the-secret-crusade-oliver-bowden

‘It was a single dinar,’ the accused appealed, imploring the crowd for
mercy, ‘found on the ground. He speaks as though I trespassed, as
though I ripped it from the hands of another.’
But the throng was not in a merciful frame of mind. There were calls
for his blood, the spectators in a frenzy now.
‘Today a dinar,’ shrieked Addin, ‘tomorrow a horse. The next day,
another man’s life. The object itself is not of consequence. What matters
is that you took what did not belong to you. Were I to allow such
behaviour, then others would believe it their right to take as well. Where
would it end?’
He moved in front of the thief, whose final pleas were cut short as
Addin buried the blade in his belly.
Now he would turn his attention to the Assassin. Altaïr had to act
fast. He had just moments. Lowering his head, he began to shoulder his
way through the crowd, careful not to appear as though he had any
particular intention. Simply that he wanted to get as close to the front of
the crowd as possible. By now, Majd Addin had reached the Assassin and
sauntered up to him, grabbed his hair and raised his head to show the
crowd.
‘This man spreads vicious lies and propaganda,’ he roared
venomously. ‘He has only murder on his mind. He poisons our thoughts
as he poisons his blade. Turns brother against brother. Father against
son. More dangerous than any enemy we face. He is Assassin.’
He was rewarded with the crowd’s collective intake of breath. Altaïr
had reached the steps now. Around him the throng seethed, excitable
spectators screaming for the killing blow.
‘Destroy the unbeliever!’