Oliver Bowden - The Secret Crusade

‘Ah, Altair,’ he said pleasantly. ‘A little bird told me you’d be paying a visit…’

He smiled at his own joke, then opened his hands to set the pigeon free. Instead it merely alighted on the counter where it puffed out its chest feathers and began walking to and fro as though mounting an avian guard. Jabal watched it with amused eyes, then adjusted himself on his seat to regard his visitor.

‘And who is the poor unfortunate that Al Mualim has chosen to taste your blade, Altair?’ he asked.

‘Al Mualim has ordered the execution of Garnier de Naplouse.’

Jabal started. ‘The Grand Master of the Knights Hospitalier?’

Slowly Altair nodded. ‘Indeed. And I have already determined when and how to strike.’

‘Share your knowledge with me, then.’ Jabal looked impressed, and with good reason.

Altair began: ‘He lives and works within his Order’s hospital, north-west of here. Rumours speak of atrocities committed within its walls.’

As Altair told him what he knew, Jabal nodded thoughtfully, considering his words and asking at length, ‘What is your plan?’

‘Garnier keeps mainly to his quarters inside the hospital, though he leaves occasionally to inspect his patients. It’s when he makes his rounds that I will strike.’

‘It’s clear you’ve given this some thought. I give you leave to go.’ And with that he handed Altair Al Mualim’s marker. ‘Remove this stain from Acre, Altair. Perhaps it will help cleanse your own.’

Altair took the marker, fixed Jabal with a baleful look – was every Assassin to be made aware of his shame? – then left, making his way across the city’s rooftops until he had sight of the hospital. There he stopped, catching his breath and gathering his thoughts as he looked down upon it.

Altair had given Jabal a truncated version of his findings; he had hidden his true feelings of disgust from the Bureau leader. He’d learned that de Naplouse was Grand Master of the Order of the Knights Hospitalier. Originally founded in Jerusalem – their aim to provide care for ailing pilgrims – the Knights had a base in one of Acre’s most deprived areas.

And there, according to what Altair had learned, de Naplouse was doing anything but providing care.

In the Hospitalier district he had overheard two members of the Order talking about how the Grand Master was turning ordinary citizens away from the hospital, and the people were close to violence because of it. One had said that he feared a repeat of a scandal that had taken place at Tyre.

‘What scandal?’ his friend had asked.

The man had leaned in close to his companion to finish and Altair had been forced to listen hard. ‘Garnier once called that city home,’ the man had said, ‘but he was exiled. It’s said he was experimenting on its citizens.’

His companion had looked a little sick. ‘What sort of experiments?’

‘I don’t know the details, but I worry… Has he begun again? Is that why he locks himself away in the Hospitalier fortress?’

Later, Altair had read a scroll that he had pickpocketed from an associate of de Naplouse. The Hospitalier had no intention of healing his patients, he read. Supplied with subjects from Jerusalem, he was conducting tests – tests for some unknown master – aimed at inducing certain states in his subjects. And Tamir – the recently deceased Tamir – had been charged with finding arms for the operation.

One particular phrase in the letter caught his eye: We should endeavour to reclaim what has been taken from us. What did that mean? Puzzling over it, he continued his enquiries. The Grand Master allowed ‘madmen’ to wander the grounds of the hospital, he heard, and he discovered the times at which the archers covering the walkways above the hospital left their posts; he learned that de Naplouse liked to make his rounds without a bodyguard and that only monks were allowed passage.

Then, having all the information he needed, Altair had visited Jabal to collect Al Mualim’s marker.

Now he moved around the outside of a building adjacent to the Hospitaliers’ fortress. As he had expected, there was a guard, an archer, and Altair watched as he paced the walkway, every now and then casting his gaze into the courtyard below, but mainly gazing across the roofline. Altair looked at the sun. It should be about now, he thought, smiling to himself as, sure enough, the archer moved to a ladder and let himself down.

Altair stayed low. He leaped from the roof to the walkway and quietly scuttled along until he was able to peer over the edge and into the courtyard below. Sheer-walled in dull, grey, forbidding stone, a well stood in its centre, but it was otherwise bare, quite unlike the ornately decorated buildings usually to be found in Acre. There, several guards were wearing the quilted black coats of the Hospitalier knights, the white cross on the chest, and there was also a group of monks. Moving among them were what looked like patients, barefoot and shirtless. Poor wretches who milled aimlessly about, their expressions blank, their eyes glazed.

Altair frowned. Even with the walkway unguarded it was impossible to drop into the courtyard unseen. He moved to the entrance wall of the hospital, so that he was able to look into the street outside. On stone painted white by the sun, ailing cityfolk and their families begged the guards to be allowed inside. Others whose minds had gone wandered among the throng, casting their arms into the air, shouting gibberish and obscenities.

And there – Altair smiled to see them – was a group of scholars. They were moving through the crowd as if it wasn’t there, heedless of the suffering and tumult around them. They seemed to be going in the direction of the hospital. Taking advantage of the disorder, Altair lowered himself into the street unnoticed, joined the ranks of the scholars and lowered his head to concentrate his gaze on his shuffling feet. Every now and then he risked a surreptitious glance to check their bearings and, as he’d hoped, they were heading towards the hospital where the guards stood aside, admitting them to the courtyard.

Altair wrinkled his nose. Where the street had held the scent of the city, of baking and perfumes and spices, in here was the stench of suffering, of death and human waste. From somewhere – through a set of closed doors – there came a series of pained cries, then low moaning. That would be the main hospital, he thought. He was proved correct when, suddenly, the doors were flung open and a patient careered madly into the courtyard.

‘ No! Help! Help me! ’ he screamed. His face was contorted with fear, his eyes wide. ‘ Help me, please! You must help me! ’

After him came a guard. He had a lazy eye, as though the muscles in his eyelid had once been cut. He ran after the escaping crazy man, catching him. Then, joined by another guard, he began punching and kicking him until the crazy man was subdued and on his knees.

Altair watched. He felt his jaw tighten and his fists clench as the guards beat the man, other patients moving forward to get an improved view of the spectacle, watching with faces that registered only mild interest, swaying slightly.

‘Mercy!’ howled the crazy man, as the blows rained down on him. ‘I beg mercy. No more!’

He stopped. Suddenly his pain was forgotten as the doors to the hospital swung open and there stood a man who could only be Garnier de Naplouse.

He was shorter than Altair had expected. He was beardless and had close-cropped white hair, sunken eyes and a cruel, downturned mouth, which gave him a cadaverous look. The white cross of the Hospitalier was on his arms and he wore a crucifix around his neck – but whatever God he worshipped had deserted him, Altair saw. For he also wore an apron. A dirty, blood-stained apron.