The Black Rood

by Stephen R. Lawhead

  “Not long enough for me to forget that I owe you a great deal of money,” replied Thoros. He shook his head ruefully. “I do not need to tell you it has been very difficult here these last two years.” Sorrow dragged down the corners of his mouth as he gazed forlornly into the cup between his huge hands. “The harvest…trade…”

  “Nonsense!” scoffed Nurmal good-naturedly. “You have had fine harvests—nay, bounteous harvests! Magnificent harvests!—three years running. And trade has never been better. The coffers of Armenia are bursting!”

  Caught in his small lie, Thoros made a shamefaced grin and looked at me from under his heavy brows. “You see? I told you nothing happened east of the Taurus he does not know.”

  “I did not come here to embarrass you into paying me,” Nurmal told him. “Yet, if it would ease your conscience to lighten the load, I would of course accept any amount you would care to bestow in recognition of our long-forgotten bargain.”

  “Ha!” cried Thoros, slapping the table with his hand. “You are a fine fellow, Nurmal. So I have always said. Never fear, you will not leave Anazarbus empty-handed.”

  Lord Thoros, I decided, was like a great shaggy bear, at once fierce and childlike. There was nothing of subtlety or guile in his open features or wide dark eyes. His loyalties could be easily discerned by the expression on his face.

  “Yordanus Hippolytus appeared at my door in the company of these good men,” Nurmal volunteered. “He said he had urgent business in Anazarbus and required horses for himself and his friends. Once I discovered why he needed my horses, what else could I do but see them safely to their destination?”

  “Protecting your investment,” said Thoros, wagging his finger knowingly. “I know you.”

  “I will not deny it,” said Nurmal. “But there is more.” Setting aside his bowl, he looked to me. “Tell him, Duncan,” he said, his voice taking on a solemn tone.

  Thoros sipped his wine and regarded Padraig and me benignly. “Yes, whatever you have to say, tell it to Thoros. I am in a mood to hear the news of the world.”

  I needed no urging from Padraig, silent or otherwise, to speak the message we had all traveled so far and at such great expense to deliver. “My lord, the news I bring is not good,” I began, and went on to describe how I had learned of Prince Bohemond’s desire to restore the County of Antioch to the boundaries established by his father. “He is on his way here now with his army,” I concluded, “and means to take the city.”

  Thoros received the news remarkably well. “I know this already,” Thoros said blithely, pouring more wine into the bowls. “Roupen has told me. Of course, he is known of times to become somewhat…overwrought, shall we say? I am happy to have you confirm that this is not the case.” He smiled as if to dismiss the report as an ill-founded and fairly disreputable rumor.

  “It is a fact,” Padraig said, speaking up. “Lord Duncan and I heard it from the lips of Bohemond himself. We called upon him to repent of his plan before God.”

  The priest’s assertion seemed to impress Thoros, who inquired how this had come to be, so I explained about meeting the Templar Renaud, and how he had given Roupen, Padraig, and myself passage aboard his ship. “Commander Renaud told me about the prince’s plan—although it was by no means a secret. Bohemond had been raising troops for this purpose all summer.”

  “But he would not listen to you,” Thoros suggested with a sympathetic shake of the head. “They rarely do, these Franks.” If these tidings, for which we had endured considerable hardship, caused him the least concern, he hid his distress admirably well.

  “We failed to persuade him and had to flee Antioch,” I told him. “We came here as quickly as we could to warn you. I expect Bohemond wasted no time in gathering his troops. It is entirely possible that he is only a few days’ march from here even now.”

  Nurmal nodded gravely. Padraig frowned, gazing at the serenely untroubled nobleman as if at a riddle that might be solved by staring long and hard. “Lord Roupen will no doubt confirm all we have told,” the monk said, watching our host for any sign of dismay or alarm.

  Thoros nodded sympathetically. “You have risked your lives to help my brother and bring this warning to us. For this you shall be rewarded. What is more, I shall order prayers to be sung in your honor tonight.”

  “My lord is too kind,” I replied, fighting down a sudden and overwhelming feeling of foolishness. “We did not come here in anticipation of any reward,” I told him stiffly. “Indeed, we will be more than satisfied to continue on our way as soon as possible.”

  “I will not hear of it,” replied Thoros amiably. “You have traveled a very great distance. You must rest and take your ease. Allow us to show you the generosity of the noble Armenian race.” He put aside the bowl and rose. “Please, remain here and refresh yourselves as long as you like. Tonight you will sit with me at the feast. Speaking of which, I have remembered something I must do. I ask you to excuse me.” He bade us farewell, and strolled from the room.

  “You should feel proud,” said Nurmal. “You have done well. The Armenians are a generous people, and will certainly reward you handsomely.”

  “We have done only what anyone might do,” I replied, still struggling to shake the feeling that, for all his thanks and praise, Thoros cared more about his wine than the calamity looming over his city. The fate of his people swung in the balance, and his concern was arranging feasts. Moments ago, my chief desire was to see Bohemond and the rulers of Armenia reconciled, and for peace to reign between the two houses. Now, I could think only of leaving the doomed city of Anazarbus before the upstart Bohemond arrived and reduced it to smoldering bricks and ash.

  TWENTY-NINE

  PADRAIG AND I returned to our room. I was tired, and wanted to rest before the festivities began. I lay down and slept soundly until I was roused by a servant sent by Roupen with fresh clothes for us to wear for the evening’s celebration. The young fellow did not speak Latin, but indicated that we were to take the clothes and give him our old ones to be, I thought, cleaned and mended.

  By the time we had worked this out and washed and dressed, Roupen was waiting to escort us to the banqueting hall. “I suppose you will be leaving soon,” he said as we walked across the inner courtyard.

  Owing to the nearness of the mountains—whose sun-flamed peaks could be seen rising above the palace roof—the evening air was cool; the play of light and air put me in mind of a summer night at home in Caithness. Before the memory could result in melancholy, I pushed it firmly from me and reminded myself of my vow—now long deferred. “As soon as may be,” I replied. I no longer cared about anything but returning to the pilgrim trail, and resuming my abandoned quest. “Tomorrow.”

  “You must allow my family to honor you sufficiently,” chided Roupen. “After all, you two saved the prodigal son and have proven yourselves allies of the Armenian kingdom. It would be ungracious to refuse the homage of my people.”

  “I meant no disrespect. I only thought—”

  “Peace, my friend,” Roupen replied lightly; I had never seen him so calm and self-composed. “I spoke in jest. Of course, you will be allowed to leave whenever you like. But let us speak of all that later. Tonight, by Prince Leo’s decree, you are to be lauded and praised in the ancient manner.”

  “How is your father?” asked Padraig. “Have you seen him?”

  “He is very ill,” Roupen answered. “But my return has cheered him greatly, and he asked to see me as soon as they told him I was home. Although we talked only for a moment, my mother says he looked in better health than she has seen him for many weeks. The royal physicians are hopeful that he is showing signs of recovery.”

  “Good. I am happy to hear it.”

  “God willing, my father will be able to thank you himself before you both rush away.”

  “We told Thoros about Bohemond’s plan to attack Anazarbus,” I said. “He appeared to take the prospect with astonishing tranquillity. I do not think I could be so placid in the
face of the impending destruction of my home and people.”

  “That is his way,” Roupen replied. “Thoros rarely reveals his true disposition to anyone. No one ever knows what he is thinking.”

  We reached the entrance to the feast hall then; the doors were flung wide and we were met by the royal steward who bowed low and, in a loud voice, announced to the assembled guests and family members that Lord Roupen and his friends had arrived. We paused to receive the adulation of the gathering, and were then led through the noisy throng, our ears ringing with enthusiastic shouts. Many of the courtiers reached out to clap us on the back; my arms and shoulders were joyfully slapped and pummeled until the flesh stung and I feared my bones would crack.

  Padraig and I were brought to the high banquet table where a combed, shaved, and freshly arrayed Yordanus was talking to an ill-at-ease Constantine; Sydoni, immaculate in a thin summer gown of shimmering green silk, was listening to a gray-haired woman with sad dark eyes. At our approach, the older woman held out her arms to Roupen, who kissed and embraced her, and then declared, “Lord Duncan, Brother Padraig, I present my mother, Princess Elena.”

  I bowed dutifully. She offered her hand, and I kissed it. Padraig likewise, whereupon she said, “Words do not exist to express a mother’s gratitude for the return of her lost son.” Her Latin was very formal, and slightly stilted. “Yet, perhaps you will allow this token to adorn the hair of a lady you love, that when you see it, you will be reminded of one whose prayers you helped to answer.”

  So saying, she reached behind and retrieved from the table two small wooden boxes. She gave one to Padraig, and placed the other in my hand and bade me to open it. Inside was a brooch and pin of gold; the brooch was made of a single large bloodred ruby surrounded by a ring of tiny blue sapphires which glittered with frozen starlight. The ruby was carved with a curious symbol—what appeared to be an orb borne between the wings of an eagle; the orb was surmounted by the Greek letter chi, forming a cross in the shape of an X.

  Padraig had received a band of gold, the ends of which were shaped like two bird’s heads—storks, or swans, I think—and between their beaks they clutched a glowing emerald. For size and luster, the gems were the largest and most brilliant I had ever seen.

  “My mother gave these to me, and I wore them on my wedding day. I do not know if priests in your homeland are allowed to marry—I am told that some do not. But I hope you will keep these gifts for the woman who bears you a son as kind and loving as my Roupen.”

  “Nothing would give me greater pleasure, my lady,” Padraig said, and thanked her with a blessing in Gaelic.

  “And you, Lord Duncan,” she said, tapping the box in my hand with her finger. “Do you have a wife?”

  “Alas, no Lady Elena,” I answered simply. I did not care to disturb the memory of your blessed mother, Cait. “One day, perhaps, God willing.”

  Sydoni, standing behind Princess Elena, caught my glance as I said this; her look of frank appraisal was disconcerting in its intensity.

  “Then I will pray the woman you choose will wear it always in love and happiness,” Elena said. Pointing to the symbol carved on the ruby, she said, “It is the seal of the Royal House of Armenia, our emblem for a thousand years.”

  “Your gift is overwhelming, and I thank you, but it is too much,” I demurred, withdrawing from Sydoni’s glance with more difficulty than I would have imagined possible. “I merely accompanied your son along his way.”

  The noblewoman’s expression became condescending. “Come now, false modesty is as unbecoming as arrogance. Roupen has told me how you twice saved his life, and have been his guardian angel every step of the way.”

  I saw that it would do no good to protest farther, so I bowed again and, with burning cheeks, accepted my gift as graciously as I could. To my relief, a serving-boy arrived bearing a silver tray with wine in small glass beakers. Constantine took the tray and distributed the cups to our little gathering. Taking up one himself, he said, “Let us drink to safe journeys and glad homecomings.”

  We raised our cups and drank. The wine was sweet and good, and as we drank and talked, I felt myself begin to grow more easy in my manner. Every now and then, one of the other guests would come to the high table to be introduced to Padraig and me and make our acquaintance. Most often, Roupen did the honors; when a name or face failed him, Constantine or Lady Elena obliged. At first, I tried to remember all the names and faces, but there were too many, and not only did they all look alike to me, they seemed to be related to one another in extremely complicated ways so that after awhile it was impossible to tell one from the other.

  More people were coming into the hall, and the sound of the crowd soon made speech all but impossible. So, I stood uneasily beside Roupen and his mother, holding my cup and gazing out upon the milling throng. Just when I thought the hall could hold no more, the doors were closed—which made the sound inside even more deafening.

  There was a movement in the crowd, and Thoros suddenly appeared, pushing his way through; Nurmal followed in his wake. They proceeded directly to the high table, and greeted the Princess and other members of the royal party waiting there. As they moved from person to person, I noticed that both men were already well into the celebratory spirit. They laughed loudly, kissing everyone and clapping them on the back, their gestures grandiose and exaggerated. In short, they looked for all the world like men who have just won a fortune on a wager, or sailors with silver in their fists who have come into port after a long sea voyage.

  I was not the only one to observe their ebullient behavior. “The roisterers emerge from their cups at last,” remarked Constantine; he leaned close and all but shouted in my ear. “Now the festivity can begin for the rest of us.”

  This might easily have been the case—too much drink in overeager celebration makes a man giddy, God knows—and I might have agreed: except for the fact that Padraig and I had been with them before the feast and knew that the drinking had been curtailed. Nurmal, like myself, had returned to his room, and Thoros had quit the hall before us. Certainly, the two might have met again and resumed their drinking, but I doubted this. The dull sense of dread spreading through me—like dark wine tinting clear water—told me the explanation was never so benign.

  Thoros took his seat at the high table, indicating that I should sit at his right hand, and Padraig at his left. Nurmal sat beside me, and the other members of the royal party assumed their places around the board and, the instant they were seated, the entire hall convulsed in a tumultuous commotion as the guests scrambled for places at the other tables. There were far more people than places, and many were forced to stand around the perimeter of the great room looking on, and awaiting their chance to claim a place when someone else finished.

  As soon as the hall quieted, an old man dressed in long black robes advanced slowly to the high table and, in a loud voice, called the gathering to prayer. Clasping his hands, he raised them before his face and, in ornately antique Greek, proceeded to entreat the Almighty to bless the realm and the faithful of his flock. My Greek is not so good as my Latin, as I say, but I caught most of it. He prayed for the souls of all gathered within the hall, and prayed for the continuance of divine guidance and protection. He prayed long, often wandering from Greek into the obscure Armenian tongue. When he finished, the doors of the hall were once again thrown open and serving-men appeared bearing platters of food.

  The first platters were placed on the high table—huge joints of roast oxen and boar—and instantly the aroma brought the water to my mouth and made me realize how hungry I was. Thoros, acting as Lord of the Feast, thrust his hand into the mounded victuals before him and wrested a gobbet from the mass. “Eat!” he called expansively. “Eat, everyone, eat. Enjoy!”

  Each hungry guest reached for what was before him, and soon the juices were running down our chins and hands as we devoured the succulent meat. My cup filled itself mysteriously, and bread likewise materialized in my hands. I took no notice of who or
what caused this to happen, giving myself entirely to the food, which was excellent in every way.

  Indeed, I was so preoccupied, that I did not at first mark the appearance of the black-robed man at Thoros’ shoulder. I slowly became aware of the fact that he was speaking earnestly, his demeanor grave and sober—in sharp contrast to the red-faced laughing man seated beneath him. He loomed over Thoros, a dark and threatening eminence, breathing gloom with every word.

  I watched as all signs of mirth slowly drained from Lord Thoros’ face to be replaced by an expression so wretched and doleful as to stop the laughter in the mouths of all who beheld him. One by one, those at the high table also became aware of the swift alteration in Thoros’ jovial mood, and the table fell silent.

  “Whatever is the matter with you?” asked Constantine, his voice loud in the sudden hush.

  Thoros looked at his brother, and then swung his eyes to his mother, seated beside him. He placed his hands flat on the table and pushed himself upright with, it seemed to me, an enormous effort. He stood there, towering over the feast and, in a deep, hollow voice announced, “Patriarch Baramistos has just informed me that my father, Prince Leo, is dead.”

  THIRTY

  PRINCE LEO’S DEATH immediately plunged all the members of the royal family into a multitude of tedious and time-consuming rituals and formalities. The foreign visitors were quickly forgotten; Padraig and I gladly fended for ourselves lest we become a burden to our hosts in their time of distress. Anxious as I was to depart, I would gladly have left the city right then and there, but, in deference to Roupen’s feelings, could not bring myself to just sneak away like a thief in the night. Thus, as we had nothing else to do, we took the opportunity to wander around the streets of Anazarbus and see for ourselves how the passing of the noble ruler was marked by the populace.

  What I saw was a city sunk in grief over the loss of their much-loved prince. Apparently, Leo had governed his people wisely and well for many years, and the Armenians were genuinely sorry he was gone. Everywhere men and women went about their chores with the mournful countenances of the truly sorrowful, speaking in pensive tones. Scores of small shrines sprang up in the streets—here a painting of the prince, there a carving, or perhaps simply a coin on which Leo’s image had been stamped—and each adorned with a palm frond or bit of green foliage, and a candle or lamp. Whenever anyone passed one of these makeshift shrines, he made the sign of the cross on his forehead.