Authors: Unknown
The Knights of the Temple and Hospital rode into the streets to halt the massacre, soon followed by more city guards and the Teutonics. Muslims were ushered into the safety of the Temple or let into churches and private houses. Mosques weren’t considered safe, since the Crusaders had managed to break into one and had massacred everyone they found inside, leaving the white marble walls and floors awash with blood. Little pockets of violence raged, city guards and locals joining forces to confront the mob. But the knights were moving steadily out around the city now, breaking down the peasants’ resistance, and after an hour or so, the fighting slowed.
Finally, when it had visited terror on much of Acre, the mob broke up and scattered. Men tired and grew sober. Men, loaded down with too much loot, returned to the docks. Men woke as if from a dream to find blood on their hands and staggered from houses, sickened by their own actions, leaving little scarlet chambers of anguish all across the city. In just under two hours, the peasants’ Crusade lurched to its conclusion. The knights set a curfew and roamed the streets as night fell. The rioters who were caught were rounded up and thrown in the city jails and the corpses were collected in carts. More than two hundred Italian Crusaders died in the riot. But over one thousand of Acre’s citizens had perished. And the coming of night made the fires that much brighter and the bloodstains that much darker.
43
The Citadel, Cairo 7 SEPTEMBER A.D. 1290
The company rode in through the imposing arch of al-Mudarraj, into the courtyard of the citadel. The guards at the gates watched on with wary, hostile eyes as the seven riders dismounted. They were met by ten Mamluks of the Royal Guard and led through the vaulted marble passageways of the palace. Servants and soldiers stopped what they were doing and watched them stride past, their gazes curious, cautious. When they reached the double doors of the throne room, the company was told to wait. Two of the Mansuriyya disappeared inside. They were gone for less than a minute before the doors were opened again.
Will was the first to enter. Behind him came six Templars, hoods pulled back. Will felt exposed and uncomfortable in his uniform. He had only been to Cairo in secret, in disguise. To be here now on official business felt strange. He quickly assessed the cavernous chamber: elegant pillars marching down either side of a central aisle; huge fans on the ceiling; slaves clad in white. As the Mansuriyya warriors led the company to a platform at the end of the chamber, Will’s gaze was drawn to five figures standing around one man seated on a gold throne. He guessed they were generals or advisors, although one, a young man with a mop of hair and an aloof expression, looked enough like the man on the throne for him to think they were related. As he drew closer, he thought he had perhaps seen him before, but his speculations were cut short as one of the Royal Guards announced them.
Kalawun was staring at Will. There had been a look of surprised concern in his face when Will entered, but that had been covered quickly. “Speak,” he said gruffly. “Why have you come?”
Will held out a scroll. “We have come on the orders of Grand Master de Beaujeu, my Lord Sultan.” The scroll was taken by one of the guards and conveyed to Kalawun, who opened it.
The chamber was silent as the sultan read. When he had finished, he looked up. “I will speak with the Templar alone.”
“My lord,” began one of the men behind him.
“We will finish our discussion later, Amir,” responded Kalawun brusquely. “You are dismissed.”
The man pursed his lips, but bowed. He and the other men on the dais headed down to a side door.
“And you, Khalil,” said Kalawun, gesturing to the young man with the mop of hair.
“My lord, I ...”
Kalawun looked at him sharply, silencing him with his stare.
With a stiff bow, the young man descended the dais. His gaze lingered on Will for a second in a mixture of hostility and interest, before he pushed open the door. The Mansuriyya soldiers were also reluctant to leave, but Kalawun refused to listen to their careful protests, and they too were forced to head off, along with the servants. The knights who had accompanied Will were escorted out, and within moments, only Will and Kalawun remained.
Kalawun rose from his throne, the scroll gripped in his fist. He strode down the steps, brandishing it at Will. “What happened?”
Will faltered. “I thought you would have known by now what—”
“I know
what
happened,” Kalawun cut across him angrily. “Our people in Acre told me.
Why?
Why did it happen?”
“We don’t know for sure. A group of Italian peasants came on a Crusade, sanctioned by the pope in Rome and supported by King Edward of England and King Philippe of France. It’s believed the violence started when some of these men heard a rumor that a Christian woman was raped by two Muslims.”
“This is your excuse?” demanded Kalawun.
“No,” said Will quickly, “of course not. There is no excuse for what happened in Acre. But you wanted a reason, an explanation.” He shook his head. “It is the only one we have.”
“Do you know,” began Kalawun, his voice brittle with rage and emotion, “how difficult it was, after Tripoli, to halt the campaign against your people? It took months to convince my court that the Franks did not intend to attack us, that men within your forces had corrupted the information for their own ends. It took every ounce of strength left in me to persuade them that it would be in our best interests to renegotiate a truce with the Franks.”
“With all due respect, my lord, Tripoli was an unprovoked attack. You and your forces had no just cause to besiege the city. You say it as though we were fortunate that you decided to spare Acre. You say it as though it were an indulgence on your part, rather than a legality bound by your own signature!”
“Legality matters little to my court when it comes to the Franks,” countered Kalawun roughly. “Most of my men want you gone. They will accept any excuse for this.” He pushed a hand through his silver hair. “And you have certainly given them one now.” His eyes narrowed. “Over a thousand dead. Corpses left in the streets, unburied. Children orphaned. Homes and livelihoods destroyed. It was one of the most brutal assaults I have heard of in years. It wasn’t trained warriors these animals attacked; it was booksellers, jewelers, bakers, fishermen, all of whom had lived peacefully among your people for decades. My spies tell me how men were stripped naked and carried through the streets to places where they could be strung up.” Kalawun thrust out the scroll, now crumpled. “And your grand master thinks we will be placated by an
apology
?”
“It is little compensation I realize,” said Will quietly, “but Christians and Jews were also killed in the massacre. The Italians were not under orders from any ruler in Acre. We did not even want them in the city.”
“No? It wasn’t so long ago that your own grand master was seeking a war with my people.”
“Not anymore, my lord, and even those of our leaders who would still welcome a Crusade did not want this. These men weren’t trained soldiers, sent to fortify our strongholds and augment our forces. They were half-starved peasants, enticed with the usual promises of wealth and absolution, noncombatants with no understanding of Outremer and her people. We tried to stop them, believe me. Many Muslims were slain, yes. But more were saved by the quick actions of our people.”
Kalawun shook his head. “That logic will not penetrate the fury of my court, Campbell. My people demand retribution for this. It has been all I can do to stop them taking up arms under their own volition and heading north for blood.”
“We have worked hard, Kalawun, together and separately, to maintain the peace between our people. I know that fragile balance we created faltered with Tripoli. But I’m begging you again: do not let the mindless actions of a few dictate the future of many.” Will held Kalawun’s tense gaze. “Do not allow your court’s need for vengeance to destroy what we have built. Do not let our own sacrifices for this cause be in vain.”
“What have we built, Campbell?” said Kalawun tiredly. “Can it even be measured anymore? Is it worth all of this? Any of it?”
“You know it is,” responded Will, “or you wouldn’t have called your forces to heel after Tripoli.” He sighed roughly, wishing, as he often did these days, that Everard were here. It was exhausting, trying to hold the world together, when all it seemed to want to do was spin out of control. “You wouldn’t have worked so damn hard to keep the peace. You would have just let it end. Lesser men would have,” he added. “When you met my father and agreed to this alliance, against the knowledge of Baybars, against the knowledge of your family and your people, you didn’t do so because it would be easy. You did so because you believed, as he did, as I do, that our people can benefit from peace.”
Kalawun closed his eyes as Will’s words penetrated his rage, breaking it down, turning it into weary confusion. Was this true? Had he done the right thing by his people, by his family? With so many of his men telling him, day after day, year after year, that he must confront the Franks, he had started to forget why he’d fought so hard against that counsel; he had begun to lose his convictions.
“You believe,” continued Will, “that Christians and Muslims and Jews do not have to be at war with one another, that, in many senses, we are all the same and that when we fight, it is against our own siblings that we raise arms. We are all children of God. You know this.”
Kalawun’s eyes opened as something awakened within him at this. It was anger, bright and sharp. But it wasn’t directed at the Christians; it was directed at his own people, at the men who had made him doubt himself, who had shaken his faith.
Do not let our own sacrifices for this cause be in vain.
He had given up too much to turn his back on everything he had been working toward now, when it mattered most. He had lost so much in pursuit of the cause, to give up the cause itself would render his entire life meaningless. No. He had to believe that he had been guided to this end for a reason. He had to believe that God had a purpose for him, that he was right. “I’ll need compensation,” he murmured, looking at Will. “It is the only way I will be able to hold my generals in check and retain my position.”
“We expected this. As well as sending me to convey his deep regret and a personal apology for the atrocity, Grand Master de Beaujeu wanted me to ask for your terms of reparation.”
“I want the ringleaders of the violence arrested and sent to me for trial,” said Kalawun. He paused. “And I want one Venetian sequin for every citizen in Acre.”
Will frowned. “That’s over one hundred and twenty thousand gold pieces, my lord.”
Kalawun nodded. “It will make a statement. A statement my people will heed. I’ll play my part, Campbell. Now you play yours. Go to your grand master and persuade Acre to agree to these terms and I will hold my people back.”
In the tight gap between the wall of the servants’ passage and the throne room, Khalil watched his father and the Templar shake hands. His whole body was humming with suppressed energy, which, as yet, hadn’t transformed itself into any coherent emotion. He was still reeling.
As he had left the throne room, Khalil had realized where he had seen the Templar before. It was at the siege of Tripoli, in his father’s pavilion. Something, curiosity or rebellion, had made him turn aside outside and squeeze into the gap in the wall, which Khadir had always used to spy on the court. He hadn’t liked the feeling of spying on his father. But, as soon as Kalawun and the Templar began to speak, this compunction vanished.
Khalil stood in stunned silence as the knight’s footsteps receded. Through the crack in the wall, he watched his father wearily ascend the dais and sit slumped in his throne. All at once a stranger to him.
THE CHURCH OF ST. CROSS, 23 SEPTEMBER A.D. 1290
Guillaume de Beaujeu was red in the face from shouting and his eyes were blazing. He stood behind the altar, his gaze raking the assembly. The Church of St. Cross was packed. Lawyers from the High Court, legates and bishops, the patriarch, the grand masters of the military orders, princes, consuls and merchants had crowded in, jamming the aisles. On the platform with Guillaume were Grand Commander Theobald Gaudin, Marshal Peter de Sevrey and the seneschal, along with several high-ranking commanders, including Will. The council had been going for less than half an hour and tempers were already fraying. The atmosphere was hostile, and Guillaume was struggling to make himself heard.
“You must understand that Sultan Kalawun has every right to attack us,” he was bellowing. “We aren’t pandering to his wishes with this offer, we are bargaining for our survival!”
“We shouldn’t treat with the infidel!” shouted one merchant, but his words were drowned out by others, not quite as fanatical, but nonetheless adamant.
“The men of Lombardy and Tuscany were not acting under the orders of any man here, Master Templar,” called a haughty voice from the side of the aisle, rising above the others. It was the bishop of Tripoli. “Why should we be made to pay for something that was no fault of our own? One hundred and twenty thousand sequins? It is an absurd amount of money.”
Guillaume’s eyes fixed on him. “I would think, Bishop, that you more than most would understand the price we will pay for inaction at this juncture. You saw your own city destroyed by Kalawun’s troops. Will you stand by and witness the same fate befall Acre?” He swept the agitated gathering with his stare. “Will you let your arrogance kill us all? No, we did not order the Lombards to commit the atrocities, but it was our pope who sent them here and our people who were put in charge. If we will not take responsibility for the actions of our citizens, who will?” His eyes flicked back to the bishop, who scowled.
Will gripped his sword, his heart thumping, as the crowd churned with agitation. He couldn’t believe that they were arguing so stubbornly against the grand master’s proposal, not with what was at stake.
“I agree with what you say, Master de Beaujeu,” came a croaking voice from a wintry, white-haired man with a stooped back. His voice was so frail that those near the back couldn’t hear him and began shouting over him, until they were quieted by their fellows. He was Nicholas de Hanape, the patriarch of Jerusalem. “I agree that we must take responsibility for the outrage that has happened here.” He looked around the church. “Good Christians died too in this mindless slaughter, and nothing can excuse it.” He peered up at Guillaume. “But the sultan of Egypt asks too much. We have imprisoned some of the men who were believed to have carried out the attacks, but the trials against them are still continuing as far as I am aware. The atrocity happened on our own soil and we must be the ones to dispense justice. In Egypt, any man we send would face execution, regardless of his guilt or innocence.”