the-secret-crusade-oliver-bowden

guards to be allowed inside. Others whose minds had gone wandered
among the throng, casting their arms into the air, shouting gibberish and
obscenities.
And there – Altair smiled to see them – was a group of scholars. They
were moving through the crowd as if it wasn’t there, heedless of the
suffering and tumult around them. They seemed to be going in the
direction of the hospital. Taking advantage of the disorder, Altaïr
lowered himself into the street unnoticed, joined the ranks of the
scholars and lowered his head to concentrate his gaze on his shuffling
feet. Every now and then he risked a surreptitious glance to check their
bearings and, as he’d hoped, they were heading towards the hospital
where the guards stood aside, admitting them to the courtyard.
Altaïr wrinkled his nose. Where the street had held the scent of the
city, of baking and perfumes and spices, in here was the stench of
suffering, of death and human waste. From somewhere – through a set of
closed doors – there came a series of pained cries, then low moaning.
That would be the main hospital, he thought. He was proved correct
when, suddenly, the doors were flung open and a patient careered madly
into the courtyard.
‘No! Help! Help me!’ he screamed. His face was contorted with fear,
his eyes wide. ‘Help me, please! You must help me!’
After him came a guard. He had a lazy eye, as though the muscles in
his eyelid had once been cut. He ran after the escaping crazy man,
catching him. Then, joined by another guard, he began punching and
kicking him until the crazy man was subdued and on his knees.
Altaïr watched. He felt his jaw tighten and his fists clench as the
guards beat the man, other patients moving forward to get an improved