The Sacred Scroll

by Anton Gill

  ‘What happened to him?’

  ‘His teachings were suppressed by the Church later, just as the Church suppressed the findings of Copernicus and Galileo which pointed to the same thing.’

  ‘Well,’ said Marlow, ‘the Church always quashed anything that called its own authority into question or what’s written in the Bible: “The Lord set the earth on its foundations; it can never be moved … And the sun rises and sets and returns to its place.” That’s why scientific research had had such a hard time.’

  ‘True enough,’ Graves agreed. ‘Anyone like Galileo, under the sway of the Catholic Church, was suppressed.’

  ‘But ask yourself – what has all this to do with Dandolo’s tomb?’

  Graves shrugged. ‘Someone out there thinks there was something pretty important hidden in it.’

  ‘Maybe.’

  Graves looked at him. Marlow wondered if she knew he wasn’t taking her wholly into his confidence. It would be a mistake to underrate her intelligence. He would have to tread carefully.

  ‘Look,’ she said, picking her words. ‘Both these guys are grounded in archaeology. I can see that they also had very specialized knowledge which might have been applicable to this project, but –’

  But Marlow was already looking at the information on Su-Lin de Montferrat.

  ‘What a woman,’ he said, in a voice which Graves unaccountably found irritating. ‘Why the hell isn’t there a photo of her? But listen to this: fluent Italian, Chinese, German and English. Good French and Spanish. Working knowledge of Russian.’ He paused. ‘Private life: very little to go on. Disastrous marriage to a French academic, which ended in tears. Seems to have devoted herself to work since then.’ He paused again. ‘Finished her education at Venice, reading Chinese before switching to history. Specialized in the early-medieval period, concentrated on archive work, manuscripts and so on, but before that, and this interests me, she wrote an essay on egotism which won a prize in her first year, based on some of the teachings of Lao Tzu, and arguing from them.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘She discusses self-absorption as part of Borderline Personality Disorder.’ That was a condition Marlow knew about; he’d fallen victim to someone in its grip.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘This could be important. Think about what we know of Dandolo, and imagine the kind of person whose ego is so powerful and unrestrained that it takes over everything else. The sufferer can invent and believe in a persona for themselves which suits his or her purposes in life at a particular time. People around them can be completely taken in by it, but if and when circumstances change, the sufferer can switch it off, ruthlessly discard anyone or anything which no longer suits them, and invent a completely new persona which suits them better, conveniently rewriting the past in their minds in such a way that they can exonerate themselves from any responsibility or blame. Like a snake shedding its skin. And it’s possible for them to go through life completely plausibly – they almost never get found out, until it’s too late.’

  Marlow stiffened. He knew all about that, but he remained silent. If they could be controlled, these would be very useful qualities in certain professions, his own included. And he felt the bit of shrapnel twist in his heart. All he said was, ‘Details?’

  ‘Well, there are pages of pretty much academic stuff – original and insightful, that’s what won her the prize – but then she goes off at a tangent, and I highlighted this, because I found it fascinating. Listen: Lao Tzu was referring to egoists when he described people who, without the need for ropes, bind themselves. That’s the drawback of the condition. It limits you, confines you to a bubble you’ve created around yourself. Such people become their own unconscious prisoners, largely because they’re incapable of experiencing, expressing or understanding normal emotions. That’s why they can be so ruthless when it comes to self-protection, self-interest. In a way, they don’t know what they’re doing.’ Laura looked over her glasses at Marlow then returned her gaze to the screen. ‘But – and this is what Su-Lin argues – self-interest motivates all animals, and that includes us.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘We think some fierce or dangerous animals – like crocodiles – must have a good side because they’re “tender” towards their young. That’s pure sentimentality. All they’re really doing is looking after the future of the crocodile race. It’s self-interest. Only mankind, and possibly a handful of higher orders of animal, like dolphins, can show real altruism – putting other people before themselves. And even that is rare.’

  Marlow shrugged. ‘Sounds about right.’

  ‘It explains people who have the kind of ambition Dandolo had – utter ruthlessness in pursuit of their goal. And that could be important to us.’

  ‘Let’s find these people first.’ Marlow looked out of the window again. The street below was deserted except for a dark Porsche SUV which slowed up slightly as it passed the building. He watched it drive out of sight. ‘These three guys we’re looking for had qualifications additional to, but way away from the ones they needed just to investigate the tomb of someone who died in 1205,’ he said. ‘And it was a big project. Well funded. In these cash-strapped times.’

  ‘What are you thinking?’ asked Graves, watching his face.

  Marlow shrugged. ‘What are you thinking?’

  Graves closed the lid of her computer. ‘I’m wondering who they were really working for.’

  15

  Kingdom of Jerusalem, Year of Our Lord 1171

  ‘You’ll come with me,’ said Dandolo.

  His right-hand man was a monk of the new Cistercian Order who’d been his personal assistant now for nearly ten years, since Dandolo had plucked him from his novitiate and pressed him into his service. Brother Leporo preferred life on the outside of a monastery, but he’d never let go of his ties with his religious colleagues and so had contacts among the priesthood working in the Kingdom of Jerusalem – one, in particular, who’d been doing pretty well out of the local slave trade.

  ‘If it is your wish, Altissima,’ replied the monk, smiling quietly to himself at this further mark of his master’s favour, and at the advantages he saw in it for himself.

  It was from the Jerusalem contact that Leporo, some time earlier, well before leaving Venice, had got wind of something the Knights Templar were guarding.

  The man wasn’t specific, he couldn’t be, since the Templars played their cards very close to their chest. But the word was that it was something of inestimable value, of incredible power, something of unimaginable age that had come into the Templars’ hands by unknown means.

  ‘But they say it is not for everyone’s use,’ the slave-trader monk had said.

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘There is word that one of the Templars, back at the time it fell into their hands, tried to master it.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘He was a sensible man, a cold man, a master administrator’ – the monk looked at Leporo – ‘a strong mind.’

  ‘What became of him?’

  ‘He became withdrawn, neglected his work. Obsessed with the thing. Trying to make it work for him. The Grand Master, without his knowledge, had it withdrawn from his custody and sealed away. He recognized that here was a power to be respected, if not understood.’

  ‘And the administrator?’

  ‘They found him one day on the beach, scrabbling among the pebbles. Any stone the size of a small book, flat, rounded, he put in a sack he had with him. They took him back to Jerusalem, prayed for him, but he wailed day and night in his cell, dashing himself against its walls.’ The monk paused. ‘Until one day there was silence.’

  Leporo was silent for a moment before asking. ‘But didn’t the Templars try to find out what he had been searching for? In this thing?’

  The slave-trader looked at him. ‘The Templars are not fools, Brother. They took it to be a Holy Relic, and treated it with the respect they felt it deserved.’

  ‘But they knew of its power?’


  ‘They knew of its value. Its market value. The Templars are good at valuation. They have abandoned God for mammon. They did that long ago … as did I. As have many of us, out here, stuck between the sun and the sand.’

  And now, fifty-odd years since their foundation, the Templars of the Holy Land were badly cash-strapped. Twenty years earlier, they’d begun to concentrate less on guarding pilgrims to the Holy Land than on looking after their property and their money in return for a fee. This venture into banking and insurance hadn’t turned out too badly, but the Knights hadn’t forgotten they were warriors too, and it was the warrior arm of the sect of soldier-monks that was costing them money. In battle, Templars never retreated. They would rather die. A bad war therefore could cost them 90 per cent of their manpower, and recruiting and training replacements was costly.

  ‘The Knights might be persuaded to part with this artefact,’ Leporo’s friend had told him, ‘if the price were right.’

  And they had it right there, in their headquarters on the south-eastern side of the Mount of the Temple in Jerusalem. Leporo had shared this information with his master – he’d never have had the money or the clout to get it for himself, he reasoned, but once it had left the Templars’ hands, who knew …?

  But, on the voyage there, they’d thought they’d never reach the Crusader port of Acre.

  The sails of Barbary Coast pirates appeared about a kilometre to the south as they were passing Cyprus, and there’d been panic on board when the pirates changed course and started to make for them. The Venetians had the wind in their favour, thought they could outrun them, but it wasn’t to be.

  The pirates had two sleek dhows, big ones, which cut through the smooth waters of the White Sea like knives. They came abreast with the swiftness of wolves and lay, one alongside the port and one along the starboard side of the Venetian galley. The brightly clad Moors threw ropes with heavy grappling irons across and pulled their ships close to their large, lumbering prey.

  The battle was fierce and bloody. Thirteen Venetians had fallen, including the second envoy, the Marquess of Verona, before the Italians managed to replace panic with discipline and their marines closed with the pirates. The Moors, though skilled fighters, were fewer in number and relied on surprise and fear as their greatest allies. They fell back under the heavy blows of the Venetian broadswords and scuttled away, retreating to their own ships, trying to cut their grappling ropes clear and make their escape. The captain would have let them do it, but Dandolo stayed him, ordering raking crossbow fire at close range to slaughter as many of the pirates as he could.

  The rest surrendered, offering what booty they already carried from previous attacks as ransom for their lives.

  Dandolo stared at them, kneeling, bloodied, beaten.

  ‘Kill them all,’ he ordered. ‘And sink their ships. But first …’

  And to the astonishment of the captain and crew, but not to Leporo’s, he had the pirate chief brought forward and kneel on the deck of the galley. Taking a sword from one of the marines, Dandolo hacked off the man’s arms.

  ‘Throw him into the sea. Let him feed the sharks.’

  They reached Acre two days later, enriched by the pirates’ booty.

  On the long journey overland, south from Acre to Jerusalem, hot and dusty though it was, they could relax a little. King Almaric had the road well policed, and there was scant risk of any attack on the tight-knit caravan of Dandolo’s entourage.

  At length they arrived at the gates of the Holy City.

  Almaric, a tough man in his thirties who spoke Arabic as fluently as his native French, and passable Italian, gave them a courteous, though guarded, welcome. But Dandolo wasn’t interested in making an impression on the king. Dandolo didn’t want to rock any boats, but he knew Almaric needed to keep Constantinople on his side – a fact Dandolo had conveniently failed to mention to Doge Vitale.

  It was the doge’s own fault if he hadn’t realized as much himself. There was about as much chance of getting Almaric to side openly with Venice as there was of finding a miracle cure for Almaric’s son’s leprosy.

  Brother Leporo, of course, knew all along that what Dandolo was interested in was the Templars. Relics of any kind were useful, and if he could collect a powerful one to take home, it would be a political feather in his cap. As a monk, Leporo was well aware of the growing hunger in Europe for things which had once belonged to the founders of Christianity – Christ and His disciples. If those things belonged to martyrs, so much the better. Ownership of a lock of hair, a finger, a splinter from the True Cross, could impart status to its possessor, whether he was a king or an abbott, and, more important sometimes even than status: redemption from sin.

  Leporo also knew full well that his master had an eye on the doge’s cap of office – the corno ducale – for himself.

  ‘There’s no harm in making friends with the Templars,’ Dandolo told him.

  ‘Of course, Altissima! Their banking network stretches all over Europe. They’re not only exempt from local taxes, but immune from local laws, everywhere. The pope himself has given them what amounts to free rein. They own property all over the place, and they’ve established thousands of branches, from Cadiz to Calais, from Albi to Aleppo.’

  ‘But despite all that their profits are not enough! They need cash in the Holy Land, and that’s the Achilles’ heel which we can take advantage of.’

  ‘Still, they are, in terms of what they control and what they own, richer than many kingdoms.’

  ‘And they are above nations. They are’ – and Dandolo relished the new expression he had coined himself – ‘multi-national.’

  Leporo was right. Dandolo dreamed of becoming doge and turning Venice itself into a power to rival and surpass that of the Templars. He did not feel old, but he was sixty. How many years were left to him? He was impatient, but he knew he had to be the opposite, if all he lusted for was ever to come to fruition. Still, he vowed he would do what he could with whatever period of life God vouchsafed him. He’d fulfil his dream, with God’s help or without it.

  Perhaps, in time, he could even control the Templars themselves.

  But, for now, they would be useful friends to have – if he could persuade them to it.

  16

  Dandolo rose before dawn on the morning of the fourth day, had himself dressed in his most expensive robe and set out for the Al-Aqsa mosque. Since the triumph of the Christians in the First Crusade, the Templars had taken it over as the centre of their military and banking operations.

  Al-Aqsa was one of the most sacred sites of Islam. Here, the prophet had dismounted from his magical steed, Al-Buraq Al-Sharif, to pray at the Rock which bears his footprint. Now, under the Templars, its cool offices, corridors and open spaces, all traces of Islam whitewashed over or removed, the building was a model of secular efficiency, although there was something of the monastery about it too. Plain crucifixes hung on the walls, and costly illuminated volumes of the Bible were placed on lecterns in the assembly hall, once the musalla, and elsewhere. Cells for the knights’ accommodation were arranged round the vast central atrium.

  Dandolo and his retinue, including Leporo, two interpreters (one in case of need, and one to correct the other if anything should, accidentally or by design, be lost in translation) and a discreet half-dozen of his bodyguard, were greeted at the main gate by two tall, austere-looking young men in plain brown garments marked with a discreet red cross. Dandolo wondered if this muted dress was designed to send him some kind of signal – where were the resplendent white robes emblazoned with the great red cross on chest, back and upper arms? Had they sent underlings to welcome him?

  But whether the affront was real or imaginary, he swallowed it, and allowed himself to be escorted across the atrium, already growing hot in the sun despite its well-watered lawns and palms, to a cluster of small, domed buildings which had once been designed for the use of senior priests and scholars of the Quran. The Templar attendants paused at the door of on
e then entered. They emerged again within moments and took up places on either side of the door, admitting Dandolo, the interpreters and Leporo. The bodyguard would remain outside. So much for disguising them as monks, thought Dandolo irritably; but the Templars hadn’t got where they were by being stupid.

  The modest exterior of the place he’d entered was not belied by the room he found himself in. It was simply furnished, only distinguishable from a monk’s cell by its size, for it was large, dim and cool. The only decoration on the peeling white walls was a simple wooden crucifix, and there was no bed. Instead, two plain wooden tables and, on a rack, a suit of chain mail.

  Two men were seated behind the tables. One of them rose and surveyed his visitors with distant eyes of startling blue. A gaunt man, with a leathery face browned and lined by the sun, he was dressed in a black robe woven of light wool. The other, small and wiry, whose eyes were black and intense, wore the black habit of a Cistercian under the brown cloak of the Templars who had accompanied Dandolo’s party from the gate.

  ‘Enrico Dandolo.’ Dandolo spoke into the silence. ‘Special Envoy of the Doge of Venice.’

  ‘I know who you are,’ replied the man in black, in perfect Italian. ‘I am Odo de St Amand. At your service.’ His smile was as arid as a desert.

  Odo de St Amand. What was he doing here? Dandolo had thought him to be in Paris. And what honour was he being accorded in being received by the Grand Master himself?

  ‘What can we do for you?’ continued Odo in the same level tone. He did not introduce his companion. ‘And, as you see, we have no need for your interpreters,’ he continued. ‘Unless you prefer me to continue in French. You may find fault with my Italian. It is a little rusty.’

  ‘Your Italian leaves nothing to be desired.’

  ‘Good. Then you may dismiss them. And your other man.’

  ‘By your leave, he stays.’