The Black Rood

by Stephen R. Lawhead

  “But that is impossible!” I cried. My reaction gave him great satisfaction, and his hairless jowls jiggled with mirth.

  In truth, I was not dismayed in the least. As I say, I had already worked out what had happened, and concluded that it did not greatly matter who held the end of my chain, so to speak, just so long as I remained close to the Black Rood. Still, I had wit enough to adopt a woeful demeanor in order to find out all I could of my new master. For I knew if Sahak thought the information would benefit me in some way, he would doubtless have withheld it out of sheer meanness.

  So, making a pretense of consternation, I seized his sleeve and clung to him in desperation. “What will happen to me?”

  “Who can say?” Delighting in his power over me, he said, “But since you ask, I expect you will be killed.”

  “No!” I gasped. “I have done nothing. My friends,” I said, gripping him harder, “they will ransom me.”

  “So you say.” He shook my hand from his arm. “But they have not come for you, have they? If I were you, I would forget about being ransomed. Your friends have forgotten you.”

  “They would never do that!” I shouted, my agitation increasing his merriment.

  “They have given you up,” he maintained, “or else they would have come for you. If they wanted to ransom you, they would have done so long since.”

  “They will come,” I insisted. “The Caliph of Baghdad, you say? I cannot go with him. You must speak to Amir Ghazi. You must beg him to let me stay in Damascus where my friends can find me. You must tell him, Sahak, you are my only hope.”

  “Oh, rest assured, I will do what I can,” he told me, the keen light of treason in his eyes.

  “Thank you, Sahak. Thank you,” I said, knowing full well that now I would remain with the caliph and within reach of the Black Rood.

  The deceitful katib scuttled away, and I watched him go—a thoroughly detestable fellow, to be sure, but he had his uses. I returned to the corner of my cell and reflected on how even the wicked were not beyond the reach of the Swift Sure Hand, who employed all things as he would to bring about his purposes.

  For, following the triumphal entry and Amir Ghazi’s rash fit of generosity, my fellow captives and I were taken to the stinking, vermin-infested prison of Amir Buri, Damascus’ preening potentate, to await the pleasure of our master, the caliph.

  In all, it was not so bad for us, and now that I could be assured of remaining near the Holy Rood, I was content. The stench I could tolerate; after endless hot days in the scorching sun, the cool, damp darkness of the dungeons was blessed relief itself. But the rats and mice were a very plague and no one dared fall asleep at night for the instant a body drifted off, the rats would be on him, gnawing at any exposed flesh. Several men lost the tips of fingers and toes before learning to sleep in the day, when the vermin were less active.

  Besides the three noblemen, there were other Christians imprisoned with me; those crusaders who had survived the battle and ensuing journey from Anazarbus had also been made to walk in the grand procession in order to enhance the golden luster of Ghazi’s glory. Girardus was among the survivors, but I could not speak to him, for I was held in a cell by myself apart from the others. The reason, I eventually discovered, was that the Christians blamed me for Bohemond’s defeat.

  Word had spread through the prisoner ranks that I was the spy who had betrayed them to the Seljuqs. The loss of their comrades, and their subsequent imprisonment and slavery was my fault, and more than one of them had vowed to kill me the moment the opportunity presented itself. My friend Girardus might have told them otherwise, and perhaps he tried; but if he did, they paid him no heed. I suppose they needed someone to bear the blame for all the hardship. Bohemond was dead—and his closest advisors and commanders with him, and so the surviving captives fastened on me as the source of their troubles.

  I suppose I deserved their condemnation—albeit of all those who had a hand in the ill-fated enterprise, I was the only one who had in no way intended for anyone to be killed. But what did that matter? If I had not allowed myself to be drawn into the affair, the massacre would not have happened. Bohemond would have taken Anazarbus and that would have been the end of it. The Armenians would probably have been slaughtered in great numbers, true, but—as I was continually and forcibly reminded—life held but slight value in the East. The destinies of entire nations were bought and sold for a moment’s fleeting glory, a few pieces of silver, or the low ambitions of a prince.

  Too late I began to understand how Murdo felt about the Holy Land, and why.

  Over the next few days, I set about trying to find out what manner of man the Caliph of Baghdad might be. Using the pretense of bargaining to remain in Damascus, the slimy Sahak came and went, enjoying his imagined treachery to the full, while I remained supplied with morsels of worthwhile information.

  I learned that aside from being the most powerful ruler in the region, the Caliph of Baghdad was regarded as an able and thoughtful ruler, who valued wisdom and studied the elusive art of philosophy at a school of his own creation. A very religious man, he was a devout Muhammedan, who lectured to students from the Arab holy book, the Qur’an. He was renowned as an authority in the application of the abstruse principles of Islamic justice.

  Once I got Sahak talking, I could always count on learning something to my favor; for the small price of enduring his vanity and sneers, I soon gained a fair working knowledge of the caliph’s character. This stood me in good stead a few days later, when I was called into his presence.

  Having received Ghazi’s gift, the caliph had decided to determine its value. Accordingly, he ordered the prisoners to be brought before him. As none of them could speak Arabic, the duty of translating between the caliph and the captives fell to Sahak. I was given no warning. Three Seljuq guards appeared at the door to my cell two days after the amir’s grand entry, and I was taken up to the guardroom above the prison cells. There I was given water with which to wash, and a comb for my hair and beard.

  Having cleaned myself as well as I could, I was then led by a long and circuitous route through the palace and citadel to the place where the caliph was holding court, and I was instructed by a royal functionary on how to address him, and how to behave in his illustrious presence. Upon receiving my assurance that I understood what was expected of me, I was admitted without ceremony. Sahak was there, ready to speak for me, and for the caliph.

  Upon performing the necessary obeisance, I was allowed to stand in his presence and speak freely. A mature man of youthful appearance, he had put off his ceremonial robes and all the glittery trappings of his rank, including the bulbous turban so favored by the Arab race, and wore a simple dark garment like a long tunic with a silver crescent moon on a chain around his neck. He observed me silently for a moment, tapping his fingers gently on the arms of his chair.

  “I am told you are a nobleman,” he said. When I offered my affirmation, he asked, “What is the country of your birth?”

  “My home is in Caithness, Lord Khalifa.” I could tell he had never heard of this place, so I added, “It is a region in the northern part of the island of Britain.”

  The light of understanding came up in his eyes. “That is very far away, I believe. Why have you come here? Was it to seek your fortune in the pillage of the Arab lands—an enterprise which seems to inflame so many of the Franj?”

  “By no means, my lord. I was on pilgrimage,” I said and made certain that Sahak said the right word before continuing, “and was captured by mistake.”

  “That is indeed unfortunate,” he replied without apparent concern. “Many things happen in war—all of them are unfortunate for someone, you must agree. The amir has set the price of your freedom at ten thousand dinars. That is a large sum of money.” I agreed that it was. “Do you have any hope of ransom?”

  “Assuredly, Most Exalted Khalifa,” I declared with confidence, ignoring Sahak’s smirk. “Even now my friends are hastening to Damascus to purchase my
freedom.” As he seemed interested in this, I went on to explain about how we had been staying in Anazarbus when the battle began, and how I had come to be captured.

  He listened to all I had to say, and then replied, “Your fellow hostages denounce you as a traitor and a spy.”

  He watched me intently to see how I would respond to this accusation. “I am aware of their feelings,” I answered reasonably, without hesitation or emotion. “They are right to feel themselves aggrieved for what has happened to them, but I am not to blame.”

  “I see. Yet, this unfortunate indictment persists.”

  “As you have said, Wise Khalifa, many unfortunate things happen in war.”

  Caliph al-Mutarshid smiled at this. He laced his fingers and looked at me over his fingertips. “Tell me then, who would you hold to blame? Amir Ghazi? Prince Thoros?”

  “No, My Lord Khalifa. These men merely acted according to the circumstances forced upon them. If the prisoners seek to apportion blame, I would look to the Count of Antioch, who led them into such a disastrous trap without provocation, and without sufficient forethought.”

  “The count is dead, is he not? I believe I have received his head in a box as a memento of the conflict in which he fell. Therefore, he can no longer be held accountable.”

  “That is true.”

  “Neither can he affirm or deny the charges made against you.”

  “Perhaps not,” I allowed, “yet, forgive my presumption, Lord Khalifa, but if I am accused of being a traitor by my fellow Christians, then it follows that I have been in service to the Seljuq cause. If you believe this, why am I still a prisoner?”

  The caliph’s mouth tightened; his eyes narrowed slightly. “You are not, I think, the innocent you claim to be,” he remarked abruptly. Lifting his hand, he summoned the guards to take me away, saying, “I will ponder this matter, and we will speak of it further.”

  He signaled to the guards and I was returned to my cell. Unable to resist rubbing salt in the wounds he imagined me to be feeling, Sahak came to see me later that day. “Not wise,” he said, wagging his finger in my face, “to anger the khalifa. He believes himself a logician and philosopher of great skill and proficiency. It does you no good to better him on the field he has marked as his own.”

  “I did not mean to challenge him,” I replied. “I merely hoped that, as a man of wisdom, he might see the sense of what I said, and take that into account when assessing my position.”

  Sahak laughed, and went away shaking his head. That is how I learned of my error, and determined not to make the same mistake again. Alas, the damage was done. The next day the guards came for me and I was once again brought before al-Mutarshid. This time he was delivering his shrewd and perceptive judgments before the assembled counselors, advisors, and liegemen of his retinue; he wanted his minions to marvel at his renowned sagacity and was in no mood to be amused.

  “I have considered all that you have told me,” he announced as I took my place before him, “and I have concluded that you are a spy of the most dangerous variety: he who is without loyalty, and subject to no lord but himself. Therefore, I have decided that you will remain a prisoner.”

  “It was a mistake,” I asserted. “I should never have been brought here.”

  “Yet, here you are,” the caliph said. “Qismah! All is as Allah wills it so to be. There is no such thing as a mistake. If you are a captive, it is because that is what Allah intended. Who is wise enough to instruct God?” He gazed around, gathering the admiring glances of his retinue, then said, “You will remain a prisoner.”

  This pronouncement delighted Sahak, my faithless interpreter; it was all he could do to suppress his glee. But the next declaration jolted even Sahak. Regarding me coldly, the caliph said, “What is more, if no one comes forward to arrange your ransom in three days’ time, you will be executed. In the name of Allah, this is my decree.”

  I was in no way prepared for this decision. My thoughts instantly scattered far and wide. I thought of you, Cait, and all I had left back home, of Padraig arriving too late and finding my lifeless body hanging from the city walls, of Sydoni weeping over my grave…so many strange thoughts raced through my head that it took me a moment to recollect myself.

  “My Lord Khalifa,” I said, trying to remain calm in the face of such an illogical and unjust pronouncement. “I do not know why my friends have not come for me. I can assure you the ransom will be paid; however, three days is not enough time. It is a long way from Anazarbus to Damascus.”

  “They could have come for you any time since your capture, but they have not,” the caliph pointed out. “I suspect they are not coming, that these friends of yours are merely a ruse to prolong your duplicitous existence, and that it is pointless keeping you alive. Three days,” he declared, “no more.”

  The assembled onlookers murmured their approval at the caliph’s display of judicial firmness. Steadying my voice to present a brave face, I replied, “Then, as a nobleman, I beg the Wise Khalifa’s indulgence to honor a last request.”

  The idea sparked al-Mutarshid’s interest. I think he had not expected me to think of that. “Within reason, of course,” he said. “What is your last request?”

  “I would like to leave a message for my family at home in Scotland, so that they will know what happened to me.”

  It was a simple thing, but possessed of a certain nobility, and I could see al-Mutarshid found the idea appealing. “Very well,” he agreed, “you shall write your message.” He looked at me with thoughtful curiosity. “How, in the name of the Prophet, peace be unto him, do you expect this letter of yours to reach your family?”

  “Exalted Lord,” I replied, “it is not beyond your power to command such a thing to be done. Many pilgrims return to the West after their pilgrimage is completed. No doubt one of them would consent to take the message.”

  “It will be done,” the caliph said, and the audience was concluded.

  Amazed that he should have agreed so easily, I thanked him for his compassion and generosity, and was taken back to my cell. Knowing the Arab mind a little better now, I see I had obligated him with my request and he could not possibly refuse—without appearing a weak and arbitrary ruler in front of his advisors and liegemen. As he had so carefully cultivated himself as a fount of wisdom and learning among his people, he could not allow himself to appear less noble than the insignificant wretch he had just condemned.

  Thus, I won the boon I asked. Had I known it would be that easy, Cait, I might have asked for something of greater consequence. Still, I was content.

  The guards marched me back to my cell, where I spent the rest of the day and night praying that I might live long enough to fulfill my pilgrimage vow and recover the Black Rood. The next morning, Sahak appeared with a small square of parchment, a pot of ink, and a supply of quills—a gift of the caliph, he said, for my letter.

  I was happy to have these things, and I told Sahak to thank the caliph for supplying them. “He will kill you as he said,” the katib told me unhappily. “It was no idle threat.”

  I told him that no, I did not imagine that the great caliph was in the habit of making idle threats to impress the prisoners with his power. “I shall be sorry to see you die,” Sahak said.

  “Why? You have never liked me. There have been many times when you might have spoken up for me, yet you have not done so—and I, the man who helped save your people from Bohemond’s attack.” I let him have the full brunt of my anger and exasperation. “You might have done it out of charity for a fellow Christian, if nothing else.”

  The miserable scribe hung his head. “It is true,” he simpered. “But there is more you do not know.”

  “Yes?”

  He hesitated, drawing his sleeve across damp eyes. “The brooch…”

  I stared at him, a sick feeling beginning to spread through me. “What about it?”

  Unable to look me in the eye, he lowered his head still farther. “I did not send it back to Anazarbus,” he mut
tered. Then, overcome by the enormity of his guilt, he turned and hurried away before I could call down heavenly wrath upon his worthless hide.

  I sat down and thought long and hard about what he had told me. After the first storm of fury subsided, I began to survey my position more dispassionately. In the end, I decided that it did not matter whether Sahak returned the brooch as he had promised, or whether, as I suspect, he kept it for himself. Knowing that the Black Rood was among Ghazi’s plunder, I wanted to stay close by no matter what. As the amir’s captive, I remained close without arousing even the least shade of suspicion.

  The Caliph of Baghdad’s decree of execution was another matter, but one which was beyond my influence entirely. As I could do nothing to improve my position for the moment, I was content to leave it to the Swift Sure Hand.

  Two days passed, but no one came for me, neither did Sahak appear at my door. I wrote my letter, taking time to ponder each and every word before putting it down so I would not have to blot it out. If, in God’s eternal plan, I was meant to fall to the headsman’s sword, I wanted my last message to be perfect.

  The rest of the time, I paced the small confines of my cell, sometimes praying that Padraig would miraculously appear and come striding down the long prison corridor bearing a bag full of silver dinars to buy my release. “I hope you have not been worrying,” I could hear him say. “I was delayed a little. Still, all in God’s good time. I will have you out of there before you know it.”

  Needless to say, Padraig did not arrive.

  On the morning of the third day since my last audience with Caliph al-Mutarshid, I awoke to rumbling in the guardroom above the prison cells—the pounding of feet and the clatter of weapons. At first, I thought an attack must be taking place, a raid on the city in reprisal for the destruction of Bohemond’s army, perhaps. But then all went very quiet and I, along with the rest of the prisoners, sat waiting throughout the day for some word or sign of what was taking place beyond the prison walls.