The Sword of Moses

by Dominic Selwood

  “The crusades,” she answered.

  “Richard the Lionheart and Saladin fighting over Jerusalem?” Ferguson asked, clearly relieved Ava’s answer was something he had heard of.

  She nodded. “In fact, there were eight crusades to the Holy Land stretched over a period of two hundred years. But I’ll bet the medal is referring to the most famous—the one you just mentioned, between Richard and Saladin.”

  “So Clement started the crusades?” Ferguson tucked into the hot toasted sandwich that had appeared in front of him. “I’m surprised he’s not better known.”

  Ava shook her head. “They began much earlier. The first crusader army started walking from Europe in the summer of 1096, and finally arrived at the gates of Jerusalem to take the city back from the Muslims three long years later, in the summer of 1099.”

  “Take it back?” Ferguson looked uncertain. “When had Jerusalem ever been Christian before then?”

  Ava sipped the scalding coffee. “The Jewish kings lost control of Jerusalem to the Babylonians in 597 BC. After that it changed hands many times—conquered successively by Persians, Greeks, and finally the Romans in 37 BC. So when the Roman Empire officially adopted Christianity in the late 300s, Jerusalem automatically became Christian—until the Muslims conquered it in the seventh century.”

  “So why no crusades until 1096?” Ferguson looked puzzled.

  “The Muslim rulers were tolerant and allowed Christians to worship there and make pilgrimages to the biblical sites. But in 1073 the Seljuq Turks seized the city, and began violently and cruelly persecuting Christian residents and visitors. For people back in Europe, that changed everything.”

  “Anyway,” she continued. “The first crusade was definitely bloody. It was an orgy of slaughter. The Christian crusaders butchered anything alive in Jerusalem: women, children, animals, everything. The reports of the time say it was a slaughtering frenzy. The knights were even apparently throwing women and children off rooftops. The blood and gore in the streets was running ankle-deep.”

  “Bloodlust,” Ferguson muttered quietly. “Never pretty.”

  “The crusaders then ruled Jerusalem as a Christian city until 1187,” Ava continued. “They crushed all attempts to topple them, and figured their success was a sign from God they were his true chosen people.”

  “What changed in 1187?” Ferguson asked, finishing the last bite of his sandwich.

  “Salah ad-Din Yusuf ibn Ayyub,” Ava replied. “Better known as Saladin—a Kurd from Iraq who decided enough was enough. He knew the regional Muslims were too busy squabbling amongst themselves to be a serious threat to the crusaders. So he first set about uniting them all in order to build a power base. Before long, he single-handedly controlled all the countries surrounding the crusaders’ lands.”

  “Smart move,” Ferguson acknowledged.

  “As a result, Saladin was able to mobilize the first really coordinated Muslim force the crusaders had ever seen. It was a massive army, and finally faced the crusaders between Haifa and Tiberias at two hills nicknamed the Horns of Hattin. The crusaders were politically split into two feuding camps, and their battle order was in disarray. Saladin exploited their weaknesses, encircled them, cut off their access to water, and the result was a rout. The crusaders lost everything, even Christendom’s most precious possession—the True Cross, which the crusaders had always carried into battle with them. With no crusader army left, Jerusalem fell quickly. All was lost.”

  “Not good for the pope,” Ferguson muttered.

  “The news was received back in Europe with horror,” Ava confirmed. “People thought God was punishing them all for their many sins. And that’s where Clement comes in. He became pope a few months later, and rapidly made it his number one mission to seize Jerusalem back. After all, losing Jerusalem weakened the papacy he had just inherited. It looked like the Christians weren’t God’s chosen people after all.”

  “So what did he do?” Ferguson asked. “How does a pope conquer a city over two thousand marching miles away?”

  Ava took another bite of her croissant. “He pulled together Europe’s three most battle-scarred warlords—Emperor Frederick Barbarossa of Germany, King Henry II of England, and King Philip Augustus of France. Although he had a bit of work to do first, as all three leaders had their own problems at home—especially King Henry of England.”

  “I thought England was quiet in Henry’s reign?” Ferguson asked. “The civil war was well and truly over by then.”

  Ava shook her head. “Definitely not peaceful. Henry’s sons spent years sending their armies against him to try and seize their inheritances early. They were all at it, although the very worst was Richard.”

  “Richard the Lionheart?” Ferguson looked incredulous. “Did you say he fought his own father, the king, in battle—just to get his inheritance early?”

  “Many times,” Ava nodded. “And so did Richard’s brothers. They were a poisonous family. When Henry finally died, he said that of all his sons, it was the legitimate ones that were the real bastards.”

  Ferguson burst out laughing. “You’re making this up.”

  “I’m afraid not,” Ava shook her head. “Henry was a great king in many ways. But he finally died of weariness after Richard and his lover, the king of France, beat him in battle and took chunks of France from him—”

  “His what?” Ferguson interrupted. “I misheard you.” He looked at her in shock. “For a moment I thought you just said that Richard and the king of France were an item?”

  Ava grinned. There was no point in knowing history if you could not have some fun telling people things that shocked them.

  “You’re inventing this,” Ferguson objected.

  Ava raised her eyebrows in amusement. “Historians hate admitting it—especially stuffy English ones. They come up with all sorts of explanations for the awkward chronicles. But the old texts are totally clear. One chronicler famously wrote that the two men were so inflamed with love for each other that they shared a bowl at mealtimes and, as he delicately put it, did not have separate beds.”

  “This is the most scandalous history lesson I’ve ever heard,” Ferguson interrupted. “You’re rewriting my education.”

  Ava dipped her croissant in her coffee, French-style. “Oh there’s much more about our great King Richard the Lionheart that the schoolbooks don’t tell you.”

  “There is?” He looked appalled. “Like what?”

  “It’s ironic the English worship him so much,” Ava replied, “because he loathed England. He lived in France, and never bothered learning to speak English. He only wanted England for its royal title so he could join the exclusive club of kings. He spent around six months in England in his entire life—and that was only to sell off everything that wasn’t nailed down to raise cash so he could crusade in style with his friend the French king. He’s even on record saying England was a dreary rainy place, and he boasted he would’ve sold London if he could find a buyer.”

  “This is treason!” spluttered Ferguson. “Richard the Lionheart is a national hero. The main statue outside the Houses of Parliament is of him, for God’s sake.”

  “Funny old world, isn’t it?” Ava smiled. “Anyway, this is all relevant because Pope Clement III eventually put his trust in the combined mailed fists of Barbarossa, Richard, and Philip Augustus. Going on the number of battles they had each fought and won, Clement figured he had a crack team to recapture Jerusalem.”

  “Hence the bloody bull.” Ferguson nodded. “Jerusalem was lost, so he sent the three of them off east to get it back?”

  “Exactly,” Ava confirmed. “Except it didn’t turn out so well. Barbarossa was the most experienced warlord of them all. But he never made it there. While crossing Turkey, he rode into the river Göksu and got washed away. It seems his armour was too heavy for whatever he was doing. Anyway, that was the last anyone saw of the crusade’s leader.”

  Ferguson burst out laughing again. “Europe’s most hardened warrior
? Drowned swimming in his armour?” He shook his head. “Someone needs to make a film of all this—it’s unbelievable.”

  Ava continued. “So Richard and Philip Augustus went on alone. And when they got to the Middle East, it started to get seriously violent. Although they failed to recapture Jerusalem, they did plenty of slaughtering. Richard bulldozed anything he could find. When he ran out of villages and villagers in the Holy Land, he sailed across to Cyprus and razed that, too.”

  “That was pretty normal for the period, though.” Ferguson objected. “Medieval war wasn’t known for its gentleness.”

  Ava took the last bite of her croissant. “Richard proved himself to be a seriously vicious man by anyone’s standards. Furious with Saladin for repeatedly stalling during negotiations for the return of the True Cross, Richard lined up three thousand captured Muslim men, women, and children at a place called Ayyadieh, in full sight of Saladin’s army, and sent his men in to beat and hack them to death. There were no survivors.”

  “Christ,” whispered Ferguson. “Along with the slaughter you mentioned when the crusaders took Jerusalem, no wonder the crusades still raise such passions in the Muslim world.”

  “Well, Saladin promptly had all the Christian prisoners executed in retaliation. So no one comes out of it well. But there’s no doubt Richard was an extremely brutal man.”

  “Anyway,” Ava concluded, “it would be fair to call Clement’s crusade bull a holy bloody bull, and the medal Drewitt sent us might be in English and French to reflect the crusading armies of Richard and Philip Augustus.”

  Ferguson wiped his mouth with a napkin and digested what Ava had been saying,

  “What about ‘UNDER THE PROTECTION OF THE STARS’, then?” he asked. “How does that fit into all this?”

  Ava looked pensive. “I’ve been wondering about that. Maybe it’s a reference to where we’ll find a copy of the bull. And hopefully when we do, the purpose of the medal, and Malchus’s interest in it, will also become clearer.”

  Ferguson took the last swig of his coffee. “So how do we go about finding it? Who keeps these bulls today?”

  “The Vatican chancery would have made many copies,” Ava replied. “Some were kept in the Vatican archives, others sent out all over Christendom to stir the preachers and armies. We have to find one that is somehow ‘UNDER THE PROTECTION OF THE STARS’.”

  “But what does that mean,” he asked.

  “Almost anything,” Ava acknowledged. “Maybe there’s an archive controlled by a family whose name is Stelle, or Estrellas, or Etoiles, or Sterne, or some other word for stars. Or perhaps the archive is in an old decorated building that has stars over the doorway or on the ceiling. Or maybe it’s kept in a place where it’s bathed in starlight by night. I don’t know. We’re going to have to find out where surviving copies are held.”

  “And also where copies were kept when the medal was struck,” Ferguson added.

  Ava nodded.

  Glancing at her watch, she drained the rest of her coffee and stood up. “Time to find out more about the mysterious Saxby.”

  ——————— ◆ ———————

  60

  Maze Hill Railway Station

  Maze Hill

  London SE10

  England

  The United Kingdom

  Uri was already on his second cup of bitter coffee. He did not particularly like the taste—it lacked the complexity of the cardamom-laced kafe shachor from back home, but it did the job.

  He picked up his mobile phone the instant it buzzed and looked at the number flashing on the small screen.

  It was Otto.

  Uri had been wondering when he was going to call. He must have seen the news by now.

  Otto’s tone was business-like. There were no niceties—just a simple instruction. “The railway station in thirty minutes. Be there.” Then the line went dead.

  Uri grabbed his new designer coat from the back of the chair and headed out.

  He walked swiftly and purposefully through the cool morning air to Greenwich Park—one hundred and eighty acres of medieval royal hunting land cutting a swathe of green across south-east London.

  Once inside the ancient enclosure, he strode past the unassuming strip of brass laid into the ground marking zero latitude—the official dividing line between the eastern and western hemispheres, and barely took in the striking view of the Millennium Dome, spread over the Greenwich Peninsula like a vast and helpless upturned beetle,

  As he hurried on through, the park was already filling with joggers streaming past local residents taking a moment to relax on the wooden benches and catch a few rays of the elusive sun.

  Heading to the historic park’s north-east corner, he exited onto Maze Hill itself, and arrived at the ugly suburban railway station in good time.

  He knew exactly where Otto would be.

  Making for the long concrete expanse of Platform One, he immediately clocked Otto sitting on a bench at the far end, his sharp features looking pinched in the early morning light.

  There was no one else around.

  He had been wondering how Otto would react.

  He suspected Otto may well think he had gone too far—attracting unwelcome police interest. But it had been a calculated risk. Uri had wanted to make a statement that Otto could not ignore, and he was confident he had left no traces. The police would draw a blank—as they always did with his work.

  As Uri approached the end of the platform, Otto began clapping slowly. “Very nice, Danny. Very impressive.” His tone was not friendly.

  Uri did not respond.

  Otto’s narrow face exuded suspicion. “So where did you learn to do that?”

  Uri shrugged, sitting down next to him on the bench, digging his hands into the pockets of his coat.

  “Are you military, Danny?” There was a distinct wariness in his voice.

  Uri shook his head slowly.

  “What then?” Otto did not sound happy.

  “I told you,” Uri stared straight ahead. “I’m into the heavier stuff.”

  “I can see that,” Otto’s tone was curt. “I wasn’t born yesterday. That’s quite an unusual little skill you’ve got there.” He paused, looking across at Uri with open hostility. “What do you take me for, Danny? People don’t just learn to make acetone peroxide bombs from some article in a magazine.” He glowered at him. “So go on, where did you learn to do that?”

  Uri knew he needed to keep it vague—nothing traceable or verifiable. “I’ve done jobs before, if that’s what you mean,” he answered nonchalantly.

  “No, it’s not what I bloody mean, Danny” Otto snapped, letting his impatience show. “Stop fencing with me. Who’ve you worked for? I want details—places, names.”

  Uri kept his tone businesslike. He had no option except to bluff it out. “I’m not a red, if that’s what’s bothering you.” He paused to inject a note of sincerity. “I wouldn’t be here if I was, would I?”

  “Well, at least that’s a start,” Otto replied, clearly still suspicious. “So what are you, then?”

  Uri took his time in responding. “Flexible,” he answered vaguely.

  “Come on, Danny,” Otto cut him off. “You need to do better than that. What were you doing in The Lord Nelson? Who are you with?” He looked at Uri with suspicion. “Are you even English, I wonder? You talk funny.”

  “I’m not the law, if that’s what you mean,” Uri replied.

  “I figured that out all by myself,” Otto snapped. “The old bill round here don’t normally plant high street bombs in the middle of the night.”

  “Look,” Uri replied. “What do you want me to say? I’m not like you. I’m not political.”

  It was true. He classed himself as a Zionist, but that was not a political belief as far as he was concerned—it was a tenet of his country’s survival. Beyond that, he had never been interested in left-right politics. Anyway, he could not afford to be in his job. He had seen different governments come
and go—from hard-line right wing to liberal and left. He had to be above it—serving the state and people, whoever they elected.

  Otto continued to glare at him with suspicion. “So why are you here? What do you want?”

  “I’m a craftsman,” Uri replied carefully. “A journeyman. I go wherever my work is … ,” he paused, “appreciated.”

  “Just another gun for hire?” Otto asked, a hint of disdain in his voice.

  Uri nodded. “Something like that.”

  Otto glanced down at his shoes before looking back up at Uri. “Since I saw the news this morning, Danny, I’ve been wondering if I made a big mistake with you. Don’t get me wrong—you’ve got a certain style. But I don’t like surprises. I did some asking around, and no one knows you, Danny. You’re a bit of a mystery, and that makes me nervous.”

  Uri gazed thoughtfully into the middle distance. Otto might not like the mystery, but he knew that one way or another Otto’s group would not want to pass up the opportunity of employing Uri’s particular skills. All he had to do was stick to his story. “I’ve told you. I’ve been around. I don’t advertise.”

  Otto looked pensive, lapsing into silence.

  Uri tapped his foot and set his jaw. It was time to back off. He needed to set this up so Otto wanted him, not the other way round. “Well,” he concluded. “You’ve got my number.” He got up to leave.

  “Not so fast, Danny.” Otto put out a hand to indicate he should sit back down. “The Skipper will decide.”

  Uri smiled to himself.

  Progress.

  “Where?” he asked.

  “Tomorrow night. Be outside the Khyber Pass Curry House round the back of Belmarsh prison, nine o’clock sharp. I’ll find you there.”

  “What’s the occasion?” Uri kept his voice expressionless.

  “A get-together. A few beers. Maybe a speech. Might even do you good to meet some of the crew. Learn something.”

  “I’m not interested in the others,” Uri replied.

  Otto’s face darkened. “Don’t get cocky, Danny. I’ve got my eye on you. There’s no place for loners or show-boaters—they’re unpredictable, and that’s not how we work. We’ve got a chain of command and a structure, and we do things the right way. Authority’s important for us, Danny. You need to understand that.”