They didn't have long to wait. They heard the Mamelukes long before they saw them, their laughter loud in the still air. Clearly, their acts in this region had given them an undoubted sense of invulnerability. The Mamelukes were rightly feared. Some fifty years ago, many thousands of young men from these parts had been sold into the servitude of the Sultan of Egypt. The ruler, never imagining what would be the result of his action, formed these young men into his National Guard and called them Mamelukes, the Arabic word for 'owned.' A few years later, the Mamelukes instigated a revolution and were soon in control of Egypt. They became even more feared than the men who had originally sold them into captivity.
Decked in leather and iron body armor and breeches, each horseman carried a scabbarded long sword and a dagger in his belt. Across the pommels of each of their horses rested a large circular metal shield, and pennants that hung colorfully from their spears fluttered in the dusty air around them.
Martin counted them. The boy's estimate was accurate. There were twenty-one warriors. He knew that either all of them had to die, or their own fate would be sealed. Should one of them escape, many more would return.
When the last of the Mamelukes had passed the position taken by Hugh and his companion, Martin heard the leader of the band reach the well and dismount.
Launching himself upward, Martin bolted out from behind the well as if discharged from a cannon and quickly cut down two men with savage sweeps of his broadsword. More men were in the process of dismounting when the rest of the survivors rushed out of their hiding places, screaming war cries and hacking away at the surprised horsemen with whatever weapons they held. The surprise was complete, its effect devastating.
The men that remained on horseback wheeled their mounts around and kicked them into a gallop, back the way that they had come. As they drew level with Hugh, the shipmaster heaved on the rope, drawing it tight. The horsemen never saw it. The first horses fell, the others colliding into them, sending the riders hurtling helplessly through the air. The knights were already racing toward the men, and before long no Mameluke remained alive at either end of the small battlefield.
But it was a small victory. In the dust of the entanglement, two seamen and two knights were dead.
Five men, including the injured Aimard, remained.
But they now had horses and weapons.
That night, after burying their dead, the survivors slept by the walls of the ruined church, taking turns at watch. Martin, though, couldn't sleep. His mind was still in turmoil, and he had gone into a state of extreme awareness of sounds and movements.
He heard a rustle coming from inside the church, where Aimard had been laid to rest. He knew that the older man was in great pain and he had heard him repeatedly cough up blood. He got up and walked in through the church's charred portal. Aimard wasn't where he'd left him. Martin scanned the darkness and spotted the old knight sitting up, the flames from a small fire dipping and flickering as wisps of wind curled in through the damaged roof. Approaching him, he saw that Aimard was busy writing something. It was a letter. By his side was a strange geared device, which Martin had never seen before.
Aimard raised his head, and his eyes glinted at Martin in the firelight. 'I need your help with this,' he said, his voice hoarse and raspy.
Martin approached hesitantly, feeling his muscles tighten. 'What can I do for you?' he asked.
'It seems my strength has deserted me.' Aimard coughed. 'Come.'
He pulled himself off the floor and, lifting the leather pouch with great pain, led Martin deeper into the church to an area where the ground was made up of paving stones, some of them marked with names and dates. Martin realized they were grave markers.
'This one,' Aimard said as he stopped over a stone that bore the word Romiti.
Martin stared at him quizzically, not sure of what was expected of him. Aimard managed a smile. 'I need you to open it up.'
WitJhout any more explanation, Martin retrieved his sword and used it to prize up the flagstone.
'Keep it open for me,' Aimard asked as he got down on his knees and slipped the leather pouch into the dark opening. Once he was done, he nodded to the younger knight. 'That will do.' Martin carefully lowered die slab. Aimard examined it, making sure their intrusion wasn't noticeable, then got up and shuffled back to his small encampment and lowered himself painfully to the ground.
Martin looked into the darkness, his head a whirlwind of confused thoughts. When Aimard of Villiers had first encouraged him to join the Order, he had felt honored and excited. For die first three years, that honor was shown to be justified—the Knights Templar were indeed a noble group of extremely brave men, dedicated to God, to mankind, to the Church. But now that the Holy Land was lost, what was to become of them? He no longer had a clear vision of their objectives.
Other things that bothered him were now resurfacing. Over the years, he had become aware of unspoken apprehensions within the Order. He knew, from snatches of conversations accidentally overheard, that there was friction between the Order and the Church. Where he drought there should be close bonds and trust, he sensed dissent and suspicion. So much so that the Church had not cooperated with recent requests for additional men. By the Church's refusal to help, die fate of the garrison at Acre had been sealed. Had the Church deliberately placed the Temple in jeopardy?
He shook die thought away. Surely not.
Then there were die secret meetings William of Beaujeu had held with just a few senior members of the Order. Meetings from which they returned grim-faced and taciturn. Senior members like Aimard of Villiers, whose openness and honesty were among die qualities tiiat so endeared him to Martin. There was the ornate chest, the cryptic words between Aimard and the grand master just before they boarded the Falcon Temple. And now this.
Was he not to be trusted?
'Martin.'
Startled, he turned to face Aimard, whose face was contorted with pain, his tone lowered to a guttural grumble.
'I know what you must be thinking. But believe me, when I tell you . . . There are things you must know, things you need to know, if our Order is to survive. William entrusted me with the knowledge and the task, but . . .' He broke off, coughing, then wiped his mouth before resuming, slowly. 'My journey ends here, we both know that.' He raised a hand to fend off Martin's protests.
'I must entrust this knowledge to you. You need to complete the task that I have barely begun.'
Martin felt a rush of guilt at his own unjust thoughts.
'Sit with me,' Aimard said. And after a few moments during which the older man caught his breath, he began.
'For many years, a secret has been known only to a small number of our Order. In the beginning, it was known to just nine men. Never have more than that number been privy to this knowledge. It lies at the core of our Order, and it is the source of the fear and envy of the Church.'
Aimard talked through the night. At first Martin was disbelieving, then he felt a growing sense of shock, of outrage even, but given that it was Aimard telling it to him, he knew in his heart that this tale could not be fantasy. It could only be the truth.
As Aimard pressed on, his voice frail and quivering, a realization dawned on Martin. His anger turned to awe, and then to an almost overwhelming sense of nobility of purpose. Aimard was like a father to him, and the older knight's earnest dedication held a lot of weight in Martin's eyes.
Gradually but surely, it was seeping into him, embedding itself into his soul with Aimard's every word.
They were still talking when the sun rose. When Aimard finished, Martin was silent for a while.
Then he asked, 'What is it you want of me?'
'I've written a letter,' Aimard told him. 'A letter which must be taken to the grand master of the Paris Temple. No one else must see it.' He handed the letter to Martin, who couldn't read it. Aimard nodded at the geared device by his side. 'It's in code ... in case it should fall into unfriendly hands.'
Aimard paused to glance out toward the others. 'We are in enemy territory, and there are only four of you left,' he said. 'Stay together only for as long as you must, then divide into two pairs. Take different routes to Paris. I've made a copy of the letter. One for each pair of you. Impress upon the others the importance of your mission, but do not, I beg of you, reveal the truth that I have told you here unless you are convinced your own death is
