and intended to use it, raising his bow to aim firmly on Ríg’s chest.
Now would be a great time for the reinforcements to appear.
Trying not to think about Marcus’s fate, and keeping the last Assassin between himself and the bowman, Ríg battled on.
Chapter 18
The Poisoning of Hamzah al-Adil
“It seems that my listeners have left me,” Ibn-Khaldun noted as Perdieu, Pellion, and the rest of the Hospitallers disappeared from view in pursuit of Ríg, albeit by the more mundane (and safer) routes of the Krak’s halls and stairwells instead of the limbs of a cypress tree.
He smiled ruefully at Mercedier and came forward to put a restraining hand on the shoulder of Jacob. The former was struggling to rise from his sick bed, while the latter obviously was intent upon following his new Hospitaller friend.
“Hold, Boy!” Ibn-Khaldun commanded in Aramaic. Jacob stopped, looked curiously at Ibn-Khaldun and then in the direction that the Hospitallers had run.
“I’m good in a battle, Master,” Jacob offered.
“This is a matter best left to the castle’s warriors,” Ibn-Khaldun explained. “Let’s remain here for the moment while they sort out matters, eh?”
“Oh, my God,” Jacob said, his face paling. “Marcus.”
“What about Marcus?” Ibn-Khaldun asked sharply.
“He’s gone from his room and he took my sword.”
“Damn it, Arcadian!” Mercedier groaned. “He’s gone to help Ríg. Or, rather, he probably went to stop the intruders himself.”
Then he spoke quickly as he cast off the blankets and swung his legs painfully over the side of the bed, his words rapidly spoken in disgust. “I’m not staying here while those lads fight as the castle’s being invaded. Boy, give me my weapons over there, will you?” He glared angrily at his older brother as he gained his feet, throwing off the grand-master’s restraining hand.
Ibn-Khaldun frowned, but moved aside as his patient leaned against a chair, panting.
“Mercedier, think reasonably. You’re still suffering from your injuries and, by the time you hobbled down there, the battle’s going to be long over. It’s Marcus and Ríg for Allah’s Sake! For all we know, the fighting might be already done.”
“I should be down there,” Mercedier protested, glaring at his friend as he attempted to buckle a sword belt around his waist.
“In other times, yes. Now, no.” Ibn-Khaldun paused. “Know this — Marcus wasn’t very badly injured. I ordered him to stay in bed more for my peace of mind then for his well being.”
“Ahhh,” Mercedier grunted. “I don’t feel too good.”
“You look terrible.”
“Mercedier, get back in that bed immediately!” Arcadian said peremptorily, irritation in his shaking voice. As with Ibn-Khaldun, now that he was in his sixties, Arcadian tired more easily than he used to, while his threshold for patience lowered.
“You might be right this time,” Mercedier agreed, as he put a weary hand to his forehead and swayed. Ibn-Khaldun was at his side before he could fall to the floor. The older man eased the unconscious second-in-command carefully back to the bed.
“Old fool,” he murmured to himself with a shake of his head as he felt the fever burning in Mercedier, “you at least, among these, should have seen this.
” He beckoned at Jacob.
“I need your help, Boy.”
“What are you going to do?” Jacob replied. “What about Marcus and Ríg?”
“They’re beyond my help now — Mercedier isn’t!” Ibn-Khaldun snapped. Then he inhaled a couple of deep, calming breaths. “I think Mercedier’s hurt in places that weren’t obvious before…ah. Here.”
The scholar pulled away most of Mercedier’s garment, exposing the knight’s torso. He pointed to a mass of discolored skin that stretched across the man’s abdomen.
“That’s a long bruise,” Jacob whispered.
“Yes, it is.” Ibn-Khaldun agreed. He touched the damaged area with gentle, probing fingers and looked up at the boy.
“There’s a welt and scab in the middle of the bruise.” Ibn-Khaldun explained. “There might be poison here, or an object I somehow missed. I need your help.”
“What can I do?”
“Go down the hallway to the medical ward and tell the doctors there that I need assistance. Look first for a knight named Brother Belvedere, but any surgeon will do if you can’t find him. Tell the doctor you find that Ibn-Khaldun needs his help with Brother Mercedier…”
Jacob listened carefully to the rest of Ibn-Khaldun’s instructions, but part of his mind still tried to work through what he’d just witnessed in the chamber.
He wondered again at the strangeness of Ríg.
The change in the young knight’s posture upon hearing Jacob’s report had been so dramatic that the boy almost thought he’d become a different person. Ríg’s features hardened into a mask that closed off everyone in the room. He’d paused only long enough to learn from Jacob how many intruders there were, and then leapt from the window at an unbelievable speed, scaling down the tree with the ease of an experienced sailor slipping down a main mast to warn his crew of pirates!
Jacob still also couldn’t believe that Marcus had taken his sword — Ríg was right, he should have never left the weapon in sight! What, though, did Marcus think that he could do against nine intruders, given his strange and obviously disabling condition?
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