Many times in recent years he had tried to imagine the end of his time as a Templar. But even in his wildest speculations he had never come close to the situation in which he now found himself.
Then he collected himself and with a steady hand quickly printed the text he knew well, since during his time as Jerusalem’s Master he had composed numerous similar letters. He also added a sentence that occasionally appeared in such documents: that this knight, who was now leaving with great honor his service in God’s Holy Army, the Order of the Knights Templar, was free to return to his previous life, yet whenever he found it suitable, he had the right to wear his Knights Templar garments displaying the rank he held at the time he left the Order.
He read through the text and recalled that Gérard de Ridefort did not know Latin, so he wrote down a translation into Frankish.
There was still room left on the page, and he couldn’t resist the small pleasure of writing out the text a third time for the Grand Master, who was barely literate, this time in Arabic.
He sat for a moment, waving the document to dry the ink. He cast a glance outside at the sun, and saw that there were at least two hours left until the evening prayers for both Muslims and Christians. Just then Fahkr returned, glanced at the document, and picked it up with a laugh when he saw that there was an Arabic translation; he swiftly read through it and then picked up the quill pen to write in the vowel marks more clearly. It was really not a bad joke on His Holiness the Grand Master, he said with a smile as he took Arn by the arm and led him outside to the city once again. They had to walk only a few blocks before they came to the building where the most valuable Christian prisoners were held. It was larger and more expensively decorated than Saladin’s own palace.
But there were guards here, of course, and an occasional locked door, even though it was difficult to see what an escaping Grand Master would do once he was on the streets of Damascus. Fahkr explained all the precautions as no more than an empty gesture, occasioned by the fact that the Grand Master and King Guy had both explained that an oath to unbelievers was not valid.
King Guy and Grand Master Gérard de Ridefort were locked up together in two magnificently furnished halls with furniture in the Christian style. They were sitting at a little carved Arabic table playing chess when Fahkr and Arn came in and the doors were demonstratively locked behind them.
Arn greeted them both without exaggerated courtliness and pointed out that it was against the Rule for Templar knights to play chess, but that he didn’t intend to bother them for long. There was just a document he needed signed, and he handed it over with a bow and flourish to Gérard de Ridefort. Unexpectedly, the Grand Master seemed more abashed than angered by Arn’s less than submissive manner of speech.
The Grand Master pretended to read the document and tried to frown as if he were pondering the contents. Then, as expected, he asked Arn what was the intention of this, and formulated the question so that the answer might explain the text, which he could not read at all. Arn carefully retrieved the parchment page, read the text aloud in Frankish, and then quickly explained that everything was in order since he had been sworn for only a specified time into the Order of the Knights Templar, which was not a rare occurrence.
Gérard de Ridefort now turned angry at last, muttering that he had absolutely no intention of signing such a document, and if the former Jerusalem’s Master had plans to desert, then it was a matter between him and his conscience. He waved his hand as if to remove Arn from his sight and stared hard at the chessboard, pretending to contemplate his next move. King Guy said nothing, and merely looked in astonishment from the Grand Master in his Templar attire to Arn in his Saracen clothing.
Fahkr, who understood enough of the situation, went over to the door and knocked lightly on it. It was opened at once, and he merely whispered a few words before the door was again locked.
Then he went over to Arn and said in a low voice, as if he unconsciously believed that the other two men in the room might understand, that this would only take a few moments, but that it would go more smoothly with a different interpreter than Arn.
On his way out Arn met a Syrian, who judging by his clothing was a merchant, not a military man.
He didn’t have to wait long outside the doors before Fahkr came out holding up the document, signed and stamped with the Grand Master’s seal. He handed over Arn’s release document with outstretched hand and a deep bow.
“What did you say to make him change his mind so fast?” Arn wondered as they made their way back toward the sultan’s palace, where the crush had now increased with all the throngs on their way to evening prayers.
“Oh, nothing very serious,” replied Fahkr, as if discussing a mere trifle. “Only that Saladin would appreciate a favor to a Templar knight whom he esteemed greatly. And that Saladin might perhaps be upset if this small favor could not be done for him, something like that.”
Arn could imagine a great number of ways to formulate such a request, but he had a feeling that Fahkr may have expressed himself a bit more harshly than he wanted to admit.
Just before evening prayers Saladin returned to Damascus at the head of one of his armies. He was cheered by people in the streets all the way to the great mosque, for now more than ever he deserved his title: al-Malik al-Nasir, the victorious king.
Ten thousand men and women prayed with him as the sun went down; there were so many that they filled the gigantic mosque as well as large parts of the courtyard outside.
After the prayers Saladin rode slowly and all alone through the crowds of people to his palace. To all his emirs and others who were waiting for him with a thousand missives, he had said that on this first evening in Damascus he wanted to be alone with his son and his brother; he had been in the field for two months now and had never had a moment to himself. No one found it hard to submit to those orders.
As Saladin, in a radiant mood, made his way through the palace, greeting and embracing all his friends and relatives, he seemed set on leaving all the affairs of state behind on this evening. And so he was all the more surprised, and for a moment even seemed a bit disturbed, to find himself suddenly eye to eye with Arn.
“The vanquished salutes you, victorious king,” Arn greeted him solemnly, and the happy murmur around them subsided at once. Saladin paused before he suddenly seemed to change his mind. He took two quick steps forward and embraced Arn and kissed him on both cheeks, which sent a ripple of whispers through the gathering.
“I greet you, Templar knight. It is perhaps you more than anyone else who has afforded me the victory,” Saladin replied, motioning for Arn to walk beside him to the banquet table.
Soon big platters were brought in with roast pigeons and quail, and tall carafes of gold and silver misted with ice-cold water.
Next to Saladin and Arn sat Saladin’s son al Afdal, a slender young man with an intense gaze and sparse beard. He waited a long time before he bade leave to ask Arn about something.
He’d had the command of seven thousand horsemen at Cresson’s springs the year before, and some of his emirs had said that Al Ghouti was the one who carried the flag of the Knights Templar. Was that true?
Arn was now reminded of the doomed attack which Gérard de Ridefort had forced them to make, a hundred forty knights against seven thousand, and of the ignominious flight in which he was forced to take part. He looked clearly embarrassed when he confirmed that he had indeed been there, and that it was he who carried the flag away in flight.