The Master of Muscigny (The First Admiral Series Book 5) (7 page)

“Sir?” The young Medical Technician waited for instructions.

“Sort out this donkey.” Billy indicated the fallen animal that grunted and snorted in the dust.

“Yes, sir. What about that one?” she indicated the tremoring fat man.

“Tend to him after the donkey, if I haven’t thrown him down the well.”

“Sidi! Sidi!” Ibrahim finally joined the gathering.

“What’s your name, son?” Billy asked the young boy as the Medical Technician gently pushed him away from the donkey’s neck.

“He is Khalil,” Ibrahim answered breathlessly for the young boy. “He’s lazy and useless and...”

“But, he has a way with animals, doesn’t he?” Billy cut the Steward off in full flow as he watched the Technician pass a hand-held medical scanner over the now motionless, gasping donkey’s body.

“Yes, Sidi.” The Steward knew when not to argue a point.

“Khalil?” Billy said quietly, crouching down next to the trembling boy. “Khalil!?” he called for his attention the second time.

“Yes, Sidi?” Khalil replied nervously as he watched the Technician working on the donkey.

“You were very brave there, Khalil,” Billy said, “standing up for your donkey.”

“He’s all I have left, Sidi,” Khalil said sadly as he watched the Technician, his tired eyes moistening with tears.

“We’ll do everything we can for him,” Billy promised as the Technician put the scanner into the hold-all she was carrying.

“Well, sir,” the Technician sighed, “the animal is weak, he’s badly malnourished, he’s dehydrated, he’s anaemic, the tendons in his right leg are damaged; but not severely, he’s infested with parasites both internal and external, there’s some form dermatitis, but most of all he’s just exhausted.”

“What’s the prognosis?” Billy asked, watching Khalil shuffle over to cradle the grunting donkey’s head in his arms.

“Well, with care, good nutrition, rest, some minor surgery and physiotherapy on that leg, he’ll be back to some degree of normality in a couple of months.”

“You hear that Khalil?” Billy said with a smile. “He’ll be all right, it’ll just take time.”

“Thank you, gracious lady!” Khalil blurted out grabbing the Thexxian Medical Technician’s hand with both of his own, kissing it repeatedly.

Slightly taken aback, the young Technician tried to remove her hand gently from the grip of the young boy.

“Khalil?” Billy drew his attention away from the Technician. “Let the gracious lady do her work?”

“Forgive me, Sidi, gracious lady,” Khalil said softly, laying the Medical Technician’s hand down gently.

“Technician,” Billy turned to the young Thexxian female, “do what you can here and then transport him to one of the outbuildings in the Citadel.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And, make sure young Khalil here is involved in the Recovery Plan,”

“Yes, sir. Putting fluids and nutrients back into his system has to be priority, sir, I can do something about the external parasites and skin problems here, but his system just won’t be able to handle multiple drug treatments at the one time.”

“Do what you think is best, Technician,” Billy said, rising slowly to his feet.

It was only then that Billy spotted the leg irons fastened at Khalil’s ankles.

The scraps of rag that surrounded the metal shackles prevented the young boy’s ankles from chafing too badly, but the material could not hide the chains. The material also failed to disguise the rubbed-raw ankles and festering sores that plagued the young boy.

“Ibrahim, what is that!?” Billy snapped icily to the elderly Steward indicating the shackles.

“They are to stop him running away, Sidi.”

“Why?”

“Because he is a slave, Sidi. His parents were captured and sold to Sidi Jacques. Khalil was born on the estate.”

“A slave? Born in captivity?” Billy asked icily

“Yes, Sidi, we have no one else to work the land….”

“A SLAVE!!” Billy bellowed, his face as dark as thunder as he grabbed the front of the Stewards robe.

“Sidi, please!?”

“Sir,” Gummell protested trying to pull Billy’s arms away from the Steward and placing himself between the two of them. “That’s what happened in this time, sir.”

“How many?”

“We have nearly thirty slaves on the estate, Sidi.”

“Where are they?”

“They’re in the cellar beneath the Residence, Sidi.”

“Go and get them!” Billy snarled pushing the Steward away from him, shoving him onto the ground. “Bring them to the big ship,” he pointed to the Aquarius that loomed over the Citadel.

“IMMEDIATELY!!” Billy bellowed at the Steward, who struggled to his feet and dashed off in the direction of the Citadel as fast as his aging legs could carry him.

“So help me, I’ll burn this place down...” Billy cursed, took three deep breaths and began to calm himself down. “Technician, see to those ankles, then send Khalil up to the Aquarius and try to get those irons off him if you’ve got something in your bag of tricks.”

“Sir.”

“You two.” Billy pointed to the Landing Troopers. “Make sure they get away from here safely, and give a hand if it’s needed,” he instructed.

The two Landing Troopers nodded their understanding

“Officer Gummell, with me.”

“Sir.”

“Get one of the Landing Bays opened up and put the Hospital Decks on alert. I want Engineers to cut any ironware away from these people, full Emergency Medical Reception, feed and water them if it’s needed, bathing and disinfection facilities, fresh, clean clothes and somewhere for them to sleep. I want the Chief Medical Officer in my Private Quarters in ten minutes,” Billy snapped out the orders as he marched angrily back towards the Star Cruiser.

“Slaves!”

“Barbarians!”

The Catacombs, Mount of Olives, Jerusalem.

“How far now?” Amalric of Lusignan asked his torch bearing companion as he trudged through the mud and slime accumulated through centuries of burials.

The musty stench of decay and corruption filled his nostrils as he continued through the narrow passageway between ragged shrouds, gleaming bone and grinning skulls stacked up in their recesses. Started in the time of the Romans, and continued by later Christians, the Catacombs in Jerusalem had fallen out of favour for family burials. Hence, it was the perfect place for the clandestine meeting Amalric had planned.

“To your left, My Lord,” his companion in a Templar’s white surcoat, with the red cross of the Order, instructed, holding the flaming torch in front of the Constable of Jerusalem as he peered warily into the darkness.

“This seemed such a good idea at the time,” Amalric grumbled to himself as he pushed on through yet more heaps of human bones that littered the muddy floor in front of him.

“I beg your pardon, My Lord?” the Templar asked, pushing aside yet more ragged burial clothes that draped down carelessly from a burial niche in the wall.

“Nothing,” Amalric grumbled splashing yet more puddles of putrefaction that littered the floor. “We must be nearly there now?” he complained wearily.

Amalric of Lusignan’s mood was far from sweet as he trudged through the stench and decay of the Catacombs. Yesterday, he was patiently waiting for King Baldwin to die. His plans were falling neatly into place when the Outlanders had appeared in the Palace with the Seneschal and had ruined everything. Princess Sibylla had quietly pulled Amalric aside and had confidentially informed him that the King had been cured of his leprosy and his food poisoning.

The news that the strange Physician had cured the King had angered Amalric to the point of fury. The King had wakened that morning demanding a huge breakfast that would have choked a horse. Then, having eaten enough for a dozen men, he had risen from what Amalric had considered to be his deathbed, and had begun to work on the affairs of state. The poison that he had instructed be put in the King’s food had failed to finish off the vulnerable monarch. Now Amalric, with his plan to poison the King thwarted, had no alternative other than to fall back on the scheme that Arnold of Torroja had outlined through his messengers.

Amalric had hoped to thwart the upstart Templar’s plans and take the Crown for himself. However, with the intervention of the Outlanders, Baldwin would be on his guard with no chance of another attempt on the King’s life possible. Amalric was no longer master of his own destiny. He would be dependent upon the grace and favour of the Templar.

“Almost, My Lord,” the Templar replied, the flickering torch briefly lighting up his facial features.

The Templar, with a long scar running from the corner of his left eye to the angle of his jaw, pushed the fiery torch onwards into the darkness. Weird and disturbing shapes seemed to spring out of the gloomy darkness at Amalric as he continued to pass yet more grinning skulls. For a brief moment, Amalric considered that the skulls were mocking him with eerie, silent laughter for daring to intrude upon their peace and eternal rest.

“Through the next gallery and we’ll be there, My Lord,” the Templar said, motioning ahead with the torch.

Peering into the gloom, Amalric was struggling to see anything beyond a few metres in front of him. Stopping next to a large stone sarcophagus, Amalric drew a heavy breath in the dank, musty air. The odd flicker of white bone jumped out at him as the light from the torch caught a fallen bundle that had once lived and breathed in the city of Jerusalem. Dark shadows grew large and then shrank away into the blackness beneath the feeble light of the burning torch. Turning to the Templar, Amalric was about to speak when he suddenly heard the faint sound of a single splashing footfall.

“Shush!” Amalric hissed, his ears, as well as his well-honed instincts, straining to make sense of the strange noises in the darkness.

“What is it, My Lord?”

“Shush!” Amalric said once more, holding his gauntleted hand up to the Templar to quieten his noise.

In the crushing silence of the chamber, Amalric heard the splash once again; confirming that he had not simply been hearing things in his imagination

“I think our friends have arrived,” Amalric said. “Let’s not keep them waiting.”

Splashing through yet more of something unpleasant, Amalric finally caught sight of two figures both carrying torches approaching from the other side of the gallery in front of him. For a moment, the two figures stopped, scrutinising the approaching Amalric as he kicked aside more bones wrapped in a heavy cloth, the skull clattering loudly into the darkness. Then, satisfied that the approaching figure was who they were supposed to be meeting, the strangers moved forward once again.

“Greetings, My Lord Giles,” Amalric welcomed the heavily cloaked visitor with the red surcoat, his nose and mouth shrouded.

“Greetings, Lord Amalric,” the stranger responded and removed the dark covering on his face to expose his scarred, yet handsome, features.

Watching the newly arrived Lord of Tripoli, Amalric instinctively felt his hand tighten around the grip of his sword. Both of the visitors were armed with the traditional straight sword and Amalric was under no illusions that other weapons would be secreted beneath their dark robes.

“An apt choice of meeting place, My Lord Amalric,” Giles smiled insincerely, his companion jamming the butts of both of their torches into the soft cloying earth of the Catacombs.

“Well, My Lord Giles,” Amalric smiled with equal insincerity, “it is one of the least visited parts of the city.” He motioned for his Templar companion to deposit their torch. “And, we must ensure that no one should overhear our words. The deaths of Kings must only be spoken of amongst the dead.”

“The dead make the best witnesses to history, they hear and see everything and yet say nothing.”

“Then may they faithfully bear witness when our work is done.”

“When Baldwin is amongst their number, then our work will be well done, My Lord Giles.”

“Indeed, but, tell me, My Lord Amalric, why should we rid ourselves of this King?”

“Because, he is an abomination!” the Templar suddenly spoke out, “an affront to God and our Holy Church.”

“The Templars have their own reasons for wishing the leper gone.” Amalric smiled at the zeal of his companion. “My own reasons are more mundane and earthly.”

“Whatever your reasons, My Lord Amalric, Baldwin’s death would be celebrated in my house. The leper’s insults cannot go unanswered, King or no.”

“No one is more aware of the insults heaped upon your noble household than I am.”

Giles of Tripoli was one of the largest and most powerful landowners in the kingdom. His military contribution made up roughly one sixth of the Army of Jerusalem. Amalric knew that he had to have this knight either on his side or neutral in the conflict to deprive Baldwin of a huge number of soldiers. Unfortunately, Amalric and Giles had history. However, Giles hated Baldwin a lot more than he hated Amalric. And, it was this greater hatred that Amalric hoped to tap into.

“I very much doubt that,” the Lord of Tripoli scowled.

“My Lord Giles,” Amalric replied, “the insults to your house are an insult to all Christendom.”

“Fine words, yet you still carry the seal of the High Constable?”

“We must hide within the bosom of our enemy to strike hardest.”

“And, lining your pockets at the expense of others?”

“We must maintain appearances, My Lord Giles.” Amalric was allowing the barbs and insults to pass because he desperately needed the support of this powerful Lord.

“When the leper is gone,” Amalric said as he smiled insincerely, “all the grievances of the past can be resolved.”

“So you say, Lord Amalric, and with Baldwin gone, who will replace him?”

“The nephew, My Lord Giles, who will rule under the wise guidance of the High Council,” Amalric lied smoothly.

For a moment, Giles of Tripoli paused and thought. As a powerful member of the High Council, Giles knew that he was almost able to secure enough support to impose himself as Regent for the ‘Boy King’ should Baldwin die. The thought of being the absolute power behind the puppet king’s throne brought a great surge of excitement to Giles. A Regent could easily dispose of the young King and take the throne for himself. Giles of Tripoli would be only two deaths away from the throne of Jerusalem. He felt the savage elation.

“But, what of his mother?” Giles asked, his mind still racing at the prospect of the Regency.

“Sibylla will face the same fate as her brother. She is too willful and headstrong to be allowed to survive.”

“Killing a King and a Princess of the blood is a tall order My Lord Amalric. Do you seek to endanger your immortal soul?”

“The Lord moves in mysterious ways, My Lord Giles, and accidents do have a habit of happening.”

“As long as they happen to the right people, My Lord Amalric,” Giles warned.

“Does not God protect the Righteous?”

“He does indeed. But, sometimes the Will of God needs a helping hand.”

“Yes, My Lord. Which is why the wisdom and strength of Tripoli is needed on this adventure.”

“Ah? So is there more to this adventure than simply warm words in a tomb?”

“Our friends of the Templar Order are sending a fleet of twenty-thousand reinforcements to Acre…”

“Twenty thousand Templars!?” Giles gasped, quickly calculating a force of around two thousand armoured knights with infantry support. “And how do you expect the Sultan to respond to that kind of provocation?”

Giles knew that Saladin would not tolerate such an influx of so many armed and dangerous Templars into the Holy Land. The Templar habit of raiding the Saracen borderlands and setting up their own communities was a constant thorn in the flesh of Saladin. A huge Templar reinforcement would make Saladin very nervous, and an anxious Sultan could well result in a full-scale war.

“It is of no concern to Saladin. When we have Jerusalem we slit the throat of every Infidel we can find. Saladin’s own people will kill him for not protecting those Muslims in Jerusalem. And, whilst the Saracen Lords bicker over who takes the throne, we strike!”

“We get rid of Baldwin and then Saladin before carving up his empire?”

“With your help, My Lord Giles, we can remove Baldwin and Saladin and bring peace to the kingdom for centuries to come.”

“With young Baldwin as King?”

“Yes, My Lord Giles.”

“Under the guidance of the High Council?”

“As set out by the law,” Amalric lied.

“How many troops do you need?”

“None, My Lord Giles. We just need your word that you will not join with Baldwin,”

“And, then we conquer Syria?”

“Yes. Then we conquer Egypt.”

“It would be a fine conquest for Jerusalem.”

“Then do we have an agreement, My Lord Giles?” Amalric asked, holding out his gauntleted hand.

“We have an agreement.” Giles took the offered hand.

“The King is still weak from his illness, but his strength will soon return. I can bring a large part of the army of Jerusalem to meet with the Templars as they march south, but your armies in the north must stay at home.”

“I will await your signal as to when the adventure begins,” Giles answered, breaking the handshake.

“Then, safe journey back to your home, My Lord Giles.”

With nod, Giles and his escort retrieved their torches and took their leave with a short bow. Carefully watching to ensure that the Lord of Tripoli and his escort left the chamber and did not double back to try to kill him, Amalric and the Templar began their slow march back through the dirt and decay.

“Do you trust him?” the torch bearing Templar asked.

“Oh, yes. I trust him about as much as he trusts me.”

And, marched confidently into the darkness.