Like other experienced knights, Salvatore had been allocated guard duties on the walls and, in addition, he had become the link between the Grand Master and the Knights of Lazarus. No one else wanted to talk with them and no one wanted to talk with him. Every evening at sundown he had taken his positon on the ramparts crouching behind a shield and took the report of the Lazerines. His presence was noted by the Arab archers and it had become a sport to them as to who might kill him each evening. Close shots were greeted with Arab cheers and the occasional counter-volley from Templar crossbows raised mocking jeers from the rubble in the streets below.
The men of the Legion of Lazarus were dying as fast as the Templars and had lacked their own well. It was Salvatore who had the barrels of acrid water lowered to them on a chain.
His shouted conversations with Whitehead were the only contact between the two garrisons; there was little to say, but the words seemed to bring them both some relief. When not on guard or with the Lazerines, Salvatore held true to his promise to the Mason and took up position by the Grand Master whenever he could. There was no point in this, he thought. As and when the Old Guardian fell, Salvatore could take up the strange burden the man carried on his belt, but to what end? It made little difference if the Arabs picked it from his corpse or the old man’s. A promise was a promise and duty was duty.
The success of the Caliph’s army in taking the rest of the city meant that the Templar castle was besieged by land and sea. Crusader ships sat out beyond the range of Arab missiles but dared not approach without risking almost certain destruction at the hands of Saracen bowmen. Inshore, small vessels powered by freshly enslaved Christians were used by Arabs to ensure that nothing and no one left the Templar castle.
“Guard on the walls.” The voice came from one of the streets below, a Saracen. The guards around Salvatore snatched up their weapons.
“Who approaches?” shouted Salvatore.
A man in fine clothing and clean chain mail stepped out into the open below them and said, “I am Yusuf Al-Katani of Aleppo.”
“And what do you want, Yusuf Al-Katani of Aleppo?”
“Who am I talking to?
“You are talking to Cavalieri Salvatore da Radda, Knight of the Templar Order. What do you want?”
“I am sent to ask you a question.”
Talking
“It is a trick,” said one of the men.
“They would not make such an offer if they did not see advantage for themselves,” said another.
“They have never made a false offer of parley before.”
“We are in a strong position and they see winter coming. They can do nothing while we are here. We should spurn their offer.”
The Grand Master, the only man in the room sitting, sighed. The Templars were not a silent Order, but idle conversation was rare, so, he thought, they did take great pleasure in the sound of their own voices when they did have reason to speak.
The Arab messenger, Yusuf, was known and vouched for by several knights. He was of the Caliph’s own family and had travelled to Europe more than once on political and business matters. Now he appears at the walls of their final redoubt in the Holy Land and offers them free passage in return for surrender of the castle.
“We should haul down our standard and scurry onto ships?” said yet another voice. “This is impossible. The castle and all the lands we hold in Acre were given to us on the pledge that we will never retreat from here, never take down our colors while one stone stood upon another.”
This statement silenced the room. Everyone present knew this was true. The pledge had been made to the King of Jerusalem when the old fort had been granted to them and reaffirmed many times since. For generations the Grand Masters of the Order had been greeted by Europe’s kings with the question, “Stand the walls of Acre?” to which a dozen Templar leaders over the decades had replied, “They stand safe in our care.”
“True enough, Brother,” said the Grand Master. He looked over at the Old Guardian who hovered, as ever, at his master’s elbow. “Brother Guardian, you know more of the laws and history of our Order than any of us here. What do you say to our pledge and to this offer from the Caliph?”
The Old Guardian lowered his head as though deep in thought. Years of service to the Grand Master had taught him that his role in moments like these was to guess the direction of his master’s thoughts, and provide justification for what he wanted to do.
“The pledge was given in full, good intent, and no one could ever claim that our Order has failed to honor it. But,” he said, eying the Grand Master carefully, “it takes the form of a token of loyalty and allegiance rather than any specific military commitment.”
At this, the Grand Master nodded slowly, as though this thought had never occurred to him. The gesture of agreement emboldened the Old Guardian, who continued, “There is, certainly no contractual obligation on the part of our Order. Had there been there would have been a penalty specifically stated should we ever fail to retain the castle here.” This earned the nods of several of the knights present; mentioning contractual obligations resolved most issues.
“Salvatore,” said the Grand Master, “if he had not chosen to leave us, your master, Brother Mason would most certainly have been invited to give his opinion. What do you think it would be?”
“I can never speak for anyone, sir,” said Salvatore. “He would only have thought of what is best for the Order.”
“Of course,” said the Grand Master, “as would we all. Tell me, do you imagine that he would see the interests of the Order being well served if we were to surrender our lives or to surrender this castle? Did he believe the castle would stand once the city fell?”
Salvatore looked directly at the Grand Master. “He believed the castle would not hold.”
There was a low murmur in the room as the assembled soldiers absorbed this news. The Mason was acknowledged throughout the order as being the most knowledgeable man in terms of fortification and siege craft.
“Why would you think the Caliph would want to offer us safe passage and full honors if we relinquish the castle?” said the Grand Master. “Does he care so much for this place? Does he have such a desire to affect our surrender?”
“I would imagine that the Mason would say that the Caliph cares little for either,” said Salvatore. “But his army sits outside our walls in the ruins of Acre. They are dying by inches every day through our arrows and missiles. Disease will be taking its toll by now. He wants us gone so that he can turn his army to face his real enemy.”
“We are his truest enemy,” snapped the Old Guardian.
“We are one of his enemies,” said Salvatore flatly. “He hates us, but what he fears is the Mongols to the north. He wants us gone and he has no concern whether we live or die.”
The room fell silent. Discussions among Templars rarely involved knights arguing between themselves. It was left to the Grand Master to break the silence. The decision was solely that of the Grand Master, but in the matter of something as important as a negotiated surrender it was common custom to hear the voices of all the leading knights of the company.
“Very well, all have spoken and, having taken your counsel, I declare that it is the wish of all brothers here that we parley with the Caliph’s man and prepare to depart.” He placed his hands on the arms of the chair he sat in and made to stand.
“Not all have spoken,” said Salvatore.
The Grand Master froze and looked hard at him. “Your meaning?”
“Our brothers, the Knights of Lazarus, they have had no say. Our fate is their fate and they should be allowed to speak,” said Salvatore, then trying to soften his words with, “if you feel that it would be fitting.”
“You walk too closely in the footsteps of your leader, I think,” said the Grand Master. “The Mason himself would tell you that his tongue runs faster than it should. Guard yours a little more carefully, Brother Salvatore. You shall speak with the Lazerines. If they have good reason why we
should sacrifice so many knights to hold this castle out of Arab hands for a few weeks or months then let them explain it to you.” With that the Grand Master stood and walked slowly from the chamber.
Company
Tilly, Sparke, Laszlo and the Orthodox priest sat in a corner. The restaurant was quiet, Jordanians having the Mediterranean habit of dining late in the evening. The light from several small candles cast a warm glow over their faces.
“Will we be able to show the documents in the documentary?” said Tilly.
“That will be a matter for the church officials,” said Laszlo. “But I would think they would be willing to cooperate if they see that it is in the interest of their community.”
“And you will be able to help them see that it is in their interests?” asked Tilly.
“I would imagine so,” said Laszlo.
Two waiters swept towards the table, arms loaded with plates. “I took the liberty of ordering for us,” said Laszlo, as the dishes were laid in front of them.
“The document you want to show us tomorrow about the Templar castle and the artifacts taken from the city?” said Sparke. “I assume you already know the contents?”
“Of course,” said Laszlo. “But I would not expect you to take anything except the primary source documents seriously. Tomorrow you will hear the eyewitness account. Professor Pink, I assume, already knows a great deal about the last act of the battle.”
Tilly reached across the table and picked up a large plate of rolled olive leaves and dropped several onto her plate. “Never let prior knowledge influence a source review,” she said, peering at the other plates.
“I know that it didn’t end well for the Templars,” said Sparke. “After all, Acre did fall.”
“It is not the nature of the capture of the city that interests your television bosses, I think,” said Laszlo. “Rather, they are concerned about the immediate aftermath.” He picked up the nearest plate and offered it to the priest who accepted it with a smile.
“Have you started to plan your archiving strategy for the church records?” said Tilly. Laszlo put down the fork he had just picked up and folded his hands in front of him.
“An interesting question and one I have been giving increasing thought to,” he said. “Broadly speaking, there are three options as I see it.”
Sparke was interested to note that Tilly was speaking to Laszlo with something approaching professional respect for the first time. Normally he was happy to listen to two experts in a field discuss any technical topic, but listening to Tilly and Laszlo talking about the work of Smoleski on comparative approaches to the storage and retrieval of qualitative data failed to engage him. He looked over to the Orthodox priest who had started eating.
Outside of his comfort zone of crisis management, Sparke had never found it easy to start or maintain conversations. He looked at the priest who smiled back. Sparke waved his hand at the tableful of food. “I love the food here in Jordan,” he said, unsure of how much English the priest understood.
“As do I,” said the priest, “which is lucky otherwise I could get quite hungry.”
“Your English is excellent if you don’t mind me saying so,” said Sparke, unable to hide his surprise.
“I was brought up in Cyprus,” said the priest. “I find there is not much reason or much opportunity to speak much when I am in the company of Dr. Laszlo.” Sparke nodded, then wracked his brain for something else to say.
“I gather from Dr. Laszlo that you have been responsible for finding a number of important historical artifacts,” said the priest.
“With a lot of expert help,” said Sparke.
“When do you think they will be returned?”
“Returned?”
“Yes, Dr. Laszlo tells me that they are largely items looted from this region during the Crusader occupation. I assume you will be keen to have them sent back to their rightful owners as soon as is feasible, no?”
Sparke stared at the priest, his mind blank. Eventually he said, “That is something I have no say in at all, I’m afraid. I would think any decisions about that would be made by the Scottish Government.”
The priest laughed gently. “I was only teasing,” he said. “Who can ever say who the rightful owners of any historical artifact actually are? If I was to find your own British Crown Jewels who should I return them to? Your Queen, the descendents of the kings and emperors your country looted them from, the people who those rulers stole them from? It is an academic point to me. Forgive me for making a joke at your expense.”
Sparke smiled, relieved. “Your records,” he said, “are they purely written or do you have many historical artifacts in your possession?”
“Artifacts no, but of course we the Church has guardianship of several relics. Perhaps tomorrow, while Dr. Laszlo and Professor Pink are poring through some of the more mundane documents, you would like to see them?”
Sparke, who had no interest in religious relics, but a strong interest in keeping the priest happy, said, “Of course, that would be very interesting.”
Darkness
Two hours before dawn was the time to take the biggest risks. The night cold had seeped into the bones of sentries and sleep lay at its heaviest on those not on duty. Salvatore had been crouched immobile at the rampart for almost an hour and saw no movement in the Arab lines. He nodded to the three Templar crossbowmen at his side and slid onto the top of the crenelated wall, dropping the long rope silently down to the roof of the leper’s bastion below. Still no movement from the other side of the no man’s land between the lines.
Salvatore took a deep breath, clutched the rope and dropped, hand over hand, down the outside of the wall as the marksmen scanned the enemy lines for any movement. For an instant Salvatore scrambled to find his balance on the rope then began down the wall, his feet scuffing against the wall’s surface. Ten feet from the roof of the bastion he heard the “snick” of an arrow from the Arab side passing his head, then clattering against the stone. Immediately he heard the dull thuds as three Templar crossbows returned fire. There was a scream from the ruined city, followed by a thin chorus of yells. Another arrow passed close to Salvatore before he let go of the rope and dropped to the roof below.
“Guests are always welcome,” said a low voice from the shadows. “Did you bring any wine with you?”
Salvatore brushed dirt from the front of his tunic and stood up to greet Whitehead. “I come empty handed I’m afraid.”
“Not a social visit then?”
“No, sir. I come from the Grand Master. I have a message.”
Whitehead gestured Salvatore to follow him and turned down into the narrow stairway that led from the roof into the body of the small bastion. They spoke in the small armory chamber, empty now as every weapon in the building was in the hands of one of the Lazarus knights. It was not a long conversation as Salvatore told Whitehead about the truce offer and relayed the outcome of the meeting of the Templar leaders.
“Surrender?” said Whitehead. “We are to surrender?” For the first time since he had met the Grand Master of the Order of Lazarus, Salvatore thought he could hear something like despair in the man’s voice.
“For you surrender is nothing more than giving up a pile of rocks and some land that you could never hold,” said Whitehead. “For us we are surrendering the only thing that has value to us, the chance of a good death.” He paused and looked at the floor, then continued. “When we left to come here, those too sick to travel wept. They will die, rotting in their sick beds, they thought we would have the chance to die like men. Now your Grand Master says we are to agree terms and sail away. But for us, what are we sailing away to?”
There was nothing for Salvatore to say, so he let the silence hang in the room between them. Eventually, it was Whitehead who broke the silence.
“For two hundred years the Templars said that this castle would never fall to Saracen hands,” he said. “I saw your own master, I saw the Mason himself make this pledge, and now
you will renege on this pledge to save a handful of lives? I admit I am at a loss to understand the thinking.” Again there was nothing Salvatore could say. His own failures and the impossibility of the mission which the Mason had entrusted him with counted little against the fate of the men of Lazarus.
“We have little to offer you in terms of hospitality, Brother Salvatore, but what we have is yours,” said Whitehead. “You cannot try the wall again tonight. You can find a place on the roof far from us and wait until tomorrow night, then you can call for the rope and go back to your own kind.”
“My own kind?” said Salvatore. “I am with my own kind already. I’ll take my turn on the wall with you and your men.”
“Then you are a welcome guest among us,” said Whitehead. He looked up at the sky for a moment. “The sun will be up in an hour. You can help us with a small task, if you feel inclined.”
“Anything,” said Salvatore.
“Then come with me.”
Salvatore followed Whitehead down deeper into the maze of rooms that filled the ancient stronghold. To Salvatore, it seemed that every inch of floor space was occupied by an armed man. Most had discarded their linen face masks showing the cruel impact of their disease. Many looked at Salvatore as he passed in the wake of their Grand Master. It was rare to see any outsider in their midst.
Whitehead moved quickly through the narrow corridors and packed rooms until they reached a dim chamber that Salvatore recognized. It was the room where he and the Grand Master had spoken when he had inspected their defenses, the room that held the chalice the order held so dear.
“Take this, take this in your hands and follow me,” said Whitehead, gesturing towards the chalice. Salvatore stared at him, unmoving. “It is our custom,” said Whitehead. “We are told that Saint Senga took this cup and brought it out to a group of lepers, she brought water to those who needed it most. Every day, at sunrise, we note this act of kindness by repeating her act. We take the cup into the sunlight. It is a good thing to remember kindness, don’t you agree?”
The Templar Scroll: Book six in the series Page 21
