the-secret-crusade-oliver-bowden

Could he better them all in that time? Ten or so loyal Saracens? The
Altaïr who had attacked Robert de Sable on the Temple Mount would
have had no doubts at all. Now, though, he was more wary. And he
knew that to attempt the killing immediately was madness. A plan
doomed to failure.
Just as he’d made up his mind to wait, the four prisoners were led on
to the scaffold and to the stakes where the guards began binding them in
place. At one end there was a woman, dirty-faced and weeping. Beside
her stood two men, dressed in rags. And finally the Assassin, his head
lolling, beaten, obviously. The crowd hissed its displeasure
‘People of Jerusalem, hear me well,’ shouted Majd Addin, his voice
silencing the crowd, which had become excited at the arrival of the
prisoners. ‘I stand here today to deliver a warning.’ He paused. ‘There
are malcontents among you. They sow the seeds of discontent, hoping to
lead you astray.’
The crowd murmured, seething around Altaïr.
Addin continued: ‘Tell me, is this what you desire? To be mired in
deceit and sin? To live your lives in fear?’
‘We do not,’ screamed a spectator from behind Altaïr. But Altaïr’s
attention was fixed on the Assassin, a fellow member of the Order. As he
watched, a bloody string of saliva dripped from the man’s mouth to the
wood. He tried to raise his head and Altaïr caught a glimpse of his face.
Ripe purple bruises. Then his head lolled once more.
Majd Addin grinned a crooked grin. His was a face not used to
smiling. ‘So you wish to take action?’ he asked agreeably.
The crowd roared its approval. They were here to see blood; they
knew the regent would not leave their thirst unquenched.