by Gavin Scott
“They’re described in Exodus and Numbers,” said Runcorn, as Durrell paused to take breath, “with a rather strange phrase: ‘lights and perfections’.”
“Lights and perfections?” said Sophie. “I don’t understand. Is this a common phrase?”
“Common enough words,” said Runcorn, “but not commonly used in combination. We believe they were worn by the high priest.”
“The high priest,” said Helena contemptuously, for no particular reason Forrester could discern.
“According to the historian Josephus,” interjected the irrepressible Durrell, “the lights and perfections incorporated twelve brightly coloured jewels.”
“I love jewels,” said Ariadne, “but nobody ever buys me any,” and she glanced roguishly at Keith Beamish, who blushed, as Runcorn stepped neatly back into the narrative.
“Josephus says these jewels shone with incredibly bright rays when God was present,” he said quickly, “and depending on the order in which they shone, the priest could understand what God was telling him.”
“Like using a radio to contact base when one was on a mission,” said Venables. “You’d be familiar with that, Forrester?”
“We Greeks had very few radios in the mountains,” said Helena, bitterly, “and the British ones never worked.”
“Anyway,” said Runcorn doggedly, “by the time the Crusaders got to the Holy Land the Urim and the Thummim hadn’t been seen for a thousand years. So it was quite an achievement when Bohemond and Michael of Cahors found them.”
“Where?” asked Atreides.
“Unfortunately,” said Runcorn, “those pages of the court records have been destroyed.”
“Court records? What court records?”
Runcorn paused, as if courteously giving Durrell the chance to show off again, but it was clear that this was part of the story into which the enthusiastic author could not insert himself.
“The court proceedings took place in the year 1112,” Runcorn continued, “when Bohemond was tried in absentia, expelled from the Order and condemned to death.”
“What on earth for?” said Venables. “I thought he was a hero.”
They were crossing a little stream now, where bright green watercress trailed dreamily in the sparking water, shaded by a sycamore tree. Frogs began to croak in protest as they made their way over the stepping stones, and Ariadne scooped up a handful of water, splashed it on her face and then playfully at Helena.
“Do that again,” said Helena, “and I will throw you in the stream.” Ariadne immediately did it again and taking Keith Beamish’s hand scrambled quickly to the other bank before Helena could fulfil her threat.
“He was expelled for stealing the Urim and the Thummim,” said Runcorn, ignoring these antics and helping Sophie onto the opposite bank.
“Stealing them?” said Sophie, shocked. “Surely not the action of a heroic crusading knight?”
“It seems so, I’m afraid. On the eleventh day of the eleventh month of the year 1111 Bohemond and his household left his palace in Jerusalem in great secrecy and boarded a ship at Acre – reportedly carrying chests full of treasure.”
“But why on earth did he do it?” said Keith Beamish. “He’d be breaking an oath, wouldn’t he? Risking eternal damnation, all that sort of thing?”
“Very much so,” said Runcorn. “My instinct is that Michael had convinced Bohemond that he could, like the ancient Israelites, use the device to talk to God.”
“And that fleeing with the treasures was what God wanted them to do,” said Sophie.
“I can easily imagine it,” said Runcorn. “Anyway it’s from those court records that we get the best indication of what the Urim and the Thummim looked like, because the Order created a kind of watch list, which we still have.”
The castle was less than a quarter of a mile away now. Forrester could see no sign of movement, but he felt a strange certainty that Kretzmer had concealed himself in the ruins. They certainly provided the best cover in that bare landscape. The others, however, seemed to have forgotten all about him, so caught up were they in Runcorn’s story. “The device seems to have been some kind of breastplate sitting over the shoulders like part of a suit of armour. Interestingly, though this is not indicated in the Bible, there seem to have been two of them, perhaps one for the high priest and one for his acolyte.”
“Put on the armour of God, so that you may stand with him against the devil,” said Venables – and then, turning to the others, said apologetically, “Ephesians six. My father was a vicar. So did the Knights of St. James ever track Bohemond down?”
“At first no, despite an extensive search. In fact for many years he and his retinue, having set off in winter, well outside the sailing season in the Mediterranean, were believed to have perished in a shipwreck. The ironic thing was they had been shipwrecked, but on an island none of their pursuers had visited.”
“Hydros,” said Helena.
“Hydros,” said Runcorn. “And it seems that Bohemond and most of his household must have survived the wreck, because they were strong enough to oblige the islanders to build the castle.”
“Typical of the British,” said Helena.
“Bohemond was from Normandy,” said Keith Beamish. “Which is in France.”
“I know where Normandy is,” hissed Helena. “French, British, they are all the same.”
“No, they aren’t,” said Ariadne. “The French are much more aristocratic and have better food.”
“Stop talking nonsense,” said Helena, “you know nothing about it.”
“I knew a French countess once,” said Ariadne. “She was lovely.”
“The local people call the castle,” said Runcorn with just enough volume to bring this dialogue to an end, “Kastrosorasis.”
If Runcorn had been planning his disquisition in advance he could not have reached this point with better timing. They were now at the bottom of a long slope at the top of which, on the edge of the cliffs and silhouetted against the glittering sea, were the ruins of Bohemond’s castle. Three quarters of the outer walls were still there, part of an inner keep and a curious broken tower on the far side, right next to the cliffs. A Greek windmill, obviously built with stones taken from the ruins, stood nearby, its white canvas sails turning lazily in the breeze from the sea. Someone had planted an olive grove, which ran right up to the castle walls, and there were the remains of an orchard on the eastern side.
“Kastrosorasis?” said David Venables. “What does that mean?”
“It sounds like a contraction of our Greek words for ‘castle’ and ‘sight’,” said Prince Atreides.
“Quite correct,” said Runcorn. “‘The Castle of Sight’. It’s an eerie thought, isn’t it, when we know that Michael of Cahors lived there, believing he had a direct line to heaven.”
“Eerie indeed,” said Beamish.
“Can you make out the tower on the cliff side of the castle? That’s Pyrgos Asteria – the Tower of the Stars. Which is where, they say, Michael conducted his experiments.”
“I wonder what the islanders made of it all,” said Durrell, speculatively.
“I’m certain nobody asked them,” Runcorn replied. “But there was one of them Bohemond must certainly have listened to. Her name was Demeter.”
“The fertility goddess?” said Sophie.
“Well, an island woman named after the goddess. According to local lore she was also one of the local maenads.”
“The bacchanalian women who tore men to pieces?” said Atreides.
“Only at certain times of year,” said Runcorn.
“And when inspired to do so by the god,” said Helena. “Meting out justice to men who deserved it.”
“Somewhat rough justice,” said Keith Beamish.
“What does it matter how rough it was?” asked Helena, glaring at him. “It was what the god wanted.”
“Certainly Bohemond wasn’t put off by Demeter’s reputation,” said Runcorn. “In fact he fell deeply in love
, married her and was presented with a beautiful daughter called, inevitably, Persephone.”
“How romantic,” said Ariadne.
“Positively mythical,” said Beamish.
“It was romantic,” replied Runcorn, “and you could say it became mythical. It seems Bohemond loved Persephone dearly, and insisted that Michael taught her to read and write, though her mother never learned. Legend has it, father and daughter would often go hunting together through the woods.”
“I’ve heard Bohemond’s reign was a time of great prosperity for Hydros,” said Atreides. “They say the olive groves flourished, the orchards were heavy with fruit, the cornfields rich with grain.”
“All true,” said Runcorn. “It was a golden time. And then the Holy Order of St. James caught up with him.”
They were close to the castle now, and its grim walls were starting to block out the sun. Venables turned to Forrester. “There are so many parallels, aren’t there? Bohemond fleeing here with the Urim and Thummim, and us pursuing another soldier who’s made off with another precious artefact.”
“True enough,” said Forrester, “though I don’t imagine Kretzmer has been using the stone to talk to the creator of the universe.”
“Well, if he has,” said Sophie, “let’s hope that the creator of the universe has told him to give it up.”
As the castle loomed over them Forrester reviewed the likelihood of Kretzmer hiding himself there. On one level the castle was a trap – a fortified enclave surrounded by walls – but it was so large, ruinous and complex it might also be the ideal place for the German to conceal himself in this bare, open landscape. However systematically they searched, Kretzmer would be able to move from hiding place to hiding place within the ruins, constantly staying ahead of them. Nor, thought Forrester, were there enough of them to surround the castle to prevent him leaving.
They were now beside a massive hole in the outer wall, and the tumbled rocks from the breach still lay in the courtyard beyond.
“I’m assuming that was the work of the Holy Order of St. James?” said Forrester.
“Almost certainly,” said Runcorn. “When word of Bohemond’s refuge finally reached them they sent a small army under the command of the head of the Order, Fulk of Boulogne, who was under direct instructions from the Pope.”
“The Pope?”
“Certainly. The Holy Father was determined to get his hands on the Urim and the Thummim.”
“I suppose he didn’t want any rival communicants with God,” said Venables. “After all that was supposed to be his exclusive province.”
“As a naturalist,” said Beamish, turning to Venables, “have you ever come across any signs of religious belief among animals?”
“What a curious question,” said Helena Spetsos.
“Not curious at all, dear lady,” said Venables. “And the answer is no, which I think is because if there is a god why should we be the only species on Earth to be aware of the fact? And the truth is, Keith, I have never noticed any tiny hedgehog parish churches or miniature volish cathedrals.”
“Not even an ancient shrine erected by pious foxes?” said Beamish.
Venables paused for a moment, as if searching his memory. “Not even an ancient shrine erected by foxes,” he said at last. “And I think the reason is this: we humans invent religions to deal with our fear of death. Animals, not having the foresight to realise death is coming to them, have no need to create the myths needed to assuage their fear. Would you agree, Runcorn?”
“I am a member of the Church of England,” said Runcorn, “and thus absolved of the necessity to even think about matters of religion, much less discuss them. Would you like me to continue with the story?” To which there was general assent.
“Well,” said Runcorn, “Fulk and his army landed at Limani Sangri, marched overland to the Castle of Sight, and when Bohemond refused to surrender, laid siege. The siege went on for eight months, and during that time the island was laid waste, partly because any Crusader who ventured into the woods never returned. Not in one piece anyway.”
“The maenads?” asked Helena.
“The maenads,” said Runcorn.
“That,” said Helena, “would be a good subject for a painting.”
“Of course these ancient superstitions,” said Atreides, fanning himself with his hat, “are never very far below the surface, even today.”
“Why, Prince, do you think there are avenging maenads roaming the forests here right now?” asked Sophie.
“Why not?” said Helena. “We Greeks have been communing with the gods of these islands long before the Christians came.”
Runcorn was clearly anxious to get the conversation back onto more historical lines. “I’m sure you have, dear lady,” he said to Helena. “But of course Fulk had another reason for destroying the forests, which was to get the timber he needed to build a huge ballista.”
“A giant Roman catapult, for those of you who haven’t encountered one,” said Durrell, helpfully.
Runcorn gave him a brief nod of acknowledgement. “When the ballista was completed the attackers began to hurl huge boulders into the castle walls until they finally made what is doubtless the breach we are looking at now.” He turned to Forrester. “Do you still think your fleeing German has taken refuge here?”
“It’s a possibility,” said Forrester. “Once again I’d urge you that we should end our visit here. He’s held a whole village hostage for the past thirty-six hours and he won’t hesitate to kill if he’s cornered.”
“Well in that case we’ll make sure we don’t corner him,” said Runcorn, and began clambering over the fallen stones, with the rest of the party following him. Atreides hesitated when it came to the moment to scramble in, and Forrester saw his hesitation.
“Look, Connie,” he said. “No false bravado. If you want to stay out of this place you should.”
Atreides looked at him for a moment. “There is some nice shade in the orchard,” he said. “I think I’ll take advantage of it.” And he strolled over to one of the lichened trees abutting the castle walls, sat down with his back against it and took out a cigar.
20
VANISHING POINT
Once in the shade of the remaining walls, it felt to Forrester as if they had stepped from the dazzling clear light of the Aegean into the gloom of the Middle Ages. In front of them was a stony, weed-infested space that had once doubtless been a courtyard teeming with men at arms. Beyond that were the ruins of the inner keep, itself partly battered down like the outer wall.
“When the Crusaders finally broke in,” Runcorn was saying, “they faced the most ferocious defence any of them had ever encountered, led not just by Bohemond and Michael, but by Demeter and Persephone too.”
Forrester could see in his mind’s eye the small desperate band, their great swords flashing in the sun, their heavy chain mail armour weighing them down, but his eyes were constantly on the move, searching for any sign of life within the walls. He held out little hope of seeing anything, though: Kretzmer’s best plan, if he had taken refuge in the castle, was to remain absolutely motionless.
Runcorn was halfway to the keep now. “The defenders disputed every inch of ground as they fell back, leaving the courtyard red with blood.” They had reached the top of the rubble that must once have been the castle bailey.
“Would you mind pausing for a moment, Runcorn?” said Forrester. “This is a good vantage point and I’d just like to get everybody to choose one part of the castle and concentrate. Call out if you see any movement at all.”
They did as Forrester asked, standing in silence for a long moment as their eyes ranged over the stones and shadows. Through the gap in the wall, at the top of a distant hill Forrester could see a figure coming down towards them. After a few seconds he realised it must be Yanni, and immediately felt better. It was always good to have Patrakis in the mix. One by one the observers reported on what they had seen, and each report was negative.
“If no
one can see anything,” said Runcorn, “may we continue the tour?”
“Of course,” said Forrester. “I’m sorry to be spoiling the holiday atmosphere.”
“On the contrary, my dear chap,” said Runcorn. “You’re adding an extra and entirely appropriate frisson of excitement.” He led them across a grassy space towards a cylindrical building hard up against the sea wall. “We’ve now reached the foot of the Tower of Stars. It was here, where the stairs began, that Michael and Countess Demeter were slain.”
“Michael and Demeter?” noted Sophie.
“Yes,” said Runcorn. “It’s an interesting combination, isn’t it? Bearing in mind that both of them, he through his mysticism and she through her Dionysian rites, may well have believed they communed with the gods.”
Forrester glanced at Helena, but she said nothing.
“Indeed,” went on Runcorn, “they may have become allies during Bohemond’s stay on the island. I can easily imagine them exploring the woods together – perhaps even visiting the glade where poor Colonel Stephanides was nearly killed. At any rate they died here, fighting side by side. And their deaths gave Bohemond and his daughter the chance to escape to the top of the tower.”
“Escape?” said Lawrence Durrell. “Wouldn’t they be trapped up there?”
“So one would have thought,” replied Runcorn. “But of course it’s possible they had other plans – perhaps some idea of lowering themselves down the cliffs and escaping by boat.”
“Surely not,” said Durrell. “Isn’t the famous Roufíchtra Medusa very close to here?”
“The Roufíchtra Medusa is immediately below the castle walls,” said Runcorn with some satisfaction, like a man hearing the cue he has been waiting for. “Those with sufficiently good a head for heights will be able to see it quite shortly. But bear with me a moment. Where was I?”
