Goodnight my fellow brothers and sisters.
Tonight I looked up a little bit of history and the fall of Acre.
Blessings to you all and enjoy the read as I did.
Temple’s Last Breath – Acre, 1291
Acre is burning. The flames licked the walls, and the roar of the siege echoed through every stone. The city, the last crusader stronghold in the Holy Land, was drowning in blood and smoke. From the Gate of San Antonio, the templar rows barely resisted the onslaught of the rompers.
In the midst of the... moreGoodnight my fellow brothers and sisters.
Tonight I looked up a little bit of history and the fall of Acre.
Blessings to you all and enjoy the read as I did.
Temple’s Last Breath – Acre, 1291
Acre is burning. The flames licked the walls, and the roar of the siege echoed through every stone. The city, the last crusader stronghold in the Holy Land, was drowning in blood and smoke. From the Gate of San Antonio, the templar rows barely resisted the onslaught of the rompers.
In the midst of the collapse, a white cloak rider galloped among the fighters. It was Guillaume de Beaujeu, Grandmaster of the Temple, sword in hand, face hardened by battle. But suddenly, a bullet — an arrow, possibly poisoned and treacherous — embedded in its right side, penetrating under the mesh sheath.
The impact was brutal. Guillaume hesitated in his chair, and fell. He turned half, moving a few meters away from the fight while his hand pressed the wound. Some of his gentlemen, unaware of the gravity of what had happened, saw him withdraw.
- The Master is on the run! —he cried out one in disbelief.
—He's abandoning us! — shouted another, with a crispy face.
It was then when Beaujeu stopped, turned towards them and, without eloquent words, opened his blood-stained cloak. With a serene but firm voice, he showed the mortal wound and uttered the words that would be etched in templar memory:
—I'm not running away; I'm dead. Here's the shot.
(“I'm not running away; I'm dead. Here's the hit. ”)
Their brothers' faces were transformed. Where there was doubt, there was shame. Where there was anger, there was pain.
Guillaume was quickly led to a safer place, perhaps an inner tower or the fortified templar house, still defended by his men. There, with blood escaping helplessly from his side, he expired shortly after, without returning to combat.
His death was not immediate, but it was the beginning of the end. Acre's defense collapsed in a matter of hours. The city fell, and with it the crossed dream.
And so, not with shouts, but with silent dignity, the last Grand Master who defended Holy Land fell like a true warrior of the Temple: without giving up, without retreating, and without lying to his men, just saying:
"Non timeo mortem, quia fidem porto in corde."
("I'm not afraid of death, because I carry faith in my heart." "
