“Lucian de Bologna, you have been called here to offer testimony to answer King Phillip’s charges of heresy, treason, and conspiracy to pervert the authority of the throne. Are you ready to present your evidence in rebuttal?”
“I am, your Eminence,” Lucian replied. “I bring ledgers which will confirm the outstanding debts owed by Crown to my Order, along with affidavits confirming that the King has denied payment and restitution at every instance he has been requested. I have at hand a confession from Chinon that tells of the King’s perfidy and lies in his attacks on the Order. There is a decree from the Cardinal of Chinon absolving the Order of all blame, and I have sworn testimony of the confession of a King’s Man in Paris to the nature of the King’s crimes. All of these can be produced in detail, if you so desire.”
“We so desire,” the Cardinal replied. “Please, begin.”
Lucian turned toward the aspirants at their back and took a hefty ledger from their stack. He spoke softly to Aymeric before returning to face the Cardinals.
“This is going to take some time,” he said.
“If it means procuring the freedom of our brethren, it is time well served,” Aymeric replied, and his father smiled.
It was the last smile seen in the chamber for the rest of that first long morning.
◆◆◆
When the proceedings broke up for food some hours later, Aymeric saw the first signs of true concern in his father’s expression. He was a worried man.
“They continue to delay and obfuscate,” Lucian said, shaking his head bitterly. “There are dark undercurrents here that I cannot see. I sense them, though, boy. There’s no denying they are at play.”
“But we have all the evidence,” Aymeric replied. “What can they have in rebuttal?”
“They have before them the signed confession of Jacques de Molay, Grand Master of the Temple, although that has since been retracted. Alongside that they have the testimonies of Hugues de Pairaud, Geoffroi de Charney, Master of Normandy, Ilugues de Peraud, and Godefroi de Gonneville, Master of Aquitaine. Hell’s teeth, they even have a confession from me.”
“Extracted under torture. Your body bears the scars in evidence, and all of which have since been recanted,” Aymeric replied.
“Aye, lad. But the words were said, nonetheless, and they were written down and can be read by anyone who wishes to read them. They become a truth of their own. They also have the sworn word of the King, which, like it or not, carries an authority we cannot emulate. There are whisperings among the gallery,” he lowered his voice, “which, if they are to be believed, promise the King has more that is yet to be revealed, although what he can accuse the Order of that might be worse than our supposed crimes, I do not know. But, no, lad, I do not like the feel of this. Something is rotten. Take a look around you, there are far too many King’s men in this city for my liking. It’s not right.”
“What can we do?”
Lucian sighed sadly. “We do what we have always done, my boy. It is the way of the Temple. We stand, and stay true, to Christ, the Temple and our brothers. Nothing else matters. Ack, do not listen to me, son. I am tired and seeing conspiracy where there may be none to see. You are right, our testimony is our strength. Our words are the truth. We need to believe in the truth. This afternoon I shall tell them of Gaston LeClair and bring out the pardon; the Cardinal of Chinon has many friends in this city. His words will be respected and listened to; we have that much, at least, in our favour.”
◆◆◆
During the afternoon, Aymeric watched the faces of the Cardinals and those nearest to the judiciary while his father laid out the evidence, trying to read them. Their expressions didn’t change from one minute to the next, giving him the impression that they were indifferent to every truth the Order had to offer.
They have no intention of acting on our evidence, he realised. Their minds are already made up.
Although it was little more than a feeling Aymeric had, there was the ring of truth to it; the more faces he examined, the more he saw to support his theory. Even as his father related LeClair’s confession the Cardinals remained unmoved, as uncaring and unforgiving as the great statuary in the city beyond.
Aymeric readied himself to produce the Chinon pardon, which he carried in its leather pouch under his vestments, waiting for his father to request it.
But the request never came.
Aymeric caught a movement beside the leftmost of the Cardinals, and saw a stout, black-bearded man of the King’s men stoop to whisper in the judge’s ear.
His father’s speech faltered and his whole upper body stiffened, before he remembered himself and continued with his evidence.
The bearded man had noticed the Templar’s discomfort, and right there, Aymeric saw only the second smile of the day in the council chamber, and it was so much colder than the first. Whatever had just occurred, it had greatly pleased the King’s man. Aymeric was sure that was not a good omen.
◆◆◆
“You knew that man,” Aymeric said later that evening when they had retired to the quiet Chapterhouse.
“Which?”
“The King’s man that spoke some secret to the judge.”
“Aye,” Lucian said.
The day had not gone well; Lucian had talked for hours, the Cardinals had listened, but no one else had spoken, and a judgement seemed as far away as ever from being forthcoming. Aymeric could not get the King’s man’s malicious grin out of his mind.
“I have misjudged the tenor of Mother Church,” Lucian confessed. “But it is too early to despair; I have today learned that the Knight’s Hospitaller in Bologna have acquired new evidence that will surely sway the matter in our favour.”
“What kind of evidence?”
“I do not know, but it comes from Barbarossa, the Bailli of the Auberge. He is a good man and would not mislead me on this. I am entrusting you with this, my son. You must go to him and collect whatever evidence he has uncovered.”
“You would send me away from you?”
“I can only send you,” Lucian said bluntly. “There is no one else in this city I trust. It is not your father speaking, but your Captain. The Order commands you in this matter, Aymeric.”
Aymeric saw the subterfuge in his father’s eyes.
“But it is my father speaking, isn’t it?” he said softly. “You did know that man, and that is why I am being sent away. It is a liar’s mission.”
The older man shook his head. “No, son, I spoke truly in that I trust you and no one else,” Lucian replied. “But I do know the man. He is Domic Cantella, a foul creature who lives only to inflict pain in others, and one of Gui’s Inquisitors; I had the pleasure of making his acquaintance in the torture chambers under the palace…many times. If he is here, and has the ear of the Cardinals, then matters are worse than I thought. That is why I need Barbarossa’s testimony, and I need it as fast as it can be brought.”
Aymeric believed his father, but even so knew he was not getting the whole of truth. But he was a man of the Order, vows taken or not, and his Captain demanded duty of him. He had no choice but to travel to Barbarossa.
He left his father perusing the evidence that would be needed the next day and headed for the stables to prepare his horse for the long journey.
1309
ALAMUT
Samira watched through her spirit’s eyes as it approached the featureless stone wall ahead of her. It was no longer pitch black, but more like walking in a shadow world—a gloomy, starless and moonless twilight before a rain.
She moved toward the wall, until her nose came within a whisker of touching the stone, and was then repulsed, a heavy force pushing her backward and away.
It went black again, thick, velvety darkness that enveloped her; her breath failed her in that moment and a crushing heaviness gripped at her chest.
Her spirit flew at the assault, and Samira flew with it, a wild fluttering through high clouds and moonlight, lightning and crashing thunder, so
ft, warm rain then stars, looking down into a sparse room, empty save for one man, leaned over a desk reading.
◆◆◆
She recognised the mop of black hair streaked with grey first. It was the man who sired her; she refused to think of him as her father. He is engrossed in some detail in the ledger in front of him on the table, so doesn’t see the three men that enter the chamber behind him until it is too late.
He turned at some sound Samira could not hear. He is unarmed, and the three newcomers all carry swords. They wear black tunics trimmed with red, and the largest of them, a stout, black-bearded brute of a man, spoke first.
“You will not find your answers in your ledgers, de Bologna. Your fate is already written elsewhere.”
Lucian de Bologna, unarmed and outnumbered, seemed calm and composed to Samira, her eye trained through her years with Javed. She saw the coiled menace of a fighter in him, waiting for the moment to make a telling strike.
“You are a long way from your lair, Cantella,” he replied.
“I shall be in Paris long before you ever see it again,” Cantella replies. “You or that pretty son of yours.”
The mention of the son enrages de Bologna. He leapt, catching Cantella off guard with the sudden fury of his attack. He got inside the bearded man’s guard and floored Cantella with two quick punches and a thundering kick between the legs. The two others were not slow in responding and, even as de Bologna disarmed Cantella and turned to run one of them through, the third lands the killing blow, a scything swing that near-decapitates the Templar, leaving the floor of the chamber awash with blood.
Cantella rises slowly and groggily before kicking the Templar’s corpse, then checks for his own man’s pulse.
“Into the sewer with them both,” he says. “Be quick about it. And wash out this mess. It must look as if the Templar has realised he is beaten and fled the city in fear of his life.”
◆◆◆
Once again the sensation of flight soared through her mortal body, her soul walk taking her up through narrow canyons, past great statues of men she did not know. She climbed high above a city of seven great hills through wind and rain and storm before blackness, deep, velvet blackness, and the smell of rot in her nose as she stood in the chamber, returned wholly to Alamut.
He is dead.
She couldn’t find any part of her that might grieve the loss, but knew that her fabled Bologna, and the answers she sought, were further away than ever before.
But first, my true father awaits me.
She put the vision out of her mind, returning her attention to the matter of the hidden doorway.
The Dagger of the Martyrs was almost within her reach.
1309
ROME
The attack came as soon as Aymeric left the Porta Flaminia behind and rode beyond the ancient wall of the old city.
Although he was mounted and they were on foot, the ambushers had the benefit of surprise and numbers, and he was forced to a halt in a wooded valley, surrounded by five men clad in the red and black of the King’s guard. He didn’t recognize any of them.
He took the first man easily enough, the attacker carelessly trying to grab the horse’s reins, and having the meat of his neck opened with a vicious down-chop from Aymeric’s blade. Aymeric’s small victory was short lived; the splash of hot blood spooked his mount, causing the big horse to buck and rear.
He struggled to stay in the saddle.
The high hooves kicking out gave him a momentary advantage as the attackers dispersed, avoiding the flailing hooves, but it didn’t last. They were back at him seconds later. Aymeric almost cleaved another’s head in two, despite the iron helm protecting the man’s skull, and nearly lost his weapon in the process, with the blade getting caught in the mangled iron and shattered bone. It took all of his strength to heave it clear, which was enough to unbalance him and leave his flank open to attack. A sword stroke cut at him. His borrowed mail saved him from the worst of it, though he felt several broken rings dig into his flesh and hot blood run freely down his side.
The horse was spooked, making it more of a hindrance than boon as the three remaining attackers hewed at Aymeric’s legs, smart enough now to keep their distance and remain just out of reach of this weapon. Trying to calm the beast, he waited for them to make another move. It came: one attempted a cut, nothing lethal, the steel snaking out for his side. Rather than parry, he rolled, sliding off the saddle on the opposite side of the animal, falling in a controlled tumble. He rose in time to make a sweeping blow under the horse’s legs that hamstrung his attacker.
And then there were two.
The horse took fright at another fountain of blood gouting and galloped away. He let it go. It had served its purpose.
The last two looked down at where their cohorts lay dead at their feet; the corpses looked like they were trying to crawl in the mud, desperate to flee the reaper.
Aymeric showed them his sword.
“You played your hand and lost,” he said. “With five, you had a chance. With two…?”
They didn’t stick around to die.
◆◆◆
Aymeric watched the hamstrung man try desperately to crawl away, digging his fingers into the mud to haul himself forward. It was a pitiful sight to behold. Aymeric put a foot on his back and forced his face down until his mouth and nose touched the mud.
“You can die here, right now, or you can live. I don’t care which. I am collecting ghosts to dog my heels. One more or less doesn’t change how haunted I become. You’re King’s men, that much is plain to see. But who sent you this night; who gave the order?”
The man gasped, struggling for breath.
Aymeric pressed his foot down harder, grinding the man’s face into the dirt and holding it there for a count of ten, before he let him lift his head to breathe.
“Domic Cantella,” the wounded man shouted in a frantic attempt at saving himself from being forced to eat more mud. “It was Cantella. He said he would take the father if we got rid of the boy.”
Aymeric raised his sword, ready to deliver the coup-de-grâce but at the last thought better of it.
“Go. Run. Maybe the cowards will be waiting down the road, maybe not, but you should at least make it to the city walls. Don’t think about coming back here or I will end you. That is my solemn vow. I am giving your life back, don’t waste it.”
Aymeric let the man crawl off but judging by the wide streak of blood that trailed in his wake, a quick death might have been more merciful.
Aymeric looked up along the road to the south.
The city was less than a mile away; and if the King’s man was to be believed, his father was in danger. He could run back there… add his sword to Lucian’s defence… His horse was gone, fled with everything he had packed for the trip; his provisions, blankets and change of clothing. He was left with what he stood in; his mail, greaves, plain tabard and undershirt, and the sword, which he sheathed in the scabbard at his hip.
Every fibre of his pleaded him to return to the city to his father’s side.
But he knew logically he didn’t stand a chance of getting to Lucian; the guards at the gate would take one look at him and either turn him away or throw him in a cell. Besides, he had his duty, a direct order from his Captain. To disobey was to turn his back on all he believed in, on how he had been raised, on the man his father thought he had become. He could not go back.
He checked to make sure the Cardinal of Chinon’s pardon was still in its pouch hidden away beneath his garments, then turned his back on Rome and headed north, full of grief, burdened by sorrow, made strong by duty.
1309
ALAMUT
She closed off her senses and found her calm centre once again.
Her spirit caressed her cheek and she felt the breath of Allah in her face. It was a comfort, of a kind, after the murder and death she had been forced to witness.
“Find me the dagger,” Samira whispered.
The black
ness rippled, and again Samira saw through the eyes of her spirit breath as it approached the smooth stone. Once more she was met with resistance, an answering ripple, stronger than her own, a barrier, but she pushed forward, feeling the grain of the stone and the cold trapped within it as she passed inside, through the entrance and into the chamber beyond.
She stood in spirit inside the Great Library of Alamut, sealed these past fifty years ago and more.
And she was not alone.
The gloom filled with ripples, as if a child threw stone after stone into a still pond, the refraction patterns melding and merging and reforming. The whole great chamber of the library danced with a shimmering of light and shade, like moonlight on the water of the tarn she had left behind.
She was questioned, and her spirit answered; recognition came immediately, as the breath of many dead Fidai, gathered here in spirit in the old place, welcoming one of their own into the fold.
She was shown wonders; philosophies and histories, maps and journals, great works of faith hidden here until those with the skill to use them wisely might find them once more. She walked among stack after stack, the work of centuries of great minds that the world thought lost, and was led toward her goal.
The ripples gathered and merged, becoming a single, darker shadow, curiously man-shaped, that bent and lifted the lid of an ornate chest in a far alcove.
There, lying on a bed of velvet, lay her prize, a simple dagger with an emerald embedded in the hilt; the Dagger of the Martyrs.
But here, in her spirit, Samira realized with dismay that although it was within reach, it was not within grasp. She could not lift it with her ethereal hand.
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