Templar's Acre

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

Abu al-Fida left the gate and kept walking. There was nothing for him here, not now. The attack in the street had shown him that. One man had helped him, but what was one man amongst the teeming thousands of the city?

His entire family was dead. His life had ended.

He stared about him as he passed through the tents and shabby houses erected at the outer wall, his feet moving mechanically. Every so often, he peered down, half-surprised that he still carried the basket. It was such a heavy object, and ungainly. But it held his son’s clothes.

Some said that the Sultan would avenge the murder of Muslims. The Sultan believed in justice and honour. Perhaps he would listen to Abu al-Fida about Usmar, his son.

His son.

The clothes in the basket were rough with dried blood, and he felt the air leave his lungs at the sight of them again. His breast was empty. All love, all hope were eradicated, for what point was there in either of those things when a man had lost his son? A man lived to raise his son, because that was the greatest duty.

Tottering, he fell to his knees in the sand and dirt of the roadway, the basket tumbling before him. His right palm scraped along a sharp edge of stone, and he stared at the thick, welling blood. So bright and dark, like his son’s had been. But he could not weep for his boy. There were no tears in him. Not yet.

Rising, he took his son’s clothing and balled it in his fists, gripping it tightly. This city was a place of evil, a city founded on hatred. While the murdering Franks remained, there could be no peace in Islam. It was an affront to Allah that they remained. They should be slain to show that no matter who attempted to steal the Holy Land, they would suffer the same death. Their wailing and screams of agony would rise from Hell to give a caution to the living, so that no more would cross the seas to come here and slay the innocent.

In his hands there was a ball of material, and he gazed at it again, and then the horror returned.

His son Usmar was dead.

He had reached the outskirts of Acre now and he stopped, staring north and south. Where should he go? Where could he go?

And then a ruthless determination made itself felt. Once, he had been a warrior. He had seen death in all its forms, and he had decided to give up the path of war, but he still had those former skills. He knew how to make machines that could reduce the walls of Acre to rubble.

He turned and stared at those walls now, his entire being filled with loathing. That was his duty. He must bring the walls down. And there was one place to go to ensure that.

Abu al-Fida set his face to the south-east.

Behind him, he heard a pony whicker, and in a moment a merchant with a cart was rumbling at his side.

‘Salaam aleikum,’ the man said, peering at him. ‘My friend, are you unwell?’

‘They killed him. The Franks killed my son,’ he burst out, then clamped his mouth shut to prevent more words escaping. He knew he must keep them inside, imprisoned, so that when he could give witness, he could allow them all to fly free and tell of the guilt of the men who had murdered his son.

So that he could win the justice he needed, the justice his son deserved.

Lucia spent a second uncomfortable night and woke hungry. There was a pot of water, but she had not been given food, and when she rose to her feet, all her muscles ached. Her flank and back were one enormous bruise.

The bottler came again. He took her by the arm and half-dragged her up the stairs to the house itself, and thence to the garden. Lady Maria sat on a stone bench while one maid washed her feet and a second used a reed to dab henna onto her hands in intricate patterns.

She looked at Lucia without feeling. ‘You look awful, child.’

‘I have done nothing wrong,’ Lucia said, and rebelliously held her chin up.

‘So you say.’ The woman’s voice was dispassionate. ‘If that is true, so be it. Wipe your eyes. You need not worry about the bottler again. He will remain here.’

‘What do you mean?’ Lucia said dully.

‘I cannot trust you. You will go to one of the farms.’

‘No, please,’ Lucia said. The farms were out in the plains — hot, harsh places, where overseers whipped and raped their charges. ‘Please, let me stay with you, Mistress.’

‘With me? Looking like that?’ Maria said with a laugh. ‘My friends would think I had lost my mind. No, you must go. And if. .’ She took her hand away from the maid with the henna and stood, walking slowly and deliberately to Lucia. ‘If you tell a soul about me, and you hurt my reputation, I will have you flayed alive. Or perhaps I should put your eyes and tongue out before you go?’

‘Please!’

Maria stared down at her as she fell to her knees, hands up in supplication, but when Lucia looked up, there was only contempt in her face.

‘Go!’

‘The best way, Sir Otto, is to begin at the west side and cross the walls to the other,’ Ivo said.

They were walking to the outer wall, and Baldwin paid scant attention as he peered at his ring, rubbed at it, and rotated it on his finger with his thumb. He had not appreciated how much he had missed it, in truth.

Sir Otto had been sent to help protect Acre, and, ‘Whether the Sultan has agreed peace or no, I should investigate the defences in case his attitude changes.’

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.