The Templar Scroll: Book six in the series

by Scott Chapman

  “Of course,” said Salvatore. “But I am an outsider, not one of your Order. Is it permitted?”

  “If I say it is, then it is,” said Whitehead. “You will not be the first outsider to do this, though probably the last. Take it.”

  Salvatore stepped forward and placed his hands around the cup. Its surface was highly glazed, the ancient decoration on its surface hazy now. He picked it up. It was more of a jar than a cup, wide in the base and covered with an earthenware lid of a slightly different color. Whatever this was had never been the cup of a high-born lady, it was more like the type of jar that was used in northern Greece for incense.

  With the chalice in his two hands, he walked carefully behind Whitehead, back towards the roof of the stronghold. As he passed, knights of the order stepped back, many muttering short incantations.

  They stopped at the bottom of the final staircase. Whitehead stepped to one side, saying, “Show the cup to the sun, my friend.”

  Salvatore, walked forward until the top half of his body emerged into the open air. The cloudy sky showed the first streaks of morning sun. He lifted the chalice high above his head and stood for a moment, then he turned his head towards Whitehead.

  “And now?” he said.

  “Now we find something to eat,” said Whitehead. “I am starving.”

  Things on shelves

  Shorn of their supernatural significance, there is nothing quite as dull as religious relics, thought Sparke. There were a surprising number of them and each was as unenlightening as its neighbor to him. Parts of bones, discolored metal objects, a sandal and various objects he could not begin to identify were housed in glass cabinets and on shelves.

  In preparation for this tour, Sparke had worked out a number of statements which he felt were potentially appropriate for his guide, but after half an hour he was repeating himself and decided to fall back on non-verbal communication. He crossed his arms and looked intently at each object, leaning forward to peer closely whenever the priest pointed out some item of interest or peculiarity of a particular artifact, then straightening up and nodding. It seemed to be working, perhaps too well, as the priest seemed to gaining enthusiasm and energy as the tour progressed.

  Sparke forced himself not to look towards the door at the end of the room where he hoped that the tour would end. Perhaps Tilly could use some of these as background for her program.

  “Do many of these objects originate from the Crusader period by any chance?” he asked.

  “Potentially,” said the priest. “But you must realize that the whole Crusader occupation was relatively short and it did not coincide with any particularly important events, spiritually speaking for the Church.”

  “Oh,” said Sparke, looking at the door which was a disturbingly long distance away.

  The day had started well enough. After going back to her own room and messing up the bedsheets to make it look as though she had slept there instead of in Sparke’s suite, they had gone for breakfast.

  Breakfast at the Intercontinental Hotel in Amman was a thing of joy to Sparke, endless fruit, yogurt and sweet pastries.

  “Looks like you’re getting on well enough with Laszlo,” he said.

  “He’s a convicted smuggler and proven liar,” she said, “but he has an excellent understanding of archiving and knows the Church records intimately.”

  “And what will these records tell us about your Silver Scroll?”

  “Maybe something, probably nothing, but the existence of the records themselves will probably be enough to make the program viable. He wants to talk me through the archival context before we get to see the document covering the fall of the city and its aftermath. Makes sense, but it might be pretty dull. I think he wants to show the organization of the Church at the time, that sort of thing.” She looked up as the waitress approached and refilled her coffee cup, giving her a beaming smile in thanks. She picked up the cup and sipped the hot coffee. “You could, if you wanted, spend a little time with the priest looking at the archive of physical artifacts. I know he mentioned it to you last night, he seems very enthusiastic about them, and there could be value for the program, you know, visually.”

  With that, Sparke surrendered his morning.

  It took almost three hours to view the relics, but eventually the priest spread his hands and smiled. “I’m sorry we had to rush through things,” he said, “but Dr. Laszlo is keen that we reconvene before lunch. You must have so many questions?”

  “Indeed,” said Sparke, “but perhaps I should spend some time with Professor Pink to, ahh, collect my thoughts before detaining you any more.”

  Almost everything that Sparke said seemed to make the priest smile and this was no different. They walked out of the musty room back to the office where Tilly and Laszlo sat drinking tea. They were obviously deep in conversation.

  “Oh, is that the time?” said Tilly.

  “I’m sure the time flew past for Mr. Sparke too,” said Laszlo, his face blank. “But now perhaps we should turn to the main document we discussed.”

  He stood and walked over to the high bookshelves that lined the walls of the room. Using a stepladder, he reached up and brought down a box file which he laid on the table. He opened it and brought out a small pile of cardboard file holders, each bound with green ribbon. With practiced care he opened one of them and revealed a stack of pages.

  “Always vellum for correspondence to the diocese,” he said, turning the documents over until he found the one he wanted. “Here we are,” he said. He coughed slightly and began to read.

  “Every part of the city had fallen to the armies of the Caliph. From the towers in the north, to the walls and towers in the west and the walls and towers of the harbor, there were no Frankish forces. The sea was red with the blood of Franks. Their bodies were so deep that a man could walk from the cathedral to the port without touching the ground, only walking on the bodies of the fallen. One stronghold remained and was the castle of the Templars.

  “They begged the men of the Caliph’s army for their lives, and the Caliph in his charity gave them their lives. These men were the worst of the Franks and the cruelest of all their warriors. They were full of deceit and had a hundred vices. They reveled in the company of those cursed by God.

  “They lied and tricked the men of the Caliph as they lied and betrayed all men. They lied in life and they could not die honestly.

  “This is how they died.”

  Walls

  The gate was open. Since the first breach in the outer wall the main entrance to the Templar castle had been closed and buttressed with timber beams. Now, Templar knights and Saracen infantry stared at each other across the threshold.

  The city behind the Arab soldiers was a cold and still smoking ruin. They stood in loose formation forming a semi-circle around the gate, behind them a mob of armed civilians craned their necks to see inside the castle.

  Facing them, behind a line of Templars, the courtyard was crammed with the few civilians who had managed to gain entry before the gates had closed. Since the fall of the city they had sat, huddled on the ground, listening to the screams of their former neighbors as they were slaughtered and enslaved.

  A sudden commotion in the Arab line began as a path was cleared and two men of obvious rank walked through.

  “I am Yusuf,” said one of the men. “I will speak with your commander.” For some time there was no movement on the Templar side until the figure of the Grand Master, with the Old Guardian at his shoulder, walked slowly through the line of knights.

  “I am commander here.”

  Yusuf gave the smallest of bows. “You have until sunset tomorrow to leave. Your men can take the weapons they can carry. The Christian civilians may keep one bundle of possessions each. No one can take any gold, jewels or coins, they stay. Any Muslim here will stay.”

  The Grand Master, aware there were more than a dozen Arab servants amongst the civilian refugees, paused for a moment. “Agreed,” he said.

&nbs
p; “May I?” said Yusuf, gesturing to the inside of the castle. Without waiting, he walked past the Grand Master and the line of knights who stood behind him until he stood in the middle of the inner court. He placed his hands on his hips and looked around at the battlements above him that were lined with Templar soldiers looking down at him. “Ha, we know each other, I think,” he said, looking at one of the knights. “You are Salvatore, are you not?”

  “I am, and you know I am.”

  “Good, good that you are alive after all of this,” Yusuf waved his hands towards the city, “all this unpleasantness.” Salvatore said nothing in reply.

  The line of Arab soldiers had now edged forward so that they filled the gateway; a few of the civilian mob pushed their way through. Most of the Arab soldiers had seen Europeans either in battle or in the major cities during periods of peace, but for the mass of civilians, farmers and villagers, the white faces and Western clothing were things worth staring at.

  “You must excuse my men,” said Yusuf, “The only Christians most have seen are dead ones or in chains. You and your men are the last fighting force of infidels left standing in our lands. You are a story for their children.”

  The Templars tensed as the Arabs moved among them, but none moved as they passed. The more experienced on both sides knew that this was the moment when a surrender pact either held or did not. Moments passed as the two sides looked at each other. The Templars stood in silence, but a few of the Arabs murmured quietly to each other. The first Saracens reached the crowd of civilians. One Arab civilian, one of the many who had followed the Caliph’s army, walked boldly into the crowd of Christian civilians. He was dressed in a collection of pieces of plate armor and wearing a European iron cap. He made a loud comment causing the other Arabs to laugh. The civilians pulled back.

  Near the front of the crowd of refugees was a family whose pale skin and red hair made them stand out from all the others. The Arab in the iron cap walked over to them. He reached his hand out and touched the red hair of a young boy. The boy drew back, the man said something and his friends laughed again, then he reached forward and grasped the boy by the arm. There was a shout from the civilians and a number of the Templars stepped forward, swords rasping from their scabbards.

  The man stepped back and held his hands in the air, smiling broadly. For a long moment everyone in the castle froze. The man laughed and dropped his hands, stepping back.

  “We have ships waiting outside the harbor,” said the Grand Master. “They will be here within the hour. Until then, perhaps it would be best if you and your men retired.”

  Yusuf looked at the Grand Master. “I would say that your time for giving orders is past, wouldn’t you? But, yes, we will make sure you are not disturbed. You have made arrangements for your cursed men?”

  For a moment the Grand Master stared at Yusuf before he realized that he was talking about the men of the Order of Lazarus in the small bastion.

  “They have their own ship,” he said. “They will be leaving first. They have many sick men.”

  “They are all sick men, are they not?” said Yusuf. The Grand Master said nothing.

  Yusuf made the slightest of gestures with his head and one of the Arab soldiers gave an order. A score or so of Saracen soldiers responded immediately and began to move towards the open gate. The Arab civilian with the iron cap made another loud comment which was greeted by loud laughs from the men nearest him. He stepped forward and grabbed the red-haired boy by the back of the neck and pulled him forward. The boy’s father lunged forward then spun to the ground as though he had tripped. Blood gushed from the slit in his throat. The man in the iron cap shouted at the Westerners, the bloody dagger held in front of him.

  Before a word could be said, one of the Templars stepped forward and, bringing his sword up in a wide circle, cut the man’s head from his shoulders.

  For an instant there was silence as everyone in the castle looked at the two bodies on the ground. The Templars moved forward and the Arab soldiers, greatly outnumbered, spun around and began to step back towards the gate. Yusuf drew his sword and raced for the gate as the Arab soldier next to him was skewered by a heavy spear thrown from the battlement above. He reached the gate an instant before it closed and fell, sprawling on the dirt into no man’s land outside the Templar castle.

  The rest of the retreating Saracens frantically reached for their weapons, several of them pulling arrows from the quills on their backs. There was a chorus of shouting from the Arabs waiting outside who rushed towards the opening. Inside, Templars rushed to close the timber gates and moved forward to cut off the Arabs inside. There was a soft flurry as the Arab archers fired, sending almost a dozen arrows towards the Templars.

  The Arabs were cut down to a man in a wild frenzy of hacking swords and the doors heaved shut before the mass outside could reach the open entrance. It was over in seconds.

  The gates were closed, the Arabs who had not escaped were slaughtered and next to them on the ground, bristling with arrows, lay the bodies of the Templar Grand Master and the Old Guardian.

  Letter from the end

  Sparke couldn’t help but think of a lawyer reading a last will and testament as he watched Laszlo lean over the ancient letter laid on the desk in front of him. He was obviously enjoying the drama of the moment, and despite the frequent assertions he made about his professionalism he clearly relished the spotlight, even with such a small audience. Laszlo cleared his throat and began to read.

  “The Templar Franks hid in their castle and did not venture out. As the other Franks fought in the city the Templars closed their gates to protect themselves. They closed their door to all Franks excepting those who had gold and valuables to buy their protection.

  “The Templar Franks created a trap to kill the Mussalman leader Yusuf Salin whom they feared the most. They pretended to offer surrender and offered Yusuf gold and slaves for their freedom. They prepared a great feast in the Mussalman style for Yusuf Salin to show their submission to the army of the Caliph and made promise of safe conduct for the parley.

  “Yusuf Salin and his men went into the Templar place to offer them the charity of surrender. The Franks closed the gates and fell on the Mussalman and killed them all. Yusuf himself killed the leader of the Templar Franks in single combat, but he was stabbed from behind by a Frank who had hidden himself.

  “The Caliph was filled with anger and brought all of the great siege engines into the city and they crushed the Templar Frank castle in a single blow. None survived. This is how the last of the Franks died in the city of Acre.”

  Laszlo sat back in his seat and rubbed the bridge of his nose.

  “As far as I am aware, this is the only description of the last action of the Templars in the Holy Land,” he said. “The provenance of the document is unquestionable. The archival context is impeccable. The next document we have here discusses the aftermath and the actions the Caliph’s army took concerning the artifacts that were recovered. I think it will prove quite conclusively that there was no Silver Scroll in the possession of the Templars when their Acre stronghold was overwhelmed.”

  Tilly was sitting on one of the rickety office chairs, her Moleskin notebook open, tapping her pen against her lower lip. After a long pause she turned to Sparke.

  “What do you think, Peter?” she said.

  Until now Sparke had thought that he was more or less a bystander to events. His knowledge of historical documents was effectively nil considering the company he was in. He placed his hands on his lap and leaned forward, as much to give him some thinking time as anything.

  “I don’t believe it,” he said.

  The Fall

  On the wall above the courtyard, Salvatore watched the melee play out beneath him. Everything moved slowly as though in a dream. In an instant, the ground was littered with corpses and noise erupted from beyond the gate as Arab soldiers hammered against the timbers with their weapons.

  A Templar sergeant walked among the Arab b
odies, and, with single thrusts of his sword, finished off the wounded. He looked over his shoulder to a companion and made a comment that earned him a dry laugh.

  Several men surrounded the body of the fallen Grand Master, but that of the Old Guardian lay unattended. Without being aware that he was moving, Salvatore found himself kneeling on the ground next to the old man’s corpse. In death, the Guardian looked much older than he had in life, his skin sagged from his face, hollowing out his cheeks and making his still open eyes bulge. Salvatore reached up with his left hand and carefully closed the Guardian’s eyes, while with his right hand he untied the leather strap that held the pouch at his belt.

  He stuffed the object inside his surcoat, surprised at the weight, then braced himself and pulled the body up by the shoulders and hefted it onto his shoulders.

  No one paid any attention as he carried the corpse inside the building and dropped it on the floor next to a number of other Templar casualties.

  Inside the courtyard the Templars moved to their battle positions with a steady professionalism. Some struggled to replace the heavy timbers that had bolstered the gate, but already the clamor from the other side had turned into a steady rhythm as Saracen soldiers hammered at it with timbers grabbed from the ruined buildings opposite. Salvatore, like all the Templars, knew that the unsupported gate could not hold.

  He walked up the stone staircase to the gate tower and, lifting his shield above his head, snatched a quick glance at the surging Arab mob that crowded below him. There was already a solid barrier of shields lifted up to protect the Saracens below, and a dozen men swung the battering ram while scores of others were rushing from the ruined city carrying bundles of wood. If the gate did not give way soon fire would devour it soon enough.