‘Can you repeat those lines to me in Persian?’
‘In Farsi. Yes. Of course.’ She spoke for a little in a language that Hart neither recognized nor understood.
Hart watched her face as she recited the halting sequence of verses. From time to time she would pause to think, her eyes fixed upon him. Then she would smile and continue again as the words returned to her. She seemed at the same time ‘other’ to him and yet somehow familiar, as if he and she formed two separate sides of the same coin – nominally different, yet inextricably linked.
When she was finished, Hart steepled his hands and inclined his head. He smiled for the first time since the bomb attack. ‘Thank you. That was beautiful.’
‘Now you tell me. . .’ she began.
‘Wait.’ Hart held up one hand. He knew exactly what she was about to ask him. It would be about the apparatus they had seen in the attic. What it was. What its purpose had been. Hart needed to deflect her from any such questions.
‘Before you say anything, I have something to show you. Something very special.’ He reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and took out a glassine envelope. ‘I want you to look at this. It is dated the winter of 1198. More than eight hundred years ago. It was written by Johannes von Hartelius, a former Knight Templar, on the very day of his execution for treason. I carry it with me wherever I go.’
Nalan frowned at him. ‘Why are you showing me this now?’
‘I don’t know.’ Hart’s neck was stiffening up after the roof fall, and he tried to ease it. He was acutely aware of the white lie he was about to promulgate. Of its bullshit quotient. But there were times in life when displacement activity was needed. ‘Because it bothers me, I suppose. Because I don’t understand it. Because the past matters. And because we are sitting here in this abandoned tank, in a suburb of As Sulaymaniyah, with no idea whether we are to live or die.’
Nalan bowed her head to indicate that she understood, and even sympathized with, his motives. That she was happy to accord him her time if he felt he needed it. ‘Who is the man who wrote this?’
Hart let out an inaudible sigh of relief. ‘My paternal grandfather – only twenty or so generations back. I had no idea that I was related to this man until events a year ago proved that he was my direct forebear. At first I understood him to be a hero – the hereditary Guardian of the Holy Lance.’
‘The Holy Lance?’
‘The spear that was used to puncture Jesus’s side on the cross.’
‘Ah yes. I know of this thing.’
‘Then I found a letter hidden inside the gilt sheath that surrounds the Holy Lance, and my certainties vanished. A letter written nearly a thousand years ago. My ancestor wasn’t a hero, it transpired – he was a villain.’
‘You have the Holy Lance in your possession? The true Holy Lance?’
‘Yes. It came into my possession through my father. A friend is now holding it for me.’
‘This is incredible. People would kill to have this.’
‘They have already done so. An extreme right-wing party in Germany killed my father, his lover and their driver. Others died too. The thing is jinxed. But it has enormous symbolical value. Adolf Hitler was obsessed by it.’
‘I am sorry, John. I am sorry for your father and his people.’
‘Thank you. But the bitter truth is that I hadn’t spoken to him since I was five years old. I can’t pretend that we were close.’
‘How can you be sure this is the true Holy Lance?’
‘The letter I found inside proves beyond a doubt that this is the real spearhead – the one carried on the Third Crusade by Frederick Barbarossa – and not one of Adolf Hitler’s fakes that he got up to fool the Americans.’
‘What does the letter say?’
‘It’s written in old German. I had it translated. I’ve read it so many times that I know the text by heart. It reads: “I, Johannes von Hartelius, Baron Sanct Quirinus, hereditary Guardian of the Holy Lance, lawful husband of Adelaïde von Kronach, lawful father of Grimwald, Paulina, Agathe and Ingrid von Hartelius, former Knight Templar, exonerated from his vows of chastity and obedience by Frederick VI of Swabia, youngest son of the Holy Roman Emperor, Frederick Barbarossa, acting lawfully in the name of his brother, Henry VI Staufen, do dictate this letter on the day of my execution, to be placed inside the Holy Lance as a warning to all those who may come after me. Swayed by my unlawful love for Elfriede von Hohenstaufen, former lawful sister of the king and former intended wife of Margrave Adalfuns von Drachenhertz, military governor of Carinthia, I turned against my king and misused the Holy Lance which had been placed in my care. In doing this I refused to heed Horace’s warning, passed down to me with the guardianship of the Lance: Vir bonus est quis? Qui consulta patrum, qui leges iuraque servat – ‘He is truly a good man who observes the decree of his rulers and the laws and rights of his fellow citizens.’ Instead, I purposefully misunderstood the words Catullus handed down to all unvirtuous men: Mulier cupido quod dicit amanti, in vento et rapida scribere oportet aqua. I thus deserve my fate. May God have mercy on my soul.”’
‘What does the second quotation mean? The one from Catullus?’
Hart smiled. ‘That a woman will tell her besotted lover whatever she thinks he wants to hear.’
Nalan was silent for a moment. ‘Not all women. I would not do this.’
Hart nodded. ‘I believe you. But you are not all women, Nalan. The woman I was with last year, for instance. She told me many things. I believed them all. And they were all lies.’
Nalan looked up sharply. ‘And so you mistrust all women now?’
Hart shook his head. ‘No. I don’t. I don’t mistrust you, for instance.’
‘Why do you say that? You do not know me. All I have said to you about my past may be lies.’
‘No,’ he said. ‘What you have told me is true. After what has happened to us in the past few hours, I know you. Viscerally. Just as you know me.’
Nalan turned away from him. After a moment’s hesitation she reached back and took the torch from Hart’s hand. But still she refused to look at him. She hunched over the manuscript, her red-gold hair drifting forwards to frame her face. She shone the torch downwards. She read for a long time. Finally, almost shyly, she met his eyes. ‘There is more writing here.’
‘No,’ said Hart. ‘That’s all there is. What I have read to you. That’s all there can be.’
‘There is more writing.’ Nalan glanced at the sheet of vellum in her hand. Her tone brooked no argument.
‘What are you talking about? There is no more writing.’
‘Yes. Between the lines. There is. Look.’ Nalan handed the torch and the manuscript to Hart. ‘Maybe he has written it in – how do you call it? Urine.’ Her face went blank for a moment, as if something inside her had been switched off. ‘My mother and my father and some of their companions used to do the same here in the prison to communicate with each other. Some used urine. Some used semen or other bodily fluids. All of these things work. At least to some extent. And providing they are not checked too closely by the guards. If you heat the paper or the cloth later on with a match, or hold it up to the candlelight or against a strong bulb, the words will appear as if by magic. Hold the torch beneath the letter, John. You will see that what I am saying is true.’
Hart upended the torch and shone it through the parchment. For a moment he refused to believe what his eyes were telling him. There were words, exactly as Nalan had said – dozens of words, maybe even hundreds of them – squeezed between each line of the text, and travelling up either side of the vellum sheet. They were a fraction of the size of the visible writing. But they were clearly legible in the light emanating from the torch. The only possible conclusion was that they had been written with a pin or a finely sharpened quill, using some natural substance that would not reveal itself in daylight.
Hart looked at Nalan in consternation. ‘Why did I not see this before?’
‘Did you translate th
e text yourself?’
Hart shook his head. ‘No. I don’t know old German. A lady, nearly ninety years of age, who grew up with this language, translated it for me.’ He gave a rueful laugh. ‘A lady with cataracts that are so bad that she had to translate the manuscript through a magnifying glass. Even then she could hardly see it.’
‘But you looked at the letter yourself afterwards? You inspected it closely?’
Hart cast Nalan a look of terminal embarrassment. ‘No. Not that closely. Once I had the translation safely in my hand I put the letter back in this envelope and left it there. I don’t know why I still carry it around with me.’ He paused for a moment. ‘Actually, I do know. It’s because I feel connected to the man who wrote it. That my relationship with him, despite the nine centuries that separate us, is still unresolved. That he let me down in some way. Let his family down.’
‘Then you must take this letter back to your old lady and you must get her to translate these hidden words for you. Then, maybe, you can achieve a resolution.’
‘You are forgetting one thing,’ said Hart.
‘No. I’m not.’ Nalan glanced towards the open hatch above her. ‘No. I am forgetting nothing.’
EIGHT
Hart climbed out of the tank ninety minutes later. There had been no further gunfire in the streets during that time, and no sounds from inside the compound. No sign, either, of the expected assault on the museum by the Kurdish army. It was as though everyone involved in the incursion had negotiated a truce and fallen asleep.
It was Hart’s intention to find a spot where there was a good telephone signal and phone his ex-girlfriend, Amira, in England. She would then contact the Kurdish authorities, via the newspaper she worked for and the Foreign Office, to explain his and Nalan’s whereabouts and ensure that they weren’t shot at if they ventured out into the street. It was a good plan, and Nalan had gone along with it to the extent of agreeing to stay inside the tank until he called her and told her it was safe.
Hart stood for a moment by the side of the tank, listening. He held the AK47 flat against his flank, barrel downwards. One part of him felt frighteningly vulnerable, as if he was already being measured for a coffin by a distant sniper using a night sight. Or being targeted by an invisibly hovering drone which would see him only as an unidentifiable orange heat spot emerging, gun in hand, from the dubious protection of the tank. The other, more rational part of his mind, sensed that the gunmen were dead – had to be. That the last suicide charge, followed by gunfire, had been their Armageddon. But then why no Kurdish army? What was everyone waiting for?
Hart moved towards the statue of the six blindfolded figures. He checked his phone. Yes. A good signal finally. He had one bar left on his battery indicator.
He put the rifle down and flicked to his last call. It was then that he saw the movement out of the corner of his eye.
He froze, the phone halfway to his ear, the number already on automatic dial.
A man stood with his back to Hart, about ten yards from the grille, partially protected by Rebwar’s rickety guard post. He was clearly visible in the moonlight. The man bent down to pick something up. As Hart watched, he repeated the motion.
Hart felt with frantic fingers for the Power Off button on his phone, but he was too late. Amira’s number began to ring.
The man straightened up and turned towards the noise, which, though faint, echoed spectrally throughout the silent courtyard. Hart now saw that the man was wearing a suicide vest, already partially packed with explosives.
Hart looked down at the AK47 lying on the ground beside him. He felt unnaturally calm – fatalistic, even – as if a power greater than himself was controlling events, and that whatever would be, would be.
He dropped to one knee, let go of his phone, and swept the gun up and into the firing position. He was only vaguely aware of a woman’s voice calling out behind him, and of the man in front of him conducting his very own series of movements, eerily paralleling his own, as though they were both part of some mirror act in a 1930s music hall.
Hart fired first. The barrel of the AK47 swung up, and Hart saw chunks of concrete shear off the wall above the gunman’s head. Hart held the barrel down and fired again. He was still reeling from the unexpected recoil from the abbreviated stock. Part of his mind was idly wondering whether, if he hit the man, he wouldn’t simply explode. And was the belt packed with plastic explosive or with ‘Mother of Satan’ TATP? If the latter was the case, they would be dead in less than a millisecond. With plastic explosive they might have an outside chance of survival. And would the bomber have a dead man’s switch?
Something tapped Hart on the shoulder and he lurched backwards. It was Nalan.
‘Where is he?’ said Hart, his face numb with shock.
‘Don’t worry. He is dead.’
Hart stumbled forwards. He looked down at the man in his suicide vest.
The vest was hanging open. Some of its explosive sleeves were still empty.
Hart realized that by a miracle he had somehow managed to shoot the man through the heart. His white kurta was saturated with blood.
‘I killed him.’
‘Yes. He would have killed you. Me. Others maybe.’
‘Yes. I understand that.’
Hart stood for a long time looking down at the body.
He hardly noticed when Nalan put the ringing telephone back into his hand.
NINE
Schloss Hartelius Lake Tegernsee, Bavaria
15 MAY 1198
When Johannes von Hartelius had been released from his Templar vows after saving the Holy Lance from the Saleph River, the Holy Roman Emperor’s youngest son, Frederick VI of Swabia, had decided, in his capacity as commander-in-chief of the German crusaders, that Hartelius must immediately marry. How, otherwise, could a man formerly committed to poverty and chastity start a dynasty? A dynasty that would undertake to be Guardians of the Holy Lance of Longinus in perpetuity?
The bride chosen for the twenty-one-year-old Hartelius had been Adelaïde von Kronach, a fifteen-year-old fellow Bavarian from Upper Franconia, of impeccable pedigree and even more impeccable dowry, who had been destined for the court of the Queen of Jerusalem. Eight years into their Muntehe marriage Adelaïde had already given Hartelius four children – Grimwald, who would inherit the title Baron St Quirinus – Paulina, Agathe and Ingrid. Their fifth child was a breech birth.
As the result of a freakishly late snowstorm, the physician called upon to oversee Adelaïde’s lying-in from outside the actual confines of her bedroom, as was the custom amongst aristocratic families, found himself and his retinue stranded across the lake from Schloss Hartelius, in Tegernsee Abbey. An inexperienced midwife and a wet nurse he had sent on ahead of him were the only people on hand to help with the birth. The midwife had never dealt with a breech birth before, and when the jet bowl and the birth girdle and the amber and coral amulets and the parchment lozenges all failed to alleviate the mother’s agony, she panicked. The child suffocated. Adelaïde needed the body to be cut out of her, but no one present was capable of doing it.
The news of Adelaïde von Hartelius’s death in childbirth travelled swiftly around Bavaria, where anyone with an aristocratic title, or who pertained to aristocratic privilege, was related to everyone else. Outside Bavaria the news travelled a little more slowly.
It was more than three months after Adelaïde’s death, therefore, that a messenger arrived at Schloss Hartelius with orders that the newly bereaved Baron Sanct Quirinus must present himself at Mainz, in his capacity as Hereditary Guardian of the Holy Lance, in good time for Philip of Swabia’s coronation.
Hartelius, who had been expecting neither the call to duty nor the royal messenger, said the first thing that came into his mind. ‘Philip of Swabia? But he is the brother of the dead king. I thought the new king would be Frederick’s son, little Frederick? Has something happened to him?’
The messenger responded more sharply than his nominal role might at firs
t have suggested. ‘A three-year-old king of the Germans would be an impossibility, sir, as you yourself must know. A fragmented kingdom needs a forceful ruler, or it will disintegrate.’
Hartelius was well aware that any man bearing a message from the court would, in addition to his courier duties, be tasked with spying on him and monitoring his first reaction to the news that the rightful young king of the Germans had just been ousted from that position by his uncle. It behoved him to tread carefully, therefore. ‘Yes. Of course. What you say is perfectly true. Perfectly true. We are out of touch here. Little more than rustics, if truth be told. I spoke without thinking.’
He set off for Mainz via Bavarian Swabia the very next day, and delivered his four children to Adelaïde’s parents en route. Adelaïde’s father, Hugo von Kronach, was a bloody-minded despot with only one redeeming characteristic – that he placed his family before everything. Blessedly, Hartelius knew that von Kronach would have little to do with the children himself, being obsessed by hunting and hawking and skirmishing with his neighbours, the von Ebblings.
The well-being of his children would fall to Adelaïde’s mother, Hilda von Kronach, and to Adelaïde’s two as yet unmarried younger sisters, Else and Maria. Hartelius was satisfied that the children would, therefore, in accordance with his late wife’s dying wishes, be in the best possible hands in this difficult time. For he suspected that something was being held in store for him, there being no precedent for a man of his minor aristocratic standing to be called upon to attend a coronation. His great-uncle, a former Abbot of Tegernsee, had been the last man of any note in the Hartelius family, and he was long since dead.
Three days after his arrival in Mainz, Hartelius was consequently astonished to find himself placed a mere two steps behind the new king – and, far more significantly, on his right – during the coronation at the newly renovated Romanesque Cathedral. At one point during the ceremony, just after the sacred oil had been combed into Philip’s hair, Hartelius was required to recite a Latin motto and brandish the Holy Lance, which had been tricked up with a seven-foot-long wooden haft for the occasion. Hartelius, still bewildered by his abrupt rise to royal notice, performed his duties admirably.
The Templar Inheritance Page 4