Cash Cassidy Adventures: The Complete 5-Book Series (Plus Bonus Novels)

by K. T. Tomb

  But what he said next shocked me even more. He said he could not comprehend why one would pay for the room to have supper in a tavern, if a close friend, perhaps even a wife, owned a tavern.”

  Cash checked the next page, and was surprised to find the story did not continue straight. The professor had not given her the next page. Perhaps it had not been interesting or had not been useful to his own research, or perhaps the page had not been present in the diary. She wondered about it.

  Makeda had sat down on the other seat and was staring at her across the table.

  “Does that seriously mean...” she muttered.

  “I think it does. This would suggest this knight found the Holy Grail.” Cash sighed. “And Saladin knew it.”

  Makeda nodded.

  “What was the year on that?”

  Cash looked through the pages, trying to find a date, but there was none on those pages.

  “I think he wrote it from memory when he got back, not as a diary like we would write it. I suppose it would be silly and ridiculously expensive to carry quills, ink and parchment around in the desert. Especially as a knight.”

  Makeda told her to hold on and walked into the apartment, coming out with her own laptop.

  “Book of Knowledge,” she stated as she opened a new browser. “What was that he mentioned about King Richard?”

  Cash looked back up the page.

  “Richard captured by the Duke of Austria. That’d be Richard the Lionheart, wouldn’t it?”

  Makeda nodded. She vaguely remembered a question on her G.C.S.E. History exam on Richard’s captivity. She entered ‘wiki’ and hit the tab.

  “Richard the Lionheart” she said as she entered it.

  She looked over the menu and scrolled to the segment on his captivity.

  “Seems he was shipwrecked and then tried to go to Saxony overland. Captured by the Austrians just before Christmas 1192.”

  She opened another tab and searched for Saladin.

  “Saladin died Fourth of March 1193.”

  “Fourth of March 1193,” Cash mused. “If you assume the news of Richard’s capture would not be known in those lands for at least a month, he can’t have heard about it before early February.”

  Makeda frowned.

  “Must mean he’s talking about the last days of Saladin’s life.”

  Cash picked up the bundle of papers again and looked at the next page.

  “There’s not just one page missing, listen...”

  “There was chaos after the burial of the Emir. His sons themselves did not cause it then, but there was chaos among the Kurdish and Turkish lords in their retinue. They did not know who to follow, and the ‘Assassins’ made it worse. Their leader had died months before, having been defeated by the Emir, but the cult was not gone. They were leaderless, but they had power still. All they needed was a man who could lead them.

  The Saracens were as divided as we were. They were split between two factions religiously, but many more ethnically. The Assassins believed their leader could lead them to paradise in the service of God and bring them back. Seeing them in battle always reminded me of the berserkers of Sweden and Norway. There are not many of them now, but they can still be found. The Assassins are like them, calm and collected, clever men normally, but mad and fiendish in battle.

  But now there was no leader and they had nowhere to turn. In their search for a leader and for power, they murdered several of the important men of the Saracens in the wake of the Emir’s death. “

  “I managed to rid myself of my bonds as the Assassins raided the camp and I left my tent. I ran into the old Emir’s tent and grabbed my sword. I looked for the cup, but it was not there. The box had been hidden inside a strong box and only a few knew where it was. Even fewer had a key to the strongbox. The lock had not been damaged, nor had anything been tossed around.

  I raced out and found my own horse, raked my spurs back and rode West, hoping to find safety in riding back to my own.

  As I rode I thought about who might have taken the cup, if not the Assassins. Only three of the men who had known the true nature of the cup and had held a key to the strong box had been in the camp. The new Emir of Damascus, Al-Afdal ibn Salah ad-Din, Az Zahir, the new ruler of Aleppo and Al-Adil, Saladin’s brother, known to us as Saphadin.”

  Cash put the last page down.

  “That’s that, then.”

  She looked at Makeda, who was furiously typing.

  “Last page makes for interesting reading. This will actually make a great novel, you know.”

  Makeda’s fingers stopped their typing and she turned her eyes on Cash.

  “Yes, but you’re not just going to leave it there, are you?”

  Cash tapped the table with her finger tips.

  “Well, this is all there is. And it’s enough, isn’t it?”

  Makeda’s big brown eyes seemed to become bigger.

  “You’re not serious? You have what seems like actual evidence of the Holy Grail and you’re going to leave it there?”

  Cash got up and walked to the small kitchen to make herself a cup of tea. She did not know what she was going to do. She knew her novel was served as it was, but there was a little voice, other than Makeda’s, urging her to go on the hunt for one of the most legendary treasures in the world. This is how she always got into trouble; by listening to that damn voice. She carried her steaming mug back to the balcony and sat down.

  “I’ll have to sleep on it.”

  She sipped her tea and looked out across the sea. Suddenly she put the mug down on the table.

  “Are you doing anything tomorrow?”

  Makeda shook her head. “No”

  “I’d like to see Jerusalem, want to come with me?”

  Chapter Five

  They got on the bus in Tel Aviv’s central bus station at eight o’clock in the morning. Makeda had immediately jumped at the chance of going to Jerusalem, saying it was only an hour by bus and there were two buses every hour. She often went shopping in Jerusalem. Tel Aviv was modern, western and streamlined; Jerusalem was old, eclectic and a melting pot of cultures, as it had always been.

  The ride was uneventful, apart from a checkpoint on the road. Makeda translated the conversation between the driver and the lieutenant in charge. It seemed an attack on some buses was suspected, so they checked all the buses between Tel Aviv and Jerusalem. Makeda told Cash it was pretty routine.

  Cash was happy for Makeda’s company. She generally got along with people, but the rocket attacks earlier seemed to have allowed the Ethiopian woman and herself bond a lot quicker than would otherwise have happened.

  As they got off at the Jerusalem bus station, Cash was immediately struck by the difference in the two sides of the street. One side was the modern, brand new station building, the other were old buildings. Windows on that side were boarded up, roofs falling in, and scorch marks reminded her of the fact that this was a city at war.

  Cash announced immediately she wanted to go and see the Holy Sepulcher and Makeda looked around for a moment before pulling Cash along to another bus.

  The bus drove along the broad streets and green lanes of the newer city. They got out as they hit the old city, where the streets were narrow and clogged up. Cash slung her shoulder bag so she could keep her arm over it as they headed into the busy streets. Immediately after they got under the first of the sails stretched between the two sides of the street she felt like she was in a maze.

  The streets were narrow and busy, with many men and women displaying their wares and offering bargains. Makeda seemed to know the way, which was a relief because Cash felt lost the moment they entered the labyrinth. She lost all her bearings and for once felt like a tourist. She’d never felt like a tourist anywhere. Every strange place she had ever gone to she had been at ease and simply strolled around like she belonged there. But this city was different. One could tell how ancient it was, and the knowledge that people fought over it to this day made it impossible not to
be impressed.

  The Church of the Holy Sepulcher was deep in the old city, and Makeda told her it technically stood within Palestine, though the distinction was hard to make and the whole thing was disputed. The district they walked through was full of shops. Makeda knew that it was where the first hospital of the Order of Saint John had been built. Muristan, the district was called, the hospital as well.

  From a distance the only thing that could be seen of the church was a dome and cross rising above the roof tops. It was hidden between buildings, tucked in behind shops and only approachable through two narrow alleys. But once through the alley, a broad square opened and steps led up to the doors.

  Cash stood a moment and stared. The building was beautiful. Yet the first thing that came to mind for her was how peaceful it was, regardless of the massive numbers of tourists and pilgrims walking around. Her mind drifted immediately to the medieval cities in Wales and England, or the images of India she had seen. It was only too easy to see kids playing football or cricket in this square as one of the few open spaces in this town that allowed it. The walls would be perfect to kick a ball against but there was none of that. There were no drunks either, or boxes for junkies to still put their used needles in. It seemed to be a place of prayer and reverence, and a place for the tourists, of course.

  Cash walked to the door and knelt down at the threshold, looking over the scratches in the stone. Makeda came to stand beside her and looked over her shoulder. A lot of the scratches were old, but there were some new ones too. Cash grinned at the way human nature always seemed to dictate. After a few minutes she found what she was looking for. In the corner there was the Templar seal and some runic writing. The runes surprised her, she had thought the Swedish knight would be writing like everyone else, but obviously the runes had still been in use in Sweden then.

  “That’s not normal writing.” Makeda said, squatting beside her.

  “No, it’s runes.”

  “Can you read them?”

  Cash looked carefully at the runes. She had learned something about runes during her studies, but mainly about Anglo-Saxon runes, and she did know those were different from the Norse, even if they were similar.

  “Interesting, eh?” an Australian voice said in front of them.

  Both Cash and Makeda jumped to their feet guiltily, as though they had been caught doing something they shouldn’t have been doing. The man before them wore the robes of a Greek Orthodox priest. He had dark hair and was short.

  “Yeah,” Cash answered. “Amazing how people feel the need to scrawl their names everywhere; not much difference between now and centuries ago, I guess.”

  The priest chuckled.

  “Indeed, but Templars writing in runes is even more interesting.”

  Cash frowned. She didn’t quite know what to say.

  “Cash Cassidy” she said, deciding to introduce herself.

  She extended her hand.

  “The novelist?” The priest asked, shaking her hand firmly. “Pleasure. Loved the Southern Crosses. My mom’s side of the family had people involved at Eureka.”

  Cash smiled.

  “Suppose your dad’s side is Greek then?”

  The priest nodded.

  “Yup, from Rhodes. I’m Father Michael.”

  “This is my friend Makeda.”

  Cash introduced her companion. Father Michael shook her hand too.

  “But yes, Templar coat of arms and runes. Can you read them?”

  Cash shook her head.

  “Lucky for you I know what it says then.” The priest smiled at them. “It’s just a name and the mention that the man found the Holy Grail.”

  “Father Michael, will you come with me?” A monk emerged from the door and laid his hand on Michael’s shoulder, forcibly turning him around and marching him back into the church, but behind his back, Michael winked at them to follow.

  “Come on.”

  Cash nudged Makeda and walked into the church. It was dark inside. It looked like an ornate cave, decorated with gold and paintings all over, and lit by candles. The only daylight came through the doors and a small window above the altar. They followed the two men down the aisle. The two went left just before the altar, into an alcove. Cash sat down on a bench just around the corner from them.

  “Michael,” the monk said. “You remember that you know nothing about that mark, right?”

  “Brother Philip,” Father Michael sighed. “I do not have to listen to you. Not many people are interested in that mark, and there are even fewer who know the story connected to it.”

  There was a soft, sudden noise and Father Michael exhaled sharply.

  “Father Michael, you will not say another word, or me and my brothers-in-arms will make sure you shut up.”

  “Fuck you.” Father Michael swore at him and came walking out of the alcove.

  Behind him in the alcove there was a hard, hollow thump and seconds later the monk came into the aisle, a bloody wound on his head.

  “In the name of God, Father Michael, violence is an abomination in this holy place!” he shouted.

  “And yet threatening it does not seem to be,” Michael retorted.

  Monks and priests in various types of robes appeared, attracted by the noise. Several monks with a small badge of a white cross on a red field rushed to the wounded Brother Philip and priests in the white, purple and green of the Catholic Church angrily rounded on Father Michael. Father Michael raised his hands, protesting his innocence, but one of them in the mass angrily shoved him. A man in the same robes as Father Michael shoved the Catholic priest and suddenly the whole church was filled with shouting and fighting men.

  Cash and Makeda tried to make their way out of the church, but the aisle was blocked by other men of God who were streaming in. The pews began to be thrown over in the tumult. Cash swore loudly as the edge of a falling pew caught her shin. But nobody bothered to tell her off for swearing in the church. All the men who would have were busy fighting. Frightened, they retreated into the alcove where Father Michael and Brother Philip had just stood. There they hid and watched as priests and monks picked up candles and brooms to use as cudgels. This was insanity.

  As they stood watching, a small boy came into the alcove and touched Cash’s hip, which was as high as he could reach. He said something in Hebrew, which Cash could not understand. Makeda squatted down by the boy and asked him what he had said. He repeated it for her. She tousled his hair and dug some money out of her purse.

  “A message from your Father Michael,” Makeda said, grinning. “He says National Museum in Damascus, ask for Chiya.”

  It took a long time for calm to return to Holy Sepulcher, but eventually it was quiet enough for Cash and Makeda to make their exit. When they were on the street again, the dusk was setting in.

  “What the Hell was that?” Cash asked, still staggered by what had happened in the church.

  Makeda looked shell-shocked as well.

  “They’re always fighting over something. Greeks, Armenians, Ethiopian, Oriental, Catholic. They just don’t like each other.”

  Cash shook her head.

  “And I thought the abuse issue was the worst thing about the church.”

  They walked in silence through the streets. Shopkeepers were preparing their shops for the night. They were not exactly taking their wares indoors, but they were tidying up to make ready for the moment they would.

  “What was that about Damascus?”

  Makeda stopped her.

  “You’re not seriously thinking about going to Damascus now?”

  Cash frowned.

  “Why not?”

  “You can’t!” Makeda raised her voice, but was immediately aware of people looking at her. “You can’t,” she said more quietly. “The news said they had begun protesting there. And you know what that lead to in Bahrain, and in Tunisia, Egypt and Libya.”

  Cash shrugged.

  “So?”

  Makeda was stunned.

  “What
happened to just sitting down to write the book?”

  “I got interested?”

  Chapter Six

  Tim called again just as they sat down in a famous kosher seafood restaurant by the Tel Aviv seafront. He sounded drunk. Normally he rarely drank, and it must have been early in the day for him. The time difference was ten hours.

  He rambled on for a few minutes about how he missed her and how he was sorry for what he had done, until Cash cut him off and hung up. She sighed and buried her head in her arms. She looked at her knees under the table and sighed again.

  “Husband again?” Makeda asked her, pouring a glass of wine for each of them.

  Cash nodded. She sipped the wine and just sat in silence.

  “He was drunk. Said he was sorry. I don’t care.”

  Makeda looked at her.

  “Of course you do care. The question is, what you want to do about?”

  Cash drained her glass and held it up for Makeda to refill.

  “I don’t think I’m going to do anything. He can do the making up, if he wants to.”

  “There’s not someone else, is there?”

  Cash shrugged.

  “Yeah, nah...”

  “What?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Cash was confused about her feelings. She had not stopped to question anything since she had left. “There is someone I like, but I’m not even sure whether I like him like that because I like him, or because he was there for me when things were crap.”

  Makeda nodded and was about to make a response, but at that moment their food arrived.

  They walked back to the apartment in the dark. The promenade was lit up brightly, and the winds blew the sound of the city out into the dark of the Mediterranean. It was a beautiful scene, but Cash had no thought to spare for it right now. The drunk call had brought the reality of her life back to her. She had to figure out what was she was going to do.

  Her phone rang again. It was Jack. She was actually glad to hear his voice and found herself smiling. Her smile faded though when Jack told her Tim had come to his office, drunk, and accused him of setting his wife against him.