the-secret-crusade-oliver-bowden

‘You turn to them for answers and salvation.’ Jubair took another step
forward, the protester another step back. ‘You rely more upon them than
upon yourselves. This makes you weak and stupid. You trust in words.
Drops of ink. Do you ever stop to think of who put them there? Or why?
No. You simply accept their words without question. And what if those
words speak falsely, as they often do? This is dangerous.’
The scholar looked confused. As though someone was telling him
black was white, night was day. ‘You are wrong,’ he insisted. ‘These texts
offer the gift of knowledge. We need them.’
Jubair darkened. ‘You love your precious writings? You’d do anything
for them?’
‘Yes, yes. Of course.’
Jubair smiled. A cruel smile. ‘Then join them.’
Planting both hands on the scholar’s chest, Jubair shoved him
backwards, hard. For a second the scholar was mid-topple, his eyes wide
open in surprise and his arms flapping madly, as though he hoped to fly
clear of the greedy fire. Then he was claimed by the impetus of the
shove, falling into the flames, writhing on a bed of searing heat. He
screamed and kicked. His robe caught. For a moment he seemed to be
trying to beat out the flames, the sleeves of his tunic already alight. Then
his shrieks stopped. And contained in the smoke rising to Altaïr was the
nauseating scent of roasting human flesh. He covered his nose. In the
courtyard below, the scholars did the same.
Jubair addressed them: ‘Any man who speaks as he did is just as
much a threat. Does any other among you wish to challenge me?’
There was no reply, fearful eyes looked over hands held to noses.
‘Good,’ said Jubair. ‘Your orders are simple enough. Go out into the city.