the-secret-crusade-oliver-bowden

Alexander, the angry mob having been timed to arrive at exactly the
right moment. It was a trap and he had walked straight into it, even
though instinct had told him to exercise caution.
Once again he cursed himself. He looked around. The sandstone walls
loomed over him. A set of steps led to the ramparts but there at the top
stood the spy, grinning from ear to ear, enjoying the show that was
about to start in earnest as the citizens came running towards Altaïr,
their blood up, the need for revenge and justice burning in their eyes.
‘There’s the traitor!’
‘String him up!’
‘You’ll pay for your crimes!’
Altaïr stood his ground. His first impulse was to reach for his sword
but no: he could not kill any citizen. To do so would be to destroy any
faith they had in the Resistance or the Assassins. All he could do was
protest his innocence. But they were not to be reasoned with.
Desperately he searched for the answer.
And found it.
The Apple.
It was as though it was calling to him. Suddenly he was aware of it in
the pack at his back and he brought it out now, holding it so that it was
facing towards the crowd.
He had no idea what he was trying to do with it and was not sure
what would happen. He sensed that the Apple would obey his
commands; that it would understand his intent. But it was just a sense. A
feeling. An instinct.
And it did. It throbbed and glowed in his hands. It gave out a strange
diaphanous light that seemed to settle around the crowd, which was