The Black Rood

by Stephen R. Lawhead

  Wazim did likewise, and the two of them held a brief, but intense discussion filled with much gesturing and pointing. The old priest raised his head, brayed, and spat, and then, grasping me by the arm, he led us along the cramped beaten earth street to a tiny hovel of a house where he pounded on the door with the flat of his hand. A woman pulled back the door and peered out, just her nose and one eye showing. The priest spoke a few words to her, and she closed the door; it opened again a moment later, and a hand appeared holding two eggs.

  The old Copt took the eggs, blessed the woman, and we continued on. This ritual was repeated at the next house, where we were given three round, floppy pieces of flat bread and two green onions. After three more houses we had amassed another egg and some salt, four dried figs, a slice of fresh melon, and a handful of honeyed dates—whereupon I called a halt to the foraging and told Wazim to thank the priest for helping us.

  After exchanging a few words, Wazim reported, “He will accept no thanks for allowing his people the blessing of giving succor to strangers in need. Today they have earned a great reward in Heaven.”

  “Then offer them a blessing,” I replied. “Tell him, gold and silver have I none, but what I possess I share freely: the blessing of the Three to be aiding you, abiding with you, and showering peace and plenty on you, and on your people, each day, all day, and forever.”

  The old priest liked this blessing, and made Wazim repeat it twice so he would remember it. We took our leave and found a place on the high bank overlooking the river to eat our meal. I flattened some of the tall grass and made a place for the rood so that it would not rest on bare ground. Then I sat down beside it, tired to the bone, and began to eat.

  The eggs had been boiled, so we peeled them and dipped them in the salt, likewise the green onions. After such a long fast, the plain and simple fare tasted better to me than a banquet. I sat, feeling the sun warm on my back as I gazed out across the river, and thought about the welcome I would soon receive, and beyond that, to the journey ahead. By this time tomorrow, I thought, we would be well on our way home.

  After our meal, we moved on. As much as I would have liked to rest even a few moments longer, I was a thousand times more anxious to rejoin Padraig and the others. Brushing the crumbs from my lap, I rose reluctantly, adjusted my bundle of ruined parchments, shouldered the rood, and declared that if we were to reach the ship by midday, we would have to hurry.

  We walked on a short distance and crested the bluff, coming in sight of the city walls once more; and just beyond the great sweeping bend in the river, I could see the wharf and the wide avenue leading to the city gates. Somewhere down there, amidst the dark clusters of ships and boats lining the busy quayside, Yordanus’ ship Persephone was waiting to carry me out of Egypt.

  Beyond the walls, smoke rose in twin columns from the center of the city. “That one,” Wazim told me, “is the covered market.”

  “And the other?” It seemed to arise from the base of a high stony bank which dominated the northern quarter.

  “Ah, that is from the citadel.”

  It could easily have been the palace that was set on fire instead. I realized the risk Wazim had taken in coming back for me. “Thank you, Wazim Kadi,” I told him. “It was a brave thing you did last night. I am forever in your debt.”

  He made a little bow, saying, “I did only what one Christian would do for another.”

  “No,” I corrected, thinking of all the betrayal, deceit and disloyalty I had seen, “you did far more than that, believe me. You risked your life for me, and I am grateful. I will not forget it.”

  The cattle trails and pathways ran continuously along the Nile’s lofty banks, linking one small riverside settlement to the next north and south, on both sides of the river, as far as the eye could see. We passed through the little holdings, and Wazim unfailingly greeted each and every person we met: an old woman bent double beneath a bundle of straw fully as big as herself; two naked boys carrying a string of fish between them; a man carrying a jug of milk in one hand, leading a cow with the other, and bearing his young daughter on his back; women on their way to market carrying brown ducks bound with string. Wazim greeted them all, and I remembered just how much I had missed in my long captivity.

  As midday approached, so did the quayside; the trails and pathways became roads and grew busier the nearer the city gates we came. I had been searching for Yordanus’ ship since sighting the river harbor, and as we came onto the quay, I caught sight of the familiar red mast rising amidst the untidy forest of rigging at the far end of the wharf. My steps quickened as I pushed through the crush of people thronging the docks, dragging Wazim in my wake. I was almost running by the time I saw the bright green hull and yellow keel of the Persephone.

  Panting and sweating, I paused to catch my breath before hailing those on board. “Go on, Da’ounk,” urged Wazim excitedly, “they are waiting for you.”

  “It is a long time since I ran like this,” I said, lowering the rood gently to the wharf. “Let me wipe the sweat from my brow at least.”

  As I did so, I heard a familiar voice call out: “Duncan!”

  Glancing up, I saw Padraig standing at the rail. He waved to me, and then called to someone on the deck of the ship before starting over the rail. My heart leapt, and I started forward to meet him on the wharf. And then another face appeared above the rail, and the sight halted me in midstep: Gislebert, the Templar sergeant.

  At the same moment, I saw two more Templars standing on the wharf below the prow. Turning to Wazim, I said, “Quick, Wazim, do exactly as I say. Take the rood. Stay here and guard it with your life. I will explain later. Whatever happens, do not give it to anyone, understand?”

  “Perfectly, my friend.” Taking the rough length of timber from me, he planted himself on the wharf.

  I turned, took a half-dozen steps and was caught up in Padraig’s strong embrace. “Hallelujah!” he cried, fastening his arms around me and lifting me off my feet. “You are alive and well, Duncan. All praise to the Swift Sure Hand and his preserving power!”

  My joy at seeing Padraig once again was sharply cramped by Gislebert’s watchful presence. I turned to Padraig and, with true thanksgiving in my heart, started at once for the ship, leaving poor Wazim to look on with a profoundly bewildered expression. But there was nothing for it; as much as he deserved to be included in the celebrations, I could not imperil the precious relic by allowing the Templars so much as a glimpse of it—at least not until I saw how matters stood aboard ship.

  “I knew you would come for me,” I told Padraig, squeezing out the words between his fierce hugs and bone-rattling slaps on the back. “I never doubted.”

  “Oh, Duncan, Duncan,” he said, grabbing my face in both his hands, “look at you now. Earth and sky bear witness, it seems as if you had just walked down to the end of the quay and here you are back again, hale and hearty as ever. Are you well, brother?”

  Before I could answer, he said, “There is so much to tell you. How I have prayed to see this day!” he laughed aloud, shaking his head in happy disbelief. “Praise the Saving God of Grace! Praise him all you heavenly hosts! The son who was lost is found! Praise him you burning-eyed angels, you saints give voice and sing—”

  “Listen, Padraig,” I said breaking in, hating to stifle his happiness. “It is good to see you, too, but there is something I must tell you before we board the ship.”

  He looked at me, blinking in merriment. “Speak, brother. I will listen all day to hear the sound of your voice.”

  “I am in earnest, Padraig. Hear me.”

  The priest became serious. “Go on then. I am listening.”

  We were nearly at the ship. “There is no time to explain. We must leave Cairo as soon as possible. We must get rid of Gislebert and the Templars—send him on an errand and cast off at once.”

  “That soon?”

  “Even sooner would be better.”

  The priest accepted this without question. “So be it.” />
  “Duncan!” The voice drew my glance. It was Yordanus, waving his arms and calling out to me in glad welcome; standing next to him was his dark-haired daughter. Sydoni’s smile was more subtle. I could not tell whether she was happy to see me, or merely amused by my disheveled appearance.

  “Duncan, my son, my son!” He snatched me up and clasped me to his bosom the instant I clambered over the rail and onto Persephone’s deck. “Thanks be to God, you are safe, and here you are at last…” the old man’s eyes began to fill with tears. “At long last, here you are.” He embraced me warmly. “God and all his angels be praised, you are safe.” He patted me on the shoulder and arms, as if to reassure himself that I was, indeed, returned in the flesh.

  “Welcome, Duncan,” said Sydoni, her voice soft and low. She smiled and demurely offered her cheek. “It is good to see you safe.” Compared to her father’s effusive welcome, hers not only lacked warmth, but was ambivalent as well—though not from any timidity, I thought, for the glance of her dark eye was as proud as ever.

  Braving her coolness, I gave her a kiss on the cheek and pressed her hand in mine. “It is good to see you, Sydoni.”

  Gislebert, who had been standing a little apart, watching, now stepped before me. Extending his hand, he said, “Praise God, my friend. We have been working for your release these many days.” I took his hand and thanked him. “We are only glad you are free.”

  “Indeed, yes,” said Yordanus, breaking in. “You were never forgotten for a moment, I can assure you. Welcome, Duncan,” he said, seizing my hand. The old trader beamed with good pleasure and danced from one foot to the other, unable to contain himself. “Welcome, my boy. Praise Christ, our mighty redeemer.”

  “Is this all you have with you?” asked Gislebert, indicating my crude bundle of soggy parchments.

  “Yes,” I told him. “I kept a record of my imprisonment, and I hoped to bring it out with me. Alas, they are ruined.”

  “Allow me to have a look,” said Padraig, lifting the sodden sling from me.

  “And who was that with you on the wharf?” Gislebert said, looking back toward the crowded quayside. For someone who was only glad for my freedom, the Templar sergeant seemed unduly concerned with the particulars of my release.

  “That is Wazim,” I replied, truthfully enough, “a guide who helped me find the ship.”

  “How did you know we were waiting with the ship?” He could not keep the suspicion out of his tone.

  Yordanus and Padraig both heard it and regarded the Templar with disapproval. Sydoni, however, appeared interested to hear my reply; leaning against the rail in a crisp blue mantle, her arms folded over her breast, she lifted an eyebrow—a skeptical judge inviting me to make my best explanation.

  “How else would we come for him?” Yordanus chided; stepping forward quickly, he embraced me again. “Come, let us celebrate the return of our friend! Padraig, let us fill the cups and drink to his safe return.”

  “Forgive me,” Gislebert said haughtily. “I merely wished to know if you had seen Commander de Bracineaux?”

  “How should I have seen him?” I asked, smiling. “Was he looking for me?”

  “When the riots began, he went to the palace to see if he might rescue you,” the sergeant answered. “I imagined that was how you were freed.”

  “I pray something has not gone wrong,” suggested Padraig quickly. The canny priest had seen his chance and taken it. “Perhaps you should see what has happened to him.”

  Gislebert frowned with indecision. He disliked the turn things had taken, but was not quick enough to see how to forestall the thing. “I think the priest is right,” added Yordanus innocently. “Yes, go at once, Gislebert. He may need you.”

  “My orders were to wait here with you,” the sergeant replied dully.

  “And you have done that,” said Sydoni suddenly; she stepped forward, took his arm and turned him toward the rail. “All is well, thanks to you and the good commander’s vigilance. We can fend for ourselves here—at least long enough for you to see if your help is required elsewhere.”

  Sergeant Gislebert’s frown deepened. At Sydoni’s gentle leading, he found himself at the rail. Unable to disagree, he said, “Very well, if you think—”

  “Do not worry about us,” Sydoni told him. “You must consider your duty to your commander now.”

  “No doubt he will welcome word of Duncan’s return,” suggested Padraig. “It would be well to tell him as soon as possible, lest he trouble himself unnecessarily.”

  The Templar climbed reluctantly over the rail. “I will inform the commander that Duncan has returned,” he said and, with a last dubious look at me, he dropped to the wharf. He called the two Templars on the dock to accompany him, and the three of them hurried away together. We watched until they were out of sight.

  “Yordanus,” I said, “how soon can the ship be made ready to sail?”

  Taken aback by the question, he hesitated. “You want to leave? But the commander will be exp—”

  “How soon?” I insisted.

  “Well, as soon as we can lay in some provisions,” he replied thoughtfully. “I know you must be anxious to—”

  “We can get provisions along the way,” said Sydoni. To me she said, “We can cast off at once, if that is what you wish.”

  “We cannot leave Commander de Bracineaux here without at least—” began Yordanus.

  “Father, I think Duncan is attempting to avoid the Templars,” Sydoni said, looking to me for confirmation.

  “It is true,” I confessed. “I know you have labored mightily on my behalf, but I fear I must ask you to aid me a little longer. There is some deceit at work here, and I fear de Bracineaux is not to be trusted. We must leave at once.”

  “The pilot is sleeping below,” Sydoni said. “I will wake him. You and Padraig make ready to cast off.”

  I was puzzled by the sudden change in her disposition, but there was no time to wonder about it just then. “I will fetch Wazim,” I told Padraig, already sliding over the rail. “Begin casting off.”

  I hastened back to where I had left Wazim, and found him sitting cross-legged on the dock, his eyes closed, the sacred relic nowhere to be seen. “Where is the rood?” I demanded sharply. “What have you done with it?”

  “Calm yourself, my friend.” He smiled and stood, and I saw that he had been sitting on it. “May God forgive me,” he chuckled, bending to retrieve the sacred object, “but what thieves do not see, they do not steal.”

  Stripping off my mantle, I quickly wrapped it around the holy cross and then we hurried back to the ship. The pilot and his two crewmen had been roused, and were lazily going about the task of getting the ship ready to sail. Yordanus and the others already knew Wazim, of course, and they welcomed him, and asked what had caused our delay. “We expected you last night,” said Yordanus.

  Leaving Wazim to explain, I went to secure the rood below deck. Curious, Padraig started to follow, but I asked him to stay behind and keep anyone from intruding on me. “I will tell you everything,” I promised, “just as soon as we have put this city behind us.”

  I descended the short wooden steps, aware that Sydoni was watching me all the while. I hid the rood among the baskets of stores and supplies in the hold of the ship, and then rejoined the others on deck. I stood at the rail and nervously watched the quay for any sign of the Templars. But de Bracineaux did not appear. A few moments later, Persephone pushed away from the dock, and we left Cairo behind for good and forever.

  FORTY-FOUR

  THE GREEN-BORDERED Nile spread its slow, gentle curves before us, bearing swift Persephone north to Alexandria and the sea. I stood at the bow as the tiny riverbank settlements receded, and watched the twin columns of smoke rising in the distance—all that could be seen of Cairo now, and soon that was gone, too, blended and vanished in the heavy blue summer haze.

  Leaving the rail, I descended to the hold, retrieved the prize and rejoined the others gathered around the mast wher
e Wazim Kadi had been telling them about our escape from the palace. Yordanus and Sydoni were seated on cushions, and Padraig reclined on his elbow on a rug, listening to the little jailer as he spun the dull dross of our ordinary trials into the gleaming gold of great adventure.

  “And this!” Wazim said proudly, waving his hand with a grand flourish as I lay the bundle on the rug before the seated listeners. “This is the Holy Rood of Christ, rescued from the treasure house of Khalifa al-Hafiz.”

  Padraig rolled up onto his knees, and Yordanus and Sydoni leaned forward eagerly as I slowly unwrapped the sacred relic. I pulled away the cloth to reveal the dark, deeply grooved length of ancient timber. Padraig gasped, and reached out a hand, hesitated, and stopped short.

  “Go on,” I said. The priest lowered his hand and with trembling fingers, stroked the age-polished wood. The sunlight revealed a feature in the wood I had never seen before—a narrow cleft, sharp and very deep, in the center of the piece, much, I imagine, like that which would be made by driving a spike into the wood.

  Padraig’s fingers found the cleft, and he gasped again. “On this rough beam our Blessed Savior King, the Holy One of God, shed his lifeblood for our redemption,” he said, his voice losing solidity as the tears began to stream down his cheeks. “See here,” he said, “this rough beam bears witness that our hope is not in vain.”

  Pressing his finger to the hole in the wood, the weeping priest said, “Here the cruel spike was driven which split the vein, divided bone and sinew, and slew the Blessed Jesu. But the wisdom of the All Wise Father encompasses things undreamed in human hearts. In Him, all divisions are united, all torn and broken lives made whole.

  “Through the nail-riven body, the rent between time and eternity is joined. In the dying of the Only Begotten, life everlasting is born. For the Swift Sure Hand did not leave him in the grave, but raised him up. And all who cling to this black and Holy Rood shall likewise be raised up on the final day.”