by J A Deriu
They sneaked for a number of streets. The assertiveness of Gaspar’s response kept the others, Odo and Hoston, quiet. Amblard preferred to say little, so he abided by the leader’s wishes without complaint.
Gaspar put up his hand for them to stop. They had come to a town court with the blackened outline of large buildings around its edges. He angled his hand toward a church, which could be made out by the shape of its steeple. “We need to go in there.”
“Strange time for prayer,” Odo quipped.
“It will be locked for the night,” Hoston added.
Gaspar faced them. “It will be, but that won’t deter us.” He darted across the court.
Odo and Hoston looked at one another, shrugged, and followed. Jack ran after them, and Amblard was behind him.
Gaspar was trying the doors, but they would not move.
“No chance that would be open,” Odo offered. “The priest would be thrown into prison if he allowed his flock to pray whenever they wanted.”
“And we will be hung from the steeple if we are seen,” Hoston said in an expressionless way.
“Stay calm. Be wolves,” Gaspar instructed. “It will be worth it.”
“Look, there is a window ajar,” Amblard said. He had stepped back to inspect the building.
“You have good eyes,” Odo said. “I can’t see my hand in front of my face.”
“I’d swear I was still sleeping,” Hoston said, “and this is a strange dream that has no real meaning.”
“Jack you are the most agile – scurry up there, get inside, and unlock the door,” Gaspar said.
“He will need someone’s shoulders to get that high,” Odo informed them.
Gaspar poked the cook’s shoulder. “That would be you. You are the sturdiest – or fattest, if I am to apply your own humor.” He angled Odo to the window that Amblard had spotted and nudged him toward it. “Be quick. We have a lot to do.”
Odo, with a playful smile, signaled for Jack to follow him.
He easily hoisted Jack onto his broad shoulders so that Jack could push at the window to see if it would open farther. It edged inward with stiff resistance. It was evidently very old – that was probably why it was not shut properly. He opened it wide enough so that he could stick his head in. There was deathly silence inside, and the only light was a yellow flicker from far away. Odo lifted him higher, and he was able to pull himself through the opening using his back to shove the window enough so that he could fit through. He angled himself, held the ledge, and dropped himself onto the stone floor. He scampered to the door and was able to see enough from the moonlight coming through the tall, narrow windows to pull the door bolt open so that the others could come inside.
All of them looked at Gaspar, who walked purposefully to the front of the church. It was a simple church, nothing like what Jack had seen in his trip across the harbor. The pews were time-worn wood, and there was nothing to look at except a plain wooden cross standing behind the bare altar with two thick candles winking the yellow light at its flanks. Gaspar stopped in front of the altar and turned to face them. “Sit down.” He pointed to the front pew.
The four of them sat down. Gaspar remained standing. He took on his pose of command, and his confident outline was gray against the moonlight. He kept his voice low, but it was distinct in the cavernlike church. “We have had enough adventures together that this time has come – I mean to say this to young Jack.” He looked and nodded toward Jack. “This must be done on holy ground, and that is why we have made this outing. It can be said that only a master of the order should do this, but there is not one within reach, and we have to do something to properly welcome you to our band.” He unbuttoned his shirt to show that he was wearing his Templar tunic underneath.
“Ah, you should have said,” Odo stated, “and I would have worn mine.”
Gaspar gestured to Odo to be quiet and finished taking off his shirt, which he put down on the altar. “Jack, you have been named as Landry. This is your Templar name. For a time, you will be both Jack and Landry. Then, like the rest of us, your past name will be forgotten, and you will only have your Templar name. It is time you were formally initiated as a Templar. I would like to say some words for this.”
Jack dipped his head, and the others were unusually silent, except for Amblard, who was as quiet as he always was.
“The question an initiate asks,” Gaspar continued, “is why is an order dedicated to the teachings of the Lord is one that trains as fighters. In answer a Templar will see that the Lord spoke as a warrior with the words of a general for the fighting of spiritual battles. A Templar will read Matthew and see the words ‘Think not that I come to spread peace on earth – I come not to spread peace, but a sword.’ You will learn, Landry, that the story of a Templar has the full sweep of life. His heroism fighting his cowardice. Self-denial and generosity battling self-indulgence and greed. His intelligence against his stupidity. His spirit at war with his failings. The desire to adhere to oaths and the desire to betray them. This is the life of a Templar. There will be many enemies, but the greatest by far will be inside. Come forward, Landry, and kneel in front of the cross.” Jack stood and knelt. “Sadly, we don’t have a spare tunic for you, and no one is making them around here.”
The others had followed, and they placed their hands on his shoulders. Gaspar placed his hand firmly on Jack’s head. “Landry, repeat these words after me. In the name of the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Ghost.” Jack repeated. “I pledge myself to the Holy Order of the Temple of Solomon. I declare freely an oath of obedience, poverty, and piety. I will be prepared for battle in the temporal and spiritual realms. To prepare I will care for my mind, body, and soul and have no care for worldly goods. I will maintain unrelenting war against the enemies of Christendom. I will never retreat and always defend my brothers. I will show pity and defend the weak. I will champion good against the forces of evil. Glory be to the Father, and to the Son, and to the Holy Ghost.” Jack finished repeating the words. He felt the hands tighten and then release him. His body swayed. His breathing was difficult, and his heartbeats pounded.
Chapter Nineteen
She could not understand what was being spoken, but it was clear that it was to do with the war yet to be fought. It was an excited chatter about all the strange men marching through their lands and the breath of freedom that followed them. A distant shah would be replaced with a native queen. Rumors and omens, good and bad, were being discussed. This was the promise of war.
Her clothes were loose. She had dressed to look like a man. She moved through the sprawl of the merchant camp like a casual trader. The cotton tagelmust was pulled to cover her face. The camp spread across several dunes and had a watering hole with desert trees in the middle. The merchants and travelers were setting up tents and cooking dinner, excited but wary of the war to come. Their carts and elaborate emporia lay idle. She was confident that she had the right place but could not be sure. The message had been garbled.
She had Pedro on one flank and Greta on the other, who looked more like a man than she. They would not let her come alone, although that is what she would have preferred. There was one more that tagged far behind as they moved through the camp. That was Captain Miles. He did not have his head covered at all and moved with the confidence of one of the locals. There was no way that she could not tell him of the mission. And there was no way that he would not insist that he be part of it.
She would not be missed from the camp. The Templars were moving like a Roman legion, mostly marching on foot during the day, with a long supply train at its tail, and digging in at night. Fulke the Bear with his thunderous voice, was perfect for rousing the camp and driving the Templars under the sweaty sun.
Three days ago, a boy had come to the camp. He was thought to be from among the swarm of followers who tracked them like flies to sell their goods. But this one had a message. It was from Frank Paulus and led them
to the desert market. They had driven for two days on motorbikes, two to a bike, typical of Templars. Clavdia paired with Miles, and Greta and Pedro were together. They had camped at night and hidden the motorbikes a day ago. Miles was concerned to preserve enough fuel to get back to the camp. She was concerned that there would be five of them on the return and only four to the rides.
She pulled the head covering tighter over her face and checked over her shoulder that Miles was there. He had paused to look at the face of a camel, studied it for a moment, and then refocused.
She calculated every move. She would leave nothing to chance, even though she was certain that there was a hand guiding her. The dusk camp was lit by subdued torches, which left most of the stretches between campfires dark. They passed a large Bedouin camp and its exotic smells. She felt the pistol and then the dagger hidden under her desert cloak. She scanned the surrounds for some clue to where he could be. It was much larger than she expected. They had passed at least one hundred camps and tents. Across the low hills was a town, which complicated the search. Could he be there? She stopped and put her hands on her hips. Perhaps it was not the best strategy to wander through the camp aimlessly.
A beggar stuck a skeletal cupped hand in front of her. She gently pushed it aside, touching the deathly skin. “Lord Commander, you would be generous.” The voice of the beggar was more breathed than spoken, only loud enough for her to hear. He was hunched, covered in a hood and a dirt-colored robe that dragged on the ground. “I am Aldous of the Brotherhood. Your man is here.”
She grabbed him by the slack of his robe and scowled as if to scold him for his beggarly persistence. “Talk. I am listening.”
“He is being held by agents of the enemy.”
“And the Brotherhood? How is this?”
“He was captured. There was an ambush.”
“Why have you not freed him?”
“The others have daggers in the back. There is only me, and I am an old man.”
Clavdia maneuvered him so that she could see his face in the flicker of a torch. He had an ancient face, a nose like a beak, and coal-black button eyes. “Where is he then?”
“The tent of a merchant. It is the largest tent on the outskirts of the camp. On the side that is away from the town. The color of the merchant is scarlet.” She looked at him for a long time and tried to see something in his time-worn eyes. “You should go. They will be cruel with him.”
“You lead the way, Aldous.”
The others had seen the contact. Miles watched with his hand inside his jacket. He was feeling his pistol. She nodded for him to ease. Aldous moved with a limp. It was a hike to the end of the camp, and when they reached it, he sat on the ground. “I can’t be any more use for you. I won’t be any good for the next part.”
Clavdia crouched and looked at the scarlet tent. It was larger than any she had seen, except for a circus. Miles crouched next to her. “Is he in there? It looks guarded.” It was dark except for some torches that were lit at the canopy entrance. Three men sat nearby pretending to be casual but with the stiffness of guard duty.
“The old man from the Brotherhood says that he is, but he is held by agents of the Persians. We will have to go in with force.”
“Damn, the entrance looks tough.”
“It’s a tent. Who says you must enter through the entrance?”
Miles looked at the old man, who sat with his head down, and panted. “I don’t trust him. How do we know it’s not a trap? Our enemies have shown that they intend to attack at our leader. A trap like this would be in their thinking.”
“We have no other information. I have no choice. I can’t leave him in this trouble. Besides, his information is important to the campaign. We are going to need every edge we can get.”
“Then, I will go in with the other two.”
She frowned but then smiled. “We will do this together. Now ready your dagger. We will go to the rear and cut our way in.”
He touched her arm. “All right, Lord Commander, we will. But, when we go in, let me tell you, I am not one for sneaking. I will be throwing punches and lashing kicks at whoever is in there.”
“I agree. Let’s make this quick.”
They conferred with the others, left the old man hunched, and scampered in the darkness to the rear of the large tent.
Miles put his ear to the canvas and listened for noise from the other side. He wore the grim tension on his face of a professional. He stabbed his dagger into the material and tore down with soundless care. He used his shoulder to widen the gap and stepped through. She followed with Pedro and Greta behind her. They all had pistols in one hand and Templar daggers in the other. Inside the tent thick carpets covered the ground, and draping acted as walls. Miles was ahead and had already looked through a gap in the material. “Look at that. By the head of Saint Euphemia, your man is here without a doubt!” She kneeled next to him to see what he was looking at. Through the gap she could see a man tied by his feet, hanging upside down with his chest bare.
Clavdia tilted her head to have a better view of him. “That is him,” she whispered to Miles. Frank’s chest and arms were lean, with only muscles on his bones. His hair brushed the ground. He swayed like a hooked side of beef. She could see another four men in the room. They were all clad in black. Only their faces and dark beards showed. They were sitting cross legged in a group, without any attention for the hanging Frank. She turned and huddled with the Templars. “Don’t use your guns. It will attract others. This is going to be an old-fashioned fistfight.” She discerned the inkling of a smile on Mile’s face and seriousness from Greta and Pedro.
Clavdia checked through the gap and could see that weapons sat beside the men, long-barreled pistols that shot like small cannons and curved swords. She thought about shooting for a moment, but if they were quick enough, they could keep the men from their weapons. They whispered their plans.
Pedro flung open the flap. Greta had her boot into the back of one of the men before they had moved. The crack of a bone broke the quiet. Miles had the neck of another and thumped the handle of his dagger hard into the head. Clavdia landed her boot under the chin of the third as he moved to stand. His head snapped back. That left one to reach for his weapon. Clavdia caught him with a tight fist, enough to push him askew and away from the weapon. She moved to be over his body. Pedro joined the fight. He slashed one of the fallen men with his knife, stood over another, and waited for movement.
A flap into the tent dropped open. More men than Clavdia could count stood and regarded the scene. Pedro gulped.
“Weapons!” Clavdia called and had her pistol in her hand. Miles was on a knee and fired into the crowd. Cries were heard and bodies flung backward. Greta smacked the man whom she was holding to the ground and aimed her gun. The area was overwhelmed with sharp cracks and whorls of gun smoke. Clavdia could see that the new men were either fallen or ducked, but there were still more than she could count. She pulled her dagger, ran to Frank, and cut the rope at his feet. His head hit the ground. She did not have the time for care. She could not tell if he was conscious or not. “Pedro, take him,” she ordered while aiming and firing her pistol at the first movement she saw across the room. A bullet flew past her shoulder. They had extinguished all light on the enemy side. A spark was seen, and another bullet flew.
Miles stepped in front of her and fired into the dark. Pedro picked up the body of Frank and slung it over his wide shoulder. They moved for the main opening while Miles covered. Clavdia smashed the lamp into the ground, and the oil with flames spilled across the carpets. Outside, Greta fired at whatever moved and hit a dog and a man.
Angry screams came from behind as they ran for the dunes. Miles stopped on the rise, turned, aimed, and fired at the tent, using the flat wrist of his spare arm to steady the pistol. He grimaced a smirk at Clavdia. “That went to plan, Lord Commander.”
“Mostl
y,” she answered and uncomfortably laughed.
They stopped to rest and drink from their canteens after crossing three dunes and being out of sight of the camp. “There is no chase,” Miles said.
“I shot their dog,” Greta offered.
“How is he?” Clavdia asked, looking at Pedro and Frank.
“He’s heavy.” Pedro smiled. “And breathing. He even had something to say.”
Clavdia moved to cut his remaining ropes. “He needs food and water. What do you have? What did he say?”
“I have corn fritters,” Pedro replied. He pulled packets from his trouser-leg pockets. “He said that he was grateful we came.”
They hastened across the arid lands. Frank was able to walk and improved as they moved. The motorbikes were where they had hidden them in a dilapidated and sand-covered shack. Miles readied them for riding.
Clavdia sat on the top of a dune and waited for the dawn. Frank had his face washed and wore a clean shirt found in the supply pack. “I was hoping your mission would be less dramatic.”
He sat next to her. “It’s done now. I don’t know who they were. I met with the Brotherhood as planned. I managed to send the Bedouin boy to tell you where I was. The meeting was interrupted. There was violence. I was taken. My head was covered. I was hung upside down. They barely questioned me. The language was different. They seemed to be of a low rank.”
“Hmm. They were waiting for someone.”
“Possibly. It felt like that.”
“What about your meeting with the Brotherhood?” The first glint of the sun came over the horizon and gold-browned the barren landscape.
“It was dark. They wore hoods. They did not show their faces. They never do. But they gave me the information they wanted to.”
“Is it something we can use?”
“They said that the shah is coming to lead the army.”
“What? How can they possibly know this?”
“They operate in the shadows, finding secrets is their skill. They have survived for so long in this way. This would be the type of secret that would fall into their web.”
