Templar's Acre

CHAPTER SEVENTY-TWO

That night, Baldwin did not return to the house. He was desperate to go to Lucia, and to hold her, to lie with her, as though in her bed he would be safe from the rocks flying through the air, but even as he made to return from the harbour, he heard the cries of men pleading for help.

‘What’s that?’

Hob jerked a thumb. ‘Look at the fires.’

Swearing under his breath, Baldwin hurried up the roads to the city centre, Uther at his heels. The scene that met his eyes was one of horror. Fires had broken out through the whole of the eastern section near the Patriarch’s Tower: there were eight great conflagrations near the church itself. Gathering himself, he bellowed for Hob to join him.

Hob was soon with him, and began to issue commands. In moments a boy had been sent to find Anselm and Thomas and the rest of the vintaine, while Hob and Baldwin sent another to find buckets. There seemed to be none about the area — all had been taken to the walls, where the fires had been burning already. Baldwin spotted the young James of Gibelet again and told him to run to the Templars and beg for any spare men they had, and all the buckets they could provide.

The Patriarch, a rather short, plump man with a white robe and cap, was standing before his cathedral, praying with his eyes squeezed tight shut. Two of his clerks were behind him, in the same attitude of prayer. Baldwin spoke to one, asking him to join them in helping put out the flames.

‘Leave us, man! We are praying to save the cathedral,’ he snapped.

‘God might consider helping you more if you helped put out the fires around your church!’ Baldwin snarled back.

‘Sir, we have buckets,’ Hob announced, and Baldwin was relieved to see a small force of Templars hurrying up.

One of them was Roger Flor, who gazed about him quizzically. ‘Not looking good, is it?’

‘It’ll be better when you’ve helped put out the worst of it,’ Baldwin said.

‘Aye,’ Roger said. Bernat was with him and the two strode over to join their companions in their brown tunics. Soon a chain of men was organised, and buckets were being manhandled up to the nearest fires, and while Baldwin felt the flesh on his face scorching in the heat, at least he saw that the advance of the flames was being halted.

Uther was running about and yelping with excitement, or perhaps fear, and Baldwin saw a man aim a kick at him. He didn’t like to see a dog harmed, but for now he left the fellow alone. Uther retired, with a slinking hurt pride, which may have saved his life.

Moments after he had gone, there was a loud rumble, and Baldwin had to lunge away, taking Hob with him, as a wall collapsed, the stones glowing dully from their heat. Some fell into a pool of water, and instantly a cloud of steam rose. Then suddenly there was an explosion, and bits and pieces of stone shot all about. A man gave a thin scream, and clapped his hand to his face when a shard of red-hot stone lodged in his cheek. Others had to hold him down as he threshed about, and cut the stone out with a knife. Baldwin saw the next buildings begin to smoulder, and to his relief Hob gave orders for the men to hurry with the water again.

And so the work continued all through the night. At times Baldwin thought that they were getting the better of their enemy, and at last the flames were beginning to die down, but even as he had the thought, another wave of clay pots filled with Greek fire hurtled over the walls towards them.

One smashed on the ground before Baldwin, and he felt the liquid hit his tunic, but by some miracle, the contents did not ignite. Three or four others landed in the road or on buildings, and Baldwin and Hob were hard put to have the men stop the fires from taking hold again. It was not easy. The flames seemed impervious to water, and while the men threw bucket after bucket at them, still the flames continued to burn. Then, while the men were running about trying to douse one fire, a further pot crashed to earth near the cathedral, and instantly one of the two clerks was immersed in a column of flame. His figure could be seen encased within the fire, still bent and praying, and then slowly tumbled to the ground.

Baldwin swore under his breath. He grasped the Patriarch and his remaining clerk, pulling them from their contemplations, and shoving them away. ‘If you won’t help, you can at least get out of our way,’ he shouted.

The Patriarch nodded, staring at his dead clerk. ‘I don’t understand,’ he said with a pained voice.

‘Who does?’ Baldwin snarled.

* * *

Baldwin and Hob worked until the sun lit the horizon. In the orange glow of so many fires, it was hard to appreciate that this new light was not merely a hellish reflection, but soon Baldwin realised he could see Hob’s face.

Every crease was black, filled with soot from a hundred houses, from the remnants of clothing and wood. His eyes gleamed, the whites reddened with soreness, and his lashes were darker, like a woman’s lined with kohl. But most of all it was the weariness that Baldwin saw, and knew that he was every bit as exhausted.

They had fought the fires all night, but even now, the sun brought no respite. The thunder and crash of the missiles shattering and scattering their flames far and wide was just as prevalent as it had been in the middle of the night.

‘Hob, go and get some rest. I’ll see you on the wall,’ Baldwin said.

‘Aye,’ Hob said, and called hoarsely to the rest of their men. Soon they were shuffling away, and Baldwin called to Uther, who was cowering under a cart.

‘Come, little fellow,’ Baldwin said. He took a moment to crouch and stroke his dog.

The road here had lost many houses. Remains of their masonry stood up like blackened teeth against the glowing sky.

‘Sweet Jesus,’ Baldwin murmured, remembering his first glimpse of the city from the ship. Back then, it had been a city of gold, he had thought. Now it was possessed by a demonic glow. Gradually he became aware of a strange stillness. There were still one or two crashes as rocks hit the city, but many of the machines seemed to have fallen silent.

He stood, carrying Uther, made his way to the walls and climbed the stairs. At this point, a large section of hoarding had been crushed and burned away, and there was little timber to replace it. It did at least mean Baldwin could see much of the plain.

All about him there was still the rumble of missiles. Before him on the plain, tens of thousands of warriors stood with their banners fluttering in the light morning’s breeze. And then, the last of the catapults fell silent. There came a loud cheering from the field, and as Baldwin watched, he saw the appearance of a warrior on a horse.

‘The Sultan,’ a man next to him said.

He was followed by at least three hundred men on horseback, all wearing armour that gleamed in the early light. As Baldwin watched, the Sultan lifted his arm, and then let it fall, and in an instant, all the catapults fired together.

In the corner of the nearer tower, men were huddled down in the lee of the walls, watching a cock-fight. It astonished Baldwin that men would want to see more death, but at least the cocks meant there would be food later. A sentry, peering over the wall, ducked back and hissed at the men to expect a missile, before throwing down his own coin to bet on the winner.

The Muslims had adjusted their range, and now the machines were aiming solely at the walls, the majority beneath the Tower of King Henry. A vast weight of clay pots filled with Greek fire were aimed at that narrow section. Clouds of flame gushed, billowing black clouds smothered the area, and the noise was appalling. Over it all, Baldwin heard the iron clanging of the huge bolts fired by mangonels, their hideous heads burying themselves in the rock. He detested them.

‘What now?’ he said.

The man at his side was the same blue-eyed Englishman with the heavy falchion. ‘Now? They’ll concentrate all their efforts on the walls, and leave the damage inside the city to the two bigger ones over there.’

Baldwin looked to where he pointed, and saw al-Mansour rising over the field like a hideous gallows. He could almost imagine a man being hanged from that vast sling. It made the gorge rise in his throat. But then he saw something else from the corner of his eye. There, out at sea, was Buscarel’s cog, and even as he watched, the cog’s catapult swung up, and another rock was sent tumbling through the air.

‘They will not hit it, you know,’ Jacques said.

Baldwin turned with surprise. ‘My friend, what are you doing here? You should be at the Lazar Tower.’

‘I was aware of my post, yes,’ Jacques said with a very slight tone of impatience. ‘I have been sent to speak with Sir Otto. Sir Guillaume thinks that the ship will not succeed.’

‘Why? Buscarel is doing a good job, flinging his rocks. It’s only a matter of time before he has destroyed that damned machine.’

‘Damned it may be, my friend, but do not be confused. We will die before it, at this rate. There is need for us to take the initiative.’

One of Sir Otto’s men saw Sir Jacques, and hurried to take him over to the English Commander. Baldwin waited, watching them discussing something, both close to each other, glancing through gaps in the hoardings. Then there was a nod of agreement between the two, and they clasped their forearms in a display of trust.

‘Wait for me tonight, Baldwin, at Ivo’s house. You will come with us,’ Sir Jacques said, with that quiet smile on his face.

‘Where do we go?’

‘We ride to that damned machine, my friend. We shall go there and burn it and send it to Hell, where it belongs!’