Standard of Honour. Jack Whyte
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compassionate, Sabit?” The hard tone of al-Farouch’s swift retort was sufficient to make Sabit remove the knife from Sinclair’s neck.
“No, not so, Amir. I was but—”
“You were but challenging my judgment, I believe.”
“Never, Amir.” Sabit knelt upright, swinging to face his superior. “I merely thought—”
“That is strange, Sabit. Thought is something I have never known in you before. I require no thought from you, merely obedience and loyalty. Are we in accord on that?”
“As you say, Amir.” Sinclair did not have to see the man to know he was crestfallen.
“Excellent. Now offer thanks to Allah for His blessings and my good humor, then take the ferenghi outside and hold him where he cannot overhear us talking. He professes not to understand our speech, but I think we might have much to discuss here and it makes sense to be cautious.”
“Allahu Akbar. My obedience is yours, as always.”
As the man called Sabit lurched to his feet, al-Farouch changed languages, from Arabic to his rolling, heavily accented French.
“You should have ridden off last night, Lach-Lann, as we discussed, for now you are a prisoner. My lieutenant Sabit is a good man, but a man of firm, sometimes misguided ideals. He was set to cut your throat.”
“I could tell.” Sinclair fought to keep his voice calm. “I thank you for my life.” He hesitated. “I heard him call you Amir. Did you not say your name is Ibn?”
“It is their name for me,” the other man said. “I am emir to them, you understand? We live far from other speakers of our tongue. The Bedouin say ‘Emir,’ but where we live, we say it differently, ‘Amir.’ Now go with Sabit. He will look after you while I confer with my officers, for my men are here in strength. They will bring me up to date on all that has happened within the past week. In the meantime, Sabit will take you apart from us and hold you safe until I decide what must be done with you. Go with him, and give thanks to Allah that I was able to stay his hand before he could harm you. You will be safe in his hands now.”
“I thank you again. Clearly you are a man of more authority than I had suspected. I will go with your man.”
“Go now then. Sabit will assist you. Help him up, Sabit.”
The last sentence was in Arabic, and as Sabit moved to obey, Sinclair was able to discern his face and shape in the strengthening light. He was a huge man, with the twin clefts of a deep scowl between bushy eyebrows, and a fiercely hooked and bony nose. He wore a spiked helmet with a folded white kufiya draped loosely over it, its ends thrown over opposite shoulders so that the folds covered the lower half of his face. His right eye was covered with a black patch, from which a livid scar stretched down, plainly visible even in the wan light, to disappear beneath the layers of cloth that obscured his mouth and chin, and the fingers of his left hand caressed the hilt of the long, curving sword that hung by his side. He extended his other hand, glowering fiercely, and Sinclair used it to pull himself up to his feet, where he stood swaying for a few moments before stepping towards the mouth of the fold in the cliff. The Saracen fell into step behind him, one warning hand on his shoulder.
A silence fell as Sinclair stepped out from the shade into the open, and he looked about him curiously. More than a hundred men, most of them still mounted, were staring at him in the dawn’s light. Not a man of them spoke or moved as Sabit prodded Sinclair forward with a gentle finger, but every eye in the throng followed the Frank as he proceeded some thirty paces along the base of the cliff until his escort’s hand closed over his shoulder again.
The big man pointed at the ground, waving downward flat-palmed with his other hand in an unmistakable gesture. Sinclair sat down without further prompting, leaning his back against the rock face, and watched as two of al-Farouch’s men, their hands linked to form a chair, carried him out from the niche that had sheltered him. They stopped, facing their comrades, who roared out their greetings to their chief in a manner that left no doubt of the affection and approval they held for him. Sinclair was impressed but not really surprised by their welcome, based on his own impressions about al-Farouch’s character and temperament. He was surprised, however, when the mass of mounted men parted to reveal a matched pair of white horses harnessed to a vehicle of a kind that he recognized but had never before seen. It was a battle chariot, a light, two-wheeled conveyance that was little more than a basket-sided platform mounted on high, slender wheels, but he saw at a glance that it had been equipped with a seat that would permit its rider to sit in comfort and control the vehicle despite his broken leg. A richly dressed warrior led the horses forward, and al-Farouch’s attendants raised him up carefully to where he could reach out and haul himself into the seat. He raised his hand and waved to his men, drawing a renewed burst of cheering.
Moments later he issued a quiet command and the assembly broke up. Most of the men dismounted and formed into casual groups, while others, evidently officers of one description or another, followed al-Farouch’s chariot as he led them away from the gathering to where they could talk without being overheard. Sinclair abandoned any thought of attempting to listen after that, for even had they been shouting at each other, hearing what they said would have been impossible from where he sat. Instead, he settled himself to wait in as much comfort as he could, aware of the formidable and watchful Sabit looming above him, and of the sun’s gathering strength on his face. Careful to show no emotion, he covered his face with the folds of the kufiya the big man had tossed to him moments earlier, crossed his arms on his chest, and bent his head as though to sleep.
He was startled when Sabit prodded him with his foot, for he had not expected to fall asleep, but when he looked up wide eyed he saw the other reaching for him again with his right hand. He took it and hauled himself up to his feet, then adjusted the sling on his arm and followed the big man. Al-Farouch sat waiting for him in his chariot, and he was aware as he went that he was being scrutinized by every man there.
Al-Farouch nodded solemnly to him, then stroked the point of his beard between thumb and forefinger. He spoke in French.
“Well, Lach-Lann, it appears that you were right to be concerned about where you might run to, and I am impressed with the accuracy of your predictions. Tiberias surrendered to the Sultan as soon as they heard of our victory at Hattin. He was merciful, as always, and permitted the defenders to depart unharmed. Suffiriyya and Nazareth also fell to us, as you foretold, and the Sultan, may Allah continue to shed His light upon him, has besieged Jerusalem and is expected to win back the city and drive its defenders into the sea before we can arrive there. Palestine, your Latin Kingdom, is ours again, free of the Frankish yoke, and the other territories that you call Antioch, Edessa, and Tripoli will soon be equally blessed. Our lands will be united under Allah from northern Syria to Egypt.”
Sinclair stood wooden faced as this was all recited to him, then nodded his head.
“What of the battle, my lord? Know you the extent of our casualties?”
“I do.” There was no trace of raillery or gloating in al-Farouch’s demeanor. “The Turcomer infantry attached to your knights was destroyed, without survivors. Of your original twelve hundred knights, more than a thousand died. The Crow of Kerak, the foul beast called de Chatillon, is dead, personally cut down by Saladin in fulfillment of his oath to do so.” Al-Farouch paused, and a new expression, something unidentifiable, sharpened his gaze. Sinclair braced himself for whatever might come next, but it was not at all what he expected to hear.
“Also dead, I am told, at the express command of the Sultan, are more than one hundred Temple Knights, taken in the battle and executed later.”
“They executed prisoners? I do not believe it. Saladin’s name would never recover from such an atrocity.”
Al-Farouch’s right eyebrow twitched. “Saladin’s name? You mean his reputation among the Franks? The Sultan’s name is revered by the followers of Allah, by the warriors of Islam. It matters nothing, to any of the Faithful, what the infidels might have to say about his name or his reputation. This is the man who has sworn the holiest of oaths to sweep Islam