Crusade (5 page)

Will was drawn from his thoughts as he noticed Everard watching him. The priest’s expression was inscrutable. Will looked away, discomforted by the intensity of Everard’s stare, feeling that the priest was reading his mind.

“Half that battle has been won for us,” one of the younger knights was saying in response to Velasco’s comments. “Until the Church accepts there is a need to reform and addresses the corruption that riddles its entire structure, it will find it a hard task to persuade the leaders of the West, let alone the people, that Crusade is a worthy route to absolution. For too long now, it has contrived these wars for its own purposes. Its motives have become transparent. Citizens of the West have no desire to make the treacherous journey here, risking life and limb, only to fall upon their swords, now it has been revealed that those who entice them to do so do it not for the glory of God, but for their own pockets.”

One of the older knights, an Englishman called Thomas, shook his head in disagreement at the younger man’s impassioned speech. “There are many Christians in the West who would gladly wrench Jerusalem from the Muslims given the chance. They still believe Muslims and Jews are blasphemers and worshippers of false gods, whose presence pollutes the Holy City. They still believe that they and
only
they follow the true path. Do not be so assured that the desire to Crusade is dead. It isn’t.”

“But at the Council of Lyons,” countered the young knight, “no great Western kings came forward at the pope’s call to take the Cross. Few even attended.”

“At present, the West’s leaders are too embroiled in their own struggles to commit to a Crusade,” responded Thomas. “But all it needs is one strong ruler to unite a determined force beneath him and the men of the West will throng here in the hope of liberating the Holy City. The men of our own order want this. Brother Everard is right. The peace we have helped create within this kingdom is fragile indeed. A tug in either direction and it will tear.”

“And I fear our grand master may be one such ruler,” said the seneschal, clasping his large hands. “He has made no secret of the fact that he wishes to reclaim territory we have lost to Baybars through military means. At Lyons, he was the most credible advocate of a new Crusade. He could prove to be one of the gravest threats to peace we have faced since the treaty was signed.”

Thomas and the other veteran knight were nodding soberly.

“Then we will need to do all we can to persuade him down other courses of action,” said Velasco, his eyebrows shooting into his fringe. “We cannot allow Baybars to be given any cause to attack us whilst we are still so weak. His forces would overwhelm us. And Acre,” he looked to Everard, a little abashed, “our Camelot, would perish, along with every citizen within its walls and any hope for reconciliation between Christians, Muslims and Jews that we, and our predecessors, have been striving for almost a century to bring about. Until Baybars dies and a new sultan, one with whom we have an alliance, assumes control of Egypt and Syria, we are not safe.”

Everard gave a small smile at the mention of Camelot, his name for the city, but it quickly faded. “There may well be hard times ahead,” he said in his gruff tones, “but there always will be. This is not an easy task with an easy solution that we have pledged ourselves to. Nothing that is worthwhile in this world ever is. It is a slow process.” His eyes swiveled to Will. “But we are making progress. Despite our concerns, we mustn’t lose sight of that. We now have a powerful ally in Egypt who will have influence over the next sultan, and in Acre we have formed alliances with those who believe in our cause. It was we, through our Guardian, who brought peace to Outremer. And all the while there is peace, all the while God’s children live in harmony, we triumph.”

Will leaned against the wall as the men soaked up Everard’s speech. He saw the priest’s words fill them with hope and conviction, and found himself surprised by just how inspiring the old man could be. He had known Everard for too long to be overly awed or cowed by him anymore; had been whipped, insulted, comforted and taught by him; had seen him at his best and his worst. But every now and then he would catch something, some spark of wonder in the priest’s abrasive tone, and suddenly he would be nineteen again, back in the Temple in Paris, listening to Everard telling him about the Anima Templi for the first time.

Memory, he knew, had probably colored the moment, made it more grandiose, more momentous than it actually had been. But he remembered being held, as if in a spell, by the priest’s revelations of how the Brethren were formed following a war with the Muslims that all but annihilated the Christian forces in the Holy Land; a war incited by a former Templar grand master. He recalled how attentively he listened as Everard explained how the Anima Templi’s initial mandate was to protect the Temple and its vast military and economic resources from the personal or political agendas of its leaders. But that in time, as other members were admitted, many of them high officials and men of learning, they brought with them their own ideas and this aim grew to encompass the preservation of peace in Outremer and among the Christian, Muslim and Jewish faiths.

At the time, Will protested hotly against such a notion, saying that they were irreconcilable; that there could be only one true God for any of them, and that none of them would bow to the beliefs of the others. Even when Everard explained that the Anima Templi didn’t propose to change the faiths to suit one another, but rather a mutual truce in which people of all religions could exist together, Will hadn’t believed it possible. But in the years since, he had seen with his own eyes how people of any faith could live alongside one another, benefiting from trade and from shared knowledge and experience.

Now, as he listened to Everard discuss a treatise he and Velasco had written, outlining the similarities among the three faiths, Will wondered if he could ever be so inspiring. Could he move men to give up their lives for a cause he championed, the way the priest had moved his father, the way Everard had moved him? The thought crept into his mind of what they would do when Everard died. He was approaching ninety and was older than anyone Will had known. Often he thought the sheer bloody determination to see the Anima Templi’s aims consummated was what held the old man together; was the sinew and the muscle where the flesh had long since failed. Will’s eyes moved to the seneschal, who was talking about how they could distribute the treatise. The seneschal would most likely be elected as their head when Everard died. And Will knew, when that day came, his place in the circle he had helped Everard rebuild, the circle his father had sacrificed himself for, would hang in the balance.

The meeting continued for another hour before the seneschal brought it to a close. Will noticed that Everard seemed increasingly impatient and kept looking over at him. As the Brethren began to disperse, agreeing to meet again after the grand master had arrived, the priest caught him on the stairs.

“I need to speak with you, William.”

“What is it?”

“Not here,” replied Everard quietly. “Come to my quarters.”

3

The Citadel, Cairo 17 JANUARY A.D. 1276

The beast paced, hunched shoulders flexing, slabs of muscle sliding and stiffening beneath the skin. Every now and then its lips would curl back to reveal rows of tusklike teeth and it would growl, a low rumbling noise that sounded as if it came from deep within the earth, like stones grinding. Its liquid gold eyes, flecked with jet, stared out through the bars of its cage at the milling, chattering crowds as it ranged the confines of its prison, instincts screaming against the incarceration, screaming to spring forward and attack.

On the other side of the grand hall, Kalawun al-Alfi, commander of the Syrian troops, watched the lion pace. It was magnificent. All power and raw fury. Later, they would tow its cage outside the city walls to a fanfare of trumpets and kettledrums, and set the beast free. For a time it would be beautiful. Then they would hunt it. Today, though, it was all for show. It would be the privilege of the bridegroom to make the killing strike, and Kalawun knew the usual excitement of the hunt would be dulled. He liked to track and pursue his quarry, liked to work and compete for the kill. This would be too easy. The death less noble.

Kalawun took a sip of sweet sherbet, his eyes moving over the mass of royal officials, governors and soldiers who filled the hall, their voices drowning the softly plucked notes of the zithers and harps being played by the musicians. His gaze drifted over his two sons, as-Salih Ali and al-Ashraf Khalil, both born to his second wife and both dark-haired like himself, with the same strong features. Khalil, at twelve his youngest child, was picking restlessly at the stiff collar of the blue cloak the servants had gently forced him into that morning. Kalawun smiled to himself, then looked away, his gaze caught by a knot of youths partially hidden behind one of the white-and-black marble pillars that flanked the chamber. One of the youths was Baraka Khan, heir to the throne of Egypt and, from today on, his son-in-law. Mildly curious as to what had caught their attention, Kalawun rose onto the steps of the dais behind him, where the sultan’s throne stood, arms capped with the heads of two lions fashioned from gold.

Standing with his back to the wall, surrounded by the knot of boys, was a slave, a little older than the youths themselves, maybe sixteen or so. His head was tilted away from the group, eyes fixed on some distant point. His expression was paralyzed in an unreadable mask, and only his unnatural, frozen posture revealed his distress. Baraka was talking animatedly to the others, his face, framed by his black curly hair, split in a broad grin. Kalawun frowned and craned his head to see above the crowds.

A commander of one of the Mamluk regiments, clad in a yellow cloak, hailed him. “Amir, it was a beautiful ceremony. You must be pleased.”

Kalawun nodded distractedly. “As pleased as any father could be, Amir Mahmud.”

Mahmud maneuvered himself in front of Kalawun. “Perhaps, now the festivities are over, we can begin speaking of our strategy for the coming year. I was wondering if you had talked with the sultan? Perhaps you know of his plans?”

Kalawun noted the predatory look in the young commander’s eyes. “No, Mahmud. My thoughts of late,” he spread a hand to take in the chamber, “have been elsewhere.”

“I understand,” said Mahmud, touching his heart with false sincerity, “but now there will be less to occupy your thoughts, I thought we might speak to the sultan, arrange a council for—”

“Excuse me,” said Kalawun, stepping down from the dais and moving past Mahmud, who glared after him. Two of the youths with Baraka had parted. In the gap between them, Kalawun had seen that Baraka had hold of the slave’s tunic. He was lifting it, revealing the scars of the boy’s castration to the others. A couple of the youths were laughing along with Baraka, the rest were staring in appalled fascination at the disfigurement. The slave closed his eyes.

For men such as Kalawun, the term
slave warrior
wasn’t just a name. Years ago, he, like many other Mamluks, including Baybars, had been captured by slave traders following the Mongol invasions against the Kipchak Turks around the Black Sea. They were sold in the markets to officers in the Egyptian Army and, taken as prisoners to Cairo in their thousands, were educated as devout Muslims and raised into an elite fighting corps by the former Ayyubid sultans of Egypt. The Ayyubid dynasty had ended twenty-six years ago when the slave warriors overthrew their masters and took control of Egypt.

The younger boys remembered the parents and siblings they had been separated from. But over time, toughened by the rigorous training and consoled by the camaraderie of the barracks, those memories faded. When they were freed to become soldiers and officers of the Mamluk Army, very few deserted and returned to their families. Kalawun had been twenty when he was captured, old for a slave. He remembered his wife and child, memories that were slow to dissolve. Even now, at fifty-four, with three wives, three children and another on the way, he sometimes wondered whether his first family had survived the Mongols’ attack and were out there somewhere, unaware he was still alive, unaware he was now one of the most powerful men in the East. Baraka, born into a world where the slave warriors were the rulers and resided in grand palaces surrounded by finery, didn’t know the chains his heritage had broken from.

Generals and officers passed by the group of tormentors, but said nothing. The household slaves who, unlike soldiers, were subjected to castration to protect the harem and to keep the slaves themselves docile, occasionally rose from lowly beginnings to fill offices of high authority under their masters, even being sent as ambassadors to foreign dignitaries or training recruits for the army. But most, although often treated better than servants in Western households, were simply part of the silent, invisible race that thronged the halls and passages of every wealthy residence in Cairo. Baraka was a prince, the eunuch just another nameless body. Kalawun, however, would not ignore such cruelty.

Passing his goblet to a servant, he started to make his way through the crowd. He had not gone far when he was greeted by the familiar face of Nasir, one of the officers of his own regiment, the Mansuriyya.

The tall, solemn young man, an olive-skinned Syrian, inclined his head respectfully as he approached his commander. “Amir, it was a truly beautiful ce—”

“A beautiful ceremony,” said Kalawun, forcing a smile, “I know.”

Nasir looked at him quizzically, then returned the smile, which brightened his otherwise plain face. “I’m sorry, Amir, I must be one of many to have spoken to you today without truly saying anything at all.”

“As is the tradition at weddings,” responded Kalawun, glancing back to the youths. As he did so, Baraka stepped away from the slave and caught his eye. For a second, there hung a look of guilty shame on the young prince’s face as he realized what Kalawun had witnessed. Then, almost as quickly as it appeared, the expression was gone, replaced by one of haughty defiance. Baraka nodded curtly to Kalawun and moved off with his friends, leaving the slave huddled against the wall, near to the cage where the lion paced.