the-secret-crusade-oliver-bowden

De Naplouse smiled indulgently. ‘I’ve been called worse.’ He moved
past a wooden cage that enclosed another bed, peering in at the … no,
not a patient, Altaïr realized. These poor wretches were subjects. They
were experiments. Again he fought to control his anger. He glanced
around. Most of the guards had congregated at the other end of the
ward. Just as in the courtyard, several disoriented patients were
stumbling about, and he saw the same cluster of monks, who seemed to
hang on de Naplouse’s every utterance while remaining at a respectful
distance, talking among themselves as the Grand Master made his
rounds.
If he was going to do it – and he was going to do it – then it had to be
soon.
But then de Naplouse moved over to another bed, smiling at the man
who lay there. ‘They say you can walk now,’ he said kindly. ‘Impressive.’
The man looked confused. ‘Been … so long. Almost forgot … how.’
De Naplouse looked pleased – genuinely pleased. Beaming, he said,
‘That’s wonderful.’
‘I don’t … understand. Why did you help me?’
‘Because no one else would,’ answered de Naplouse, moving on.
‘I owe you my life,’ said the man in the next bed. ‘I am yours to
command. Thank you. Thank you for freeing me.’
‘Thank you for letting me,’ replied de Naplouse.
Altaïr faltered a moment. Was he wrong? Was de Naplouse not a
monster? Then just as quickly he cast his doubts away, thinking instead
of the crazy man’s shrieks of agony as they had snapped his legs, the
lifeless patients roaming the hospital. If there were indeed examples of
healing here, then surely they were outnumbered by the acts of