the-secret-crusade-oliver-bowden

Altaïr stole a glance from beneath his cowl. The three men had gone
pale. One scuffed at the dirt with his sandal; the other two drifted away,
as though suddenly remembering an important task at hand. Their
meeting was at an end.
The orator. One of Tamir’s men, perhaps. Evidently the blackmarketeer
ruled the souk with a firm hand. Altaïr drifted over as the
man began to speak, drumming up an audience.
‘None knows Tamir better than I,’ he announced loudly. ‘Come close.
Hear the tale I have to tell. Of a merchant prince without peer …’
Just the tale Altaïr wanted to hear. He drifted closer, able to play the
part of an interested observer. The market swirled around him.
‘It was just before Hattin,’ continued the speaker. ‘The Saracens were
low on food, and in desperate need of resupply. But there was no relief
in sight. Tamir drove a caravan in those days between Damascus and
Jerusalem. But recent business had been poor. It seemed there were
none in Jerusalem who wanted what he had: fruits and vegetables from
nearby farms. And so Tamir left, riding north and wondering what
would become of his supplies. Soon they would surely spoil. That should
have been the end of this tale and the poor man’s life … But Fate
intended otherwise.
‘As Tamir drove his caravan north, he came across the Saracen leader
and his starving men. Most fortunate for them both – each having
something the other wanted.
‘So Tamir gave the man his food. And when the battle was finished,
the Saracen leader saw to it that the merchant was repaid a thousand
times.
‘Some say, were it not for Tamir, Salah Al’din’s men would have