The Seal(3)

They caught up to the knights of the sword of St Lazarus. Those of St Thomas were not far ahead. To their left, they were coming upon the English knights of Syria, and the knights, sergeants, and squires of the Hospital. To their right those of their own Order. All of them headed for the sanctuary of the Temple castle. Behind them morning broke blood-red and angry through the smoke.

There was heard a cry then and the world erupted in activity.

Etienne spun around and stopped a weapon with his shield, gritting his teeth, making a push that of itself little moved the force that seemed as big as a mountain and twice as broad behind it. It was a Mameluk patched over one eye with his mouth making a smile in his dark face that showed no teeth but issued from it one great yell. Etienne veered to one side in time to avoid the lunge, but Marcus had come upon the man’s blind side and now brought his blade down wide and low to cut off the man’s leg. It fell to the ground with a thud and the great infidel landed upon his own bone and skin and blood, with the life pumping out onto the streets like a river.

A number of knights had paused to observe this little battle. They now walked on, leaving the three Templars.

Etienne put away his blade, but Marcus stood holding his, looking down upon the infidel in his misery. The man was making a strangled cry in the throat and mumbling words Etienne did not know.

‘He wishes to meet with Allah,’ Marcus told Etienne. ‘Who am I to prevent it?’ He made an elegant sweep with his sword, cut off the man’s head and was covered with blood for his trouble.

He came to Jacques and Etienne wiping the sockets of his eyes with contentment.

Etienne looked on this enjoyment from butchery with gravity. He scratched below the metal of his helmet and to Marcus he said, ‘You are God’s merciful angel! Much more of this and you shall make blunt your blade.’

The smile on the other man’s face broadened. ‘God shall see to the sharpness of my blade, my dear Etienne, since I am at His work of sending heathen souls to hell!’ He clasped a hand over Etienne’s shoulder and made a grunt of pleasure. ‘Ahh, St Hilary be praised! I am full of satisfaction for it!’

Near the Genoese quarter they came upon a man outside the tailor’s shop holding an infant boy no older than five springs with a knife to his throat. Both man and child stared at the three Templars moving past.

Etienne for his part made a pause, and the others walked ahead until they realised he was not with them.

This is something! Etienne thought, considering the moment; the steel blade on the boy’s neck, the old man’s face.

‘Leave it, Etienne, we are left behind,’ Marcus told him. ‘At any rate, this is a show for our benefit.’

The tailor mumbled and then spat, ‘Maktub! ’ at him while his knife dug into the boy’s neck and drew blood.

Etienne looked behind him, Marcus was right, the air was sweet with the smell of blood and burning hair and the world was erupting in screams and wails. Above, there were outlines on the rooftops that came and went. This peace in which they found themselves was a short-lived creature.

‘What does he say, Marcus?’ Etienne asked him.

‘Destiny,’ Marcus answered. ‘Maktub, destiny, Etienne! It means they were dead the day Al Ashraf arrived before the walls. It means this infant is already dead, it would feign life!’

Etienne could not deny it, he had seen so much blood: women and children slaughtered, whole cities and fields of battle deep with bodies! There was no reason why one more should concern him, why he should lose his breath and mislay his calmness, why his temper should be confused over one more child. But his soul had met a change upon that wall between Acre and Satan, and a memory long forgotten had risen up in his mind of another child such as this that now stared hate and fear into him.

‘Give us the infant!’ He was annoyed now at himself and at the man for delaying him. ‘We are to take him to the Temple, beyond the gates!’

Marcus, with an indolent eye, translated from the Frankish language to the Arab tongue, but the old man shook his head, in his own eyes defiance, as if to say, ‘This life, at least, is mine to dispose of as I wish.’

Etienne gave a sigh. He could not let it go now. Then he surprised even himself, for he made a shout, ‘Give him to me!’ and moved, between one thought and another, upon the old man, pushing him aside and scooping up the boy with a hand and away from the knife.

The tailor fell and began a dull, woeful cry into his hands. Meanwhile the boy with eyes wild and green struggled and kicked against Etienne, biting him on the exposed part of his wrist where his glove did not reach. Etienne set the child down and took him by the shoulders and bent a stare of fear into those eyes, into the centre of each iris. He let go of the child and began to walk away, nursing the bitten hand. But he could not keep from turning around to see the child give a look to the old man, who, between wails, said something to him in their language. The infant hesitated and then turned away, making a run to reach him and to grasp his mailed leg as if it were the centre of the world.