A Flame Run Wild (34 page)

* * *

On the contrary, Saida found the king cold. Not only limp, but asleep and totally unaware of her coming. For a quarter of an hour, she and Alexandre waited outside the royal tent while Philip's chamberlain-drowsily informed him that Alexandre had brought him a fire-eyed wench in a nightshift.

"That little Saracen bitch?" mumbled Philip. At the chamberlain's dull nod, Philip crooked a lax finger. "It is about time. He has probably worn her to a nub."

Moments later, Philip felt his bed give. He opened an eye. Saida, distinctly unworn, smiled wickedly at him.

"How would you like her?" Alexandre murmured from the shadows.

Philip stroked Saida's hip appreciatively. "Ripe as a peach. Can she speak French?"

"Will you miss conversation?"

Philip laughed. "Not much. Besides, she looks noisy enough, given encouragement. I love to hear a wench squeal." He pinched. Saida squealed. "Ah, so you do speak the universal language, my piglet."

"She is a gift. I thought you might like a little something on the eve of victory," drawled Alexandre. "By the way, do you mind if I review the maps of the city while I am here? If I lead a battle group into Acre tomorrow, 'twould be well to know where the hell I am going."

"Good boy. Do your homework and make no more mistakes." Philip tumbled Saida under him. "Run along, and thank you for the present."

"Think nothing of it."

Leaving the king to his pleasure, Alexandre went into the rear of the tent, which had been partitioned for strategy councils. Scrolled maps were neatly stored in a tooled leather cylinder beneath a folding wooden table. He quickly reviewed the maps of Acre. The general outlay of the city streets was already familiar to him and the illuminated maps showed little more than the quarters of the city. He was more interested in the fresh water cistern system that eventually linked with huge cesspits and tunnels under the city walls on the ocean side. He found a large parchment covered with, sketches and notes of the area, each carefully inked as spies reported their reconnaissance.

Among the camp's beggars and native innkeepers, rumors ran that Saladin moved messengers in and out of Acre by way of the cisterns. If Liliane had entered the city, this was the way she had done it, but which cistern was set close enough to the low tide to allow a swimmer to pass through it without drowning?

Alexandre headed for the quays. In a shack by the farthest quay an ancient native fisherman lived. Alexandre mercilessly roused the old man. "What is the shallowest part of the wall?" he barked.

The old man shook his head in confusion, "Fishing's better where it's deep. Why do you want fish tonight? I don't have any tonight."

"Look, I want to go fishing tonight and I wish to use your boat. I do not like deep water because I cannot swim." Alexandre dumped coins in the old man's hand.."I shall pay for everything."

"Tonight? You want to fish tonight?" The old man began to shake his head again. Finally he shrugged. "I don't rent my boat to a crazy man. Pay me another ten dirhams and the boat is yours. You drown, so . . ."

I drown, so . . . The man's last words haunted Alexandre a short time later as he sat in the ramshackle boat and stared uneasily at the black water lapping at the wall of Acre. The wall was many feet thick. If the cistern tunnel was built on an incline, it might run submerged for a long way, longer than his lungs would hold air. In the pitch dark, he stripped and dumped his clothes in the boat bottom. He tied a small bundle of clothes he had bought from the fisherman around his waist, then looped his sword and dirk to his boot thongs and tied it around his neck. He eased over the side and took a deep, prayerful breath.

In the water's lap, not twenty feet from Alexandre's rising air bubbles off the old boat's stern, a light Saracen skiff rocked to and fro. Alexandre had not noticed the boat, much less whether it was empty or not. The boat was empty—the tunnel was not.

* * *

In rising, panic, Liliane pressed high and hard against slimy stone. Saladin had merely asked whether she could swim; he had not described the cistern tunnel. The two Saracens with her had dived from the skiff, leaving her to follow as best she could. An infidel female was of no account to them; if she drowned before reaching her destination, no one would be alive tomorrow to complain of their neglect to Saladin. Fearful of losing them in the darkness, she leaped into the water almost upon their very heels and followed so closely that she was once struck in the face by a kicking foot. Second followed inky second until her lungs threatened to burst. Finally, frantically, she thrust upward to butt her head painfully against rough stone. She clawed at the stone, tried to breathe. She was rewarded by a tiny whiff of air, then a ripple of water up her nose that choked her. Wildly, she tried again; this time she found more air, enough to calm her a little. Lying still against the water surface, she took short, tentative breaths until her lungs ceased to burn. With a fatalistic gulp, she submerged again and flailed after her callous escorts. The tunnel went on and on, allowing only inadequate snatches of air until her lungs scalded and her mind blurred. If she had not known the Saracen couriers had previously made the trip through this tunnel with success, she would have panicked entirely.

Finally, a disk of steel-gray light, so faint it faded almost instantly, glimmered overhead. Liliane swam furiously for the spot where she had seen the light, clawed higher and found hot August night. The couriers looked down at her strained, glistening face in the well.

One of them grunted. "Your Christian God must think well of you. In three months, we lost twenty men down there." He dragged her limp, exhausted body up.

* * *

Alexandre was lost. He knew in all sanity that he could not be lost so long as he kept moving forward, but the cistern was wider than his body, and in those horrid, strangling moments of fear when he could find no air at the top of the cistern, he became disoriented. He was no longer sure whether he was advancing in the tunnel or going back the way he had come. He was not even sure if he had the right tunnel. He had never liked closed places; they made him feel like a trapped animal. Now he was drowsing in a black, watery cage that pressed in on him under tons of stone. For the third time, he went up for air that was not there.

* * *

Although she had a good sense of direction, Liliane was completely confused by the time the Saracens hastily deposited her in a tiny house near the harbor. The dark streets, filled with stealthy rustlings and the grieving wails of the doomed behind barricaded doors, wound mysteriously throughout the city. Sorrow seemed to echo, to be imbedded in the very stones of the streets and the blank, crumbling plaster of the walls. Acre had known many revolts, many wars throughout the centuries; and by tomorrow's sunset, the city's cries and' murmurings would be ominously silent. They would wait, brooding, for that next dreadful moment in time when disaster would summon them to howl again. Was it only the battering of war machines and armies that eventually brought cities to dust, Liliane wondered. Or was it disintegration from within, an exhausted shudder that shook a city to bits upon the heads of its makers and destroyers alike?

After exchanging a few words with a slight man who bitterly protested Liliane's presence, the two Saracens shoved her through the door of the house and hurried off down the street. The resentful householder slammed the door shut behind her and thrust a heavy beam through the latch. For a long moment, he stared at Liliane with pure hatred, then with a muffled mutter, he turned to his family. A woman and two children huddled by the empty grate, their faces lit only by a fragment of candle stuck to the floor. The woman was probably thirty, the boy seven, the girl eight; because of starvation, they all looked older. Their food was long gone, and their few sticks of furniture had been burned as firewood. Their eyes had a despairing, bestial gleam. Hate sang about the room, adding its relentless note to the discordant chorus reverberating from Acre's ancient, shrunken gut.

"I have come to help, if I can," Liliane murmured in Arabic. Tiredly, she pulled off her wet
haik
. The Saracens gaped at her long, pale hair.

"Help?" the man spat. "You, a woman? And worse, a fool? Tomorrow you will die—we will all die. This once, Allah's will is no mystery." He shook his head in exasperation. "Not only must we suffer a foul end, we must also endure an infidel madwoman."

"Does not Allah bid us all to bear madness patiently?" Liliane gave him a faint smile. "May I sit? Even the crazed grow weary.''

"Sit. What does it matter?"

Liliane sat and unwound a knotted sleeve of her aba to take out an oiled parchment packet. She held it up to the Saracen. "I brought food."

He snatched the bundle, his family rushing toward him like a hyena pack. His face white, he ripped into the parchment. "It's wet," he observed in flat disappointment, then without another breath, he tore into a chunk of dripping mutton. The boy grabbed a handful of shapeless fruit. Their faces strained, the two females watched the food disappear. Finally noticing them, the man pushed the remains at them. With terrible sounds, they wolfed the scraps.

Perhaps I am a fool, decided Liliane as she watched them, but I do not wish to live in a world where starving women are allowed only scraps left by men. I was wrong to take part in a pointless war, but I was right to claim a freedom denied to me only because of my sex. War is not the only stupidity in the world.

Crouching now in the darkness, she realized that, given her nature and training by Diego, she could hardly have acted differently after marrying Alexandre. She was only sorry, bitterly sorry, that he had ceased to care for her.

Why did I think that in his heart Alexandre would not mind anything I did? she wondered. Saladin was right; like so many common humans, my sin was pride. In claiming my own rights, I denied Alexandre's. I wish I might let him know that I learned something—her gaze went out to the guttering candle—and that I will always love him.

The candle went out.

* * *

Dawn rose in eerie silence. The mammoth rampart of Acre flushed an ominous red in the first subtle rays of the rising sun. A fever seemed to have set upon the city and reached its crisis. Outside, the crusader armies gathered to await the official surrender before the gate; above them, no guards stood on the battlements, and all minds in Acre were wrapped in cold, mounting terror, were drawn inward to private thoughts.

A clarion cry of trumpets shivered through the hot air. Liliane rose slowly to her feet. The trumpets signaled the opening of the gates. Acre's commanders would meet with the crusader kings, prelates and high officials, then the city populace would be ordered to leave. To go where? To what? Miles of desert surrounded Acre. Down the coast were strung poor villages that would be unable to sustain a flood of population. Even if the refugees from Acre were not massacred outright by the conquering armies, they had no food left; anything of value would be taken from them. They would be preyed upon as they fled.

The little Saracen and his family were dolefully gathering their pitifully few bundles. Their hands trembling, they were scarcely aware of her now. She quietly intervened. "Those bundles would be best secured beneath your women's skirts and your own clothing. Do not put too much on the women or they will be searched.'' She did not add that they might also be raped if they could not run.

The Saracen seemed to ignore her, but then he abruptly waved for his family to redistribute their possessions. They had plenty of time; the ceremonies outside the gates would drag on for a while. Liliane sharply watched the Saracen's face. Not only was he afraid, but he had the look of a guilty man. No doubt he was wondering if his traffic with Saladin would cost him his seek. His dealings had no doubt kept his family alive during the siege, securing them a little food and money. He must have not dared to appear too prosperous and well fed lest he draw robbers and scavengers. Whether he was a patriot or simply supplying necessities to his family, she did not know, but now they risked being suspected of spying by the invaders.

Around forenoon, a messenger ran through the street outside, leaving a tiny cloud of dust on the cobbles. "All Saracens must now evacuate the city! Anyone found in Acre by noon will be considered a resister and slain. Everyone out! Everyone out by noon!"

The Saracen's wife let out a wail of fear and despair. "Silence!" her husband shouted nervously. "Have we not enough trouble without your screeching?"

The little girl huddled by the empty grate, her brother clutching at one of her braids. "Papa, I do not want to leave! Please, Papa, can we not stay?"

Their father's nerves snapped. "No! Shut up! I told you what would happen this morning. Now we must go! That's all there is to it! Move!" He grabbed his wife's arm and gave her a shove toward the door.

Liliane adjusted her
haik
higher about her face. "If you will trust me, I may be able to help you."

This time, the Saracen was less inclined to be negative about offers of assistance. He paused with his hand oh the latch. "What can you do?"

"I hold high rank among the Europeans. I may be able to intercede for you and others among you."

The Saracen flatly shook his head. "You lost your influence once you set foot in Acre. You will be executed as a traitor and draw attention to us." His face went cold. "Once we reach the city gates, I do not want to see your face. Stay away from us."

"What you say may be true; then again, you may be wrong. Do you believe your children will survive the desert?"

"They are Saracen, not weak Europeans," he spat. "We will live to see you infidels driven into the sea."

"Your faith is strong," Liliane said softly. "May it sustain you in the days to come."

Moments later, they crowded through the street with the other evacuees. Liliane brought up the rear of the Saracen's little group, just behind the children. The streets were a cacophony of cries and curses, the rumbling of lumbering cart wheels and the clatter of light carriages. Litter bearers pressed forward through the throngs as their owners shouted imprecations at being delayed.

After some minutes, Liliane noticed a man watching them. He clutched a large bundle of possessions to his chest, a kohl-eyed slave girl scurrying at his heel. Beside them careened a cart foil of carpets and rich household goods. The Saracen's wife noticed the man, too. Her face paled and she tugged at her husband's aba. "Hassim is watching us! He will point you out to the infidels to save himself and his goods. We will all be put to the sword!" When her husband took a quick look, then quickly averted his eyes, she tugged harder. "Ali, what will we do?"

"Stay away from him, that's all," he muttered, hurrying down a side street. "We look like everybody else. How can he point us out if he cannot find us?"

Liliane's eyes met his wife's. Both of them had guessed that Acre's residents would not be passed through the crusader ranks without some form of inspection. All Hassim had to do was wait with the inspectors. He would not be the only turncoat. Many would sell their neighbors to save themselves. Lies would be spent as liberally as truth. One look of recognition at Ali's face would sentence him.

As they rejoined the main throng and neared the press at the huge city gates, Ali's wife whispered something to her children. They stared at her in panic-and she shook them. "You will do as I say!" With tears welling in their eyes, they ducked their heads, then nodded, darting peeks at Liliane. Their mother moved back to her. "Take them!" she muttered. "When you can, send them to my sister in Sidon." Without touching the children, she pushed away after her husband in the crowd. With the crowd buffeting them, the children watched their parents disappear.

Wondering how many children would be orphaned before the end of this day, Liliane put her arms about their shoulders. "Do not worry. We shall try to pass through the gate after we see your parents pass. Wall Allah's help, your separation may be brief."

But luck was not with Ali and his wife. Twenty yards outside the gate, Hassim waited like a large, threatening slug. His fat forefinger singled out Ali in moments. Liliane was tall enough to see over the the crowd where the children could not. Soldiers swept forward and dragged Ali and his wife into a miserable cluster of Saracens huddled together in a ditch ringed with guards. There were already almost two hundred people in the ditch; some bewailing their fate, most numb with terror. Although the group was mostly made up of adults, children howled and whimpered among them. Hassim's sharp, darting eyes were searching through the crowd again. Ali's wife had been right; Hassim was looking for any prey to divert the guards from himself.

Liliane grabbed the children's hands and dragged them back inside the gate. Swiftly, she pulled them against the wall into a niche to escape the stream of people who were in a panic to flee the city before noon. The shadows were already shortening. "Do you know where the cesspits are in the old quarter of the city?" she demanded of the girl, whose name was Yasmin.

Yasmin shook her head fearfully. Both of the children were aware of the probable reason for retreating into the city. "I-I was not allowed there," stammered the child. "The brothels—"

The boy, Habib, cut in. "I know where the cesspits are. I often play in mem," he said importantly. "I know what you want, too. You want to hide in them, but they smell horrible when the tide does not flush them."

"Any better ideas?"

"The minarets," he replied excitedly. "We could see everything. ..."

Probably too much, Liliane imagined, remembering the wretched people being herded into the ditch. "We would also be trapped. The crusaders will search the towers, do you not think?"

As Habib considered, his face fell. Liliane patted his shoulder. "I suppose we will just have to hold our noses in the cesspits while you scout for us. Will you do that?" She thought it best to cater to his vanity. Saracen males could torn stubborn in a second if they suspected that a female was trying to manage them. It was a pity that when dealing with Alexandre she had not remembered that European males were much the same.

When Habib finally nodded, Liliane added, "You will also agree 'tis best to keep secret that I am no man?"

He reflected a moment. "Yes, so long as you do not try to order me about."

At a brisk trot, the boy led Liliane and his sister through the rapidly emptying streets toward the old quarter. The sun was nearly overhead. A few highborn crusaders were already moving their destriers and households into the city. Behind them, the foot soldiers were barely held in check. Both casually ignored the terrible screams that rose near the main gate. Sickened, Liliane could guess what was happening to the prisoners trapped in the ditch. At any moment the main army would be let go. "Habib, how far is it to the cesspits?"

"Not for now," he said over his shoulder. "The biggest one is near the old bazaar. Nobody will find us there."

He was wrong, to her horror, Liliane saw that the dark, foul cesspit was full of old people and beggars too feeble to attempt the desert exodus. A few women, mostly widows by their garb, cowered against the curving walls. The pit was perhaps thirty feet across, although so many pillars held up the roof that it was difficult to be sure. A broad, sloped walkway crowded with people encircled the pit, which angled steeply to the center filled with sand, grit and an occasional body. The tunnel by which they had entered was one of the head-high openings in the walls. Numerous smaller tunnels also emptied into the pit, which was drained by two low, broad tunnels sloping sharply down to the smell of rank sea water. A small iron grate high overhead let in vague, diffused light as if it were the drain of some interior courtyard.

Among the cesspit refugees were children, either orphaned street urchins who would have no source of sustenance outside the city walls, or children too young to travel who had been reluctantly abandoned by their parents. Babies lay fretting and wailing on the damp stones. Oh, my God, wondered Liliane desperately, what chance have these poor creatures? If they are not killed like vermin, they will starve! Beside her, Yasmin dropped down on the stones and began to weep bitterly. "I want my mother!"

"Shut up or I'll box your ears!" threatened her brother, near to tears himself. His bravado was completely shaken at the sight of such a crowd; he was beginning to realize the near impossibility of successfully hiding within Acre's walls. When the screaming had begun outside the city gates, he had tried to get beyond the sound as quickly as possible, as if running from the certainty that he would never see his parents again.

Liliane knew the panic would rise and spread any moment. An old woman near them was beginning to keen more loudly. These marooned people had to be silenced that they might not draw attention, then calmed so they would behave rationally. She pulled Yasmin to her feet and set the children to work. "Collect the babies and give them to the widows." Quickly, she strode along the walkway surrounding the pit and shouted, "Be quiet and listen to me, all of you. Your lives depend on it."

The miserable group stared at her apathetically; a few quieted, but most did not. She raised her voice until it echoed about their ears. "We must move well back into the small tunnels and take the children with us. Everyone is making too much noise here; if we go to the depths of the tunnels, the infidels will not be eager to come rooting after us, and the noise of the babies will be muffled."

"Why not strangle the little beasts?" snarled one of the urchins.

"You were not strangled at birth, were you?" retorted Liliane. "Use your wits. We are all stuck in the last rat hole in Acre. If you look out for just yourself, you are doomed. Come on, take up a baby . . . you, you and you . . . come on, get up!"

The urchins knew authority when they heard it; the women were used to obeying a man. One by one, most of them got to their feet and shuffled back into the tunnels; the ancient and the hysterics merely stared at her with apathy and loathing. Assuming a grim expression, she drew her scimitar. "No one will be left behind to reveal our presence."

In due order, the whole pack retired to the depths of the tunnels. Liliane heaved a sigh of relief. She was not up to slitting defenseless throats; to have her bluff called this early in the game would cost all of them their lives.

The black, slimy bowels of the pit and tunnels bore a reeking resemblance to the gut of a subterranean giant with lanky limbs and disgusting habits. Complaints arose instantly. "The nastier this place, the better," Liliane returned tersely. "If you were an infidel, what would you do for the next few days—pillage this city or stroll through its sewer?"

"They will come down here sooner or later," replied an old man.

"By then, we will he gone: a few at a time over a span of several nights." Liliane held up her large signet ring. "With this seal, I can obtain European clothes to smuggle you through the gates and arrange passage for most of you on lateens and in caravans to the nearest ports. You must have courage and patience."

"What about food? And water?" the old man queried. "We're all starved and the babes won't last another day."

"Food is the charge of you children of the streets." Liliane swept a hand to the urchins squatting against the wall. "Pickings should be fine in the midst of their ransacking homes and shops, as well as the bazaar business picked up by crusader camp followers and merchants."

An urchin with narrow black eyes and a shock of dusty hair grinned cynically. "Aye, the cannibals will be having a prime time." The grin went flat. "Why should we risk our skins to feed this lot? We can lay low and grab our own pickings. When everything settles, we fade back into the city."