00 - Templar's Acre (20 page)

Ivo led the way through Montmusart to the Lazar Gate and then up the stone steps.

‘Here is the tower built by the Order of Saint Lazarus. There is another strong tower over there, by the sea.’

‘From here the wall extends back to the old wall, thence to the sea again?’ Otto asked, leaning forward and staring along the line of the walls. He spoke crisply, a commander getting
the measure of new responsibilities.

‘Yes, Sir Otto. The double walls form a line north to south, with a dog-leg halfway.’

‘Where are the weakest points?’

Ivo considered. ‘I would be less concerned about this section. It is newer, and should be able to take heavy punishment. I would be more worried about where the dog-leg lies. The point of
that has a new tower recently rebuilt by King Henry II, and outside there is King Hugh’s new barbican. The inner point is held by that tower, named the Accursed Tower – I suppose
because before this new wall enclosed Montmusart, it stood all alone. I would feel cursed if I were in that tower, too.’

‘I see. Let’s walk the walls.’

They descended the inner wall and made their way through the gate to the outer wall, where they climbed another series of steps, and began to make their study of the defences.

On the way, Baldwin saw a tan-coloured cur scavenging about a foetid heap of refuse. It was only as high as his knee, and painfully thin. Spotting a discarded crust by a guard’s boot, he
bent to pick it up, whistled, and the dog stopped, head tilted. Baldwin threw it the bread before rejoining the others at the wall’s top.

‘Yes, you are right about this line of wall,’ Sir Otto said. ‘The base is good and broad and there is space enough for plenty of men to stand here in safety. How many people
live in the city?’

‘Around forty thousand.’

Sir Otto nodded, his mouth reflecting his unhappy thoughts. ‘That is a great many mouths to feed, even with control of the seas. And all those,’ he added, waving a hand at the tents
and hovels outside the walls, ‘their clutter could give succour to the Saracens. We’ll have to fire their rubbish.’

‘Yes, Sir Otto.’

They had made their way to the corner where the new wall met the old. Here Sir Otto stood for a moment, gazing out over the plains before the city. It was the scene that Baldwin had admired
during his first ride out with Roger: lush fields, olive groves, and numerous small houses of mud, much like a peasant’s home in Devon.

‘They will march right over all that,’ Sir Otto said. ‘They will want to site engines of war out there. We will need to look over the plain and consider where they will want to
place their machines so that we can spoil the ground.’

‘Yes,’ Ivo said.

Baldwin felt a scratch, and, turning, saw that the little dog was sitting behind him, pawing at his leg. He tried to gently push him away, but the animal stared at Baldwin with hurt in his
eyes.

‘Of course, the walls need to be prepared,’ Sir Otto said, turning and looking back at the bulk of the inner walls. ‘We must build hoardings. Any man leaning over the parapets
to drop stones on attackers would be the target of all their arrows. It is a shame there is no moat.’

‘In this heat, it would be impossible to keep it filled,’ Ivo shrugged.

‘Quite so.’

‘But this is all speculative, isn’t it?’ Baldwin said, trying to ignore the dog. ‘The Saracens have promised to uphold the peace for ten years, after all.’

Ivo gave him a long, considering stare while Sir Otto continued gazing out past the barbican towards the east.

Neither answered.

Had Baldwin but known it, as he stood near the tower built by King Henry II, far below him, a small party was setting out from the gate.

It consisted of two men, and one woman, dressed in old grey linen. The men were on horseback, but she followed them on foot, a cord bound about her wrists attached to a stirrup. Sometimes it was
felt necessary to have slaves bound more securely, but if Lucia tried to escape, she would be at the mercy of the sun and the parched lands.

She had no thought of escape. There was nothing in her mind apart from the pain in her back and between her legs.

All hope was gone. Only misery and despair filled her heart.

Try as he might, Baldwin could not shake off the little cur, who had adopted him after that first gift of bread. Surrendering to fate, he named the mutt Uther, and now Uther
followed Baldwin everywhere. The little fellow was so dependent, Baldwin felt he couldn’t discard him.

Many sections of wall required repairs before the hoardings could be constructed. The wooden platforms would jut out from the battlements, with trapdoors for rocks or oil to be dropped on
enemies beneath. Their weight would put a great strain on the old walls.

In the city itself, already there were a thousand knights and mounted men-at-arms, along with perhaps fifteen hundred infantrymen, and there was a need to find space for them. Arguments and
brawls were commonplace. The Templars and Hospitallers had taken to wandering about the city to try to keep the fighting to a minimum, but every so often fists would fly.

In the square outside the castle, Baldwin saw the result of yet another fight. Two men were caught up in a gambling dispute, and one drew his knife. As Baldwin passed, they were holding the
guilty man before the castle’s two-legged tree: two timbers planted firmly in the ground with a beam across their tops. A rope was thrown over the top-piece, the noose set about his throat,
and as Baldwin paused, the man was hauled up, kicking and thrashing, as the rope squeezed the life from him.

At home, a felon would have his suffering eased by his family. They would jump on his body to break his neck, or at least speed his throttling. Here, the Lombard had no family. He could dangle
for ten minutes or more before he died. A horrible death.

There were more crusaders at the far side of the square, he saw. For some, this was a grim event, and they stood about with faces drawn as they witnessed their comrade’s death. But for
others, it was merely a spectacle.

The man’s legs jerked violently as he fought for life, and Baldwin could imagine the burning agony as his lungs struggled against that rope – and then, as if that were his final
peroration to life, his struggling all but ceased. An occasional jerk of his legs, a brief fluttering of the feet, a tremble, and his life was fled.

Baldwin stayed staring, rooted to the ground, struck with a premonition.

Acre would be like that man, were Qalawun to come and attack. Alone, watched by many, and with no hope of aid.

The thought made him shiver.

Abu al-Fida was not alone as he entered the great court. He was only one of a long line of men and women who wailed and prostrated themselves. Each crossed the patterned tiles
to the space before the Sultan and laid down the bloodstained clothing of murdered relatives. Here a shirt, there a tunic, a robe, a turban – all with their unique blackened patterns of death
and horror. In his mind’s eye, he saw the smiling face of his son. White teeth gleaming, eyes flashing, so like his mother. Looking about this hall, with Mameluk guards standing silent, the
sun making their mail and helmets sparkle, he felt as though Usmar was here with him, giving him support.

It was Abu al-Fida’s turn. He walked with slow dignity and stood before the Sultan. Silently, he shook out his son’s chemise and robes. The rents in the fabric told their story. He
need say nothing. Bending, he set the clothing on the floor. The robes, then the chemise with the terrible cuts and slashes in the fabric, the foul brown stains.

Sultan Qalawun stared down at the clothing arrayed on the tiles, and studied each from his chair, taking them in, one by one.

Abu al-Fida watched him closely. He appeared shocked. Over seventy-five years old, the Sultan was experienced in death, but this scene of wailing parents and siblings had moved him.

‘What was the reason for this massacre?’ the Sultan demanded in a hushed voice.

‘Some said a Muslim had raped a Christian woman, some that there was a fight after drinking in a tavern,’ Abu al-Fida said. ‘My son was not in a tavern, and he never raped a
woman. He and these others were not criminals. They were not guilty, my lord. These deaths were caused by the bloodlust of the Franks. The rioters killed any man with a beard. They even killed
their own: there were Christian merchants slain, just as there were Muslims.’

Qalawun stood and spoke in a voice hushed with emotion. ‘I have agreed peace with these people, assuming them to be rational. I offered them terms by which they and we could live
side-by-side without war, because I am a man of peace. But these Franks have by this despicable act demonstrated their bad faith. I will not tolerate these murderers to continue to live on our
sacred land.’

He stared at the mourning people.

‘Your dead will be avenged. All of them. I swear this on the holy Koran.’

Afterwards, as the petitioners bowed low, thanking the Sultan, the women still sobbing as they moved to collect the pathetic scaps of cloth, Abu al-Fida alone stood and made no
move. Even as the others filed from the court, he remained.

There was a Mameluk behind him. ‘You must go.’

‘Yes,’ Abu al-Fida said. He nodded, and turned to leave, but the Mameluk called him back.

‘Your clothes,’ he said, pointing.

‘They were my son’s. I leave them as reminder of why we must punish the people of Acre, for their violence towards the people of Islam.’

The Sultan called to the Mameluk, ‘Let him come to me.’

Abu al-Fida made his way to the Sultan’s throne, standing with his head downcast.

‘Do not be fearful in my presence,’ the Sultan said. ‘I am Qalawun, friend to all Muslims. I am here now to listen to your petition, not to punish. Tell me, these clothes were
those of your son?’

‘Yes, Sultan, my son Usmar.’

‘Have you lived long in Acre?’

‘For five years.’

‘You know the city well?’

Abu al-Fida nodded.

‘Can you sit with my people and draw with them a map of the city? I need to know the walls, where the strong points are, and the weak, where they keep their stores of food and weapons.
Everything you can tell me. Can you do this?’

‘Yes. I was once the servant of Baibars and served in his army at Antioch. I understand what is needed.’

‘Ah! That was a great battle,’ Qalawun said, ‘and the Christians still have not returned there.’

‘We destroyed them all,’ Abu al-Fida said. ‘I was with the party at the middle who stormed the walls.’

‘It was a brave battle. You were fortunate to be with the first of the men there.’

‘Yes, lord.’

In his mind’s eye, Abu al-Fida saw that battle again and it almost turned his stomach. His bloody sword hacking at infidels, blood spattering his arms, breast, face; blood in his mouth. At
first, he recalled a blood-madness, when all he could see was the sunburned crusaders, eyes flashing with hatred beneath their helmets. A lunatic scramble up rubble and bodies, slipping on a
man’s arm cut from a body, almost soiling himself as an arrow flew straight at him, and he ducked and it rattled against his helmet, and then he and his friends were on the wall, and dealing
death.

It was a truth that hand-to-hand fighting was deadly, but this could not describe the slaughter that began when the Christians fled from the holy rage of the besiegers. It was a massacre such as
he had never before seen. Abu al-Fida recalled with shame how he and his comrades screeched their war-cries as they rushed down the inner ramparts and into the fleeing enemies.

And afterwards there were the searches of the houses. In one, he found three children – and when he tried to save them for slavery, other men slew them all. Grandmothers were found in a
house, and they too had their lives taken. The city was a stinking charnelhouse. Bodies lay everywhere.

It was that which deterred him from war.

When you have once had a man on his knees before you begging for his life, a woman – perhaps a sister, perhaps a wife – wailing and pulling at her hair with horror and despair as you
thrust the sword in, hoping to kill quickly but failing, and witnessed the man scream with the pain, writhing, and not dying – and then seen your companions rape the woman before killing her
. . . how could any man of honour who loved beauty and God want to destroy men and women in this manner?

But according to Qalawun, he was ‘fortunate’ to have been there.

‘We shall avenge your son, Abu al-Fida. We will wash the streets with infidel blood.’

Abu al-Fida nodded. He thought again of that man, curling into a ball on the ground before him. At least he had tried to kill quickly and kindly. He had not wished to make the Christian suffer.
Others were not so scrupulous.

He had no scruples about Christians dying now. Not even the women and children . . . If it removed the infidels forever from these lands, it was worth it. No man should ever suffer the death of
his son, like Abu al-Fida had.

Qalawun called a servant and muttered in his ear. Then he said, ‘Abu al-Fida, go with this man and help my secretaries draw up plans of the city. In return, is there anything you would
like?’

Abu al-Fida fell to his knees and would have prostrated himself, but the Sultan called on him to stop.

‘No, my friend, I would not have you worship me. I am only a man.’

‘Then permit me this one thing, my Lord. When you march on Acre, let me join you, and let me once more use my sword in the destruction of our enemies.’

‘I can make use of any number of men. I would be glad of your sword.’

Abu al-Fida hesitated. Then, ‘I am not only a soldier, Sultan. When Baibars took me to Antioch, it was not for my sword, but for my skill with artillery. I built him catapults.’

‘You can build them still?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then build me a monster, Abu al-Fida. Build me the biggest catapult in the world. We shall call it al-Mansour –
Victorious
– and with it you shall destroy the city
that killed your son.’