The Templar Magician Page 5

  De Payens, the memories of that savage attack at Tripoli still fresh, was very wary. He was always struck by the contrasts of Jerusalem. The city was supposed to be a house of prayer, yet it was hard to imagine this as he and his companions, lost in their own thoughts, moved from blazing sunshine into the near darkness of narrow, filthy streets and vaulted bazaars lit only by flickering oil lamps and the dull glow of acrid-smelling candles. Sunshine pierced the rents in the clothes stretched out between the adjoining flat rooftops. Occasionally they’d approach a crossroads bathed in sunlight, then plunge back into the blackness, reeking of excrement, cooking smells, musty clothes, sweaty bodies and the hideous stench of cheap oil being burned and burned again. The walls on either side glittered as if the rough rock exuded its own sweat. Voices shouted, screamed and prayed. A variety of tongues babbled above the clattering chaos from the tawdry markets. The crowd thinned and thronged as they moved deeper into the city along the Streets of Chains to the main thoroughfare leading down to Herod’s Gate in the west of the city.

  De Payens recalled Trussell’s dark thoughts about what had happened in Jerusalem, a city that certainly attracted all and sundry, a fact de Payens reminded himself of as he guided his horse through the crowds of Armenians, fat and well pursed; fierce-looking warriors from the dry lands across the Jordan; crafty-eyed ragged tribesmen from the arid stretches around the Dead Sea; Bedouins, Arabs and Christians, hostile and wary, their scarred, hardened faces betraying many a battle wound. De Payens’ attention was also caught by the beauty of the women: fair-haired, rosy-cheeked Christians; swarthy-faced Greeks, their skins brightly tattooed; Bedouins garbed in black, except for the fringed opening around the eyes. Men and women of every nation and tongue swarmed into Jerusalem, seeking salvation or profit, usually both. Whores wheedled through opened windows. Pimps and flesh purveyors offered all kinds of secret delights deep in the shadows behind them. Relic-sellers, faces flushed with false excitement, announced yet another find. Cooks and their apprentices darted from behind their stalls with skewers of roasted meat, mixed with vegetables and coated with a heavy spice to disguise the putrid taste. Water-sellers touted pewter cups of cool, miraculous water from the pool of Siloam.

  No one dared approach the Templars. De Payens, carrying the gonfalon, had little need to clear his path. The very sight of their insignia, the knights garbed in the robes of their order, was inducement enough. Traders, pedlars, pimps, prostitutes, wandering scholars, even the scrawny pi dogs scattered into the darkening gaps between the houses or the mouths of ribbon-thin alleyways. De Payens heard a strange humming and glanced up. A woman was standing on the roof of a house with the light behind her so that she appeared as a stark dark shape. He glimpsed thick wild hair, the sombre rags she wore puffed up like the feathers of a crow. De Payens narrowed his eyes, shifting in the saddle. He glimpsed a white-daubed face, a necklace of bones, and gauntleted hands. She raised these as if about to intone some demonic prayer, and he fumbled for the ave beads wrapped around his sword hilt, but when he glanced up again, the hideous apparition had disappeared. The witch Erictho? he wondered. Surely not. He gripped his reins and stared around. It was best not to think of that, not now!

  They left the dingy markets and bazaars, moving into the more opulent quarter of the city, where lovely mansions stood behind ornate gates. They crossed small squares with bubbling fountains, shady sycamores, and terebinth and palm trees. Songbirds trilled from gilded cages fastened to gateposts, and the air grew subtly sweet with the fragrance of flowery cactus and other plants. Eventually they reached Herod’s Gate, and were waved on through by dust-covered sentries, out on to the long road stretching north to Ramallah and Nablus. The late-January heat was not as oppressive here as in the city; even the sandy breezes felt fresh after the acrid odours of the streets. For a while de Payens rode in silence, staring at the distant hillsides covered with deep-blue flowering mandrake, whilst closer to the trackway, pale violet and yellow irises flourished.

  The road was busy with travellers, pack ponies and camel lines. Pedlars and traders pushed their barrows and handcarts or urged on oxen fastened to cumbersome wagons. Soldiers, their livery covered in dust, slouched on shaggy garrans. Pilgrims moved in throngs under makeshift banners and rough-hewn wooden crosses. Beggars importuned for alms. Enterprising villagers came out of a line of pine trees to offer platters of bread and beakers of water or crushed juice. Above them all circled the ever-vigilant buzzards and vultures, thick wings feathering the air, whilst rock pigeons, aware of the danger above, darted from cover to cover across the road.

  De Payens knew the route. They’d follow the Jordan valley, thick with olive groves, where the crickets sang their constant hymn, not even interrupted by the great tawny foxes slipping through in their hunt for vermin or the occasional unwary bird. As they journeyed on, they broke free of the crowds, following a route laid out by Parmenio, who seemed to know every twist and corner of the land. At first, conversation was desultory, until they spent their first night camped out in a wadi. In the far distance, thunder rumbled and jagged lightning flashed across the sky, but the rain never reached them. The Provençals set up camp, collecting dried dung and whatever bracken they could find. Soon a merry fire crackled. Meats were cooked, bread warmed, wine-skins circulated. De Payens sang the Benedicite, and they ate, even as they began to talk about the desert and all its haunting, ghostly legends. Naturally, on that and successive evenings, the conversation then turned to gossip about recent events in Jerusalem. One of the Provençals alluded to a tale about witches concocting potions from the froth of mad dogs, the hump of a man-eating hyena and the eyes of an eagle, but de Payens discovered precious little more about the corpses of the young women found around the city. Tremelai seemed to have succeeded in suppressing the whispers, although the Provençals, who seemed to know about the rumours, fiercely rejected any allegation against the Temple. No mention was ever made of Walkyn and Berrington.

  In the mornings, just before dawn, they would continue their journey up through Galilee, past the lake where Christ had fished and walked amongst the plants and bushes now bereft of their summer’s glory. They paused there for a while, watching the ducks and the ringed grey plovers dart and sweep above them. At Parmenio’s insistence they moved on. Sometimes they stayed in villages, flea-ridden and poor; occasionally at some Templar castle or outpost. Finally they reached their own garrison at Chastel Blanc, high up in the mountains, a stark, lonely place with its oval perimeter walls and soaring keep, which contained both the chapel and the main water supply. The castellan was only too pleased to meet former members of his garrison and gather what news he could. He listened as they described their mission, and pulled a face in surprise, but granted their list of fresh stores and personally escorted them out on to the final stage of their journey.

  Once the castellan had left them, Parmenio came into his own, leading them up through lonely rocky passes and culverts, steep ravines and sandy gulleys. There was little soil; nothing grew except hardy shrubs and a scattering of flowers such as lavender and cactus plants. No plough- or meadowland; just sheer rock, a few trees and bushes, with the occasional waterhole in the shade of some sun-bleached culvert. At night they sheltered under rocky outcrops, the silence cut by eerie howling and snuffling as the predators emerged. They grew accustomed to the spine-tingling wafting of hunting owls, which hovered for a brief while in the glare of their fire before floating like ghosts back into the blackness. Occasionally they’d catch a glow of light as if from some distant lantern-horn. Parmenio explained how the mountains were the haunt not only of demons and lost souls but hermits and anchorites, wild men seeking God in the high places. He also added that they were undoubtedly being watched by scouts, the followers of Shaikh Al-Jebal, the Old Man of the Mountain.

  On their third evening out from Chastel Blanc, they sheltered in a mountain cave, a fire flickering before them. The sky was brilliant with stars and washed by the silver light of a full moon. Mayele m
urmured how in a few months it would be the spring equinox, the feast of Easter. De Payens, half listening to the chatter of the Provençals behind him, glanced sharply at his comrade. He had first met Mayele at Chastel Blanc. They’d been given the same chamber to share, so they’d become sword brothers, placed next to each other in the battle line with the sworn duty to protect one another. That would have been about twelve months ago. As Edmund became more accustomed to the barrack life of the Templars, he’d found Mayele reasonable enough, though rather secretive, a good fighter with a love of battle; a cold heart with an iron will. The execution of what Mayele described as the three looters in Tripoli confirmed that. During their punishment at Jerusalem, the Englishman had grown less taciturn, whispering jokes about Tremelai and other Templar leaders, an amusing stream of observations and remarks. He was a brother who attended the litany of the hours and the services as if they were part of a drill, though he laughingly dismissed himself as neither religious nor devout, hardly a cross-creeper, as he described it. De Payens had concluded that this might be due to the sacrilege Mayele had committed in England, the slaying of a cleric, which had provoked instant excommunication. On one occasion Mayele had even described what had happened: how he’d slain the cleric in an argument, then fled to a church, grasping the corner of its altar and pleading sanctuary. Eventually, after forty days, he’d been allowed to leave, taken refuge in London and accepted the penance imposed by the bishop for his sins, of being enrolled in the Templar order. Mayele was, de Payens reasoned, hardly a man to be reflecting on the feast of Easter or its preparation through the Lenten fast.

  ‘You are pining for Easter, Philip?’ he teased. ‘Why now? Why here?’

  ‘You may not know this …’ Mayele leaned forward, stirring the fire with his dagger, digging at the dried dung and kindling, which burst into fiery sparks. He paused at the mournful yip of a jackal, followed by the raucous screech of a night bird. ‘Tremelai talked of sending us both to England, Edmund. We have a smallholding there in London, near the royal palace of Westminster.’ For the first time de Payens could recall, Mayele’s voice turned wistful. ‘It would be good to be in England at springtime, well away from the dust and the heat, the dirt devils and the flies. Coolness,’ his voice grew soft, ‘a wet, green darkness with clear air.’ He paused and stared at Parmenio, who squatted with one hand across his face. De Payens hid his surprise; he was sure he’d caught a gesture by the Genoese, a swift movement of fingers as if signalling to Mayele. Parmenio, sharp-eyed, caught de Payens’ look and grinned.

  ‘I am warning him to be prudent,’ he whispered, the fire bathing his clever face. He indicated with his head. ‘Those Provençals are not the dumb mules they pretend. They are hand-picked, with a better knowledge of tongues than we think. They are Tremelai’s spies.’

  ‘And you, Parmenio?’ de Payens asked. ‘Are you a spy? That story about reparation for your assault on me …’

  Mayele, head down, laughed softly. Parmenio clicked his tongue and sat listening to sounds from the darkness: the scuttling of night creatures and the swift chatter of darting bats. The night air was turning bitterly cold; the heat from the sun-scorched rocks had faded. Parmenio threw more bracken on to the flames.

  ‘Edmund, I am a physician, a trader in simples and potions. I move like a shadow across God’s earth. I also collect and barter information for the rulers of this world. Yes, I have worked for the Temple before, Tremelai knows that, but Tripoli was different. I saw mercenaries dash the heads of babies against stones, after raping and killing their mothers. I was truly angry that day, but,’ he gave a crooked smile, ‘I admired what you did. I also learned that I had attacked not only a Templar, but a scion of the powerful de Payens family. The Temple would never have let that rest.’ He spread his hands. ‘Hence my approach. Tremelai was only too pleased to use me, especially now.’ As if he wished to change the subject, Parmenio pointed through the darkness at the glow from some distant oil lamp. ‘I wonder,’ he breathed, ‘what Tremelai has written in those letters. What he intends to happen at Hedad.’

  ‘More importantly,’ de Payens scratched his bearded chin, ‘what can we expect from Shaikh Al-Jebal? You’ve never been here before, Parmenio?’

  ‘Yes and no. I’ve learned a little about the Assassins.’

  ‘Which is?’ Mayele demanded.

  ‘The prophet Muhammad’s followers are divided between those who accept what they call the true descent from one son-in-law, Ali, and others who claim legitimacy through another son-in-law. This division has been deepening since the Prophet’s death. In the civil wars that followed, other sects flourished, including the Naziris, or Hashishonyi, the hashish-eaters, founded by Hassan Eben Sabbah. He surrounded himself with Fedawis, the Devoted Ones. This sect not only broke away from the main body of believers, but declared war on them. They seized rocky outcrops on which they built their castles. The Fedawis have their own distinctive dress, being garbed in pure white with blood-red sashes and slippers. Each carries a pair of long curved knives. According to legend they are fed on hemp and opium mingled with wine. Over the centuries their emissaries have been dispatched to murder their opponents sometimes openly, other times disguised as camel men, water-carriers, beggars, priests. A few of the men we passed on the road,’ Parmenio stretched his hands towards the flames, ‘might have been Fedawis.’

  ‘But we are safe?’ Mayele leaned over and patted the leather panniers carrying the chancery pouches.

  ‘We have our safe conducts,’ Parmenio agreed, pausing at a strange howling that echoed from below, followed by the scream of some animal caught by a hunter. The horrid growls and screeching faded away.

  ‘Once the Old Man of the Mountain or his representative guarantees your safety,’ continued Parmenio, ‘you are assured. Indeed, they follow a very strict code of hospitality to all who seek them out. For the rest, the Old Man sows fear. The Assassins have a mordant, black sense of humour. Once they have chosen their victim, they often send him a flat sesame seed cake on a snake medallion as a warning of what is to come. The victim wakes to find the cake and the medallion beside their bed, two curved daggers, adorned with red ribbons, pushed into the ground beside them. Over the years, the influence and power of the Old Man and his Fedawis have spread. They defend themselves in their lonely mountain fortresses. Hewn out of stone, impregnable and sheer, such castles can be held by a few men even if besieged by armies of thousands.’

  ‘True,’ Mayele murmured. ‘How could any invading army feed itself in country like this?’

  ‘Of course,’ Parmenio agreed. ‘And so the legend was born. Every malcontent from around the Middle Sea to the borders of Samarkand hastens to join he who rejoices in his title of Shaikh Al-Jebal, Old Man of the Mountain. Their most precious castle is the eagle’s nest at Alamut in Persia. According to legend, on the summit of that sheer mountain the Old Man built a paradise, a walled garden laid out with the richest soil and watered by underground springs. A veritable Eden, with trees of every kind, pools of pure water, marble fountains bubbling the finest wines, garden beds fertile with the most exotic plants and exuding the rarest perfumes. All around stand pavilions and arbours, their outsides covered in flowers, carpeted and hung with silk inside. The paths of this paradise have been tiled by craftsmen in colours that catch the sun. Songbirds trill from golden cages. Peacocks, resplendent in their thousand-eyed plumage, strut against lush, cool greenness. The garden is entered by a gate of pure gold studded with gems. The Fedawis are taken there to drink drugged wine and be waited on by the most beautiful, sensuous maidens …’ Parmenio paused, and laughed self-consciously as his own mouth watered at the prospect.

  De Payens glanced quickly at Mayele, who had retreated deeper into the shadows. He could only glimpse the lower half of that bearded, lined, cynical face. He shivered, and stretched his hands out to the fire. Parmenio’s story stirred his own secret sinful dreams about the veiled beauties he’d glimpsed in the streets and marketplaces, as well as the yo
ung woman he’d seized on that raid, pressing up against him, whispering how she would do anything for life …

  ‘Continue,’ he murmured.

  ‘Above the garden gate,’ Parmenio whispered, ‘is a proclamation, etched in silver and studded with diamonds.’ He paused. ‘It runs as follows: “Appointed by God, the Master of the World breaks the chains of all, let everyone praise his name.” Anyway,’ he shrugged, ‘the Fedawis emerge from their drugged sleep rested and refreshed. They are assured that if they carry out their master’s orders, what they’ve just experienced will be theirs for all eternity. As for the truth of all this,’ he pulled a face, ‘legend perhaps, rumour, other people’s dreams, but the Assassins are a fact. They are vultures clustered on their rocky summits watching for prey in the valleys below. The very shadow of their wings strike terror.’