The Templar Magician

Chapter 3

Edmund de Payens, Philip Mayele, Thierry Parmenio and their six serjeants left the Temple precincts the following day. They’d all visited the shriving pew before the Pity displayed in the Lady Chapel. Each had knelt on the prie-dieu and stared at the carved dead face of their tortured Saviour, his corpse taken down from the cross and laid across the lap of his sorrowful mother. De Payens had whispered his litany of petty offences, including thoughts about Isabella Berrington. He received absolution and went to stand in the church porch, where he lit tapers before a painting of St Christopher, a powerful protector against sudden, violent death. The others joined him, and they were met there by Tremelai, who carried a sealed chancery pouch containing letters to the Assassin leader in his mountain eyrie of Hedad, which lay to the east of the Templar castle of Chastel Blanc. Maps and charts were handed over to Parmenio, who’d act as their guide as well as their interpreter. Mass was then celebrated, the singing bread distributed, the Pax Tecum shared and the Eucharist taken. Once the Ite Missa was sung, they gathered on the Great Pavement. The afternoon sun was still strong, glistening off the Temple buildings in a sheen of light. Tremelai, his marshals and his seneschals bestowed their blessings. De Payens and his companions mounted, a black and white Templar gonfalon handed over as their official standard. Above them a horn blared, followed by blood-tingling trumpet blasts along the walls of the inner courtyard. De Payens lowered the gonfalon, a stiffened pennant, three times in honour of the Trinity, and they left the Temple enclosure through the Beautiful Gate, which led down into the city.

De Payens, the memories of that savage attack at Tripoli still fresh, was very wary. He was always struck by the contrasts of Jerusalem. The city was supposed to be a house of prayer, yet it was hard to imagine this as he and his companions, lost in their own thoughts, moved from blazing sunshine into the near darkness of narrow, filthy streets and vaulted bazaars lit only by flickering oil lamps and the dull glow of acrid-smelling candles. Sunshine pierced the rents in the clothes stretched out between the adjoining flat rooftops. Occasionally they’d approach a crossroads bathed in sunlight, then plunge back into the blackness, reeking of excrement, cooking smells, musty clothes, sweaty bodies and the hideous stench of cheap oil being burned and burned again. The walls on either side glittered as if the rough rock exuded its own sweat. Voices shouted, screamed and prayed. A variety of tongues babbled above the clattering chaos from the tawdry markets. The crowd thinned and thronged as they moved deeper into the city along the Streets of Chains to the main thoroughfare leading down to Herod’s Gate in the west of the city.

De Payens recalled Trussell’s dark thoughts about what had happened in Jerusalem, a city that certainly attracted all and sundry, a fact de Payens reminded himself of as he guided his horse through the crowds of Armenians, fat and well pursed; fierce-looking warriors from the dry lands across the Jordan; crafty-eyed ragged tribesmen from the arid stretches around the Dead Sea; Bedouins, Arabs and Christians, hostile and wary, their scarred, hardened faces betraying many a battle wound. De Payens’ attention was also caught by the beauty of the women: fair-haired, rosy-cheeked Christians; swarthy-faced Greeks, their skins brightly tattooed; Bedouins garbed in black, except for the fringed opening around the eyes. Men and women of every nation and tongue swarmed into Jerusalem, seeking salvation or profit, usually both. Whores wheedled through opened windows. Pimps and flesh purveyors offered all kinds of secret delights deep in the shadows behind them. Relic-sellers, faces flushed with false excitement, announced yet another find. Cooks and their apprentices darted from behind their stalls with skewers of roasted meat, mixed with vegetables and coated with a heavy spice to disguise the putrid taste. Water-sellers touted pewter cups of cool, miraculous water from the pool of Siloam.

No one dared approach the Templars. De Payens, carrying the gonfalon, had little need to clear his path. The very sight of their insignia, the knights garbed in the robes of their order, was inducement enough. Traders, pedlars, pimps, prostitutes, wandering scholars, even the scrawny pi dogs scattered into the darkening gaps between the houses or the mouths of ribbon-thin alleyways. De Payens heard a strange humming and glanced up. A woman was standing on the roof of a house with the light behind her so that she appeared as a stark dark shape. He glimpsed thick wild hair, the sombre rags she wore puffed up like the feathers of a crow. De Payens narrowed his eyes, shifting in the saddle. He glimpsed a white-daubed face, a necklace of bones, and gauntleted hands. She raised these as if about to intone some demonic prayer, and he fumbled for the ave beads wrapped around his sword hilt, but when he glanced up again, the hideous apparition had disappeared. The witch Erictho? he wondered. Surely not. He gripped his reins and stared around. It was best not to think of that, not now!

They left the dingy markets and bazaars, moving into the more opulent quarter of the city, where lovely mansions stood behind ornate gates. They crossed small squares with bubbling fountains, shady sycamores, and terebinth and palm trees. Songbirds trilled from gilded cages fastened to gateposts, and the air grew subtly sweet with the fragrance of flowery cactus and other plants. Eventually they reached Herod’s Gate, and were waved on through by dust-covered sentries, out on to the long road stretching north to Ramallah and Nablus. The late-January heat was not as oppressive here as in the city; even the sandy breezes felt fresh after the acrid odours of the streets. For a while de Payens rode in silence, staring at the distant hillsides covered with deep-blue flowering mandrake, whilst closer to the trackway, pale violet and yellow irises flourished.

The road was busy with travellers, pack ponies and camel lines. Pedlars and traders pushed their barrows and handcarts or urged on oxen fastened to cumbersome wagons. Soldiers, their livery covered in dust, slouched on shaggy garrans. Pilgrims moved in throngs under makeshift banners and rough-hewn wooden crosses. Beggars importuned for alms. Enterprising villagers came out of a line of pine trees to offer platters of bread and beakers of water or crushed juice. Above them all circled the ever-vigilant buzzards and vultures, thick wings feathering the air, whilst rock pigeons, aware of the danger above, darted from cover to cover across the road.

De Payens knew the route. They’d follow the Jordan valley, thick with olive groves, where the crickets sang their constant hymn, not even interrupted by the great tawny foxes slipping through in their hunt for vermin or the occasional unwary bird. As they journeyed on, they broke free of the crowds, following a route laid out by Parmenio, who seemed to know every twist and corner of the land. At first, conversation was desultory, until they spent their first night camped out in a wadi. In the far distance, thunder rumbled and jagged lightning flashed across the sky, but the rain never reached them. The Provençals set up camp, collecting dried dung and whatever bracken they could find. Soon a merry fire crackled. Meats were cooked, bread warmed, wine-skins circulated. De Payens sang the Benedicite, and they ate, even as they began to talk about the desert and all its haunting, ghostly legends. Naturally, on that and successive evenings, the conversation then turned to gossip about recent events in Jerusalem. One of the Provençals alluded to a tale about witches concocting potions from the froth of mad dogs, the hump of a man-eating hyena and the eyes of an eagle, but de Payens discovered precious little more about the corpses of the young women found around the city. Tremelai seemed to have succeeded in suppressing the whispers, although the Provençals, who seemed to know about the rumours, fiercely rejected any allegation against the Temple. No mention was ever made of Walkyn and Berrington.

In the mornings, just before dawn, they would continue their journey up through Galilee, past the lake where Christ had fished and walked amongst the plants and bushes now bereft of their summer’s glory. They paused there for a while, watching the ducks and the ringed grey plovers dart and sweep above them. At Parmenio’s insistence they moved on. Sometimes they stayed in villages, flea-ridden and poor; occasionally at some Templar castle or outpost. Finally they reached their own garrison at Chastel Blanc, high up in the mountains, a stark, lonely place with its oval perimeter walls and soaring keep, which contained both the chapel and the main water supply. The castellan was only too pleased to meet former members of his garrison and gather what news he could. He listened as they described their mission, and pulled a face in surprise, but granted their list of fresh stores and personally escorted them out on to the final stage of their journey.

Once the castellan had left them, Parmenio came into his own, leading them up through lonely rocky passes and culverts, steep ravines and sandy gulleys. There was little soil; nothing grew except hardy shrubs and a scattering of flowers such as lavender and cactus plants. No plough- or meadowland; just sheer rock, a few trees and bushes, with the occasional waterhole in the shade of some sun-bleached culvert. At night they sheltered under rocky outcrops, the silence cut by eerie howling and snuffling as the predators emerged. They grew accustomed to the spine-tingling wafting of hunting owls, which hovered for a brief while in the glare of their fire before floating like ghosts back into the blackness. Occasionally they’d catch a glow of light as if from some distant lantern-horn. Parmenio explained how the mountains were the haunt not only of demons and lost souls but hermits and anchorites, wild men seeking God in the high places. He also added that they were undoubtedly being watched by scouts, the followers of Shaikh Al-Jebal, the Old Man of the Mountain.

On their third evening out from Chastel Blanc, they sheltered in a mountain cave, a fire flickering before them. The sky was brilliant with stars and washed by the silver light of a full moon. Mayele murmured how in a few months it would be the spring equinox, the feast of Easter. De Payens, half listening to the chatter of the Provençals behind him, glanced sharply at his comrade. He had first met Mayele at Chastel Blanc. They’d been given the same chamber to share, so they’d become sword brothers, placed next to each other in the battle line with the sworn duty to protect one another. That would have been about twelve months ago. As Edmund became more accustomed to the barrack life of the Templars, he’d found Mayele reasonable enough, though rather secretive, a good fighter with a love of battle; a cold heart with an iron will. The execution of what Mayele described as the three looters in Tripoli confirmed that. During their punishment at Jerusalem, the Englishman had grown less taciturn, whispering jokes about Tremelai and other Templar leaders, an amusing stream of observations and remarks. He was a brother who attended the litany of the hours and the services as if they were part of a drill, though he laughingly dismissed himself as neither religious nor devout, hardly a cross-creeper, as he described it. De Payens had concluded that this might be due to the sacrilege Mayele had committed in England, the slaying of a cleric, which had provoked instant excommunication. On one occasion Mayele had even described what had happened: how he’d slain the cleric in an argument, then fled to a church, grasping the corner of its altar and pleading sanctuary. Eventually, after forty days, he’d been allowed to leave, taken refuge in London and accepted the penance imposed by the bishop for his sins, of being enrolled in the Templar order. Mayele was, de Payens reasoned, hardly a man to be reflecting on the feast of Easter or its preparation through the Lenten fast.

‘You are pining for Easter, Philip?’ he teased. ‘Why now? Why here?’

‘You may not know this …’ Mayele leaned forward, stirring the fire with his dagger, digging at the dried dung and kindling, which burst into fiery sparks. He paused at the mournful yip of a jackal, followed by the raucous screech of a night bird. ‘Tremelai talked of sending us both to England, Edmund. We have a smallholding there in London, near the royal palace of Westminster.’ For the first time de Payens could recall, Mayele’s voice turned wistful. ‘It would be good to be in England at springtime, well away from the dust and the heat, the dirt devils and the flies. Coolness,’ his voice grew soft, ‘a wet, green darkness with clear air.’ He paused and stared at Parmenio, who squatted with one hand across his face. De Payens hid his surprise; he was sure he’d caught a gesture by the Genoese, a swift movement of fingers as if signalling to Mayele. Parmenio, sharp-eyed, caught de Payens’ look and grinned.

‘I am warning him to be prudent,’ he whispered, the fire bathing his clever face. He indicated with his head. ‘Those Provençals are not the dumb mules they pretend. They are hand-picked, with a better knowledge of tongues than we think. They are Tremelai’s spies.’

‘And you, Parmenio?’ de Payens asked. ‘Are you a spy? That story about reparation for your assault on me …’

Mayele, head down, laughed softly. Parmenio clicked his tongue and sat listening to sounds from the darkness: the scuttling of night creatures and the swift chatter of darting bats. The night air was turning bitterly cold; the heat from the sun-scorched rocks had faded. Parmenio threw more bracken on to the flames.

‘Edmund, I am a physician, a trader in simples and potions. I move like a shadow across God’s earth. I also collect and barter information for the rulers of this world. Yes, I have worked for the Temple before, Tremelai knows that, but Tripoli was different. I saw mercenaries dash the heads of babies against stones, after raping and killing their mothers. I was truly angry that day, but,’ he gave a crooked smile, ‘I admired what you did. I also learned that I had attacked not only a Templar, but a scion of the powerful de Payens family. The Temple would never have let that rest.’ He spread his hands. ‘Hence my approach. Tremelai was only too pleased to use me, especially now.’ As if he wished to change the subject, Parmenio pointed through the darkness at the glow from some distant oil lamp. ‘I wonder,’ he breathed, ‘what Tremelai has written in those letters. What he intends to happen at Hedad.’

‘More importantly,’ de Payens scratched his bearded chin, ‘what can we expect from Shaikh Al-Jebal? You’ve never been here before, Parmenio?’

‘Yes and no. I’ve learned a little about the Assassins.’

‘Which is?’ Mayele demanded.

‘The prophet Muhammad’s followers are divided between those who accept what they call the true descent from one son-in-law, Ali, and others who claim legitimacy through another son-in-law. This division has been deepening since the Prophet’s death. In the civil wars that followed, other sects flourished, including the Naziris, or Hashishonyi, the hashish-eaters, founded by Hassan Eben Sabbah. He surrounded himself with Fedawis, the Devoted Ones. This sect not only broke away from the main body of believers, but declared war on them. They seized rocky outcrops on which they built their castles. The Fedawis have their own distinctive dress, being garbed in pure white with blood-red sashes and slippers. Each carries a pair of long curved knives. According to legend they are fed on hemp and opium mingled with wine. Over the centuries their emissaries have been dispatched to murder their opponents sometimes openly, other times disguised as camel men, water-carriers, beggars, priests. A few of the men we passed on the road,’ Parmenio stretched his hands towards the flames, ‘might have been Fedawis.’

‘But we are safe?’ Mayele leaned over and patted the leather panniers carrying the chancery pouches.

‘We have our safe conducts,’ Parmenio agreed, pausing at a strange howling that echoed from below, followed by the scream of some animal caught by a hunter. The horrid growls and screeching faded away.

‘Once the Old Man of the Mountain or his representative guarantees your safety,’ continued Parmenio, ‘you are assured. Indeed, they follow a very strict code of hospitality to all who seek them out. For the rest, the Old Man sows fear. The Assassins have a mordant, black sense of humour. Once they have chosen their victim, they often send him a flat sesame seed cake on a snake medallion as a warning of what is to come. The victim wakes to find the cake and the medallion beside their bed, two curved daggers, adorned with red ribbons, pushed into the ground beside them. Over the years, the influence and power of the Old Man and his Fedawis have spread. They defend themselves in their lonely mountain fortresses. Hewn out of stone, impregnable and sheer, such castles can be held by a few men even if besieged by armies of thousands.’

‘True,’ Mayele murmured. ‘How could any invading army feed itself in country like this?’

‘Of course,’ Parmenio agreed. ‘And so the legend was born. Every malcontent from around the Middle Sea to the borders of Samarkand hastens to join he who rejoices in his title of Shaikh Al-Jebal, Old Man of the Mountain. Their most precious castle is the eagle’s nest at Alamut in Persia. According to legend, on the summit of that sheer mountain the Old Man built a paradise, a walled garden laid out with the richest soil and watered by underground springs. A veritable Eden, with trees of every kind, pools of pure water, marble fountains bubbling the finest wines, garden beds fertile with the most exotic plants and exuding the rarest perfumes. All around stand pavilions and arbours, their outsides covered in flowers, carpeted and hung with silk inside. The paths of this paradise have been tiled by craftsmen in colours that catch the sun. Songbirds trill from golden cages. Peacocks, resplendent in their thousand-eyed plumage, strut against lush, cool greenness. The garden is entered by a gate of pure gold studded with gems. The Fedawis are taken there to drink drugged wine and be waited on by the most beautiful, sensuous maidens …’ Parmenio paused, and laughed self-consciously as his own mouth watered at the prospect.

De Payens glanced quickly at Mayele, who had retreated deeper into the shadows. He could only glimpse the lower half of that bearded, lined, cynical face. He shivered, and stretched his hands out to the fire. Parmenio’s story stirred his own secret sinful dreams about the veiled beauties he’d glimpsed in the streets and marketplaces, as well as the young woman he’d seized on that raid, pressing up against him, whispering how she would do anything for life …

‘Continue,’ he murmured.

‘Above the garden gate,’ Parmenio whispered, ‘is a proclamation, etched in silver and studded with diamonds.’ He paused. ‘It runs as follows: “Appointed by God, the Master of the World breaks the chains of all, let everyone praise his name.” Anyway,’ he shrugged, ‘the Fedawis emerge from their drugged sleep rested and refreshed. They are assured that if they carry out their master’s orders, what they’ve just experienced will be theirs for all eternity. As for the truth of all this,’ he pulled a face, ‘legend perhaps, rumour, other people’s dreams, but the Assassins are a fact. They are vultures clustered on their rocky summits watching for prey in the valleys below. The very shadow of their wings strike terror.’

‘And now our Grand Master wishes us to do business with them?’ de Payens asked.

‘Why not?’ Parmenio’s tone became taunting. ‘They say the Templars and the Assassins have much in common.’

‘Never!’

‘Edmund, they do indeed have much in common: their own rule, obedience to their master, a kingdom within a kingdom, dedication to war, their own vision. Ah well.’ Parmenio sighed as he got to his feet. ‘Tomorrow, I am sure we will meet them.’

The next morning, they left the cave and began their ascent to Hedad. They had to dismount and lead their horses and pack ponies. At first the air was so bitterly cold, de Payens thought it would crack the rocks. A mist closed in like an army of wraiths, deadening all sounds and muffling their hearing. Occasionally a bird would shriek, a piercing, harsh call. One of the Provençals thought it was not a bird but the warning call of a sentry. Another maintained it could be a lost soul. Then the sun rose fast and strong and the mist disappeared to reveal a landscape of ragged cliffs, stunted trees and wiry gorse. They rounded a bend and stopped. Over a huge boulder near the trackway were blood-stained clothes, neatly laid out as if to dry in the sun. Further along hung a naked corpse, fastened securely to the rock face. The man, a Turk, had been shot by arrows. The cadaver was ripe, and already the carrion-eaters had been busy. Even as the Templars passed, kites and buzzards floated down to the rock, flashing their blood-tinged feathers, impatient to continue the feast.

‘A warning,’ Parmenio whispered.

They passed other grisly sights: skins and skulls pushed into crevices, now nesting places for birds and lizards; more bloodstained garments and gibbeted corpses. They reached a narrow pass through a needle-thin culvert, the rocks on either side rising sheer above them, and went through on to a plateau, green and gorse-covered, which stretched away to the craggy summit of Hedad and the castle of the Assassins. The Old Man’s masons had been most cunning. They had used a broad, jutting ridge just beneath the summit to build their fortress, a long line of crenellated walls, soaring donjons and towers. Any besieging army would find it impossible to take. The bare, windswept countryside would provide little food or fodder, whilst the rock face of the castle rose sheer on all sides. The main fortified gateway was separated from the plateau by a deep gorge, a long gash through the earth that could only be crossed by a swaying rope bridge, which could be easily cut or rolled back in any attack. Even if a hostile force managed to cross that, the fortifications beyond were impressive. The gateway was flanked by towers of polished square stone blocks; each tower was at least a hundred feet high and ten feet wide. On either side of these stretched a vaulting curtain wall, crenellated and fortified, interspersed with narrower towers. De Payens and his companions stared in astonishment at this fearsome house of war, black and threatening against the lightening blue sky, a mass of hard stone, an eagle’s eyrie to protect those within from attack. De Payens studied the fortifications. Impossible to take, he concluded: Hedad could be held by a hundred men. In many ways the fortress reminded him of Templar castles built in similar desolate places.

‘Empty,’ Mayele observed. ‘It’s like a castle of the dead!’

De Payens studied the fortifications. Mayele was right. Hedad looked deserted, forsaken. No fires flared along the ramparts. No lantern glow, no fluttering banners or pennants. No glint of armour or movement of watchmen. They mounted their horses and moved slowly towards the bridge. The ominous silence was abruptly riven by the clatter of chains as the drawbridge fell. They reined in. A horseman thundered out through the gateway. He was dressed in a flowing white robe with a broad red sash around his waist, and his long black hair streamed in the breeze as, without any hesitation, he galloped across the rope bridge and headed directly towards them. The small but agile Arab courser’s galloping hooves pounded the earth like the threatening roll of kettle drums. De Payens turned his own horse, hand going to the hilt of his sword, but the rider reined in close before them, his dark, bearded face breaking into a grin. As he bowed, he gave a brilliant display of horsemanship, his mount rearing and turning until at a quiet word it stopped still. The rider gently stroked its grey, sweat-soaked neck, then pointed to de Payens and his companions, speaking quickly in the lingua franca of Outremer.

‘Templars, Genoese, sirs, whatever you call yourselves. You are most welcome. I am Uthama, captain of the guard. On behalf of my father, I welcome you to Hedad.’

‘A captain without a guard?’ said Mayele. ‘Without a sword or shield?’

‘Magister Mayele, my sword, my shield, my buckler and my defence stand right behind you.’

De Payens turned abruptly. A line of horsemen clad in blue cloaks, their heads and faces masked by chain-mail hoods, had come silently up behind them. A long, threatening line of men, their horn bows notched, the arrows pointed directly at the Templars. De Payens turned, pulled back his own hood and rode towards Uthama, hand extended.

‘Friend,’ he smiled, ‘I thank you for your warm reception.’

‘And friend you are.’ Uthama clasped the Templar’s hand firmly. ‘Here in the mountains, as in the desert, there are no strangers, only friend or foe. But come, my father waits.’

They followed Uthama back across the rope bridge over the narrow but sheer-falling gorge. They were grateful to reach the rocky shale path leading up under the arched gateway into the central bailey, dominated by a lofty four-square keep. De Payens hid his surprise; it was not the dusty yard he had expected, but a sea of lush green grass that stretched either side to outer courts. Uthama led them through to the bailey on the left. It reminded de Payens of a prosperous village, with its thatched houses, stables, granaries and smithies. Again a rich stretch of lush grass, wells and fountains, a small waterwheel, gardens and herb plots, a busy, harmonious place. Now that they had arrived, fires that had been banked and doused were rekindled, their smoke billowing up against the sky. The Templars dismounted, their horses taken away by servants, who bowed and grinned in a display of white teeth. The Provençals were led to their lodgings at the far side of the enclosure, where, Uthama assured them, they would have soft beds and good food. He then snapped his fingers at his escort and whispered to one of them. The man hurried off. Uthama turned back to his guests, openly amused at their surprise.

‘What did you expect, Magister Edmund? A band of cut-throats, of vagabond robbers from the slums?’

‘We passed corpses.’

‘Not as many as I see when I enter Jerusalem or Tripoli,’ Uthama retorted. ‘Come, my father waits.’

‘Your father is Shaikh Al-Jebal?’

‘Yes and no,’ Uthama laughed. ‘Our Grand Master shelters in Alamut; my father, Nisam, is his caliph in these mountains, though he can, if he wishes, use his lord’s titles.’

He led them back into the central bailey and across into the great keep. De Payens was surprised. Frankish donjons were cold and bleak, squalid places of war. This was different. The windows were broad and cunningly placed to catch the sunlight at every hour of the day. The floor was a mosaic of hard tiles laid closely together, each displaying intricate geometrical patterns in a variety of colours. Brilliant cloths softened the walls. Baskets of crushed flowers and strewn grains of delicate spices perfumed air already cleansed and sweetened by myrrh sprinkled over caskets of burning charcoal.

In a large antechamber, supervised by Uthama and his escort, they took off their outer clothes, leather boots and gauntlets. Mayele wanted to keep his sword, but de Payens shook his head, whilst Uthama murmured that such weapons would not be necessary. Platters of unleavened bread and goblets of wine were brought. All three Templars ate and drank, knowing that once they had done so, their safety was assured. Afterwards they washed their hands and faces in rosewater, drying themselves on soft woollen napkins. Robes and slippers were offered. Uthama, his face all serene, quietly whispered a prayer in Arabic and anointed each of their foreheads with a sweet-smelling chrism. He then stood back and bowed without any trace of sarcasm.

‘Come.’ He led them up some stairs, their stone flags covered with soft material, a polished wooden rail driven into the wall serving as an aid. They passed enclaves, stairwells, and narrow apertures, in each of which stood a blue-garbed guard, his face hidden by a chain-mail mask; all were armed with a silver shield boasting a crimson boss and a curved sabre in a scarlet scabbard.

The audience chamber Uthama led them into was truly remarkable. It glistened like a treasure house; the carved wooden beams of the ceiling were inlaid with gold, silver, malachite and precious jewels. Great windows, open to the sun, were covered by pure white gauze veils, which allowed in air and light but not the flies, insects or dirt. The walls were covered in carvings of exotic birds with silver enamel feathers, large rubies serving as their eyes. The floor was of the finest cedar of Lebanon, polished and ingrained with scent, covered here and there with the most luxuriant turkey rugs. The furniture was of delicate gleaming acacia; around the walls were ranged deep divans stacked with plump, gold-fringed cushions.

The main seating area was cordoned off by a double curtain of gold-edged cordovan leather intricately studded with silver twine. This was pulled back, and the three Templars were ushered to cushions placed before small square tables. Heaped bowls of fruit, platters of sweet bread and filigreed goblets brimming with wine stood next to exquisite chalices of Venetian glass crammed with slowly melting sherbet. On the other side sat Nisam, flanked by his Fedawis, dressed in sheer white gowns, red cords around their waists. Dark-faced, long-haired warriors, they stared unblinkingly as their guests bowed and squatted down.

‘In the name of the Compassionate,’ Nisam’s lips hardly moved, but his voice was strong and carrying, ‘I greet you, travellers, friends, honoured guests.’ He was white-haired, his beard and moustache neatly clipped; he had a round, genial face with smiling eyes and full red lips. He was dressed in a silver gown with a gold-brocaded blood-red cape over his shoulders. He smiled at de Payens and suggested that they should all eat and drink. Uthama placed the leather panniers containing the chancery pouches beside de Payens.

‘Eat and drink,’ Uthama whispered. ‘My father will say when you should hand your letters over.’

De Payens obeyed. The Fedawis grew more relaxed, chattering amongst themselves. Nisam ate slowly. Now and again he smiled at Uthama, then at de Payens. The Templar tasted the wine. It was delicious, undoubtedly the best grape of Gascony or Burgundy. Eventually Nisam leaned over and asked about their journey and the news from Jerusalem. He was courteous, and in the flow of gossip that followed, he showed himself well apprised of what was happening elsewhere. At last he gestured that the chancery pouches be handed to him. De Payens did so slightly uneasily. Nisam’s stare was now cold and calculating, as if he recalled some grievance or grudge. Uthama whispered that they should withdraw. Once out of the antechamber, Mayele demanded to know when a reply would be made. De Payens just stared out of the window, still concerned at that hostile glance from Nisam. Beneath the courtesies and the lavish hospitality, this was a place of intrigue, a house of blood. Uthama was busy talking to the other two Templars, though when de Payens joined them, the young Assassin gave him that gracious smile.

‘All will be well,’ he declared, then insisted on showing them personally to their chambers on the floor above.

Mayele and Parmenio were given one to share. De Payens had his own, small, comfortable and well furnished. They ensured their baggage was brought up, then visited the Provençals, who, like any soldiers, had quickly made themselves at home, sitting outside, boots off, backs against the wall, enjoying the sun and fresh air whilst sharing a jug of wine. At Mayele’s question, Uthama replied that in his view, the drinking of wine was not an infringement of the Prophet’s teaching. He then asked his guests to forget their mission and join him on a tour of the castle. De Payens suspected this was to be a show of strength. In the end, both he and his companions were deeply impressed. Hedad was a fortress built on a sheer ridge, its formidable walls and towers dominating every approach. Fresh water was brought in from underground streams and springs, enough to soak the spacious gardens as well as the private paradise that lay behind the wall of one of the outer baileys. The fortress was well stocked with arms, mangonels, catapults and all the other impedimenta needed to counter a siege. Smithies, forges and the infirmary as well as stables and storehouses were in good order. Parmenio questioned Uthama about Nisam’s deep knowledge of affairs beyond his castle walls. The Assassin clapped his hands in glee and took them to the pigeon cotes, where he explained how these ‘horses of the air’ carried messages in small cylinders attached to their legs. Both de Payens and his companions knew about this device for collecting information and were full of questions. Uthama simply shrugged and explained that the homing instincts of the birds would carry them to their destination.

‘Of course,’ he tapped the side of his nose, ‘that means that we must own places in the plains that they know, secret places, but,’ he lifted his hands, ‘apart from that, and the danger of marauding hawks, the birds fly true and straight. Let me inform you,’ he stood, hands on hip, face all rueful, ‘King Baldwin III has unfurled his standards and proclaimed war. He has summoned all Franks to the siege of Ascalon. Oh yes,’ he continued, enjoying their surprise, ‘Ascalon, the Bride of Syria, the southern key to Jerusalem, the port for Egypt, is under siege.’

‘You seem pleased,’ de Payens said.

‘Of course. If Ascalon falls, the mulahid,’ Uthama used the Islamic term of abuse for heretics, ‘the mulahid of Egypt will be weakened.’

‘Your father …’ De Payens steered Uthama away from Mayele and Parmenio’s heated discussion of what they’d learned.

‘What about my father, Templar?’

‘He looks at me as if he knows me. Not as a friend.’

‘As an enemy?’ Uthama breathed. ‘And so you should be. As you Franks say, usque ad mortem — to the death.’ He drew his dagger, swift and menacing.

The rasp alerted Mayele and Parmenio, who hurried over. De Payens stepped back, but Uthama handed the dagger to him.

‘Look, Templar, stare into the blade, see your face!’

De Payens did so: the polished steel served as a mirror, slightly twisting his features.

‘The eyes,’ Uthama turned to acknowledge Mayele and Parmenio, ‘deep set, light green. The black hair, streaked with grey. The face dark, harsh and bearded, the furrows in the cheeks. A warrior, perhaps an ascetic, a man not sure of himself. My father may see all that, but most of all he sees the face of de Payens, his mortal enemy.’

The Templar lowered the dagger, then swiftly turned it so the Assassin could grasp the hilt. Uthama resheathed the blade and stepped forward.

‘Didn’t you know, Templar? Your great-uncle, Hugh de Payens, your grandfather, Theodore the Greek? They once hunted my father through these mountains. They failed, but they killed his two brothers. A blood feud exists between us. Didn’t your Grand Master, Bertrand Tremelai, warn you?’ Uthama’s face was now unsmiling. ‘Apparently not, since you do not even know the story!’