by K. T. Tomb
“Don’t know. I’ll be surprised if he gets through this mess,” Cash conceded.
She turned back to the window and the silence resumed. For minutes they kept quiet. There was no need to talk. They knew they both thought the same things.
There was a knock on the door and Makeda got up and opened it. The janitor stood in the hallway.
“Can I come in?”
Cash walked over and beckoned him in. She offered him the one chair in the room.
“How did you get up here Chiya?”
Chiya sat down and smiled at them.
“The receptionist is a cousin of mine. Do you have a beer or something?”
Cash opened the mini bar and grabbed a can. She handed it to the man.
“Wait, I thought Muslims weren’t supposed to drink?”
Chiya opened the can and took a few long draughts.
“Good thing I’m not Muslim.”
“You’re Christian?”Makeda asked as she sat down on the bed.
He shook his head.
“Zoroastrian,” he replied.
He saw the puzzled looks on the faces of the two women.
“Never mind that; there’s heaps of us left amongst the Kurds, but nobody else seems to know that.”
He sighed and took another sip of beer.
“Most don’t ask us anything, they just try to kill us. It’s been like that for centuries.”
Cash sat herself down next to Makeda on the bed.
“But Father Michael did ask you things?”
“Now how did you guess that?” He smiled and put his beer down on the desk. “He was an aid worker in Northern Iraq. He mainly worked from a village in a valley near where I come from. Just across the hill.”
“But why did Father Michael tell us to find you?” Makeda asked.
“Because you’re interested in the knight that found the cup?”
He sounded like he was guessing, but he knew they would not have come to him for anything else. Both Cash and Makeda nodded, confirming what he already knew.
“Selahedînê was from those same hills. Those that were of his tribe still live there even now. Stories about his time are still being told. One of the stories from that time is the battle over a silver cup. It never mentions Selahedînê, but it mentions his sons and his brother.”
Cash interrupted him.
“Wait, I thought Saladin was born in Tikrit, like Saddam Hussein.”
Chiya touched his nose.
“So it is said. Of course being born in Tikrit would make him an Arab. A great Arab empire has to be lead by an Arab, not a Kurdish tribesman.” He smiled at them. “It’s the same old story everywhere throughout the world. Blood matters, title matters. Maybe in your world it has changed, but here it matters to this day.”
He drained the can of beer before continuing.
“Father Michael had been to the Church of the Holy Sepulcher before he came to Iraq. He was not a priest then, but he had visited it and he had seen the engraving of the knight, claiming he had found the Holy Grail. He made the connection immediately when he heard the story.”
Cash pulled up her legs and crossed them underneath her, then leaned forward. She was curious as to the story this man had to tell.
“Selahedînê’s great enemies were not the Crusaders. His great enemies came from within his own empire. They were the Hashashins. A cult dedicated to fighting, not for Islam, but for martyrdom. They became too powerful and he had to fight a campaign against them. Much like the King of France and the Pope had to do with the Knights Templar not long after.
‘After an attempt on his life, he declared war on them and managed to kill their leader. They scattered and went underground, but never disappeared. Yet they were not a danger to him anymore.’
After Selahedînê’s death, his empire was divided into several parts. Al-Zahir became ruler of Aleppo, Al-Afdal ruled Syria from here in Damascus, Al-Aziz ruled Egypt and Selahedînê’s brother Saphadin gained the kingdoms of Kerak and Shoubak. His might meant he took control of Egypt after Al-Aziz’s death and was eventually followed as sultan of Egypt by Al-Adil, another son of Selahedînê.
“One of the treasures Selahedînê left behind was a small silver cup. Immediately after his death the brothers began fighting over it. None of them could gain and in the end general Saphadin stated he would take it. That evening, the Hashashins raided the camp outside the walls of Damascus. The cup disappeared that night, but it was clear who had taken it from the actions of the Hashashins. They had found a new leader in Al-Afdal and now took his orders. Al-Afdal was an incompetent governor and an equally incompetent military leader. It was well known he was a fool, and had it not been for the Hashashins on his side, he would have been destroyed very swiftly.
“Another clue to who had taken the cup came in the frequent attempts of the Knights Templar to reach Damascus and the lands around it. Always they clashed with the Hashashins in bloody battles. Al-Zahir and Saphadin became impatient with Al-Afdal’s incompetent rule. They formed an alliance and several years into his reign they marched on Damascus. They destroyed his army but let him live. They took everything he had and sent him into exile. It was Al-Zahir who took the cup then and took it to Aleppo. But Al-Zahir was no fool and he rightly feared what the Hashashins would do to get their hands on that cup. He knew that the Templars were after it too and he took his precautions. A new community had settled in Aleppo. A community of Armenian Christians and they had begun building a church. He knew the Templars would not dare to attack another Christian church, for fear of reprisals from the Byzantines, and he asked Christian knights and trusted Muslim guards to watch over the church to stop the Hashashins.
Neither the Templars nor the Hashashins were fools though. Someone must have hatched a plan and the Armenian King, Leo of Cilicia found out about the treasure that was being held in a church belonging to his people. When Al-Zahir refused to let the cup be carried out of Aleppo, he marched and Al-Zahir had to challenge him. King Leo won and Al-Zahir retreated, severely weakened. Leo never threatened the city, but Al-Zahir knew then that the cup would not be safe there anymore. The Templars would keep pressing and they would help King Leo in his efforts to take the cup from Aleppo. The Hashashins would keep trying to kill him and the guards of the church to get the cup. So within a week of his returning to Aleppo, the cup disappeared. It has not been seen since.”
He paused there, picking up the beer can again and putting it to his lips, only to realize it was empty. He grunted at that and got up.
“That is the summarized version, if you want the full tale of Al-Zahir and the cup; I’ll want another beer and an armed guard to get back home.”
Cash sighed and got up as well.
“We can oblige you on the first. The armed guard will be difficult.”
The big-bellied Kurd grinned as he took the cold can of beer from Cash’s hand.
“Ah well, can’t have everything.”
“So where was it seen last then?”
“According to legend it was kept at a small church in an Armenian cemetery. They built the Cathedral of the Forty Martyrs over it.”
Chapter Eight
Cash and Makeda ran to the cathedral as mortars began raining down on Aleppo. The priest had just begun closing the doors as they came running towards the Cathedral of the Forty Martyrs. A shell exploded near the car and they ran faster as shards of metal tore into the vehicle.
Makeda looked around in the doorway and saw another shell shatter close to her car.
“Fuck!” she screamed.
The priest opened his mouth to protest her swearing in his church, but decided not to. Under the circumstances he would swear too. Cash pulled Makeda into the church and sat her down on a pew.
“Okay, this time I will agree we should not have come here.”
Despite her despair, Makeda laughed at that.
“We should have come here, but I don’t know whether we can ever get out of here.”
A shell exploded by the do
or, spewing stone, rock and shards against the wood. The whole church reverberated from the impact.
“In that case, we should probably not worry about getting out of here until we’ve done what we came to do.”
The priest spoke very little English, and the others who had come into the cathedral to find shelter from the violence spoke none at all. Makeda asked him in Hebrew, and he seemed to understand some of what she said. He replied in Arabic, using single words. Makeda could make out most of what he was trying to say. Arabic and Hebrew were related languages and shared a lot of vocabulary, she explained to Cash.
“He knows nothing about the Grail.” She said. “He thinks the fighting will leave the city soon and seems to think they are fighting over the pipelines south of the city.”
The priest’s thoughts were a small comfort. If he was right, they would be able to leave the city soon but it did nothing to help Cash relax. She thought about the Grail; the cup found by the Swedish knight, passed through the hands of Saladin, of his sons and left here in this city, possibly under this cathedral. A simple silver cup that had been fought over by two of the most infamous religious orders, cults even, that had ever been.
“Is there a crypt under the Cathedral?” Cash asked.
Makeda asked the priest, but he refused to answer.
They sat together on the pew, waiting for the bombardment to stop when Cash’s phone rang.
Cash picked up without looking at the name on the screen.
“Cash.”
“I spoke to Jack.” Tim sounded sober this time.
“Did you now?” Cash could not stop herself sounding angry.
She was on the verge of hanging up the moment she heard his voice. Especially right now, with grenades exploding around her, she did not want to talk to her husband. Makeda got up and began pacing around the cathedral, not wanting to intrude on the conversation.
“I went to give him a hiding for stealing my wife. He said he had not stolen you, but I had lost you. I had lost you by being a Grade ‘A’ twat. And he is right. I was being a twat.”
Cash took her thumb off the button.
“You were,” she muttered softly, barely audible.
“You are a brilliant, strong woman and I forced this move on you. I tried to make you into a show piece to have on my arm.” Tim was silent for a moment. “I was too caught up with my own career and making the right impression to realize you could never accept that.”
Cash felt tears beginning to roll down her cheeks, but she was not sad, she was relieved. Finally he understood what she had felt. Tim had tried to apologize, but that was never what she had wanted. She needed him to understand what he had done and how he had hurt her. Suddenly she missed him as well.
“If you want to go back to Wales, we’ll work something out, but I don’t ever want to lose you.”
A rocket struck in the street, shaking the building.
“Cash, what was that? Where are you?” She heard a hint of panic in Tim’s voice.
“Aleppo.” She said, her voice steady, even though her tears were flowing now. “They’re bombing the place.”
“There’s tons of protests there...” Tim tried to object. “CNN reports...”
“Seriously? You’re seriously telling me they are just protesting when I’m telling you someone is shelling the place?” She raised her voice, even though she did not want to. “I’m sorry...” She began to apologize.
“No, I’m sorry.” They both fell silent.
Makeda called from the other side of the Cathedral.
“Cash, you have to see this.”
Cash walked over, her phone still held to her ear.
“What did you find?”
Makeda pointed at a small painting on a leather panel. It was placed behind a pillar, close to the ground and out of sight. It depicted a Saracen dressed in great splendor handing something over to another man. Behind each man was a small armed force, and three distinct armies seemed to be approaching in the background. Cash looked closely for details, beginning in the background. One army was clearly Saracen, the middle one was indistinct. The army streaming in from the left of the picture wore white tunics though. White tunics with red crosses.
The man taking the item from the Saracen prince wore a black tunic with a white cross. His men wore robes of all different colors, though invariably with a cross on it. He had a shield on his arm. The coat of arms on the shield was a quartered one. The left top and right bottom quarters were red fields with a white cross, the others were white fields with a cross of blue shields. Each of the small blue shields held five white dots.
And then she noticed the item that was being passed. It was a simple, plain silver cup.
“Cash?” Tim’s voice asked through the phone.
Cash dropped the phone from her ear. She looked for more details to see what this painting meant. There was some text underneath, but it was not in Latin script. She lifted her phone again.
“Tim? Could you help with something?”
Tim was silent for a moment.
“With what?”
Cash nudged Makeda. “If we email you a picture, could you translate the writing on it?”
“Depends, but If I can’t there will be someone here who can translate it.”
“It has to be you. They’ve been trying to stop us. I don’t know who might be involved.”
“I’ll take care of it.”
“Thanks.”
She hesitated about what to say next. It was not okay between them at all yet, but she felt right saying it now. “I love you.”
“I love you.”
It was dark before Makeda’s phone beeped and told her she had an email. It was from Tim. He had sent back the picture they had sent him earlier, but below it there were two lines of text:
‘It’s Classical Armenian.
1206. The Emir of Aleppo gives the Cup of Christ to the Grandmaster of the Order of St John.’
Cash immediately dialed Tim’s number.
“Thank you.” She said the moment he picked up.
“That’s what I’m here for.”
“If I ever get out of here, I’ll make it up to you.”
Tim held his tongue for a moment.
“Nothing to make up for.”
They were both silent again. It was one of those awkward pauses that made both people feel guilty for the silence but where neither knew what to say.
“Go to Tartus.” Tim said.
“What?”
“Don’t go south to Damascus. There’s fighting South of Aleppo and at Homs. You won’t get past through there. North is the way out. Turkey has closed the border.” He sighed. “The Russian Navy has a base at Tartus. Nobody will attack there, you’ll be safe. Just go West but avoid Latakia. I’ll try to see whether I can find a way out of Syria for you.”
“Okay.” Cash mumbled.
She simply did not know what to say.
“Just get out in one piece.” Tim said before hanging up.
There had been no panic or worry in his voice now. There had just been determination.
The car was beaten up but still drivable. Makeda sighed as she ran a finger over one of the big tears in the body work. The shelling had stopped, and people were in the streets again. The road was filled with holes and it was almost impossible to drive in a straight line. They headed west out of the sprawling city. In some parts of the suburbs there were no signs of any problems, but other neighborhoods already showed the scars of the skirmishes that had taken place.
On the main road, roadblocks had already begun to appear and Makeda, who drove the car, went around them as much as she could by taking smaller roads and farm tracks. She drove until dawn and left Cash to try and sleep, but sleep was hard to find that night.
As the sun rose, Cash took the wheel and turned them onto a road south. It took another hour before they began driving up into the mountains.
On the top of the ridge there was a check point. Cash slowed the car. She nudg
ed Makeda, who had managed to fall asleep.
“Wake up.”
Makeda’s eyes flew open and she looked ahead.
“Check point.”
They approached slowly, trying to figure out what the check point was. The men carried weapons, but Cash could not make out whether it was police, military or something else. She did not feel good about it. It did not feel right.
She heard a noise behind them and looked in the mirror. There was a green truck approaching. The men in front of them were suddenly all activity. A rattle of gun fire sounded. Makeda was fully awake now. She looked around frantically. To their left was a track. It lead to another road further down the hill.
“Left.”
Cash steered them onto the track and slowed down, struggling to keep control of the car on the gravel. Behind them the truck advanced towards the road block. There was more gunfire. She glanced at the mirror and Makeda looked around.
“No...” She sounded shocked.
Soldiers had jumped from the truck and ran onto the sides of the road, climbing the hill. They scattered and closed in on the road block fast. The men on the edge were firing, but not hitting. Suddenly the rate of fire increased. The soldiers had opened fire and within moments the whole thing was over.
They reached the outskirts of Tartus as the sun began setting. The city was quiet. Jeeps and trucks with the white flag of Saint Andrew drove through the streets here and kept the peace. There was sporadic gunfire in the country around them, but the city was quiet. People were even enjoying drinks and food at outside restaurants and cafes. They were smiling and laughing. As they neared the seaside, they saw a group of blonde men drinking from a bottle outside a brightly lit place, most of them with a woman on their arm or on their lap. In the harbor lay several warships, flying the same white flag with the cross of St Andrew.
Cash had gotten a text from Tim telling them to drive south along the sea until they were met by their pick up. She had no idea what it meant, but she knew she had to follow the instructions. She would drive south out of the city, and if they did not meet anyone, they would drive back into Tartus and seek the protection of the Russian Navy.
They left the city and found nothing but farms and beach. There was nothing here. Nothing at all, apart from another road block. The road blocks in the city had all been set up by the Russian sailors and they had flown that white ensign of theirs. She slowed down. She saw guns being leveled at them. These men looked rough and uncompromising. She looked for a place where she could turn the car, but there was none. They had the beach to the right of them, farmland to the left. There were motorcycles and cars by the road block. They would not escape this one. The men fired warning shots and she slowed to a crawl. They fired at the car now and Makeda screamed. Cash just swore. She kept up a constant, muttered stream of swear words. A bullet shattered their windshield and struck the backseat.
