The Templar Scroll: Book six in the series

by Scott Chapman

  Laszlo nodded and recrossed his legs. “Finally,” he said, “a logical and considered comment. Allow me to summarize, if I may?”

  Sparke could not hide his smile at the obvious pleasure Laszlo was taking in the situation. The fact that his air of confident explanation bore a marked similarity to the way Tilly spoke when she was educating him was still funnier. “Please,” said Sparke, “the floor is yours.”

  Laszlo nodded as though this was no more than his due, then said, “Your purpose for this research is not, as far as I understand, to add to the sum of academic knowledge on the period, but to entertain a few million television viewers who will doubtless be dividing their attention between your program and the fast-food meal they will be consuming as they watch. Is that a fair statement?”

  “I’m struggling to understand why I am listening to any of this,” said Tilly. “But pure curiosity as to where you are going with it is stopping me from physically throwing you into the corridor. Carry on.”

  “Thank you,” said Laszlo, as though he had just been complimented. “You have searched, I am sure, through the Templar archives for any trace of this artifact but found none. Other people have been down that path before you. That does not mean that they never possessed it, but it does mean that it could have been held in a less formal manner. Since this Order was famous for its dedication to personal poverty it could not have been owned by any individual member, but only through the direct possession of the Grand Master or one of his closest entourage. This Silver Scroll was never uncovered during the suppression of the Order, so, if they had it they lost it, and, if anyone lost it, it stands to reason that it was a Grand Master. Which brings us to the fate of Acre.”

  “So far, Dr. Laszlo,” said Tilly, “this has been something I would class as interesting but not really valuable. I assume that all this is leading up to some sort of a proposal from you?”

  “Of course it is,” said Laszlo calmly. “Let me be direct. Both yourself and Mr. Sparke are Scottish, so I will not waste my time with diplomacy. I would like you to adapt the focus of your popular entertainment to encompass the role of my people and the impact that all these Crusader occupations had on us.”

  “Us?” said Sparke.

  “Yes, us. My family have a strong connection with the Christian community in Jordan. History, especially popular history, has ignored them. The Christians here are part of an unbroken line from the Patriarchate of Jerusalem – a congregation founded in the lifetime of Jesus Christ, assuming such a person actually existed of course. These people lived through the Roman destruction of Judea, survived the Islamic takeover of the Holy Land and lived, cheek by jowl, with their Muslim rulers for generations. They fought against the Ottoman overlords side by side with their Muslim neighbors and now live side by side with them in a tiny country which is surrounded by Iraq, Syria and Israel. I think these people need at least a nod of recognition from the world.”

  “And why would you want this, Dr. Laszlo?” said Sparke. “So far you have never given much of an impression of patriotic passion for your homeland.”

  “You obviously know me much better than I thought,” said Laszlo. “Our brief relationship has clearly given you some profound insights into my most personal motivations. However, since you insist on discussing personal matters I will tell you why. The best definition of home is the place where, if you have to go there, they have to take you in. Jordan has been that place for me. In my career there have been one or two… challenging periods, and whenever I have needed refuge these people have made a welcome for me. Also, there is a small matter of some complications concerning the terms of my departure from Switzerland that have still to be clarified.”

  “You mean that the Swiss deported you on the basis that you would serve some of your sentence here in Jordan?” said Sparke.

  “Something a little like that, yes.”

  The three sat in silence. Laszlo had said all he wanted to say and Sparke could think of nothing that he could possibly add. The warm air in the room moved gently around the three figures, the light from the high windows picking out a few motes of dust that hung suspended between them.

  “I’m not a television person,” said Tilly, “but I get the idea. A small community of people who came together at the birth of Christianity and have survived over two thousand years as the history of the Holy Land washed over them. Historically it works, and I think that it would make sense in terms of the program.”

  She looked at Laszlo. “You know, of course there is no way you can be associated directly with the program, you are persona non grata in the academic world.”

  “I have not the slightest interest in being connected to the entertainment industry,” said Laszlo. “My help would be on the basis of friendly advice and support.”

  “Exactly what kind of support?” said Tilly.

  “Oh that? Well, I know what happened to the things that the victorious Arab army looted, or recovered, from the ruins of Acre. I have an eyewitness testimony. Would that do?”

  Death

  The Caliph’s soldiers recognized a killing ground when they saw one and halted short of the Templar castle. The mob that flowed around the troops had no such expertise and they spilled out of the streets into the open ground.

  A single command from the Templar battlements unleashed a hail of crossbow bolts that scythed through the crowd creating mounds of corpses. At the first volley a dozen small catapults and a score of slingshot men hurled their missiles into the sky. The firebombs erupted along the Arab line, forcing many to seek refuge in the buildings that lined the streets.

  The next bombardment of firebombs, heavier than the first, crashed into the roofs of these buildings, turning them into burning death traps. The screams of the dying echoed up from the city. The Templar crossbowmen sent a steady stream of bolts along the streets, chopping down the burning men who fled the flames.

  In the midst of this, the Arab heavy archers found good cover in some of the smaller squares and gardens of the city and let loose their own barrage of arrows that clattered onto the stone battlement. The Templars took their first casualties as plunging arrows began to find their mark.

  The Templars were more interested in gaining time than in killing Saracens, so, once the initial wave of attackers had been driven to ground, their fire slackened. Arab archers edged their way forward through the burning rubble to find new firing positions and set up a slow rhythm of arrows.

  The final stage of the siege had begun.

  A small knot of Templars gathered around the Grand Master. They were the garrison commanders and did not need to wait for a summons. One at a time they ran through their casualty numbers and discussed new targets for their heavy weapons. Once they had finished their reports, the Grand Master turned to Salvatore.

  “Speak with the lepers, they will be the next point that will be attacked.”

  Salvatore nodded and ran along the wall to the place directly above their bastion.

  He took a shield from one of the Templars nearby and used it to cover himself as he peered over the wall.

  “Lazerines, how do you fare?” he shouted. His words earned him a few Arab arrows which bounced off the shield.

  “None dead and few wounded,” replied Whitehead, craning his neck to look at the spot where Salvatore stood. “If you have a mind to it, you could send down a jug of wine. We gave too much thought to weapons and not enough to our comforts.”

  Above him Salvatore laughed gently. “I will bring what I can in an hour or so. All else is well, your famous cup is well?”

  “Yes, the cup is safe while we live, safe enough too when we die I expect. The Muslims know we have it and hold it in high regard themselves. Once we are gone they will keep it until we take it back from them next time when we come back to this place.”

  “And now I must find that wine you so badly need,” said Salvatore. “It will take the Arabs a few hours to bring up their forces. There must be a lot for them to do, slaughtering a
whole city.”

  From his place on the high wall Salvatore could clearly see lines of Christians, slaves now, being pushed out of the city past the heaped bodies of their neighbors and former defenders.

  He would find the Knights of Lazarus their wine, but first he had his own duties to see to.

  The path from the walls down to the watergate was now a familiar route to Salvatore. He wound his way down deeper into the bowels of the castle and along the damp passageway to where his one hope of success and escape lay.

  The door to the chamber was open and a thin light spilled out onto the stone flags.

  Salvatore drew his sword silently and pushed the door full open. On the edge of the stone floor looking down at the copper dome stood the Old Guardian holding a burning torch in one hand and his own sword in the other. He turned at the sound of the door.

  “What is this?” he said quietly.

  “It is no concern of yours,” said Salvatore.

  The Old Guardian turned to face Salvatore, his face a picture of contempt. “How dare you even think of saying that to me. Do you know who I am? Everything in this castle, everything that happens in this Order is my concern. I report to the Grand Master, are you saying that there are things he should not know about?”

  “If the Grand Master needed to know about this the Mason would have told him. If he has not done so there will be a reason.”

  Without a word, the Old Guardian lifted his sword and hacked it across the skin of the dome tearing a gap almost a yard long. There was a rush of air and the dome settled deeper in the water, then flipped, capsizing into the shallow channel.

  “You are a Templar,” said the Old Guardian, “you have no other duty except that which the Grand Master gives you. Find a place on the wall until we decide how to deal with you and your devilish contraption.”

  Salvatore watched in silence as the dome disappeared under the water. His days of labor, the effort and ingenuity of Dimitrios, were destroyed in a single blow. There was no way he could repair the dome. His mission was over. He had failed.

  “You have no idea what you have done, old man,” said Salvatore.

  The Old Guardian slipped his sword back in its scabbard and walked past Salvatore without a word.

  Witnesses

  “And the men from Aleppo, with the men from Damascus and the men of the cities were gathered. The men of the hills and men of the coasts were gathered. Every soldier from all parts of Syria and all parts of Egypt and all parts of the land of the two rivers were gathered. Farmers and carriers of wood came, although they were not summoned and they had no weapons. Old men wept and tore their clothes in anger because they could not join the host. Young boys ran away from their families to carry the weapons of soldiers. There were no porters in the markets.”

  Laszlo stopped reading for a moment and took a sip from the glass of tea in front of him then leaned over the document again. Sparke and Tilly sat on a low couch against the wall. In a high armchair at the far side of the desk sat the imposing figure of an Orthodox priest, smiling.

  “In the churches all of the men say they must go and kill the Franks. If they do not kill them now there will be none left to kill. Their journey has been blessed. The men of all the Christian churches will go and kill the Franks or drive them into the sea and out of Acre. The priest will not go with them,” said Laszlo.

  “Can I interrupt?” said Sparke. “Are you reading from the record of a Christian church that was sending men to attack Acre and drive out the Crusaders? Have I got that right?”

  Laszlo looked at Sparke. “You’re not religious, are you?” he said, then, without waiting continued. “These records are of the real Christian Church, the Orthodox Church, not one of the Western ones. They suffered at the hands of the Crusaders as much as any Muslim did. Unlike the Franks, Orthodox Christians lived in close harmony with their Muslim neighbors. When it looked as though the Crusaders were finally about to be thrown out of the Holy Land, the Orthodox communities stood with their neighbors and joined the attack on Acre. This document here is a letter to the Patriarchate from the secretary of the five Churches of the Diocese of Rihab.”

  “So why did you tell us that this is not an archive?” said Sparke.

  Laszlo turned and muttered something to the old priest. Both laughed gently.

  “This is not an archive from the past,” said Laszlo, glancing at the shelves around them. “This is a live filing system for exactly the same organization that wrote these letters. Over there,” said Laszlo pointing to a high shelf, “are documents relating to the founding of the Eastern Roman Empire. Next door there are documents asking for advice on how to respond to the Great Plague, in that filing cabinet there you will find the electricity bills for the church buildings for last month. This man here is the correspondence secretary for this part of the church. He is the sixty-third man to hold that role.”

  Tilly leaned forward and said, “Please tell the correspondence secretary that we are very grateful to be allowed to read some of these documents. Please continue to read.” Laszlo looked at her and nodded, then continued.

  “This document is written by Esilon of Hazma, the brother of an Orthodox priest. He is writing to the leading men of his church. He describes the attack on the city,” said Laszlo. He took another sip of tea and read.

  “Of the eighty-five men of our church who travelled here to fight the Franks, twelve died from Frank arrows before the walls were broken. Their arrows were many, but ours were more. I saw with my eyes a Frank throw a lance from the wall and it had five arrows sunk into it before it landed.

  “Ten more died in fighting inside the city as the Franks made many houses into castles. Every Frankish lord fought to protect his own house or castle in the city and many died as we reduced them. As we were fighting with the Franks in the houses, our army took the harbor. Prisoners told me that the harbor was filled with ladies of great rank who promised all of the jewels and wealth of their families to any captain who would take them to Cyprus and promised themselves as their wife. I saw gold coins which had been trodden in the dirt near the harbor and many chests of clothes lay broken open. All the roads and open spaces of the city were so filled with Frank bodies that you could not see the ground beneath them.

  “In the harbor there was a great mass of bodies without mark upon them. People say they tried to swim to Frank ships but they all died as Franks cannot swim.

  “Once every other part of the city was taken and all of the fires were out, the Castle of the Templars still stood. These are clever men who understand every devious way to protect themselves. They had many tricks which burned up our people with fire. Two hundred men from Aleppo were killed in one day by the Templars who knew how to surround a building with firebombs to stop men fleeing, then poured many firebombs into the building. It was in this way that they killed so many of the Saracen leaders.

  “In all of the Frankish churches in Acre we found many valuable things. The gold and plate and much coin was taken for the Caliph’s army. A man of the Caliph offered us many of the Christian things and asked us if we had want of them. I will send them to you if I am spared.

  “Many things taken from the Frank churches and houses are of value to the Mussalman faith. They filled four wagons and these wagons were sent to Damascus with the first and best of the slaves.”

  Laszlo sat back and rubbed the bridge of his nose. The room was dimly lit and not best suited for reading the faded text. In the silence, Sparke tried to imagine a city, smashed and burning, pockets of resistance holding out against the Saracen army without hope, sometimes for weeks. He thought of the hordes of fugitives cramming the harbor offering anything and everything to gain a place on one of the few ships leaving for safety, lines of captives, now slaves, being sorted and allocated among the victors. Standing alone above all this, wreathed in smoke, the Templar castle, its garrison calmly working out the tactics that could kill the greatest number of their attackers before they themselves were overcome. T
hey would have no hope of relief, no chance of victory, all they could do was kill.

  Laszlo rolled his head as though his neck was stiff and said, “Perhaps we can invite our host to join us for a meal? Then we can read the letter from Elison of Hazma to his brother on the fate of the Templar castle.”

  Walls

  Smoke stung at his eyes as he squinted across the wreckage of the city. Broken joists jutted through roofs like the ribs of dead animals. A constant haze sat over the city and smoke from hundreds of Arab camp fires mixed with the dust of shattered buildings.

  Missiles still flew in both directions as the besiegers and the Templar garrison bombarded each other, the crews of catapults and trebuchets moving like automatons as they loaded and fired their weapons in endless repetition like the rituals of a long-forgotten religion.

  Salvatore ran his tongue over his cracked lips. Like all of his brothers he still took time to wash daily in the salt water that was hauled up from the harbor side of the castle. So much blood had poured into the sea that it had turned pink, and, in the tideless Mediterranean, the filth had stewed in the harbor. It had taken a week for the water to clear.

  The few hundred fugitives who has managed to squeeze through the castle gates before they were shut crowded the small courtyard. Every room in the castle was filled and those abandoned outside died as Saracen arrows fell among them. He had only been back to the watergate once since his confrontation with the Old Guardian. His underwater contraption lay dead beneath the surface, his last hope of survival and success was now a metal corpse to join the thousands of others swallowed up by the sea.