We were silent then for a time, gazing on the holy object, filling our eyes with the homely crudeness of the relic, even as we filled our hearts with the certain knowledge of God’s power to bend all things to his redeeming purpose.
“We heard in Antioch that the rood was lost,” Yordanus said, after a long silence. “I never expected to see it with my own eyes.” He, too, lowered his hand and reverently stroked the rood—much, I expect, as people have done since that morning when the women ran from the empty tomb to tell the twelve that the Master’s corpse was missing. For the faithful, it is a natural response, like that of lovers linking hands, to reverence the beloved with a touch.
“Thank you, Duncan,” he said, his eyes growing misty. “I know I shall not abide this world much longer.”
“Papa, no,” chided Sydoni gently.
“Look at me,” he said. “It is the simple truth; I am an old man. But I will go to my reward with a better courage now, thanks to Duncan.”
“All gratitude goes to you, Yordanus,” I replied. “If not for you, I would still be a prisoner, and the rood would be lost to the world.”
“Not at all,” he replied, waving off the compliment. “Our friend Renaud was working tirelessly on your behalf from the very first.”
His words did not square with what I had seen of de Bracineaux in the caliph’s treasure house. But I held my tongue and let him finish.
“I see now why you wished to leave Cairo without delay,” Yordanus said, “but maybe now you will not mind telling me why you were so anxious to leave the Templars behind.” When I hesitated, he said, “Was it because you feared they would take it from you?”
“If they knew I had it, nothing would stop them trying to get it back.”
“But it rightly belongs to them,” Yordanus pointed out. “At least, it belongs in Antioch.”
I heartily disagreed, but did not have it in me to dispute Yordanus. So, instead, I said, “Tell me how you knew to look for me in Cairo.”
“Ah, now that is a tale in itself,” said Padraig, making himself comfortable.
“But if we are going to tell it,” Sydoni said, “then I will fetch the cups.” Wazim liked the sound of that and scurried off to help her, returning a few moments later with his arms full of round, wheel-like loaves and two jugs of wine. Sydoni followed with a wooden tray on which were stacked a number of bowls. One of them was filled with olive oil and crushed garlic, and another had salt mixed with black pepper. She set the tray on the deck and handed around the cups.
“At first we did not know you had been taken,” Yordanus confessed, pouring wine into his bowl; he passed the jar to me. I poured and handed it to Padraig. “We thought you were right behind as we raced to escape the Seljuqs, and it was not until Padraig looked back that we discovered you were no longer with us.”
“Would that I had looked back sooner,” said Padraig, passing the jar to Wazim.
Sydoni, meanwhile, had begun breaking bread into another of the bowls, which she then ranged before us. “By the time we rode back to find you,” she said, “the Seljuqs had taken you.”
“We found your horse,” added Yordanus, “but that was all. There was nothing for it but to ride back to Anazarbus for help.” He shook his head sadly. “What a terrible, terrible business.”
“Why?” I asked. It was exactly what I would have done if our places had been reversed.
“The Seljuqs did not content themselves with destroying Bohemond’s army,” Yordanus replied solemnly. “They decided to punish the Armenians for withholding the tribute. They attacked the city. It must have happened just after we departed. There were Seljuqs inside the city already, and as the royal family and nobles were attending to Prince Leo’s funeral, it was a simple matter to bar the church doors and take over the garrison.”
“Those who resisted were killed,” Sydoni added sadly.
Yordanus took a piece of bread and dipped it in the olive oil and then the salt, chewed thoughtfully, and said, “Although there was very little resistance.”
“What about Roupen and his family?” I asked, a weight of sorrow beginning to descend upon me.
“A great many people fled the city,” Padraig said. “We met them on the road and they told us the royal family had been killed at their prayers—although this was far from certain.”
“No one knew anything for certain, save that the Seljuqs were in command.” Sydoni offered me the bowl of bread. “They had closed the gates and no one was allowed in or out of the city.”
“We had no choice but to turn around and ride for Mamistra,” said Padraig. “It is an eight-day journey, as you know—well, we made it in six, and regretted every day that it kept us from finding you. I wish there had been another way, but what else could we do? Our best hope lay in getting to Antioch as swiftly as possible. As soon as we reached Mamistra, we sailed for Saint Symeon, and then hastened to Antioch to alert the garrison there what had happened.”
“Bohemond’s defeat left Antioch’s defenses decimated,” Yordanus observed. “The idiot prince had taken his entire force, leaving only the Templars behind. It was a foolish, foolish thing. Mark my words, he will answer for it before the Judgment Throne on the last day.”
I nodded, dipping my bread, and began to chew glumly. “Amir Ghazi realized his great good fortune,” I told them. “He did not waste a moment, but marched directly to Damascus to rally support for an attack on Antioch.”
“Aye,” agreed Yordanus readily, “we were there when it came!”
“Commander de Bracineaux sent to Jerusalem for troops to help defend the city. We spent a fair few anxious days wondering which army would reach Antioch first—the Templars or Seljuqs,” said Padraig. “In the end, it was the Templars who arrived first, but Amir Ghazi was close behind. The city had but two days to prepare, and then the Seljuqs appeared and promptly mounted a siege. At first it was not so bad, but as the siege wore on, a plague of dysentery broke out and good water became difficult to find.”
“If relief had not come from Jerusalem,” added Sydoni, pouring more wine for me, “I do not know what we would have done.”
We ate our bread and sipped our wine, and though it felt strange to me after spending so much time imprisoned on my own, I found myself gradually adjusting to the pleasures of human companionship once more. Peculiar too, I thought, to hear someone speak of events that intimately concerned me, but which I knew only in part.
I looked at those gathered around me, glancing from one face to the next, silently thanking them for their fealty and perseverance on my behalf. Yordanus, keen as a youth, slender still, wearing his age but lightly…and beside him, Sydoni, she of the dark hair and soulful eyes, distant, watchful, a secret waiting to be known…Wazim, smiling, his brown head bobbing, traversing an uncertain world with quiet courage and bountiful goodwill…and Padraig, true friend of my soul, wise guide and boon companion for a pilgrimage or a lifetime…I was blessed beyond measure and, as the sun warmed my back, and the wine warmed my stomach, I knew myself to be held in the strong arms of a love greater than any I could have thought or imagined.
“What happened?” I asked, suddenly wishing the day would never end, that I could sit with these friends forever, just like this, and time would cease.
“After the Templars left Jerusalem,” Yordanus replied, “King Baldwin sent to Jaffa and Acre for troops to help protect the Holy City in their absence. They were a long time coming, because soldiers are needed everywhere these days and few can be spared.” He shook his head ruefully. “Bohemond’s profligate stupidity will cost the Holy Land dearly, and for years to come.”
“Eventually, Baldwin succeeded in raising enough of an army to relieve Antioch,” said Padraig, taking up the tale. “The siege lasted longer than Ghazi anticipated, and by the time Baldwin arrived, most of the Seljuq support had dwindled away. The rest fled at the sight of Baldwin’s troops, even though there were fewer than seven hundred knights in all.”
“The Seljuqs have n
o heart for a pitched battle,” Wazim put in. “Stand up to them and they turn tail and run. They are cowardly dogs all of them.”
“God knows it is true,” agreed Yordanus. “No one was happier than we were to see Baldwin riding through the gates of the city leading the crusaders in triumph—all the more since he brought word that a few of Bohemond’s knights had survived the massacre, and these were taken to Damascus to be ransomed. The Seljuqs set a high price on the survivors—ten thousand dinars.
“I still have many old friends in Damascus, and we made arrangements to go there at once—which we did. Unfortunately, things did not go well for us in Damascus. We encountered great difficulty in getting reliable information from the atabeg’s courtiers. They told us you were there and they would release you if I paid the ransom. But when I brought the money, they could not find you.” He paused, shaking his head. “We feared you had been executed.”
“Prisoners without ransom are often killed for the pleasure of their captors,” offered Wazim.
“But then Renaud arrived,” said Padraig.
“He came to Damascus?” I could not keep the suspicion out of my voice. Sydoni marked my distrust with a knowing expression, although no one else seemed to notice. “Why?”
“Also to ransom prisoners,” Yordanus replied. “It was fortunate for us that he came when he did, because he was able to discover what had happened to you.”
Yes, I thought—no doubt the Fida’in told him. To Yordanus I said, “You learned I had been taken to Cairo.”
“And so we came on as soon as we could.”
“When did you arrive?”
“Seven days ago,” said Padraig.
I tried to work out in my mind what day that would have been, but I could no longer remember where one day left off and another began. “Then you were here before the trouble started?”
“Wazir Hasan slaughtered the amirs but two days ago,” Wazim said.
“Yes,” agreed Yordanus, “that was when the trouble began.”
“I see.” I knew in my bones I was right about Renaud, but I did not care to speak ill of him before Yordanus, who was his friend.
“You look troubled,” said Padraig. “Is something wrong?”
“I am tired,” I said. “I have not talked so much in a long time. I had forgotten how taxing it can be.”
“You should rest now,” suggested Sydoni. “There are quarters below deck where you will not be disturbed.” She rose. “Come with me, I will show you.”
“Yes, go with her. We can talk again this evening,” the old man said. “Sydoni, make him comfortable.”
I rose to my knees and, taking up the Black Rood, placed it in Padraig’s hands—along with the responsibility of looking after it. “Do you think you might find a safe place for this?”
“Gladly and with honor,” he said, accepting the precious relic with a bow of respect.
I retrieved my mantle and followed Sydoni forward to a hatch in the deck with wooden steps leading down to a small, bare room set apart from the larger holding area below deck where cargo and stocks of provisions were kept. Quiet and dark—the only light came from a small grated opening in the deck above—it was the room she and her father shared, and it contained two low straw pallets set in boxes between the great curving ribs of the ship’s hull. The pallets were spread with linen cloths and cushions to make a soft, inviting bed.
I thanked her and sat down on the edge of the box to remove my boots. She watched me for a moment, making no move to leave. “I owe you a very great debt of gratitude, you and your father,” I told her. “I intend to repay you—at least, I mean to try.”
She smiled. “There is no need.”
I thanked her again, but instead of leaving me to sleep, she sat down on the edge of the box beside me, and I caught a beguiling whiff of sweet sandalwood and spice from her clothes and hair. “You are worried about de Bracineaux.” She arched an eyebrow as if daring me to contradict her.
“Is it so obvious?”
“Not to my father, perhaps,” she allowed, “but he tends to see only what he wants to see.”
“And you, Sydoni? What do you see?”
“I see a man who winces every time the Templar’s name is breathed aloud.”
“I do not wince.”
“Like an old woman with a toothache.”
“An old woman…” I did not care for her choice of comparison.
She laughed and the sound charmed even as it humbled. “It is something to do with the Holy Rood.”
“Yes,” I admitted. “I know that much is obvious.”
She nodded, waiting for me to say more. When I did not, she sniffed, “Well, you do not have to say anything if it taxes you overmuch.”
“I want to tell you. It is just that it is not so easily told.”
“People only say that,” she observed tartly, “when they cannot decide how much to leave out.”
I had forgotten how very changeable she could be; like intemperate weather, Sydoni could be mild and calm one moment, and hurling thunderbolts the next.
“If I thought to leave anything out,” I replied, quickly losing my patience, “it was only to spare your feelings.”
“My feelings?” She held her head to one side and regarded me as if I were mad. “I have no feelings for Commander de Bracineaux.”
“Your father’s feelings then. I know they are friends.”
“Tch! You demand that we depart Cairo with unseemly haste,” she snapped, “for the purpose of eluding the Templars, and now you think to protect my father’s finer feelings?”
I was tired, and it was futile arguing with her in any event. “I suspect the Templars are in league with the Fida’in,” I told her.
“I knew it!” she cried, seizing my arm in her excitement. “I knew he was lying to us. The good and kind de Bracineaux, lying through his wicked teeth.”
Needless to say, her reaction—gratifying as it was in its shameless intensity—took me aback.
“He told us he was doing all he could to secure your release,” she said, the words tumbling out in a rush. “When Father grew impatient, he told us to wait and pray, and leave everything to him, that negotiations had reached a precarious stage—the least word or action out of place, and we would risk losing everything, he said. Lies—it was all lies.”
“And that was when Yordanus approached the Copts,” I surmised.
“Indeed, it was his first thought,” Sydoni replied. “He wanted to make contact with them the day we arrived, but had promised de Bracineaux he would let the Templars try first. After waiting three days, he and Padraig decided that it would harm nothing to have our friends look into matters. The Copts of Cairo,” she added proudly, “have been living with the Saracens a very long time; they have many influential contacts throughout the city.”
“If not for your friends,” I declared, “I have no doubt I would still be a prisoner in the caliph’s palace. De Bracineaux did not care about me—at least, I was far from foremost in his thoughts.”
“He wanted the Holy Rood,” Sydoni said. “You were just an excuse to help him get it. He used you, just as he used my father.” She regarded me wonderingly. “But how did you discover he was with the Fida’in?”
“I saw them together.” I yawned, exhaustion overcoming me. “They were trying to break into the treasure house.”
“To recover the rood.”
“Yes—that is, I believe that is what they were after.”
She stood abruptly. “Sleep now. I will wake you for supper.”
“Sydoni,” I said, and realized how much I enjoyed saying her name, “please do not tell Yordanus about my suspicions.”
“We must tell him. We cannot keep it from him.”
“I know. But let us wait until tonight at least. I want Padraig to hear it, too.”
“Very well,” she agreed. “Tonight, then.”
She closed the door and I heard her climb the wooden steps and then her soft footfall on the dec
k above. I lay back on the soft-cushioned bed, my head in the place where Sydoni lay her head; and I fell asleep to the slow and gentle rocking of the ship beneath me, and the scent of sandalwood drifting through my dreams.
FORTY-FIVE
I AWOKE TO A cool touch on my forehead and a warm breath in my ear. I had slept long and deep, and roused myself with difficulty. When I finally opened my eyes, Sydoni was gone and I wondered if I had dreamed her. I pulled on my boots and climbed back to the upper deck, emerging into a sky of radiant, deep-flamed red and gold, with darker shades of sapphire in the east where the first stars were already shining. Low green Egyptian hills were gliding slowly past, and goat bells across the water tinkled as the shepherd led his flock to the fold for the night.
Sydoni was kneeling before a low charcoal brazier cooking red fish on latticework spits. She ladled olive oil over the meat, which made the glowing coals sizzle and flare, and threw a delicious silvery cloud of smoke into the air; when the flames died down, she squeezed half the juice of a yellow lemon over the fish, glancing up at me as she did so. Her smile was ready and welcoming. “Good evening,” she said.
“It smells wonderful,” I told her.
She held out a bowl of large flat yellow seeds. “Try these.”
I tipped a few into my mouth and munched them. They had a salty flavor. “Nice.”
“Parched squash seeds. The farmers make them. They also make this,” she said and, taking up a large earthenware jar, poured a clear, amber liquid into a large copper cup. The liquid frothed up with a white foam, and I smelled the flowery scent of good fresh ale as I raised the bowl to my lips. “They call it Tears of the Crocodile.”
“Öl, by another name,” I said, savoring the sweet, bitter nutlike taste as it slid effortlessly down my throat. How long had it been since I had last lifted a cup of ale?
“The Egyptians say they invented ale,” Sydoni said, then shrugged lightly. “But they say that about everything.”
“Padraig insists the Celts were first to make it—but he says that about everything.” I sipped the bittersweet brew with satisfaction, and breathed the soft fragrant air deep into my lungs. “Where is Padraig?”
The Black Rood Page 44
