Brethren: An Epic Adventure of the Knights Templar (2 page)

Baybars went over. He bent to close the young man’s eyes, then rose as one of his officers hailed him. The warrior was bleeding heavily from a gash at his temple and his eyes were wild, unfocused. “Amir,” he said hoarsely. “Your orders?”

Baybars surveyed the devastation. In just a few hours they had destroyed the Mongol army, killing over seven thousand of them. Some Mamluks had fallen to their knees, crying with relief, but more were roaring their triumph as they made their way toward the survivors who had rallied around the discarded carts. Baybars knew that he would have to regain control of his men, or their jubilation might incite them to plunder the enemy’s treasure and kill the survivors. The remaining Mongols, especially the women and children, would fetch a considerable sum in the slave markets. He pointed to the Mongol survivors. “Oversee their submission and see that no one is killed. We want slaves we can sell, not more corpses to burn.”

The officer hurried across the sands to relay the command. Baybars sheathed his sword and looked around for a horse. Finding a riderless beast with bloodstained trappings, he mounted and rode over to his troops. Around him, other Mamluk commanders were addressing their own regiments. Baybars looked out across the weary yet defiant faces of the Bahri and felt the first stirrings of exultation swell within him. “Brothers,” he shouted, the words sticking in his parched throat. “Allah has shined upon us this day. We stand triumphant in His glory, our enemy vanquished.” He paused as the cheers rose, then lifted his hand for silence. “But our celebrations must wait for there is much to be done. Look to your officers.”

The cheers continued, but, already, the troops were forming into some semblance of order. Baybars headed over to his officers and gestured to two of them. “I want the bodies of our men buried before sundown. Burn the Mongol dead and search the area for any who may have tried to flee. Have the wounded carried to our camp, I’ll meet you there when it’s done.” Baybars scanned the devastation for Kutuz. “Where is the sultan?”

“He retired to the camp about an hour ago, Amir,” replied one of the officers. “He was wounded in the battle.”

“Badly?”

“No, Amir, I believe the injury was a minor one. He is with his physicians.”

Baybars dismissed the officers and rode over to the captives, who were being rounded up. The Mamluks were ransacking the carts and throwing anything of value into a mounting pile on the crimson sands. A scream sounded as two soldiers dragged three children out from their hiding place beneath a wagon. A woman, Baybars guessed to be their mother, leapt up and ran across to them. Even with her hands tied behind her back she was ferocious, spitting like a snake and kicking out with her bare feet. One of the soldiers silenced her with his fists and then hauled her and two of the children by the hair to the swelling group of prisoners. Baybars looked down on the captives and met the terrified gaze of a young boy who was kneeling before him. In the boy’s wide, bewildered eyes, he saw himself, twenty years ago, staring back.

Born as a Kipchak Turk on the shores of the Black Sea, Baybars had known nothing of war or slavery before the Mongols’ invasion. After being separated from his family and auctioned in the Syrian markets, he had been enslaved by four masters before an officer in the Egyptian army had purchased him and taken him to Cairo to be trained as a slave warrior. In the Mamluk camp on the Nile, along with many other boys who had been bought for the sultan’s military, he was clothed, armed and taught to fight. Now, at thirty-seven, he commanded the formidable Bahris. But even with chests of gold and slaves of his own, the recollections of his first year in servitude were bitter memories that he tasted daily.

Baybars gestured to one of the men presiding over the arrests. “Make sure all the spoils arrive in camp. Any man who steals from the sultan will regret it. Use the damaged engines as fuel for the pyres and take the rest.”

“As you command, Amir.”

The hooves of his horse churning the red sands, Baybars headed for the Mamluk encampment, where Sultan Kutuz would be waiting for him. His body was leaden, but his heart was light. For the first time since the Mongols had begun their invasion of Syria, the Mamluks had turned the tide. It wouldn’t take them long to crush the rest of the horde and once that was done, Kutuz would be free to turn his attention to a more critical matter. Baybars smiled. It was a rare expression that looked foreign on his face.

T
he young clerk sprinted down the alley, his breath coming in ragged bursts. His feet skidded in slimy pools of mud and night soil that coated the ground; his nose was clogged with the stink of human waste and rotting food. He slipped, threw out a hand to grab the sharp flint wall of the building beside him, caught his balance and ran on. To his left, between the buildings, he caught a glimpse of the wide blackness of the Seine. The eastern sky was beginning to lighten, the tower of Notre Dame reflecting the faint gleam of dawn, but in the labyrinth of alleyways that crisscrossed between the wharf houses and tenements it was still midnight. His hair plastered to his head with sweat, the clerk headed away from the river and north toward Saint-Martin’s Gate. Every so often, he risked a glance over his shoulder. But he saw no one and the only footsteps he heard were his own.

Once he handed over the book he would be free. By the time the bells rang for Prime he would be on his way to Rouen and a new life. He paused in the mouth of an alley and bent forward straining for breath, one hand on his thigh, the other clutching a vellum-bound book. A movement caught his eye. A tall man dressed in a gray cloak had appeared at the other end of the alley and was striding toward him. The young clerk turned and ran.

He zigzagged between buildings, intent on losing those footsteps now echoing after his own. But his pursuer was dogged and the distance between them was closing. The city walls were rising ahead. His hand tightened around the book. It meant a sentence, whether of death or imprisonment he wasn’t sure, but without evidence they might not be able to convict. The clerk darted down a narrow passage between two rows of shops. Outside the back door of a wine seller’s several casks were stacked in a neat row. The clerk looked over his shoulder. He heard the footsteps, but couldn’t see his pursuer yet. Dropping the vellum-bound book behind the casks, he ran on. He could always double back to collect it, if he escaped.

He didn’t.

The clerk made it down three more streets before he was caught outside a butcher’s, where the ground was stained red with the previous day’s slaughter. He yelled as the tall man in the threadbare gray cloak pinned him roughly against the wall.

“Give it to me!” The man’s words were masked by a thick accent and even though he wore the cloak’s cowl pulled low over his face the dark tone of his skin was apparent.

“Are you mad? Let go of me!” gasped the clerk, struggling vainly.

His attacker drew a dagger. “I have no time for games. Give me the book.”

“Don’t kill me! Please!”

“We know you stole it,” said the man, raising the dagger.

The clerk heaved in a shuddering breath. “I had to! He said he would…! Oh, dear God!” The clerk hung his head and began to cry. “I don’t want to die!”

“Who made you take it?”

But the clerk just continued sobbing.

With a gruff sigh the attacker stepped back and sheathed the dagger. “I will not harm you, if you tell me what I need to know.”

The young clerk looked up, eyes wide. “You followed me from the preceptory?”

“Yes.”

“The man I…Jean? Is he…?” The clerk trailed off, tears streaming down his cheeks.

“He is alive.”

The clerk exhaled sharply.

There was a clatter somewhere behind them. The man in gray turned, his dark eyes scanning the buildings. Seeing nothing, he looked back at the clerk. “Give me the book and we can return to the preceptory together. I will see you come to no harm if you tell me the truth. Start by telling me who forced you to steal it.”

The clerk paused, then opened his mouth. There was a sharp
click
, followed by a soft whistle. The man in gray ducked instinctively. A second later the bolt from a crossbow had buried itself in the clerk’s throat. His eyes widened, but he didn’t make a noise as he crumpled to the ground. The man in gray spun around in time to see a shadow move across the dark rooftops above the passage, then vanish. He cursed and dropped down beside the clerk, whose legs were shaking violently. “Where have you put the book?
Where?
”

The clerk’s mouth opened and blood came out. His legs stopped thrashing, his head lolled back. The man in gray cursed again and searched the body, even though it was obvious the young man had nothing on him but the clothes he was wearing. He looked up, hearing voices. Three men were moving through the alley. They were wearing the scarlet cloaks of the city watch.

“Who’s down there?” called one, raising the torch he held, the flames quivering in the breeze. “You there!” shouted the guard, seeing a shadowy figure bent over something on the ground.

Not heeding their commands for him to halt, the man in gray began to run.

“After him!” the guard with the torch ordered his comrades. He went closer and swore as the flames revealed the dead clerk’s black tunic with the splayed red cross of the Temple on the chest.

A few streets away, a wine merchant by the name of Antoine de Pont-Evêque was in his shop, sighing over some muddled accounts, when he heard the shouts. Curious, he left his table, opened the back door and peered out. The alley was empty, the sky above the rooftops pale with morning. The shouting was fading. Antoine, yawning deeply, turned to go back inside. He stopped, his eye drawn to something on the ground. It was half hidden by the row of empty wine casks and he doubted he would have noticed it at all if not for the fact that it glinted when the light caught it. With a grunt, Antoine stooped to pick it up. It was a book, fairly thick and neatly bound in polished vellum. The writing on the cover was done in shimmering gold leaf. Antoine couldn’t read the words, but the book was beautifully crafted and he couldn’t imagine how anyone could discard, or lose, such an expensive-looking item. He had a moment’s thought of putting it back, but after a quick, guilty look around, he took it inside his shop and shut the door. Pleased by his find, Antoine put the book on a dusty, cluttered shelf beneath his counter and returned reluctantly to his accounts. He would ask his brother, if the rogue ever visited, to tell him what it was about.

NEW TEMPLE, LONDON, SEPTEMBER
3, 1260
AD

Inside the chapter house of New Temple, a company of knights had gathered for the initiation. They sat in silence on the benches, facing a raised dais upon which was an altar. Kneeling alone on the flagstones, his back to the knights and his head bowed before the altar, was an eighteen-year-old sergeant. His standard black tunic had been discarded and his bare chest was stained amber in the candlelight. The frail flames, spluttering in their sconces on the walls, were unable to dispel the perpetual gloom of the inner chamber and most of the assembly was shrouded in shadows. Aided by two clerics dressed in black, a priest ascended the steps of the dais. He stood before the company, clasping a leather-bound book, as the clerics prepared the altar. After they had arrayed the holy vessels, the clerics stepped back behind the altar where two knights were waiting, clad, as were all Templars, in long white surcoats with a splayed red cross emblazoned across their hearts.

The priest cleared his throat and surveyed the company.
“Ecce quam bonum et quam jocundum habitare fratres in unum.”

“Amen,” replied a chorus of voices.

The priest looked out across them. “In the name of our Lord, Jesus Christ, and in the name of Mary, most Divine Mother, I welcome you, my brothers. As one we are gathered here for this holy rite and so, as one, let us proceed.” He turned his gaze upon the genuflecting sergeant. “For what purpose have you come here?”

The sergeant strove to remember the words he was supposed to say, which he had learned during his night in vigil. “I come to deliver myself, body and spirit, unto the Temple.”

“In whose name do you deliver yourself?”

“In the name of God and in the name of Hugues de Payns, founder of our holy Order, who, forsaking this life of sin and darkness, cast from him his worldly duties and…” The sergeant paused, heart racing. “And taking up the mantle and the cross journeyed to Outremer, the land beyond the sea, to take sword and fire to the infidel. And who, once there, swore to keep safe all Christian pilgrims on their paths through the Holy Land.”

“Do you now wish to accept the mantle of the Temple, knowing that in doing so you too shall cast away your worldly duties and, following in the footsteps of our founder, become a true and humble servant of Almighty God?” When the sergeant gave his affirmation, the priest took a clay pot from the altar and carefully deposited its contents into a gold censer. The resinous mixture of frankincense and myrrh ignited as it touched the charcoals and a plume of smoke swirled up to engulf him. He coughed and stepped back. Behind him, the two knights came forward.

One of the knights drew his sword from its scabbard and pointed it toward the sergeant. “See you us now, clad in fine raiment and armed with mighty weapons? Look in wisdom at these things, for you see with eyes that cannot see and heart that cannot comprehend the austerities of our Order. For when you wish to be on this side of the sea you shall be beyond, when you wish to eat you shall go hungry and when you wish to sleep you shall remain awake. Can you accept these things for the glory of God and the safety of your soul?”

“Yes, Sir Knight,” answered the sergeant solemnly.

“Then answer truthfully these questions.”

The knights returned to their places and the priest read from the book, his words echoing out around the chapter house. “Do you believe in the Christian faith, as decreed by the Church of Rome? Are you the son of a knight, born of legitimate wedlock? Have you made a gift to any in this Order that you may be received as a knight? Are you firm of body and not concealing any ill that may make you unfit to serve the Temple?” The sergeant gave a clear reply to each and the priest inclined his head. “Very well.” He handed the book to one of the clerics, who descended to the sergeant and held it out before him.

“Behold the Rule of the Temple,” said the cleric, “written for us with the aid of the blessed saint, Bernard de Clairvaux, who at the founding of our Order supported us and whose spirit lives on within us. Look upon our laws, as they are written here, and swear to uphold them. Swear that you will always be faithful to the Order, obeying without question any command you are given. But only if that command comes directly from an official of the Temple, these officials being first the Grand Master, who governs us in wisdom from his seat in the city of Acre; the Visitor of the Kingdom of France, commander of our Western strongholds; the Marshal; the Seneschal; then the Masters of all kingdoms where we hold sway throughout the East and the West. You will obey, too, your commanders in battle and the Master of any preceptory where you are posted in times of war or peace, and keep civil always with your brothers-in-arms, with whom the bond you now share is thicker than blood. Swear that you will preserve your chastity and live without property, except that bestowed upon you by your Masters. Swear too that you will aid our cause in Outremer, the Holy Land, defending the strongholds and estates we retain in the Kingdom of Jerusalem against all enemies and, in gravest need, giving of your life in this defense. And swear that you will never leave the Order of the Temple, save when permitted by the Masters, for thou art joined to us by this oath and ever shall be in the eyes of God.”

The sergeant put a hand to the book and swore that he would, indeed, do these things.

The cleric ascended the steps and laid the leather-bound book on the altar. As he stepped back, the priest reached down and gently, lovingly, picked up a small black box gilded with gold. He removed the lid and brought out a crystal vial, its many-faceted surface catching the light of the candles.

“Look upon the blood of Christ,” murmured the priest, “three drops of which, captured within this vessel, were brought to us almost two centuries ago from the Church of the Holy Sepulchre by Hugues de Payns, founder of our Order, in whose name you deliver yourself and in whose footsteps you follow. Look upon it and be received.”

The company sighed and the sergeant watched in awe: He hadn’t been told about this part of the ceremony.

“Do you deliver youself, body and spirit?”

“I do.”

“Then bow your head before this altar,” ordered the priest, “and ask for the blessings of God, the Virgin, and all the saints.”

With his cheek pressed against the wall, Will Campbell watched as the sergeant prostrated himself on the flagstones, arms splayed like the crosses on the knights’ mantles. Will, who was tall for thirteen, shifted in his cramped position as his legs began to throb. The tenacious burrowing of mice had eroded an uneven stone at the base of the wall that separated the chapter house from the kitchen’s storeroom, forming a tiny cleft. Around him, the storeroom was in relative darkness. Only thin slivers of light sifted through the cracks in the door that led to the kitchen. A musty smell of mice droppings and moldering grain permeated the air. The two large sacks that he had squeezed between offered some measure of comfort from the cold rising from the stone floor, as well as cover from possible detection.

“You seen enough?”

Will took his cheek from the wall and glanced at the stocky youth huddled behind him, propped against a sack of grain. “Why? Do you want to look?”

“No,” muttered the youth, stretching out his legs and wincing as the blood found its flow. “I want to leave.”

Will shook his head. “How can you not want to see? Not even the…” He frowned, trying to think of a good example. “Not even the
pope
has witnessed a knight’s initiation. This is your chance to know the Order’s most secret ceremony, Simon.”

“Yes, secret.” Simon cocked his head. “There’s a reason it’s secret. It means no one’s supposed to see. Only knights and priests are allowed and you’re neither.” He stamped his foot on the ground. “And my leg’s gone to sleep.”

Will rolled his eyes. “Go then, I’ll see you later.”