King Henry of Cyprus, satisfied that he had done all that could be expected of him, sailed out of Acre that night taking his entire force with him. It had been his men who had defended the Tower and his withdrawal left the weakest point effectively defenseless.
It was not panic, not yet, but prices for a berth on a ship were no longer discussed openly. A place on a ship out of Acre was dependent on how much the captain thought the passenger could pay.
The first auctions were held for spaces on the ships still left in the harbor that would take civilians. Prices were high and fights took place.
As King Henry’s men made their way to the harbor, several of his men found themselves waylaid by offers of drink or female company. Their bodies were later dumped naked in the streets as desperate men marched onto the galleys in their places wearing their livery.
Salvatore walked into the brightly lit chamber where the Mason lay, propped up and encased in the timber frame that held his broken body in place.
“They broke the walls of the Accursed Tower yesterday,” he said.
“Perhaps I should leap from my sickbed and man the battlements,” said the Mason.
“If you could that would be ideal, but failing that miracle do you have any better ideas?”
“We are beyond the reach of great ideas. All we can do now is play the cards we have dealt ourselves. Tell me, how are the works beneath the castle walls?”
Salvatore looked at his leader and wondered how his mind worked. The outer walls were breached and the enemy would be in the city within a few days at most. Many of the nobility were making excuses to leave for the safety of Cyprus. With nothing but certain doom facing them, why was the Mason concerned about some strange gamble he had ordered that might make the walls of this castle last a little longer when the Arabs began to batter them down?
“As far as I can say the works are well progressed. Over half the outer wall is now supported by timber instead of stone. Do you expect this place to bounce and shake rather than crumble?”
“That’s not your concern. Just make sure the stone workers do not quit until you are happy the works are complete. Tell me what you have seen down there.”
Salvatore shrugged and began a detailed description of the heavy timber-work he had seen being put into place, how he had measured the distance between upright and the quality of each joint.
He walked over to the long aperture that had been cut into the outer wall and looked down at the harbor below.
“They are starting to fight for places on the ships,” he said.
“How many are left in the city?”
“Under arms? Perhaps fifteen thousand,” said Salvatore. “Civilians perhaps the same again. There are few ships arriving now. At most a thousand can leave per day and those with swords on their belts are taking all the places. The taverns are still open though. I passed a man repairing his roof today. People still seem to believe that the city might hold, or that they can survive even if the Caliph’s men are victorious.”
“Best to let them have hope, at least,” said the Mason. “Now I need you to carry out another task for me.”
“Of course,” said Salvatore, turning back to look at the Mason. “Command it.”
“I need you to find a dozen men, as much rope as you can find and a ship.”
Salvatore smiled, and said, “Now I am curious. What can we do with that? Will you tow Acre to safety?”
“No,” said the Mason. “You will find a way to lower me from this chamber into a ship below. I am leaving the city.”
Neither man spoke for a while as Salvatore absorbed what his leader had said. Beyond the walls the noise from the battle continued unabated. Stones from the Arab catapults smashed their way through roofs and walls. Men shouted as they struggled to douse the fires started by the firebombs that dropped randomly into broken streets. Above this was a new sound, a muted roar from the mobs of people making their way towards the harbor in the hope of finding a berth on one of the ships that sat off the quay.
At length, Salvatore nodded and said, “Of course, of course you should leave. There is no point in your dying here.”
“It’s not my death that concerns me, but the work that remains undone elsewhere,” said the Mason. “You should fetch your man Dimitrios and have him check this hellish wooden skeleton he has constructed for me. It needs to be strong enough to get me down to a ship then keep me in one piece until my bones heal.”
“I’ll send him up,” said Salvatore. “His work for me is finished now.”
“He should leave with me. We will have need of a man like him. We will wait for you in Cyprus.”
Salvatore laughed. “You seem sure that I will live long enough to make it there. Dimitrios doesn’t share that confidence.”
“You’re a hard man to kill,” said the Mason. “Your death is still some way off yet. If your mad plan to walk out of the city underwater works then I’m sure we’ll meet soon enough. But it’s not enough to live, you need to succeed as well. Sit down and pay attention to what I say, these are your orders, every step must be followed if we are to succeed.”
Salvatore fetched the stool and moved it to where the Mason could see him. Fixed into his timber frame, the Mason began to outline the details of Salvatore’s mission.
“Your first priority is to make sure that the thing the Old Guardian carries on his belt does not fall into the wrong hands.”
“Whose hands are the wrong ones?”
“Anyone except mine. Now listen, the Guardian will not leave unless the Grand Master does and he is pledged to remain here. As long as the Templar standard flies from the castle he will stay and so must you. There is something else.”
“There is more?”
“More, yes. This castle may not look like much now, but it was once one of the greatest possessions of our Order. Many people believe that if it falls into Arab hands our whole Templar world will fall with it.”
Despite the urgency with which the Mason spoke, Salvatore could not stop himself bursting out laughing. “But that’s absurd,” he said.
“People are absurd, but that doesn’t mean we can afford to ignore the nonsense they believe. Now, pay attention, here is the second part of your mission.”
Morning
“They won’t chop off your hands for sneaking into a woman’s bedroom or anything will they?” said Tilly. She was sitting up in bed, her hands wrapped around the cup of coffee Sparke had brought up from the lobby. Sleep still clouded her eyes and her dark hair fell over her forehead partly covering her face.
“Hate to tell you but I have zero experience of sneaking into women’s bedrooms anywhere, let alone in Jordan. I went back to my room and messed up the bed anyway. Best be careful.” Sparke slumped down into the armchair that faced the bed. “How do you feel today? I mean after everything?”
“I feel much less bad than I did last night.”
“About the plane thing?” said Sparke.
“About the you and me thing.” She sipped the coffee and looked at the lid of the cup as though it was suddenly an object of great interest. Finally, she looked up and said, “Well, last night we said the ‘L’ thing.”
“We did, we said that thing. Should I say it again?”
“If you like,” said Tilly.
Sparke smiled and said, “I love you, Tilly Pink.”
“Technically we’re on a work trip, so you should call me ‘Professor Pink’, but we’ll let that slide, but only because I love you too.”
“What happens now?” said Sparke.
“No idea, let’s make it up as we go along. I suppose we had best do some work now that we’re here.”
“You’ll never guess who I met downstairs. That bloke Laszlo.”
“Laszlo? That wee guy from Switzerland? Thought he was in jail.”
“Swiss gave him a few months inside then deported him. Turns out he is Jordanian. He tells me we are wasting our time. He seems to have guessed why we’re here.”
“How did he do that?” said Tilly.
“He’s been stalking us on social media.”
“I’m too tired and too happy to be alive to worry about him. Come back to bed, we’ve nothing to do today so let’s veg out.”
Sparke smiled and kicked off his shoes.
The rest of the day passed in a slow dream for them both. Breakfast lasted for over an hour, then they arranged for one of the hotel cars to take them on the tourist trail of the city.
Amman is one of the few places in the world that almost defies human understanding in terms of its history. Ten thousand years of human settlement have seen it pass from hand to hand as empires rose and collapsed around it. Its name changed several times and was the original city of Philadelphia during its rule by Egypt.
“You can study this city for a lifetime and still just scratch the surface,” said Tilly. “The Crusades were barely a bump in the road.”
“Was this an important place during that period?” said Sparke, watching the unending chaos of traffic that washed around the long black Mercedes.
“No, not really, but it’s one of the few places Western academics can work easily in this part of the world. Egypt and Syria are not always too welcoming to white, European women.”
The car came to a halt in the middle of a traffic circle almost a hundred yards across. Decades of occupation by the British Empire had left the Jordanians with British-style road systems, but no inclination to follow their ideas of road discipline. The basic driving rule seemed to be that if you could see a space ahead of you then you should feel free to move forward, the quicker the better.
The city around them was built almost exclusively from yellow sandstone with a scattering of modern glass-fronted buildings that housed new car showrooms and fashion stores. Women in traditional burkas shared the sidewalks with others wearing shorts and uncovered hair. Ice cream parlors and restaurant terraces were busy with people avoiding the afternoon heat. It could have been any city in southern Europe.
Tilly picked a bottle of mineral water out of the cup-holder in the armrest next to her and took a sip, then offered it to Sparke.
“I must admit,” she said, “my enthusiasm for making this television program has faded to nothing. I mean, it all seems a bit pointless in the great scheme of things, doesn’t it?”
“What makes you think there’s a great scheme of things? From what I see there’s no scheme at all, let alone a great one.”
The car broke through the traffic jam and accelerated up a dusty track towards the ancient citadel on top of the hill known as Jabal al-Qal’a. Sparke and Tilly stepped out and looked around at the jumble of marble ruins that covered the summit. A group of stone columns stood amid the debris, mute witnesses to the ages that had passed since the city’s founding. A warm wind blew in over the city carrying the endless cacophony of car horns from the streets below.
Tilly paid no attention to the ruins, or the city that sprawled around the hill. She sat on a collapsed Roman column, part of what had been the Temple of Hercules.
“What’s your plan for this television thingy?” said Sparke.
Tilly took a drink from the bottle and stood up, wiping dust from her jeans. “My plan,” she said, “is to stop moaning and get back to work.”
Screaming cross
The water of Acre harbor sparkled blue under the brilliant sun and small waves slapped gently against the hulls of ships anchored off the quayside.
The city was chaos. Every inch of the stone waterfront was being fought over. The pressure from new arrivals caused the mob to surge, sending people tumbling into the sea. They were left to live or die by the people above them.
The roads leading to the water’s edge were jammed with traffic. Carts laden with household possessions choked the narrow lane. Some, their owners starting to panic, were simply left where they stood, the draft animals gazing impassively at the swirling mass of people which surged around them.
A group of Templars stood in a small cargo ship directly under the wall of the Templar castle, gazing up at the ropes that trailed from a high window. The men paid no attention to the other ships or to the crowds on the quayside only a few yards to their right.
There was a shout from above and the Templars took up the slack.
Fifty feet above them, the Mason lay encased in the timber framework that protected his shattered body. His arms were fixed directly out on either side and his head was swaddled in rags to stop it moving.
Half a dozen laborers crowded into the chamber holding the ends of the ropes. Next to the Mason stood Salvatore and Dimitrios.
“With luck you won’t die,” said Dimitrios.
“If I survive it’s thanks to you,” said the Mason. “If not then I will want my money back.”
“Of course,” said Dimitrios, “if you happen to die then come and see me. I’ll repay you every penny.”
“Any final instructions?” said Salvatore.
“None, you know what needs to be done.”
Salvatore nodded and signaled the laborers who pulled on the ropes, lifting the wooden frame from the ledge. Dimitrios leaned out and waved to the men below. Once he was satisfied that everything was in order, Dimitrios waved his hand slowly to the men behind him and the Mason began to slide over the edge of the broad window and out into the sky.
Around the quayside groups of onlookers stopped and stared at the scene as a man-sized crucifix was being lowered from a chamber in the Templar castle. A strange hush spread over the crowd.
In the ship below the Templars held the ropes taut as the ship rocked at anchor. Inch by inch the Mason dropped down towards the deck.
In the harbor an overladen ship powered by banks of rowers slid past the Templar vessel, its crew staring at the sight. As it passed, the wake of the cargo ship lifted the lighter Templar vessel and caused the ropes to fall slack. The wooden frame fell back towards the wall and before the Templars could take up the slack, the Mason in his wooden frame fell back and crashed into the stonework.
His scream of pain echoed around the harbor causing an answering wail of horror from the crowds below. The only thing the mob of terrified people knew was that a huge crucifix was being taken from the castle of the Templars and that it screamed as it was leaving the city.
The shouts of anguish from the crowd distracted the crew of the Templar ship and the Mason bounced against the wall again. This time he managed to choke back the pain.
A few moments later he had been lowered to the deck and was being carried to the hold.
“Ready?” said Salvatore.
“Waiting won’t make it any better,” said Dimitrios, taking a rope in his hands. He stepped up onto the edge of the window, tugging the rope to make sure of its hold. “I won’t waste my breath asking you to come with me.”
“I’ll see you in Cyprus,” said Salvatore.
Dimitrios nodded, then stepped out into the void. Salvatore leaned on the edge and watched as Dimitrios clambered, hand over hand, down to the Templar ship below, then, once he saw him reach the deck, he turned and picked up his sword as he left the chamber.
Back to work
The suite that Sparke had been given in the Intercontinental Hotel was large and cool. It had the air of subtle luxury that separates top quality hotels from the rest.
“Your room is better than mine,” said Tilly.
“They gave me an upgrade,” said Sparke. “I had the choice of sleeping here alone or sneaking in with you. No contest.”
He opened the safe in his closet and brought out his computer and a black metal box no larger than a cigarette packet. He tapped the buttons on the base of the box and it slowly spread a pool of light on the wall opposite.
“Screen, access master file named ‘Scroll’, please,” he said.
A faint female voice came from a speaker in his computer. “Can I get you the folder index or the last file you looked at, Peter?”
“Folder index, if I wanted the last file I would have ask
ed for that, but I asked for the master file.”
“Of course you did, Peter,” said the screen. “Just trying to stay one jump ahead.”
“I know, but if I say something you should assume that I know what I want before I ask,” said Sparke absently, “but thanks for the thought.”
Tilly stretched out on the sofa facing the screen and noticed a bowl of pistachios on the table. “If you two want to be alone, I’m fine with that,” she said, slipping her fingernail into the shell of a nut.
“I’m supposed to be your researcher,” he said, ignoring her sarcasm, “so here is my research.”
Letters began to scroll across the screen as though some high-speed invisible hand was writing them on a whiteboard, the font looking like a more legible version of Sparke’s own handwriting.
“Is your computer trying to copy the way you write?” said Tilly.
“Don’t ask, it’s this customer-friendly software. It is looking for ways to bond with me I think.”
“I must get some tips from her,” said Tilly.
Sparke slumped down on the couch next to her and reached into the bowl of pistachios. “This,” he said pointing at the screen, “is an output from the Trondheim System I use. It summarizes the data we have and creates the most probable outcomes.”
Like any couple sitting together watching a movie at home, Sparke and Tilly shared the pistachios as they read the words on the screen.
According to the screen, the original Copper Scroll was undeniably a genuine document and the idea that it listed the hidden archives and most valuable possessions of a wealthy religious sect was an extremely high probability. There was no reasonable motive for anyone to have created a false document of this type.
The idea that this was one part of a series of such documents was an acceptable assumption, as was the idea that another scroll in the series could have been made of silver. There were many cases of silver being used as means of preserving information of high value.
The Templar Scroll: Book six in the series Page 17
