Brethren: An Epic Adventure of the Knights Templar (27 page)

Slowly, Will bent to pick up his translation from the floor. Rising, he met Everard’s gaze. “Because if you don’t put me forward, I will go to the Visitor and petition him to send me to Safed.” Will was surprised at the composed determination in his own voice. “I’ll say I want to fight the Saracens, that I want to take the Cross for God and for Christendom. Men are always needed out there. If you refuse to allow me to go there as a knight, I will go there as a sergeant.”

“Don’t be ridiculous!” scoffed Everard.

But Will was walking away. He left the chamber, slamming the door so hard the frame splintered.

J
ames watched the soldiers filing into the Great Hall. As his eyes fixed on the Syrian captain at the front of the line of men he knew that they were in trouble. The captain’s expression was one of grave resolution. He didn’t look at any of the thirty knights who were seated on a row of benches on the hall’s dais, but strode stiffly to the seats that had been placed on the floor opposite where he sat with his officers. Fifty Templar sergeants and four priests were sitting in rows at the side of the chamber. The Syrian soldiers who had been called to the meeting filled the empty seats around them. James turned to Mattius, who was sitting beside him. The large knight raised an eyebrow as if to say, this will be interesting. On his other side James heard the commander sigh.

As the commander had predicted, Baybars’s promise of amnesty for the Syrian soldiers had caused an almost immediate upheaval within the ranks. The commander had called a council yesterday morning, after word had spread, to pacify the situation. But the meeting had not gone well and they’d had to adjourn when tempers began to fray and the discussion turned into a shouting match. James knew that they needed more time; the soldiers were still too stirred up from the Mamluks’ last assault to think calmly about this. But by first light tomorrow Baybars would demand an answer to his offer and the knights only had today to convince the Syrians to stay and fight.

When the last man was seated the commander rose to his feet. His face was marked with weariness, his eyes sunken, his cheeks showing pale through his sun-browned skin, but he held himself erect and his gaze was stern as he turned his attention to the Syrian captain.

“Captain, let us hope that sleep has served to sweeten our tongues.” He raked the rest of the company with his stare. “I suggest we talk with our heads, rather than our hearts.”

“None of us desires a quarrel, Commander,” said the captain. “I only wish to do right by my men.”

“And I by mine.”

There was silence.

The commander sat down. “Perhaps you should begin, Captain, by explaining why you believe you should accept Baybars’s proposal.”

“Very well,” said the captain after a pause. He rose. “As I said yesterday, accepting Baybars’s terms of surrender will be our best chance for survival. If Safed falls we face death, or imprisonment. I have sixteen hundred men here. I will not see them butchered when they can be saved by this opportunity.”

The commander raised his hand to silence the murmurs from the knights and the scattered calls of consent from the Syrian troops. “What makes you think Baybars will keep his word? You said yourself, he has none of Saladin’s honor. What makes you so certain he won’t kill you all as soon as you leave the fortress?”

“I also told you, Commander, that I have studied the sultan’s tactics. He only destroys those who pose a threat to him, or those who challenge him. We are no great threat without a stronghold and when others have surrendered to him he has kept his word. If we do not accept his first offer he will be enraged by our defiance. I do not believe we will get a second chance.”

“It was not so at Arsuf,” said the commander. “Baybars broke his promise then. He butchered two hundred Hospitallers, who all believed, as you, that they would be saved by surrendering.”

The captain looked at the floor, then back up at the commander. “They were Franks,” he said quietly. “Baybars had more of a quarrel with them than he does with us.”

One of the knights on the dais stood. “Now we see your true face,
Captain
! You and your men might fight for the same God as us, but I think it fair to say that when He was giving out courage He had reached the bottom of the barrel by the time He got to the Syrians!”

“Peace, brother!” ordered the commander, as the captain’s face twisted in a scowl and several of his officers leapt to their feet. “Sit!” he barked at the knight, who did so grudgingly, eyes fixed on the captain. “Insults afford us nothing but delay. We don’t have time to sit and squabble like children!” He turned to the captain. “If we stay here without your forces, we cannot hope to withstand another assault. Safed is too large to be garrisoned effectively by a handful of men, however stalwart. Together we are strong, but divide us and we will fall. We are well provisioned and we can fend off this siege for many months to come. If we have faith, God will see us victorious.” His eyes bored into the captain’s. “As one soldier to another, Captain, and as a warrior of Christ, I implore you to stand with us against the infidel.”

The Syrian captain glanced at his men, whose eyes all reflected the same fear, the same doubt he felt inside himself. They were good men, but they didn’t have the zeal of the Western knights. And neither did he. The knights were on their blind Crusade, stamping righteously across the lands in their quest to annihilate the infidel. Like giants they came, stepping on everything in their path without even noticing what they destroyed, for they and their cause were too lofty for them to see what was crushed beneath their feet. They saw it as God’s land. But, to him, it was his peoples’ land, their only land, and every village that was ruined, every man, woman and child who was killed for this cause was a loss to them all. They were not backward peasants with no will, or wit of their own who needed to be taught a better way of serving God or themselves by these cavalier foreigners. They could make their own decisions. The captain raised his head. “I cannot accept your request, Commander. It is suicide.”

The commander hung his head as around him the hall erupted.

“Your heart hasn’t been in this from the start!” one of the knights shouted at the Syrians. “Even before Baybars’s offer you were cowering before the prospect of battle.”

“The captain has made his decision,” one of the Syrian officers responded. “You have no right to challenge him! Did you summon us here to parley, or to beat us down until we submitted to your will?”

“Baybars is not invincible, I tell you!”

“We do not have to stay and listen to this, Captain.”

“Leave then,” yelled one of the Templar sergeants, forgetting his place. “We don’t need half-breeds like you!”

Some of the Syrians on the benches stood, drawing their swords. A Templar priest was trying to make himself heard above the din, but he was being shouted down by both the Syrians and the Templar sergeants, a few of whom had drawn their own weapons and were advancing on the native soldiers. The commander was bellowing at them to stand down, but no one was listening anymore. A brawl began near the back of the hall as one sergeant turned and punched a Syrian who was trying to get away from the youths with the blades. The soldier sprawled on the floor, his nose bloodied. Three of his comrades leapt over him and tackled the sergeant, who had delivered the blow, to the ground.

James rose. “We’re doing exactly what Baybars wants! This is what he intended by…!” He trailed off, his words drowned in the clamor.

“Silence!”

The roar was followed by a resounding crash that echoed around the hall. The shouters and brawlers halted, mid-sentence and mid-punch. All eyes turned to Mattius, who was on his feet beside James. The knight’s face was scarlet and his eyes were blazing. The crashing sound had been made by his fist hitting the board. He turned to James. “Please continue, brother,” he said calmly into the hush.

James gave a half-smile. “Thank you, Mattius.” He addressed the Syrian captain. “Baybars has sent this offer because he knows that he cannot take Safed swiftly by force of arms. Captain, I appreciate your obligation to your men, but you will be playing right into Baybars’s hands if you accept his terms. The sultan seeks the quickest, easiest and cheapest route to victory. It’s the hottest part of the year and his men are already weary. The longer he remains here the harder it will become for him to maintain his army. If we force him to draw out the siege and stretch his resources he will turn aside in search of a weaker target.” He glanced at the commander. “With the commander’s permission, I propose that we bring this council to a close.” When the commander gave a tired nod, James turned back to the captain. “I suggest you and your officers retire to discuss this matter in private, Captain. Then, in a few hours, meet with the commander alone to continue this parley. Make your decision, but make it when tempers are less heated.”

There were a few calls of disagreement from the Syrians, but the captain inclined his head. “I will meet with you alone, Commander, as your man asks. But I don’t believe that time will change my mind.”

James sat as the meeting began to disperse, the sergeants shooting black looks at the backs of the departing Syrians and muttering amongst themselves. “I hope you don’t think me presumptuous, sir,” he said to the commander.

The commander gave him a brief smile. “You spoke well, brother. We may still have an opportunity to salvage this. If I meet with the captain alone, I believe I have a chance to persuade him to see sense.” He rose. “I want those brawlers disciplined,” he said, motioning to the sergeants who had fought the Syrian soldiers. “I won’t tolerate such behavior, no matter the circumstances. We are God’s men,” he added stiffly, “not common mercenaries.”

It was with exhausted relief that James shrugged off his mantle and chainmail and collapsed on his pallet that evening. He had bathed and his hair, still wet, was a cold halo around his head. A shaft of orange light slanted in through the window-slit, affording the otherwise plain, gray dormitory a measure of brightness. Outside, the sky was mandarin gold. James could hear the chanting of a prayer, faint and far off, rising from the Mamluk encampment. He lay outside the blanket, grateful for the slight breeze that played across his bare chest. Usually the heat was dry and solid, but this evening it had turned humid, a clinging heat that wears a man down, making every movement one of deep weariness. James wondered if it might storm. He hadn’t seen rain for a long time. Closing his eyes, he thought of the fast-flowing rivers of Scotland; clear water bubbling over brown stones, soft green moors and dark, misty lochs. He saw Isabel wading into a stream, skirts held high, the water flowing around her bare legs, her face laughing. The sunlight gleamed in his wife’s hair as she turned to him and beckoned.

“James!”

James woke to find the room in semi-darkness and Mattius leaning over him. He came awake quickly as he saw the knight’s troubled face, half lit by the moonlight that had replaced the sun’s orange glow.

“What is it?” he asked, swinging his legs over the pallet.

“They are leaving,” growled Mattius, handing James his undershirt.

“Who?” James tugged the shirt over his head.

Mattius paced as James went to the perch for his chainmail coat. “The Syrians. They’re deserting.”

“But the captain agreed to ask Baybars for more time? Heralds were sent. We agreed to wait a few more days before giving our answer.”

“It looks as if the captain only needed a few more hours. He didn’t even wait for Baybars’s deadline. The Syrians began to leave after dark when most of us were in our quarters, or on the outer walls. They are going out through one of the posterns in the southern wall, white flags raised.”

“Have we tried talking to them?” James drew his mantle around his shoulders.

“The commander had a few choice words with the captain, but he was adamant. It hardened his resolve when he saw that his men were being well received by Baybars’s forces. The Mamluks disarm the Syrians as they enter the camp, but let them go without so much as a poke of their swords. Some of them, it is rumored, have even converted to the Saracens’ side.”

“How many have we lost?”

“By the commander’s reckoning, at this rate, we’ll be down a thousand men by morning.”

“Dear God. And the captain?”

Mattius gave a snort. “Picked up his hems and fled with the rest of them.” He nodded to the door. “Come on,” he said, looking suddenly weary, “the commander needs us.”

When they reached the outer walls, James and Mattius found the commander spitting curses at the straggling line of Syrian soldiers, who were lit up by the moonlight as they stumbled down the steep hillside.

“Bastards!”
he hissed, spinning round as James appeared on the walkway.

“Commander,” greeted James gravely.

“Look at them!” shouted the commander, throwing his hand across the parapet. “Faithless cowards!”

A large group of knights and sergeants were with the commander on the walkway, some talking amongst themselves, others watching the Syrians’ exodus. Their faces were grim in the silver-blue light. James felt despair creep through him. They didn’t stand a chance against Baybars’s forces. They were so few and the fortress so very large.

“Sir,” said Mattius, addressing the commander, “what about the farmers and their families? It isn’t so hard to train a novice to prime a mangonel.”

The commander, in mid-curse, glared at him, then sighed. “They aren’t warriors, brother. It would divide us further if we had to keep an eye on them during battle. Besides,” he muttered, “a good many of them left with the soldiers, although a mass evacuation was halted when they realized that the women and children were being taken captive by the Mamluks. Baybars is not as magnanimous as they were all starting to think. Craven fools,” he added bitterly.

“Commander, sir,” said a timid-looking youth. He was one of the younger sergeants and had been watching the commander’s outburst open-mouthed. He dropped his eyes as the commander turned to him, frowning.

“What is it, sergeant?”

“We could, well, I was thinking that maybe, if of course you…”

“Spit it out, boy!”

The sergeant took a breath. “Couldn’t we dress like the Syrians and leave with them? I mean, if we cannot defend the fortress without them, sir?”

A few of the other sergeants glanced up at his words, a look of hope spreading across their faces.

“Leave?” bellowed the commander. “Give Safed to our enemy?
Never!
” The sergeant blinked owlishly, then bowed his head. The commander stared at him. With effort, he checked his rage. “The Mamluks would see through it. We cannot speak the infidel’s language.”