Crusade (63 page)

The council chambers inside the grand palazzo were steadily filling. Men, whose sumptuous clothing brazenly announced their wealth, filed in, taking up positions along rows of benches set before a dais. These were some of the most powerful men in Outremer, all of them Venetian merchants, whose houses dominated a multitude of industries within the trading world: silver, gold, timber, wool, spices and slaves.

Will followed the grand master into the ornate chamber, with its sweeping domed ceiling and mosaic-patterned floor. On the dais were seven seats, for the moment empty. Will realized that they were heading for them as Guillaume climbed the dais steps. He sat beside the grand master, feeling exposed on the raised platform in front of the growing audience. A few minutes later, the Venetian consul entered the chamber with four men and hurried up to the dais. The last few stragglers were admitted as he ascended. The consul appeared to be afflicted with a mild fever, for his skin was pale and he had a bright red nose, which he immediately wiped with a square of silk. The doors shut with a resounding echo, and the four men the consul had entered with, advisors Will guessed, took up their places on the dais.

“Welcome,” said the consul in nasal Italian. As he spoke, one of the advisors leaned close to Guillaume and Will and translated the words in a faint whisper. “Most of you will have attended at least one meeting on the issue of Tripoli. Here, today, we will make a decision on how we should proceed. I have invited the grand master of the Temple, our staunchest friend, to enter this discussion in the hope that a fresh viewpoint may help us to find the answer we seek.” The consul inclined his head to Guillaume, who smiled courteously at the assembled merchants. “I feel that we must set aside our differences of opinion in this matter,” continued the consul, looking at the company, “in favor of a swift solution.”

As the consul introduced his advisors, the translator whispering on, Will let his gaze wander over the crowd. It came to rest on a familiar face in the second row of benches: Andreas di Paolo, Elwen’s master, and Rose’s godfather. Andreas caught his eye and nodded.

After the introductions, the floor was opened and the meeting began.

A corpulent man with a high voice was the first to rise. “Lord Consul, do we have any further news from Tripoli? The last we heard was that the commune had contacted Princess Lucia here in Acre, stating that they would accept her as ruler if she would accept their authority within the county.”

“We do,” answered the consul. “It appears the commune is having doubts over its decision to involve Genoa in the dispute, which is unsurprising considering the state’s outrageous demands for hegemony.” A murmur of angry voices whispered around the chamber in agreement. The consul continued above them. “Princess Lucia, we have been informed, has accepted the commune’s terms and has been recognized by them as rightful ruler of the County of Tripoli.”

The angry mutters turned into a chorus of pleased surprise.

“Wait, please, gentlemen,” said the consul, raising a hand to quiet them. “That is, unfortunately, not the end of the matter. Lucia, understandably, given her precarious position, contacted the Genoese representative sent by the doge after speaking with the commune.” He paused and sneezed violently three times, before blowing his nose into the silk cloth. “The representative met with her in Acre last week, whereupon the princess told him that she would agree both to confirm the authority of the commune and the privileges demanded by the Genoese. The representative agreed to these terms. Thus, Lucia will shortly be named countess of Tripoli and the Genoese have been given want they want.”

The murmurs of satisfaction vanished in a melee of raised voices. Some men stood.

“This is preposterous, Lord Consul!”

“Tripoli is the only port other than Acre and Tyre that we still have full access to. We cannot let the Genoese monopolize such a strategic base.”

“If Genoa dominates Tripoli, Venice will be finished in Outremer! They have already seized control of the Byzantine trade routes out of Mongolia.”

“This is not in dispute,” countered the consul. He had to shout to be heard. “Of course Genoa cannot be allowed to take control of Tripoli, marginalizing our ability to trade freely and fairly in the city. We wanted Lucia as ruler, but not at this cost. The question is what do we do? The princess, the commune and the Genoese are now all in agreement. We cannot fight them on this issue. They stand united.”

“Send ships,” suggested one merchant. “Blockade the harbor until the Genoese back down from their demands.”

“That will hurt our trade as much as theirs,” complained another.

“What about the High Court, Lord Consul?” asked Andreas, rising. “Will they not intervene in this matter?”

“No,” replied the consul bitterly. “They will not.”

“There is another option.”

Will looked to the source of the voice, which was oddly sibilant. His eyes fell on a figure dressed in an embroidered black cloak, standing near the back of the chamber. Will was drawn instantly to his face, or lack thereof, for instead of a face he had a silver mask. It was the man he had seen in the street with the entourage of servants, a week ago.

“Speak, Benito,” said the consul, gesturing to him.

The man in the mask seemed to survey the chamber. “There is, I believe, one man who can help us. Sultan Kalawun.”

A few people began talking over him at this, but others, Will noticed, were nodding.

“It has happened before that the Mamluks have been asked to intervene in our affairs, and in this case it will be in their best interests to do so. If Genoa controls Tripoli, they will dominate Eastern trade and that will affect the Mamluks as much as it will affect us. Sultan Kalawun has no personal quarrel with the Genoese or the commune and may be better suited to negotiating with them.”

“You have presented this case before, Benito,” said one merchant, rising. “But it is still unclear to me why the Genoese and the Commune of Tripoli would listen to the Egyptian sultan any more than they will listen to us.”

“That is simply answered,” replied Benito. “Sultan Kalawun can blockade Genoese trade in and out of Egypt. Genoa will lose more than she will gain should that happen.”

One of the advisors leaned over and whispered something to the consul, who nodded. Around the chamber, voices were echoing again. But Will could see that there was support for Benito’s suggestion. He wondered why the man wore the mask, but guessed, noting the thick black gloves on his hands, that his first assumption was probably correct, and that it concealed the blemishes of some disease.

The meeting continued for a while longer, with other ideas pushed forward, none of which generated much enthusiasm from the consul or the gathering. The grand master spoke only briefly, and in the end, the discussion returned to Benito’s proposal.

“Who would we send?” asked one merchant. “Who would be the best person to approach the sultan?”

At this, Benito rose again. “My Lord Consul, as you know, I have had dealings with the Mamluks. I know Cairo well and would be happy to travel there as envoy for you.”

Again, Will saw an advisor murmur something to the consul.

For a few moments, the consul said nothing, but he wiped his nose thoughtfully. “Very well. I propose that a delegation is sent to Sultan Kalawun, asking him to intervene. Hopefully, his mere involvement will be enough to cause the Genoese to back down, without any sanctions having to be put in place. I accept your proposal, Benito. You will travel to Cairo to meet with the sultan, bearing a letter from me explaining the situation and asking for his help.” He scanned the chamber. “Are there any objections?” There were a few protests from some of the gathering, but those in agreement far outnumbered the dissenters. “That is settled then,” said the consul, rising.

“My Lord Consul,” interrupted Guillaume, “if I may add one change to the proposal?”

There was a pause, as the translator repeated his question.

“Of course, my lord,” said the consul, nodding for Guillaume to continue.

“I propose that my man, here, goes with this delegation.”

As Guillaume spoke in a calm, assured tone, Will suddenly understood why he had been invited. The grand master must have guessed, presumably from his discussion with the consul, that this would be the outcome of the meeting and had wanted him there for this very purpose. Guillaume wasn’t going to let the Venetians have free reign on such a sensitive issue.

“My Lord Consul, I must protest,” said Benito, before the consul could speak. “The grand master’s offer, while appreciated, is unnecessary. As I said, I have worked closely with the Mamluks. A stranger might upset the delicate relationship I have formed with them.”

“My man has liaised directly with Sultan Kalawun on my behalf in the past,” said Guillaume smoothly. He looked to the consul. “And presents an unbiased voice in this matter.”

“But I—”

“The knight will go with you, Benito,” said the consul, interrupting the masked man. He crumpled the silk cloth in his hand and rose. “I would think you would be glad to have a Templar Knight accompany you. The roads are not without danger.”

With that, the council was brought to a close. Will couldn’t see the expression on Benito’s face, but he had the impression that it wasn’t a happy one. He sympathized. A journey to Cairo was the last thing he’d had planned.

THE SINAI DESERT, EGYPT, 6 NOVEMBER A.D. 1288

Will shifted uncomfortably in his saddle and took the reins in one hand to flex the other, which was cramped and aching. The sun was going down, and his shadow stretched long beside him, swaying in time with the horse. He glanced over his shoulder to see the rest of the company a little way behind, five squires on their packhorses, the sturdy beasts loaded with supplies, two guards sent along by the consul and, in the middle, Benito. This was how it had been for much of the journey. Benito and his attendants kept their distance, eating, sleeping, even riding apart from Will, and he had hardly spoken to any of them since they left Acre, ten days ago. For Will, this had been just fine; he hadn’t been in the mood to make polite conversation.

He understood why de Beaujeu had wanted someone to accompany the Venetian to Kalawun’s court, and he knew why de Beaujeu had picked him for the task. But over the past few years, he had grown used to spending most of his time in Acre, and he hated being away from Rose and Elwen. It made him feel restless and sort of prickly inside, as if the thread that connected the three of them were being pulled too taut. Displeased though he was to be on the assignment, however, he was glad to have the chance to talk to Kalawun. There had been rumors of unrest in the Mamluk court, murmurs of dissension over some of the sultan’s policies, namely his leniency toward the Franks, and Will could use this opportunity to gauge the significance of this.

He turned back to the road ahead, but before he did so, his gaze locked briefly on Benito. There was no way of knowing through the blankness of that mask whether the merchant was looking at him. But somehow, Will felt he was. He had felt it all the way through the desert, like an itching sensation at the back of his neck. His speculations that Benito was afflicted with some disease seemed confirmed one evening when Benito had taken off his black gloves to pick up a bowl of soup. Will had stared out of the corner of his eye at the misshapen claws that had been revealed, the skin shriveled and knotted.

After another mile, the Venetian called a halt, suggesting they make camp by a series of low, jagged rocks, which lay off the track they were following. The squires dismounted when they reached the area, but before Will could climb out of the saddle, Benito hailed him. “We need more water, Commander.” His voice came out with a whispery lisp through the mask. Benito jerked his head eastward. The sun caught in the metal, making it flare like fire for a second. “There’s a well the Bedouin use about two miles from here.”

“The Bedouin aren’t usually amenable to people trespassing on their land,” replied Will.

“They are amenable enough if you offer them money. I’ve used the well without any trouble in the past.”

Will was silent for a few moments. “Why do you need me to go?”

“Just because I’ve not had any trouble before doesn’t mean I’m going to be reckless.” Benito cocked his head. “Didn’t the consul say I should be glad a Templar was coming with me?” Will had the impression that the man might be smiling. “Isn’t it your job, Commander, to guard Christian travelers on the road? Unless I am mistaken, that is the reason the Temple was founded.”

Will wanted to refuse, but thought it petty to do so, and so the two of them set off across the desert, leaving the squires making camp. They had been easy on the horses for the last leg of the day’s journey, and the beasts still had some pace left in them. As they rode, Will kept his eyes alert and his hand never strayed far from the pommel of his sword. The sun was almost down, and his shadow was now spindly and elongated, racing ahead. Benito rode a straight course, seeming to know exactly where he was going.

If it had been any darker, Will doubted he would have seen the well at all, for the stones were almost the same brown-pink color as the desert. They approached cautiously, but the sweeping sands were empty in every direction, the view halted only, here and there, by distant rock formations.

“Looks like it might be free today,” Will said to Benito, who didn’t answer. Swinging himself down from his saddle, Will walked over. The rim of the well was crumbled and fell away into black. On the other side, he found a wooden pail, half-buried in sand. It was bleached gray, the wood brittle, and a frayed old rope was curled around it like a dead snake. Will picked it up and tested it. A few hanks of hemp came away in his hand, but the central core of the rope held fast. One end was tied to an iron ring, fixed to the side of the well.

“Is there water?” Benito asked, setting down the skins he had brought.

Will leaned over and peered in. “I’m not sure.” His voice stretched down the hole, diminishing. “Only one way to find out.” Knotting the free end of the rope to the bucket, he swung it over the side and let it sink out of sight. He let out the slack on the rope, bit by bit, waiting for contact. Something, movement perhaps, made him glance up. On the ground was a shadow, coming at him; an arm raised, something tapering from a closed fist.