Terra Australis Templar (A Peter Wilks Archaeological Mystery)

by Gregory House

  All right – Sid has a secret cache so how to get into it? Unlike the good old days in Canberra, a crow bar and screwdriver wouldn’t work this time. Now it was time to stretch the memory back to those dark old days. Sid never was one for modern technology and he used to have real problems remembering passwords. Peter would have too, if he spent most of his waking life smashed to the gills. He had to dig deep into past history he’d prefer to forget. Sid’s loopy girlfriend used to make a joke of how she’d drill him to never forget. Now what was that? Oh yes, so simple, so effective – even Sid couldn’t forget! Peter tapped on the extra drive and up came the ‘Password Required’ message, so he typed in SLYME CRESCENT – the nickname of the house they’d shared in Canberra.

  The laptop burbled away to itself for a moment, then happily complied. Good old reliable Sid. Thanks mate! Peter may have sent a pray up for his old Aussie mate, but flipping bloody hell, why bother! He was much more interested in what Sid thought important enough to hide.

  Chapter 20 Terra Australis Outremer

  Having breached the code, Peter opened the files to see what Sid was hiding. As expected on an SD card, there were several folders of photos. He gave each a quick scan and found they contained shots of what he assumed were salvaged items, some general site photos and run of the mill stuff from any dig – nothing special. And then he came to one marked DB and clicked it open.

  Peter was certain this was it. There were dozens of photos of the low hill and the estuary. He couldn’t see any signs of digging or the camp, so it must have been the preliminary view. The next folder contained shots of the items they’d excavated, though they were different to the ones he’d seen in Lampie’s’ folder. Looked like Sid wanted his own record. Despite his personal dislike of Sid, and distrust of his motives, there was nothing exceptional about this. He knew a number of site supervisor’s who made the term, obsessive compulsive, look like an endearing minor quirk. One archaeologist in particular, used to flit around all the site trenches snapping the excavation of each shovelful of fill. The result was that the digging had to be timed to match the archaeologist’s rounds. To the casual observer it looked like a fascinating piece of improvisational street theatre that would have done credit to any modern dance company. To those students bonded to the site as practical assessment, it was considered in the same light as being sentenced to labouring in the ‘Salt Mines’.

  So far he’d found nothing exceptional or overly unusual that would merit the security. Maybe Peter had misjudged his old Aussie acquaintance. It was always possible Sid may have improved. Perhaps he was being unfair and prejudiced in holding onto resentment and suspicion – it had been, after all, five years. Perhaps, when he got back to the camp, he should plonk down that bottle of rum in front of Sid and have a few drinks and talk it through. Yes that sounded like the proper gentlemanly thing to do, as well as fitting in with the Aussie ‘mateship’ thing. As soon as he dealt with this and added what he needed to his reports, he’d go back and get it sorted. On a dig this remote, friendship was important.

  To say that he found it in the last folder would be a touch too dramatic – it was the second last, and he copied all the images of the journal across to the laptop and pulled out the SD card. Not really that large, say thirty pages.

  As he was coming to expect, Lampie had taken a series of excellent photos of the leather covered book, including front and back covers and dimensioned side shots. Great, it made his task so much easier. Peter split the screen between a word document and the front page and slowly began to transcribe the Latin, or maybe Latin French script. The writer had a good hand. The lettering was well sized and uncramped, each word scribed in the clear and the occasional error boldly struck. From what he could see in the first paragraph, the writer was, as expected, clerically trained. The standard Catholic phrases were set out in a style and manner unchanged for hundreds of years.

  His transcribing of what he read was almost automatic – glance at the word, compare that with his modest knowledge of Latin lettering, and type in what he thought was the correct word. Real rote stuff – anybody who worked in medieval history had to have at least an adequate knowledge of the language. Usually they liked to pair that with one other. Since he was dealing with the Crusades, he’d chosen Medieval French, which made trips to Paris with Fiona a challenge, as he frequently lapsed into bastard medieval French when asking for a cab or ordering a meal, a fact which made Parisians regard him as some distant backcountry yokel with two heads.

  He had what could be termed, the typist’s daze. We’ve all been there while doing assignments. You look at the page and automatically punch in what you see. What about reading and comprehension, you say? As if! There’s partying to catch up on!

  However, there are habits a student acquires if they wish to look at least partially with it at tutorials. Word and phrase recognition, it helps enormously on the day after the night before, where three pairs of sunglasses are not enough! Instead the Pavlovian recognition response has the right words tripping off the tongue well before the brain has engaged the clutch.

  It was this valuable learned reflex that brought Peter up short a couple of pages in. A few repeated words and phrases got past the ‘autotype bot’ and punched him in his instincts. He stopped and shook his head. No that couldn’t be right – he must have typed it in wrong. Scrolling back, he compared the word as it appeared on the handwritten original and then on his document. Instinct wanted to do a number of things all at once – run around screaming, jump up and down, go and give Sid a good sock on the jaw or just sit there gibbering. Peter slowly read through it once more in Latin, then underneath, typed out a rough translation.

  To the Venerable Grand Master of the Order of the Knights of the Temple, Sire Arnold d’Toroga. May the Lord guide and preserve you. From his humble servant, Joachim Hoverde, priest of the Priory of Acre.

  Errrr – what????

  Peter read it again – no it still said the same phrase. He opened the image of the first page and zoomed in. No change, his translation was correct. That’s what it said! But it couldn’t – this was ridiculous. If there was one aspect of history he knew thoroughly, it was the Crusades. And the Militant Orders took up a hefty slice of that, the Templars in particular. Arnold d’Toroga was their Grandmaster, before that lunatic Gerard d’Ridefort took over. From memory that was in the early eleven eighties, so what was a sixteenth century writer doing referring to a letter between crusaders? Peter shook his head. Maybe it was a homage piece. Imitating older forms of literature was one fad in the sixteen hundreds. He pushed on and translated the next paragraph.

  As Your Eminence commanded, I have done that which you desired and kept a record of the venture which you entrusted to the care of Sire Philippe d’Alene, Prior of our Order and Commander of Crac d’Madiom, in the year of Our Lord Jesus Christ’s incarnation MCLXXXII (1182 AD).

  Errrr – that wasn’t any better, in fact, a great deal worse! Hang on. Maybe this had been passed down in the family of the owner of the vestments chest? Of course, that made sense. This was part of a family history! The Iberian aristocracy prided itself on leading the fight against the Moslems, either at home or abroad and membership of the later Portuguese military orders of the fifteen hundreds depended on tracing their linage back to an ancestor who’d served in a militant order such as the Templars, Hospitallers or allied orders. He was pretty sure that the Portuguese commander who’d rounded the Cape of Good Hope had been a knight of Sant Iago. They tended to be in the forefront of explorations and warfare, or both. There, that was an easy problem to solve. Peter let out a pent up breath and gave a rueful chuckle over how easily he’d been spooked. Yes of course, there had been Crusaders in Australia, just like the Egyptians and Incans before them! Feeling less panicked, he continued.

  As the Protectors of the Holy Sepulchre and to avenge the wrongs to Our Lord, Jesus Christ and to break the threat of the Saracens upon His Holy Patrimony. By your command and in answer to the sighings
and groanings of all Christians in this land, under peril from the Sultan of Egypt and his hosts. May our pleas for aid enter the ear of the most high and incomparable prince; may the tortures and grief of the captives strike his heart with pity.

  That looked good, real period language – the writer was defiantly Catholic. That, from what he recalled, was the rote phrasing for any exploration or crusading homily in the Iberian Peninsular.

  As was agreed between our Sacred Council and the Lord of Oultrejordain, Reynald d’Chatillon, to fall upon their places of strength and veneration along the Saracen Sea and utterly destroy them.

  Whoaa, what was this? Peter read that part again. Tomorrow, scorpions or not, he was going to have a very close look at that book. Did that actually say it was a record of d’Chatillon’s infamous pillaging expedition? If so, this was an incredible discovery. From what he remembered, the only other accounts were one in Arabic by Saladin’s historian and a mention in the Outremer Chronicles of Ernoul, a contemporary of the great Angevin crusading king, Richard I.

  To that end, as commanded, a mighty fleet of a dozen great ships and a thousand men was gathered at the port of Ayla, where we set out to smite the foes of Christ. Together with the lord of Crac des Moabites, Prior d’Alene fell upon the Saracan city of Aidib in Nubia, across the sea from Mecca, the den of idolaters, where we slew over a thousand Saracens and burned many vessels. Then the Lord Reynald led our fleet across the waters to the port of Al Hawra and landed his army for the assault on their cities.

  This was incredible. If this was true, it was an eyewitness account of Reynald d’Chatillon’s raid on Mecca and Medina. Yes, if any crusading lord was mad enough to do it, that person was the Lord of Oultrejourdain, nicknamed the Red Wolf of Kerak for his unsavoury practices with prisoners. That lord had figured prominently in Ridley Scott’s film, Kingdom of Heaven. He’d been the exuberant red headed knight who’d murdered Saladin’s’ sister. As the Aussies would say, he was madder than a cut snake! That event may or may not have been true. Historians still argued over that interpretation. However no one argued over the Red Wolf’s attempt to sack and burn the two most holy cities in Islam. He’d got damned close before being driven off. D’Chatillon escaped the capture and execution of his force and survived long enough to help put Guy d’ Lusignan on the throne, as portrayed in the film, and later led the crusader kingdom’s army to destruction at the Horns of Hattin. He ended pretty gruesomely after that. Peter remembered the scene from the film set in Saladin’s’ tent after the battle. The Sultan handed the captured King Guy a cup of ices and Guy then passed it on to d’Chatillon. Well, according to the eyewitness Arab historians that happened, as did the next bit where Saladin made sure that Guy understood that the cup was offered to him and not Reynald d’Chatillon, Lord of Kerak. Then Saladin drew his sword and struck off Reynald’s head. The proffered cup was the Sultan’s guarantee of safety as per Arabic laws of hospitality. That was not going to be extended to Reynald, who Saladin swore to kill after the assault on Mecca.

  Peter had a flash of inspiration. Those three heads, could they have been some of d’Chatillon’s executed raiders, rescued and kept as relics of martyrs and passed down like this book? It would help explain the association and the Iberian Catholics were avid collectors of religious relics.

  Prior d’Alene in his wisdom, enjoined us that heavier blows could be struck against the enemies of Christ. The great ocean port of the Saracens was some several days sail to the east and since the Sultan was in the city of Damietta on the Nile, none lay between this fleet and their utter most destruction. The Lord of Oultrejordain gave us two of his vessels and a crew of turcopoles, under Sire Robert d’Vaux Moise. So parted as good Christians with many prayers to Lord God, entreating him to guide our ventures. I led the mass and preached a sermon after the fashion of St Bernard of Clairvaux to our fathers

  Shall our right hands make us a way, even to the ends of the Earth, for the Cross of Christ. All our army raised the cry Deus Vult three times and we sailed with drums beating and trumpets sounding like the summons of the archangels.

  That was interesting. He had never come across any reference to d’Chatillon’s fleet being divided, though say what you will about the crusader lord’s methods, no one ever accused him of being an idiot or a suffering from a lack of ambition. Peter recalled a map of the Red Sea. The greatest trading port on that was Aden, right on the tip of the Arabian peninsular. He also remembered it was once one of the pink bits on the map, which meant that previously it had been a British ‘protectorate’, a vital link on the voyage to India, via the Suez Canal, the jewel of the British Empire. In the Middle Ages it was just as important, a key port of the great Arab trade route that stretched from Alexandria to India and all the way to China. If the crusaders struck the port, then Saladin would find his income halved and Arab trade choked to a halt. Well, it proved that crusaders could be strategically cunning when they wanted to be, as well as possessing an astute knowledge of distant lands. Now very curious he read on.

  So great was our warlike aspect and the clamour of our men, with trumpet and shout raised high in praise of the Lord, that when we fell upon the Saracen forces at (Aden) they grew much afraid and retired in great alarm and disorder. So under the banner of the Cross, we drove them from the port to their fortress, a place of great strength of stone, high upon a natural rock which we were unable to assail.

  Rebuffed, we burnt their fleet and pillaged their storehouses. Then Sire d’Alene prepared a stratagem and disguised as Saracens, we sailed out and seized two vessels, slaughtering their crew and despoiling their goods. The Lord was with us on that day and we rescued many Christians who had been enslaved by the Saracen. One captive was a man of Venice, Andrea Mastropiero, whose galley had foundered off the Libyan coast several years afore. He was emaciated with woeful hunger and broken with the weight of irons but swore by St Mark that he had not succumbed to the threats of the Saracens and remained a good Christian, strong in his faith and such was the reason he was in chains.

  The Venetian recounted to Sire d’Alene that he had, as a slave in service to a Saracen merchant, seen the many storehouses and ports of distant lands from that the Saracens drew great wealth. Further more if our lord would consent, he would guide us safely to those places whose despoiling would shatter the strength of the Sultan of Egypt and provide sufficient wealth in one voyage that the Order could maintain a thousand knights for a year on the cargo of single paltry vessel.

  The prior did remove himself from the presence of the company, with the Venetian and held diverse conversations and from time to time summoned other captives, both Christian and Saracen. Then having summoned the captains of our vessels and prayed for guidance from the Lord of Hosts, Prior d’Alene had the trumpet blow forth a summons and all the men of our fleet did gather on the beach to hear his words.

  He asked if we wished to deliver a mighty blow to the Saracens, one which would deprive them of their power for years to come and in turn, enrich the Patrimony of Christ. The ground trembled at our acclaim as one throat we roared our assent and set sail.

  Sitting back, Peter rubbed his face. All right now, we have an account of what looks to be a piratical expedition. The question of course is where did they go? He knew that the merchants and Lords of Outremer in particular had a very reasonable knowledge of the lands and kingdoms to the east, perhaps much more than their western brethren. After all, every year merchants would arrive with ivory from East Africa, gold out of Abyssinia, silk and spices shipped from India and exotic porcelain out of the Orient and Far East. The Franks of Outremer were very cosmopolitan in their outlook, and understood how affairs in Persia or the Russian steppes could effect their business transactions and political alliances. So with the aid of a formerly captive Venetian merchant, d’Alene’s fleet, frustrated at Aden, went off to pillage in greener pastures somewhere in the Indian Ocean. If that was so, it would be news to a whole host of medieval historians and if Father Joachim went in
to the kind of description that Marco Polo gave, this little book would have been worth a box load of gold to any early Portuguese explorer. Peter puffed loudly. This book was going to be dynamite when it was translated and released! Once and for all it would prove the Portuguese had an excellent knowledge of where they were going and what was there.

  Still amazed at what he was seeing, Peter pushed on, skipping parts to gain a better over all impression. The next few pages dealt with the passage to India and the sufferings of a great storm that Father Joachim blamed for the loss of a vessel.

  Then, in what must have been considered an extremely bold, if not insane move, the small fleet hit a port in Ceylon, then crossed the ocean to the fabled Spice Islands, where the real pillaging began and Father Joachim recorded their exploits in glowing terms in the best ‘gesta’ traditions of previous crusading chroniclers.

  Between the islands of the heathen, we fell upon a fleet of their ships and they greeted our approach with cries and drums, calling in vain upon the protection of their false prophets. Prior d’Alene had the trumpets blown and our men assembled in warlike array and so battle began with our prayers to the Lord of Hosts and under the Sign of the Cross we engaged the foe.

  Their defences were cast down and our brave fellows jumped across and carried the fight manfully against them. Like lionesses are wont when robbed of their young, the Saracens did not yield until our swords were made drunk with their blood, and we gained several Saracen ships, loaded with fragrant spices and diverse goods of Cathay, causing dismay and distress to the followers of Mahomet in these lands.

  With our fleet enriched by diverse treasures and vessels, D’Alene, our admiral did at length pursuade a captain of these far eastern Saracens to take us to a safe abode as refuge. First our fleet seized a small port on one of the many islands until we gained rumours of the pursuit by the Sultan of Egypt’s brother and a great fleet. Then after diverse counsels with the Venetian and other captains, we sailed several days south away from the islands of Spices until we had reached a rocky shore the colour of dried blood. Our men did wail at the portent and threatened to cast the pilot and our other prisoners into the waves.