Knights of the Black and White (72 page)

The other knight was hauling heavy vessels around, pulling and pushing them this way and that to see what was behind them, and St. Clair, recognizing nothing about them, asked what they were. Montbard’s curt response—“ceremonial vessels”—meant nothing to him, but he could see that whatever they were, the vessels were in no way precious. Many of them were made of polished stone, some green and some brown, but the majority appeared to be of bronze, and they all looked clumsy and awkwardly formed, so St. Clair left his companion to whatever he was doing and turned his attention to the other boxes lining the walls.

“More than three quarters of this is jars like those upstairs.”

De Montbard straightened up. “I had noticed that. I think what’s in here is the most valuable material—the rest of it, upstairs in the main hall, is probably less important.”

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“Important? To whom? What do the jars contain, Montbard?”

De Montbard shrugged. “Have you seen me look into any of them? We’ll find out later what they hold, but my guess is that they contain parchment scrolls, tightly bound and sealed inside the jars with wax to protect them against time and dampness. I believe we will find they are the recorded annals of the priests who left them here.”

Disappointed, despite having guessed at something of the sort, St. Clair sighed and looked around him again.

“And what about those things there, the ceremonial vessels, what are they for?”

“They would have been used in temple rites. Some of them are probably unimaginably ancient.”

“But they’re made of stone.”

“Aye, most of them. Stone or bronze.”

“So they are worth nothing.”

“No, not if you wanted to sell them in the souk. Why would you even say that?”

St. Clair grinned wryly. “Because it’s beginning to look as though the vaunted treasure that our Lore speaks of is less than might have been expected. So far, one case of jeweled pieces and one more of gold and silver coins.

Hardly a massive hoard of wealth.”

De Montbard looked him in the eye, smiling. “That is only because your expectations are born of your experience, my young friend. Treasure, to you, should be treasure in today’s meaning. Bear in mind, the churchmen who concealed this trove were not Christian churchmen as we know them. This hoard, as you call it, was buried by the Complicities

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priests of the original Christian Church, the Church that admired poverty and preached the virtues of owning nothing of value.”

“Then what about the gold there, and the jewels?”

“Two boxes so far—as you say—out of all of this collection,” de Montbard answered. “They were probably collected in the temple, as offerings in lieu of sacrifices. We will never know where they came from or how they were gathered, but proportionally they amount to next to nothing. King Baldwin will be happy to accept all of it, in return for allowing us to keep what is left.” He placed one hand flat on the side of the jar nearest to him and patted it gently. “
This
is our Order’s treasure, Stephen, here in these jars. And perhaps …” His voice trailed off and he moved away towards the far end of the gallery, where he stood staring at the blank wall.

“And perhaps what?”

“Does it not strike you as being odd that this wall should be plain and unused, where the other walls are honeycombed with storage cells?”

“Odd? No, I think not. Why should it be odd? This is an end wall.”

De Montbard grimaced. “Wrong, Stephen. Disabuse yourself. There is a secret here, somewhere … Do you see any ankhs carved anywhere?”

“No.” Stephen’s response was emphatic. “And before you ask, I know there are none because I’ve been looking for decorations of any kind, merely out of curiosity.

There are none. Why would you think there might be?”

De Montbard had knelt down on one knee and was 700

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peering at the bottom of the wall. “Because, my youthful friend, there ought to be. There is more in here than meets the eye. I am convinced of that.” He stood up again and turned away from the wall, his gaze traveling all over the chamber. “And yet there is nothing,” he continued, speaking to himself as much as to St. Clair.

“Nothing at all.”

“What else did you expect?”

De Montbard rounded on him then, drawing himself up to his full height, his eyes flashing with sudden impatience. “Trickery, Stephen,” he snapped. “Subterfuge and deceit. This place was built by the people who built the pyramids in Egypt, the finest stonemasons who ever lived.

You saw the workmanship of the opening—the intricacy of that doorway in the steps. Anyone possessing the learning and the craft required to build such a thing would have been more than capable of hiding a simple cavity behind a false wall.” He whipped out his sword and slashed backward, underhand, striking its blade loudly and dramatically against the wall behind him. “And I believe this wall is false.”

His impatience vanished as quickly as it had appeared, and he turned slowly in a full circle, his eyes sweeping the entire room, floor and walls, including the one at his back. “And if that is true, then there must be a key to opening it, just as the ankh was the key to opening the other. So where could it be?”

“The sconces? They are the only things in the room that are not made of solid stone.”

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De Montbard’s eyebrows shot up. “Of course! Try them. You take that side. I’ll handle this one.”

The third sconce from the wall turned in St. Clair’s hand as he tugged at it, and as he snatched at the torch that tumbled from it, they both heard the same subterranean rumble they had heard earlier, when the first door opened, except that this time it was closer and not at all muffled, as the blank end wall sank slowly into the floor.

Stretching across the cavity revealed a heavy curtain of richly embroidered cloth hung from a thick rod, the colors in the pattern still bright in the torchlight. For a long space neither man moved or appeared to breathe, but finally de Montbard took a tentative step forward, stretching his hand out cautiously to touch the cloth. St.

Clair stood spellbound, watching the hanging fabric stir beneath that questing hand until suddenly de Montbard seized the curtain and thrust it violently to one side, letting the light from their torches spill into the darkness beyond.

In spite of himself, St. Clair leapt in fright and uttered a strange, high-pitched sound, then fell to his knees as though he had been smashed with a mace. Beside him, de Montbard reacted similarly, grunting an unintelligible sound, but remaining on his feet despite the shock.

In front of them, awash in the light of the torches they had lit, stretched a chamber as large as the one in which they stood; a long, narrow space of two contrasting colors, black and white. It was a perfect replica of the temples, 702

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the ritual gathering places, they had known at home in Christendom, from the alternating marble tiles of black and white upon the floor, to the draped thrones on either side of where they now stood staring into the chamber’s depths, to the twin pillars between which they had sworn their oaths. They saw and recognized all of it, and yet each of them knew, within the echoing stillness of his own mind, that this place, this temple, had been shut up in darkness for thousands of years, awaiting their arrival.

De Montbard was the first of them to gather his wits—probably, St. Clair found himself thinking to his own surprise, because he had known enough beforehand to suspect what might be here. He stepped into the chamber slowly, holding a flaming torch high above his head, and St. Clair went with him, matching him step for step and willing his pounding heart to slow down.

“We are in the West,” de Montbard said.

“Aye, and facing towards the East,” St. Clair responded, barely aware of repeating the ritual words,

“where all shall be revealed.”

They moved forward together, stepping out resolutely until they were confronted by another curtain, much like the first but narrower. They exchanged glances, and de Montbard reached out yet again and, more cautiously and reverently this time, pulled the curtain aside. Beyond this veil, reflecting the light of their torches in a golden blaze, was something magnificent but unidentifiable: an elongated rectangular shape, solid and substantial and somehow more elaborate—this in defiance of all logic—than any single object St. Clair could ever remember hav-

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ing seen. It took him several more moments to understand that he was looking at an ornate golden chest, and he estimated its size to be about four feet in length by half that in height and width. It was topped with a complex, unrecognizable sculpture, also of gold, and two long, golden poles, held in place by heavy gold rings on each side, were obviously the means of carrying it from place to place. The sheer splendor of it filled St.

Clair’s entire being with an awe that was almost religious, and for long minutes he simply stood and stared at it, aware that de Montbard was kneeling motionless in front of him, like a man in a trance. He had not seen de Montbard pass him or sink to his knees, but he was not surprised by any of that; since the moment the curtain had been pushed aside, St. Clair had been aware of nothing but the chest. Now he felt a need to move. And he willed himself to go forward, one small step at a time, until he was standing beside the kneeling man.

His eyes filled with the golden glory of the thing in front of him, he reached down with one hand to grasp de Montbard’s shoulder.

“What is it?” He heard the timidity and awe in his own voice, but his question seemed to break the trance that gripped the other man, for he reached up and grasped St. Clair’s arm, using it to pull himself upright.

When he was on his feet, he walked backward, pulling St. Clair with him, to the curtain, and he closed it once again, reverently, concealing the golden chest from view.

That done, they continued to back away, looking neither to right nor left, until they reached the foot of the stairway 704

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leading to the Hall above. Only there did they turn, to run up the steps to the darkness of the great chamber, and only then, safely out of the other place, did they stop and turn to stare at each other, wide eyed.

“I did not believe,” Montbard said then, in a shaky voice. “I did not believe it could be true.”

St. Clair was breathing heavily, although he could not have told anyone why. “
What
could be true?” he asked.

“What are you talking about? What
is
that thing?”

Now de Montbard gaped at him. “You don’t know?

You don’t know what we have found?
This
is the Order’s treasure, Stephen, but a real treasure, spoken of in the Lore but never mentioned as being present here. A treasure greater than any of us could ever have suspected. It is the
Ark
, Stephen. We have found the Ark.”

St. Clair stood frowning, uncomprehending, aware only of his companion’s profound awe. “What Ark?”

“
The
Ark, Stephen. The Ark of the Covenant, the repository of God’s covenant with humanity. It was kept in the Holy of Holies, in the temple. It is the symbol of God Himself …”

He turned to face St. Clair, his eyes glowing with conviction. “We have to tell the others, Stephen, now, immediately, for this changes everything. This will change the entire world. Nothing will ever be the same again.

This is the reason for our Order’s formation a thousand years ago.”

St. Clair shook his head as though to clear it. “The Ark of the Covenant? I thought our treasure was no Complicities

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more than written records. But now you are telling me that this thing we have found is the Ark of the
Covenant
? From the Holy of Holies? Then I want to look at it again.” He ran swiftly down the steps, uncaring whether de Montbard came with him or not, but by the time he paused hesitantly in front of the concealing curtain, he was aware of the other man at his shoulder. He reached out slowly and pushed the curtain aside carefully, hearing the curtain rings slowly sliding along the rod, and then he stood, gazing solemnly at the Ark, marking the way the flickering of their torches was reflected in the lines of the golden surface.

“Solid gold,” he said some time later, his voice barely louder than a whisper.

“No, I think not,” de Montbard demurred. “The lid is solid gold. But I believe the chest and the carrying poles are carved from
setim
—an imperishable acacia wood—then coated with a covering of pure gold. Were the entire thing made of solid gold, it would be too heavy to carry.”

“What about the winged things on the top?”

“Cherubim, cherubs, angels—winged spirits of great power. You see how their wings are spread out and touching each other? They form a protective canopy over the lid of the Ark itself. The ancient Jews believed that God, the God of Moses, lives within that space.”

“Not in the Ark itself ?” St. Clair’s face betrayed his surprise.

“No, in the space beneath the wings of the cherubim.”

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“But those are graven images. The Jews were forbidden to have those.”

Montbard shrugged, his eyes still on the carvings.

“Apparently they made an exception, just this once.”

“What is in the chest? Do you know?”

De Montbard’s response was little more than a whisper. “I did not even know the thing really existed. And no one knows what is inside it, Stephen. But I have heard tell that the Ark contains the tablets of stone Moses brought back from the mountain, bearing the Ten Commandments. It is also said to contain Aaron’s famed rod, the one that bore seeds. And some say it also contains manna from Heaven.”

“Can we touch it, open it?”

De Montbard’s hand came up automatically, as if to forestall a blow. “I think not. Remember, the Jews believed their temple was God’s home. He lived in the temple, above this Ark, beneath those very wings. Are you prepared to wager that He is not still there? I would not dare touch that device before doing a great deal of further study. But you may, if you wish, after I am gone from here.”