Kidd wished he could run his thumb across the edge to feel if it were still sharp. He settled instead for the simple pleasure of testing its weight on his arm. How this sword had come to be locked in Lawrence’s temple was puzzling. Damascus blades were elite weapons, carried by great generals or kings, or men like the Warriors of God. He couldn’t help but think the sword had been left as a message, or a warning.
“Oi!” exclaimed Flint. “If you’ve finished polishing the silverware, come and listen to this.”
“What is it?”
“Lawrence’s final diary entry.”
“September 1148 AD. My brethren have lost their faith. They question my sainthood. They do not believe me when I say that I have simply been blessed with long life like Noah or Moses. I see it in their eyes. They know I carry a great treasure. They know, even though they do not know what it is. They covet it. I am certain I will meet my death soon, just as Valerian hoped. Such bitterness. I will die in the same manner as his ancestors, stabbed in the back while the assassin smiles and whispers sweet words of devotion in my ear. Ha! Valerian, would you turn in your grave to know this was my fate, not that oversized griddle you conceived? Ha! When my murderer comes, and it will be soon, he will beg for confession. Then he will speak the truth of his visit and stick me with his sword. I know this because The Tears of Christ tell me it will come to pass. Perhaps I should keep them in my hand, and like Lazarus, rise from the dead to confront my killer. Ha! No. I am a man of God, not a warrior. If this is my fate, The Lord has decided it should be so. I admit that I would like to be free of the burden. I go now to meet our Lord at last. I know his arms are open in welcome. I forgive you, Faruq. I forgive you.”
“Who’s Faruq?”
“Probably the owner of the sword you’ve been fussing over.” Flint took the weapon from Kidd’s fingers and ran his eye along the characters engraved in the blade. “This says ‘Bringer of Truth’. A fancy name for a fancy sword.” He handed it back to Kidd and rustled through the pile of papers.
“The greatest of my followers is a Muslim by the name of Faruq... ha, how appropriate, for the name means ‘To find truth’! What cruel irony, as he was the only person I trusted. For while my brethren bicker about the injustices of the holy wars, these so-called ‘Crusades’ (the very name sickens me to my stomach), he stands at my side with a faith so flawless it makes me weep. Yet he bears no token as I do. What a marvel!”
Flint flicked through more journal entries. “There’s more, all similar. It seems this Faruq worked his way into Lawrence’s heart long before his blade worked its way into his back.”
Kidd cast Flint a wry glance. The sword weighed heavier in his hand. “The second bearer of The Tears is also dead, and another man had taken them for his own.”
“Then we’ve got problems. Half the Muslims that ever walked the earth have been named Faruq. That’s a long list of murder suspects.”
“We’re not quite empty handed yet.” Kidd thrust the sword into his belt. “This sword is extremely rare, and I suspect it has a story to tell about its former owner.”
Flint frowned. “What are you suggesting?”
“Not ‘what’,” answered Kidd, “but ‘where’. This sword is made from Damascus steel.”
Flint choked at the suggestion. “Are you suggesting we poke our noses into Ottoman territory? We’ll find no friends there.”
Kidd brushed the dust off Flint’s coat and straightened his lapels. “Then we’d best be careful.”
Flint wasn’t convinced. “The Ottoman Empire is a big place. Their armies have conquered half the world. Where the hell do you suppose we start?”
“In Syria, in the land where The Tears were created. We can travel straight across the Mediterranean and land at Beirut. How’s that for a plan?”
Flint’s frown deepened. “Terrible.”
“Good! Let’s go.”
Flint hobbled after him reluctantly. He paused at the entrance and rested his hand on a long lever set into the floor. “I think you’re a damned fool, William Kidd, but there’s no sense in sharing this with anyone else.” He pulled the lever and the mechanism controlling the stone door cranked into action, slowly dragging the slab shut. They stepped through and sealed Lawrence inside his tomb once more.
Kidd retrieved the scroll-key and replaced the cap. They climbed the staircase. Flint led the way, negotiating each step gingerly on his injured leg. At the top he fumbled with the trapdoor breathlessly. It remained closed.
“What’s wrong?”
A cough rattled in Flint’s chest. “Looks like we’re not going to Beirut after all,” he said. “That bastard has locked us in!”
~ Chapter 20 ~
DOUBLE-CROSSED
Some hours later, the trapdoor opened and light spilled down the narrow stair. Kidd and Flint hid behind a pillar near the entrance arch. The Caretaker had returned, but he wasn’t alone. At least a dozen men followed with bright curved swords in their hands. They were the same bearded Turks who had been watching from the shadows on the streets of Tunis.
“We’re running out of friends fast,” whispered Flint.
Kidd steadied himself. “I think you’re the only one I have left.”
Flint grunted. “Oh, lucky me!”
The Caretaker entered the hall with long confident strides. All traces of the timid man they had met before were gone. Most of the Turkish warriors followed, protecting his flank, apart from a handful that guarded the stairwell to prevent any chance of escape.
“I’ve got the one on the left,” said Flint. “The other eleven are yours.”
“Lay down your arms!” said The Caretaker in a strong voice.
Kidd finally recognised his accent now that he was speaking louder than a whisper. It was unquestionably French. He gripped the scroll-key firmly in both hands and stepped out from their hiding place. “Come any closer and I’ll break it in two.”
The Caretaker halted his men with a raised hand, and spread his arms wide as if he was greeting an old friend. “Now, let’s not do anything rash.” His smile was broad. “Perhaps we should discuss your somewhat vulnerable situation... Iron William Kidd.”
“You’re a popular man,” whispered Flint.
Kidd flexed his arms. “We haven’t been properly introduced. What business does a Frenchman have in Lawrence’s temple?”
The Caretaker’s smile vanished. “Lawrence had many disciples. His flock was carefully hand-picked from every part of the world. One was a Frenchman, an incurably-sick Frenchman. Lawrence took him inside the true temple and healed him. The man was so grateful for the miracle he swore to erect a church in France in Lawrence’s honour. Some years later he returned to Marseilles and fulfilled that promise. He lived a long and prosperous life, but never spoke of his time with Lawrence. However, at his deathbed confessional he told his priest about this temple, and how Lawrence was in possession of one of Christ’s artefacts. The priest’s loyalty to King Louis VIII was stronger than his desire to observe the sanctity of confessional. However, by the time the French envoy arrived, the door to the inner sanctum had been closed forever. Many Frenchmen died trying to open it. This complex is riddled with ingenious and deadly traps. We were forced to wait for the key to be discovered. At long last, it has been.” The Caretaker took several steps closer. “We will not bow to the Holy Roman Emperor, the weakling Pope, or that womanising cretin who claims to be the King of England. This weapon will go to France.”
Kidd cast him a wry glance. “The Tears of Christ is not a weapon.”
“Ah, but it is! The man who carries The Tears of Christ is blessed with immortality and divine powers. Such a man would be a formidable leader in the field of battle. His army would surely be invincible. François is the only King worthy of this prize.” The Caretaker motioned for his men to lower their weapons. “I know you have fallen from favour with King Henry, but François will grace you with his friendship, and fill your pockets with gold. I ask only that you give me the key in
return.”
Kidd gritted his teeth and gripped the scroll-case tighter. “And what if I decline?”
The Caretaker sighed. “That would be unfortunate. François will be insulted if you refuse his kind offer. He will have no choice but to extract what you know by force.”
Flint levelled his pistol at The Caretaker. “Are you threatening us with torture?”
The Caretaker took a deep breath and looked affronted. “Me? Oh, heavens no! I’m not so barbaric. François has some excellent torturers in Paris who will do a much better job.”
“Let me kill him now,” said Flint.
Kidd pushed his pistol aside. “We’re in no condition to fight, Tom.”
Flint restored his aim and fixed The Caretaker with a stony gaze. “Your life is mine.” He lifted his finger begrudgingly from the trigger and placed the pistol at his feet.
Kidd placed Faruq’s sword on the stone as if he were relinquishing his own weapon, hoping The Caretaker would not realise it came from Lawrence’s sanctum.
The Caretaker stooped to collect the sword and pistol. “You have chosen wisely.”
“Indeed.” Kidd gripped the scroll-case at each end and crushed it with all his strength. The bronze plates twisted and buckled, utterly destroying the papyrus within, and mangling the teeth of the key beyond repair. “Many men have tried to unlock the secrets in our minds. All have failed.” He cast the scraps aside.
The Caretaker’s face darkened. “Bind them, securely.”
The Turkish warriors stepped forward with blades at the ready and coils of strong silky line. When they spoke, Kidd realised they were not Turks at all, but Frenchmen. Their disguises were so good they might have been genuine members of the Turkish guard.
They were bound without mercy. Kidd couldn’t feel the cords around his wrists, but he could see they were tight. Flint’s hands quickly turned white and hung limp. His face had also turned a sickly shade of grey, and his thigh bandage glistened with fresh blood. He managed a wry grin and a wink while they trussed him like a roasting fowl.
They were hauled from the pagan temple under the cover of twilight. The French lit lanterns, closing their vents to a sliver to keep the light low. “Do not try anything foolish,” said The Caretaker. “I’ll have no qualms about executing you like dogs on the side of the road.” To reinforce the point, the guard holding Kidd drew his knife and pressed the tip into his kidneys. As hardened as he was to pain and torture, Kidd flinched as he felt the steel.
The people of Tunis deserted the Medina as night descended. Windows and doorways were alive with light and activity, but few lingered on the street for any length of time. The alleyways were dangerous enough in broad daylight. The few people they encountered retreated into the darkness, or gave them a wide berth.
The Caretaker led them to a windowless edifice on the fringe of the port. It had a solid wooden door reinforced with iron bands. He took out a key as long as his hand and opened the robust lock. It was a jail, no more than ten square feet, with a set of thick iron bars dividing the space in two. A pair of guards sat at a crude table playing dice under the soft light of a solitary lantern. Both wore old robes stained with dirt and grime. They hurried to their feet as the party arrived.
The Caretaker handed the guards Flint’s pistol and Faruq’s blade. “Take these or sell them if you wish. They should more than suffice for your wages.” The jail was opened and Flint and Kidd were thrown to the floor, still tightly bound. To guarantee there was no chance of escape, the guards attached ankle shackles, which were in turn bolted to the stone.
“If I soil myself, I won’t take any responsibility for cleaning up,” said Flint as the jail door was slammed shut, chained and locked.
The Caretaker edged close to the bars and grinned. “You will have plenty of time to soil yourself before, during, and after the torturers do their work. The French warship La Fortresse is due to arrive tomorrow morning, and will take you to France. It pleases me to know that I won’t have to suffer your stink while you rot in the brig. I’m sure you’ll soon regret keeping your secrets.”
Flint hissed. “I’ll whisper them into your ear just before I pull the trigger.”
Kidd wriggled into a sitting position. “Don’t let him get to you, Tom. I’ve no desire to go to France either, but arguing will only make matters worse.”
The Caretaker pulled a smug grin. “Indeed it will. I’ll leave you with that pleasant thought. Let me know if you have a change of heart.” He departed with his company of guards.
Hours passed and the evening grew late. Kidd eventually wore through the rope around his wrists by rubbing them against the stone. Escaping his bonds was considerably easier now that he didn’t have to worry about tearing his skin in the process. He cast the ropes aside and set to work releasing Flint. The guards were indifferent to this and continued their game of dice.
Once Flint’s hands were free, he rested his head on his arms and groaned softly. “I don’t suppose you have a drink of water? I’m awful thirsty.” Beads of sweat dotted his brow.
Kidd loosened the tourniquet and peeled the blood-caked fabric from Flint’s thigh. The wound had become foul and oozed unpleasant fluids. It was no wonder, given the filthy state of Flint’s clothing. “You should bathe more often and wash your clothes once in a while.”
Flint coughed. “I’m not royalty, in case you haven’t noticed. What other fool ideas have you developed?”
“It’s just some good advice from a man who saved my life once.” Flint cocked an eyebrow, but was too weak to debate the point. “Save your strength. I’ll think of a way to get us out of this.” Kidd replaced the dressing and sat back to consider their options. Short of trading every scrap of information with the French, he had little to bargain with, and even then, there were no guarantees they would be allowed to live.
As time passed, Flint’s condition deteriorated and fever set in. Kidd loosened his coat and shirt, but the delirium of the sickness took hold and fuelled sudden outbursts of raving. Kidd had to restrain him in case he came to harm. Sometimes the guards looked on with pity, and other times they openly laughed at Flint’s deranged behaviour as if it were some kind of theatrical show. Finally, Flint was exhausted, pale and weak. “Imagine, Will,” he whispered, “the King of England, chosen by God... immortal, invulnerable, and with the hands of a healer. Who wouldn’t follow such a man to the ends of the earth, and do such terrible things in his name as would make you weep?” The words hung on his lips.
“Tom, Henry is no longer our king. Don’t you remember?”
Flint smiled, closed his eyes and lay still.
Fatigue and frustration got the better of Kidd and he leapt to his feet, gripping the bars with a resonant clang as metal met metal. “My friend is ill,” he shouted to the sleepy guards. “You must bring a physician, or he’ll die!”
One guard looked up with heavy eyes and shrugged. He muttered something in what sounded like a mixture of French and Turkish to Kidd. His companion snorted a laugh and said something in reply. Either they couldn’t speak English, or they chose not to understand.
“How very like the French,” muttered Kidd. He cleared his throat and tried to remember how to make the same demand in their native tongue. He wasn’t fluent and chewed the words, but the guards seemed to understand. The older of the two men snapped an order to his companion and sent him scuttling out the door.
About half an hour later the guard returned with The Caretaker in tow. He had been roused from his sleep, as his eyes were red and raw. “What is the sudden emergency?”
“My friend’s wound has become toxic.”
The Caretaker yawned. “Is that all? Why should I care if he lives or dies? Both of you have been inside Lawrence’s temple, but I only need one of you to tell me what you discovered there. Whether you tell me willingly or not, I assure you, Iron William Kidd, you will tell me all the same. Our torturers are proficient in their art.”
Kidd glanced down at Flint, shivering
on the cold stone. He would not last the night if his condition grew worse. “If you bring my friend a physician, I will tell you what I know.”
The Caretaker considered Kidd’s proposal. “Very well.”
Kidd took the measure of his opponent. The Caretaker seemed to know a lot about Lawrence and The Tears, and he was no fool. The best hope they had of living was to tell him enough of the truth to gain his interest. “Lawrence was assassinated by one of his followers, a Turk named Faruq. As far as we could determine, Faruq took The Tears and fled to the Ottoman Empire.”
The Caretaker stared at him evenly. “You have my attention. Continue your account.”
“That’s as much as we know.” Kidd rattled the door in frustration. “Is that sufficient?”
The Caretaker nodded. “For now. We have heard stories of a Muslim named Faruq who was close to Lawrence.”
“Then please send for a physician!”
“No.” The Caretaker gathered his robes. “I believe you have told me the truth, and therefore you probably know much more. One man is much easier to handle than two. You shall come alone to France where you can elaborate on this information.” He smiled cruelly, wrapped his scarf over his face and turned to leave.
Kidd thumped the bars with his fists, startling the guards with the intensity of his rage. It was enough to regain The Caretaker’s attention too. “If my friend dies, you will be next.”
The Caretaker snorted. “A hollow threat from a man who has nothing left to barter. I suggest you save your words for your friend. They will probably be the last sounds he hears.” He shook his head with mock pity and departed.
Iron William and the Carpenter's Tears Page 14
