Templar

by Paul Doherty

  All these seigneurs gathered like a host of hawks in Constantinople. The Emperor, cunning as a serpent, received them with exquisite gifts: gold and silver, precious cloths, jewelled saddles and harness, fresh robes, baskets of sugared fruits and wines cooled by snow from Olympus, caskets and coffers of gleaming sapphires, small ingots of ivory, damascened covers and finely wrought weapons. Alexius feted and entertained the leaders whilst their followers, seventy thousand strong, stayed outside the city, fed and watered but closely watched by squadrons of Turcopoles in their pointed helmets of grey damascened steel, turbans of white cloth wrapped around their brows. The Turcopoles sported leather body armour over loose jerkins with breeches pushed into high-heeled riding boots. All were well armed with lance, bow and sword. Hugh took careful note of these and ruefully wished the great lords would do likewise: their future enemy, the Seljuk Turks, were similarly armed and adopted the same hit-and-run tactics in battle, to devastating effect.

  Alexius, for all his generosity and advice, viewed the Franks as a farmer would savage dogs whom he’d brought on to his land to drive off wolves: they had to be carefully controlled. The Franks might be dedicated to God’s work, but Alexius was determined they would also do his. He demanded oaths of fealty from the lords and, with various degrees of chicanery, they gave these, promising to hand over any cities taken in return for supplies and military assistance. Alexius swore to put twenty thousand men at their disposal under his chief Turcopole Tacticius, a wily veteran commander of Greek and Turkish parents who’d had his nose bitten off in a fight and replaced it with a false one of gleaming steel. Tacticius also entertained the lords to series of splendid banquets. The Franks, accustomed to draughty, smoke-filled halls adorned with dirty tapestries and warmed by filthy rushes on the floor, were suborned by gleaming hangings, marble walls, luxurious cloths and bathhouses that smelt fragrantly of sandalwood and attar of roses. The Franks mingled with sloe-eyed women garbed in saffron silk, rose and blue linen, with purple cords, tasselled with gold, around their slim waists. Alexius opened his treasuries, distributing gold bezants amongst the captains and copper tartarons amongst their followers. Nevertheless, he walked a dangerous path. When the lords assembled to take their oaths, one of them unceremoniously sat down on the Emperor’s vacated throne and had to be roughly pulled off by his colleagues. Further altercations occurred as some of the leaders openly voiced their suspicions of Alexius. Eventually, however, an agreement was reached, the die was cast; an advance guard would cross the Arm of St George into Anatolia, where Sultan Kilij Arslan hoped to destroy them as he had the hordes of Peter the Hermit. That charismatic former leader of the People’s Army was now a discontented, broken man who had merged the pitiful remnants of his erstwhile horde into what everyone was now calling the Army of God. All Peter could do was mourn that the Holy Spirit had deserted him and that he and his followers had been justly punished for the sins they’d committed.

  On her part, Eleanor was determined to have words with Hugh and Godefroi. Once in Anatolia, they would face dangers as great as any in Sclavonia. Accordingly, whenever possible, she questioned Hugh, who remained taciturn until the eve of the Feast of St Athanasius. A banquet had been arranged for the following evening where Hugh hoped to host the leading men of his brotherhood and, once again, enforce the rule, which he had made even more rigorous. On the afternoon beforehand he and Godefroi, accompanied by Theodore, took Eleanor into the city along narrow lanes and alleyways, past the markets and bazaars, the rancid-smelling runnels and busy jetties into the great Augusteon Square: a spacious expanse ablaze with sunlight that struck off the ivory-white marble porticoes and walls all emblazoned with gold, silver and bronze. The square was dominated by a huge statue of Constantine as well as the cavernous entrance into the golden-domed Cathedral of Hagia Sophia, Holy Wisdom, where long-haired priests prayed and chanted amidst clouds of incense.

  Inside the cathedral, Theodore first showed them the image of the Virgin, whose tears dropped without ceasing, then the tablets of stone Moses had taken from Mount Sinai, the bronze trumpets of Joshua that had brought down Jericho, and the Staff of Aaron. All these relics were revealed to the constant chanting of ‘Kyrie Eleison, Christe Eleison’. Finally, Eleanor was shown various images of the face of the Saviour; she was taken from one side altar to another to study paintings and icons framed in silver, gold and precious stones.

  ‘Look, Eleanor,’ Hugh murmured, ‘see how each is the same, or almost so.’

  The different renderings gave individual interpretations of the Divine face, yet there was a marked similarity between them all. A long face, with very expressive eyes, a slim nose and full lips above a firm chin. He was moustached and bearded, and the long hair, reddish-brown, hung braided on each side in a fashion similar to how some Jewish men still wore it. Afterwards they left the hallowed precincts and crossed the Augusteon Square, where they stopped to admire the twelve bronze figures that moved to show the direction of the wind. Theodore then led them down a maze of alleyways to the quayside, a veritable Tower of Babel with different tongues shouting in shrill voices. The Greek mercenary hired a shabby chamber above stairs in a tavern, ordering wine, bread and a highly spiced fish dish, which he carefully shared out into bowls.

  Hugh and Godefroi had apparently taken Theodore completely into their confidence. Eleanor was pleased with that. Theodore was of similar mind to them and her admiration for this good-humoured, resolute and patient man had deepened over the last few weeks. He smiled and winked at her as Godefroi intoned the grace. For a while they ate in silence, then Hugh cleaned his dish with a piece of bread, popped it into his mouth and sat staring at his sister.

  ‘You would have told me your great secret?’ she teased. ‘I mean, eventually?’

  ‘We had to be sure. Theodore here, like Brother Norbert and Alberic, has journeyed to Jerusalem; he too has learnt about the rumours.’

  ‘Hugh, what rumours?’

  ‘We are journeying to Jerusalem,’ Godefroi began, ‘to liberate Christ’s fief from the Turks who occupy the Holy Places . . .’

  ‘Godefroi,’ Eleanor smiled, ‘I know where we are going and why.’

  ‘Do you?’ Hugh asked. ‘Eleanor, there are as many reasons for being on Crusade as there are cross-bearers. Bohemond of Taranto wants to carve out a principality. He failed to do so in Italy, Sicily or Greece. The same is true of our other leaders. Robert of Normandy held a duchy but he became bored, preferring the excitement of travel and the roar of battle to governing lands. The same applies to us. Did you want to stay in Compiègne till some knight offered for your hand, whilst we whiled away our days at tournaments, launched chevauchées against our neighbours and waited to be summoned by Count Raymond for another sortie into Iberia, or by King Philip because of a border dispute with Flanders?’

  ‘Eleanor,’ Theodore added, ‘you of all people must realise this: the liberation of Jerusalem and the recapture of the Holy Sepulchre is a vision as sacred as that of any man or woman wishing to leave this life to serve God as a monk or a nun. To fight your way into heaven,’ he smiled, ‘is an ideal worthy of any knight.’

  ‘Yet there is more?’

  ‘There always is, sister.’

  ‘You have taken the oath?’ Eleanor asked.

  ‘I am one of you,’ Theodore replied, ‘for the same reason as you, but yes, there is more. I am a son of a Norman knight and a Greek mother who died shortly after giving birth to me. My father married again. He made it very clear in letters and proclamations that the offspring of his Norman wife would inherit.’ He pulled a face. ‘So I began to travel. Believe me, adelpha’ – he used the Greek term for sister – ‘it was wonderful to wander, to be free, to see the marvels of Constantinople, to visit the ruins of Athens and stand in the nave of St Mark’s in Venice or the great cathedrals of Rome. Yet there was something else.’ Theodore spread his hands. ‘You and I have a great deal in common. I, too, started to search for something substantial to my faith, something r
eal—’

  ‘As did Anstritha,’ Eleanor interrupted. ‘She also had her secrets.’ She quickly described her conversation with Fulcher. ‘Did you know anything about this?’ She turned on her brother.

  ‘Yes, yes.’ Hugh refused to meet her eye. ‘Let me explain, Eleanor, why we took you to Hagia Sophia. Holy Wisdom.’ He laughed sharply. ‘That is what this is all about. Either Holy Wisdom or Holy Money! Every cross-bearer in our company has his or her own reason for this journey. Some of these we know.’ Hugh paused as if listening to the sounds drifting from the tavern below or the smelly alleyway outside. He circled his hands. ‘One reason perhaps could unite us all: relics.’

  ‘Relics?’ Eleanor queried.

  ‘They are in great demand,’ Theodore explained, ‘by both the angels and the demons, which is,’ he drummed his thickset fingers against his wine goblet, ‘why I am here, along with your brother, Godefroi, Alberic and Norbert.’

  Eleanor stared at the lancet window. The piece of stretched linen had been removed to let in the light. She quickly recalled the stories about various churches and their hunger for relics.

  ‘Pieces of bone,’ she murmured. ‘Shards of cloth, dried flesh, flakes of skin.’

  ‘True,’ Hugh replied, ‘but listen, Eleanor! Norbert has travelled to Outremer. He has been to Constantinople and visited Jerusalem.’

  ‘As did Anstritha.’

  ‘So I understand, but let me explain. Norbert was expelled from his monastery because of his mockery of certain relics held by his community. He was not stripped of his orders, just given licence to leave. At first he considered preaching against the veneration of what you call pieces of bone and shards of cloth; then he met Alberic and they both came to Constantinople.’

  ‘What!’ Eleanor exclaimed.

  ‘Alberic left his parish church for this Crusade. He claims he is in the thirtieth year of penance for the betrayal of his master. He was born of noble Saxon family and became a member of the housecarls, the personal bodyguard of Harold Godwinson the Saxon king defeated by William the Norman at the battle of Senlac thirty years ago. Alberic has described, how, in the final moments of the battle, as the sun set that October day, the Saxon line finally buckled. He believes he should have stayed and died beside his master. Instead he fled. For a while he sheltered in the wild wastes and the great forest that border the southern coast of England. He became a hermit, torn by guilt, a desire to make reparation, to seek forgiveness for what he still regards as a betrayal. For a while he called himself Judas. Eventually he found that even living in his own country, however reclusive he remained, only deepened the wound. So he took ship to France and wandered the roads. He eventually met Norbert, who recognised him as an educated man. After a prolonged stay at Soissons, Norbert arranged for Alberic to be ordained . . .’

  ‘Do Alberic and Norbert know you are telling me this?’

  ‘Of course,’ Hugh smiled. ‘Norbert asked you to speak to Fulcher; he later heard that man’s confession.’

  ‘And would you ever have spoken?’ Eleanor accused.

  ‘Yes,’ Hugh insisted, ‘but as I shall explain, there is also great danger in all of this. Anyway, Alberic and Norbert took to wandering. They witnessed all forms of cruelty and began to doubt the truth of religion, any idea of a loving God or the Incarnation of the Christ.’ Hugh sipped at his wine. ‘Little wonder,’ he added. ‘I have been down the same path myself. At last they visited Jerusalem, where they sheltered for two years next to the Holy Sepulchre.’

  ‘They were not persecuted?’

  ‘Contrary to belief,’ Theodore spoke up, ‘the Turks regard Christ as a great prophet. The real persecution took place under the mad caliph Al-Hakim, who treated his own subjects as barbarously as he did others before going completely mad and declaring himself God. No, Alberic and Norbert were left alone. During their stay they heard rumours about great treasures in Jerusalem, relics of the Passion that would prove not only that Christ died but that he rose from the dead. I, too, have heard similar stories.’

  ‘According to Alberic and Norbert,’ Hugh continued, ‘who have studied manuscripts such as the Life of St Nino, beneath the Dome of the Rock where Solomon’s Temple once stood are sealed chambers that used to house the stables of the great Jewish king. In there lie marvellous relics closely associated with the Passion and Resurrection of the Lord. The two of them faithfully collected these stories, and it rekindled their faith. As Norbert remarked, what use debating about logic or philosophy? Instead they recalled the words of St Paul: “If Christ has not risen, then all that we do is in vain.” They concentrated on this: whatever cruelty ravished the earth, whatever terror stalked, if the Lord Christ came out from His tomb glorified and resurrected, then there were hidden, greater truths. Think, Eleanor! If someone arrived here now and could prove that Jesus of Nazareth remained a corpse, what use is there in us being here? What use the Mass, the Eucharist, the Sacraments, the Gospels? We’d all go home. However, if Christ did rise from the dead, leaving all other questions aside, that is our faith. If such relics exist, the Holy Sepulchre must be liberated. It must become the centre of the Church, and if beneath the Dome of the Rock lie true relics, evidence for Christ’s Passion and Resurrection, then . . .’ Hugh held his hands up, ‘why shouldn’t we go to Jerusalem?’

  ‘And who is party to this?’

  ‘Everyone here, as well as Alberic and Norbert, whom we trust.’

  ‘And Anstritha?’ Eleanor opened the wallet on her belt and brought out the piece of parchment Fulcher had entrusted to her. She opened this up and pushed it across to Hugh: he seized it, studied it and passed it round the others.

  ‘Further proof,’ he murmured. ‘I do not know what Anstritha found. Norbert and Alberic only told me after she was killed how she too had searched for certain relics. Alberic hid when she came to seek sanctuary in his church; he was terrified she might name him as an accomplice.’ Hugh drew a deep breath. ‘Anstritha was the widow of a physician. She journeyed to Jerusalem where she met Alberic and Norbert. They became members of the Temple Brotherhood, a secret community dedicated to discovering relics of the Lord’s Passion. Anstritha never mentioned any half-brother, hidden menaces or secret enemies, but she did collect information about the Dome of the Rock, hence this map. Alberic later persuaded her to return to France, where she settled at St Nectaire. When the Crusade was preached, Norbert, recalling my family’s links with the Benedictine order, journeyed to ask for my help.’ Hugh leaned forward, face excited. ‘When Jerusalem falls, we shall seek out these treasures of God. Look upon the face of Christ, reveal them to the rest of Christendom! Proof that Our Lord lived, died and was resurrected, leaving sacred marks on certain cloths.’

  ‘And Veronica?’ Eleanor asked. ‘Fulcher gave me that name.’

  ‘The woman who cleansed Christ’s face as he was being led out to crucifixion. According to some legends, Veronica also provided the mandylion, which covered the divine face in the sepulchre, as well as the shroud in which His body was wrapped. Legend has it that a woman should keep these sacred cloths and be given the title “Veronica”. Those icons you viewed in Hagia Sophia? You noticed the similarity in different paintings from different eras? My belief, as well as that of the Poor Brethren, is that they are all based on the real image of Our Saviour, which has now disappeared, though we shall find it.’ Hugh paused as Eleanor raised a hand.

  ‘You mentioned the Resurrection? This is more than a holy relic? The relics we studied in Hagia Sophia, they are all based on the real likeness of Christ?’

  ‘A miraculous likeness,’ Hugh replied. ‘Transferred to cloth by divine means. Proof that Christ did suffer but rose again. These relics are not just ordinary ones, but living proof of our belief.’

  ‘And Norbert and Alberic have discovered evidence for this?’

  ‘Norbert was allowed into many monasteries to study in their scriptoria and libraries and trace the history of these holy Images. About a hundred years ago a group of ref
ugee Greek monks set up a cult in Rome near the abandoned church of St Boniface. They worshipped an icon that one manuscript describes as an image of Our Lord Jesus, not fashioned by human hand, imprinted on a shroud. According to another document, the Acts of Thaddeus, Jesus wiped his face on a cloth folded in four yet left his image on it. More importantly, Pope Stephen II delivered a sermon, oh, some three hundred years ago, in which he described a famous cloth.’ Hugh closed his eyes as he recalled the lines. ‘ “Wonderful it is to see or hear such a thing, the glorious face of Jesus, and the majestic form of his whole body has been miraculously transferred. For those who never had the opportunity to see his earthly appearance, they can do so as it has been imprinted on the linen.” ’ He opened his eyes. ‘Don’t you see, Eleanor – an image of Christ as he really was?’

  Eleanor turned to Theodore. ‘And you believe this?’

  ‘Passionately, sister. I too wish to secure my faith on something.’

  ‘You mentioned danger?’

  ‘And their name is Legion,’ Godefroi replied, leaning across the table. ‘Eleanor, we have seen what is happening within our own small communities. Churches, monasteries and abbeys are founded and each hungers for its own relics. Can you imagine what would happen if the relics we’ve described were brought into the marketplace to be sold to the highest bidder? A veritable fortune could be made. A king’s ransom demanded. We know little about Anstritha. She was frightened to tell Alberic and Norbert the full truth, but her half-brother may have been a man called the Magus, named after Simon Magus, the magician who tried to buy the spiritual powers of St Peter and was punished for his sins. This Magus lurks deep in the shadows. He peddles sacred relics as a butcher would hunks of meat. He has been hired by city communes and councils to secure relics by fair means or foul, usually the latter. We believe, though we have little proof, that this Magus is probably the masked horseman who stirred up the villagers against Anstritha, silenced her mouth once and for all and ransacked her possessions, possibly searching for the map you have given us. The Magus tried to steal the corpse of St Modaldus from the Church of St Symphronius in Trier but failed when her body began to bleed. He was more successful in other ventures: the body of St Sanctus from a church in Meaux and that of St Nicholas from Myra which he sold to the city of Bari.’