“He went below to say his prayers.” She turned the fish on the charcoal and squeezed more of the lemon over it. “Vespers before the Holy Rood, he said.”
“The dreamer awakes!” called Yordanus. I turned as he came up from the stern where he had been talking to his pilot. Padraig and Wazim were not about.
“I feel as if I could take on an army,” I said.
“I hope you can eat like one,” said Sydoni. “My father has decreed a celebration to honor your rescue. We stopped a little while ago at a market and bought everything in the settlement.”
“We want to honor your return as the occasion merits,” he said. “God bless you, Duncan, but it is good to see you. I am sorry if I cannot refrain from saying it. I do not mean to embarrass you, but it is good to see you again.”
“And you, Yordanus,” I replied. “Please, it does not embarrass me in the least. Indeed, there were times I thought I would not be seeing you, or anyone else, ever again.”
We talked of my captivity in the caliph’s palace. Already, time was at work, blunting the sharp edges of that existence and bathing it in softer hues.
“Is that why you wrote it down?” asked Sydoni. I noticed how naturally she slipped in beside me, and remembered how much I missed her simple womanly graces.
“Just so,” I affirmed, and then remembered what had happened to it in the stream. “But I fear it is ruined now. I will just have to remember as best I can without it.”
“Perhaps not,” said Padraig as he joined us, and I saw he was holding one of the scrolls from my bundle. “This papyrus is remarkable in many ways. See here,” he peeled back a portion of the scroll to reveal the still damp surface, “the ink has washed away, it is true, but a stain remains.”
I looked forlornly at the faint gray marks. “It cannot be read like that.”
“No,” agreed Padraig casually, “but it can be copied.”
“The monks of Ayios Moni excel in such work. They are always copying old scrolls and parchments. We can take your book to them,” Yordanus suggested eagerly.
“Papa,” said Sydoni, “you presume too much. Perhaps Duncan does not wish to return with us to Cyprus.”
“No?” The old man’s face fell, but he recovered himself quickly. “Of course, I was forgetting myself. My friends, you have only to say where you wish to go, and this ship will take you there.” He looked from me to Padraig expectantly. “Well?”
“I think,” said Sydoni, touching my arm lightly with her fingertips, “it would be best to tell Father what you told me.”
I nodded and drew a reluctant breath. “I think none of us should return to Cyprus just yet,” I began. “I have reason to believe that de Bracineaux and his men are in league with the Fida’in.”
“Impossible!” scoffed Yordanus. “You are surely mistaken. Commander de Bracineaux would never contemplate such a thing.”
“If there is another explanation, I will gladly hear it and repent if I am wrong. But I know what I saw.”
This news proved so distressing to Yordanus that Sydoni suggested we all sit down and discuss it together over our cups. “The meal will be a little time yet. Let us get this unpleasantness behind us before we eat.”
Wazim roused himself from his nap as we filled our cups, but declined to join us as we sat down on the rugs beside the mast; Sydoni put him to work helping prepare the meal instead. I related what Sydoni had told me about de Bracineaux’s insistence on negotiating with the caliph himself. “If he sought audience with the caliph, I never learned of it,” I told them. “The first I knew of his presence was when I saw him in the tunnel helping the Fida’in break into the treasure house.”
“Are you certain they were Fida’in?”
“I did not know who they were,” I replied, and explained that it was Wazim who identified them from my description.
“He might have been mistaken,” Yordanus pointed out. “It is possible, no?”
“It is possible,” I allowed. I called across to Wazim, and asked him if he had any doubt about who we had seen breaking into the treasure house.
“No, my lord,” he replied. “They were the Hashishin.”
“But you did not see them, Wazim, did you?” asked Yordanus. “You did not see them with your own eyes.”
“I did not need to see them,” he said, “I could smell them. They smelled of the hashish smoke.”
“Much of the city was in flames last night,” the old man pointed out shrewdly, “how could you be certain it was the hashish?”
He had sown the seed of doubt, but I remained convinced. I asked Wazim if anyone had come to the caliph’s court to arrange ransom for me. “No, my lord,” he replied again. “No one ever came.”
“Might someone have come without your knowing?” wondered Yordanus. Although his manner was tactful and kindly, I could see what he was doing, and it made me uncomfortable. Had I been too hasty in my judgment of the Templars? Perhaps imprisonment had soured my good opinion of Renaud.
“I am a good jailer,” the little man answered. “I make it my business to know such things. If anyone came seeking ransom for one of my prisoners, I would know of it. But no one ever came to the palace to offer ransom.”
“Who approached you on my behalf, Wazim?” I asked.
“Father Shenoute sent word and summoned me.”
“That is the Holy Patriarch of the Cairo church,” explained Padraig. “When Renaud seemed to have trouble arranging the audience with the caliph, Yordanus and I went to the patriarch and asked if he could help. Father Shenoute made a few inquiries and found that Wazim was well placed to help us.”
Wazim nodded. “Father Shenoute said I would be doing God’s will if I helped Da’ounk to gain his freedom. When the riots began, I saw my chance and took it.”
“There, you see?” said Yordanus. “It might all have been a mistake. I might simply have succeeded where the Templars failed. It does not mean they intended betraying you in any way.”
I conceded the point. “It may be as you say,” I granted, “but one thing bothers me still. If they only wished to help gain my freedom, why did they go to the treasure house first? When given the chance, why did they not seek my release?”
“I suppose they hoped to secure the Holy Rood,” said Yordanus.
“That very thing above all else,” I said, trying to keep an even temper.
“Can you blame them?” said Yordanus. “It belongs to the church at Antioch. Blundering Bohemond lost it and they have a sacred duty to get it back.”
“They chose the relic above my life,” I said. “Yet they told you nothing about that part of their enterprise. Why would they hide it from you?”
Yordanus spread his hands. “That is something we must ask Commander de Bracineaux when next we see him.”
“What do you propose?” Padraig asked. I could tell from his tone and glance that he, like myself, was uneasy with the prospect of allowing the Templars to get their hands on the holy relic again.
“My friends, I believe this has been an unfortunate misunderstanding. I propose we sail home to Cyprus and, with your kind indulgence, I will send word to Renaud to come and meet us in Famagusta to discuss these matters. After all,” he said, “the good Commander Renaud helped us immeasurably in Damascus. Before condemning him, we owe him a hearing, I think.”
Sydoni came and called us to our dinner then, and no more was said about the matter that night. It did not sit well with me, but I tried not to let it spoil the festive mood which Yordanus and Sydoni strove to instill in the evening’s celebration. After a few more bowls of ale and Sydoni’s delicious banquet I succeeded in putting my doubts about Renaud and the Templars to one side and enjoyed myself despite the troubling black cloud of foreboding hanging over me.
The meal was an inspiration of wholesome flavors prepared simply to allow the unadorned beauty of each dish to please with its own particular appeal. There was fish, and slow roasted peppers with garlic, olives, herbed flat bread made by the vi
llage women, and—my favorite—little chunks of lamb soaked in olive oil, sprinkled with dried herbs and roasted with tiny onions over the coals on slender wooden skewers.
We sat on the deck and talked and ate as night deepened around us. The flickering fires of passing houses and settlements spangled the riverbanks even as the stars dusted the sky above with glowing shards of light. The moon rose late and spilled its light onto the water to turn the lazily swirling liquid into molten silver. After a time, Yordanus bade us good night and went to his bed, then Padraig and Wazim likewise, leaving me alone with Sydoni.
We talked long into the night, enjoying the balmy air and the gentle music of the water rippling along the keel and steering paddle. The pilot kept the ship in the deep mid-river channel; from time to time, one of the crewmen would come to relieve him, and he would lie down on his mat in the stern for a time, only to awaken a little later to take the tiller once more. It was a fine night for sailing, and I was glad to be out on the water. Looking up into the great bowl of the heavens and the star-flecked sky, with no bound or hindrance in any direction as far as the eye could see, I began at last to understand that I was truly free.
Some time later, Sydoni bade me good night and went to her bed, but I remained on deck gazing up at the stars and listening to the sound of the dark river as the ship slid along the slowly winding waterway toward the sea. I slept a little toward dawn, but woke again at sunrise and went at once to the stern. The sky was bright pink in the east with gray shading to blue above, and not a cloud to be seen. The river had broadened considerably during the night, and the nearest bank was now a fair distance away.
There were no ships behind us, but two smaller boats kept pace one behind the other just ahead. I asked the pilot how long they had been there, and he said they had joined us at sunrise. “They are fishing boats,” he told me in crude Latin. “Do not worry, my friend. No one follows us.”
I thanked him but did not relax my vigil, keeping watch through that day and the next. Only when we had put sweltering Alexandria behind us, and entered the deep blue waters of the Mediterranean Sea, did I dare to believe we had made good our escape. Once under full sail, I allowed myself to rejoice in the knowledge that, despite the combined efforts of the Seljuqs and the Saracens, I was on my way home.
The voyage to Cyprus was swift and fair; the weather, though hot, was fine for sailing, and thanks to a favorable wind and bright, cloudless nights, we reached Cyprus in only three days. While the island was yet but a blue-brown hump looming in the sea haze, I prevailed upon Yordanus not to put in at Famagusta, but to use another port instead.
“But why?” he asked, genuinely mystified by my distrust and uneasiness.
Although I could think of several extremely compelling reasons to avoid Cyprus altogether, I merely replied, “I would feel safer if our return was not widely known just yet.”
“But where is the danger?” the old trader countered innocently. “I am certain the caliph has more important matters on his mind than the escape of a solitary prisoner. Still, if it would ease your mind, I will have a word with the magistrate and he will put the garrison on watch for a few days.”
“Father,” Sydoni scolded, “we both know the magistrate is an officious gossip and meddler. The garrison is only a dozen old war dogs who bark far worse than they ever bite.” To me she said, “We have a small house in Paphos on the other side of the island. We can stay there for as long as you like.”
Yordanus rolled his eyes and sighed heavily, but yielded to his daughter without farther comment. I spoke to the pilot, who arranged it so that we did not make landfall until just after sunset; I wanted our arrival to arouse as little interest as possible. Accordingly, once ashore, we moved quickly through the lower, busy sea town and up the hill into a quieter quarter, known as Nea Paphos, where, scattered in amongst the large new estates of wealthy planters and merchants, the ruins of ancient fortresses and the crumbling palaces of long-dead kings could still be seen among the gnarled olive trees and thorn thickets on the hillside.
The house Yordanus kept here was less than a fourth the size of his great house in Famagusta, but it was more than adequate for our modest needs. It was surrounded by a high, whitewashed wall which one entered from the road by a single, low wooden door. Once inside, the visitor entered a tidy square of courtyard kept perpetually and immaculately swept free of dust by a fearsome little birdlike housekeeper named Anna. A single large fig tree grew in the center of the yard, surrounded by a few wooden benches; in one corner was a well which supplied the house’s needs.
Anna let us in and, complaining about the lack of a timely warning, set about preparing a meal. Meanwhile, I secured the door to the courtyard. Yordanus watched me with a bemused expression, and when I was finished, asked if I was satisfied.
“It is stout enough,” I replied, rattling the iron bar in its holder. “It will serve.”
“Good. Let us join the others and drink to a fortuitous return.”
As the main room of the house also served as kitchen, Anna would not allow us anywhere near the table until the food was ready; she chased us all back out into the courtyard where Padraig found a low bench and a number of stools, which he quickly arranged in a loose circle. Sydoni appeared with a jug of wine and an assortment of carved olivewood cups. She poured the wine and we all drank one another’s health and prosperity, and long, happy, eventful lives.
“What will you do now, master?” Wazim asked me. I marked his use of that word—it was the second time he had called me that; the first time was in the tunnel.
“We will rest for a day or two,” I answered carelessly, “and then Padraig and I will set about finding passage back to Caithness in Scotland.” I looked at the little Copt who had been my solitary friend in the caliph’s palace. “What about you, Wazim—what will you do?”
He thought for a moment. “If Yordanus has no further need of me,” he said at last, his voice heavy with resignation, “I will return to Alexandria.”
“Not Cairo?” I said lightly.
“Oh, I can never go back to Cairo, Da’ounk,” he replied. “Truly, the khalifa would have me flayed alive and spit-roasted over hot coals.”
The little jailer had risked his life and given up his livelihood for me, and I had tossed him aside like a rag on which I had just blown my nose. “I am sorry, Wazim. Forgive me, I was not thinking.”
“There is nothing to forgive. You must return to your own country. I understand.”
“You have served me admirably and well. As a true Christian brother, you have given unstintingly and at immense sacrifice for my benefit. Indeed, I would not be here now if not for you. I will not see your noble deed go unrewarded.”
He smiled to hear himself praised from my lips. “I ask nothing of you, Da’ounk. God himself has prepared my reward.”
“I have no doubt of it, Wazim, my friend. Still, it may be some time before you collect that reward; it would please me to see you well settled and comfortable while you wait.”
I glanced over to where Padraig was sitting, and saw that he was following our conversation. My faithful anam cara, he gave me a nod of approval to let me know that yet another skirmish with the slippery adversary pride had been contested successfully.
Anna called us in to our supper then, and we went in to a meal of eggs and peppers with dried fish, wine, and olives. After the meal, we remained at the table long into the night, talking to Yordanus and Sydoni about how best to go about finding a ship to help us on our homeward journey. As we talked, it soon became apparent that Yordanus was less than enthusiastic about our leaving. He was intent on seeing de Bracineaux and myself reconciled, our differences mended and the Holy Rood returned to its rightful place.
I was against this, I confess, but felt deeply in Yordanus’ debt, and was heartily reluctant to grieve him over this difference of opinion. We went to our beds that night with the matter unresolved, but I promised to give it my thoughtful consideration over the next few d
ays. This pleased him, and he said no more about it, leaving me to my meditations.
Next morning, Padraig and I, with Sydoni’s assistance, wrapped the Holy Rood in red silk and secured it in a stout wooden casket which Anna used to store her good shoes and feast-day clothes. We hid the sacred relic in the bottom of the box and replaced the clothes, adding a few shawls, a tablecloth, and such like. The box did not lock, but Sydoni said it was just as well. “Someone searching for valuables will seize on anything that is locked,” she pointed out.
We placed the box under Padraig’s bed and, satisfied that our treasure was safe enough for the time being, walked down to the harbor in the lower town where we arranged to be informed of any westbound ships departing Paphos harbor. I had the unhappy suspicion that we would have to go to a larger port to find passage, and that would increase the risk of discovery. Likewise, each day we waited heightened the risk as well, as I did not for a single instant believe that the Templars would easily give up searching for the sacred relic, nor allow anything to stand in their way of reclaiming it.
My sudden and unexplained appearance on the quay at Cairo had confounded Sergeant Gislebert, and I knew in my bones that de Bracineaux would quickly narrow his search to me—if only to satisfy himself that I did not have the relic in my possession. Thus, Yordanus’ suggestion of sending word to him to meet us and discuss the matter had something to recommend it by way of surprise, but beyond that, try as I might, I could not think of a single good reason to meet with the Templars. I did not say as much to Yordanus, however, but merely begged more time to think the matter through.
“Take all the time you need,” the old man replied obligingly. “While you are thinking, why not go up to the monastery and speak with the monks about restoring your damaged papyri? It is not far—you would only be gone a few days, and you could see something of Cyprus along the way.”
Padraig agreed that it was a good idea, so that is what we did.
The Black Rood Page 45
