The Templar Scroll: Book six in the series

by Scott Chapman

  “I hope so, let me see if I can find my man,” said Salvatore. “If he is here I can make time.”

  “You’ll need funds for this great trick,” said the Mason.

  “Soon, but not too great a sum.” Salvatore watched the Mason as he looked over the last great Christian possession in the Holy Land

  “There is so much to do,” said the Mason.

  “How can I help?”

  “You? You can help by working out how to make yourself invisible when the time comes,” said the Mason, smiling. “All I have to worry about is the defense of the city, you have a much bigger task.” As he spoke the bells ordering the gates closed for the night rang out over the city. “I have to go,” said the Mason.

  Alone, Salvatore descended from the wall and walked along the water’s edge until he reached the jumble of workshops and boat slips squeezed in to the east of the main harbor. The smell of fresh cut wood and boiling pitch filled the air. All of the boatyards were busy despite the late hour. Anything that could float was at a premium now.

  Most of the yards were open to the street with only rough wooden fencing to mark their boundaries, but some of the larger ones had stone walls. Salvatore was looking for an inn. Find the right ale house and you can find anyone you were looking for. He walked along the Road of the Netmakers, inspecting the dark taverns on the landward side, his ears filled with the sounds of men at work in the yards.

  He froze, stopping so quickly that a porter carrying lengths of timber crashed into him, scattering his load. The porter, ignoring Salvatore’s uniform, let loose a barrage of oaths as he stopped to pick up his load. Salvatore heard nothing, staring intently at the boatyard gateway a dozen paces to his left. The wall was no better than the other patched masonry boundaries that lined that part of the street, but on top of the gatepost sat a square carving. The figure on the carving was of a monk in prayer, one hand pointing upwards. It was the figure of Fra Muratore, and Salvatore had carved it himself.

  Salvatore hammered on the gate several times before there was any response. Eventually a young boy pulled the gate open.

  “Where is the master of this yard?” he said. The boy looked over his shoulder but did nothing. “Fetch your master. Tell him Salvatore, his friend from Tripoli, wants him.” Again the boy looked back into the yard, but did nothing. “This is the yard of Dimitrios the boat builder?” said Salvatore. The boy looked blankly at him.

  Salvatore pushed at the gate, brushing the boy to one side. A few yards inside there was a hut, outside that, under the shade of a canvas awning, sat a heavyset man looking at Salvatore.

  “We’re not interested today,” said the man. “Whatever you are selling, we are fine. You can find your own way out.”

  “Selling? I’m not selling anything” said Salvatore. “It’s me, what is this game? You know me well enough, Dimitrios.”

  “You know my name?” said Dimitrios. “Good for you, now please leave. I don’t like strangers in the yard, even ones dressed as Templars.”

  Salvatore stood hands on hips, staring at Dimitrios. It had been two years since they last met but there was no possibility that he had forgotten. Salvatore looked around the yard. It was a boatyard, but the timbers that lay trimmed on the slipway would be no use in shipbuilding; they were too heavy, too straight and had been finished to too high a degree. All had holes drilled into them at various points.

  “Glad to see you are still making a living from what I taught you,” said Salvatore, smiling. Dimitrios said nothing, but disappeared into his hut to return a moment later with a wine jug, and one cup. Salvatore noticed his hand tremble as he poured the wine.

  “Dimitrios, you and I both know that these timbers are parts for trebuchets, and it was me who showed you how to build them. It was me who carved that top stone on your gatepost. It is Fra Muratore, the patron of my town.”

  “That was an old piece of ballast stone from my yard in Tripoli. I brought it as a signpost for my business. It has no meaning and I have no idea who did that terrible carving,” said Dimitrios, as he drank deeply from his cup, spilling some on his chin. “Now go away and leave an honest man in peace. I have never seen you before in my life.”

  Holiday

  “She said ‘yes’ to everything.”

  “Hello, Tilly,” said Sparke.

  “Yes, hello, she said yes to everything.”

  “I must have missed the start of this phone call. Can you rewind?”

  Tilly sighed. “I did what you said I should do. I wrote a big list of all the reasons why I don’t want to work with Maryam, then I sent it to her. She called me up an hour later and agreed to everything.”

  “So now you have to do the program?”

  “Yup, no excuse not to. You’re called the ‘Consulting Editor’ by the way,” said Tilly. “Seventy-five thousand euros.”

  “That’s a lot. What do I have to do?”

  “We discussed this, Peter, mainly mayonnaise and coffee duties. Maybe a little bit of research if you have the time.”

  “Talking of research–” said Sparke. He was interrupted by the sound of a woman’s voice.

  “Peter, I think I’ve found something for you. You’ll like this.”

  “Who’s that?” said Tilly.

  “Oh, don’t ask.”

  “Yes, I will ask, who is that woman in your apartment?”

  “It’s the screen. I thought it sounded too robotic so I got it to buy a new speech program and now it thinks we’re best buddies. Listen.” He put his phone down and switched it to speaker.

  “Screen, meet Tilly,” he said.

  “Tilly and I know each other well, Peter,” said the screen. “Hope you’re well.”

  Tilly paused for a moment, then said, “My hair is on fire and I just drank a pint of bleach. How are you, Screen?”

  “Tilly, maybe I missed what you said. Is your hair on fire and did you tell me you have been drinking bleach? Should we be concerned?”

  “No, just a normal Monday morning,” said Tilly. “Nice bonding with you, can I speak to Peter now?”

  Sparke picked up the phone. “I’m going to delete that program and go back to the old screen voice,” he said.

  “I think you’d hurt her feelings if you do that,” said Tilly. “Anyway, what’s it found?”

  “Screen,” said Sparke, “what have you found for me?”

  “I have done a scan of the documentation on the fall of Acre and the evacuation that preceded it,” said the screen. “There are several Arab documents mentioned that contain references to treasures seized by the Muslim forces. One is an inventory of artifacts which were judged of significant religious importance.”

  “Upload the document,” said Sparke.

  “The document is not available in electronic format,” said the screen. “It only exists in hard copy. Location of this document is the National Museum of the Kingdom of Jordan in Amman.”

  “Thank you, Screen, can you send copies of what you have to Tilly Pink?”

  “Of course I can, Peter. Hope this helps.”

  “You’ve got to keep that voice thing,” said Tilly.

  “It got me to do a questionnaire and then selected that voice,” said Sparke. “Apparently my profile responds best to the voices of strong, confident women.”

  “Sounds about right to me,” said Tilly. “This is the voice of a strong, confident woman and it’s telling you to get your toothbrush and sunglasses packed.”

  “We’re going where?”

  “Free holiday,” said Tilly. “Well, technically it’s called a ‘Pre-Production and Planning Visit’, but as far as I can tell it’s a free trip to the Middle East. You’ll need sunscreen.”

  “You sound very professional all of a sudden. Who planned this?”

  “Guy called Jason,” said Tilly. “He’s the producer that Maryam has put in charge of the program. He actually makes everything happen. Apparently, I just tell him what we want and he does it. He says I need to check out the sites w
here we will be filming.”

  The rest of their call consisted of Sparke and Tilly deciding where they would want to visit and what they would want to see.

  Sparke had the screen book him on flights to London where he would meet up with Tilly at Heathrow Airport before flying to Amman as a first stop.

  “By the way,” said Tilly, “I got you a present.”

  “What for?”

  “Because if it wasn’t for you I wouldn’t have agreed to do this program, and now I’m glad that I am. I’ve decided that since I’m making a bucketload of money I would buy you a wee treat.”

  “What is it?”

  “It’s a surprise, dummy. Something I know your geek side will love.”

  “I’m trying to work on my romantic spontaneous side,” said Sparke. “Do you really want to feed my inner geek?”

  “My only worry is that your new screen will get all possessive if you start seeing other technologies.”

  “My computer and I don’t have that sort of relationship,” said Sparke.

  “Careful you don’t just drift into one,” replied Tilly. “See you in London.”

  Solutions

  “I see the problem,” said Salvatore.

  Dimitrios made no sign of having heard him, but took another sip from his wine cup and looked absently out over the Mediterranean. “In Tripoli you made a promise to a man that you would forget ever having met him. Am I right?” said Salvatore.

  “Tripoli was a long time ago,” said Dimitrios.

  “The man, let us pretend it was me, for example, paid you a lot of money, perhaps one hundred marks to forget that you had ever seen him.”

  Dimitrios scratched his left armpit attentively, then looked at the sole of his sandal for a moment.

  Salvatore sighed.

  “Perhaps this man, me, told you that if you did not forget him that your life would be in danger. He… threatened you?”

  Dimitrios drained his cup. “You say that I look like a man easy to frighten?”

  “Any man should take a threat seriously,” said Salvatore. “It would show good judgement to believe it.”

  Dimitrios took a small knife from his belt and used it to pick a stone from the sole of his sandal. Salvatore crossed his arms and thought for a moment.

  “What would you say if I offered you another hundred marks to remember me again,” said Salvatore. Dimitrios glanced at him for a second then returned to his sandal.

  “It is worth two hundred for me to have your services. What do you say?” said Salvatore.

  Dimitrios cleaned the point of his knife for a moment, then looked squarely at Salvatore, saying, “You paid a man one hundred marks to forget you, and I suppose this man promised to do so. Am I right?”

  Salvatore looked at him for a moment, then said, “Yes, that is correct.”

  “And now you expect this man, who might, for example, be me, to take that promise and forget it for two hundred marks. That is what you are saying. Am I right?”

  “The promise was made to me, Dimitrios, I release you from it. I need you to work for me again. There is something I need to do that I think I can only do with your help.”

  Dimitrios put the knife back in his belt and looked at Salvatore.

  “So, Templar, you need my help? Then why didn’t you just ask for it rather than push your way into my yard and offering me bribes to break my promises? Do you think that just because I am not a knight like you my promises are for sale for three hundred marks?”

  “Three hundred?” said Salvatore, “I said… Dimitrios, I have insulted you. I am sorry and ask your forgiveness.”

  “I accept your apology. Now, share a cup of wine with me and we can talk about this help you need,” said Dimitrios, pulling a second stool over and reaching for the wine jug.

  The two men sat in the falling light, talking quietly to each other, mainly about how Dimitrios had fared in Tripoli after Salvatore had left. Dimitrios had used the design for the trebuchet that Salvatore had taught him to produce over a dozen copies for the defenders of Tripoli. The catapults had worked well, hurling firebombs of pitch-tar and pig fat at the approaching Saracens, claiming the lives of hundreds of the attackers. They had been used to shatter infantry formations, burn siege towers and bring chaos to the work of Arab engineers.

  They kept firing right up until the attackers swarmed over the walls and smashed the city.

  “When did you leave Tripoli?” asked Salvatore.

  “I watched the Arab ships. The day the last of them left I knew the end was approaching, so I put my best workmen in my boat and sailed here. When the Principal of Acre learned that I could make your war weapons he came with a proposal.”

  “How many have you built?”

  “Five so far, but I expect demand to increase when Qalawun marches out of Cairo. I am buying timber and iron now before it becomes too expensive. It pays to watch the market.”

  “You sound like someone I know,” said Salvatore .

  “The machines I make are better than the one I made for you though, your design had flaws and mine are lighter and stronger.”

  “Of course they are,” said Salvatore. “You know what you are doing with wood, I was guessing.”

  “The Hospitalers have paid me to put three of them onto their ships.”

  “Clever of them,” said Salvatore

  “Clever, but not clever like you,” said Dimitrios. “The Arabs took the machines they captured in Tripoli, but they say theirs are superior.”

  “How do you know what the Saracens say about your machines?” said Salvatore.

  “I asked them. Three months after the city fell I went back.”

  Salvatore stared at Dimitrios for a long moment. “You have been back to Tripoli since the Arabs captured it? How can that be?”

  “Why not? The Saracens took the city and everyone in it, but they are not idiots, a month after the last fires died down there were merchants from Pisa haggling over the price of salted mutton in the middle of the rubble. They offered to sell me my old yard back, but by then I was happy with this place.” Dimitrios waved his hand round the boatyard.

  “This is a better yard,” agreed Salvatore. “Smaller, but well laid out.”

  “I could afford to buy something decent.” Dimitrios looked at Salvatore. “I had a little money after Tripoli. I found a very good client up there, he looked a little like you.” Both men laughed and Dimitrios held out the wine jug again. “Tell me about this problem you think I can help you with.”

  Salvatore took a long drink from his cup. “I’ve never seen this thing, no one living has,” he said. “I know it once existed and that it worked, but not how it was done.”

  “I’m going to sit here and listen until you say something that makes some sense to me,” said Dimitrios. “But talk as long as you want. After all, three hundred marks is a lot of money.”

  Salvatore laughed, then said, “You’re a Greek, have you heard of Alexander the Great?”

  Clouds

  Several miles above Turkey, the cold wind which had blown in from northern Europe continued to chill the atmosphere. The warm wind from Africa created a wall of high pressure which stopped the cold air moving south over the Mediterranean, holding back the expected storm.

  In her control room in Israel, Shauna occasionally flipped over to her weather screen, watching as the high pressure kept the skies unexpectedly blue. She was unhappy.

  The clear skies brought Turkish fighter aircraft up to patrol their eastern border. That required a Syrian response as their Russian-built aircraft scrambled to shadow them. This activity put the US Navy on alert, and they launched their electronic warfare planes from the decks of the Fifth Fleet. The American activity made the Russians nervous and they sent their own planes up.

  On her screens, Shauna, who had been hoping for a quiet watch, could now see nine aircraft in the sky, none of which had a civil aviation identifier, all of which were therefore potentially hostile.

  She
switched screens again for the latest forecast and smiled when she saw that the high pressure over the sea was weakening. This would allow the bad weather to resume its southern movement by tomorrow at the latest.

  Tomorrow would be a quiet day.

  Aunty

  “I love British Airways,” said Tilly. “It’s as if your big sister or your auntie set up an airline just to look after you. I mean, the minute you see those BA people in their uniforms you just feel all safe and looked after.”

  “You should have told me, we could have taken a British Airways flight to Amman,” he said. They were walking out of Heathrow Terminal Five. His flight from Geneva and hers from Edinburgh had arrived within twenty minutes of each other. Now they were walking across the bridge that linked the terminal to the Sofitel Hotel.

  Tilly walked towards the reception desk where a queue of people waiting to check in had formed. She was surprised when Sparke ignored the queue and walked to a man sitting at a desk on the far side of the foyer. By the time she caught up with him, Sparke was sliding a card back into his wallet.

  “Always a pleasure to have you with us, Mr. Sparke,” said the hotel manager. Sparke nodded and gave him a slight smile.

  “Always nice to be here,” he said, picking up the room key which the manager had placed on the desk. He walked away.

  “What’s this?” said Tilly as they walked towards the elevators.

  “What do you mean? Oh, the check-in. I’ve stayed here about a zillion times so I have one of those privilege card things. You know, spend a thousand pounds with them and they give you a free cup of coffee and a different check-in desk.”

  They stayed in the elevator until it reached the top floor of the hotel. When the door slid open a young man in hotel uniform stepped forward and picked up their bags and walked away towards their room.