Templar's Acre

CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO

When the Genoese ships slipped their moorings and rowed into the bay, there forming up into their fleet, Buscarel was at the harbour watching, gloom filling his soul. He could have gone with them. Perhaps he should have, but the thought of deserting his city was too hard. His heart was in his throat as the first of the ships moved slowly past the Tower of Flies and out to sea, and he felt dizzy, like a man who has spent too much time in the sun. But when the third ship had gone out, suddenly all that disappeared, to be replaced by a bitter rage.

‘Damn them,’ he swore.

This was his home. He wouldn’t run from it.

The ships unfurled their great sails, and he felt a lurch in his gut to see how the pennants fluttered. From over the sea, he heard the creaking of the cordage, the straining cracks of the timbers, as the wind caught the canvas. The sun. It was odd to think that this could be the last time he ever saw his country’s fleet — because it would not return. That had been made plain.

Zaccaria had invited him to the Admiral’s house. ‘We cannot get back in time to rescue people if things go badly,’ he had warned him.

‘There are women and children to be taken away,’ Buscarel said. ‘You could carry some to Cyprus.’

‘We are clearing our warehouses,’ Zaccaria told him. ‘We both know that when the Muslims arrive, they will destroy the city.’

‘Not if there are enough men here to defend her. If the women and children could be evacuated, so that only fighting men remained, we could protect Acre,’ Buscarel declared.

‘No. You cannot hope to do that.’ Zaccaria shook his head. ‘So we have to empty all our goods from here. The investment in buildings is a sore loss, but we can do nothing about them. Besides, it is good that this city was Venice’s jewel. The loss will hurt her more than us.’

‘This is a Christian city, Admiral. Could you not bring back men? Even a few thousand would help, and if you-’

‘No. I will return to Genoa and tell our people what I believe: that Acre is lost. There is no point sending ships or men here to die,’ Zaccaria said flatly. ‘If you have any sense, my friend, you will come with us.’

‘While there is hope, I must remain,’ Buscarel argued. ‘One question: will you take my woman and sons with you? I would be happier to know that they were safe.’

‘They must go to Cyprus with the other women and children. There will be scarcely enough room on my ship for my goods.’

‘Please, Admiral. All I ask is a little space. They will take less room than I would.’

‘Yes, but they cannot work their passage like you would. Perhaps if you had not lost a second ship to the Templars last year, there would be more space aboard, but as it is, with one ship fewer in my fleet, it is going to be a tight fit.’

‘Then I will remain here with them.’

‘Then you will die. And die a fool, at that.’

‘Perhaps. But I won’t die a coward!’

Zaccaria looked at him bleakly. ‘Be careful how you speak to me, Buscarel.’

‘Or what? You will leave me here to die?’ Buscarel laughed scornfully.

Today, he walked along the harbour, then out along the breakwater to the Tower of Flies where he climbed the steps to the very top, staring out to sea.

‘They’ve all gone, have they?’ one of the garrison of sentries asked, watching the Genoese ships with him.

‘Yes.’

‘Are they coming back?’

‘No. They sail away to protect their money,’ Buscarel said.

‘Well, we’re better off without them, then,’ the sentry said with a shrug.

Buscarel stared at him, dumbfounded. And then he began to feel his despondency fall away. ‘Yes,’ he agreed. ‘Yes, I suppose we are.’

The plans for the evacuation of the majority of women and children were already well advanced, when Baldwin met Ivo for lunch.

The two had been working their men on the walls near the Tower of St Nicholas, and now they sat and rested their backs against the wall in the shade of the new hoarding roof while they chewed bread and drank thin ale.

‘This ale’s going off already,’ Ivo said with a wince.

‘Well, it gives you an excuse to drink it all the faster,’ Baldwin chuckled.

Ivo gave him a dirty look, but Baldwin was in a good mood. He had the trust of his men, and for all that their situation was alarming, he was determined not to show concern. When the fellows needed to be jollied along, it was Ivo who invariably sprang into action, making them laugh, and forget adversity.

Baldwin and his men spent that day strengthening the catapult-bases on top of the towers. In the last few days they had constructed larger ones behind the city’s walls, too, up near the Lazar Gate and the Gate of Maupas, where the defences had been insufficient beforehand. The timber from Venice had been put to good use. With the catapults being built now, the city could retaliate with determination against any attack.

Later, when Baldwin returned to the house, Pietro let him in wearing an expression of great irritation. ‘Worse and worse,’ he snapped.

‘Eh?’ Baldwin asked, but then Pietro was gone, and Baldwin walked through to the garden.

The weather was improving now, and the table and chairs had been taken from the house and put back into the garden. Here, the sound of the birds singing in the little fruit trees was a source of delight always to Ivo, and he liked to sit with his eyes closed, listening.

Today, however, he sat with his eyes wide open, a mazer of wine in his hand. When Baldwin walked in, the young man could see the bleak expression in his eyes.

Lucia was there, and she brought him a mazer of wine, bowing her head. He wished she could stop behaving like a slave, treating him like a master who had power of life and death over her, but there seemed nothing he could do or say that would change her manner to him.

‘Thank you,’ he said, taking the cup and drinking deeply. It was hot working on the towers, and his throat was parched. Then: ‘Ivo, what’s the matter?’

The older man walked to the table and sat down next to a large bowl of olives. A dish of seafood was soon brought in by Pietro. ‘Likely won’t have decent food much longer,’ the servant grumbled to himself as he set out the food, and left again.

Baldwin sat, and motioned to Lucia to join them. She shook her head quickly, and went out to the kitchen to help Pietro.

‘What is it?’ he asked Ivo again, his eyes on Lucia as she left.

‘Would you believe, the Grand Master of the German Order has resigned.’

Baldwin stared at him. ‘Burchard von Schwanden? Why?’

‘He thinks himself incompetent for the task ahead. It will serve to demoralise many of the men here in the city, just as we prepare to defend her.’

‘Who will take his place?’

‘Conrad von Feuchtwangen.’

‘Do you know him?’

‘No, I’ve never had any dealings with him,’ Ivo said. He stared about him, looking depressed. ‘I have done all I can to maintain the spirits of the men here, to try to keep them keen and ready for the fight, but the idea that the Grand Master of a religious Order could resign his position will affect everyone.’

Baldwin was struck by Ivo’s sombre mood. If even he could become downcast, Baldwin felt that there was little hope for anyone.