The Sacred Scroll (11 page)

‘Throw him into the sea. Let him feed the sharks.’

They reached Acre two days later, enriched by the pirates’ booty.

On the long journey overland, south from Acre to Jerusalem, hot and dusty though it was, they could relax a little.
King Almaric had the road well policed, and there was scant risk of any attack on the tight-knit caravan of Dandolo’s entourage.

At length they arrived at the gates of the Holy City.

Almaric, a tough man in his thirties who spoke Arabic as fluently as his native French, and passable Italian, gave them a courteous, though guarded, welcome. But Dandolo wasn’t interested in making an impression on the king. Dandolo didn’t want to rock any boats, but he knew Almaric needed to keep Constantinople on his side – a fact Dandolo had conveniently failed to mention to Doge Vitale.

It was the doge’s own fault if he hadn’t realized as much himself. There was about as much chance of getting Almaric to side openly with Venice as there was of finding a miracle cure for Almaric’s son’s leprosy.

Brother Leporo, of course, knew all along that what Dandolo was interested in was the Templars. Relics of any kind were useful, and if he could collect a powerful one to take home, it would be a political feather in his cap. As a monk, Leporo was well aware of the growing hunger in Europe for things which had once belonged to the founders of Christianity – Christ and His disciples. If those things belonged to martyrs, so much the better. Ownership of a lock of hair, a finger, a splinter from the True Cross, could impart status to its possessor, whether he was a king or an abbott, and, more important sometimes even than status: redemption from sin.

Leporo also knew full well that his master had an eye on the doge’s cap of office – the
corno ducale
– for himself.

‘There’s no harm in making friends with the Templars,’ Dandolo told him.

‘Of course,
Altissima
! Their banking network stretches all over Europe. They’re not only exempt from local taxes, but immune from local laws, everywhere. The pope himself has given them what amounts to free rein. They own property all over the place, and they’ve established thousands of branches, from Cadiz to Calais, from Albi to Aleppo.’

‘But despite all that their profits are not enough! They need cash in the Holy Land, and that’s the Achilles’ heel which we can take advantage of.’

‘Still, they are, in terms of what they control and what they own, richer than many kingdoms.’

‘
And they are above nations.
They are’ – and Dandolo relished the new expression he had coined himself – ‘
multi-national
.’

Leporo was right. Dandolo dreamed of becoming doge and turning Venice itself into a power to rival and surpass that of the Templars. He did not feel old, but he was sixty. How many years were left to him? He was impatient, but he knew he had to be the opposite, if all he lusted for was ever to come to fruition. Still, he vowed he would do what he could with whatever period of life God vouchsafed him. He’d fulfil his dream, with God’s help or without it.

Perhaps, in time, he could even control the Templars themselves.

But, for now, they would be useful friends to have – if he could persuade them to it.

Dandolo rose before dawn on the morning of the fourth day, had himself dressed in his most expensive robe and set out for the Al-Aqsa mosque. Since the triumph of the Christians in the First Crusade, the Templars had taken it over as the centre of their military and banking operations.

Al-Aqsa was one of the most sacred sites of Islam. Here, the prophet had dismounted from his magical steed, Al-Buraq Al-Sharif, to pray at the Rock which bears his footprint. Now, under the Templars, its cool offices, corridors and open spaces, all traces of Islam whitewashed over or removed, the building was a model of secular efficiency, although there was something of the monastery about it too. Plain crucifixes hung on the walls, and costly illuminated volumes of the Bible were placed on lecterns in the assembly hall, once the
musalla
, and elsewhere. Cells for the knights’ accommodation were arranged round the vast central atrium.

Dandolo and his retinue, including Leporo, two interpreters (one in case of need, and one to correct the other if anything should, accidentally or by design, be lost in translation) and a discreet half-dozen of his bodyguard, were greeted at the main gate by two tall, austere-looking young men in plain brown garments marked with a discreet red cross. Dandolo wondered if this muted dress was designed to send him some kind of signal – where
were the resplendent white robes emblazoned with the great red cross on chest, back and upper arms? Had they sent
underlings
to welcome him?

But whether the affront was real or imaginary, he swallowed it, and allowed himself to be escorted across the atrium, already growing hot in the sun despite its well-watered lawns and palms, to a cluster of small, domed buildings which had once been designed for the use of senior priests and scholars of the
Quran
. The Templar attendants paused at the door of one then entered. They emerged again within moments and took up places on either side of the door, admitting Dandolo, the interpreters and Leporo. The bodyguard would remain outside. So much for disguising them as monks, thought Dandolo irritably; but the Templars hadn’t got where they were by being stupid.

The modest exterior of the place he’d entered was not belied by the room he found himself in. It was simply furnished, only distinguishable from a monk’s cell by its size, for it was large, dim and cool. The only decoration on the peeling white walls was a simple wooden crucifix, and there was no bed. Instead, two plain wooden tables and, on a rack, a suit of chain mail.

Two men were seated behind the tables. One of them rose and surveyed his visitors with distant eyes of startling blue. A gaunt man, with a leathery face browned and lined by the sun, he was dressed in a black robe woven of light wool. The other, small and wiry, whose eyes were black and intense, wore the black habit of a Cistercian under the brown cloak of the Templars who had accompanied Dandolo’s party from the gate.

‘Enrico Dandolo.’ Dandolo spoke into the silence. ‘Special Envoy of the Doge of Venice.’

‘I know who you are,’ replied the man in black, in perfect Italian. ‘I am Odo de St Amand. At your service.’ His smile was as arid as a desert.

Odo de St Amand. What was
he
doing here? Dandolo had thought him to be in Paris. And what honour was he being accorded in being received by the Grand Master himself?

‘What can we do for you?’ continued Odo in the same level tone. He did not introduce his companion. ‘And, as you see, we have no need for your interpreters,’ he continued. ‘Unless you prefer me to continue in French. You may find fault with my Italian. It is a little rusty.’

‘Your Italian leaves nothing to be desired.’

‘Good. Then you may dismiss them. And your other man.’

‘By your leave, he stays.’

After the slightest of pauses, Odo nodded. The interpreters withdrew, to join the rest of Dandolo’s party outside.

Once the four men were alone, Odo gestured to Dandolo and Leporo to sit on the simple wooden chairs in the room. There was no other furniture, except for a stout cabinet which stood against a wall. No refreshment was offered, not even water.

Odo relaxed slightly. ‘It is, I am sure you will agree, better that we keep our discussion open to as few ears as possible.’

Dandolo watched him. How much did the Grand Master already know about the true nature of his mission?

‘I am gratified that you grace us with your presence here.’

‘Why not the Hospitallers?’ interjected the other Templar, his tone edgy.

‘Because the Knights Hospitaller do not quite share … all … your interests,’ replied Dandolo, with an equal measure of veiled aggression in his voice. What was this man driving at?

‘You mean they are not as interested in money?’ continued the brown-garbed man. He might have gone on, but Odo stilled him.

‘What have you come for?’ he asked the Venetian.

‘To express my admiration for your work – I fully intend to do the same for the Hospitallers, by the way, since by your prowess both Orders have helped secure and maintain our Christian Faith in the birthplace of Our Lord. And to extend the hand of friendship from Venice, on behalf of my master, Doge Vitale.’

‘What makes you think we need your friendship?’ the other Templar asked coldly.

Odo said, ‘Be quiet, Thomas.’ Turning to Dandolo, he said: ‘You must forgive him. He is here, if you like, to make sure I do nothing rash.’

‘Come to the point,’ put in Thomas, adding reluctantly, ‘If you please.’

‘Certainly,’ said Dandolo. Glancing at Leporo, he continued. ‘We think you may have … something for sale. If so, we might be interested in acquiring it.’ To himself, he thought,
they already know
.

‘And what is it that you are interested in acquiring?’ asked Thomas.

‘A relic.’ Leporo spoke for the first time. ‘You are a fellow Cistercian, Brother Thomas. You will understand our eagerness. A Holy Relic, which we should like to acquire for the protection and the greater glory of our basilica of St Mark, and our city.’ He hesitated. ‘We find ourselves in troubled waters, and we have need of the Lord’s protecting arm.’

‘You mean your confrontation with the Greeks of Byzantium,’ replied Thomas brusquely.

Was there nothing these people didn’t know, thought Dandolo. He must handle them with subtlety. But in order to gain what, exactly? He only had Leporo’s word for it that they had some thing of great value. True, he trusted his aide, and Leporo’s judgement in such matters was seldom false. Well, he had come this far, and he wasn’t going to pass up any opportunity which presented itself for his own aggrandisement. And he had more than enough money at his disposal to satisfy even these money-conscious warrior-monks.

He guessed, too, that the presence of the Grand Master and the aggressive nature of Friar Thomas were good indications of what they were prepared to put on the table.

‘We seek to do God’s will,’ he replied simply. ‘But to do so justly, we poor humans need all the help we can get.’

There was silence in the room then. You could hear the breeze rustling the leaves of the palms outside, and the muted talk of Dandolo’s men as they waited in the shade outside.

The two Templars exchanged a look. Odo, Dandolo guessed, was for taking the negotiations further; Thomas against.

Then Odo walked over to the cabinet, unlocked it, and from it produced a leather bag, which he placed on the table between them.

It was a small bag; the leather was rough and well-worn. Odo’s lean fingers undid the strings which held it closed.

He drew out a small iron box and a key, attached by a leather thong. He placed the box on the table, fitted the key into the lock and turned it in a complex series of clockwise and anti-clockwise movements which Dandolo found hard to follow. No doubt Odo would tell him the secret of the manipulation if a deal was struck. At last the lock clicked open. Odo raised the lid with great care.

The box was lined with grey wool. Lying within was a clay tablet, about the size that would fit comfortably into your palm. One side was covered in a crowded series of symbols, but they bore no relation to any alphabet or numeric system that Dandolo had ever seen. The other side was blank, though Dandolo could make out a thumbprint, no doubt pressed into the clay when it was still moist by whoever had written on it.

Just behind him, Leporo could not suppress a sigh of disappointment. Dandolo kept his face expressionless,
however, as Odo laid the tablet down next to the box. He looked at the casket again and saw that there was an inscription of some sort on it, and another on the shank of the key, but he couldn’t make them out.

Friar Thomas grew tense as the tablet emerged, and Dandolo noticed that the monk’s eyes grew keen with – what? – something like craving? Desire?

He had noted the reluctance of the Templars to part with this unimpressive-looking piece of baked mud. As he glanced at Odo’s eyes, fixed on the tablet, he saw something there too. Regret? Indecision? Second thoughts? But then the eyes lifted to meet his own.

Dandolo didn’t want to meet those eyes – yet. He looked at the writing – for that was all he could think of it as – on the rough piece of terracotta. As he did so, he flinched. He couldn’t be sure that he wasn’t imagining it, but it seemed to him, fleetingly, that the letters, which looked as much as anything like the footprints of tiny birds – seemed momentarily to glow dark red, like blood.

He glanced at Leporo to see if he had noticed anything, but Leporo’s face was impassive. Dandolo pulled himself together. Odo, he realized, had been watching him.

‘An interesting piece,’ he said.

‘Isn’t it?’ replied Odo.

‘Not much to look at,’ remarked Leporo.

Odo ignored the comment, while Thomas shot thunderbolts at Leporo with his eyes. But the monk collected himself, and said: ‘I agree with Brother Leporo. It is, indeed, a small thing. Perhaps not worth your attention. We can only apologize.’

Dandolo raised a hand to silence him. He kept his eyes
on Odo. ‘Tell me about this … thing. I have to say, it is not quite what we expected.’

Odo gave him another thin smile. ‘I know. You are disappointed in its size. Or you thought at least the box might contain the head of the spear which pierced Our Lord’s side at Golgotha, or the jewelled fingerbones of the apostle who touched the wound made by that spear – Doubting Thomas.’

‘Those would be great and Holy Relics indeed.’

‘This thing is older than either of them.’

Dandolo looked again at the tablet. He could see, without being an expert, that it was old, very old indeed. It seemed as old as Time itself.

‘May I touch it?’

Odo spread his hands. ‘Of course. But be careful. There are things about this tablet of which we are not entirely sure.’

Dandolo stretched out a tentative hand.

The clay felt as cold as death, so cold it burned; and hard, hard as adamant. He did not dare pick it up, but withdrew his hand instead. He wanted it, that much he knew. But at what price? He thought of his bodyguard outside, and the heavy casket of Venetian florins borne by one of the packhorses in their charge. He would pay anything … but then it was better not to show himself too avid for it. He would start the bargaining at half the amount he had with him – already a far higher sum than he’d intended.