Authors: Stephen R. Lawhead
The Black Rood (16 page)
“But it was nothing!” Bezu protested. “He was cold and hungry. I gave him a little food and a place to sleep. He worked. Indeed, I would he had stayed on. He was a good worker, that one, and in those daysâwhen the Great Pilgrimage was just beginningâI had need of a young man or two to help me.”
Bezu grinned, and shook his head again, as if he had been struck a blow which made him dizzy with delight. “My friends!” he announced suddenly. “Come, and dine with me tonight. We will have a feast in celebration of this glad meeting. And you will tell me what has become of my hireling since I last laid eyes on him. Come! My house is not far.”
“Nothing would please me more than to break bread with you, Bezu,” I replied, “but we are with two others who are waiting for us at the harbor.” I quickly explained how we were even now hastening away to Marseilles to meet the Templar fleet.
“The Templars,” said Bezu. “But some of them were here, you know. What have you to do with the Soldiers of Christ?”
Not wishing to prolong the tale, I told him we were simply hoping to receive passage to the Holy Land aboard one of their ships. “They are sailing from Marseilles in the next
day or so. We must hurry if we are to join them before they leave.”
The old armorer nodded thoughtfully, then rubbed his hands and declared, “But this is most fortuitousâ¦most fortuitous, indeed. You can help me with a problem which has vexed me greatly.”
“We would be only too glad to aid you in any way we canâ” I replied, adding, “provided, of course, we can still make it to Marseilles before the fleet sails.”
“But that is the very thing,” Bezu told me. “You see, the Templars were here, as I said, only a day or two ago. They came to collect the weapons bespoken the previous year. I have two other smithies nowâdid you know? We are kept busy morning to night all the year round. The anvil is never silent.
“Well,” he said, laying his hard hand on my arm confidentially, “they asked me to make some daggers for themâspecial knives, these are, for the commanders. Come, I will show you.”
He turned and led us into a tiny room carved out of the stone of the old Roman wall. Pointing to a bright red rug which concealed an object in the middle of the floor, he directed Padraig to throw aside the covering. The monk bent down and drew off the rug to reveal a small wooden casket bound in iron. “Open it,” he said. “It is not locked.”
Padraig opened the box to reveal red silk cloth on which rested six exquisite daggers with blades of inlaid silver, and handles of gold; each had the distinctive Templar cross on the end of the pommel, with a small ruby at the center.
“They are superb knives,” I said. “I have never seen any to match them.”
The armorer reached into the box, took up one of the daggers. “Yes, they are very good,” he said, feeling the heft and balance in his hand before passing it to me. “I do not do the gold work. I have a friend of many yearsâa craftsman without equalâa goldsmith; he does the gold and silver, and also engraving. He, like myself, is run off his feet by the demand for his services. He has not been well this year and the knives were not ready when the Templars came.” He smiled
quickly. “I told them I would bring them if they arrived before the fleet sailed. But you are going to Marseilles. If you would consent to deliver the knives for me, it would save me a great deal of trouble. What do you say?”
Padraig glanced at me and nodded, urging me to accept the commission. “Very well,” I replied, “we would be honored to serve you in this way. Leave it to us, and worry no more about it.”
“Ah,” sighed the armorer contentedly, “I feel better already. I thank you. Now!” he declared, rubbing his hands together. “To supper! Come with me, and do not worry about your friends. I will send one of my boys to the harbor to fetch them along so they can join us.”
Needless to say, we accepted his invitation with unseemly eagerness, and we all enjoyed a sumptuous meal at Bezu's grand house on the hill overlooking the town and harbor beyond. Night was far gone when we finally pushed away from the table, made our farewells, and returned to the boat; we were therefore late rising the next morning. While we were getting ready to cast off, who should appear but our generous host himself, carrying a large cloth bag.
“Ah! I hoped I would find you here. There was so much left over from last night's feast, I thought you might like to have some of it on your journey,” he said, passing the sack to Sarn, who promptly stowed it in the boat. “I also brought you this.” He pulled a small purse from beneath his belt and tossed it to me. “For delivering the knives. I would have had to hire someone anyway, so you might as well have it.”
I was on the point of refusing to accept his money, when Padraig climbed out of the boat and embraced the old man. “Bless you, my friend,” he said. “May Heaven's rich light guide you always, and may the Lord of Hosts greet you when you enter his kingdom.” He then made a little bow of respect.
Bezu, discomfited by this unexpected ritual, blushed bright red and, not knowing what to say or do in response, simply pretended that it was a normal occurrence and smiled. We made our farewells then and cast off; the ar
morer stood on the quayside, watching us away. I waved to him and called a last farewell, and then turned my face toward Marseilles, and hoped we were not already too late.
C
AITRÃONA, DEAREST HEART
of my heart, we must take courage. The day of dread is near. The caliph has returned.
I have been told that he will soon summon me. Wazim Kadi, my amiable Saracen jailer, informs me that I am to prepare myself. Tomorrow, or the day after, I will be called before Caliph al-Hafiz to answer for my crimes.
As I have said before, and say again, the outcome is certain. Death, however, holds no fear for me. My only regret is that I will not see you again, my soul. I had hoped to have time enough to finish this, my final testament; yet it seems that, in his wisdom, our Merciful Redeemer has ordained otherwise.
I search through the pages I have written, and my spirit grieves. There is so much more that I wanted to say to you. I despair to think what you will make of this fragmentary and insubstantial tale. Time was against me from the beginning, I fear, so perhaps I was fortunate to have written even the little you hold in your hands.
Well, no doubt, all is as it was meant to be.
I can but give you what I have left, and that is my everlasting love, and this crude, unfinished document which, if nothing else, will at least bear witness that in my last hours upon this earth, I was thinking of you, my beloved daughter.
Wazim assures me that my letter will be treated with all
respect. I have the promise of the caliph that it will find its way to you. I trust in this. The word of the caliph is absolute. Nevertheless, I have instructed faithful Wazim that if any difficulty should arise, the papyri should be given to the Templars who, one way or another, will see that you receive it. Thus, I can rest in peace, assured that you will hear from your loving father againâalbeit, from beyond the grave, as it were. For, by the time you receive this, I will be long dead.
So, here, I must leave it. A tale unfinished, but for time. I have prepared a second letter for my father and mother. If, by chance, it fails to arrive with this one, please tell your grandfather Murdo that he was right about everything: the Holy Land is a realm of demons, and only madmen think to conquer it.
Still, I had to try.
Farewell, my love, my light. I pray our Gracious King to send bright angels to surround you all the days of your life. Farewellâ¦
In the days and weeks following that fateful meeting of the Inner Circle, I determined to educate myself in the crucial events taking place in the world around me. Inspired, not to say alarmed, by the vital importance of the work now before us, I endeavored to emulate the example of the others by learning all I could of the current social and political climate of Europe and the West, thinking a firm grasp on contemporary affairs would aid me in the coming battle. The Seven had other plans for me, however, as I was to discover one rainy afternoon in early spring.
A wintry gale was blowing cold off the North Sea, lashing the windows and making the lights flutter above my desk. It was nearing closing time, and I was not looking forward to braving the elements on my way home for the evening. I heard footsteps outside my office, shortly accompanied by a rapid knock. “Enter,” I called, glancing up as the door opened.
To my surprise, it was Pemberton, and with him, Zaccaria. I jumped to my feet at once, for never had a single member of the Brotherhood darkened my doorâand now there were two. “Gentlemen, welcome. Come in,” I said, rushing forth to relieve them of their dripping coats and hats. “It is beastly out there. Come in, both of you, and sit by the fire. We'll have you dried out in no time.”
“Thank you, Gordon,” said Pemberton genially. “I hope you will forgive this intrusion.”
“Intrusion? Not at all,” I replied, pushing chairs toward the fireplace where the coals were glowing red and warm in the grate. “It is, in fact, a welcome break in the monotony that passes for studious industry in a legal firm.”
“You are most kind,” said Zaccaria, settling into the offered chair with a sigh. He patted his face with a folded handkerchief to dry it.
I pulled my own chair from behind the desk and, feeling slightly awkward playing the host, I said, “May I offer you something to chase the chillâa tot of brandy, perhaps?”
“Splendid,” said Pemberton, rubbing his hands to warm them. “Just the thing.”
I stepped to the tray of decanters on the sideboard and poured three small snifters of the firm's tolerable brandy, and passed them to my visitors. “Slà inte!” Pemberton said, raising his glass. We sipped our drinks then, and I took my seat and waited for them to reveal the reason for their visit.
“No doubt you will recall that last time we met mention was made of, shall we say, the
imperatives
before us,” Pemberton said, settling his lean form back in his chair. He cradled the bulbous glass in his long fingers as he swirled the aromatic amber liquid.
“Indeed, yes,” I replied. The dire warnings voiced in that meeting had scarcely been absent from my thoughts.
“You were a classicist at university, I believe?” said Zaccaria suddenly. A small, energetic man of swarthy complexion and sturdy build, he burns with a lively, barely contained intensity many people mistake for giddiness.
“Why, yes,” I allowed, somewhat cautiously, uncertain of the pertinence of this fact, “now that you mention it, I was. It's been so long since anyone accused me of that, I had all but forgotten.”
“History, too, isn't that correct?”
“I hope you haven't spent too much effort rooting around in the hall of records. I'm afraid my academic career does not make scintillating reading.”
Zaccaria smiled, but did not disagree. “At least, you showed a distinct affinity for the ancients rarely seen these days. For that, I commend you.”
“You will have studied Latin,” Pemberton said. “Did you enjoy it?”
“After a fashion. My tutor was a dry old stick, prone to bouts of absentmindedness. He should not shoulder all the blame, however; had I applied myself with a modicum of effort, I might have made a better job of it. Still, Virgil, Cicero, and Julius Caesar have stood by me through thick and thin. Also, being in the legal profession, I have the chance to brush up the odd phrase now and then.”
“What about Greek?”
“Ah, no,” I replied. “Greek was never my strong suit. After a brief flirtation, I abandoned the enterprise completely. Euripides almost did me in. I managed enough to scrape by, but only just.”
“I suspected as much,” mused Zaccaria; he made it sound as if he had long harbored grave misgivings about my natural parentage and patriotism.
“Then that is where we will begin,” said Pemberton. He tossed down the rest of his drink and set the glass aside. “We have been thinking it was time you were better acquainted with your heritage, so to speak.”
“My
Greek
heritage?” I said. “I wasn't aware I had any.”
“Oh, you'd be surprised,” replied Pemberton with a smile. “Shake a family closet, and you never know what might tumble out.”
“I think it more precise to say your Greek-
speaking
heritage,” Zaccaria said.
“I am intrigued,” I said. “Please, continue.”
“The Greek islands are pure enchantment. Have you ever been?”
“Only by way of Homer.”
“An excellent introduction to be sure, but not a patch on the real thing, I must say.”
Pemberton leaned forward earnestly. “We have a challenge to set before you, Gordon. Would you like to hear it?”
“By all means.” I put aside my glass and gave him my full attention. I imagined this unprecedented visit owed much to the new order anticipated by the Inner Circle and, aware of the seriousness of our endeavor, composed myself with all gravity for what was shortly to be asked of me.
“We want you to learn Greek.”
“Greek!” The suggestion made me laugh out loud. Given the climate of danger into which we were descending, I had anticipated a slightly more noble, if not perilous, undertaking. “Whatever next? Do you think I am up to it?”
“I think you are more than up to it,” Zaccaria assured me solemnly.
“May I ask why you wish me to learn Greek?”
“That need not concern you at the moment,” Pemberton said, brushing the question aside lightly. “Let's just say that an opportunity has lately arisen which we are keen to have you exploit to the full. To do that, you will need a good working knowledge of Greekâboth antique and modern.”
I looked from one to the other of them. They were quite serious. In fact, Pemberton regarded me with such intensity, I began to suspect there was more to this proposal than I had been told so far. The only way to find out more, I understood, was to accept what had been put before me. Nor was I inclined to turn down my first genuine assignment as a member of the Inner Circle. In any case, I would have agreed just to see what came next.
“Well, why not?” I said at last. “Yes, of course. I'll do it. With any luck, I'll be speaking like a native in no time at all.”
“That,” said Pemberton dryly, “is about how long you have to master it.”
“Sorry?”
“You have from now to the end of September,” he said.
“Good heavens!” I counted quickly on my fingertips. “It's less than six months.”
“If it were up to me, I would give you as much time as you liked. Unfortunately, we no longer have that luxury.”
“I see now why you called it a challenge.”
I had, I suppose, imagined great deeds of high daring to answer the clarion call I had heard so clearly at the last meeting of the Seven. I had allowed myself to believe that when my turn came to serve, it would involve something far more grand and exciting than stuffing my head full of ancient Greek syntax. To tell the truth, I was slightly deflated.
Pemberton astutely read the disappointment in my mood. “It is important, Gordon,” he said softly, “vitally so, or I would not have asked you. What is more, you will learn much to your advantage. That I promise.”
“Quite,” agreed Zaccaria. “Now then,” he reached into his suit pocket and brought out a calling card, “I have taken the liberty of giving your name to an acquaintance of mine. His name is Rossides, and he is a scholar of the first order.” He handed me the card. “He lives in Lothian Street near the university.”
I took the card and read the name aloud. “M. Rossides, D. Phil.” It was written in both Greek and English. “Do you think he would be inclined to take on a student of my low aptitude and qualification?”
“Oh, indeed,” Zaccaria assured me seriously. “He has guided many a floundering Odysseus through the Scylla and Charybdis of aspirated vowels and masculine verb forms. If anyone can get you ready in time, he can.” He reached out and tapped the card in my hand. “I dare say he'll even get your Latin back in fighting trim.”
“Then I will certainly pay him a visit first chance I get. I'll send him my card and arrange a meeting next week.”
“He is expecting you tomorrow,” Zaccaria informed me. “Stroke of six. Don't be late. The good professor expects punctuality in his students.”
As if in anticipation of this meeting, the clock in the hallway beyond chimed the hour, and my two guests rose to leave. “You will want to be getting home, I expect,” said Pemberton. “Give your lovely Caitlin my best regards, and tell her it might be a good idea to keep the autumn clear in the social diary.” He smiled, enjoying his little mystery. “I have a feeling you two will be spending some time in sunnier climes.”
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