by K. T. Tomb
The first thing she did when Cash stepped over the threshold was offer her tea and breakfast, which made Cash take to her instantly. She was shown the guest room and was given free rein of the bathroom to freshen up.
Over breakfast, Cash asked Makeda about the professor at the university and Makeda told her the guy was a bit nuts but a thorough researcher. He was renowned for going off on strange tangents but always with well-based research. But just as Cash brought up the essay she had been reading, her phone rang.
It was Tim.
“What do you want?”
“Patricia, I...”
Cash hung up. If he started like that, he could shut up, she thought. The phone rang again.
It was Tim again.
“What?” Cash bellowed into the phone.
“Sorry, Cash. I’m sorry...”
“What are you sorry about? About me not being around to play the perfect wife for you, the great provider?”
She felt her face grow warm and red.
“Please Cash, I don’t...” Tim was stammering.
It sounded like he was trying to hold back his tears.
“Please, let me make it up to you.”
“Tim, I don’t know whether you can make it up.”
And then the world shook.
Chapter Three
The rocket had hit a shopping centre north of them. From the balcony they could see the smoke rising. Cash had not thought about any of this, but now she realized Israel was actually a dangerous place to be. She had always known there were constant attacks from Hezbollah in Lebanon and from Hamas in Gaza, but she had never stopped to think about it. Like many people she had blamed the Israelis for being so aggressive all the time, but the rocket shook her world. Suddenly she understood the fright most normal people in that country lived with.
She was still tense and frightened when she got in a cab go to the university. The driver made light of the situation, saying it was typical Tel Aviv fireworks. Makeda had tried to calm her as well, even tried to make her go to sleep, but she couldn’t. So she had called the university and made an appointment with the professor who wrote the essay. She figured it was better to get to work and try to forget about the incident than to keep fussing about the danger.
Once on campus the faculty was easy enough to find. Several men looked at her as she walked across the campus. A year ago she would not even have thought about that, but now she noticed the stares. It had been a while since she had received that sort of confirmation, with the company she had been forced to keep.
She was wearing a pair of shorts, a tank top and some sneakers and had not even thought about how she dressed. She had simply dressed for the weather, but she realized now it did appear quite sexy.
The professor did not exactly hide his interest in her either when he opened the door. He just stood and looked her up and down.
“Cash Cassidy.” She said, introducing herself, “Can I come in?”
The professor came back to reality and let her in. He offered her a seat in front of his desk. She sat down, placing her shoulder bag with the laptop on the desk before her.
“What can I help you with, my dear?”
His English was good, though accented.
“Well, I wanted to talk to you about this essay you wrote on the Holy Grail.”
Cash smiled her sweetest smile at him, hoping it would help make him a bit more talkative than he might otherwise be. She did not know why she even thought this was needed, but something told her the professor was not going to talk too easily. The man looked slightly flustered and then frowned at her.
“Yes, I remember that essay. About five years ago, I believe. I’m surprised you read it, not many people did.”
Cash shifted in her seat and leaned forward, placing her elbows on the desk.
“You came up with an interesting theory on the Holy Grail.” She bit her lower lip. “I was wondering if you ever managed to find out whether it was indeed found, and if so, what happened to it afterward?”
The professor looked nervous for some reason.
“Yes...” he stammered a bit.
Cash frowned.
“Yes?”
The professor nodded.
“Yes, there is some further evidence it was indeed found, but none whatsoever on what might have happened after that.”
Cash just looked at him. Something was up. The professor’s behavior was strange. She had never met an academic who was so unready to discuss his work, and discuss it at length. Most academics were very passionate about their work and about the papers they put their time into. They had to be to succeed in their field.
“Where did you find that essay anyway? It’s not widely published.”
Cash sat back again and crossed her arms and legs. She suddenly felt attacked by the man. His tone had turned slightly hostile. Something was definitely going on.
“My husband is a history lecturer at Berkeley.”
She saw another remark coming and cut the professor off with another question.
“You found the diary in Lund right? Was there no clue as to what happened to the knight after he found the cup? In the diary, or maybe in the cathedral itself?”
Slowly the professor shook his head.
“There was none.”
He picked up some papers and began looking through them.
“Was that all?”
Cash laughed.
“Oh come on! You found a diary by a bloke claiming to have found the Holy Grail, you’re not telling me there was nothing else in there?”
The professor looked up from his papers for a single second to glare at her, then busied himself with the essays again.
“That is indeed what I am saying.”
Cash sat bolt upright, slapping her hands on her bare knees.
“Of course you didn’t make a copy of the diary either?”
“No.”
“So if I want to see this, I’ll have to go to Sweden?”
“If it is still there, yes.”
She frowned.
“What do you mean with, if it’s still there?”
The professor looked into her eyes.
“I believe the Bishop of Lund took it with her when she became Archbishop of Uppsala. It could be anywhere now.”
Cash shook her head. She could not believe what she was hearing. Or maybe she could. There was that feeling of something being wrong.
“Now, was that all?” the professor asked.
And the world shook again.
The professor and Cash both ducked as the rocket hit the building. Cash dropped her bag to the floor and lost it for a moment in her confusion. A door flew open behind the professor’s desk and a tall man rushed through. Cash had thought that door was a cupboard, but now she saw the immaculately dressed man come through, she realized it was a door to another office. “Come! Outside! Now!” the man spoke with a German accent.
He rushed to the door to the hallway and gestured wildly to make them follow him out. The professor pushed the bag into Cash’s hands and ran out with a very shaken Cash on his heels.
She rushed past the tall man and noticed a small pin on his jacket. It was a red shield with a white, flared cross on it. It seemed very familiar, but she could not place it. There was no time to dwell on it. They all just ran.
Outside, she did not see either the tall man or the professor. She waited around in the open in the middle of the campus for a moment, but then ran out into the street. There were sirens everywhere as police, fire fighters and ambulances rushed to the scene of the attack. Several army helicopters flew overhead and added to the noises of distress and war. But when she looked across the street from the campus, people still sat outside the cafes and were once again talking and laughing. It was odd to think that a rocket had just hit the building not even a hundred meters from them and they could sit there drinking coffee.
She walked over to the cafe and went in to order a cup of tea. She sat down with her drink at a tab
le just outside the door, sighed and rubbed her forehead. She slumped down in the chair and sighed again. This was not the same as researching a book on the Eureka Rebellion or the rebellion of Owain Glyndŵr. The most dangerous thing in Victoria was the snakes, and in Wales she might be hit by a drunken rugby player, but there were no rockets there.
Still, she told herself, the positive thing was she would have to go to Sweden to find out more about that diary. And there were no rockets there. She looked behind her and checked the logos in the window. The cafe seemed to have free Wi-Fi, like most places around big universities. She could make use of that and check on how to get to Lund as soon as possible. Cash opened her bag and reached in to pull her laptop out, but her fingers touched paper instead.
The papers looked like scans of an old handwritten document. With them came a note, in Hebrew. She looked around her suspiciously. The only person who could have put these papers in her bag was the professor. Why did he have to secretly give these to her? Maybe the tall man had been listening in the other room? She pushed the papers back into her bag and calmly sipped her tea. She drank slowly, trying to look as cool and composed as the locals even though the world around them was still in chaos. There might not be a trip to Sweden, but it seemed she would be getting some answers after all.
Chapter Four
Makeda translated the note as soon as Cash asked. She found she had been right. There had been someone listening and the professor said he couldn’t tell her anything, but could at least put her on the right path to what she was looking for.
Seated on the balcony, with Makeda looking over her shoulder, she looked over the papers. They were scans of the diary of the Swedish knight. It was not the complete book, only the relevant passages. The professor had even marked the passages he had been interested in and provided English translations.
The pages spoke of a Templar Knight called Arne, like the professor had already written in the essay. He had found a silver cup in the basement of a tavern after a drunken brawl. He seemed to find the cup interesting as it gave him a strange feeling. A feeling of elation. A feeling of salvation. He had tucked the cup into his tunic and taken it with him. He kept it on himself for days, even out on patrol.
A single passage complained about the need for the patrols. The knight saw no use for it as they were officially at peace with Saladin now, and nothing had happened for many weeks. Yet it was not a page later that the man’s opinion changed.
“We rode east from Jerusalem. We had been staying in the city for several days, waiting for a convoy of pilgrims that would head towards Jaffa. No men-at-arms were allowed in Jerusalem under the treaty signed that year at Ramla, but we were. Small groups of Templars and Hospitallers were allowed into the city as they accompanied the pilgrims on their way to the Holy City, and protected them on their way back.
But as no convoy was to leave for many days, we rode east. We needed to keep busy, I understood that, we needed to keep the horses worked, I understood that too, but I never understood why we rode east.
We reached a well just after midday and we were all parched and drank there. We stayed there for several hours and some of us slept. We were not alert at all.
The Saracens took us completely by surprise. Something had awoken me as their horses thundered to the well, but the others were taken in their sleep. An archer shot an arrow at my belly, and I felt it glance off the cup I still had in my tunic. Our single sentry was lanced and as I fell, I saw the others fall under sword and spear. A lancer came to stand over me, his lance point resting at my throat. But something stayed his hand.”
Cash read the passage out loud and when she finished, she looked up at Makeda.
“I could not have written this any better, I think.”
She continued, getting no reaction from Makeda but a nod.
“I had been frightened at the battle we fought under Richard of England at Arsuf, when the Saracens closed in around us. That day I had feared death, even though I was never in actual danger. That day my life was not threatened at any point, but this day, with the blade ready to pierce my throat, I felt no fear.
The blade left my throat and I was pulled to my feet. They took my sword and knife, but left me with my other possessions, including the cup. I thanked God for this fortune. I was tied to my saddle and then we set off into the desert.
We rode east again, and when the time for their prayer came we halted. They helped me down and bound my hands and feet, though not in such a way I could not move. Then they scrubbed themselves with sand and knelt down to their prayer.
They carried provisions of dried meat, and shared some with me. They did not explain to me why I had not been killed, but I managed to grasp some of their conversation.
I had previously spent time in the company of Kurdish merchants in Antioch, and I recognized the language these men spoke. I could not speak it myself, but I could understand some of their conversation. It seemed they were taking me to the Emir, who liked to talk to those infringing on his lands.”
“Emir?” Makeda asked.
She had become quite curious, As the writings of the Swedish knight were very intriguing.
“I’m not sure, but I think the Emir he referred to might be Saladin.”
Cash answered in slightly hushed tones. It was not often one came across this sort of thing, even in the research for a book. This was turning into the Holy Grail of all book research. Almost literally.
“The Emir was old, grey and weak, but still an impressive man. He had eyes like a hawk and the typical passion all the Kurds seem to have. When they lead me into his tent, I was instantly impressed. He was seated on a pile of cushions and even though he seemed weak, he looked like he deserved the title Emir.
I had only seen him from a distance a few times during battle, but I had not thought I would ever meet him, especially after the Treaty of Ramla was signed. It seemed then there would be no war and no chance ever to see this man again.
He bade me come in, using fluent Greek. His manner was very pleasant, even though I was his enemy.
After I sat down, a slave brought in tea and we drank in silence. Only then did he begin asking me questions. He asked me about how King Richard was doing, about the Seigneur de Sablé, and about Queen Isabella, whom he seemed to like. I told him about the rumor of Richard’s capture by the Duke of Austria and he seemed genuinely concerned.
After a while, the old Emir seemed to grow tired and he began nodding off. I stood up and wanted to say good bye to him, but it was then the silver cup dropped from the folds of my tunic. The sound of the silver hitting the rug woke him again.
He was instantly intrigued. I picked it up and he asked me whether he could see it. I was hesitant to hand it over, but I knew I had no choice. If I refused, there were guards to take the cup from me. So I handed it over to the Emir.
He ran his fingers over the rim and seemed to light up. It looked like it had the same effect on him as it had on me. He asked me where I had found it. I told him I found it in the basement of a Jerusalem tavern. He frowned at that and asked me whether he could hold on to the cup for a while. He said he found it fascinating and wanted to check some things.
I left it with him, feeling slightly worried about the little piece of silver I had recently acquired. Yet, I trusted him with it.
I was taken to a small tent towards the edge of the camp and was given food and water there before I was bound again.”
Cash paused for a moment , thinking about what the knight was actually recording in his writing. She was spellbound.
“Two days later I was brought to the Emir’s tent again. He looked even more worn, and two women were mopping his brow. The cup was on the low table before him. He smiled at me and asked me whether I knew what I had found. I shook my head and sat down.
He asked me to explain what I knew about the death of the prophet Issa Bin Maryam. I knew this was the name of Christ in Arabic, Jesus, son of Mary. I told him about the Last Supper, the arrest and
about how Jesus was crucified. He cringed as I called Jesus the Son of God, but he let me talk.
Did I know Jesus was revered in Islam too, he asked me after I finished. I shook my head. It was not something I had ever thought about. He explained to me how Jesus was considered a Prophet of God. One of the Prophets, he insisted, of which Mohammed was the last one.
Then he touched the cup. Prophets were gifted, favored by God, and Jesus seemed to have been particularly so. He said there had been blood in the bottom of the cup. He had some sages who had been able to test for it, and they had found traces of blood. They had also found wine, but he had not been surprised at this, as it had been found in a tavern.
But he had checked with some people familiar with Jerusalem, and he had asked about the tavern. It had been razed several times, and rebuilt several times more. This I knew, but what he told me next was unknown to me. He claimed the tavern had been there in Roman times, and it had then been owned by a woman called Maryam. According to his sources, the woman had been a rich widow, and had run that tavern on her own since the death of her husband. She became a follower of Issa, he told me, before looking straight at me.
I did not know why he stopped there, but the realization came to me quite suddenly. Maryam, a rich widow and follower of Jesus. I stammered it could not be, as she was a whore, but Saladin shook his grey head. He was adamant she had been important to Jesus and that the Christian Church did not like powerful and important women all that much; just look at how they readily ridicule your strongest Queens, he pointed out.
Calling a woman who ran a tavern a whore was not a big leap, and the Church had readily made it. It shocked me he could be so candid about the Word of God, but he reminded me the original stories, which the Muslims read too, had been Hebrew and Aramaic, then translated into Greek and from Greek into Latin. The words could be changed only too easily.
