Crusade (68 page)

The figure turned, his one visible eye widening. But he recovered quickly. “Look, my lord. Your men will soon be inside.”

“Why did you lie to me about the Genoese, Vitturi? Was it just for your slaves?”

“I’m sorry, my lord?” responded the Venetian, looking confused. “Why do you call me this name?” His eye flicked to the tall man beside the sultan, whose face was covered with a helmet. “What is this about?”

“You weren’t the only one given a second chance at life,” responded Will, staring at the Venetian through the slits in his visor. “The next time you push someone in a well, you might want to check it has water in it first.”

Angelo let out a hiss of breath. He stumbled backward, away from Kalawun, who was advancing on him. In the distance, the riders, led by Nasir, reached the gate and funneled inside.

“Guards!” bellowed Kalawun. Despite the turmoil, four Mansuriyya warriors heard his call and came running. “Seize him!”

“Listen, my lord,” shouted Angelo, as the Royal Guards took hold of his arms, pinning him. “I have done you a great service today, and tonight this camp will ring with praises for your name. Your position will be strengthened because of me.” He was interrupted by a shout from a nearby officer.

Will and Kalawun looked up to see four flaming arrows shooting into the sky over the northeastern walls. The Mamluks were in. They had the gate. There was another cry of horns, and now lines of Mamluk cavalry, led by Amirs Dawud and Ahmed, swept out of the Mamluk encampment and across the plain.

“See!” shouted Angelo. “Your men have taken the city!”

“My lord,” said Will urgently, “you have to stop this. Now!”

But Kalawun wasn’t listening. “Who was it? Who were you working with? Which man betrayed me?”

Angelo fixed him with a belligerent stare. “Let me go and I will tell you.”

Kalawun gestured to the Mansuriyya guards holding the Venetian. “Bring him here,” he commanded, heading to one of the siege engines.

Will followed as Angelo was dragged, struggling and protesting, after the sultan. The first waves of cavalry were now halfway across the plain. A clanging of alarm bells rose from inside the city.

“Hold him down,” said Kalawun, pointing to one of the stones in the pile beside the siege engine.

“My lord?” queried one of the Mansuriyya.

“Here,” snapped Kalawun. “I want his neck on the block.”

“No!” shouted Angelo, as the guards forced him down, pressing his chest onto the stone.

Kalawun held his saber in front of him. “Who was it?”

“Give me your word that you’ll spare me,” gasped Angelo.

Kalawun paused, then lowered the blade.

“It was Officer Nasir.”

Kalawun’s face seemed to sag at these words. All color went out of his cheeks. He took another step back and turned away. Then, all at once, his face twisted with fury. He spun round, raising the sword, and swung it down at Angelo’s neck.

Angelo screamed as he saw the blade coming and tried to rise. As he lifted his head, the saber’s edge sliced down into the bald and blistered half of his skull with a blunt
crack
. There was a burst of blood and Kalawun wrenched his sword free. Unbelievably, Angelo was still alive. A high, hideous scream was issuing from his open mouth and blood was pouring from the gaping wound in his head. Kalawun struck again, gasping with the effort. This time, he found the neck. But it took two more strokes before Angelo’s head was completely severed and his gurgling scream was cut off.

The Mansuriyya had stepped away. Will stood there unable to take his eyes off Angelo’s mangled skull. Kalawun’s blue robe was blood-splattered and the blade of his saber was scarlet. Without saying a word, he pushed past Will and crossed to where several squires were waiting with horses, readied for battle. “What are you doing?” asked Will, following.

Still Kalawun didn’t answer. Sheathing his sword without cleaning it, he took the reins of one of the horses.

“My Lord Sultan,” said one of the squires, surprised. “Your horse is by the ...”

But Kalawun was pulling himself into the saddle. Will cursed and went to another of the beasts. The squire, seeing he was with the sultan, moved away uncertainly. As Kalawun galloped off, Will mounted. Jamming his heels into the flanks of the horse, he followed the sultan and the last waves of the cavalry, heading for the city gates.

By the time Will reached the city, most of the cavalry had disappeared inside. A bell was clanging frantically from the walls somewhere above, and he could see men running along the ramparts, shouting. A few arrows sailed down, not too far from him, and he ducked and urged the beast on faster, in through the gates, passing between the thick walls. Will’s horse was jostled as he entered, a mass of mounted men before and around him. Then there was movement and space as the crush of men pressed on, fanning into the streets beyond the gatehouse, leaving fifty of their comrades to hold the gates. A few corpses littered the ground: bodies of Frankish soldiers. Already, Will could hear the sounds of fighting between the buildings ahead, as men around the city heeded the alarm. Word had gone up; the north gate had been breached, and the Franks were racing to meet their enemy.

Will rode in, cursing the helmet that restricted his vision, but not daring to remove it, as he searched for Kalawun, who had disappeared in the press of men. He clattered down a narrow street between a line of stores, glimpsed a child’s face, white and staring, in a doorway, then saw a flash of blue ahead and forced his horse on, faster. He came out in a small square with a cistern at its center and saw Kalawun jumping from the saddle. There was a cluster of men beyond the cistern, one tall, slender figure issuing orders to the others. Leaving his horse, Kalawun marched across the square. The tall man turned. Will saw his face register surprise.

“My Lord Sultan?” he questioned, heading over.

“Do you know a man named Angelo Vitturi?” called Kalawun, his voice hoarse and harsh. He had drawn his saber, still red with Angelo’s blood.

Nasir’s eyes went to the blade, then back to Kalawun. “What has happened?”

Will, swinging himself down from the saddle, could discern the fear in his voice. He heard shouting from one of the streets leading off, followed by the clashing of swords echoing against the walls of the tightly packed buildings. Drawing his falchion, he hastened to Kalawun, who had halted and was facing Nasir. The sultan’s face was filled up with rage and despair, and there was no room for mercy. Will knew then that the sultan wasn’t going to listen until he had done what he had come here to do.

“Before I killed him,” said Kalawun raggedly, staring at Nasir, “the Venetian said you had betrayed me, that you were working with him against me. Tell me this isn’t true.”

Nasir’s lips pressed together. Finally, he spoke. “I cannot.” His voice was thick with emotion. “I cannot tell you that.”

Kalawun started to shake his head. “You wouldn’t do this,” he said firmly. “You wouldn’t.” He laughed. His eyes were bright and wide. “I know you, Nasir. By Allah, I
know
you!”

“You don’t,” said Nasir furiously. “Sunnis killed my family. How could I ever be one?” His voice was rising, as were the sounds of fighting in the streets beyond the square. Nasir flung up his hands. “You are deceived, Kalawun, you and all your men! You think you rule the world. But in truth you are slaves and always will be. None of you chose this life. You, me, we all came to it against our will, in chains. Our very name means
owned
! Freedom is an illusion for us. It is not real.” Nasir’s voice cracked. “I wanted . . .
All
I wanted was to live with my brother, a life that I chose. The Venetian offered me that chance. I took it.”

“I named my son after you,” murmured Kalawun, his sword falling limp by his side. “I let you into my life!”

“And you killed my brother!” Nasir moved toward him, fists raised. “Kaysan was all I had left in this world. He was my family!”

“I was your family!”
roared Kalawun, tossing aside his sword and grasping Nasir by the arms. He shook him violently. “I fed you! Clothed you! You were a brother, a
son
to me!”

Nasir made no effort to stop him, but hung slack in his grasp.

A group of men came riding into the square. Templars. One held up a bow and grasped an arrow from a quiver on his back. Will yelled a warning, half to Kalawun, half to the Templar. But the arrow was fitted, and fired.

Nasir lurched forward as the arrow thumped into the back of his neck, where there was no armor to protect him. Blood leaked from his mouth and his eyes widened up at Kalawun, who staggered back, still holding him. Nasir tried to form words, but couldn’t.

Will ducked as an arrow came whizzing toward him; then he grabbed Kalawun’s arm and hauled him away, leaving Nasir to sink to the ground. They dove into an alley as a company of Mamluks rode into the square in pursuit of the Templars.

All around the city, men were falling and dying. Within an hour, three more gates were taken and Mamluk soldiers poured in, pressing Tripoli’s defenders back toward the sea. There was no halting this battle now. The conflict was harsh and swift. Any man found on the streets was put to the sword, and even those citizens who had fled to the island of St. Thomas were not spared the massacre. The Mamluk cavalry, having swept through the city in a bloody scythe, soon reached the water, where they drove their horses into the shallows, swimming across to the island, where, the madness of battle upon them, they butchered everyone they found. Princess Lucia and her court had left several hours before, sailing out of the harbor. Only her citizens were there to witness her city’s fall.

Will managed to find horses and led Kalawun out of the city, seeing that any effort to halt the attack was futile. The only thing he could hope for was that the survivors would be spared.

Before they reached the camp, Kalawun reined in his horse and stared down at the dying city. “It’s over,” he murmured.

Will looked at him. “It doesn’t have to be. Let your men have their spoils today, my lord, let them take Tripoli’s wealth. But send the women and children to Acre. Offer a new truce to my people. They will accept. We cannot attack you; we do not have the strength. Everard de Troyes once told me that peace is sometimes bought with blood. Will the blood spilled today be enough to buy us this?”

Kalawun’s face tightened, but he nodded. His gaze drifted back to the city, where black smoke was rising. He closed his eyes.

LOMBARDY, NORTHERN ITALY, 29 MAY A.D. 1289

A large throng had gathered in the fields, the numbers swelling as word went out. A legate of Rome had come, with a message from the pope. Children were hoisted onto the shoulders of fathers to get a better look as the legate stood on a specially erected platform, his loud voice booming across their heads.

The legate was a good speaker and the people were listening. He didn’t talk about God’s will or Christian duty, or even about absolution. Having faced many a bored and unresponsive crowd this past year, sent out on Pope Nicholas’s orders, the legate had learned what the people wanted to hear. To the peasants, God happened in church, at mass, on feast days. But in the fields, carving another lean harvest out of this year’s soil, in the streets of poor towns, begging for scraps, He didn’t exist. The people didn’t want to hear about His Holy Land, about Jerusalem and Acre; places that meant little to them, spoken on the lips of travelers, passing through. They wanted to hear what a Crusade would do for them. And so the legate told them.

He told the poor peasants of Lombardy and Tuscany that in the East there was a better life. In the East, men, landless men, could find themselves property and wealth, or even become the rulers of towns. There were hundreds of jobs for skilled workers, and even those without a trade could easily learn one there. It was a prosperous place, a place of riches and beauty. Truly, Outremer was the land of milk and honey. The legate’s voice was earnest, passionate, but he spoke simply, in terms they understood. The peasants listened, borne up on his words and carried to a different world, a world of possibilities, of hope. All they had to do for it was take the Cross. There was very little fighting, the legate promised. They might be asked to help guard the walls at Acre or possibly act as auxiliary forces in a campaign if it became necessary. But ultimately, this was a small price to pay for their freedom.

That was the word Lombardy’s peasants were left with as the legate and his advisors stepped down from the platform. Freedom. It was a tantalizing, intangible word that to most of them, throughout their lives, had been as far removed as the cities he had spoken of. Freedom was a word reserved for the richer classes, for the burghers and the clergy, kings and princes. The idea that such a thing could be easily found beyond the borders of their insular lives was seductive, beguiling. They massed together after the legate’s speech, talking excitedly. Some of them dismissed his claims and took their children home, but many others congregated noisily to discuss what they had heard.

The legate patted his brow delicately with a cloth his servant handed to him and surveyed the gossiping crowd. “How his holiness ever hopes to form a new Crusade out of farmers and beggars I have no idea.”

“I don’t know, Brother,” said his advisor, looking at the mob. “They seem fairly keen to me.”

42

The Venetian Quarter, Acre 20 AUGUST A.D. 1290

There was a smile on Will’s face as he strolled through the market, a smile of pure satisfaction. These were the best days, when he wasn’t Sir Wil- liam, or Commander Campbell, when he was simply Father, his daughter’s warm hand threaded through his. Of course, he had to be careful and wore a kaffiyeh, which served to conceal his face, although he had never yet needed the disguise.

“Have you tried these, Father?”

Rose was tugging on his hand, angling toward a stall selling candies made of spun sugar, honey and spices. “What you mean,” said Will, amused, “is that you want me to buy you one.”