The Codex Lacrimae (34 page)

Clarinda considered for a moment. “Then, I ask the same request not as a returned favor for our work at Caesarea, but as a matter of justice.”

“Justice? How does that play a role here?” Saladin asked. “Why is this siege so important to you?”

“I believe that those ultimately responsible for killing my father are going to be somewhere on that field,” Clarinda answered. “I deserve to have a chance at vengeance.” She glanced at Alexander. “My friend will serve as my sword, if they are there, but I'd still prefer to carry my own.”

“If you were unarmed, that would be even more offensive to me than your merely being on the field itself,” Saladin commented. “Very well, Clarinda Trevisan. I've changed my mind, in large part because of the friendship I see between you and Fatima —
she
I would never deny a saber because I'd have to sleep with one eye open. You and your Greek hoplitarch may come, but I insist that you remain with my retainers, and close to me personally. The debt I owe you will then be partially repaid. Now, if you will, we'll meet for dinner after the initial forays of the day. There's much that hasn't been said about the events in Caesarea, and I'd know more of this mystery that finds Venetians, Guy of Lusignan, and a
bedouin
tribe in alliance against the Templars. But, if you ladies would please — and you, Sir Alex — I'd now speak with Khalil alone for a moment.”

Clarinda, Fatima, Alexander rose, bowed deeply, and then departed from the pavilion.

“That Trevisan woman is a spirited one,” Saladin observed as he watched them leave, “and of great beauty, even with the weariness from grief and travel that marks her. Have you offered her marriage?”

Khalil shook his head. “I fear you don't remember my Fatima, Salah,” he said. “I couldn't live with two hellcats in my tent, and if I even
thought
of it — unlike you — I'd have no eyes left to keep open while I slept.”

The sultan sighed. “Nor would I ever take a
franj
for a wife,” he said. He inhaled deeply and leaned back on the pillow. “Now, I thank you also for removing the thorn of Caesarea from my side, but I think perhaps that your requests will be harder to satisfy than the woman's. My scouts tell me that you have a considerable number of camels with you?”

“Well, yes,” Khalil smiled, “it just so happens that we do. Thank you for reminding me.”

Saladin laughed.

“I presume that you'll give me these camels at a ‘bargain rate' because you cannot now make the journey to Aleppo without the necessary writs?”

“Well,” Khalil replied, “I wouldn't say, ‘bargain rate.' These are fine beasts, Salah al-Din, and it took many years for them to mature in the hot sun of the Nafud. If need be, I suppose I
could
go eastward to Baghdad to sell them; we were on our way there, and then learned that your camp was nearby — as a fellow Muslim, I thought that I might offer them to you first.”

“‘On your way there'?” Saladin asked. “Khalil, we're too far north and east of Caesarea if you were heading to Baghdad. I think that you're trying to take advantage of my fondness for your family and inflate your price beyond my means.”

“Now, Great Salah al-Din,” Khalil replied, eyeing the chests filled with treasure as he got down to the haggling. “Let's not think of money so much as the intrinsic value of the animals themselves, the years of transport they'll provide. You know our reputation. You'll not find better animals this side of the Euphrates….”

Both men took a certain relieved pleasure in the subsequent conversation, finding in it a welcome respite from their respective troubles.

Chapter 17

Assassins at the Gate

Only a little while after shadows fell on the pavilion and tents of Saladin's camp before Hisn al-Akrad, the sun's light faded on the uppermost chambers of the Krak des Chevaliers. The Hospitallers gathered in Arcadian's solarium held thoughts and words in check as two female servants brought in food and drink, built a fire, and lit the wall sconces.

When the two women departed, Ríg resumed speaking: “We simply don't know what information this ‘Codex' provides, Khajen.”

“From the size of that book,” Father Damian added, “it might be some time before we learn anything from it that would be relevant to our situation, if, indeed anything of the sort were to be found in there.”

From his sick bed, Mercedier looked from Damian to Ríg, then settled his gaze on Ibn-Khaldun who sat listening quietly to the men talk.

“I think that what Master Ibn-Khaldun was trying to tell us – correct me if I am wrong, Khajen – was that the very possession of the Codex Lacrimae itself is of some import.
Oui
?”

“
C'est vrai
,
” Ibn Khaldun replied. “There's grown a story among my people that concerns this Codex Lacrimae. We simply call it the ‘Dark Book.' Its tale is one that is told in whispers when all other stories have been exhausted and the winds of a sandstorm press against our protective tents.”

“I'm still not sure why,” Ríg commented. “From what you've said about Raj' al-Jared, the warlord couldn't read it, and what he supposedly ‘did' with it sounds like atrocities that could be done by anyone with a mind to torture.”

“Yet,” Ibn-Khaldun disagreed, “I've thought long upon this matter, and there's something of critical importance in the fact that, until
you just read portions of it, no one's been able to translate the Codex's words.”

Mercedier groaned as he shifted his position on the bed. “I vote that we just let Ríg read the damned thing, and see if there's anything in it that helps against a siege: the recipe for Greek-fire, poisonous potions for dipping arrowheads, where to find
djinni
in bottles…that sort of thing.” He gave a curt nod at the book that lay on the coverlet at his feet. “A book that size ought to take you, what, Ríg, five or six hours to get through?”

“More like five or six months,” Ríg gamely replied, although he hadn't shared with his friends the translation of the book's first sentence. He greatly feared what those words portended for the rest of the work.

“I believe whatever any translation from the Codex would be as incomprehensible as all our efforts in trying to read it,” Ibn-Khaldun said, echoing the thoughts of his apprentice.

“Hold a moment, Master,” Ríg interrupted, as a commotion arose at the door.

Pellion burst inside the room with Jacob next to him. The younger boy was out of breath, but spoke immediately to Ibn-Khaldun.

“Sir!” Jacob exclaimed, “There are men outside in the inner courtyard!”

“How many are there,” Ríg asked, and are you sure they're not guards?”

“I counted nine men, and they wore black clothing…,” Jacob started to reply, then he looked at the ebon robes of Ríg and the other knights Hospitaller, “Oh. You're all in black.”

“Most of us, yes...,” Ríg started to say, but his words were interrupted by Perdieu exploding again in complete frustration.

“
Qu'est-ce
que
c'est?
Boys running into a private meeting of the Grand Master?” The baron moved quickly toward Jacob as if he intended to personally throttle him. “What language does this brat speak?”

Jacob gauged the speed of the onrushing man, then dove aside under a table, evading Perdieu's grasp.

“Bernard!” Ibn-Khaldun shouted, “Leave the boy be! He came with me and speaks Aramaic! He warns of spies in the castle. Invaders!”

The burly knight stopped his attempt at swiping under the table to reach Jacob and glared at Ibn-Khaldun. “He came with you?” he asked as he rose to his full height. “What is this — wait, Ríg, stop right there! Where are you going? Get down from there!”

Ríg had jogged to the window and was peering into the gloomy shadows below. He could see nothing along the
glacis
,
or slope, below the inner wall.

“The boy has a good head on his shoulders, Master,” Ríg commented to Ibn-Khaldun as they reached the window together. “These men he saw might be ours, but coming over the curtain wall removes that possibility.”

His words tapered to silence as he spied a furtive movement on the ground far below.

“There.”

“I see them,” Ibn-Khaldun sighed as Ríg hopped lightly onto the sill.

“Ríg, what are you doing?” Perdieu shouted. “You get down here right now! We'll send a squad — Bartholomew, send a detachment immediately to the front gate. Alert the lower yards that we've got intruders.”

Ríg said nothing, leaping from the ledge into the open space that lay between him and the cypress tree next to the window.

In seconds, he'd adroitly descended the tree and was sprinting over the grass towards the walkway that led to the next courtyard. If he could intercept the shadowed men before they reached the front gate, he could then shout a general alarm and pen them in the corridors of the lower quadrangle.

Ríg came upon them sooner than expected, almost immediately after he rushed into the Gothic-arched walkway that ran the length of the Krak's inner western wall. Two Hospitallers lay at the entry to the colonnade, their throats sliced and blood pooling in viscous puddles on the flagstones.

In the flickering light of the torches, Ríg saw only six of the intruders, which meant that either Jacob had miscounted, or the other three were near the front gate already. He saw another figure come around the corner to hiss a warning at the group, his eyes widening slightly when he saw Ríg coming at them. Ríg couldn't make out much of the man's identity besides a shock of blond hair and clean-shaven face, but the man's black Hospitaller robe was indictment enough.

Traitor
!

Ríg didn't hesitate, quelling the impulse as he drew his sword to shout at the guards who patrolled the rampart above the gate. He'd made such a warning once before in his life and almost been killed in the attempt. He must surprise the enemy if he were to have any chance at all!

One of the intruders fell, decapitated before the others even realized death had fallen on them. Ríg felt no misgivings about attacking from the rear; he was certain that the killers themselves had given no such thought to the Hospitaller guardsmen. He could show no hesitation now. No second thoughts about anything to do with battle. The castle of Mecina would be lost if they succeeded in opening the gate to the Muslim forces beyond.

Not Mecina, Fool!
He swore to himself.
The Krak will be lost if they open that gate. The Krak des Chevaliers! You're in a different place, now. A different time! Move!

“You? Already?” The blond-haired Hospitaller shouted without moving from his position at the far end of the colonnade. “This is better than we could have hoped!”

Ríg frowned at the man's words — he didn't know him did he? — as he made a left-handed swipe with his dagger across the turning head of a second man. He felt the jolt of slicing through something in the man's skull, and pushed his body along with the the falling corpse so that he could get an angle to parry the descending saber stroke from the third man.

He heard shouts from somewhere near the curtain wall and front gate and hoped that it was the clanging of steel here that alerted his brethren and not the sounds of an invading army.

The other four assassins were rushing him with sabers, coming within range of Ríg's fast-moving sword. As the young man began to fight for his life, he noticed that the blond-haired Hospitaller was withdrawing something from his robe and making his way down the corridor.

What's he got — a sword? Grande, uno contro cinque! One against five, and two more somewhere ahead or behind.

One of the assassins got past Ríg's guard and nicked his shoulder.

Angrily, he brought his dagger up, catching the offending blade in the prongs of his
trident main gauche
and thrusting it away as he backpedaled out of the corridor and onto the lawn at the top of the sloped hill that descended to the curtain wall.

A dagger was flung into the throat of the assassin who'd wounded Ríg. The man fell backward and Ríg took the offensive against his partners, not bothering to look at who saved him. He assumed that reinforcements were beginning to arrive, so turned his attention to the other three Assassins, expecting all the while that the blond-haired Hospitaller traitor would make his move.

And where are the hidden two? Ahead, behind...where?

A flash of skin next to him almost distracted Ríg to the point of getting killed.

“Ori, Ori, Ori — Khajen-Père ibn-Khaldoooon!” A half-naked Marcus giggled as he jumped next to Ríg and engaged one of the two assassins that Ríg was defending against.

“
Buon Dio
!” Ríg exclaimed. “Marcus, what are you doing here?”

Marcus didn't reply, but began humming a troubadour song as he dispatched one of his opponents with a lunge that brought him swiftly under the man's guard, leaving only the two battling Ríg and the now-fast approaching traitor.