Crusade (24 page)

From Acre, they journeyed through the Galilee, passing painfully close to Safed, then crossing the Jordan at Jacob’s Ford. Here they entered the Hauran district and joined the pilgrim road that led down from Damascus into Arabia. The route was busy. It wasn’t yet the month of the Hajj, the great annual pilgrimage to Mecca, but many Muslims, the guide told Will, performed something called the Umra, a more personal journey, which could be undertaken at any time. As well as pilgrims, many of whom traveled together in caravans of camels that carried provisions and water, there were traders who hawked milk and fruit to the thirsty faithful. Guillaume had been right: Will and the knights had not seemed out of place, clad in simple merchants’ clothing, their weapons concealed in bags. But there were other, less peaceful travelers on these roads. Mounted bandits from rival tribes roamed the region, drawn by the promise of plunder from the pilgrim lines like wasps to honey, and it soon became clear why men like Kaysan were paid for protection. Will and the others were stopped no less than five times on their journey south by companies of men carrying bows or knives, who demanded a tax. These men, who would target anyone no matter whether Shia, Sunni or Christian, backed down when the knights drew their swords. But, even so, it had been exhausting to keep alert as they rode slowly through stony passes, not knowing whether the rocks around them shielded archers who might not ask for money first; who might just shoot to kill.

Finally, after a journey of almost eight hundred miles, they reached Ula, and the little green village with its cool springs and palm groves welcomed them like Paradise. The houses were of stone and mud, and there were inns for travelers. Will and the knights had gone to the largest. The landlord seemed suspicious when Will had asked after Kaysan. He wanted to know why he had never seen them before if, as they claimed, they peddled goods on these roads. But he eventually told them that Kaysan should return within a few days.

“He’ll not work for you,” the landlord added, when Will thanked him. “Kaysan works only for the Shias. Not Sunnis. Not white men. Not Christians.”

He had led them to a shelter erected on the inn’s flat roof, made out of dried, woven palm fronds, with rush mats on the floor to serve as beds. That had been four days ago.

Will’s fingers passed down the scroll case, over the patterns traced in silver. There was nothing stopping him from looking inside; the grand master would never find out. Yet still, he hesitated, an old obedience staying his hand. On the journey, Will had asked Robert whether he thought the assignment unusual. The knight had looked at him perplexed, wanting to know what he meant. None of the others had questioned the mission. Why should they? The grand master commanded and they obeyed. But they hadn’t been given cause to doubt his motives, hadn’t had Guido Soranzo’s last words repeating in their minds. Will reached inside resolutely and pulled out the rolled parchment within. Sunlight played across him as he opened it. He let out a sharp sigh of annoyance as his eyes skimmed the black text. It wasn’t in any language he recognized: not Latin, French or Greek. It looked a little like Arabic, but he quickly realized that it wasn’t. He stared at it for a few moments longer, then rolled it up irritably and stuffed it inside the case.

He was making his way back through the trees when he heard the shouts. After a moment, he recognized Robert’s voice. The knight sounded alarmed. Stuffing the scroll case back inside his hose, Will began to run. When he reached the tree line, he came to a halt. He could see Robert, Zaccaria and the others. They were being marched out of the inn, along with their terrified-looking guard, by twelve men dressed in black robes and kaffiyehs that covered their faces. Eight of them had crossbows trained on the knights; the others had swords. Bringing up the rear came the landlord, looking pleased with himself. Will crouched down in the undergrowth.

“They are Western spies,” the landlord said in Arabic to one of the black-robed figures, a tall, slender man who bore a band of scarlet cloth on his upper arm. “I looked through their belongings when they were sleeping. They have no wares to sell, only swords. They are not merchants. What they want with you I do not know. But I thought you would want to be warned.”

“You were right,” said the slender figure. His voice was flat, cold. “Take them,” he said to his black-robed companions.

Robert tried to protest as one of the men pushed him forward, but he fell silent as a sword was put to his back. Will watched as his comrades were led away. He heard the cracking of dry leaves behind him. Turning, he found himself looking at the gleaming tip of a crossbow bolt. The man holding the weapon was clad in a black robe and kaffiyeh. Will could only see his brown eyes as the man gestured, with a nod of his head, for him to stand.

14

Kabul, The Kingdom of Jerusalem 15 APRIL A.D. 1276

Elwen’s fingers closed around the arrow. The sun was blinding after the darkness of the barn, and it hurt her eyes. Ahead, his back to her, the Mamluk soldier was struggling with Catarina. The two soldiers hauling the lyre player had passed the wagons and were entering the market square. To the left and right the street was empty. Elwen hunkered in the dust, the arrow shaft clenched in her fist. It was about thirty inches in length, with gray and white speckled flight feathers, perhaps from an eagle. The tip was barbed. Terror had quickened her heart. She couldn’t move. Her instincts were roaring at her to go back into the barn, to hide in the darkness. She stiffened as the Mamluk gave a shout. Catarina had bitten him. He wrenched his hand from her mouth and it came away bloody. Spitting words through his teeth, he back-handed her across the face. As Catarina crumpled, Elwen began to run.

A cry loosed itself from her lips as she plunged the arrow into the man’s neck, pushing as hard as she could. It was a cry of horror and anger and revulsion. The iron tip sunk into the soft skin, then caught on the tougher muscle within. Blood welled instantly. The soldier yelled in pain and shock. As he turned to see Elwen, he reached for her, hands wrapping around her throat. Elwen gasped and tried to prise him off. Panic rose, obscuring her thoughts, smothering her like his hands. The soldier continued to squeeze. Then he coughed abruptly. Blood spilled from his mouth and his breaths rattled wetly in his throat. As his grip slackened, Elwen’s mind cleared and she slammed her knee into his groin. The soldier sank to the ground and curled over, the arrow still protruding from his neck. Elwen reached for Catarina and hauled her to her feet. Dragging the girl beside her, Elwen sprinted down the street. They had only gone a short distance when they heard hoofbeats coming toward them from beyond a cluster of mud-brick homes. Elwen threw herself into the shadow of a low doorway, pulling Catarina in after her, as two soldiers galloped by outside.

There was a smell of blood in the gloom, dark and metallic. Elwen picked Catarina up and held the trembling girl to her. Catarina’s lips were flecked with red where she had bitten the Mamluk. Her dress was wet at the back and Elwen realized the girl had wet herself. She went forward cautiously. On the floor behind a table a man lay on his stomach. His throat had been cut. Elwen put her hand gently on the back of Catarina’s head, to make sure she didn’t turn around, as she crossed to a window, where a piece of sacking was blowing in the breeze. Through it, she could hear incoherent sobs and whimpers, angry shouts, gruff commands. Her breathing slowed. With something to focus on other than her own fear, she felt oddly calm. She was responsible for Catarina. The girl needed her. She parted the curtain slightly and felt Catarina’s arms tighten around her neck as a scream sounded outside.

The little window looked out on Kabul’s market square, where it seemed all the people left alive following the attack had now been gathered, some sitting, some kneeling, others lying wounded on the ground. For a moment, Elwen could only see women in this group, and she wondered what had happened to all the men. Then, as her gaze moved toward the church, she saw they had been corraled in a separate group, of about one hundred or so, and were lined up on their knees, their backs to the women. Some of them were Westerners who had been at the market; others were merchants, and quite a few were locals. Around the square on foot or on horseback, the Mamluks waited, swords and bows trained on the crowd. There was another scream, and as Elwen watched, two soldiers dragged a young boy from the group of women. He must have been no more than ten. One woman, presumably his mother, was shrieking as the Mamluks tried to pull him from her arms. Elwen averted her eyes as one of the Mamluks clubbed the woman in the face with the hilt of his sword. When Elwen looked back, the boy had been freed and was being carried off. The woman was on the ground.

Elwen scanned the men, but couldn’t see Taqsu. There were, however, many bodies around the square, where people had died in the first few minutes of the attack. Perhaps Taqsu was dead, or perhaps he had fled. Either way, she couldn’t think about him now. One Mamluk on horseback near the church raised his hand, and a line of soldiers moved toward the kneeling men. This mounted Mamluk seemed better dressed than the others. A long coat of mail glimmered beneath his jade-colored silk cloak, and golden feathers flew from the crown of the helmet that covered his face, with shadowy slits for his eyes and mouth. For a moment there was silence, broken by sobs and whimpers; then the first of the Mamluks reached the men. Before any of the shocked crowd realized what was happening, one Mamluk had grabbed the hair of a youth in front of him, yanked back his head and wrenched his sword across the boy’s throat. Elwen flinched and dropped the sacking. It fell across her view as a chorus of screams and cries tore through the air, and the butchery began.

“What’s happening?”

Elwen glanced down as Catarina whispered the words into her neck. “We have to leave,” she said quietly, moving from the window and stepping over the dead man. She set Catarina down near the door. “I need you to stand here while I find food.”

Catarina’s eyes were dazed and glassy. “I’m not hungry.”

“You might be later. Can you do as I ask and be a good girl?” Elwen murmured. After a moment, Catarina nodded and let Elwen turn her gently toward the wall, away from the corpse.

Elwen looked around the room, trying to block out the screams from outside that were pushing maddeningly into her mind, setting all her senses on edge. There was a hunk of bread that she whipped from the tabletop and four wrinkled oranges in a bowl. She couldn’t see any water, but Acre wasn’t much more than a day or two’s walk and she thought the fruit would quench their thirst. She was about to head back to Catarina when she realized that she still only had one shoe. She had lost the other in the barn. Steeling herself, she removed the hide shoes from the dead man’s feet. They were far too big for her and so she ripped a few strips of cloth from her torn skirts and stuffed the material inside, padding them out. Her hands were shaking again now. Ripping another length from her dress, she bundled up the oranges and bread in it and went to Catarina. The girl let Elwen lead her to the doorway, but there she halted. “Come on,” Elwen coaxed her.

Catarina shook her head.

“We have to go, Catarina, whilst the soldiers are ...” Elwen swallowed back the dryness in her throat. “Whilst they are busy.”

With Catarina clinging numbly to her hand, Elwen led them out of the house. Keeping close to the buildings, they slipped unseen toward the road that led from the village. Behind them, the sounds of slaughter and terror spiraled into the air like ragged birds, clawing fear into every part of them.

As the Mamluks began the executions, their commander, a middle-aged man named Usamah, watched on, his sight channeled into a direct line by the slits in his visor. It was bloody work. Some of the men tried to run, but were cut down or shot by waiting archers. There was nowhere to go to avoid this death. For each of these men and boys it was inevitable. Some, realizing this, simply knelt in silence, others prayed as the blades of the Mamluks rose and fell, cutting throats, hacking into necks like axes into firewood. Women tried to help their husbands and sons, throwing themselves at the soldiers. But the Mamluks held them back.

Behind his helmet, Usamah’s face was grim. He had patrolled this region for the past six years and had never been asked to do work like this. He had seen plenty of battles as a slave warrior, but sending men to fight for their country against enemy soldiers was a different matter than sending them against unarmed men, women and children. Already, he had seen one of his soldiers, fresh from training, wheel away from the massacre to vomit. Others were blank, holding back emotions as they killed on his orders.

When he had received the scroll from Cairo two weeks ago, Usamah had been surprised. Kabul had been ceded to the Franks when the peace had been signed and was under the protection of the treaty. He had known that there were rumored to be spies in the village, but, even so, the orders from Cairo had been exceptionally aggressive, instructing him to leave no man or boy alive. He had also been commanded to undertake the attack during the spring fair, presumably when the most damage could be done. Usamah had guessed that an example was being made. He had not liked it, but he had not questioned the order that had come direct from Sultan Baybars. It was not his place to do so.

ULA, ARABIA, 15 APRIL A.D. 1276

“I thought this Kaysan was one of ours,” said Robert in a low voice, crossing to the door of their prison to test the sturdiness of the slender wooden poles that were latticed together to form a cage. The poles flexed as he shook them, but showed no signs of breaking.

Will looked up from the bundle of hay where he had been sitting since the black-robed men had ushered them into the cage, some kind of animal pen, several hours ago. It stank of dung and straw. “He’s one of our spies. It doesn’t necessarily mean he’s a friend.”

“But you would think he might be expecting us, or at least not entirely surprised that a group of Westerners would show up asking for him?”