“That’s why we need the bandages.”
They tied together strips cut from the Mayans’ store of fabric and even D’Molay’s own cloak. When they had a very long bandage, D’Molay held one end firmly against his ribs and explained what Aavi needed to do. “Stand up and take the other end of the strip and walk around me until I tell you to stop.”
She had no idea how this was going to help him, but she complied. Holding the fabric bandage in her hand, she circled him as he cinched it tightly around his chest and under his arms.
“Good. Now bring the rum and more rags.” When she did, D’Molay liberally wetted the rags with most of the rum before handing them back to her. “You have to press these rags against my wound. I may cry out, but don’t stop. They have to stay there, then we need to wrap the rest of the bandage around them tight.” He took a drink from the bottle and stiffened himself in anticipation as Aavi moved in with the alcohol-soaked compress. She pushed it onto his side and he immediately lurched in pain. “Ahhh! Damn!” She stopped at his cry of pain, but continued at his prompting. Tears of empathy formed in the corners of her eyes, but she did not let that stop her. With a little more agonized instruction from D’Molay, she arranged the rags on the wound and circled him until the bandage was wound around his chest more than a dozen times. Shaking, he took the ends and tied them together so they would remain in place.
“What now?” Aavi’s soft voice was almost inaudible above a strange ringing in D’Molay’s ears.
“My extra tunic. I’m cold.” Aavi brought him the garment and helped him carefully put it on. He huddled miserably in it, the tight bandages providing no relief from the trouble he was having breathing. “I have to rest now. We have a fire and this is a good spot.”
“Can I lie here beside you? I don’t like the dark.”
Using Aavi’s cloak as a blanket, they stretched out together, warmed and protected from the night thanks to a burning man.
Chapter 37 - D’Molay’s Nightmare
The nightmare returned. It always lurked in the corners of his mind, waiting for an opportunity. There was no stopping it once it sank its fangs into D’Molay, for it was not truly a nightmare at all. It was the last memory of his life on Earth.
It always began the same way. He was back in Paris on a cold, windy March evening of 1314. D’Molay stood on a small island in the Seine River. The tiny dot of land had a few bushes and sparse grass, its only feature was a stone-walled platform about six feet high. Two charred wooden stakes were sunk into the ground in the center of it, and the smell of burning oil and hot coal hung heavy in the air. D’Molay and his old comrade Geoffrey de Charney were about to be executed.
They could see Notre Dame Cathedral, the tallest building in Paris, in the distance. Scaffolding cocooned some upper towers, but from this distance it seemed fully completed. “It will perhaps be the last great thing we ever see, my friend,” D’Molay said, looking over to his old comrade. Geoffrey had stood by his side all these long, sad years as the Pope and the King of France fought over the fate of the Knights Templar. The guard standing next to them glared at D’Molay with hatred.
“Old heretic! You think we chose this spot for your view? We deal justice here so the King may watch you burn from his balcony. And when you’re done burning here, you will burn in hell for eternity.” The guard spit at D’Molay, splattering mucus on his shirt and beard, just missing the dark, red cross that had been painted in the center so many years ago by his fellow Templar Knights.
D’Molay shifted his view. He could see the palace across the river and was able to pick out figures on the balcony. One of them would be King Philip, here to see the end of a man who had been a thorn in his side for almost ten years. The king and his courtiers, as ever, would be sheltered from the harsh realities of life and death as they watched the execution from so far away. All they would see of D’Molay would be a bright blaze.
In truth, D’Molay was a pathetic sight. He had been in prison for seven years, numerous confessions had been tortured out of him, and the poor food and care he been given would have broken a lesser man. His tunic, once the proud sign of an honored knight, now hung like a tattered rag and was caked with filth. Most of the hair on the top of his head had fallen out, and he had a long scraggly white beard to emphasize his elderly appearance all the more. D’Molay looked very old and worn out, like a door whose hinges creaked and strained each time it was opened. Despite all that, he still retained a spark of defiance and pride.
Ignoring the guard’s hatred, he gazed up at the night sky. The sun had disappeared below the horizon and the moon now cast its light upon the city of Paris. It was cloudy and the air was chill, but there was no rain. He had prayed for rain; prayed that the rain would come down in buckets. He knew they would kill him either way, but D’Molay had hoped that it would be a sign to the Pope, and perhaps King Philip, that God still favored the Knights Templar. Of even greater comfort, it would be a sign that God still favored him. The sky showed no hint of any rain.
“God has truly abandoned us,” Geoffrey muttered.
An official of the King’s court approached the condemned men. His long face, with small beady eyes and a very small chin, reminded D’Molay of a snake. He had greasy, thin hair that was meticulously combed and topped by a burgundy cap with the symbol of the King embroidered on the front. There was no doubt this man spent most of his time at the royal court. The burgundy tunic that ended just above his knees, his black tight leggings, and leather boots were more for fashion than for utility. He unrolled a parchment scroll and began to read aloud to the gathered guards and scattered officials who had come as witnesses to the execution.
“Jacques D’Molay, you have been found guilty of the charge of Heresy, and of the charge of being a traitor to the King of France. You have admitted that you denied Christ and trampled on the cross. Further, the Knights Templar, of which you are the leader, have committed numerous crimes against the King, by keeping secrets, stealing money from his nobles and refusing to pay taxes. His Royal Highness, Phillip, has decreed that you and your accomplice Geoffrey de Charney, shall be burned at the stake for your crimes against the King and your heresies against God.”
“We are not guilty. Those confessions were tortured out of us. Truth obliges me to attest that the Knights Templar are innocent. We never committed heresy!” D’Molay replied defiantly.
The man passively stood there holding the King’s edict. Only his small, dark eyes switched from the scroll to D’Molay’s aged face. “Nonetheless, monsieur, the dominance of the Knights Templar is at an end. You and your co-conspirator are to be executed. Your knights have been disbanded and imprisoned. You should not have recanted your confession earlier today in front of the King. Then you would have been sentenced to life in prison as Pope Clement had requested. Now it is too late. However, you are allowed a last request. If your request is reasonable, I am authorized to grant it.”
D’Molay looked earnestly into the man’s eyes. “I wish to face Notre Dame and to have my hands tied in front of me, so that I might be able to pray to almighty God.”
A silence hung in the air for a moment as the man considered. “Very well, I see no harm in that. Perhaps God will grant you the mercy you so feel you deserve, but I wouldn’t count on it.” Finished with D’Molay, the man stepped sideways facing Geoffrey, reading the same charges and asking if he too had a last request. D’Molay, lost in his own despair, did not hear his friend’s reply.
“Take them up and prepare the fire.”
Guards tugged D’Molay and Geoffrey up the makeshift steps of the stone platform to a metal grating spanning the stone walls. A black-hooded executioner was waiting for them. In his gloved hands he carried a wooden bucket and a paint brush. D’Molay wondered what these were for, as he had not seen either item at the few burnings he had seen in his long life.
“Leave the old man’s hands free enough so that he may pray for forgiveness of his crimes,” the King’s official instructe
d the guards as he rolled the scroll of charges back up. He lingered at the top of the steps, reluctant to step out on the rough platform for fear of damaging his fashionable shoes.
D’Molay and Geoffrey were each tied to a stake. D’Molay could already feel the heat from the coals that half filled the stone platform. He realized it was somewhat like a hearth, only with the opening at the top.
“It is the end for us,” Geoffrey cried, anguished. D’Molay leaned back against the stake and put his hands together to pray. He closed his eyes, said a prayer, and then spoke aloud.
“I swear that one day soon, myself, King Philip and Pope Clement will meet at the Throne of God and then, then, we shall be judged by the Almighty! We will see who will be sent to Hell!”
The executioner approached. “It is time to baste you both so that you’ll burn a little faster. Believe me, I am doing you a favor, messieurs.” He dipped the large brush into the bucket and started to slap liquid onto their clothing. It had a sulphurous, oily stink and left a yellowish stain. A few drops fell into the coals and immediately burst into flame.
The executioner retreated from the platform, meeting a line of guards extending down the steps. The one at the top handed him a bucket of fresh coal. He dumped it into the middle of the grate to feed the flames as the next bucket of black rock was passed up the line. Each portion added to the heat, raising the top of the coals. D’Molay’s feet were starting to burn. He heard Geoffrey groan in pain as he too began to feel the overwhelming heat. Geoffrey was the first of them to catch fire.
Flames raced up his oil-soaked clothes. Geoffrey writhed and tried to heave his body free, but there was nowhere to go, no escape. Within seconds he was engulfed. He shook and contorted as the fire burned his hair, his flesh. He screamed and swayed; after mere moments it was hard to believe there was a person there. Only a black form danced within the flames where D’Molay’s closest friend had been. He howled his friend’s name in futility and grief.
After that scream, D’Molay’s lungs felt like they had been drained of all moisture. He gasped for air, but there was none. A horrible pain tore at his legs. Squinting down through the shimmering air below him, D’Molay saw that his shoes and tunic were on fire. The pain was excruciating as the fire ripped through his body. Unbearable pain, endless pain, spread up from his legs, his arms through his whole body. He was burning, the flames spreading all over him. His blood began to boil and his flesh turned to blackened flakes. He tried to scream, to get away, but there was nothing but pain – pain - horrible pain.
D’Molay awoke with a gasp, drenched in sweat. His heart was pounding like a hammer on an anvil. He gasped for breath and got cool, fresh air once again, albeit with an underlying layer of pain. It took him a few moments to recover sanity and remember where he was. He found himself actually checking his limbs to see if he had been burned. D’Molay forced his mind to accept that the terror had only been a dream. Slowly his body relaxed, and he was able to calm himself.
Aavi remained fast asleep. She had rolled over with her back to him and was facing the fire where the Mayan’s body still lay. He could not, dare not, turn his head to look at that fire. Tears rolled down his cheeks as he spent the next few hours lying there, pained from his wound and wondering where God had gone. Why had He forsaken him and the Knights after all their service in His name?
“God deserted me, so I abandoned God.” The words echoed in his mind over and over again until he fell back into a restless sleep.
* * *
The next morning, D’Molay knew he was worse. The pain persisted in his chest when he moved. Breathing was getting more difficult, and despite the fact the fire had gone out and it was a chilly morning, he felt hot. A fever meant his wound was gaining ground, and getting to a healer was now more critical than ever. He sat up slowly to rest against the same rock he had used last night. He took stock of his body, trying to determine the particulars of his injury. The liquid sloshing around inside his chest as he moved was probably blood. It was a horrible, heavy feeling, but was nothing compared to the pain of the wound at the back of his right side. It still felt like a knife blade was still piercing him, and he wondered if a broken rib was sticking into him somewhere in his chest.
Aavi began to stir under her cloak. “Mmmm . . . D’Molay?” Her eyes were half-closed as the morning rays from the sun snuck in between the tree of the little clearing they had slept in. She sat up and felt the chill morning air on her face and arms as the cloak fell away.
“Right here,” he rasped.
Aavi looked at him with great concern. “What happened to your voice? You sound terrible.”
He cleared his throat and coughed weakly for a moment. “Just a little morning phlegm. I’ll be fine. See, I sound better already.”
She regarded him carefully and saw something that gave her a whole new reason to worry. D’Molay’s inner glow was fainter than usual and was tinged with dark purple splotches. She didn’t know for sure, but Aavi suspected that it meant he was not well at all. As she watched him, D’Molay started going through the piles of gear and supplies Aavi had gathered the previous night.
“A lot of this of this isn’t worth carrying. Once I get this sorted, we’ll eat and then ride to the next town.” He coughed a bit then managed to stifle it. “Put some water in this bucket and take it to the horses. I’m sure they’d like that.” He pointed to the animals as he held out the bucket contriving the task to keep Aavi too busy to examine him closely. She eagerly accepted the job and after getting the bucket filled carried it over to the Mayans’ horses that were tied up to a large tree at the other side of the campsite.
As she approached, the horses turned and looked at her. They were all dark brown with long black manes, sleek tails and intelligent eyes. Aavi half-expected them to talk to her. They stretched their necks and large heads towards her and made low, guttural noises as she approached with the bucket. She flinched and almost dropped the water as they loomed at her. Fortunately, the horses were held back by the ropes. Aavi managed to keep her balance well enough to put the bucket down.
D’Molay watched Aavi struggle with the horses and tried not to laugh for fear of hurting his side. “It’s all right. They won’t hurt you. Get the bucket closer to them. They’re just trying to get to the water.”
In a half-crouching position, she slid the bucket close enough for the horses to reach then quickly withdrew, unsure what such large creatures might do to her. Returning to D’Molay she sat facing him. “They have their water. How are you?” Aavi gave him an appraising look. She definitely didn’t like the look of his glow.
“About the same. We’ll ride horses to the next town and hope it has a healer.”
She nodded in agreement. “Can we ride together? I don’t think I want to be alone on one of those. They’re so much bigger than the deer.”
D’Molay conceded that riding together actually made sense at this point. He was in no condition to teach Aavi the nuances of riding a horse. “Yes, we can.” He gave her a wan smile. “I’ll pick out a horse. We’ll let the others go free.” D’Molay struggled to his feet and gingerly walked over to the five horses. Each one in turn was checked for skittishness or injuries. One had several contusions on its hindquarters, while another laid back its ears and shied from D’Molay’s touch. One by one he eliminated and freed each horse until he found the one that seemed the most docile and healthy. He led it back to the rock.
“We’ll take this one, so bring everything over here and we’ll mount up.”
Aavi brought the travel bag, empty water skin, and the quiver and bow. Carefully, D’Molay put the quiver and bow over his shoulder, making sure to turn away as he did, so Aavi wouldn’t see him grimace with pain as he raised his arms. It felt like hot knives were being plunged between his ribs whenever he moved. Regaining his composure, he turned back to face her. “We’ll step up on this rock and be able to get on the horse easier. She won’t be lying down for us like the deer. I’ll get on first.” Slow
ly and in obvious pain, he managed to mount the horse and get seated. “Now give me all the gear and you get up”
“So that’s why you brought the horse to the rock,” Aavi said, passing him items and then climbing up on the boulder. she straddled the horse in much the same way she had the deer. The horse was much wider and seemed more stable. Knowing D’Molay was up here put her immediately at ease. She took the travel bag and water skin from him and slung them over each shoulder.
D’Molay took the reins and let the horse get used to the added weight of two riders. Using the heels of his boots to prod the horse forward, it started to walk along and they headed out to the road. “The horse is much easier to guide then those deer we were on.”
“I do feel safer up here,” she added. Aavi held onto D’Molay’s waist and leaned forward, resting her head against his back. As she held him, she felt wetness on his side.
It was blood.
Aavi Tends the Mayan Horses
Digital Collage featuring Horses At The Porch (Albrecht Adam, 1843).
Chapter 38 - Love Lost and Found
Although he was a god of passion, Eros wasn’t feeling very affectionate toward Zeus or Ares. It was inconceivable that they had ordered him to locate and possibly confront an army in the sky. Zephyrus at least had some impressive battle abilities for the mission. Sometimes Eros wondered if Zeus or Ares really understood what his powers were, especially as he seemed to have been drafted for this task simply because he had wings.
Eros glanced over at Zephyrus, his companion in this dangerous undertaking. His friend was flying along with a huge smile on his face, as eager to seek out possible invaders as a young lover on his way to a secret rendezvous. Zeph’s anticipation was a matter of concern. Eros knew the wind would loose his powers at the slightest excuse just for the thrill of testing his strength against another being.
CITY OF THE GODS: FORGOTTEN Page 43
