The Templar Inheritance

by Mario Reading

  ‘So you will remain satisfied with me?’

  ‘More than satisfied. Although I regret that you are not transparent.’

  ‘You are, though, Hartelius. I can see right through you.’

  NINETEEN

  Seven days into their journey towards Crac de l’Ospital, a cool dry wind, laden with dust and sand, sprang up from the direction of the coast.

  Luitpold von Szellen, at more than forty years of age the oldest of the Templar knights under Hartelius’s command, urged his horse forward so that he and his spare mounts might ride parallel with their leader. ‘We need to find shelter, Commander.’

  ‘Why? This is a simple desert wind. A precursor to winter, surely?’

  ‘Not so, sir. This is a Khamsin. I have seen such a wind before. When it hits us, it will strike hard. If we have not found cover by then, we will be overwhelmed. In spring, these winds can last for three or four days. I have no idea what diabolical form they may choose to take this late in the year.’

  Hartelius glanced at the princess. Then back at von Szellen. ‘How long do we have?’

  Von Szellen wrapped his burnous around his nose and mouth. He looked directly into the teeth of the wind. In the far distance the approaching wall of dust appeared to take on a crimson tint, as if it were a giant vortex of liquid, imbrued with blood. ‘An hour. Possibly less. But it will get worse than this before the main storm hits. The horses may riot.’

  ‘What about the princess’s pavilion? Could we not shelter in that?’

  ‘Useless. It will simply blow away.’

  ‘What do you suggest then?’ Hartelius was shouting now, in an effort to be heard over the wind’s wailing.

  Von Szellen glanced eastwards, towards the mountains. ‘We head for that overhanging cliff edge. At the gallop. If we are lucky we will find a cave there. If not, we may be able to get into the lee of the hill and use that for a shelter. What we cannot do is stay out here.’

  ‘Come then.’ Hartelius signalled to his men. He took the bridle of the princess’s horse and led it round in a semi-circle. ‘You go first, von Szellen. Abandon your spare horses. They will follow the herd. I will bring up the rear with the princess. Use anything you need to construct a shelter.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Von Szellen loosed his spare horses and took off at the gallop. The remaining knights fell into column formation and thundered up the hill behind him. Hartelius signalled to his flankers to do the same. One of them – the one he had allocated as the princess’s personal bodyguard – broke off from the main formation and took hold of the princess’s handmaiden’s bridle, before leading her off in pursuit of his companions.

  The wind was howling round them now. Clogging their noses. Stinging their faces. Hartelius reached forward and wrapped Elfriede’s burnous around her head, leaving a narrow gap for her eyes. Then he took hold of her mare’s bridle and led her away at the canter.

  ‘We can go faster than this,’ she shouted. ‘Give me the reins and I will show you.’

  ‘No, my love. The horse might throw you. And you are with child. Von Szellen has gone ahead. He knows what to do.’

  ‘But what if there is no shelter?’

  Hartelius slowed briefly to wrap his battle pennant around Elfriede’s mare’s eyes, for she was throwing her head about in panic. ‘Then we kill some of the horses and shelter behind them. They are expendable. You are not.’

  The princess looked at him over her shoulder. ‘Would you really do that?’

  ‘I would do anything it takes.’

  The main body of Hartelius’s knights had already disappeared over the crest of the first hill.

  ‘They are leaving us,’ cried Elfriede.

  ‘No. They are Templars. They are doing exactly as I said.’

  Hartelius and the princess breasted the crest of the first hill and drove their mounts onwards. The wind bellowed and shrieked around them. The sand pelted their skin with a thousand needle pricks through every unprotected gap in their clothing.

  ‘I cannot see them any more. I can barely see you.’

  ‘I am following the trail of their horses. Look. Down below you.’

  ‘But the wind is blowing it away.’

  ‘No. I can still see it. It is as clear as day to me.’

  Hartelius was lying. There was no trail any more to speak of. He was navigating entirely by instinct. He could barely even discern the outline of the sun through the dust storm, far less make out the trail of a herd of horses now five minutes gone. But the sun’s glow was enough. They needed to continue east. For that is where the cliff edge would be.

  ‘Please. Can we stop?’

  ‘No. You heard von Szellen. This wind will only get worse. We must ride while we still can.’

  ‘But I cannot breathe.’

  Hartelius grasped the princess round the upper body and transferred her across to his mount, so that she was sitting sideways in front of him, with both legs to the left of his pommel, hanging down. When he was certain that she was secure he uncovered her mare’s eyes and loosed her, trusting that the animal would have the good sense to follow his stallion’s lead.

  ‘Curl your face into me so that you are protected by my body.’

  The princess didn’t answer. Hartelius could hear her struggling for breath against his chest.

  He spurred his horse onwards. Slowly, steadily, he was beginning to lose hope. He had made a grave mistake by underestimating the speed with which the wind would burgeon. He should have called his flanking knights in to him, so that they could have travelled in convoy – it had been wrong of him to send everyone ahead. He had put the princess’s life in danger. It was unforgivable.

  He was bent nearly double now, with the wind beating at his back and feeling its way through every crevice in his chainmail. The princess was curled unmoving against his chest.

  He felt his horse stumble and catch itself.

  Please God, Hartelius said to himself. Take me, but protect her. Don’t let my horse fall.

  Von Szellen burst out of the maelstrom in front of him. He was leading the princess’s abandoned horse. ‘Follow me, sir. We have found cover. A cave. Large enough for us all to sit out the storm. There is cool water to drink. And paintings. There are paintings on the walls, sir. Of the Christ child. We saw them when we lit our torches. It is a miracle.’

  Had von Szellen taken leave of his senses? But no. The man’s face was earnest. His expression luminous. As if he’d seen a vision.

  Hartelius’s mount picked itself up at the sight of the other horses. Hartelius spurred him on behind von Szellen. He had called to God for help and a transfigured von Szellen had appeared from inside the storm, speaking of the Christ child. It was a sign, surely? A sign that what he was doing was right?

  ‘Just over here, sir. The entrance is in the lee of this overhang. It is large enough so that we can ride in without dismounting. But you must duck your head. Then the entrance twists immediately to the right. God’s own architect could not have designed it better.’

  Hartelius stooped down to protect the princess. He neck-reined his stallion along the inner face of the rock, in the direction von Szellen was indicating. When he was able to look up again, it was as if he had entered the precincts of a cathedral. The roof of the cave soared eighty feet above his head. Its belly extended well beyond his sightline, only to fade away into darkness. The wind continued to howl outside, but inside the cave all was peace.

  ‘God’s teeth. What is this place, von Szellen?’

  ‘Look, sir. Look at the paintings.’

  Hartelius allowed one of his knights to help him from his horse. He eased the princess down after him. She leaned against him, coughing. Another of his knights brought her a cup of water, which she drank gratefully, one hand resting on Hartelius’s shoulder.

  ‘This is a Christian place, sir, predating the Mohammedans. The Holy Spear and the Copper Scroll have led us here. Look.’ Von Szellen snatched a torch from one of his subordina
tes. He raised it high over his head.

  Hartelius drew in his breath.

  The lower levels of the cave were strewn with wall paintings, as if a madman had been let loose at them with chalk and paint. Some were canted at an angle, as if the painter had been standing on some object while composing them, and had then been forced to use the slant of the wall as part of his perspective. Others were near ground level, with the important figures grotesquely enlarged, and other, lesser figures, made diminutive by contrast.

  ‘Look. Mosaics.’ Hartelius dropped to his knees. ‘These are Byzantine tesserae, by God. Hold the torch closer, man.’ He beckoned to the princess. When she came up beside him he took her hand in his and guided her fingers gently along the ridges of the mosaic. ‘See? Feel how smooth these tiles are. I have seen similar things in Constantinople. In the Hagia Sophia. The workmanship is exquisite. Look at the quality of this gold leaf.’ Hartelius rocked back onto his heels. ‘But what are they doing here? In a lost cave in the mountains? How would the individual tesserae have been transported to such a place? By pack mule? This is utter madness.’

  The surrounding knights had fallen silent. All were staring at the paintings and mosaics, which spanned an area thirty feet long by ten feet high, as if at a miracle. The light from the knights’ torches reflected back off the golden tesserae with the power of a hundred candles.

  ‘One of our men reports a lake at the rear of the cave,’ said von Szellen. ‘Fed by an underground spring. Others must have come upon this spot in bygone days and considered it a direct sign of God’s Grace. A place worthy of dedication.’

  Hartelius took the flaming torch from von Szellen’s hand. He swept it across the floor in front of them. ‘Look. This floor is beaten down. And these are fresh hoof prints. Are these from our horses, von Szellen?’

  ‘No, sir. We dismounted by the cave entrance. The horses were immediately led away.’

  ‘Then this cave is known about by others. It has ease of access. And it is not far from an established trail. We must be very cautious.’

  As if in direct answer to his words, there was a commotion at the entrance to the cave. Five men on horseback entered, brushing the sand from their burnouses. It was instantly clear to the Templars, from the silhouette of the strangers’ headgear against the light bleeding through the cave entrance, that the men were Saracens.

  Swords were drawn. The Templars instinctively adopted their traditional battle position, in the shape of a narrow V, with von Szellen out in front, and the princess and Hartelius contained within the two outwardly flaring flanks.

  The Saracens drew their scimitars also. They formed themselves into a broad line, five wide, their horses still snorting the dust from their noses.

  Hartelius forced his way between two of his Templars. He strode towards the Saracens, his sword still sheathed. He raised his right hand. ‘Hold fast. All of you.’ Still walking, he half turned towards his Templars. ‘Put up your swords, you men. We are not at war now.’

  He stopped twenty feet short of the Saracens. He laid his right hand across his breast. ‘Assalamu alaikum. Peace be upon you.’

  The central figure of the five Saracens hesitated for a moment. Then he nodded his head. He sheathed his scimitar and laid his own hand upon his heart. ‘Wa’alaikum. And on you.’ He indicated with his chin that his men must also sheathe their swords.

  Hartelius recognized only too well, from the brevity of the response to his greeting, that the leading Saracen had still not made up his mind that he and his men were not about to be set upon. ‘Please enter the cave,’ said Hartelius. ‘You are very welcome to shelter here with us. We have food. There is water. We wish you to share it.’

  Behind him one of his Templars muttered, ‘But these are only five. We could slaughter them and have done with it. Why feed the swine first?’

  Hartelius turned sharply round. ‘Enough, Klarwein. We were here first. These men are now our guests. Do you not remember your Bible? “Do not neglect to show hospitality to strangers, for thereby some have entertained angels unawares.”’

  ‘How about devils unawares?’

  ‘Enough, I said.’ Hartelius indicated with outspread hands that the Saracens should bypass them and head for the underground lake to water their horses if they so chose. Once the Saracens had reluctantly dismounted, he returned to his own men. ‘Start a fire, some of you. The sooner we break bread with these men, the better it will be for all of us.’

  Three of the Templars unhitched some sheaves of dried sticks from one of the extra horses and began setting a fire, while the princess’s handmaiden searched for food in one of the saddlebags.

  ‘And no pork, remember. I don’t want my throat cut because of some fool’s idea of a bad joke.’

  The princess had already laid out a covering for her and Hartelius to sit upon. Hartelius hunched down beside her. ‘You understand what just occurred?’

  She nodded. ‘You stopped a bloodbath.’

  ‘Perhaps. Perhaps not. Until we break bread together, nothing is certain. In Saracen culture you may not harm a man once you have eaten with him. That is why I have ordered my men to start a fire and prepare food. But Klarwein and Nedermann are hotheads. They hate Saracens. I cannot trust them not to do something foolish. Fortunately, von Szellen has a cool head. As you saw just now when he came to find us. And the men respect him.’

  ‘They respect you, too.’

  ‘But I am no longer a sworn Templar. I am their commander, yes. And they have consented to follow me because I am doing what appears to them to be the right thing concerning the Copper Scroll. But that is as far as it goes. If one of them attacks a Saracen for even the most asinine of reasons, they will all do so, regardless of anything I do or say.’

  There was a further commotion at the entrance to the cave. Hartelius stood up, masking the princess with his body. He laid his hand on the hilt of his sword.

  A seemingly endless line of horsemen began to enter the cave, each one wearing Saracen headgear. When the first man in line straightened up and saw not the five companions he had expected, but the Templars, he reined in his horse so violently that it rocked back on its haunches as if it were about to sit down. The man shouted to his companions and they fanned out behind him in a skirmish line.

  Hartelius’s thirteen Templars drew their swords as one. Hartelius strode out in front of them and prepared to fight. There was no help for it now. He and his Templars were massively outnumbered. More Saracens were crowding into the cave every minute, jostling with each other for position, the dust and sand from their clothing rising in great plumes against the light entering from outside.

  The Templars drew back towards the apex of the wall containing the paintings. They formed a tight circle round the princess and her servant, their swords pointing outwards. Each man knew that the odds against him were impossible. Mounted men would always win against standing knights, especially if the ratio against them was five or six to one.

  ‘I told you we were entertaining devils,’ said Klarwein. ‘But nobody would listen to me.’

  ‘You will know more about the devil in a few minutes when you enter hell yourself,’ said von Szellen. ‘We will all think of you down there.’

  ‘That is very funny. Very funny indeed. And what makes you think St Peter will let you through the Holy Gate? Have you lived such a good life? If you ask my opinion, you will be accompanying me to the underworld.’

  ‘I did not ask your opinion.’

  ‘Quiet. All of you.’ Hartelius threw up one gauntleted arm. ‘Something is happening out there. But I can scarcely see for the dust. I think the five we first saw are talking to the others. Klarwein, keep your mouth shut from now on. If you interfere in this without my permission, I will consign you to hell myself.’

  ‘But I fought in the third Crusade, Commander. Just as you did. I have earned my exoneration.’

  ‘Enough now.’ Hartelius strode into the dust cloud raised by the Saracens’ horses. He was inst
antly cut off from his men’s view. ‘Von Szellen,’ he shouted back, his disembodied voice emerging from somewhere deep within the swirl. ‘I am relying on you to keep the men in order while I try to parley us out of this. No rioting. No individual action.’

  ‘It shall be done, Commander.’

  Hartelius wrapped his burnous around his mouth and nose. The dust, stirred up by a myriad horses’ hooves, was getting worse by the minute. ‘I am coming through. My sword is sheathed.’ His shout could scarcely be heard over the clatter of unshod hooves, the clank of unsheathed scimitars and the occasional crash as shields smashed together in the churning maelstrom created by the horses.

  One of the riders in front of him let out a high-pitched ululation. A number of the other horsemen took it up. The back hairs on Hartelius’s head stood up. Was this a prelude to attack? He stopped walking. He allowed the hand that he had been using to protect his eyes from the dust to fall idly to his side, close to the pommel of his sword.

  A sudden silence fell over the assembly of Saracens in front of him. Now that their horses were no longer moving, the dust began to settle. Hartelius was soon able to make out the massed ranks of horsemen now clogging the entrance to the cave. It was immediately apparent to him that he was not dealing with a simple scouting party, but a major force. Already, more than fifty men and their mounts had squeezed into the cave in an effort to gain shelter from the storm. More were no doubt waiting outside, wondering what all the commotion was about, and why their precursors were stopping them from entering. Such a large party of Saracens could do as they wished with him and his men. His Templars might take ten or twenty of the enemy down, but the outcome was foreordained.

  As Hartelius watched, the Saracen line in front of him broke ranks. Their horses edged backwards to make way for a lone figure, dressed in a sumptuous blue thawb, partially covered by a red besht with gold filigree on the collar and cuffs. On his head he wore a mailed turban with a spike protruding from the top. This impressive figure rode slowly through the cave entrance. He was met by one of the five Saracens Hartelius had originally spoken to. The man bent double in his saddle and then offered his commander a right-handed salute which ended, in a sign of deep respect, over the eyes.