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Anima Templi didn’t propose to change the faiths to suit one another, but rather a mutual truce in which people of all religions could exist together, Will hadn’t believed it possible. But in the years since, he had seen with his own eyes how people of any faith could live alongside one another, benefiting from trade and from shared knowledge and experience.
    Now, as he listened to Everard discuss a treatise he and Velasco had written, outlining the similarities among the three faiths, Will wondered if he could ever be so inspiring. Could he move men to give up their lives for a cause he championed, the way the priest had moved his father, the way Everard had moved him? The thought crept into his mind of what they would do when Everard died. He was approaching ninety and was older than anyone Will had known. Often he thought the sheer bloody determination to see the Anima Templi’s aims consummated was what held the old man together; was the sinew and the muscle where the flesh had long since failed. Will’s eyes moved to the seneschal, who was talking about how they could distribute the treatise. The seneschal would most likely be elected as their head when Everard died. And Will knew, when that day came, his place in the circle he had helped Everard rebuild, the circle his father had sacrificed himself for, would hang in the balance.
    The meeting continued for another hour before the seneschal brought it to a close. Will noticed that Everard seemed increasingly impatient and kept looking over at him. As the Brethren began to disperse, agreeing to meet again after the grand master had arrived, the priest caught him on the stairs.
    “I need to speak with you, William.”
    “What is it?”
    “Not here,” replied Everard quietly. “Come to my quarters.”

3
    The Citadel, Cairo 17 JANUARY A.D. 1276
    The beast paced, hunched shoulders flexing, slabs of muscle sliding and stiffening beneath the skin. Every now and then its lips would curl back to reveal rows of tusklike teeth and it would growl, a low rumbling noise that sounded as if it came from deep within the earth, like stones grinding. Its liquid gold eyes, flecked with jet, stared out through the bars of its cage at the milling, chattering crowds as it ranged the confines of its prison, instincts screaming against the incarceration, screaming to spring forward and attack.
    On the other side of the grand hall, Kalawun al-Alfi, commander of the Syrian troops, watched the lion pace. It was magnificent. All power and raw fury. Later, they would tow its cage outside the city walls to a fanfare of trumpets and kettledrums, and set the beast free. For a time it would be beautiful. Then they would hunt it. Today, though, it was all for show. It would be the privilege of the bridegroom to make the killing strike, and Kalawun knew the usual excitement of the hunt would be dulled. He liked to track and pursue his quarry, liked to work and compete for the kill. This would be too easy. The death less noble.
    Kalawun took a sip of sweet sherbet, his eyes moving over the mass of royal officials, governors and soldiers who filled the hall, their voices drowning the softly plucked notes of the zithers and harps being played by the musicians. His gaze drifted over his two sons, as-Salih Ali and al-Ashraf Khalil, both born to his second wife and both dark-haired like himself, with the same strong features. Khalil, at twelve his youngest child, was picking restlessly at the stiff collar of the blue cloak the servants had gently forced him into that morning. Kalawun smiled to himself, then looked away, his gaze caught by a knot of youths partially hidden behind one of the white-and-black marble pillars that flanked the chamber. One of the youths was Baraka Khan, heir to the throne of Egypt and, from today on, his son-in-law. Mildly curious as to what had caught their attention, Kalawun rose onto the steps of the dais behind him, where the sultan’s throne stood, arms capped with the