Templar's Acre

CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

They had arrived by ship at the coast near Damietta, a voyage of some two hundred miles, and Baldwin was fascinated to see the land as the galley deposited him, along with Roger Flor and three others, at the mouth of a wide river.

Their route took them down to Damietta, thence to Mansourah, and onward to Cairo, a journey of another four days.

The huge city stood on the side of the river. Gold glittered from its domed buildings, and the minarets gleamed white. All about the city was a vast series of canals and smaller waterways. Baldwin had heard how the river broke its banks each year, and he guessed these channels were dug in order to take flood waters, but it was a passing thought as he took in the citadel on its own prominence behind the city.

‘Grand sight, eh?’ Roger Flor said as they trotted towards a gateway with tall towers either side.

Baldwin nodded. Roger Flor’s presence on the journey had been a worrying development, but the other man had gone out of his way to be pleasant. Neither had mentioned the riding out, and Baldwin found his company refreshing although he heeded Ivo’s warning to beware and watch Flor during the journey. Ivo had been more worried about Flor than Baldwin thought necessary, but it was worth being on his guard.

Roger Flor shook his head. ‘It would put Acre to shame, this. By Saint Peter, it would put even Jerusalem to shame!’ He smiled at Baldwin, but then caught sight of the young man’s expression. ‘What is it?’

‘Look!’

They had come around a small hill, and beyond it Baldwin had caught sight of a vast gathering of men. The land rose behind them, so the full immensity of the camp was plain. Black and white pavilions stood dotted all over, with gaily fluttering flags, but it was the sheer number of men that shocked Baldwin. It was as if a giant had kicked over the top of an ant heap, and exposed these teeming black-clad figures

‘Sweet Christ’s cods!’ Roger swore with shock. ‘How can they feed and maintain such an army?’

The rest of their party were, like Baldwin and Roger, staring with wild speculation. It was a relief to ride nearer the city and lose the view behind other hills.

Cairo was a maze of small alleys on either side of one broad road that cut through the middle, paved and clean. Shops lined the streets, and above were living quarters; their owners stood and discussed their trades, all falling silent as Baldwin and his party rode past. Baldwin wondered for some while what it was that caused the people such concern. ‘You would think that they have never seen horses before,’ he muttered from the side of his mouth. ‘The army outside the walls had horse-lines, I am sure.’

‘No, horses they have aplenty,’ Roger chuckled. ‘It’s you they’re interested in. They won’t have seen too many Franks here in the city. Not since King Louis was captured.’

‘That was more than twenty years ago, wasn’t it?’

‘Nearer forty. An entire Crusading army destroyed by the French King,’ Roger said, and spat into the street. ‘And he destroyed the Templars who were with him. All for no gain.’

They were riding through the city and then they were out the other side and heading towards the main castle — but before they were halfway there, their guide took them over to a large lake, and here Baldwin and the others could at last drop wearily from their horses and take in their surroundings.

‘What a city!’ Baldwin said. ‘It is vast!’

‘Beats Genoa — or even Paris,’ Roger agreed.

‘Cairo is the leading city in the whole of the Mameluk lands,’ a voice said, and Baldwin saw a tall, turbaned man walking towards him. ‘Salaam aleikum.’

Baldwin responded politely, studying him. He was chubby, and carried a curved sword at his side, but for all that he was heavily bearded, and had a face as dark as any Saracen, he was plainly not a natural Muslim. He smiled and grasped Baldwin’s hand before waving the party to a pavilion by the side of the lake. ‘Come, you will need to refresh yourselves. I have water and juices to slake your thirst, and there are many fruits. Please, come and rest.’

Baldwin sat on thick cushions in the pavilion. It was held aloft on four tall shafts like spears, and cords anchored the roof to pegs. There was a soothing snap and rustle overhead, and it was good to feel the air soughing past. He opened his neck to it, allowing the breeze to cool his skin. After the ride in the hot sun, the soft wind from the lake waters was giving rise to a sense of well-being. He could happily have closed his eyes — but were he to do so, he knew he would be unable to stop his snores. Even so, it was difficult to keep his eyelids open, and he had to smother many a yawn. Food was brought, delicate cakes and pastries. He ate and drank with relish, gratefully accepting juice from another servant.

Refreshed, he took in his surroundings. There were many of the strange palm trees he had come to recognise, and plenty of bushes. Roses bloomed in profusion, and other flowers. This garden belonged to their wealthy host. He was about five years older than Baldwin, who thought he looked rather dissolute. Perhaps he had spent too much time here with the Saracens.

‘How long have you lived here?’ he asked when there was a moment’s pause in the conversation.

‘I have lived here all my life,’ the man said. ‘My father is the Emir al-Fakhri. I am his son, Omar.’

Baldwin was thrown into embarrassment. ‘My apologies. I assumed you were Christian.’

‘No, but my mother was, and I have lived amongst Christians. You hold less terror for me, than for my countrymen.’

‘How is that?’

‘I have dealings with your masters, the Templars,’ Omar said easily.

Baldwin nodded, but immediately felt less secure. He disliked the thought that he was surrounded by Saracens, in a Saracen land, being fed by Saracen hands. Never before had he felt so entirely vulnerable.

Roger Flor saw his face and laughed, reaching for dates. ‘My young friend is anxious.’

‘Why? He is our guest,’ Omar said, bemused.

‘He doesn’t realise that you earn much of your money from trading with the Templars,’ Roger said.

Baldwin bridled at being ridiculed. He listened as the two discussed the present situation, and Omar expressed sadness that matters had reached such a pass.

‘He will not draw back from the brink, I think. Qalawun has a pretext for war in all the dead Muslims. Why did your people have to kill them? It was ridiculously stupid.’

‘They were drunk,’ Roger said with certainty. ‘Peasants and wine. A bad mix.’ He spat out a date stone.

‘Such rashness. It is a miracle the Crusaders have held their lands all this time,’ Omar said.

‘So, will we meet the Sultan?’ Roger asked.

‘Perhaps, or perhaps one of his officials. I do not know. He will expect good compensation to save Acre.’

‘So his armies will march on the city?’

‘Of course. Men have been killed. That, to the Sultan, means you have broken your treaty of peace, so he must come to enforce his peace over the land.’

‘What would he accept to prevent it? Money?’

‘Perhaps.’ The man considered, leaning back on his elbow and gazing over the water. ‘But if you would know my mind, I would say that if he does demand money, it will be only a shortlived peace. He is determined to take Acre and all within it.’