The Seal Read Free Page B

a slave will fetch no more than a drachma!’
    Etienne took a
glance at Marcus’s smoke-stained face. Such words were spoken for the most part
of Christians at the hands of infidels and this grew a burden upon his heart.
But a greater burden pressed upon him – the knowledge that all things
were changed, since to walk away from this battle was to admit defeat, and this
defeat, added to every other, meant that soon they must walk away from Christ’s
kingdom, as they were now doing, upon His blood-soaked soil in which lay buried
all who had struggled and died to secure it. He looked around him at the
darkened corners. These are strange thoughts for a knight of the Temple! he told himself and looked instead to his task of walking,
one limb after another, with his brothers beside him, mere shadows scraping iron
feet over the cobblestones.
    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