Chinon Cathedral was a church in all but name, albeit slightly larger than other rural places of worship. It had no great sense of either age or presence, but it was well guarded nonetheless.
Aymeric was stopped at the gate by two surly men who looked him up and down sourly.
“What is your business here?”
“I am Aymeric Moro de Bologna and I have come from Paris to speak to the Cardinal. I carry important documents that he needs to see immediately.”
The second guard moved to flank Aymeric on the opposite side of the horse from the first.
“Let’s see the papers then.”
“They are for the Cardinal’s eyes only,” Aymeric replied, and put a hand on the hilt of his sword. The threat was implicit.
The guard looked him up and down again, as if assessing Aymeric’s strength of purpose. He didn’t like what he saw. A minute later Aymeric was through the gate and tethering his mount at the main door of the cathedral itself. Five minutes after that, he was shown into the Cardinal’s chambers.
◆◆◆
The Cardinal cut an austere, grave figure, sitting on a tall throne – a better throne than the one occupied by the King in Paris, Aymeric noted – dressed in red velvet robes that covered him head to toe so that only his head looked in any way real, like some grotesque puppet show. His beard was trimmed neatly to a lengthy point, and his bald scalp was dotted with a map of liver spots amid thin wisps of hair. His eyes were deepest blue, and clear as spring water as he watched Aymeric approach.
“I do not have to ask after your parentage, lad,” the Cardinal said, “for it is written as clear as day on your face.”
Aymeric knelt in front of the aged man and produced LeClair’s confession from inside his shirt.
“If you know my father, then you know he is a good man, unjustly vexed by a weak King. I have here a confession, signed by Gaston LeClair that will clear his name, and that of my brethren in the Order.”
The Cardinal took the scroll from the pouch and read it before replying.
“Would that it were that simple,” he said, sadly. “But this is enough for me to at least do something. Your father is indeed a good man. I am troubled by his incarceration.”
“Then rejoice,” Aymeric said, “for he is freed from his cell and even now on his way to Rome to petition the church. I only ask for your help in ensuring the veracity of this confession is confirmed.”
“Lucian is on his way to Rome? That is better news than I hoped, young man. And in that case, I can help you, far more than you have requested.”
◆◆◆
When Aymeric rode from Chinon the next morning he carried a letter from the Cardinal, who, in the light of LeClair’s confession, had signed a decree absolving the Templars of all heresy and condemning the King for his actions, putting the holy man directly at odds with the Crown. It was a brave move. One that the Cardinal had repeated three times, writing one missive to send to Paris, one to go to the Pope in Avignon, and the third for Aymeric to take to Rome.
“It will not be enough for the King,” the Cardinal had warned him as they parted. “But it should sway both Pope and Rome, I pray. With those two against him, even Phillip will have to recant.”
Aymeric left Chinon on the long road to Rome with hope in his heart.
It felt like victory.
The first in a very long time.
1309
ALAMUT
Samira stood below the ruins of Alamut fortress, blinking in the late autumn sun. Even this late in the year sun beat down hard on her, making her skull feel like it had been gripped between rocks that were intent on crushing the bones to dust.
“You must be there on the day of the third new moon after midsummer,” Javed had said when they parted, almost a full month previously. “That is when your spirit will be most able to penetrate the mountain’s secrets.”
Samira had wanted to say no, to stay in the cave with him; Javed’s health had continued to deteriorate over the long months since he told her his story, and the change in him was extreme. He spent most of his days huddled inside layers of furs, hunched over the fire and infusing his body with pot after pot of that black tea of his, like an addiction that demanded to be fed. Every morning he coughed up blood, and there was more in his waters when he passed them.
“You will die, father,” she said.
He had laughed at that.
“As will you, my not so little fish. All things must pass, from the smallest to the mightiest. If it is Allah’s will, then it is Allah’s will. Who am I to deny it?”
When he told her it was time to go, they argued, long and hard, but in the end it was his call to her duty as a daughter that swayed her.
She just had to trust that his desire to see the dagger and hold it in his hand once more would be enough to keep him alive while she brought it to him.
That simple logic sustained her in the long trek over mountain and desert that had finally led her here, under the tall crags and broken turrets of the ruin of Alamut.
She was dressed as the old man had taught her; in robes that concealed her sex but were comfortable for both walking and fighting in, earthen colours to hide her from prying eyes if needed, and easily cast off if required for fight or flight. She carried a single long knife, but Javed had ordered that it only be used for cutting food, or wood for a fire.
“Any fool can kill,” were his last words to her by the cave mouth. “Avoiding bloodletting is what makes a true Fidai. Return with the dagger without spilling a drop of a man’s blood, and you will join me in the ranks of the chosen.”
◆◆◆
She had followed the map in her mind this past month, etched there in memory from Javed’s tracing of it in the earth of the cave floor. The old man had drawn true; his memory of rivers, valley, mountain paths and forests had led her straight here, on the appointed day for her task.
The fortress loomed high above her. The broken turrets were indistinguishable from the sharp shards of rock that encircled the top of the mountain.
She tugged off the scarf that covered the lower half of her face and took a swig of water from her goatskin.
Even the water was warm now, but at least it washed away the dry taste of hot sand for a while.
Samira was careful not to take too much; there was no sign of a spring in the area, and it might be a long walk before she could replenish the goatskin.
She moved into the shade of a tall tumbled rock in order to get a better look at the path ahead of her. A track, wide at this lower point, wound its way up the mountain through what had once been a fortified causeway but was now only broken stone and crumbling ruins. Javed had told her that to reach the hidden library she must first ascend to the highest point of the mountain. Her heart sank at the prospect, for the way was steep, the mountain was high, and the sun was unrelenting. But tonight was the night of the new moon; she had to be at the top before it was above her in the sky.
She left the relative shelter of the tall rock and started to climb.
◆◆◆
For the first hour it was no more difficult than carrying water to Javed’s cave, but as the afternoon wore on the heat became oppressive, the sun-baked rocks radiating warmth back at her so fiercely she was being slowly roasted from the outside in. Samira took what little rest she could find in pockets of shade, but even then the air burned in her nose and throat with every breath.
She stopped at what she gauged to be almost halfway and was dismayed when she looked upward; the path ahead was steeper still, and fallen rock and rubble made it treacherous. She would be forced to clamber more often than walk. She tore two strips of cloth from her scarf and wrapped them round her hands for protection, and took another swallow from her dwindling supply of water, before she once again headed up.
As she had feared, the tumbled rocks made for poor terrain and despite the cloth protection her fingers and palms were raw and sore after only a few minutes. The heat bore down on her like a physical weight.
/> Samira climbed higher.
She eventually gained respite and shade when the sun descended beyond the far side of the mountain from her track, but it took an hour after that for the heat in the rocks to dissipate.
By the time she reached the tumbled ruin of the main fortifications at the mountaintop, she was spent.
◆◆◆
Samira sat, breathing heavily, on a long piece of worked stone, and drank down almost half of her remaining water to stave off the surge of dizziness threatening to overwhelm her. It was several minutes before her breathing calmed, her heart ceased to drum so heavily, and she was able to look around and take in her surroundings.
In its day the fortress must have been impregnable, sitting as it did at the very top of the mountain, with sheer cliffs on three sides and a heavily fortified gateway at the end of the causeway. That gateway was reduced to piles of broken stone and rubble, some of the stonework showing the tell-tale scorch marks of extreme heat, not from the sun, but from deliberate burning.
She remembered Javed’s story; the takeover of the fortress had been a peaceful one, and there had been no battle, no decayed bodies of the dead disturbing the high peak. But that hadn’t stopped the Mongols from completely sacking the towers and turrets, whether in search of the fabled library, or just to ensure no enemy might use it against them it could not be told at this distance in time.
She sat on the long stone for some time, letting the cool mountain breeze that rose up in the evening air revive her.
She moved when the breeze only served to remind her of Javed, alone in his cave, sick and waiting for her return.
I am coming, father. It is almost done.
She began a search of the ruins, looking for a stairwell that would lead her down to the mountain’s heart.
◆◆◆
Her search took longer than she would have hoped.
The moon came up over the low hills in the horizon, the merest of thin slivers showing of the crescent. Samira considered calling on her spirit to show the way, but she was exhausted, and knew that the breath of Allah would be needed once she reached her final destination.
She was rewarded for her perseverance by the new moonlight, casting light on a spot previously lost in shadow. It showed her the way. A darker area on the ground proved to be an opening, little more than the width of her shoulders, leading down to a set of stone steps beyond.
She squeezed through, feet first, and fell to a rocky floor several feet below. The only light was a dim glow from the opening she had come through, but Samira had no qualms about descending into the darkness; Javed had taught her there was nothing to fear for a Fedai, indeed, the dark was their friend. Samira embraced it and started down the stairwell.
Her every sense was alive.
She felt the cold rock of the stairs underfoot, the roughness of the walls at her fingers.
She tasted soot and dust, stirred up by her movements, and smelled the musty odour of rot, faint but unmistakable.
The only sounds in the dark world was the pad of her feet on the stone and the soft breath in her throat as she descended.
If nothing else, the Mongols had been thorough in their destruction. The mountain was riddled with chambers, but Samira found nothing in any of them but burned remnants of rugs, furniture and beds, and soot-stained walls where the fire had raged.
There were still no bodies, no sign of violence, but Samira did not relax or drop her guard, remembering her training. She crept down through the dark passages and chambers, moving swiftly, a shadow in a place where there was nothing else.
She sensed that time was getting short; this search was taking longer than expected, the chambers under the mountain being larger and more extensive than she had imagined. Then she smelled it again; the taint of rot, stronger here than it had been at higher levels.
She headed deeper, confident on the stairs now despite being completely blind in the blackness.
◆◆◆
The smell of rot grew worse. The air was cold here, reminding her once again of winter on the hillside in the cave, but there was little of any mountain freshness in it; it tasted old and stale in her throat.
Something died down here.
Javed had said that everyone had been allowed safe passage; then she remembered the story, of the sealed library, and the Master who had stayed behind.
She was getting close now.
After one more flight of stairs she reached the deepest point in the mountain. The steps levelled out into a small chamber barely as wide as she was tall. The smell of rot was strong here, and although the walls were all smooth with no apparent doorways or even cracks to be felt in the stone, Samira felt something move inside her as the breath of Allah responded to the place.
She closed her senses, seeking her calm core. Seconds later her spirit caressed her lightly on the cheek, and she felt the breath in her face.
“Find me the dagger,” Samira whispered.
1309
ROME
“This day has been a long time coming,” Lucian de Bologna said, neither triumph or tragedy in his tone, though he felt the weight of both on his shoulders. “Do not do or say anything unless I say so. We have waited too long to waste this opportunity in hasty words or action.”
Aymeric nodded and put his hand on the hilt of his sword, needing the reassurance of the weapon.
It had been more than a year since he’d arrived in the small Rome Chapterhouse of the Order with the Cardinal’s pardon. He’d expected to deliver it, have it recognized as truth, and be able to return to Paris in victory.
But life didn’t follow such neat pathways.
The Church did indeed recognise the Cardinal’s decree; but it wanted more, from both the Order and from the King in Paris, before coming to a final verdict. Aymeric’s father worked day and night amassing what documents and letters he could find to provide heft and weight for his argument, while Aymeric clicked his heels in the streets, monuments, and more than a few taverns, of the old city growing frustrated that nothing seemed to be happening. In his mind he’d imagined some sort of terrible swift justice for the weasel king and a triumphant return for the knights to their Parisian home.
But even after his father announced he was ready, the Church waited…and waited until the King’s men arrived in Rome; Aymeric saw the red and black tunics in several of the taprooms and churches, although both Templars and guards had more sense than to start a fight in the home of the Holy Church. They eyed each other guardedly across the tavern tables, muttering curses and spitting epithets without actually coming to blows.
Aymeric walked the city, marvelling at the mixture of ancient and modern thrown together in a wondrous jumble that existed as something almost mythic in his mind. He stood on the Senate steps, strode in the Colosseum arena, rode many miles of the Appian Way and watched the chariot races from the spina.
Although the city was magnificent, it was not home.
Aymeric pined for the stark simplicity of the Paris Chapterhouse, and often thought of the wellbeing of his brethren still in the hell of the King’s dungeons. He imagined their suffering and wondered how it was possible any of them could survive this long.
The endless wait ate at his soul.
And then, one day at the end of a long hot summer as the leaves turned and the winds chilled, a messenger came with news for his father.
A council had been called. Testimony would be heard.
The Order would finally get justice.
◆◆◆
He stood at his father’s side outside the council chamber in the inner sanctum of the holy city itself, waiting to be called. A wait at the end of a wait. He breathed deeply, steadying himself. Knowing that any second now the door in front of them would open and they would be summoned into the chamber, to face the court, all of the waiting over.
“Will the Pope himself be present?” Aymeric asked.
“No, son. The Holy Father remains in Avignon, where he feels most safe. He
will not make a decision as far reaching as this will prove to be. It must be the work to other men, so that should it go against the Church he will be able to say he had no hand in it. Just as Phillip is a weak King, I fear our Pope does not have the stomach to rule wisely. Now hush. They come for us. Be a Templar, not a son, this day.”
Both Aymeric and his father were dressed for the occasion. Aymeric in his borrowed mail and greaves, but had a new tabard, as white as snow and showing the red cross of the Order on his chest, matching his father’s. Behind the two of them stood two young aspirants from the Rome Chapterhouse, each with arms laden with ledgers and scrolls, evidence to support their case.
Aymeric carried a tall helmet in the crook of his left arm and kept his hand on the hilt of his sword as they followed the page into the Council Chamber, their footsteps echoing long and loud in what was otherwise an expectant silence.
The chamber itself was a long thin one, with seating stacked along the walls three persons deep, allowing an audience of several hundred to watch from the galleries. Every seat was taken, with the ranks of clergy interspersed between the red and black tunics of King Phillip’s men from France.
Aymeric and his father were the only two wearing the colours of the Order.
The fifty paces it took them to walk to the head of the room where they stood before the judiciary. Those fifty paces felt like the longest walk of Aymeric’s life.
◆◆◆
Three Cardinals were to be their judges; all three of them old men, as aged as Reynard had been, with beards nearly as long and with soft, tired, eyes that had seen too much of the world and its pain. The one in the middle, who father had told him would be Motta of Naples, address Aymeric’s father directly.
Dagger of the Martyrs Page 12
