Templar's Acre

CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

Baldwin and the others were led to a huge house that seemed more of a palace than a home. There, quarters were made available. To his surprise, Baldwin was not to share a bed with his companions. Each had their own mattress. Baldwin’s bed had clean linen sheets smelling of roses, and when he tumbled between them, sleep took him swiftly.

He slept well, and for the first time in ages, he dreamed of Lucia. He was desperately searching for her in a crowd of veiled women who were similarly clad in emerald. He rushed from one to another, seeking her eyes amongst a multitude of brown, blue, hazel ones. But they were never hers. Never the ones he sought. Then, as he came to the last woman, he saw it was her, and ran to her, pleading for her to marry him. . but even as he drew near, Maria appeared behind her, and he saw the knife’s blade draw slowly across Lucia’s throat. She collapsed, the gush of blood turning her beautiful gown to black, and Baldwin could do nothing but clench his fists. Even his wail of despair was somehow stifled. He could do nothing, say nothing, to save her. Then Maria’s face changed, until it became that of Emir al-Fakhri’s son. He smiled as he stared at Baldwin over Lucia’s body, and Baldwin saw more bodies lining the streets. All the women he had seen were dead.

A hand on his arm shook him from his dreams, and he grabbed for his sword, until the world returned, and he recognised a servant. The man bowed low, and Baldwin realised it was daytime. For a while he could not move, as his heart returned to its usual rhythm. He only hoped no one had been disturbed by his dreams. He would be a laughing stock.

Baldwin did not like being so far from those whom he trusted: the grim but homely Ivo, the stern, resolute Otto de Grandison, the Templars. . He felt like an exile.

He rose, washed his face in water that held rose petals to give a delicious scent, and dressed himself. His clothes had been washed, and now the tunic that had been filthy after more than a week of travelling, smelled fresh and looked almost new, apart from the many marks of fading.

On a paved terrace outside, he found Roger Flor, who was glancing at the rich decorations and gilded figures with the eye of a man who could assess the value of goods from thirty paces. Servants brought meats and watered wine, bowing low, as though Baldwin and Roger were royalty.

‘Where are the others?’ Baldwin asked.

‘Already gone. We weren’t necessary. With luck they’ll speak with Qalawun, and we can soon return to Acre. Have you seen the quality of this workmanship?’ he asked, lifting a goblet of glass. ‘The best the Venetians could produce, this is.’

‘Venetian?’

‘Aye. They don’t make much, but what they do make is very good. Look at this! Fine, light and robust.’

‘What of it?’ Baldwin asked.

‘I was thinking: the Venetians make good profits from trading with Egypt. How hard will they fight to protect Acre if it’s against the will of Qalawun?’

‘They have the best location in Acre,’ Baldwin pointed out. ‘They would be mad to compromise their position for a little profit. They need Acre as much as anyone.’

‘I hope they remember that.’

Baldwin left him, following the path they had taken the previous day to the water’s edge, staring out over the smooth, still lake, and he was there when Omar appeared with an older man.

‘Good day, my friend,’ Omar said. ‘This is my father, the Emir al-Fakhri.’

The Emir was shorter than Baldwin, and above his black, glistening beard, his face was sorely pocked. His belly asserted his wealth, and his eyes were surrounded with laughter lines — but today those eyes were not merry. He looked troubled.

‘Please, you will walk with us,’ Omar said, a hand indicating a path that led about the lake. Columns rose on either side, as if it had once been a building. ‘My father speaks your language only poorly, so he has asked me to come and translate for him.’

‘Of course,’ Baldwin said. ‘How may I serve him?’

‘Your envoys are with Qalawun now,’ Omar said, watching his father’s mouth. ‘They are in the chamber with Qalawun’s men even as we speak. He will demand money.’

‘I suppose it will be a vast sum,’ Baldwin said.

‘A vast sum, yes. But worthwhile, if the Franks wish to remain. However, it is high in his mind to remove the Christians from Acre. You must let the Grand Master de Beaujeu know this: if the city pays this money, it will buy a little time. In a year, perhaps two, Qalawun will see Acre demolished.’

‘What of the value of the city as a trading centre? Without the Venetians and Genoese, how will he sell goods to the Christians?’

The older man stared at Baldwin with amusement before speaking to his son.

‘My father says, “Why would he care?” You have to understand that to a Muslim, the sight of your people is an abomination. They do not belong here. We have a duty to protect our holy places, and those of your religion do not honour them.’

‘But it must be good to have so many ships bringing money to buy your goods?’

‘If Acre is destroyed, we shall have more ships come to Cairo, or to one of Qalawun’s other cities. But the merchants who earn the money will be Muslim, and our people shall wax strong and wealthy, while yours will wane. Do you think Muslims may not negotiate for themselves? We are perfectly competent to buy and sell without your intervention.’

His voice had grown angry. Baldwin placated him. ‘I meant no insult to you or your peoples, Omar. It was my only desire to learn.’

‘And now you have. Be assured that before four years are passed, your city of Acre will be destroyed. Qalawun will take it apart stone from stone, just as he did Tripoli. And then the churches will be consecrated in the True Faith, and all vestiges of Christian rule will be eradicated. Only then will the Nation of Islam rise again.’

‘Why does your father tell me all this?’ Baldwin asked.

‘Because your Templar master pays us well and because there is nothing you may do to prevent the inevitable. So while we speak, it will not benefit you. We do not betray our peoples or Islam. We tell you what must be.’

‘Should we pay the ransom?’ Baldwin asked, staring at the Emir.

‘My father says, “It is up to you. Pay the sum demanded, and see the Sultan’s armies destroy Acre in a year or two; or do not pay and see the city laid waste in weeks”.’

‘Is there nothing we might do to protect ourselves?’ Baldwin asked, feeling a cold certainty that the Muslim’s words were spoken from conviction.

‘Nothing. Acre will cease to exist, and all those within her walls may expect the same pity as those who lived at Tripoli.’