by Anne Perry
“We will take you to shelter,” the leading horseman offered. “And food. You must need rest. We are not far from Jerusalem. It will be an easy journey in the daylight. Come.” He looked at Vespasia, then back at Narraway. “I’m sure the lady has walked far enough.” He was obliquely asking for Narraway’s permission to take her on his horse.
Of course she had walked more than far enough. Her whole body ached and her feet were rubbed raw with sand grains inside her boots. They were designed to be comfortable but not for desert hiking.
Narraway did not hesitate. “Thank you,” he accepted. They all knew that any alternative was better than remaining in the desert to face the Watcher. Even if they survived that encounter, it still left them to walk the unknown distance to Jerusalem, possibly wounded.
The horseman rode forward and reached down to assist Vespasia up in front of him onto the saddle. She could have ridden behind. She was a good horsewoman, but he could not have known that.
Others rode forward and Narraway and Benedict were assisted up as well, in their cases to sit astride behind the riders.
The Watcher was closer, but other horsemen moved forward, long, curved scimitars drawn. Within moments they turned to ride with gathering speed over the hard, flat earth toward the east.
Vespasia had no idea how long the ride was. It seemed closer to two hours than one, but eventually they arrived at a large building in the center of what was a well-watered and civilized area. However, she could see even in the fitful moonlight that it was all one estate rather than a town.
They rode into a kind of courtyard where torches were burning, giving a warm glow, and there seemed to be several men waiting for them. They took the horses, assisting Vespasia in dismounting and rearranging her skirts before being conducted into the paved and firelit outer room, and then farther inside again to where a group of people awaited them.
Their leader was immediately apparent. He was a tall man, and she guessed he was in his late forties. His thick, dark beard was untouched by gray, yet there was maturity to his features and deep lines of character, powerful and mercurial. She guessed he was a man used to being obeyed. He was dressed in plain robes, but there was gold on his hands and around his neck. He introduced himself with a long name beginning with “Haroun.”
“Welcome to my house,” he said warmly, looking at them each in turn. “My men told me that your train broke down, and then unfortunately when it was mended and started again it was remiss enough to have left you behind? And then some wandering robber pursued you? Allow me to offer you the hospitality of my home and redeem some of the shame of my country that you should be treated in such a way. It is not our custom, I assure you.”
Benedict looked tired, dirty, and uncomfortable. He allowed Narraway to speak for all of them.
Narraway was also exhausted and filthy from not only tramping across the desert country but also fighting with the Watcher, but he appeared not to be disconcerted by it.
“Thank you,” he said with considerable dignity. “I am afraid we are much in need of help. We must be in Jerusalem by the eve of Christmas, and although it is not far, I believe, we have no means of traveling, except to walk.”
“Of course. First you must eat, and then rest.” Haroun was smiling now. “Then we will accompany you to Jerusalem. You must allow my men to do that much for you. Unfortunately there are robbers on the road.” He gave a very slight shrug, the gold on his hands and wrists gleaming in the light. “Especially at this time of the year when there are so many pilgrims around. It is most regrettable.”
Haroun was an excellent host. Although it was beyond midnight, he ordered a delicate and refreshing meal for them and plenty of both wine and water.
“Tell me about yourselves,” he invited them, leaning back in his chair and regarding them one by one. His eyes lingered with interest on Vespasia. He must have wondered what an Englishwoman past her prime, was doing on foot in the desert in the middle of the night. What reversal in her fortunes could have occasioned such an event?
Benedict did not seem to interest him so much. Compared with Narraway, he was bland, and too young to have much experience. He was nondescript, neither dark nor fair. There was nothing within his face except bewilderment, and now also weariness.
“Are you pilgrims?” Haroun inquired.
Vespasia looked at his face. From his expression, she knew he was not merely making polite conversation. It was clearly Narraway he was addressing, so she did not answer. She wondered how Narraway would answer. If she had been asked when they left London, she would have answered that they were not. The idea would have amused her. Now she was far less certain. Were they indeed pilgrims? Disciples in a faith they really knew only in outline and ritual, but not in their souls?
As though prompted by her thought, Narraway answered.
“Are not we all explorers, pilgrims of one sort or another?” he said it with a smile. “The difference between us is the point at which we realize it.”
Vespasia looked at him with a tenderness that overwhelmed her. Was he saying that for himself? Or had he somehow understood it in her also? Or was it for both of them?
Rather than being put off, Haroun seemed to be more interested. He studied Narraway’s dark face for some moments, then he looked at Benedict, and back again.
“An old city, Jerusalem,” he said thoughtfully. “Where is it you go? To the City of David? The Western Wall of the Temple he was not permitted to build because of the blood on his hands? Or the Dome of the Rock, where Mohammed ascended to heaven? Or the Via Dolorosa, along which Christ carried his own cross?”
Narraway smiled at him and took a sip of the excellent wine. “Perhaps I go to the Mount Moriah where Abraham paid his tithes to Melchizedek, on his way to Egypt, and later was prepared to sacrifice his beloved son Isaac,” he said thoughtfully.
Haroun gave an answering smile. “I think perhaps you are a diplomat, sir, carefully choosing the middle ground: Abraham, the father of all three of the great religions. You are safe with that.”
“You make him sound indecisive,” Benedict cut in. “A man of no specific commitment. We respect all, but we hold our own beliefs.”
Vespasia was surprised to hear him speak of all three of them as if their opinions were one.
Narraway did not respond.
Haroun looked at Benedict. “So you go to all equally, no one is against you, and no one is for you! Who was the robber in the desert who followed you so assiduously?”
“An evil man,” Benedict said softly. “A man who has failed in his unhappy existence.”
“He was very strong, and very angry,” Vespasia spoke for the first time. She was quite aware of the decorum expected of her, that she should not argue or contradict the men, indeed that she should not speak unless invited to. But she would not allow Benedict to speak for her, as if he had that right.
Benedict looked surprised. “Is that not the greatest of all failings, to allow your anger to divert your strength into abusing others? Strength should only ever be used for good. The abuse of power is man’s greatest failure, is it not?”
“What a strange person you are,” Haroun said with quickened awareness. He studied Benedict’s face, as if examining it would enlighten him. “There is pity in your voice…and yet the man would have robbed you of what little you have, even your lives! Or, of course, he might have held you for ransom for whatever wealth he imagines your families to possess?”
“I have no more wealth than he,” Benedict told him. “Except perhaps knowledge. Yes, I have knowledge he does not, because he does not believe it. He does not understand.”
“And you do?” Haroun looked at Benedict then turned to Narraway. “And you also understand? You look like a man who has wealth. Your clothes and shoes are of good quality. Your wife also wears fine clothes. I know something of the beauty of Western women, and I see she is exceptional. Maybe he wished to hold you for ransom?”
Vespasia felt a shiver of discomfort.
She was so tired that the room took on a hazy quality, as if the distances between one table and another were more than they should be, as if the walls, the exquisite pillows were moving, yet she had no more than sipped the wine.
“I doubt it,” Narraway replied, seeming to speak casually, and yet Vespasia was aware that he was choosing his words with the greatest care. “When I had office, that would have been worth someone’s time. But not now. We are simply travelers, like any others, wishing to be in Jerusalem for Christmas.”
“The three of you?” Haroun asked.
“My wife and I, yes. Benedict must answer for himself.”
Haroun looked at Benedict.
Benedict’s smile was sweet and gentle. “Oh, yes. It is every man’s purpose, whether he knows it or not. We are fortunate in that we know it.”
“How do you know?” Now Haroun was the charming host again. “You speak with such conviction. Someone you believe has told you? Ah…better than that, you have seen a sign?” He smiled back, showing wonderful white teeth. “I know your legend of the star that shines over Jerusalem…”
“Bethlehem,” Vespasia corrected him.
“Yes…Beit Lechem. That means ‘the House of Bread,’ you know? But tell me, how can a star shine over one particular place? We have a saying, ‘You cannot step into the same river twice,’ meaning that the water flows and is never the same. The earth turns. How do you follow a star, except if it’s at the pole?”
Narraway gave the question some thought, and this time Benedict remained silent.
The answer formed itself slowly in Vespasia’s mind, and by the time Narraway spoke, she was as certain of it as if she had said the words herself.
“It is not a vision in the sky.” Narraway measured his reply. “As you say, it would appear to us to move, as the earth turns. This is perfectly steady, a certainty within you that the thing you are looking for is unblemished, a light by which all other things can be seen for what they truly are.”
The interest in Haroun’s face changed from polite attention to a swift, keen single-minded concentration.
“Indeed!” He let out his breath slowly. “If that is so, then I understand why you walk the desert at night in such a fashion. It would be a treasure beyond any price. Other men might well attack you, if they were aware you sought such a thing. Why do you take your wife with you? The danger will affect her also: that you must have considered. Or did you think that no others would know it, and you would pass simply as pilgrims, two among the thousands of others?”
The idea of being no more than camouflage did not appeal to Vespasia, but she knew it would be unwise—and, to Haroun, unseemly—for her to speak now. But she saw the flash of anger in Narraway’s eyes. Would he tell Haroun that she had as much courage and intelligence as any man? Or that she was the daughter of an earl, an English lord of high rank, and not accustomed to being treated with disrespect? Or even that the wealth was hers?
He chose simply the one truth that mattered. He did it with a smile.
“The journey was my Christmas gift to her. At the outset I did not know of this…star. But then, at the beginning of any journey, who knows where the end will be?”
Haroun smiled back and there was a glint of appreciation in his eyes. “That would be a journey well worth the making,” he agreed. “But all the same, this is perilous. Did the robber who so closely followed you know that you have seen such a star?”
“I have only the evidence I have told you,” Narraway replied. “Certainly he seemed to think we had something worth his attention—and risk. Twice already we have fought with him. But he may imagine my wife has jewels.” He left the suggestion hanging.
Haroun looked at Benedict. “And have you seen the star also?”
“Oh, yes. I have followed it a long way. And the Watcher has always been not far behind.”
“The Watcher?” Haroun said quickly. “That is the man in the desert who followed you so assiduously?”
“Yes.”
“He has attempted before to steal it from you?”
“You cannot steal a belief,” Narraway interrupted before Benedict could give away more.
“Yes, you can.” Benedict would not be silenced. “Weariness, fear, disillusionment with what you had thought, before the greater understanding comes to you; physical pain, loneliness, loss—all can take away your faith, your ability to press forward. The star is not always visible. Sometimes for all the straining of your eyes, you cannot see it. All you can do is remember where it was, and keep traveling.” He stopped suddenly, as if finally realizing that he had said too much.
Haroun was looking at him intently, the beginning of a new comprehension in his face.
Vespasia was overcome by a wave of tiredness. The food had sustained her a little, and they were temporarily safe from the Watcher, but they still had far to go. And they had not yet found the third piece of paper, without which the two they had made little sense—in fact none at all.
“Tomorrow is the eve of Christmas,” she said gently, looking at Haroun. “We are deeply grateful to you for rescuing us not only from the robber, but from the cold of the desert night, the hunger and thirst, and the possibly insurmountable difficulty of walking the rest of the way to Jerusalem. Perhaps after a little sleep, you will be kind enough to direct us in the rest of our path?”
“Of course.” His manner of the host returned again. “You need somewhere to rest so that you may arrive at the correct time.” He rose to his feet. “But I would be lacking in my duty, and renouncing my privilege as your host, if I allowed you to make the rest of your way unguarded or unprotected. In the morning you must rise and eat, and then my men will accompany you to the city gates. It is not far. You will arrive safely, and well in time to keep your appointment with Destiny.” He smiled. “I will ride with you. No! Don’t try to dissuade me. This is a journey of all mankind. It is only right that I come with you, and make it myself. It is an honor.” He inclined his head a fraction, the nearest he would ever come to a bow.
Vespasia did not need even to glance at Narraway. They both knew it would be not only discourteous but dangerous to try to refuse him. It would also be pointless. They had accepted his help when they were in great danger from the Watcher, and from the desert itself. The obligation was overwhelming.
“Thank you,” Narraway said gravely, his expression indefinable.
Benedict actually seemed pleased, as if he could see only the advantage of having a man of such rank with them. Vespasia could not help thinking that he was naïve to a dangerous degree. Whoever had entrusted to him such an important undertaking? And where was the third piece of the puzzle? What manner of person would be the keeper of that? Please heaven he was still alive…Or she? Could it be a woman? Probably not.
They slept deeply for what remained of the night, then after a light breakfast they set out in the dawn. There was a brief discussion as to whether Vespasia could manage a horse herself. She gave the impertinent man a look that should have frozen the sweat on his skin, and was permitted a gentle mare, which she accepted with more grace than she felt. She had ridden since she was a child, and very well.
They left the huge estate and rode out along a worn and level track that nevertheless quickly disappeared into sand and loose shale. The air was cold and smelled of stone and dust, with a faint aroma of bitter herbs. It was exhilarating, as if it held a promise of something utterly new. Vespasia breathed in deeply, and felt herself smiling. She ought to have been exhausted still, but instead she was excited.
The dawn was pale in the east, giving enough light so no animal stumbled, but it was a delicate light, all bleached colors almost without substance. A slight wind stirred, shifting the dust between the stones, too soft to make any noise.
Then suddenly the sun rose above the horizon, brilliant, a white fire in the sky that painted the landscape with borrowed colors, purples and peaches and gold. Shadows were dark, umber, almost black. There was an illusion that one could see for m
iles, every rise and fall of the land, every buttress of rock or ancient, gnarled remnant of a tree.
The day took its own shape again. The air of new birth was swallowed up in the journey.
They began to talk. There was no longer any spell to be broken by conversation.
“Now there is daylight and we can see.” Haroun was the first to speak. He was riding beside Narraway and Vespasia, and ahead of Benedict. “Are we then equal, or does this star within give you power still?” He was smiling to rob the remark of offense, but there was curiosity in his voice.
Narraway chose to play it lightly. “I’m afraid not. We are still dependent on your grace to get us to Jerusalem. We owe you both our means of transport and our guidance. Away from the railway tracks we are blind.”
“But safe,” Haroun pointed out. “Your Watcher no longer knows where he can find you, nor could he vanquish you even if he did. Is that not better?”
“Certainly,” Narraway agreed. “Anything we could accomplish in Jerusalem is pointless, if we do not get there.”
Now Haroun’s smile showed his white teeth. “And you trust me to get you there! You are a man of great faith.”
Narraway was not a man to trust in faith at all, and Vespasia knew that. He was a man of deep knowledge and skill, adept at meticulous planning, and a great judge of men and their motives. He could hardly have led an organization like Special Branch, defending the country from its secret enemies within and without, were he to rely on faith of any sort. But she had no wish for Haroun to know that Narraway was what to him would be termed a spymaster.
And of course this journey had nothing to do with Special Branch. They were on a private holiday, a journey intended as a gift, an exploration peculiarly appropriate to this time of year. Christian in values, perhaps, but not in any spiritual sense. At least that is how it had begun.
