himself to play the part. Fear and intimidation get him what he wants. He has no true claim to the position.’
‘That ends today,’ Altair had said.
‘You speak too readily. This is not some slaver we’re discussing. He rules Jerusalem and is well protected because of it. I suggest you plan your attack carefully. Get to know your prey.’
‘That I already have,’ Altair had assured him. ‘Majd Addin is holding a public execution not far from here. It’s sure to be well guarded, but nothing I can’t handle. I know what to do.’
Malik sneered. ‘And that is why you remain a novice in my eyes. You cannot know anything. Only suspect. You must expect to be wrong. To have overlooked something. Anticipate, Altair. How many times must I remind you of this?’
‘As you wish. Are we done?’
‘Not quite. There is one more thing. One of the men to be executed is a brother. One of us. Al Mualim wishes him to be saved. Do not worry about the actual rescue – my men will take care of that. But you must ensure Majd Addin does not take his life.’
‘I won’t give him the chance.’
As he’d left, Malik had warned him, ‘Don’t foul this, Altair,’ and Altair had mentally scoffed at the thought as he began the walk to the Wailing Wall.
23
As he had approached the Wailing Wall, Altair had seen crowds beginning to gather: men, women, children, dogs, even livestock. All were making their way through the surrounding streets of the square towards the execution plaza.
Altair joined them, and as he passed along a street that was filling with more and more eager spectators heading in the same direction, he had listened to a town crier whipping up enthusiasm for the coming attraction – though it hardly seemed necessary.
‘Take notice,’ called the crier. ‘Majd Addin, most beloved regent of Jerusalem, will attend a public execution at the western edge of Solomon’s Temple. All able citizens are requested to be there. Hurry! Come and witness what becomes of our enemies.’
Altair had had an idea of what that might be. He hoped he would be able to change the outcome.
Guards at the entrance to the square were trying to control the flow of the crowd inside, turning some back, allowing others in. Altair hung back, watching the masses eddy about the entrance, bodies pressing against him in the street. Children darted through the legs of the spectators, sneaking their way into the plaza. Next he saw a knot of scholars, the crowd parting to make way for them, even dogs seeming to sense the reverence reserved for the holy men. Altair rearranged his robes, adjusted his cowl, waited until the scholars were passing and slipped in among them. As he did so, he felt a hand tugging at his sleeve and looked down to see a grubby child staring at him with quizzical eyes. He snarled and, terrified, the boy darted away.
Just in time: they had reached the gates, where the guards parted to allow the scholars through, and Altair came upon the square.
There were rough stone walls on all sides. Along the far end was a raised platform and on it a series of stakes. Empty, for now, but not for much longer. Jerusalem’s regent, Majd Addin was walking out on to the stage. At his appearance there was a surge, and a shout went up from the entrance as the guards lost control and citizens came pouring in. Altair was carried forward on the wave, now much closer to the rostrum and to the feared Majd Addin, who was already stalking the stage, waiting for the square to fill. He wore a white turban and a long, ornately embroidered gown. He moved as though he was angry. As though his temper was just moments from escaping his body.
It was.
‘ Silence! I demand silence,’ he roared.
With the show about to start, there was a final surge and Altair was carried forward once more. He saw guards stationed by the steps on either side of the platform, two at each end. In front of the platform he saw more, to prevent the crowd scrambling on to the scaffold. Craning his neck, he spotted others around the periphery of the square. At least the latter would find it difficult to move through the crowd, but that still gave just seconds for the kill and to fend off the nearest guards – the four at either end of the platform at the very least. Maybe those standing guard on the ground as well.
Could he better them all in that time? Ten or so loyal Saracens? The Altair who had attacked Robert de Sable on the Temple Mount would have had no doubts at all. Now, though, he was more wary. And he knew that to attempt the killing immediately was madness. A plan doomed to failure.
Just as he’d made up his mind to wait, the four prisoners were led on to the scaffold and to the stakes where the guards began binding them in place. At one end there was a woman, dirty-faced and weeping. Beside her stood two men, dressed in rags. And finally the Assassin, his head lolling, beaten, obviously. The crowd hissed its displeasure
‘People of Jerusalem, hear me well,’ shouted Majd Addin, his voice silencing the crowd, which had become excited at the arrival of the prisoners. ‘I stand here today to deliver a warning.’ He paused. ‘There are malcontents among you. They sow the seeds of discontent, hoping to lead you astray.’
The crowd murmured, seething around Altair.
Addin continued: ‘Tell me, is this what you desire? To be mired in deceit and sin? To live your lives in fear?’
‘We do not,’ screamed a spectator from behind Altair. But Altair’s attention was fixed on the Assassin, a fellow member of the Order. As he watched, a bloody string of saliva dripped from the man’s mouth to the wood. He tried to raise his head and Altair caught a glimpse of his face. Ripe purple bruises. Then his head lolled once more.
Majd Addin grinned a crooked grin. His was a face not used to smiling. ‘So you wish to take action?’ he asked agreeably.
The crowd roared its approval. They were here to see blood; they knew the regent would not leave their thirst unquenched.
‘Guide us,’ called a voice, as the roar died down.
‘Your devotion pleases me,’ said Addin, and he turned to the prisoners, indicating them with a sweep of his arm. ‘This evil must be purged. Only then can we hope to be redeemed.’
Suddenly there was a disturbance in front of the platform, a voice crying, ‘This is not justice.’
Altair saw a man in rags. He was shouting at Majd Addin: ‘You twist the words of the Prophet, peace be upon him.’
He had a companion, also clothed in tatters, who was similarly upbraiding the crowd. ‘And all of you stand idle, complicit in this crime.’
Altair used the disturbance to edge closer. He needed to climb to the platform at the end where the Assassin stood bound to the stake. Couldn’t risk having him used as a barrier or hostage.
‘God curse you all,’ shouted the first man – but they had no supporters. Not among the crowd and certainly not among the guards, who even now were moving forward. Seeing them come, the two hecklers made a run for it, producing daggers and waving them as they made a futile dash towards the platform. One was cut down by an archer. The second found himself pursued by two guards, failing to see a third Saracen who opened his stomach with his sword.
They lay dying in the dust and Majd Addin pointed at them. ‘See how the evil of one man spreads to corrupt another?’ he shrieked. His black beard quivered with outrage. ‘They sought to instil fear and doubt within you. But I will keep you safe.’
Now he turned back to the poor unfortunates – who must surely have been praying for the attempt on his life to succeed, but instead watched wide-eyed and terrified as he drew his sword.
‘Here are four filled with sin,’ called Addin, pointing first at the woman, then at each one in turn. ‘The harlot. The thief. The gambler. The heretic. Let God’s judgment be brought down upon them all.’
The heretic. That was the Assassin. Altair steeled himself and began to move closer to the steps at the side
