The Black Rood

by Stephen R. Lawhead

  “Well, why not?” I said at last. “Yes, of course. I’ll do it. With any luck, I’ll be speaking like a native in no time at all.”

  “That,” said Pemberton dryly, “is about how long you have to master it.”

  “Sorry?”

  “You have from now to the end of September,” he said.

  “Good heavens!” I counted quickly on my fingertips. “It’s less than six months.”

  “If it were up to me, I would give you as much time as you liked. Unfortunately, we no longer have that luxury.”

  “I see now why you called it a challenge.”

  I had, I suppose, imagined great deeds of high daring to answer the clarion call I had heard so clearly at the last meeting of the Seven. I had allowed myself to believe that when my turn came to serve, it would involve something far more grand and exciting than stuffing my head full of ancient Greek syntax. To tell the truth, I was slightly deflated.

  Pemberton astutely read the disappointment in my mood. “It is important, Gordon,” he said softly, “vitally so, or I would not have asked you. What is more, you will learn much to your advantage. That I promise.”

  “Quite,” agreed Zaccaria. “Now then,” he reached into his suit pocket and brought out a calling card, “I have taken the liberty of giving your name to an acquaintance of mine. His name is Rossides, and he is a scholar of the first order.” He handed me the card. “He lives in Lothian Street near the university.”

  I took the card and read the name aloud. “M. Rossides, D. Phil.” It was written in both Greek and English. “Do you think he would be inclined to take on a student of my low aptitude and qualification?”

  “Oh, indeed,” Zaccaria assured me seriously. “He has guided many a floundering Odysseus through the Scylla and Charybdis of aspirated vowels and masculine verb forms. If anyone can get you ready in time, he can.” He reached out and tapped the card in my hand. “I dare say he’ll even get your Latin back in fighting trim.”

  “Then I will certainly pay him a visit first chance I get. I’ll send him my card and arrange a meeting next week.”

  “He is expecting you tomorrow,” Zaccaria informed me. “Stroke of six. Don’t be late. The good professor expects punctuality in his students.”

  As if in anticipation of this meeting, the clock in the hallway beyond chimed the hour, and my two guests rose to leave. “You will want to be getting home, I expect,” said Pemberton. “Give your lovely Caitlin my best regards, and tell her it might be a good idea to keep the autumn clear in the social diary.” He smiled, enjoying his little mystery. “I have a feeling you two will be spending some time in sunnier climes.”

  SIXTEEN

  I HAVE SEEN THE caliph. All praise to our Great Redeemer, I still live—under sentence of imminent death, it is true—nevertheless, it appears I am to be allowed to draw breath in this world another day. For, after the briefest of audiences, I was returned to my rooms to pray for the salvation of my soul.

  Since I have every confidence in my redemption, I will use this time to set down a little more of my tale so that you, dear Cait, will have the benefit. That said, I looked over what I wrote yesterday, and would not change a word.

  It was as I said it would be: a little after midday, Wazim came to my room. “Da’ounk,” he said, bowing low, “the hour has come. His Majesty the Khalifa Muhammad Ibn al-Hafiz, Protector of the Faithful and Glorious Potentate of Cairo, has commanded you to be brought before him to answer for your crimes.”

  This is how they talk.

  “Da’ounk” is the closest semblance to my name my little jailer’s Saracen tongue could produce. And this word “hour” is much liked by the Arab tribes, especially Egyptians; it is less easy to designate, but if you quarter the day from sunrise to sunset, and then divide each quarter into three, you will have cut the daylight into twelve equal parts. Each one of these twelve parts is called an hour. There are likewise twelve hours of darkness, too; and all of these have different names, but I do not know them. What is more, Arab philosophers employ various methods of counting these hours throughout the day; and although the reason for this escapes me, it does exercise them greatly.

  What Wazim meant, of course, was that my moment of judgment had come. The men with him were dressed in the bold red and yellow of the palace guards—yellow siarcs and trousers, with short red, open-fronted tunics, and large turbans—that is, war helms made of extremely long strips of cloth wound round and round the head in the most cunning fashion imaginable. They carried the distinctive curved sword of the Saracen in the winding cloth that serves the Arab for a belt. They also wielded long, broad-bladed pikes, and curved knives in jeweled sheaths which were fastened to thick gold chains around their necks.

  Wazim bowed low as I rose and stepped forward. I had long ago decided not to argue with my captors, or try to defend my actions in any way, but to accept my portion with good cheer whatever befell me. Since I remained calm and self-possessed, the guards did not lay hand to me, and I was permitted to walk upright and of my own volition into the caliph’s presence.

  I was taken to a region of the palace I had never visited before. The corridors are wider, the rooms more lavish than any I had seen heretofore, with gold in endless supply gleaming in the furnishings and ornaments, and even the cloth which covered the walls and floors. The rooftrees are polished cedar; the enormous doors are a dark hard wood called ebony, black and shiny as polished jet.

  The throne room itself is larger than any banqueting hall known in the West. Wazim told me that once, in observance of the previous caliph’s day of birth, fifty men on horseback performed mock battle for the entertainment of scores of spectators. I believe him, for it is an exceedingly spacious hall. And sitting in the center of it, beneath a live palm tree under which a tentlike canopy had been erected, is the solid gold Throne of Cairo. And on that throne, watching me with eyes as hard as chips of flint, was Hafiz the Resplendent himself.

  Surrounded by ranks of servants, aides, scribes, and court officials of various kinds—most of them sitting on the polished marble floor on enormous tufted cushions, the Caliph of Cairo was a much smaller man than I anticipated, very brown, and with the aspect of someone who has spent an active youth beneath the scorching sun of the desert. His skin was deeply creased like well-used leather, and his hair was thick and entirely gray. Like many holy men, his beard was long, and woven into two braids which were drawn up into his turban somehow. And aside from his turban, which was purest white and glistening like sunlight on fresh snow, and bore an enormous blood-red ruby surrounded by the turquoise tips of peacock feathers affixed in gold over his brow, the caliph dressed in the manner of a simple tradesman or farmer. His clothes were spotless and finely made, but of humble, hard-wearing cloth.

  He sat on a broad cushion upon his throne with his legs crossed beneath him, as if he were in a tent in a wilderness camp. He frowned when he saw me, and I knew my sentence was sealed.

  Still, I bowed low as Wazim presented me and, by way of greeting, I spoke the few words of Arabic which he had taught me. “Most Excellent and Exalted Khalifa,” I said, “may the One God who created all men preserve you forever. I am deeply honored to meet my lord and master, whose kindness and generosity have so long sustained me.”

  Although the words were Wazim’s, I meant what I said; I was grateful for my benign captivity under his roof. I knew how easily it could have been otherwise.

  The great man’s frown deepened farther, but with consternation. He made no reply, but sat pulling on his long, gray mustache and watching me narrowly.

  “As you are an educated man,” he replied in good Latin, “let us speak directly.”

  I was much heartened by this, to be sure; any time an Arab—be he Saracen, Seljuq, Danishman, or Egyptian—deigns to speak to you in your own tongue, number yourself among the few and fortunate. Still, I did not allow my elation to show in my manner or my speech, which would have been disrespectful. “As you will, lord,” I replied evenl
y.

  He regarded me for a time, and then said, “You have been sent to me by the Khalifa of Baghdad.”

  “That is true, my lord. No doubt he imagined I would be a useful addition to your illustrious court.”

  Al-Hafiz grunted at my small attempt at humor. “What is your name?”

  “I am Lord Duncan of Caithness in Scotland. I am on pilgrimage, my lord, and was sojourning in Anazarbus when it was attacked by Amir Ghazi. I was captured and taken prisoner by the Seljuqs.”

  “Khalifa al-Mutarshid says that you are a spy and a traitor to Islam. He has condemned you to death.” Then, with a dismissive wave of his hand, he added, “I see no reason to alter his judgment.” Addressing the guards, he said, “This one is to be executed at once. Take him away.”

  As the guards stepped forward and grasped me by the arms, al-Hafiz demanded, “Have you nothing to say?”

  Placing myself firmly in the palm of the Swift Sure Hand, I replied, “No, my lord. All is as the Great King decrees.”

  The guards seized me, turned me around, and led me from the hall. Wazim, padding along behind, distraught, muttered platitudes of comfort under his breath. I paid him no heed, for I was gathering my courage to face the headsman’s axe.

  We reached the great ebony doors and halted while they were opened by two blue-robed porters. From the throne behind us the caliph called, “Infidel, who did you mean?”

  The guards halted, and I was hauled around to face the caliph. “My lord?”

  Lifting his hand from his lap, he motioned the guards to bring me before him once more. “You spoke of the great king just now. Who did you mean?”

  “I meant the Lord God, Ruler of Heaven and Earth, Shaper of Destiny, Architect of the Ages, and Champion of the Faithful.” These last were titles the Muhammedans used for the Almighty, and which any Christian could also espouse in all good faith.

  The caliph’s dark eyes grew narrow—whether with anger or distrust, I could not tell. “There is but one God,” he declared, thrusting a long finger into the air above his head. “Allah is One.”

  “That is so, my lord,” I said, bowing my head in reverence. “There is no god but God Alone.”

  The frown reappeared upon his dark, wrinkled face. “What do you know of such things?”

  “Very little, my lord. I am but a simple pilgrim—”

  “So you have said,” he snapped. “But not so simple as you make out, I think.” Frowning furiously, he leaned forward, chin in hand, and glared as if trying to decide what to do with me. Finally, he said, “Do you deny you are a Christian?”

  “No, lord,” I answered. “I am a Christian. With your permission, I would merely point out that I have nothing to do with either Rome or Byzantium. Neither pope nor emperor hold authority over me.”

  This surprised him. And, strangely, his surprise gratified him. It was as if he had suspected something curious about me, and now his suspicion was rewarded. The frown vanished instantly, and he regarded me with an expression of wary interest. “So! You, too, are an Armenian. We know of these Christians.”

  “I beg your pardon, Most Excellent Khalifa,” I replied, “but neither am I an Armenian.”

  “Not an Armenian?” he said. “What are you then, Christian? Tell me quickly.”

  “My lord Khalifa, I am of the Célé Dé,” I replied. “We are an obscure sect—once plentiful, but now vastly diminished in numbers. Where once we ruled the whole of Britain, we are now confined to a small realm in the far north.”

  For some reason, this appeared to please him immensely. “I have heard of this Pritania,” he replied. “It is very far away from Rome and Byzantium, you say?”

  “Yes, my lord. As far as east from west with three seas between.”

  The caliph squirmed on his cushion impatiently. “Since you are a Christian of particular devotion,” he said, “I will grant you a day to make peace with your God before I send you to meet him in judgment.”

  “I thank you, my lord,” I replied, bowing in acknowledgment of his generosity.

  He gestured to the guards once more, and I was taken from the hall and returned to my rooms, where I now sit and write in contemplation of what has happened. Although I am grateful for even this small reprieve, I cannot think what it might betoken. Still, I have this day. Dare I hope for more?

  I pray the hand of the executioner may spare me yet a little longer for your sake, Cait. While I wait, I can think of nothing better than to proceed with my tale. This I will do even now.

  Marseilles is a rowdy river town, heaving with rough industry. There are no fewer than five shipyards—all of them clattering to wake the dead from the crack of dawn to after sunset. Half the town and countryside is kept busy serving the shipbuilders, and the other half earns its crust supplying the wharf and harbor with goods and commodities of one kind or another. The harbor is well protected, wide, and deep; and there we found the last of the Templar ships making ready to set sail.

  The larger part of the fleet had already departed—there were forty-two ships in all—but eighteen remained in port, taking on supplies which had not been ready in time. I instructed Sarn to put in close to the Templar ships, and then Padraig and I hurried to find the soldier we had spoken to in Rouen.

  “Pax vobiscum,” I said, approaching the first warrior monk we saw. “God be good to you, my friend. We are looking for one of your brothers.” I explained that we had been instructed to meet a member of his order in this very place. He asked who we were looking for, and I told him.

  “It was de Bracineaux?” the man asked, looking us up and down. “Renaud de Bracineaux, are you certain? If it was Renaud, then you are fortunate indeed. He was to have departed with the first ships, but has been detained. He is still here.”

  He told us that Renaud was a commander of the order, and that all the commanders were holding council with the Grand Master over concerns which had arisen while sojourning in the country. “His return is expected as soon as the council is finished—tomorrow perhaps, or the next day. And then we will sail for Outremer.”

  I thanked the brother for his help, and we made our way back to the boat to wait. Roupen had determined to see if he could beg passage from any ship sailing east. Now that he was destitute, he could not afford to pay his way as he had originally planned, and the thought of humbling himself that way cast him into a sour and miserable mood—nor was that all. Although he said nothing against them, anyone could easily discern that he held no fondness for the Templars. I mentioned it to Padraig, who had also noticed how the young lord either grimaced or fidgeted every time the warrior monks were mentioned.

  Sarn, too, was unhappy; now that we had reached our destination, he knew he would be sent home and he wanted to continue with us to Jerusalem. This I could not allow. Nor, considering the rigors of the journey, could I in good conscience send him home by himself.

  The solution to this quandary remained beyond our grasp the rest of the day—although not for lack of discussion. Sarn could not understand why, having come this far, he should not be permitted to continue the rest of the way. “You will need strong servants in the Holy Land,” he kept saying.

  To which I would reply, “My father needs strong servants back in Scotland. What is more, he needs his boat.”

  “You would send me back alone?” he countered with sullen reproach.

  “Believe me, I wish I had a better choice, but it cannot be helped. You must go home as we agreed.”

  Next morning, a young Templar came to our mooring and informed us that Renaud de Bracineaux had been apprised of our request and was waiting to see us. Taking up the box containing Bezu’s knives, Padraig and I followed the youth to the long double rank of Templar vessels, where we were conducted up the boarding plank and onto the deck of the largest ship I had ever set foot upon in all my life. Renaud was standing by the mast, directing the loading of supplies which were heaped in a small mountain upon the thick deck of the sturdy vessel.

  He turned as the
young man came before him announcing our presence, and said, “Here, now! You have found me at last. It is good to see you, my friends.” He put his hands on our shoulders, and said, “Are you ready to swear the oath and join our order?”

  “Nothing would please me more,” I told him. “As I have said, however, I am foresworn, and cannot undertake another oath.”

  He accepted this with good grace. “I am sorry to hear it. Yet, even knowing this, you have come. Why?”

  “We are on pilgrimage to the Holy Land,” I said, indicating Padraig, “and we had hoped to beg passage aboard one of your ships.”

  “I see,” he nodded, his enthusiasm fading, “I might have guessed. Unfortunately, I fear I must disappoint you. We have room aboard our ships only for fellow Templars, and those who have official business with the order.” He offered us a sad smile. “Alas, it appears you have traveled a very long way for nothing. I am sorry.”

  He turned away from us, saying, “Now, you must excuse me. As you can see, we are getting ready to sail. I am needed elsewhere.”

  Disheartened, I stood for a moment thinking what to do. Padraig held out the box to me. “You have been most kind,” I told the Templar commander. “We will not detain you any longer—only, I am reminded that we have something which belongs to you.”

  “That, I heartily doubt,” he replied, already moving away.

  “Balthazar of Arles sent it,” I said, raising my voice slightly.

  He turned and looked back at me. “The armorer?” He considered for a moment.

  “The same,” I continued. “You should remember him—you purchased a cargo of weapons from him.”

  “We did,” he allowed warily, “but I cannot see how this could possibly concern you.”