The Black Rood

by Stephen R. Lawhead

  The soldiers divided the money between them and, with a last glance at the two dead thieves, shouldered their spears and departed. “Who do you think he was?” I heard one of them ask as they started off down the hill.

  “It hardly matters,” replied the other. “One Jew is the same as another. They’re all alike, these Jews—zealots, madmen, and murderers.”

  They moved off, and I found myself alone on the hillside, staring at the crossbeam which had been left lying on the ground, the headless spikes where the Blessed Savior’s arms had been pierced, the stain of his blood deep in the grain of the rough-hewn wood.

  I knelt and placed my hand reverently on the rood, and felt the coarse, unforgiving weight hard beneath my palm. I heard voices behind me and, thinking the legionaries had returned, I glanced quickly over my shoulder and saw myself asleep on the ground beside a well.

  Instantly, I was back in Amir Ghazi’s camp.

  The moon was down and the stars were fading with the first pale hint of dawn showing in the east, and I was in my place beside the well once more.

  I rose. The camp was quiet; nothing had changed. Had I crept into the amir’s tent? Or, had I fallen asleep and dreamed it? It did not matter. I knew beyond all uncertainty that I had received a vision of rare and special power. My hands and face tingled, and the ground felt thin as water beneath my feet.

  My body began to tremble—not with fear or foreboding, but with a ferocious ecstasy. I felt like running and leaping and crying to the star-dusted heavens in praise and thanksgiving to my Generous Creator for the wonderful vision I had been granted.

  It was all I could do to keep from laughing out loud and waking all the camp. So, I lay beside the well, exhilarated, shaking with jubilation, joy coursing like liquid fire through my veins, pure elation bubbling up like a wellspring filled not with water, but with sweet, heady wine.

  As dawn broke full and glorious in the east, I got up and knelt, raising my face to the sun, and stretching my arms wide, I pledged a solemn vow within my heart that whatever should befall me in the days to come, I would strive above all things to acquit myself with the same humility, strength, and courage I had witnessed in Jesu’s death so that I might be worthy of my Redeemer’s sacrifice.

  PART III

  November 17, 1901: Paphos, Cyprus

  Professor Manos Rossides lived in the bottom floor of a tiny townhouse. A violin teacher had the upper floors, and there was a violin and cello duet wafting down the stairwell as I stood before the somber brown door in the semi-darkness waiting for my expectant host to answer the bell.

  I yanked the bellpull again, waited some more, and was just about to give up and go home when I heard a shuffling sound on the other side. Presently a key clicked in the lock and the door opened onto a small dark man with a heavy beetling brow, hooded eyes, and an unruly mass of thick, wavy, dark hair which stood out from his head in all directions; it put me in mind of a storm at sea, and it was all I could do to tear my eyes from the startling sight and say, “Professor Rossides? I am Gordon Murray. I was given to understand you would be expecting me.”

  At the sound of my name the man’s sleepy countenance sparked to life. “Quite right, sir! Right on time!” He smiled and his dark eyes became keen, and his features boyish and winsome. “Do come in, Mr. Murray.” He took my coat and waved me to a chair at a spindle-legged table piled dangerously high with books and papers. A brass lamp with a green glass shade hung over the table, illuminating the stacks of printed matter like upland plateaux in the glare of the summer sun.

  “Time is precious,” he announced. “We begin at once.” With that he began reciting the Greek alphabet, drifting around the room behind me, pounding his fist into the palm of his outstretched hand as he enunciated each letter. After two more recitations, he had me doing it. We worked steadily for ninety minutes, and just as I was beginning to get the feel of the unfamiliar words in my mouth, he called the lesson to a halt.

  “Excellent! Excellent!” he cried, beaming at me as if at a prize heifer. “You are a natural scholar, Mr. Murray. Together we will achieve the impossible.”

  “I will be content with the merely passable,” I told him.

  He laughed, shaking his head. “Dear me, no. We’ll have none of that. You are too able and too clever to settle for second best. No, my friend, when we are finished you will be able to sit in Aphrodite’s Taverna on the waterfront in Rhodes and talk politics with the fishermen.”

  “Oh?” I said, rising to retrieve my coat. “Is that all? I rather thought I might indulge in a bit of lecturing on Plato’s Symposium.”

  “Tut, sir,” the professor chided, his eyes wrinkling with mirth. “I said we should achieve the impossible—not perform miracles!”

  Thus began my short, but intensive apprenticeship in conversational Greek. My tutor sent me home with two books that night—one Greek, the other Latin—both of which I was to have read by my next visit the following week. I do not know how he crammed so much expert instruction into our all-too-short sessions. But as the weeks went by, I found my mastery growing by leaps and bounds; nagging little foibles and difficulties that had plagued me since college evaporated in the blistering heat of the professor’s searing, searching intellect.

  Summer came and went, and as autumn rolled on apace, I began to think ahead to what might await me at the end of September. The answer to this came on my last visit to Professor Rossides’ study. Actually, I did not know it was my final visit until my assiduous mentor reached over to the text I was reading, and closed the book. “Perfect,” he declared. “Our work together is completed.”

  “How can it be finished? I feel as if I have only begun.”

  “Oh, indeed. And I congratulate you on a most auspicious beginning. But, my assignment was to enable you to speak and write well enough to make yourself understood, and you have achieved that and more. I shall be making my report to your colleagues shortly. Well done, Mr. Murray.”

  I bade him farewell, and left feeling slightly saddened by the prospect that I would no longer have the enjoyment of his intensely stimulating lessons. This feeling lasted until the middle of the next week, when I once again received a visit from Pemberton and Zaccaria.

  They turned up just before the office closed for the day and, with evident pleasure, pronounced the completion of my assignment satisfactory in every way. “We knew you would take to your studies,” Zaccaria confided.

  “It was a most gratifying experience, I must say. I enjoyed it very much.”

  “Be that as it may,” said Pemberton, withdrawing a long white envelope from the inner pocket of his coat. “I think you will enjoy employing your new skills even more.”

  He passed he envelope to me and indicated that I was to open it. I lifted the flap, reached in, and pulled out two steamer tickets—one for my wife, and one for myself—with the destination listed as Paphos, Cyprus. “As you see, the ship sails two weeks from today,” he said. “That should give you time enough to arrange your affairs, I should think.”

  “Six weeks in Cyprus,” I mused, reading the return portion of the ticket. “Yes, I think Caitlin and I could do very well with that, thank you very much.”

  “I do not anticipate any problems arising from your legal work.” The way he said it, I could not tell if it was a question, or an observation of fact. In any case, I suspected any genuine obstacles would have been foreseen and removed.

  “None at all,” I replied. “As it happens, this time of year is normally very quiet. I can have one of my juniors keep an eye on things while I am gone.”

  “Splendid.”

  Thus, the arrangements were firmly in place. All I had to do was pack and get myself and the good wife to the steamer on time—a task which somehow expanded to fill every available moment, even as Caitlin filled every available case and trunk. It was not until the ship loosed its moorings and steamed for Cyprus that I realized not a single word had been said about what I would do when I got there.

&nb
sp; More mystery was awaiting me on the landing at Paphos harbor in the form of the jovial Mr. Melos who stood on the wharf in his best blue suit, holding a card with my last name written on it. His dark hair was oiled and combed, and the lower part of his face was covered by three-day-old stubble. He grinned and waved when he saw us, and came bounding across the landing to shake our hands.

  “What’s this?” wondered Caitlin, charmed by the man’s eagerness to please. “You didn’t tell me we were to be chaperoned, darling.”

  “It is nonstop adventure start to finish,” I said.

  Our greeter introduced himself and I understood at once why I had sweated and strained through the summer to learn the language: Mr. Melos spoke no English. Nevertheless, I was quickly to learn that he was the most expert and knowledgeable guide imaginable. He was an archaeologist who had spent his entire career digging on the island; there was nothing about Cyprus or its history he did not know. He also ran a small, private museum, with a guest house next door, both of which he had filled with mementos from his various digs. “The more valuable specimens go off to museums around the world,” he said, when he showed us through his rooms one day. “But the smaller pieces, the duplicates, I keep.”

  We spent the first few days in Mr. Melos’ able care, the sole tenants in his guest house. Caitlin fell instantly in love with the place, and proclaimed that it was high time I had brought her someplace nice, and furthermore, she was never leaving.

  That first day we ate a light meal and waited for our luggage to arrive, which it did by donkey cart toward evening. By then, we were already feeling ourselves slipping into what Caitlin called “Cyprus time”—the pace at which things happened, or didn’t, according to the whims and preoccupations of the locals.

  The reason for my adventure remained obscure, and I had begun to wonder whether I ought to say something about it, when Mr. Melos appeared as we were having breakfast one morning. He presented me with a letter which had arrived some little while previously, I suspect. It was from Zaccaria, and it contained the purpose of my visit. As soon as we were rested from our journey, we were to make our way to a certain monastery in the hills. “I will take you,” said Melos when I asked him where it was. “I know this place very well. Leave everything to me; it is all arranged.”

  Later that same morning, we gathered our things and proceeded by carriage up into the foothills of the Troodos mountains to the little village of Panayia, where a cottage had been hired for us. We arrived near dusk and Melos took us to our cottage, and introduced us to our housekeeper—a sister of his named Helena, a small, plump woman of mature years who chattered like a mynah bird whether anyone was listening or not. She had a meal ready for us when we arrived, showed us where to find everything, and then left us to eat and sleep in peace.

  We spent a wonderful first night in our little cottage, dining by candlelight with the windows open onto the courtyard where late roses were still in bloom. The next morning, our inestimable host collected us and took us to the monastery.

  “Ayios Moni is a very ancient place,” he said. “The monks there maintain a library of many priceless manuscripts.”

  It was, of course, these manuscripts that I had come to see—rather, it was one manuscript in particular.

  Upon our arrival, we were introduced to the bishop, who conducted us on a tour of the small, but tidy monastery, which was now home to fewer than thirty monks. At the end of the tour, he said, “I suppose you will be wanting to get started.”

  “To tell you the truth,” I replied, silently thanking Rossides for my newfound fluency, “I would like nothing better. Unfortunately, I do not know precisely why I have come.”

  Bald Bishop Naxos laughed, and said, “You have come to view the Caithness Manuscript.”

  “Caithness,” said Caitlin, when I had told her what the bishop had said. “You mean the Caithness in Scotland?”

  “Haven’t the foggiest.”

  He led us to the library where a few monks were working away, hunched silently over old vellums and parchments. He spoke a few words to the brother in charge of the collection, and the black-robed monk disappeared into the stacks, returning a few moments later with a weighty bundle wrapped in heavy homespun linen.

  “Behold,” said Bishop Naxos, “one of our order’s prize possessions.” He directed Brother Nicholas to a nearby table beneath a window, and there the monk opened the parcel. “The ink is faded, and there are a few water spots—we had a bad storm in the fifteenth century, and the roof leaked. Still, it is in remarkable condition for a document which was written in 1132.”

  I translated the priest’s words for Caitlin, who marveled at the age of the venerable manuscript.

  He passed his hand lovingly over the bundle of parchment, and fingered the silk cord which bound the bundle together. “This will be the last time the manuscript is seen in the place where it was created. I think it highly appropriate that you should be the reader.”

  He regarded me meaningfully, but the reference was lost on me. “I do not understand,” I said.

  “Next month it is going into a vault at the Ministry of Antiquities in Athens,” he explained, but before I could tell him that this was not what I meant, he added: “It is felt by my superiors at Khyrsorroyiatissa that our order can no longer protect it adequately.”

  “Nonsense!” grumbled Melos sourly.

  “We have it for a little while yet.” He smiled sadly, and pulled a chair from the table. “Please, sit. We would be honored for you to be our guest for as long as you like.”

  Again, I understood that he was according me a special favor, but his meaning remained beyond my comprehension.

  I told Caitlin what he had said, and asked if she minded very much amusing herself for awhile. “Go on with you,” she said, “and don’t be silly. Of course I don’t mind. I can well look after myself for a few days.”

  So, with the blessing of both bishop and wife, I settled myself into the chair I was to occupy for a good many days. When the others had gone, I loosened the silken cord and turned back the battered old covering.

  The script that met my eye was strong and fair. The rich black tone had faded to a pale reddish sepia, but remained clearly legible. I read the first words, and knew why I had been summoned to this task. My heart began to beat with such force I thought I would have to abandon the work before I had even begun. Before me on the table was the account of Murdo’s son, Duncan, and, in his own words, a record of his pilgrimage in the Holy Land.

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  AMIR GHAZI’S ARRIVAL in Damascus was hailed as the triumphal entry of a conquering hero. He massed his army on the wide plain outside the city walls and then proceeded to lead his victorious troops and their wretched captives into the city. The wily amir spared no pomp in making his entrance as impressive as possible. Drummers went before the amir and his bodyguard, pounding out dull thunder; children ran beside the amir’s horse, scattering flower petals; trumpeters blew shrill blasts to part the crowds who stood and gaped at the passing spectacle.

  We marched through the streets to the citadel where Atabeg Buri and all the officials and dignitaries met the grand cavalcade in the courtyard of the Rose Pavillion. Proud Ghazi made a great show of displaying his prize captives; the prisoners were paraded before a double rank of noble Arabs, some on small cushioned stools and some on thrones, and made to bow before them in a show of subservient humiliation. I, who had carried Bohemond’s head on my back, was forced to display the ghastly prize to the Arabs.

  Summoned from the fore-ranks of the captives, I was marched before the Seljuqs and Saracens as they sat in festal splendor, enjoying the subjugation of their hated foe. Two guards led me to the foot of the low rise of steps leading up to the perfumed pavilion and, at Ghazi’s direction, I was commanded to open the box. The Arab noblemen laughed to see the mighty prince, and bane of their people, disgraced in death.

  One of the Arabs, however, did not laugh with the others. Dressed in opulent robes tha
t glowed with the iridescent blues and greens of peacock feathers, and wearing a huge blue turban, he observed the Christian prince’s shame with a rapt and thoughtful expression. At the height of the mirth, he beckoned Atabeg Buri nearer and spoke privately to him for some time. Meanwhile, I stood and held the open box for the delight and delectation of the others, hating the display and my part in it.

  When the two finished their conversation, Buri invited Amir Ghazi to join them. The amir advanced and was presented to the stranger in the blue turban, whereupon he immediately fell to his knees and pressed the nobleman’s hand to his forehead. The Arab potentate endured the fawning servility of the amir with cool aplomb and, to my great chagrin, raised his hand and pointed directly at me.

  Ghazi jumped up and, with an ostentatious flourish of his arm, waved me forward. Accompanied by the guards, I was led to the pavilion steps and there made to kneel, holding the box while the strutting amir presented the resplendent onlooker with the gift of Bohemond’s head.

  Why he should want the grotesque thing, I could not say. But the bestowing of it filled old flat-faced Ghazi with a rare elation. His rough and weathered visage cracked wide in a grin of exaltation and, in a fit of largesse, he lavished the whole of his trove upon his obviously superior overlord: the objects of gold and silver, the saddles, weapons, and armor, the horses, and all the rest he had accumulated—including the prisoners. Yes, and myself as well.

  Although I guessed what was happening at the time, I did not learn until much later that day the identity of the glittering luminary who was to be my new master. It was Sahak, the Armenian scribe and advisor, who told me, and took great delight in the telling. “You belong to the Caliph of Baghdad now,” he said, unable to suppress a wicked smile at what he imagined would be distressing news to me.