The Secret Crusade

26

Altair stood on a rooftop in Damascus, looking down on his next target.

The smell of burning sickened him. The sight too. Of books being burned. Altair watched them crinkle, blacken and burn, thinking of his father, who would have been disgusted; Al Mualim, too, when he told him. To burn books was an affront to the Assassin way. Learning is knowledge, and knowledge is freedom and power. He knew that. He had forgotten it, somehow, but he knew it once more.

He stood out of sight on the ledge of the roof overlooking the courtyard of Jubair’s madrasah in Damascus. Smoke rose towards where he stood but all of the attention below was focused on the fire, piles of books, documents and scrolls at its centre. The fire and Jubair al-Hakim, who stood nearby, barking orders. All were doing his bidding apart from one, Altair noticed. This scholar stood to the side, gazing into the fire, his expression echoing Altair’s thoughts.

Jubair wore leather boots, a black headcloth and a permanent scowl. Altair watched him carefully: he had learned much about him. Jubair was the chief scholar of Damascus but in name only, for it was a most unusual scholar who insisted not on spreading learning but on destroying it. In this pursuit he had enlisted the city’s academics, whose presence was encouraged by Salah Al’din.

And why were they doing it, collecting then destroying these documents? In the name of some ‘new way’ or ‘new order’, which Altair had heard about before. Exactly what it involved wasn’t clear. He knew who was behind it, though. The Templars, his quarry being one of them.

‘Every single text in this city must be destroyed.’ Below him Jubair was exhorting his men with a fanatic’s zeal. His scholar helpers scurried about, laden with armfuls of papers that they had carried from somewhere hidden from Altair. They were casting them into the flames, which bloomed and grew with each fresh delivery. From the corner of his eye he saw the distant scholar becoming more and more agitated, until suddenly, as though he could no longer contain himself, he sprang forward to confront Jubair.

‘My friend, you must not do this,’ he said, his jovial tone belying his obvious distress. ‘Much knowledge rests within these parchments, put there by our ancestors for good reason.’

Jubair stopped, to stare at him with naked contempt. ‘And what reason is this?’ he snarled.

‘They are beacons meant to guide us – to save us from the darkness that is ignorance,’ implored the scholar. The flames danced tall at his back. Scholars came with more armfuls of books that they deposited on the fire, some casting nervous glances at where Jubair and the protester stood.

‘No.’ Jubair took a step forward, forcing the naysayer to retreat a step. ‘These bits of paper are covered with lies. They poison your minds. And so long as they exist, you cannot hope to see the world as it truly is.’

Trying desperately to be reasonable, the scholar still couldn’t hide his frustration. ‘How can you accuse these scrolls of being weapons? They’re tools of learning.’

‘You turn to them for answers and salvation.’ Jubair took another step forward, the protester another step back. ‘You rely more upon them than upon yourselves. This makes you weak and stupid. You trust in words. Drops of ink. Do you ever stop to think of who put them there? Or why? No. You simply accept their words without question. And what if those words speak falsely, as they often do? This is dangerous.’

The scholar looked confused. As though someone was telling him black was white, night was day. ‘You are wrong,’ he insisted. ‘These texts offer the gift of knowledge. We need them.’

Jubair darkened. ‘You love your precious writings? You’d do anything for them?’

‘Yes, yes. Of course.’

Jubair smiled. A cruel smile. ‘Then join them.’

Planting both hands on the scholar’s chest, Jubair shoved him backwards, hard. For a second the scholar was mid-topple, his eyes wide open in surprise and his arms flapping madly, as though he hoped to fly clear of the greedy fire. Then he was claimed by the impetus of the shove, falling into the flames, writhing on a bed of searing heat. He screamed and kicked. His robe caught. For a moment he seemed to be trying to beat out the flames, the sleeves of his tunic already alight. Then his shrieks stopped. And contained in the smoke rising to Altair was the nauseating scent of roasting human flesh. He covered his nose. In the courtyard below, the scholars did the same.

Jubair addressed them: ‘Any man who speaks as he did is just as much a threat. Does any other among you wish to challenge me?’

There was no reply, fearful eyes looked over hands held to noses. ‘Good,’ said Jubair. ‘Your orders are simple enough. Go out into the city. Collect any remaining writings and add them to the piles in the streets. When you’re done we’ll send a cart to collect them that they may be destroyed.’

The scholars left. And now the courtyard was empty. A beautiful marbled area for ever tarnished by the obscenity of the fire. Jubair paced around it, gazing into the fire. Every so often he cast a nervous glance around him, and appeared to be listening carefully. But if he heard anything it was the crackle of the fire and the sound of his own breathing. He relaxed a little, which made Altair smile. Jubair knew the Assassins were coming for him. Thinking himself cleverer than his executioners he’d sent decoys into the city streets – decoys with his most trusted bodyguards, so that the deception should be complete. Altair moved silently around the rooftop until he stood directly above the book-burner. Jubair thought he was safe here, locked in his madrasah.

But he wasn’t. And he had executed his last underling, burned his last book.

Snick.

Jubair looked up and saw the Assassin descending towards him, blade outstretched. Too late, he tried to dart out of the way as the blade was sinking into his neck. With a sigh he crumpled to the marble.

His eyelids fluttered. ‘Why… why have you done this?’

Altair looked over to the blackened corpse of the scholar in the fire. With the flesh burned away from his skull, it was as though he was grinning. ‘Men must be free to do as they believe,’ he told Jubair. He withdrew the blade from the other’s neck. Blood dripped to the marble. ‘It is not our right to punish one for thinking as he does, no matter how much we disagree.’

‘Then what?’ wheezed the dying man.

‘You of all people should know the answer. Educate them. Teach them right from wrong. It must be knowledge that frees them, not force.’

Jubair chuckled. ‘They do not learn, fixed in their ways as they are. You are naive to think otherwise. It’s an illness, Assassin, for which there is but one cure.’

‘You’re wrong. And that’s why you must be put to rest.’

‘Am I not unlike those precious books you seek to save? A source of knowledge with which you disagree? Yet you’re rather quick to steal my life.’

‘A small sacrifice to save many. It is necessary.’

‘Is it not ancient scrolls that inspire the Crusaders? That fill Salah Al’din and his men with a sense of righteous fury? Their texts endanger others. Bring death in their wake. I, too, was making a small sacrifice.’ He smiled. ‘It matters little now. Your deed is done. And so am I.’

He died, eyes closing. Altair stood up. He looked around the courtyard, seeing the beauty and ugliness of it. Then, hearing footsteps approaching, he was gone. Over the rooftops and into the streets. Blending into the city. Becoming but a blade in the crowd…

‘I have a question for you,’ said Al Mualim, when they next met. He had restored Altair’s full status and at last the Assassin was a Master Assassin once more. Still, it was as though his mentor wanted to be sure of it. Wanted to be certain that Altair had learned.

‘What is the truth?’ he asked.

‘We place faith in ourselves,’ replied Altair, eager to please him, wanting to show him that he had indeed changed. That his decision to show mercy had been the right one. ‘We see the world as it really is, and hope that one day all mankind might see the same.’

‘What is the world, then?’

‘An illusion,’ replied Altair. ‘One we can either submit to – as most do – or transcend.’

‘And what is it to transcend?’

‘To recognize that laws arise not from divinity, but reason. I understand now that our Creed does not command us to be free.’ And suddenly he really did understand. ‘It commands us to be wise.’

Until now he had believed in the Creed but without knowing its true meaning. It was a call to interrogate, to apply thought and learning and reason to all endeavours.

Al Mualim nodded. ‘Do you see now why the Templars are a threat?

‘Whereas we would dispel the illusion, they would use it to rule.’

‘Yes. To reshape the world in an image more pleasing to them. That is why I sent you to steal their treasure. That is why I keep it locked away. And that is why you kill them. So long as even one survives, so, too, does their desire to create a New World Order. You must now seek out Sibrand. With his death, Robert de Sable will at last be vulnerable.’

‘It will be done.’

‘Safety and peace upon you, Altair.’