the-secret-crusade-oliver-bowden

41
Altaïr paid a visit to the church and his heart sank at the sight of the
unrest. Templar guards had formed a cordon and were holding back
marauding citizens, who had been prevented from moving out of the
immediate area of the church and were smashing everything in sight.
Crates and barrels had been splintered and there were scattered fires on
the streets. Streetside stalls had been attacked and dismantled, and the
smell of trampled produce mingled with the smoke. Men had gathered in
groups and were chanting slogans to the beat of drums and the constant
rattle of cymbals, trying to goad the lines of Templar knights, who
watched them carefully from behind makeshift barriers, overturned carts
and stalls. Every now and then small squads of soldiers would make
short, ruthless sorties into the mob, dragging out men who kicked and
yelled, and either clubbing them with the hilts of their swords or
throwing them behind the barrier to be taken to the cells – not that their
raids did anything to frighten the rioters or dampen their temper.
Altaïr watched it all from up high, squatting on the edge of a roof,
shrouded in despair. Something had gone wrong. Something had gone
terribly wrong. And if the Bull decided to make an announcement
naming him as the killer, then things were going to get even worse.
He made his decision. The Bull had to die.
When he arrived back at the safe-house, he looked in vain for