horrid fascination as a giant siege engine, one of the largest I’d ever seen, was pulled forward through the Saracen lines. It began hurling large boulders at the city gates. Every few minutes, it fired and the walls shook with the force of the impact. Our archers took aim and shot at it repeatedly, but the Saracens had covered the vulnerable parts of the machine with wooden shielding and the arrows could not penetrate it. Even our ballistae aimed directly at it had no effect. Would the Saladin finally force his way into Acre?
On and on it went, as the machine blasted rock after rock at the gates. With each shot the Saracens cheered, and then when it looked as if the engine was impervious to any retaliation we could bring to bear on it, the Saladin’s army seemed to rise up as one. And if that weren’t bad enough, a group of black-robed men took up their positions all along the plain that ran in front of the main city gate. I had never seen warriors dressed like this.
Sir Thomas stood a few feet away, huddling with a small group of knights.
“Sire, look! A new group of warriors has joined the fight!” He came to my side. I looked at Sir Thomas, and for the first time I saw something I could only call fear flash across his face. It was there only for the briefest of moments, but I saw it, and it unnerved me.
“Sire?”
“They are called Al Hashshashin. It translates to ‘the Assassins.’ Some call them fanatics. They are some of the most ferocious warriors you will ever find. If the Saladin has persuaded Al Hashshashin to fight here with him, then he means to take the city or die,” Sir Thomas said.
As if they could hear us talking about them, the Assassins began to wail, and the sound of their cries unnerved me. It was the moaning of a demon, high pitched and terrifying, and I felt a wave of fear wash over me. Soon they were joined by the Saracens, who shouted out war cries of their own.
In wave after wave they began charging toward us.
And something told me that this time we would not turn them back so easily.
16
Boulder after boulder came thundering at the gates. The wave of Saracens hit Acre like a hammer on an anvil. They sent their entire force toward every side of the city, and the scaling ladders sprouted up like weeds among the battlements and parapets.
The giant siege engine disoriented everyone, and for the first few minutes of the onslaught there was nothing but confusion and fear within our ranks. Over the roaring noise, I heard Sir Thomas shouting not far from where I stood.
“To the walls! Forward! Fight!” Finally his words were drowned out by the commotion. He swung his sword back and forth like a demon, striking down man after man. I worked my way through the morass of bodies until I reached his side.
“Tristan! Come with me! To the Knights’ Hall! Hurry!” he shouted. He turned me toward the steps leading down from the battlements, pushing me forward. I didn’t understand at first. Fighting was going on all around us, and Sir Thomas was headed in the other direction.
At the bottom of the steps he took the lead and raced through the streets. The roar of the fighting receded, and the center of the city seemed eerily calm as we ran. In a few moments we burst through the door of our room in the Knights’ Hall.
Sir Thomas’ tunic was caked in dust and blood. A vicious cut on his left arm still bled. Without a word, I tore a piece of cloth from my own shirt and wrapped it tightly around the wound.
He strode quickly to the table and began writing on a piece of parchment.
“Tristan, we’re about to be overrun. There is time for only one last lesson in tactics. What would you, as a soldier, do in this situation?”
I hesitated for a moment, wondering how Sir Thomas could remain so calm amid the chaos that surrounded us. Even though we had been fighting steadily for weeks now, he was, like always, calm, cool and completely in control of his emotions.
“Sire, I’m not sure what you’re asking…I…”
“Quickly, think! You are a Templar; you fight to the last man. Surrender is not an option. So what do you do?”
I tried to change the subject.
“Sire, we must see to your injuries,” I said.
“No time for that now,” he said. “You can’t surrender, you can’t escape. What is your plan?”
“I would look for a place to make a last stand,” I said.
“Excellent! But where? Here we are, inside a walled city, about to be overrun. Where would you fight? What ground would you choose?”
I thought for a moment.
“The Crusaders’ Palace, sire,” I said. “The palace is the place I’d pick. It is well built, the thick sandstone walls can withstand fire, and it will cost the Saladin many soldiers to overrun it.”
“Well done!” Sir Thomas said. “It would appear that I have trained you well. To the palace we shall go. But tell me, lad. If you had something that could not, must not, fall into enemy hands, how would you attempt escape from this place?”
I thought for a moment. Part of me wanted to just open the door, grab Sir Thomas and find a horse and ride out. We would take our chances trying to make our way through enemy lines rather than be overrun by Saracens, trapped inside the city as we were.
“Quickly. Think!”
“The caves! Most of the Saladin’s men are deployed against the city walls. I would try to reach the caves below us, then attempt to sneak past whatever forces hold them, make my way along the shore, and when clear of the enemy lines, climb up the cliff side and follow the coastline until I reached safety.”
“Ah, but how would you get to the caves, lad? The city is surrounded. There is no way in or out,” he said.
Try as I might, I had no answer. “I don’t know, sire,” I said. “I’m afraid I don’t know.” I shrugged, disappointed that I could not come up with an answer.
“Don’t worry, Tristan, you’ve done well. You’ve done quite well.”
Finishing whatever it was he had written, Sir Thomas walked to the fireplace. He grasped a small dagger lying on the mantel and used it to pry a rock loose from the hearth. When the rock was removed, I could see an empty space behind it. Sir Thomas reached into the hole with his good arm and pulled out a leather satchel.
“You have but one last duty for me,” he said, hanging the leather satchel on my shoulder.
“We Templars have guarded what you now hold since our earliest days. In time, it has become almost the very reason for our existence. I’ve told you the story of our founding. We are the Warrior Monks sent by the King of Jerusalem to protect pilgrims traveling on the roads to and from the Holy Land. As our numbers and influence have grown, we’ve become guardians of many of the relics of our faith: the Ark of the Covenant, the One True Cross and this, the Holy Grail. Christendom’s most sacred objects are safeguarded and protected by Templar Knights. And they must be kept safe at all costs. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sire,” I said.
I felt my heart sink. Sir Thomas had just handed me the most venerable and mysterious relic in the history of mankind.
I knew the story of the Holy Grail. Or at least some of the stories, I should say. Many did not believe it even existed. Some said the Templars kept the Grail safe. I’d had no idea that it was true.
“Only the Master of the Order and a handful of carefully chosen brothers know the truth and the locations of these relics. The Grail is never kept in one place for long in case someone outside our circle should learn of its whereabouts. We were not able to move it before the Saladin surrounded us. With the city lost, we cannot chance it being found. So I entrust it to you. You must tell no one that you have it, not even another Templar.
“The satchel has a false bottom,” he said, taking the bag back. He opened it and showed me how the layer of leather that lay across the bottom of the satchel covered a secret compartment. When he pushed down on the edge
