Deviance

A Close Shave

1191, Acre

I turn to look out over the bay. The day is hazy. The sun refuses to poke its rays through the thick blanket of smoke and cloud. The city seems so gray. So dull.

Acre.

Aak. That was what the ancient Egyptians called this place. Then Akka, later morphing into Akko, by the Canaanites. Now Acre, an abbreviation of St. John d'Acre, the city's true title.

Yes, Acre. What a shithole.

Eight months I have spent here as a Hospitaller guard; the captain of an archer company patrolling the western districts. Eight months of endless rooftop wandering, eagle-eyed and keen for a distraction. Eight months I have spent here, kissing the boot of any knight or commander or king who sits their noble ass upon a seat and points a finger at me. "You," they say, "Luca Bartetolli da Whatever-Godforsaken-Italiano-Town-You-Where-Born-In. You're the captain of the western districts, am I right? Good, yes. I understand that there has been unrest upon the streets; my knights and loyal guards are being made fools of. Where are your men? Why aren't they the eyes in the skies that I have intended for them to be? Why are they not keeping peace with the communes from above? You have bows and you have arrows; I suggest you use them for more than just cosmetic features". And so I would return to the barracks and inform my company of archers that our orders are to assist the knights and soldiers roaming the streets of Acre in anyway possible. If they are brutalising the civilians, then we are there watching, keeping those who would deter them at bay. If they are blackmailing merchants into selling poor materials or wares or rations, then we were they who would 'watch' our comrades' backs.

Yes, there is a brutality to being of the Hospitaller Order. There is simply brutality in the entire Crusader ranks, and Christendom for that matter. Sometimes I wish for it to end. I wish to return to my town of Lecco. Such a lovely place. Of beauty. Of serenity.

I hear footsteps. Sprinting. I begin to turn. Instinct tells me to lurch sideways. Instinct saves my life; I feel searing pain streak across my jaw line. A blur of white flashes across my vision. The figure, the hooded figure. He meant to take my life.

I can see a glinting silver blade strapped to a vambrace upon his left wrist; a thin sheen of blood visible upon the edge. His head has turned but I still do not see his face. I am still stumbling backwards. He knows that he has only injured his target. I crash to the ground. I hear the sound of my bow snapping; it having been slung upon my back. With lightning speed the figure turns and prepares itself to lunge again with the wrist blade drawn and glinting menacingly. My death would have surely occured had not an arrow sped through the air towards him.

But this was obviously no mortal in a hood; he simply snatched the arrow from its trajectory. He then leaps and dispatches a throwing knife in the direction of the arrow's origin. I hear a yelp of pain. It sounded like Renier of Flanders. However, I still came to notice that the figure was still in mid leap, arrow raised in his right hand, now bearing down upon me. I close my eyes. I hear impact. I open my eyes.

Merely ten centimetres away from my face, shrouded in the hood's shadow is a man's face.

'You need not follow me,' he whispers.

And with that he leaps up and sprints off the edge of the roof.

I frantically pull myself up, struggling as he had pierced the arrow through the fabric of my tunic and into an uncovered wooden joist of the roof I am currently lying upon. I snap the shaft and rip the tunic from the arrow's clutch, pushing myself up to my feet. I glance over to see Renier upon the ground, gripping the hilt of the throwing knife with his hand; the blade penetrated deep within his thigh.

'Renier?' I gasp, stumbling towards him.

I've already drawn an arrow from my quiver as I scoop up Renier's bow. I nock the shaft and rush to the roof's edge, scanning the street. The white hood. My eyes strain to identify it with the milling crowd below. Then I see it. It's in the centre of a mob of merchants, gently winding his way through the congestion.

The man turns his head. I draw the arrow back.He is looking at me, but there is no lust for my death now. He has escaped. Mywrist twitches as I steady my aim. He is still gazing at me as he moves further down the street. Suddenly a small mile plays upon his lips, and I make my first mistake. I blink; he is gone.