Templar's Acre

CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT

In the Genoese quarter Buscarel was worried about the possible siege. His wife Cecilia kept to the house as much as possible, fretful about their fate.

It was the same matter that exercised the Council.

In every city where Genoa had a trading presence, an admiral would congregate a small council of traders of standing to discuss how best to achieve greater prominence for Genoa’s interests. Today they met over a meal seated about a table in Admiral Zaccaria’s house.

‘Gentlemen!’ Admiral Zaccaria said, when the Council members were all present. He was a short man with a body like old oak, brown and hard, and as he lifted his glass to them in a silent toast, the gold on his fingers and about his neck glinted. ‘We are living in difficult times. We all know the situation: war approaches. What should we do?’

‘There is only one course open to us,’ Grimaldi said. At three and thirty, he was nearer Buscarel’s age than the Admiral’s, although his belly was larger, and he had taken to the customs of the East more than any of the other Genoese of the quarter. ‘If the city is attacked, we have no place here. We should emulate the Venetians and take to our ships.’

‘No, I do not agree.’ Buscarel stood and leaned on the table, meeting the eyes of each in turn. ‘If we depart, we leave the city to others, and we cannot share in any triumph.’

‘Triumph?’ Grimaldi laughed, but with incredulity plastered on his face. He cast a hand about the others present. ‘How many of us anticipate a triumph if there is outright war with al-Ashraf?’

‘He has no navy,’ Buscarel said immediately. ‘If our ships bring supplies, the Muslims must fail. The worst enemy of any army is stagnation and disease. If they remain outside our walls in a protracted siege, they will grow indolent, and then disease must strike, just as all previous armies have learned. They will go, and once they have gone, Acre will be stronger than ever before. Just think of the glory in our status then.’

Buscarel had known Grimaldi would be the hardest man to persuade. He was all for an easy life, while Buscarel was happy to take risks if it meant greater profits.

‘Acre would be the jewel of the East — our East!’ he went on. ‘For Venice is known for her cowardice in the face of the Muslims. Look at their actions in Tripoli two years ago. They took all they could, and fled. It was the sight of their ships leaving the harbour that persuaded Qalawun he could storm the city. They will do the same here — they have no belly for a fight. When they leave, we shall be here to bring supplies and maintain the city. And then we shall reap the rewards, too.’

‘Rewards? Our likely rewards will be death by a Muslim sword,’ Grimaldi scoffed. ‘No, I say that when the army comes — and it will, my friends, it will — then we should be prepared to depart. There is no profit in being slaughtered.’

‘There is no profit in running away, either,’ Buscarel said. He curled his lip, staring full at the Admiral. If Zaccaria was with him, all the others would follow, with or without Grimaldi. And Zaccaria would not want to take the coward’s way out. ‘We are Genoese. We know that to get rich, we need to take risks. Would our children feel pride in their fathers and their city, were they to learn that we had fled?’

‘This is not a question of pride, Buscarel. This is simple business,’ Grimaldi said. ‘We are here to make money, nothing else. If the Muslims destroy the city, our reason for being here has gone.’

‘What do you say?’ Buscarel asked of the other men at the table.

Zaccaria sucked at his teeth, then took a long draught of wine. ‘This is a matter of money. If we stay, do we make more money, or less? I suspect we would make less.’

‘But think of the future. If there is no Acre, what will we lose in the traffic of pilgrims and crusaders across the Mediterranean? The losses would be enormous.’ Buscarel was startled that Zaccaria could go against him in this. Surely the Admiral could see that the world would view a flight of Genoese ships as a matter of betrayal. ‘We would be looked upon as traitors to the Christian faith, were we to run before heathens. If our action cost us Acre, how would others view us?’

‘How would they view us if we remained to be slaughtered, like the poor city-folk of Tripoli?’ Grimaldi said heavily. ‘For me, there is no choice. To remain would be folly. I say we conclude as much business as possible, and when the time comes, as it must, we return home.’

‘This is my home!’ Buscarel declared.

His vehemence surprised even himself. Others looked on this city as a trading post, he knew — just one of a number of little colonies strung about the seas for the benefit of Genoa. But to him it was much more. He had founded his family here, perhaps even begun a dynasty to rival the Luchettos and Zaccarias. But the Council were taking away his dreams.

‘Can you not see that your home is to be brought down over your head?’ Grimaldi demanded. ‘Don’t be a fool!’

‘I would rather die here than run and live as a coward,’ Buscarel said. He looked at the faces about the table. They were all decided. Not one looked up and met his gaze.

‘So be it,’ he said.

Pietro hurried by with an anxious expression on his face, and Lucia was intrigued, despite her inner desperation. He had been carrying a basket, and his face looked as though he wished he were not.

She had been working on her clothing, trying to mend a long rent in the skirts with needle and thread, but no matter what she tried, the material was so worn and frayed, the thread slipped through the fabric. She needed a new tunic, if she was to appear in public without embarrassment.

Again, Pietro scurried past like a rabbit with the hound behind, and she was tempted to laugh aloud at his earnest, fretful demeanour. ‘What is it?’ she called, but he was gone.

With a sigh, she set the needle by the ball of thread, and went to see what was troubling him so. Pietro had been a surly old man since the moment he had set eyes on her, but she wasn’t afraid of him. Sullen looks couldn’t scare her, when she was used to whips. She saw him slip into a chamber that had been used for storage. This intrigued her, and she followed without trying to conceal her interest.

The chamber was set into the southern wall of the house, parallel with the old city wall, and was sparsely furnished. There was a palliasse on the floor now, and as she craned her neck round the doorframe, she saw a naked man lying on it while Pietro washed him with water. A pot of scented oil stood nearby, the odour fighting valiantly, if unsuccessfully, against the stench of vomit.

She recognised Edgar from the day of the riot. ‘What is he doing here?’ she asked.

‘Eh? Oh, it’s you. Master Baldwin brought him here,’ Pietro said. ‘You remember him?’

‘Yes — but what has happened to him?’

Pietro told her the little that he had gathered from Baldwin and Sir Jacques, and she crouched at Edgar’s side. ‘He has a fever,’ she said, resting a hand on his forehead.

‘Aye. I could have told you that,’ Pietro said, as though infuriated with her for stating the obvious while he was doing all he could to help the man.

‘You have enough to do. Let me see to him,’ she said.

‘I can do it,’ he protested, but without his usual stubbornness. He reached to the bucket, dipping the cloth in the water.

She placed her hand on his. ‘I have nothing else to do,’ she said quietly. She made no move, but sat back on her haunches, staring at him, her hand still on his. ‘Please.’

He glanced up and caught the full impact of her sad eyes. ‘Oh, very well,’ he declared. He passed her the damp scrap of linen with which he had been mopping Edgar’s brow, and levered himself upright with an effort. ‘Call me if you need anything. Poor devil has been badly knocked about. Someone’s tried to break his head, I think.’

She nodded, reaching forward and wetting the material again, wringing it out and placing it gently on Edgar’s forehead. He moaned quietly as she did so, and she felt her heart move to think that the man who had helped to save her that day might be in danger of his life.

‘You are safe here,’ she promised in a whisper. ‘Be strong.’