‘Well, Maria, it seems there’s a hefty price on both our heads,’ said Altair, when he’d found her. Just as he’d imagined, she was sitting on a stone bench between Markos and another Resistance man, wearing the glowering look to which he was becoming accustomed.
‘A price? Damn Bouchart. He probably thinks I’m your apprentice.’
‘Someone called the Bull has dispatched his men to search for us.’
Maria jumped as though stung. ‘The Bull? So they gave that zealot his own parish?’
‘Is he a friend of yours?’ said Altair, wryly.
‘Hardly. His name is Moloch. He’s a pious blowhard with arms like tree trunks.’
Altair turned to Markos. ‘Do you know the Resistance safe-house in the Commons District?’
‘I know where it is, but I’ve never been inside.’ Markos shrugged. ‘I’m just a foot soldier for the Resistance.’
Altair thought, then said, ‘I can’t be seen with Maria, so you’ll have to take her. Keep her out of sight, and meet me there when you’re safe.’
‘I know some back alleys and tunnels.’
‘It may take longer, but we’ll get her there in one piece.’
Separately they made their way to the safe-house, Altair arriving first. Barnabas had spread out sacks of grain and had been relaxing, but he pulled himself to his feet as Altair entered, stifling a yawn as though roused from slumber.
‘I just had word that someone found poor Jonas’s body,’ he said, with a sneer in his voice. ‘What a waste, eh?’ He brushed grain from his robes.
‘You knew him better than I did,’ replied Altair. ‘I’m sure he understood the risk of working for both sides.’ He looked at Barnabas carefully, taking note of the crooked smile he wore. Altair took no pleasure from death – any death – and he was apt to look poorly on those who did, whether they be Templar, Assassin or Resistance. On the one hand Barnabas was an ally. On the other… If Altair knew one thing it was to trust his instincts and his instincts were nagging him now; just a low, hushed nagging, but insistent nonetheless.
Barnabas was continuing: ‘Yes… unfortunately, this has complicated things. Jonas was a respected Cypriot and his death has sparked riots near the Old Church. The public is hungry for revenge and the Bull will tell them you were responsible. You may lose the support of the Resistance.’
What? Altair stared at him, hardly able to believe his ears. That instinct of his: it moved from nagging to outright harassment. ‘But Jonas was a traitor to the Resistance. Did they not know?’
‘Not enough of them, I’m afraid,’ Barnabas admitted. ‘The Resistance is quite scattered.’
‘Well, you’ll have the chance to tell them yourself,’ said Altair. ‘Some men are on their way to us now.’
‘You’re bringing people here?’ Barnabas looked concerned. ‘People you can trust?’
‘I’m not sure who I can trust right now,’ said Altair, ‘but it’s worth the risk. Right now I need to see these riots for myself.’
‘As for our bargain, I’ll see what I can do about getting you close to Bouchart. A deal’s a deal, eh?’ said Barnabas. He smiled again.
Altair didn’t care for that smile. He liked it less and less each time he saw it.
41
Altair paid a visit to the church and his heart sank at the sight of the unrest. Templar guards had formed a cordon and were holding back marauding citizens, who had been prevented from moving out of the immediate area of the church and were smashing everything in sight. Crates and barrels had been splintered and there were scattered fires on the streets. Streetside stalls had been attacked and dismantled, and the smell of trampled produce mingled with the smoke. Men had gathered in groups and were chanting slogans to the beat of drums and the constant rattle of cymbals, trying to goad the lines of Templar knights, who watched them carefully from behind makeshift barriers, overturned carts and stalls. Every now and then small squads of soldiers would make short, ruthless sorties into the mob, dragging out men who kicked and yelled, and either clubbing them with the hilts of their swords or throwing them behind the barrier to be taken to the cells – not that their raids did anything to frighten the rioters or dampen their temper.
Altair watched it all from up high, squatting on the edge of a roof, shrouded in despair. Something had gone wrong. Something had gone terribly wrong. And if the Bull decided to make an announcement naming him as the killer, then things were going to get even worse.
He made his decision. The Bull had to die.
When he arrived back at the safe-house, he looked in vain for Barnabas, who was nowhere to be seen. Now Altair was certain that he had been wrong to trust him and was cursing himself. He’d listened to his instinct. Just not hard enough.
Markos was there, though, as was Maria, who had been deposited in the cell, a much sturdier design than the makeshift gaol they had been using in Limassol. The door between the drying room and the storeroom was open so they could see her: she sat behind bars with her back against the wall, occasionally kicking her feet among the rushes spread out on the floor and regarding all goings-on with a baleful, sardonic expression. Altair watched her, musing upon all the trouble she had caused.
He learned that she, Markos and several other Resistance men had arrived at the safe-house to find it deserted. Barnabas had been gone when they had got there. How convenient, thought Altair.
‘What’s going on out there?’ Markos had exclaimed. ‘The city is in turmoil. I’ve seen riots.’
‘The people are protesting the death of a citizen, a man named Jonas. Have you heard of him?’
‘My father knew him well. He was a good man. How did he die?’
Altair’s heart sank even further, and he found himself avoiding Markos’s eyes as he replied, ‘Bravely. Listen, Markos, things have become complicated. Before I find Bouchart, I need to eliminate the Bull and put an end to his violence.’
‘You’ve quite a taste for chaos, Altair,’ called Maria from her cell.
He liked the way his name sounded in her mouth. ‘The Bull is one man responsible for the subjugation of thousands. Few will mourn his loss.’
She shifted. ‘And you propose to fly into Kantara, sting him and exit unnoticed? He surrounds himself with devoted worshippers.’ Her voice echoed in the stone prison.
‘Kantara… that’s to the east?’ said Altair, picking up on her inadvertent slip.
‘Yes, it’s the best defended… You’ll see for yourself.’
42
Altair did indeed see for himself. Kantara Castle was guarded by Crusader soldiers and Moloch’s fanatics. Scaling the walls, then making his way across the ramparts, he stopped occasionally to hear them talking, gleaning the odd bit of information about the man they called the Bull. He learned that he was a religious zealot who attracted like-minded followers, fanatics who either worked as his personal bodyguard, his servants, or who trod the streets of Kyrenia, spreading the word. He was attached to the Templars. His devotion to their leader, Bouchart, was almost as devout as his religious faith, and Kantara Castle was his personal citadel, given to him, presumably, by the Templars. He was known to spend most of his time worshipping at the castle chapel.
Which was where Altair hoped to find him.
Moving through the fortress he saw fanatics as well as guards. The fanatics looked… well, exactly as he would have expected fanatics to look: jumpy, wide-eyed and zealous. They were held in open contempt by the Christian guards who patrolled in twos and clearly thought it beneath them to be stationed at the castle. As Altair pressed himself into a recess two wandered past, one complaining to the other. ‘Why do the Templars tolerate this madman? The Bull and his fanatics are more dangerous than the citizens of Cyprus.’
‘The Templars have their reasons,’ replied the other. ‘It’s much easier for them to rule by proxy, you
