Templar's Acre

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

The first Baldwin knew of the trouble was the shouts. He grabbed his sword, buckling the belt as he went from the house. ‘Pietro! Keep the gate locked and barred, and don’t let anyone in except me or Sir Jacques!’ he shouted as he went.

Hundreds of Muslims and Christians were running from the city into Montmusart, and he was shocked to see the naked terror in their eyes, but then, as he hurried into the city itself, he found the reason for their panic.

It had been a wonderful harvest that year. There was grain aplenty in the markets, and traders had come in from farms all about to sell their wares. Muslims, Christians, Jews — all were to be found in Acre, generally living together without dispute or trouble.

The arrival of the Lombard and Tuscan crusaders would change that forever.

Leaving their ships, full of zeal to hunt down and slay Muslims, the newcomers were appalled to find the enemy walking freely about the city. They were peasants, not politicians, and their understanding of the situation in Acre was flimsy at best. They were disgusted to discover that Muslims were not only tolerated here, but for the most part were treated as equals. To those who had sailed hundreds of miles to protect Acre, it was intolerable to find that the city was already overrun.

Later, Baldwin heard that a man had been set upon in the street for molesting a Christian woman. They didn’t realise he was not only Christian, but her husband. His beard confused the crusaders, who thought all bearded men were Muslims and therefore the enemy. They saw a Muslim walking with a woman wearing a cross, and murdered him for his supposed offence.

That first death was only the spark that lighted the fire. Soon fights had broken out all over the city as Lombards and Tuscans ran through the alleys, far down through the Venetian quarter, up through the Pisan and Genoese sectors, and back into the main city. A hothead tried to batter his way into the Temple, but was quickly disabused of his belief that he could enter — and his unconscious body was taken away by his friends.

Many fought with resolute incomprehension. They saw strange clothes, beards and dark skin — and did not think beyond those manifestations of an alien culture. Baldwin wondered whether they could even think. They were the poor, the uneducated, the dregs of society — and most of them were drunk. All they knew was that the Pope had sanctioned their journey here to fight Muslims. So they did, wherever they found them.

His flank still smarting, Baldwin entered the old city. There was screaming from the area near the Hospital, and more from the market close to San Sabba, and he smelled burning. Wafts of smoke filled the alleys as he ran.

It was as he made his way through the streets with others summoned by the shouts that he found the first bodies: a man, his face horribly disfigured by a blow, a second victim a short distance away who had been stabbed many times. Their blood was pooled in the gutter, and Baldwin waved away flies with disgust as they tried to settle on his face. It was repellent that they would gorge themselves on the dead and then smother his face. He hurried on, and when he came near to the Genoese quarter he suddenly found himself in the middle of mayhem.

There must have been at least two hundred peasants, ill-armed, and poorly trained. A sergeant was bawling himself hoarse ordering them to stop, but those at the front were filled with bloodlust. There were already six bodies on the ground, three decapitated, and as Baldwin watched, three dragged a man forward, forced him to kneel, and a fourth, laughing with a lunatic joy, hefted a heavy butcher’s cleaver, aiming at his neck.

As his weapon reared back to strike, Baldwin reached him.

Afterwards he didn’t remember a conscious decision to protect the man kneeling and weeping with incomprehension in the dirt, but the sight so enraged Baldwin that his legs carried him across the square in an instant. He slammed into the executioner, and the man was sent sprawling, the cleaver clattering on the flagstones.

‘Release him!’ Baldwin bawled with rage, his sword already pointing dangerously at the three gripping their captive. They obeyed at once, seeing the savage anger in his face. They let go of their victim, stepping away carefully, and Baldwin felt a momentary pleasure. He had failed to protect the merchants against Roger Flor, but he would not fail this man.

There was a scrape, and he turned to see the executioner grabbing for his cleaver. Baldwin placed his booted foot on it and held his blade to the man’s breast.

‘It’s mine!’ the man said.

‘Leave it where it is!’ Baldwin rasped.

The crowd muttered angrily, and all might have ended badly, had it not been for a party of Hospitallers who entered the square, swords at the ready, closely followed by twenty Genoese crossbowmen. The mob-lunacy dissipated at the sight of the weapons facing them. The victim had fallen, and was retching drily on all fours in the blood of the other bodies, and Baldwin felt a pang as he glanced at them.

‘Why have you done this?’ he demanded loudly to the people nearest. ‘Isn’t it enough that we are in danger already, without killing our friends?’

‘They aren’t our friends,’ the executioner spat. His face twitched, while a hand scrabbled at his lice-infested beard. ‘They’re Moors — our enemy! If you don’t kill them, you are a heathen like them! Blasphemer!’

‘Really?’ Baldwin sneered. He reached down to the throat of the nearest corpse and pulled away the simple wooden cross he had seen there. ‘So now you think Muslims worship Christ as do you or I? You’ve murdered Christians, you fool!’

He dropped the little necklace back onto the body. A Hospitaller stepped forward and grabbed hold of the executioner to lead him away.

But Baldwin had heard another scream, and he hurried to a nearby alley. As the Hospitallers led away their captive, other men of Acre appeared. There were five behind him now, and seeing that he had their support, he called them to him, and ran into the alley.

Into the Genoese quarter.

It was after prayers, and Abu al-Fida was feeling that temporary ease which always struck him afterwards. Prayers helped him think of his lovely Aisha and his daughters more calmly. It took away the harsh edge of sadness, and replaced it with a softer pain that was at least bearable.

‘What is that noise?’ Abu al-Fida said as they left the lane and entered a broad roadway.

Usmar’s face was white. ‘A rabble — they are beating men, Father!’

‘Come — here,’ Abu al-Fida said, thinking to evade them. He led the way back down the alley, and at the end was going to turn up the next, when they saw more men coming towards them. This time, there were only six or seven — not enough to alarm him.

Usmar murmured, ‘Father, shouldn’t we go-’

‘Come. This is Acre, not some provincial village,’ Abu al-Fida said. He continued, and smiled politely at the men walking the other way.

One nodded, and a second grinned, but then there was a shout behind him, and Abu al-Fida turned in surprise to find that another group of men was pointing at him and calling out. As he watched, they started to run towards him.

‘Usmar,’ he said, ‘go!’

‘I cannot leave you!’

‘You must! Run!’

Usmar set off, and perhaps it was that which made the men act as they did. Usmar was grabbed as he bolted past, and his body slammed to the ground. Then, although Abu al-Fida shouted and tried to get to his son, he saw the flash of a blade.

Strange. Afterwards, all he could recall was that flashing blade, as it rose and fell again, until a red mistiness enveloped him.

A hideous blow caught his neck and he was thrown to the ground, his head an insupportable weight, as though made of lead, and he lay with his cheek against the gravel in the roadway, while he heard the sound of a man choking.

Later, when the men in the white tunics arrived and drove the mob away, he realised the choking had come from his son.

But by then it was too late to help him.