the-secret-crusade-oliver-bowden

Altaïr had reached his position without being spotted. He was close
enough now to look down on de Montferrat’s balding head and see the
flecks of spittle fly from his mouth as he shouted at his men. If one of
those below was to look up for any reason he might be spotted, but all
attention was now on the area in front of de Montferrat’s table, where
the soldiers had been dragged before him, frightened and shame-faced.
‘If I must make examples of some of you to ensure obedience,’
announced de Montferrat, ‘so be it,’ and he turned to the captives. ‘The
two of you stand accused of whoring and drinking while on duty. What
say you to these charges?
Through wet mouths they mumbled pleas and apologies.
De Montferrat scowled at them. Then, with a wave of his hand, he
ordered their execution.
Their throats were cut and they spent their last moments watching
their own blood gush on to the stone of the courtyard. De Montferrat
gazed at them, gurgling and flapping on the ground, like dying fish.
‘Disregard for duty is infectious,’ he said, almost sadly. ‘It shall be rooted
out and destroyed. In this way, we may prevent its spread. Am I
understood?’
‘Yes, my lord,’ came the murmured reply.
‘Good, good,’ he said. ‘Return to your duties, then, filled with a new
sense of purpose. Stay strong, stay focused – and we will triumph. Falter,
and you will join these men. Be sure of it. Dismissed.’
He waved them out of his sight, which cheered Altaïr. Out of sight
was where he wanted the men, too. He watched as de Montferrat began
sifting through papers on the table, hissing with exasperation, his illtemper
clearly not exhausted. Altaïr crept forward, as close as he dared