Arnau pounded down the stairs with Tristán at his heel, the squire cursing like a sailor. Things were rather spiralling out of control. It had been bad enough that they had more or less been forced to kidnap the man they had been hoping to rescue and had then seemingly driven him into madness. Then they had imposed upon a good man, only to be sold out by his sons. Now, those sons had apparently reported them to the Almohad authorities.
If word had spread from there, then it would now be known around the city’s military that a small bunch of Christians were in town, and they would naturally be presumed to be spies or saboteurs. Any time now, the entirety of Cordoba would be looking for them. The boys would have tried to preserve the innocence of Farraj in their denunciations, but the corpses of two city guards on his rooftop terrace would almost certainly land the man in trouble regardless.
Now, on top of all of that, they had been forced to leave most of their gear behind when they ran after Calderon. Their horses were in a stable down the street with Yusuf, but one of the brothers, along with a guard, was headed there, so there was a very good chance that they were about to lose not only the horses and the rest of their gear, but also a good friend.
And all of this was beyond their control, for now they had to concentrate on the broken-minded former knight who was racing through the archway and out into the street. Reaching the bottom of the stairs, they burst out into the house’s courtyard. Arnau caught a brief sight of one of Farraj’s sons in the doorway at the far side, his expression a mix of hatred and fear, for seeing them appear, the young man must have realised that the guards he had summoned were dead. There was no time for the boy, though, and so Arnau and the squire spun round into the passage and out into the street.
The Templar’s head snapped left and right, but it was not hard to locate Calderon. He was running along the street to the left, the wrong way entirely for the stables, sword in hand and bellowing like an enraged bull. Arnau found himself wondering whether Tristán had been right that they would have been better leaving him alone.
They were catching up with the running knight now, not because they were moving any faster, but because every time Calderon reached a side street or a junction his head switched this way and that, looking down each of them. Some distance from the house, he seemed to see what he was looking for and turned, heading downhill to the left and issuing a fresh barrage of noise. Arnau, heart thundering in time with his feet, caught odd words, though they made no sense. The man’s verbal diatribe was seemingly a weird mix of Arabic and Castilian, part prayer and part curse in both tongues, as though his brain was a churning combination of both, throwing up random splashes as it roiled.
‘What… in God’s name… is he doing?’ rasped Tristán as they reached that same corner and hurtled round it without pausing.
But what he was doing quickly became apparent.
The side street they had taken seemed to run down to the city’s walls, somewhere near the river if Arnau was able to judge his directions. At the end of the street lay the heavy Moorish defences, a tower rising square and strong directly in front, with what appeared to be a postern gate beside it. Calderon had to be fleeing the city.
Did that mean he had remembered? Had he broken free of whatever they had done to him? Possibly, but in doing so it seemed worryingly likely that his mind had broken with it. Arnau clenched his teeth. If the city’s military were not already looking for them then they soon would be, for it would be difficult to miss the bellowing lunatic wielding a sword and running for the gate, two more armed men in close pursuit.
As they neared the end of the street, Arnau’s frown returned. The postern gate was closed, as one would expect in the hours of darkness, and men stood there on guard. If Calderon really expected to leave the city through it, then he was hopelessly deluded, and his mind had truly gone. Unless…
Arnau tried to pick out what the man was bellowing as he ran and realised his error now. Fragments he heard from the man’s bellowing told him all he needed to know. ‘Ye know not, nor do ye understand, that ye go in darkness,’ and ‘ye shall die like men die, and ye shall fall like any of the princes,’ both from the eighty-second Psalm, were hardly light and hopeful passages. And though he had no frame of reference for the Arabic fragments he heard, he assumed they were from that heretical Moorish book and were of a similarly dark and violent nature.
Calderon was not intent on escape. He was intent on battle. He was running for the walls because that was where he was guaranteed to find a guard. A whole new level of panic settled into Arnau. If Calderon started a fight at the postern gate, it would draw more and more men from the walls and the adjacent tower. He, and by extension the Templars too, would very quickly be overwhelmed.
Fresh horror lent his stride an extra turn of speed, and Arnau sheathed his blade now as he ran. Huffing, pounding, blood thundering in his ears, he desperately chased down Calderon. He reached the berserk knight just before they burst out into the wide thoroughfare that followed along the inside of the city walls and threw himself at Calderon.
The Templar hit his prey heavily, arms wrapping around his thighs and gripping tight as the two men slammed to the ground, hard. Arnau could hear Tristán just behind him, too. They were hardly subtle. Just fifty or so paces from the tower they were in plain sight of anyone looking their way, and given the noise they had been making, everyone would be looking their way. He didn’t have time to consider them, though. He had to act, and now.
Calderon had had the wind knocked from him as he hit the ground. His hand still gripped that sword, but his bellowing had ceased, and he was momentarily still. Arnau lifted his weight off the man, yanked at him, rolling him onto his back, and delivered an almighty slap to the man’s cheek. He had no idea whether it would do good or further harm, but it was what you did for people in a panic, and so it seemed appropriate.
Tristán was there now, crouching beside them as Calderon stared, wild-eyed, at the two Templars, a growing red handprint on the side of his face.
‘We have to get out of here,’ the squire hissed.
‘The gate is guarded and barred,’ Arnau replied absently, examining the man beneath him, preparing for any move, in case Calderon suddenly attacked him.
‘Not out of the city, Brother,’ Tristán grunted, ‘away from here. The guards are coming.’
Arnau looked up. The two Almohads in the shadows of the postern gate had now become four, and they were in discussion about what to do, fingers pointing along the street to this odd display. Arnau felt his pulse speed up once more. Danger was rising again and Tristán was right.
‘Grab him.’
Prepared as they were for Calderon to struggle and attempt to fight them off, Arnau and Tristán managed to pull him up to his feet with relative ease. The knight, eyes still bulging madly, looked off towards the gate, his mouth opening and closing, biting down on soundless words. Arnau could not tell whether he was looking at the guards with a berserk desire for blood or fear of them attacking. It was too hard to read this near-insane expression.
‘Calderon, come on.’
The man did not resist as the two Templars started urging him back along the street. At the gate, someone hollered for the three men to stop and stay where they were. Arnau ignored them. Speeding up, he half expected Calderon to fall, or to come to a halt and turn, but what he did was to run. Moments later, rather than dragging him away, Arnau and the squire were racing to keep up with him again.
A little ahead, Calderon, now free of their grasp, turned right into a side alley. The other two followed him close, and they pounded down the narrow, shadowed lane, taking another left just as the guards reached the end behind them, still shouting for them to halt.
Arnau hoped Calderon was thinking straight now, that he knew what he was doing, for the Templar was hopelessly turned around and had no idea where to go. Instead, he trusted to fortune and the will of God, and ran on after Calderon, the squire right behind him. They turned again and again, always with the small knot of Almohad guards not far behind them calling for them to stop and shouting for any other soldiers in the vicinity to join them.
At one point a second Arabic shout added to the calls, coming from off to the left, and Arnau and Tristán both turned to look down another side alley in the direction of what had to be a second group of guards. When they turned back there was no sign of Calderon. They were alone.
‘Ballocks,’ snapped Tristán in loud Aragonese, heedless of any danger now.
As the pair stumbled to a halt, spinning, looking this way and that to try and identify where the knight had gone, the sound of their pursuers grew, the guards approaching the last corner, about to fall upon their prey.
Arnau felt the arms of panic begin to embrace him again, and let out a yell of shock as something grabbed him and jerked him backwards, a hand slapping over his mouth and muffling the cry even as it arose.
As he was let go and stumbled into the pitch darkness, his assailant grabbed Tristán in a similar fashion and pulled him out of the alley into the gloom, then swiftly shut the door through which he’d stepped. The place smelled musty and dusty, old and disused, with an overtone of rotting vermin. Arnau could hear nothing over the pounding of his own blood, but as he calmed his breathing and the pulse slowed, he gradually became aware of what was happening.
Wherever they were, they were in total darkness, and it had to have been Calderon that pulled them to safety from the alley. He could hear two people breathing in the tight confines, both with that stifled aspect that told him both men were trying to keep their laboured breaths as quiet as possible.
Shouts and calls in Arabic washed in through the door. Arnau listened carefully. Two groups of guards had met and seemed to be standing in the alley just outside, not more than ten feet from them. There was some argument going on out there, the two groups each blaming one another for losing the fugitives. Angry words were bandied about and Arnau heard the distinct sound of tussling as men shoved each other. He heard the rasp of a blade part-drawn, but what was about to boil over into a full brawl was suddenly halted by the arrival of a third party. A man with an authoritative tone snapped at them to stop.
Arnau held his breath for a moment as everything went silent and was grateful that the other two had decided to do so as well. There was a long pause, and then the officer barked at them, issuing orders to continue the search. Listening, he heard the group split into two, heading left and right from the door.
Arnau remained silent for some time as the sounds of the search parties faded, and he shivered. A new sound arose now, that of someone fumbling carefully in the dark. Not sure what to say or what to do, he stood still, breathing slowly, as a door was opened on the far side of the small room. Calderon stepped through into moonlight and gestured for the others to follow. Arnau and Tristán shared a look, hard to see in the darkness, and then emerged into a small, impoverished courtyard. This place was no lavish arcaded home, but a rarely used and very poor place, old boxes and empty sacks lying in the dust, weeds attempting to turn the place into a jungle.
Arnau opened his mouth to speak, but Calderon placed a finger to his lips, hushing the Templar. He crossed to the far side of the courtyard, where there was another plain and ancient door, and tried it. It opened with a low creak and a jarring shudder. The man held up a warning hand and then slipped into the darkness beyond. There was half a minute of shuffling and scraping noises within, and then the darkness inside retreated in the face of a low, silvery light. Calderon reappeared and beckoned.
The two men passed into the room, their companion closing the door behind them.
They were in a bare room, again dusty and disused, refuse and rodent skeletons in evidence. The walls had once been brightly painted, but were now dim and cracked and peeling, all of this made visible by a small window that had been covered with rotting drapes which had now been pulled aside to admit a sliver of moonlight.
Calderon dropped to the floor in the centre of the room, half in and half out of the beam of light.
‘I am…’ he began, and tailed off, staring at the dusty plain tiles beneath him. There was a long pause as the two Templars joined him on the floor.
‘You don’t have to explain,’ Arnau said as soothingly as he could. ‘I think we know what happened.’
‘You don’t understand. You can’t understand,’ Calderon said.
‘They broke you. Just as torturers break their prey. But they did not break you physically as a torturer would. They had to break your spirit instead. What I don’t understand is why? Your fellow knights from Salvatierra told me what happened. They had assumed you were killed. It would seem natural for you to be killed. Why would they go to such efforts?’
‘Because they are the Devil’s disciples, and this is the end of days,’ Calderon said in a menacing whisper.
‘Be ye ware of false prophets,’ Arnau quoted, ‘that come to you in the clothing of sheep, but withinforth they be ravening wolves or ravens, of their fruits ye shall know them.’
‘Matthew seven,’ Calderon hissed, ‘but seek you the revelation of Saint John the Divine: “And the beast was seized, and with him the false prophet who performed the signs in his presence, by which he deceived those who had received the mark of the beast and those who worshiped his image; these two were thrown alive into the lake of fire which burns with brimstone.”’
‘You see the Almohads – the caliph – as the false prophet? That he marked you in some way?’
Calderon’s gaze hardened. ‘My captors, they worked on me, found what truly gripped my heart with fear, and when they had done so, they toyed with me. They took me to the Tower of the Resurrection in Salvatierra and they threw me from the parapet time and again, only to haul me back on ropes. I think they always planned to let go one time and let me plummet, but as long as I shrieked my horror, they played their game.’
He shuddered, and Arnau gave him a sympathetic look. He could barely imagine the terror of such a thing.
‘Their imam saved me. Al-Hafiz came to me. He caught me and admonished them for their games. He pulled me back. He said it was unseemly for a man of Allah to be treated so. He knew, somehow, knew that God talked to me in my heart, and he told me that his god… that Allah would protect me. They came for me again, more than once, those Almohad dogs who simply wanted me to suffer, and they played their games with me, but always Al-Hafiz found me and saved me.
‘They turned my belief, my piety, my very faith upon me, used me to destroy myself. I had always thought the voice of the Divine spoke to me, that it had called me to service. I thought that it had called me at Salvatierra to surrender myself to the enemy, to the Great Enemy, even. I knew there had to be a reason, some part of the divine plan. But now, I wonder whether it was always the false prophet, marking me and corrupting me. And now I am ruined, godless, corrupt, damned.’
Arnau shivered. He was a man of God, and learned enough in the scriptures, and he believed beyond doubt in the Trinity, but this? This was beyond him. Calderon was a man so close to the Divine that he was also dangerously close to madness, or so the other knights of Calatrava had intimated. A suspicion fell upon Arnau.
‘What did they plan for you? The imam converted you, but there has to be a reason. He saw something in you.’
‘They called me Al-Haji.’
‘I am not familiar with this word,’ Arnau admitted.
‘It is the name for one who has trod the great pilgrimage. Someone a step closer to God.’
Arnau nodded, frowning. ‘I think they saw in you the same nearness to the Divine that you see in yourself. I think you were a prize for them. I think you were to be brought out and displayed to the armies of Christendom as a sign. God above, but I can only imagine how that would shake the Orders, especially yours.’
‘I have been fooled by the false prophet,’ Calderon said quietly, ‘marked by the Beast. You should have let me die. As soon as I realised that it was not the words of the Lord that had brought me here, as soon as you showed me that, I knew that I was worthless, that everything I have done is at the bidding of Satan. I would have died in that gate, but I would have died bringing about the death of demons around me. I could perhaps have redeemed my soul at the last, and secured a path to Heaven. You should have left me and let me die in the gate.’
Arnau gritted his teeth, thinking desperately. Calderon had been a prize for the Almohads, and if he had led out an enemy charge against his own order, Arnau could hardly imagine what effect that would have on them. But to have Calderon, a man who heard the song of the angels, returned to them to fight with his brothers on the field? Well that would give heart instead. It was important that they get Calderon back to Toledo now. How they could do so he could barely conceive, but the first step had to be making the man want to go back. Finding a reason for him to believe again. Arnau had to somehow persuade him to become again the man he had once been.
‘What if you were not mistaken originally?’ Arnau asked, a notion occurring to him.
‘What?’
‘God’s plan is ineffable. It is not given to the likes of us to know wherefore we do what we do. Perhaps it is part of God’s plan that not only did you join the Order and submit yourself to the Almohads, but even that you should be so taken in by them? That, even more, Tristán and I should come to Cordoba to find you? Perhaps in the end it is the imam Al-Hafiz who has been played, who does the work of the Lord in saving you and bringing you to this point.’
‘I do not follow you.’
Arnau leaned over and grasped Calderon by the shoulders. ‘I mean that providence is at work all around us, Brother. That God watches and guides our every move. Against all probability, we crossed hundreds of miles of enemy land safely in order to find you. That has to be the work of God, for no man alone could hope to achieve such a thing. That we found you and that you have recovered in yourself once more? That we have avoided capture by the enemy? All of this is too much for men, but has to be the work of God.’
‘You are saying that God led us here? But why?’
‘Because there is no other way we could have seen what we have seen,’ Arnau breathed, suddenly sure of himself. ‘Because at Toledo an army gathers at the word of the Pope, commanded by kings and bishops and expecting to carve a deep path into Al-Andalus, to recover the lands for Christendom. They cannot know what awaits them. We all knew that their caliph was back, that his gaze had turned west once more, but the gathering force in Toledo cannot know what we have seen. They cannot be prepared.’
Tristán nodded, understanding. ‘Ever since we crossed the Sierra Morena we have seen more and more signs of the Moorish army coming. The accommodation in this city filled by officers and nobles on the move, units of cavalry and infantry all travelling the road to the north-east. And at the one great pass through the mountains new defences thrown up by the caliph’s men. The kings in the north think they will bring a crusade south, rolling across Iberia, but we know now that the Almohad forces are gathering to stop them. And thinking on what we have seen, if this has been going on even half as long as the forces have been gathering in Toledo, the caliph could already have twice as many men in place.’
Arnau nodded. ‘Do you not realise, Calderon, that all we have seen and done has to be the work of God. We are the only Christians who know that the caliph is prepared and that his massive force is awaiting the advance of the kings. We must return to the army, to Toledo, for we can tell them what they face, and that way they can still prepare or alter their plans.’
Calderon still looked uncertain, yet he nodded slowly.
‘We have to get out of Cordoba, and soon,’ Arnau said. ‘I cannot imagine how, but we must. Yusuf and the horses are in a stable near Farraj’s house. Can you find that place? I am now truly lost.’
Calderon frowned. ‘I believe so.’
‘Then lead on, but we must be wary. The soldiers will still be looking for us.’
The knight nodded and retraced the steps they had taken into this place, emerging into the alley once more. For a moment they paused, breath held, and listened. The sounds of angry searching were still audible but at a distance. Calderon turned and led them back in the direction from which they had first come. It was the more sensible choice, Arnau realised, for the guards would be less likely to retrace their steps in their search. They moved carefully but as swiftly as they dared. Arnau recognised several landmarks on the journey as places they had passed at a mad run on the way here, and then, finally, they reached the street with the tower.
Calderon looked out, left and right, and ducked back into the alley. ‘It is busy out there. Too many guards at the gate. Come.’ And with that he turned back, selecting a new path. Arnau and Tristán followed, with little idea where they were going, but twice, where high buildings gave way to low garden walls, he spotted the ramparts and the towers, and realised they were moving parallel with the city walls. He was therefore not entirely surprised when they reached another wider street, ducking out to the left, and in the distance, at the top of the hill, he could just see places he remembered from looking out of Farraj’s window.
The street was not busy, just a few ordinary folk visible here and there, and blessedly none of them in the uniform of city guards. As they emerged from the alley, Calderon slipped the scimitar under his robes, jamming the pommel beneath his armpit and hiding it as effectively as possible. He edged his turban lower and pulled his veil up to cover much of his face, affecting the stoop of an older, more grizzled labourer. Arnau and Tristán followed suit as best they could, becoming nondescript being easy enough for Arnau, but somewhat difficult for Tristán in his armoured shirt and full-face helmet.
Still, as they moved at a measured pace up the hill along the edge of the street, few folk offered them even a passing glance, and those that did displayed no suspicion. With the build-up to war, the people of Cordoba were probably more than used to seeing soldiers in the street, after all. Ahead, the stables came slowly into view, golden light washing out of the wide and low archway into the street. With Calderon leading, they closed on it, and Arnau gestured to the knight carefully, warning him to be careful, with just his eyes reminding the man that trouble might await them inside. Calderon confirmed that he had understood with just a nod.
They rounded the corner and made their way inside, hands ready to grasp concealed weapons. Their worst fears seemed realised when the first thing they saw was a pair of boys, stable-hands clearly, cowering in a corner near the arch with terrified looks. They had fled something within the stables, but being slaves, they dared not leave the building, and so cringed and cowered at the threshold. At the sight of them, Arnau’s fingers wrapped around the hilt of the sword beneath his robe.
The stable’s cluttered entrance opened up into a wide courtyard of stone flags, filled with scattered straw and hay and the stains of horse manure and urine. Stalls led off three sides of the courtyard, the last pierced by three doorways that led inside. There was no sign of anyone, but Arnau recognised the bag in which Yusuf had gathered their supplies lying forlorn near a stall door. He gestured to it, and the other two nodded as they stepped into the courtyard and away from the entrance.
No other sign of life. They held their breath once more as they listened, Arnau peering back out to the gateway. They were now around the corner and not visible from the street, which was a blessing, and he could no longer see the cowering slaves. They could all hear the murmur of low voices echoing from the central doorway, though not what was being said.
The three men, spread out in a line, closed on the door, Arnau on Calderon’s left, the squire on his right. Padding forwards, they pulled in close and passed through the arched doorway: first the knight of Calatrava, then Tristán, and finally Arnau.
The room inside was lit by the low glow of two oil lamps, a golden warm light. Around the edge, the walls were dotted with hooks upon which hung the tack and harnesses, the saddles and bags of the various horses currently in the stables. One wall was given over to shelving, which held more of the same, but it was what occupied the centre of the room that held Arnau’s attention as he stepped inside.
Yusuf lay in a heap on the ground, his clothing soaked and matted with blood. If he was alive, he was barely so, for there was no sound coming from him and no sign of movement. Close by stood the city guardsman, blade out and glistening redly, a look of savage hatred pasted across his face at the sight of the new arrivals. To the other side of the Moor’s body stood Farraj’s second son, his lip twisted into a sneer. A bag lay nearby, battered books spilled from it into sticky blood. Arnau felt the ire rise in him, and his sword was out now, but he was suddenly robbed of a target, for Calderon, snarling furiously, threw himself at the guard, scimitar swinging, while Tristán dived in front of Arnau, making for the young man, who ripped a long, curved knife out from where it had been tucked into his belt and brandished it ready.
Arnau looked left and then right as the two pairs engaged, snarling and clashing, and then dropped to his knees next to Yusuf. He reached down and placed his fingers at the side of their friend’s neck. There was no pulse. With a heavy heart, he turned the Moor over and was further dismayed at the greyness of the man’s flesh. He had bled out almost completely. Arnau realised he had the toe of one of his boots in the deep pool of blood that had come out of his friend’s body.
‘Oh, Yusuf, I am sorry.’
He squeezed the dead Moor’s shoulder and then rose, slowly. He could feel the anger flowing through him, but somehow it was being kept down by the sorrow that also enshrouded him. This was so pointless. Moor killing Moor, all through distrust and hatred, and as always it was the innocent who suffered the most. He watched Calderon for a moment and marvelled at the speed and skill of the man as the knight swung his weapon, danced two steps and, as the guard brought up his own blade, neatly severed the man’s sword hand at the wrist with a swing that should not have had sufficient time to get to where it needed to be. Calderon busied himself angrily with chopping pieces from the howling guard, and Arnau left him to what was clearly a cathartic experience, turning back to Tristán.
The boy the squire was fighting had lost his knife now and sported an angry red line across one cheek that ran continuously with blood, as well as a bloom of crimson on the white cotton sleeve of his right arm. The squire had his opponent at his mercy and lifted his sword for a final chop, but Arnau leapt forwards and grasped Tristán’s wrist at the last moment. The squire turned and flashed him a look that was as confused as it was angry, while Farraj’s son cowered in terror.
Arnau waved Tristán away and, still glowering, the squire stepped back, neatly bypassing the pool of blood beside Yusuf. The young man shivered and backed against the wall, and Arnau followed him, sword in hand.
‘The man you had killed, there,’ he said, pointing to the mess on the floor, ‘was a truly good man, a man your God will treasure, a learned and peaceful man. What you have done is not war or piety or justice. What you have done is simple murder. Your father, I believe, is another such good man, and it is because of the respect I have for him that you are not now lying on the floor bleeding out alongside the man you had butchered. Go home to your father, tell him nothing of all of this. Find your brother and somehow dispose of the two dead guards on the roof that you sent to kill us, and then go and hide inside your home. Treasure your father, because if boys like you grow to be men without changing, then your father’s like in this world are finished. Stay with your family and avoid what is coming, but know this: if I spy you on the battlefield, I will give no quarter.’
The lad continued to cower, wide-eyed and with tears on his cheeks, until Arnau pointed back to the door and snapped, ‘Go!’
He ran.
Arnau sighed and turned to see that Calderon had finished the guard now, and that Tristán was still irritated over being stopped.
‘Sometimes mercy is the quality for which we must strive,’ he reminded the squire.
‘And sometimes it is not,’ added Calderon, rolling the dead guard into the corner with the toe of his boot.
‘You shouldn’t have let him go,’ Tristán grumbled. ‘Leaving an enemy behind you is always foolish, and I do not believe for one moment that he will change. By the time we have drawn ten breaths he will be with the city guard once more, telling them where we are.’
‘Then we must move, and swiftly. Yusuf was going to work out how to get out of the city, but I fear that is no longer of use to us.’
Calderon turned slowly. ‘I think I may know a way.’