The Hidden Keystone, page 20
“Achambaud, hold this for me.” Hugues handed his candle to Achambaud and dropped his mace.
“What are you doing?” Godefroi demanded.
“Testing a theory.” Hugues crouched before the empty cavity closest to the ground on his left and felt inside. Wax coated the rough rock. He probed the back wall and detected a spot where the wax had crumbled away. Instead of rock, his fingertip brushed against a metal disk. Hugues pushed the disk and was rewarded with the grinding rasp of stone on metal.
“What was that?” Godefroi demanded.
“The tenth sphere of God,” Hugues explained, unable to contain his delight. “What the ancient practitioners of the Kabbalah called Malkuth. It symbolises the physical world our bodies inhabit.”
Hugues moved to the second empty hole in the column on his right. Knowing what to look for this time, he quickly located the disk and pushed. The rasp of metal was followed by a thud as something heavy fell into place. He stood and grinned at the two warriors. “The ninth sphere of Yesod, the reasoning and ingenuity that lies within all of us.”
“Hugues, are you sure you know what you’re doing?” Achambaud asked.
He nodded. “Yes, I believe so. This is a puzzle only someone familiar with the five sacred points could solve.”
The empty cavity at the top left was shoulder-height. Hugues stood on his tiptoes to reach the disk. The hiss of sand falling whispered through the scriptorium. “The eighth sphere of Hod, the sovereign reason that sets us apart from all other creatures.”
Hugues moved across to the top right cavity and stretched to reach the disk. No sound emanated from the far side of the wall this time. “The seventh sphere of Netzach, the empathy and compassion of brotherhood.”
“Stop,” Godefroi commanded.
Hugues turned to face Godefroi. “What’s wrong? We’ve found the path. We—”
“It knows we’re here.” Godefroi pointed with the tip of his sword towards the wall. The faintest suggestion of a tremor quivered through his blade.
Hugues had already deduced someone had preceded them from the broken wax seals. “It? What are you referring to?”
“I’m not sure,” Godefroi said in obvious confusion. “I can feel it…tugging at me.”
“Tugging?” Hugues repeated carefully. “Does it feel like you’re being pulled from within, almost like a soft hook caught in your innards?”
“Exactly. I can feel the…a pull, where the star touched me at the Anastasis.” Godefroi indicated his groin, the place where the mystic energy of Malkuth resided. It was all the confirmation Hugues needed.
“Messire, we must discover what lies beyond this wall.” Hugues clasped his bare hands together. “This is why we’ve travelled so far. Don’t falter now, not on the very threshold of success.”
Godefroi hesitated, clearly torn. “You don’t understand. It knows me…whatever it is.”
“Yes,” Hugues cried. “All of us have felt this, each in our way. It’s a form of recognition, a way of—”
Achambaud stepped forward, dropped his torch on the stone floor and using the butt of his spear, rammed it into the last cavity. A shriek of metal tore through the scriptorium, the wall shook, and the corpse of the cleric fell onto his face.
The bottom section of the wall swung outwards to reveal a narrow crawl space that angled down into the darkness. Cold, musty air flowed into the chamber.
CHAPTER 30
18 July 1099
The fortress of Alamut
The wind gusted up the steep slope that guarded the approach to the fortress of Alamut, it whistled through battlements, and tugged at the turbans of sentries. The stronghold was an extension of the peak of Aluh Amut, not an addition. Defensive towers rose from natural rock spurs and the walls followed the spine of the ridge, forming a long, narrow fortress. It made sense then, for the Imam of Alamut to become known as the Old Man of the Mountain, for he was indeed old, far older than any could have imagined.
The Imam sat cross-legged at the top of his tower. Eyes closed, head bowed, his breathing was slow as his thoughts ranged far beyond his body. Apart from the wind whipping his grey hair and tugging incessantly at his robes, he could easily be mistaken for stone. The Imam seemed part of the mountain: timeless, immovable, and unyielding.
A pigeon battled to control its descent towards the battlements. The Old Man opened hazel-coloured eyes flecked with green. They were a source of speculation among his neophytes, so unlike their own dark brown eyes. While the path to Alamut was harsh, and demanded determination and courage, none of them had been brave enough to ask the Imam about his origins.
The Old Man watched the pigeon’s struggles with stony-faced dispassion. The bird was clearly exhausted. Each beat of its wings was slow and laboured, and the incessant wind tossed it carelessly. Having gained sufficient altitude, the bird folded its wings and plummeted towards its loft, only pulling out of the dive at the last possible moment. It landed heavily on its perch next to the dovecote, wings flaring to control its balance.
The pigeon keepers rushed out of their small enclosure, each eager to claim the honour of bringing the Old Man news. The fastest—a beardless youth with wavy black hair—clutched the bird to his chest. Fending off the other boys with his elbows, he hunched over his prize.
The Old Man lost interest in the squabble and his gaze shifted to the flat plateau of Qazvin, intent upon what lay beyond the horizon to the west. Alamut was isolated, a stronghold in every sense of the word. Its solitary nature suited the Imam, although he knew that events in the world could touch him, even here.
Soon it would be time to make his presence felt. With the threat of the Franj thundering through the Caliphates of Baghdad and Cairo, the region would be in a panic. And confusion created opportunities.
The boy had managed to strip the carrier pigeon of its message. Even now, he dashed through the long, narrow courtyard towards the Old Man’s private tower. First, he would have to navigate the lush hanging gardens that wooed initiates. The paths were deliberately circuitous and crowded with dangling vines. They would slow the boy down.
The Imam rose and stretched, thrusting his hips forward and pulling his spine back. A man of his long years should not move so freely, although he had learned to command his physical shell long ago.
He clambered down the wooden ladder that provided access to his eyrie. With each step, the pace of his heart increased. He savoured the dry taste of anticipation in his mouth.
A staircase carved from natural rock descended into the main body of the tower. While thick carpets adorned parts of the fortress to cushion against the harsh winter, the Imam spurned such comforts.
The stairs opened onto a circular landing that formed the Imam’s private chamber. A hearth gaped in the wall to his right and small fissures in the rock allowed the smoke to escape. A sleeping pallet had been placed close to the fire, little more than a bundle of lamb skins on a straw mattress.
His only possession that could be considered opulent was a faded blue kilim. Woven into the dyed wool in silver thread was a five-pointed star. The beams of sunlight that squeezed through arrow slits glittered across the design.
The Imam descended a second staircase to the bottom of his tower. Here, more familiar items associated with the status of emirs were in evidence: sumptuous cushions covered in bright silks, a rare porcelain jug with six matching cups for chai, and a delicate hookah of purple glass. Cracked leather spines of manuscripts surrounded the chamber. They were written in a multitude of languages: Ancient Greek, Phoenician, Hebrew, Latin and Arabic. The smell of old hashish lingered in the air.
A tentative knock sounded at the door. The Imam removed the thick beam that barred the entrance and pulled on the iron ring. The hinges groaned under the weight of the heavy timber frame banded with iron.
The young pigeon keeper stood in the doorway clutching a tiny cylinder of wax. His expression was impassive, although the subtle shift of his weight from foot to foot betrayed his nervousness. The Old Man held out his hand wordlessly. The boy handed him the message, his eyes downcast.
A gash marred the wax cap that sealed the tiny cylinder. The Imam held it up, showing the boy the damage. “Did you open this?” His voice was soft, at odds with his weathered visage.
The boy’s face paled and his knees buckled for a moment. “No, honoured master. I brought the message to you as soon as it was received. Perhaps…perhaps it was already damaged?”
The Imam searched the boy’s face for a hint of deception. He seemed honest. Certainly, he was terrified, as he should be. The Old Man was pleased at the composure in one so young, but he didn’t let it show. “Tell me your name.”
The boy blanched further, pale enough to number among the Franj. Everyone in Alamut knew the Old Man only asked your name if he had a task for you.
“W—Wasim,” the boy stuttered.
The Imam nodded. “Wasim, you will return to the Keeper of the Dovecote and inform him that you must retire from your duties. You will then obtain weapons that best suit your skills from the Master of the Armoury. Finally, you will travel to the home of Raknud ibn-Dawala in Aleppo. When you find him, you will ask him whether the seal was damaged when he sent this message. If it was, you will take his life and return here. If it was not, and you are satisfied that he speaks the truth, you will go to the nearest mosque and kill the Imam during morning prayers. Be sure not to let them take you alive. Do you understand?”
Wasim’s eyes widened. He bowed low from the waist.
“Now go.” The Imam slammed the door.
Incompetence could not be tolerated, not even among his lowliest servants.
The wax cylinder rolled around the leathery palm of his hand. It was possible the pigeon had been intercepted, but unlikely. He removed the wax cap with his fingernail and upended the cylinder to release the tiny scroll. The message contained only three words, but they were enough to upset the balance that had held for so long: Jerusalem taken. Instructions?
A rare smile split the Imam’s face. He began composing a mental list of nobles to be killed to destabilise the region, starting with the powerful Sunni centres of Damascus and Aleppo. These names would be sent to a variety of devotees scattered across the countryside. However, the most important list could only be entrusted to one of his brethren.
Taking a scrap of papyrus, quill and ink, the Old Man wrote the first, and most important, list: ālim Sharif—āl-Aqsa. The Qādī, the Seer, the Alchemyst and the Physick— Khirbet Qumran.
He blew across the ink, his dry breath sealing the death warrants.
Given time, patience and discipline, anything can be accomplished. This the Old Man knew from personal experience. Soon, the entire Holy Land would grovel beneath the heel of Severity.
CHAPTER 31
19 October 1307
The outskirts of Fontette
Night was falling when Bertrand, Salome and Rémi reached the outskirts of Justine’s estate.
The day had remained cold and only drizzled for short spells, rather than the driving rain from the previous day. Bertrand’s fever had worsened despite the milder weather. His legs were as stiff as wooden stumps and his balance had become increasingly unreliable. Often, he was forced to stop, hands-on-knees, as he coughed uncontrollably. Chills shivered through his flesh, followed by bouts of heat that left him slick with sweat.
Salome had insisted they approach Justine’s chateau undetected, so Rémi had led them in a wide arc that kept them inside the tree line. As the day wore on, Bertrand recognised familiar landmarks: he stumbled up a particularly steep gully that was home to a rushing brook. In the distance, he caught sight of a knoll, bare of trees and crowned with a crumbling pile of old stones.
Dropping his head, he plodded after Rémi.
Bertrand’s feelings about returning to Justine’s estate varied as wildly as his temperature. On the one hand, it was a relief to be returning to a place where they could claim shelter and some measure of protection. Yet this was not how he had visualised his reunion with Justine. In his imagination, Bertrand had returned at the head of a Templar caravan, dressed in the full array of a chevalier, perhaps recently returned from a successful campaign in the Holy Land. Instead, they were creeping through the night, spattered in mud and little better than beggars.
“Don’t fight the convulsions.” Salome slipped her arm around his waist. Using her palm, she rubbed tight circles into his back. The pressure in Bertrand’s chest loosened and he spat out vile gobs of mucus.
Straightening, he wiped his mouth and glanced sideways at Salome. Was she regretting her choice of Shroud? Was she inwardly cursing at being saddled with such a weakling? If so, she kept it from her face.
They stopped at the top of a rise in a stand of poplars where a chill breeze wended through the trunks. Rémi searched the terrain for possible threats. “Almost there, cub.”
“I know,” Bertrand replied in a hoarse voice. He swayed on his feet and Salome steadied him. He hated this weakness. Roard would not have succumbed to a fever. The big chevalier would have led them through the forest without hesitation.
Salome turned Bertrand’s face so she could stare into his eyes. Her fingers were warm upon his cheek. “Strength isn’t measured by what befalls us, only by how we respond.”
Bertrand nodded wearily.
After a moment, Rémi cleared his throat. “It’s mostly flat the rest of the way. The trees thin out into fields on the other side of this ridge. There’ll be no getting inside the walls without an invitation.”
“No one must know we’re here,” Salome replied. “It’s too dangerous.”
“Well, you won’t get to her ladyship without trusting someone.” Rémi dropped Bertrand’s hauberk and their supplies onto the ground, and rolled his broad shoulders in relief.
“Do you have someone in mind?” Salome asked.
“Huon.” Bertrand leaned against a tree. All he wanted to do was lie down and sleep, which was not a good sign.
“Who?” Salome asked.
“Her ladyship’s gamekeeper,” Rémi replied. “Once the Baron decided to send Bertrand to the Commanderie, he wrote her ladyship a note of farewell. I delivered it to Huon, who passed it on.”
“So we can rely on this man,” Salome said. “Is that what you’re saying?” Her arm around Bertrand’s waist tightened protectively.
“He’s our best option. Bertrand needs a roof and a fire.”
Salome slipped Bertrand’s arm over her shoulder and pulled him upright. “You’re right. We must get him warm and dry as soon as possible.”
“Huon it is.” Rémi led them downhill, through the tree line and across a barren field. Reaching level ground, Rémi folded up Bertrand’s hauberk and hid it in the long grass. “I’ll retrieve it later,” he muttered.
Nudging Salome aside, Rémi looped Bertrand’s arm over his shoulders. “Not far now, cub.”
Justine’s chateau was a block of shadow to the west, a handful of torches fluttering along the parapet. The moat glinted around the foundations and Bertrand could just make out the main gate in the face of the east wall. The drawbridge was down and the glow from braziers was visible through the heavy iron portcullis.
Was Justine feasting with her household? Had she reconciled with his father, or been forced to remarry? As capable and experienced as she was, her land would be safer with a strong lord to rule it.
A pang of regret pierced Bertrand. If the fates had been kinder, that lord might have been him.
“Steady.” Rémi glanced towards the chateau. “Don’t worry. Her ladyship will see you when she’s able.”
A humble cottage squatted at the edge of the field. Candlelight gleamed through gaps in the doorframe and dogs barked at their approach. Thankfully, the hounds were leashed, as they didn’t come bounding out of the gloom. Rémi half-dragged Bertrand to the doorstep and handed him back to Salome. He banged on the door.
“Who’s there?” a deep voice called.
“Huon, you miserable cur,” Rémi replied. “Open the damn door. It’s freezing out here and his lordship has need of your hearth.”
“Rémi?” A note of disbelief quavered in the man’s voice.
“The door, Huon.”
“You can’t be Rémi. He joined a Commanderie in Brienne.”
“Things change,” Rémi replied. “Are you going to open up, or am I kicking your door in?”
A bolt rasped in its sheath and the door swung outwards, spilling warmth and light into the frigid night. Bertrand coughed violently, and his body shook as he doubled over.
“Who’s that with you?” Huon’s narrow face peered at them from the doorway. The gamekeeper was as tall as Bertrand but heavier through the waist. He wore a thick woollen tunic, brown in colour, with grey hose. A rush of relief surged through Bertrand at the familiar face.
They were among friends at last.
“Master Bertrand and a servant,” Rémi replied. “Quickly, man! The cub’s half-frozen to death and he’s got the shakes.” Rémi pushed past Huon who was too astonished to protest. Salome followed them inside, head down and face covered by her hood.
Bertrand offered a muttered thanks but found his voice had deserted him. The warmth from the fire was a relief. He just wanted to sink down before it, as close to the flames as possible. Huon’s wife hushed their four inquisitive children. Despite knowing Bertrand and Rémi, she appeared nervous at their sudden arrival.
Salome settled Bertrand in front of the hearth. Dry rushes covered the dirt floor and Huon possessed only a few pieces of furniture: a low wooden bench, a few seats carved from broad tree trunks and softened with rough pillows stuffed with wool. A cabinet on the far side of the hearth contained a mortar and pestle and a handful of rough pots.
