He rose, washed his face in water that held rose petals to give a delicious scent, and dressed himself. His clothes had been washed, and now the tunic that had been filthy after more than a week of travelling, smelled fresh and looked almost new, apart from the many marks of fading.
On a paved terrace outside, he found Roger Flor, who was glancing at the rich decorations and gilded figures with the eye of a man who could assess the value of goods from thirty paces. Servants brought meats and watered wine, bowing low, as though Baldwin and Roger were royalty.
‘Where are the others?’ Baldwin asked.
‘Already gone. We weren’t necessary. With luck they’ll speak with Qalawun, and we can soon return to Acre. Have you seen the quality of this workmanship?’ he asked, lifting a goblet of glass. ‘The best the Venetians could produce, this is.’
‘Venetian?’
‘Aye. They don’t make much, but what they do make is very good. Look at this! Fine, light and robust.’
‘What of it?’ Baldwin asked.
‘I was thinking: the Venetians make good profits from trading with Egypt. How hard will they fight to protect Acre if it’s against the will of Qalawun?’
‘They have the best location in Acre,’ Baldwin pointed out. ‘They would be mad to compromise their position for a little profit. They need Acre as much as anyone.’
‘I hope they remember that.’
Baldwin left him, following the path they had taken the previous day to the water’s edge, staring out over the smooth, still lake, and he was there when Omar appeared with an older man.
‘Good day, my friend,’ Omar said. ‘This is my father, the Emir al-Fakhri.’
The Emir was shorter than Baldwin, and above his black, glistening beard, his face was sorely pocked. His belly asserted his wealth, and his eyes were surrounded with laughter lines — but today those eyes were not merry. He looked troubled.
‘Please, you will walk with us,’ Omar said, a hand indicating a path that led about the lake. Columns rose on either side, as if it had once been a building. ‘My father speaks your language only poorly, so he has asked me to come and translate for him.’
‘Of course,’ Baldwin said. ‘How may I serve him?’
‘Your envoys are with Qalawun now,’ Omar said, watching his father’s mouth. ‘They are in the chamber with Qalawun’s men even as we speak. He will demand money.’
‘I suppose it will be a vast sum,’ Baldwin said.
‘A vast sum, yes. But worthwhile, if the Franks wish to remain. However, it is high in his mind to remove the Christians from Acre. You must let the Grand Master de Beaujeu know this: if the city pays this money, it will buy a little time. In a year, perhaps two, Qalawun will see Acre demolished.’
‘What of the value of the city as a trading centre? Without the Venetians and Genoese, how will he sell goods to the Christians?’
The older man stared at Baldwin with amusement before speaking to his son.
‘My father says, “Why would he care?” You have to understand that to a Muslim, the sight of your people is an abomination. They do not belong here. We have a duty to protect our holy places, and those of your religion do not honour them.’
‘But it must be good to have so many ships bringing money to buy your goods?’
‘If Acre is destroyed, we shall have more ships come to Cairo, or to one of Qalawun’s other cities. But the merchants who earn the money will be Muslim, and our people shall wax strong and wealthy, while yours will wane. Do you think Muslims may not negotiate for themselves? We are perfectly competent to buy and sell without your intervention.’
His voice had grown angry. Baldwin placated him. ‘I meant no insult to you or your peoples, Omar. It was my only desire to learn.’
‘And now you have. Be assured that before four years are passed, your city of Acre will be destroyed. Qalawun will take it apart stone from stone, just as he did Tripoli. And then the churches will be consecrated in the True Faith, and all vestiges of Christian rule will be eradicated. Only then will the Nation of Islam rise again.’
‘Why does your father tell me all this?’ Baldwin asked.
‘Because your Templar master pays us well and because there is nothing you may do to prevent the inevitable. So while we speak, it will not benefit you. We do not betray our peoples or Islam. We tell you what must be.’
‘Should we pay the ransom?’ Baldwin asked, staring at the Emir.
‘My father says, “It is up to you. Pay the sum demanded, and see the Sultan’s armies destroy Acre in a year or two; or do not pay and see the city laid waste in weeks”.’
‘Is there nothing we might do to protect ourselves?’ Baldwin asked, feeling a cold certainty that the Muslim’s words were spoken from conviction.
‘Nothing. Acre will cease to exist, and all those within her walls may expect the same pity as those who lived at Tripoli.’
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
It was eleven days later that Guillaume de Beaujeu marched into the broad space before the castle with the Marshal and five knights at his back. His white tunic was spotless, and gleamed in the sunlight as he pulled off his helmet, loosening the thongs that bound his mail hood. He pushed it back, and stood, left hand on his sword, the right gripping his helmet as he surveyed the men ranged about.
It had fallen to him, perhaps, to be the last Templar Grand Master to address the Commune of Acre. That was a sobering thought.
He had no misapprehensions as to the severity of their situation. All the Christians of this city, forty thousand souls or more, were dependent upon his ability to convince these men of the danger they faced. The reports of the envoy he had sent to Cairo had been uncompromising, as had the impression of the young man, Baldwin. He was a strong-willed fellow. Knew the value of a clear report.
Their news was appalling, but it only supported Guillaume’s own convictions. There was no man so stupid as one who could not read the signs when they lay all about him — and yet there were men here in this room who were fooling themselves into believing black was white.
Constable Amalric appeared, and Guillaume took a deep breath. ‘My Lord,’ he said, ‘I have news from Cairo.’
‘Please share it with the Commune,’ the Constable instructed him.
‘At our last meeting, I warned you that the threat posed by Qalawun was real,’ Guillaume stated, addressing them all. ‘He has already constructed the largest siege artillery ever seen, and his army is enormous. There is talk of over one hundred thousand men. It is not a force designed to wage war. It is an army brought together to eradicate the last Christian outpost in the Holy Land.’
Philip Mainboeuf had been sitting on a stool but now he stood and held his hands aloft. ‘My friends! Men of the Commune of Acre! How many more times must we listen to the same old song? My ears are tired with hearing the same allegations at each meeting. Where is this army? Is it here? Is it marching to us now? No! Are their siege engines before our walls? No! Do we have news of Qalawun leaving his capital city? No! Yet every few weeks the Templars seek to petrify us with vague threats and rumours. In God’s name, how much longer must we put up with this nonsense?’
De Beaujeu could see that the majority sided with the merchant. Very well. He waited for the tumult to die down, but now he did not speak in the mild, gently persuasive manner he was accustomed to use before the Commune, he used the tone he employed when speaking to subordinates. A cold, resolute voice that brooked no argument.
‘My Lords, Squires, Gentles, listen to me carefully. An army is assembled against us. It will leave very shortly. There are siege engines enough to destroy our city and forever dispel any hopes of winning back Jerusalem. We risk not only our own lives, but the souls of all Christians if we fail here: for if we do, God must turn His face from us. We have a holy duty to protect that which we hold.’