The Templar Scroll: Book six in the series

by Scott Chapman

“This is swish,” said Tilly as they walked through the marble floored lobby.

  “Is it? I suppose it is nice,” said Sparke. “The hotel in Amman is great, you’ll love it.”

  “You’ve been to Amman?” said Tilly. “Wait, don’t tell me, you once went there for a conference but you only really saw the hotel.”

  Sparke looked at her. “How did you know that?” he said.

  “Ha, whenever I ask you if you have ever been somewhere you always tell me that you once went there for a conference on how to manage disasters but you never really left the hotel.”

  “Uh huh, that’s me, Mr. Predictable,” he said. “But seriously, you’ll love the hotel.”

  “At least in Jordan I don’t have to wear a headscarf. I once spent three weeks in Saudi and I was forbidden to show my hair in case it inflamed the passions of the local men.”

  “Well it’s their country, they get to make stupid rules,” said Sparke.

  “Yes, and I get to think they’re a bunch of idiots for doing so. I spent a hundred quid on this hair-do and I’m sharing it with the world.”

  Sparke smiled at her as the porter opened the room door and switched on the lights.

  Tilly flopped down on the bed and watched as Sparke unpacked. He took his shirts out of the bag and hung them up, all facing to the right, then he unfolded his trousers and hung them up on the hangers that had little clips on them. His shoes went into the closet, directly below the shirts. Next he took out his toiletry bag and unpacked it in the bathroom, then walked back into the bedroom where Tilly lay on the bed.

  “Peter,” she said.

  “Hmm, what?”

  “Peter, in the bathroom, have you set up all your shaving stuff and toothbrush and whatever in a neat line, then put your toilet bag somewhere sensible?”

  “What?”

  “Your toilet stuff, is it all neatly lined up in there?”

  Sparke stopped and looked at Tilly, then turned and went back into the bathroom. “Yup, yes I suppose it is a bit neat. Is that a bad thing?”

  “Don’t you think it’s just a wee bit strange that you do the same thing every time you go into a hotel room? I mean your shirts, then your trousers, then the shoes and, once that is all done, the bathroom routine?”

  “Do you think it would be better if I had a took a more freestyle approach, a bit of random unpacking?”

  Tilly smiled. “Now I feel guilty. I’m going to unpack in a totally unstructured way,” she said.

  “You can do what you like when we get to Amman,” said Sparke. “They’re a pretty relaxed bunch, but having an unmarried couple in the same room is a step too far for them. You’ll have a room all to yourself and you can unpack in any wild way you like.”

  “Try and stop me,” said Tilly. “But what about you? Once you have your room all perfectly laid out, won’t you come sneaking in to see me?”

  Sparke laughed, “Just try and stop me.”

  Ideas

  “He wasn’t a Greek,” said Dimitrios.

  “Alexander the Great wasn’t a Greek?” said Salvatore.

  “Macedonian, those people aren’t Greeks.”

  “I thought he was Greek.”

  “No, Macedonian. Anyway, of course I have heard of him. Why?”

  “Send your boy out for some food,” said Salvatore. “I want to tell you my idea, then you can build it for me.”

  For the next two hours Dimitrios sat listening as Salvatore explained what he wanted to do and how he thought Dimitrios should do it. Every so often Dimitrios would ask a question or make an observation, but mainly he listened. Eventually, Salvatore leaned back on his stool, his back against the wall.

  “So, you can do it?” he asked.

  “It’s a stupid idea,” said Dimitrios.

  “It will work.”

  “Then why has no one else done it?”

  “They have,” said Salvatore. “Alexander did it. I saw it in a book.”

  “A book? Well, if you saw it in a book then it must be true.” Dimitrios reached for the wine and said, “You need to pay me in advance because once you try this stupid idea you’ll be dead.”

  Salvatore smiled. “I knew I could count on you,” he said.

  “You can count on me to do my job, keep my mouth shut and not to ask questions that don’t concern me. For example, I knew you well in Tripoli when you were a maker of war machines, and now here you are in Acre wearing the garb of a Templar and I don’t ask a single question.”

  “Your discretion is a marvel.”

  “And now you want me to do this crazy thing and I don’t ask why.”

  “Trust is built on not asking questions,” said Salvatore.

  “I need to ask you a question.”

  “What is it?”

  “Some people say that the Arabs will come and smash Acre, some say they will not.”

  “Qalawun will come,” said Salvatore. “You should plan to leave.”

  “There is nothing you can do to save the city?” said Dimitrios. “The place is full of soldiers. I like it here. I hoped to stay.”

  “I can say no more than I know,” said Salvatore. “People who know better than I do are preparing for the worst. You need a better plan than hoping.”

  “And you need a better plan than the one you have just told me,” said Dimitrios, laughing. “The only thing you can guarantee is a very short life.”

  Before dawn the next morning Salvatore and the Mason rose and left Acre through the Accursed Gate. They rode north east into the sharp hills that surrounded the approaches to the city. They both wore the brilliant white mantles of their Order over their chain mail and each had a pack horse bearing food, crossbows and shields. In the manner of Templars everywhere, they placed their pack animals in front of them as they rode.

  “How do your plans progress?” said the Mason.

  “The only man who I have told tells me it will never work and I will die,” said Salvatore.

  “Making yourself invisible in the midst of a Saracen army has its risks.”

  “Two Templar knights riding out of Acre when you think we are about to go to war is a risk,” said Salvatore.

  “A necessary one. I need to know what Qalawun is doing, not just what people think he might do. The first rule in understanding an enemy is to prepare for what he can do, not for what you think he might. He could bring his army from Egypt to the gates of Acre and demand our surrender; that is what the Venetians and Genoans believe. Or he could summon all of the four Arab armies and smash the city. I want to know which he is preparing for.”

  The two men rode higher into the hills that led towards Damascus. The passes here were high and narrow, and one, known as “The Rat Hole”, was so narrow that the two knights could only pass through in single file. Past the Rat Hole, the land fell away quickly into a broad valley dotted with olive and vine groves.

  “That farm over there, with the stand of cedar trees, you see it?” said the Mason. Salvatore nodded.

  “The man who owns it was a Templar sergeant for many years. We served together for a long time. He taught me how to fire a crossbow.”

  “Now he is a farmer?” said Salvatore.

  “Hard to believe, but some people do find a life worth living outside the Order. Olav is from the Baltic coast and tells me he could not stand the idea of going home to all that wind and rain. He keeps an inn near his farm, he sees the road every day, talks to merchants and messengers. He can read the signs. If the Saracens plan to come this way they will send out scouts to check the water and to find out if we have pickets in these hills.”

  It took an hour to cross the valley floor. Salvatore felt the warm sun on his face and the cool breeze that blew in from the hills. He was well-mounted and in the company of the only man he could truly call his friend, and they were far from the strictures of the normal Templar life.

  A hundred paces from the farm, Salvatore noticed a man leaving the main building and walking towards the gate. His face was red and his
hair was white. He stood at least as tall as Salvatore was and looked as broad as a horse; every inch the Baltic warrior. As they reached the gate, the man smiled broadly and waved.

  “Olav, this is Salvatore, one of our most trusted brothers. Salvatore, this is Olav,” said the Mason.

  Olav nodded cheerfully to Salvatore.

  “Salam alaykum,” said Olav.

  Flying

  It was a brand new aircraft from a very new airline based in what was, in the scheme of things, a relatively new country. The airline was the nation’s pride and joy. Having never had an airline, it could start from scratch, and every part of it gleamed like a new pin.

  Sparke watched as the flight and cabin crew walked through London’s Heathrow Airport. They exuded the style and confidence of a young team doing a great job. He checked the time. The watch on his wrist was one of the most beautiful things he had ever owned.

  Tilly, sitting next to him, was engrossed in reading research documents on her tablet. When she saw that he was looking at his wrist she smiled.

  “Not bored with that yet?” she said.

  “This is the coolest watch in the history of watches. In fact,” he said looking at the hefty owner’s manual in his hand, “it is actually a ‘personal data management interface’ according to this. It’ll take me years to use everything it does.”

  “Apparently it’s the ultimate boy-toy for the boy who had all the toys,” she said.

  Sparke flicked his finger over the face of the watch, bringing a menu up. “Don’t know if I’ll ever really want to know the map reference of my location or my altitude to the nearest meter, but it has a function that counts your steps and tells you how lazy you are. Must have cost a fortune.”

  “Unlike you, I have the pleasure of knowing how it feels to spend more than I can really afford,” said Tilly.

  “What’s on the agenda for Amman?”

  “Jason, the genius producer chappy, has a tour set up with a local researcher. He’ll take us around the best shooting locations. I have no idea what I’m supposed to do when we see them since they’re the experts. Then we head to the Ministry for Cultural Affairs where we start collecting permits and credentials, then finally we can meet the museum people. Apparently, they’re pleased that we want to highlight some Arab sources for events during the Crusader wars.”

  A moment later they heard their flight being called and headed for the gate. The production budget stretched to business class, but Sparke had made up the difference to allow them to ride in first.

  The luxury seemed lost on Tilly who rarely lifted her eyes from the screen she was reading. She only looked up for the safety demonstration. As this finished, the pilot came over the speaker system and introduced himself.

  “Why do they do that?” said Sparke.

  “What?” said Tilly.

  “Introduce themselves by name. I mean, are we meant to recognize their previous work or something?”

  “Perhaps they all imagine they’re famous and we boast about flying with them,” said Tilly.

  The pilot warned them that there was some bumpy weather during their flight and that they should keep their seatbelts fastened whenever they were seated. As the plane taxied, then lifted off, Sparke’s eyes were glued to his new watch.

  “Unbelievable,” he said. “This thing is incredibly precise. You can actually see the altitude change in real time.”

  Tilly turned to Sparke and smiled. “That watch has found a good home with you,” she said. “Amazing isn’t it?” she said peering out the window.

  “Hmm.”

  “No, not your watch, airplanes. I mean, what does this thing weigh?”

  “About two hundred and eighty metric tonnes or so,” said Sparke.

  “Well, how does that actually fly?”

  Sparke looked at her. “If you want to know I’ll tell you, but you won’t believe me.”

  “Try me.”

  “Suction.”

  “Suction?”

  “Uh huh.”

  “Just because I’m an academic doesn’t mean I’m an idiot you know,” she said. “Tell me how it’s suction.”

  “Easy, jet engines suck in air at the front, blow it up and shoot it out of the rear. The pressure at the front is lower, so the plane gets sucked forward like in a drinking straw. Same with vertical lift. The shape of the wing squeezes the air underneath and the plane gets sucked upwards.”

  “We’re being sucked up into the sky and sucked across the Mediterranean to Jordan? I suppose that makes as much sense as anything,” said Tilly, “I mean, it doesn’t really make sense at all does it? This thing weighs tons and it’s made of metal, but it still flies around. Ridiculous when you think about it.”

  It had never occurred to Sparke for a moment that there was anything ridiculous about flying, things flew because there was no reason they shouldn’t. Rather than get into a discussion about the ridiculous nature of aeronautics, he decided to copy Tilly and focus on the screen in front of him.

  In Israel, Shauna was starting another shift.

  “What’s happening?” she asked as she signed the watch sheets.

  “Same, only more so,” said her colleague. “Storm’s gathering strength but the warm front is stable. Air traffic is light. Bit of showboating between a Turkish F16 and a couple of Syrian Migs near the coast, but nothing special.”

  In the higher reaches of the troposphere over the eastern Mediterranean, the unequal struggle between the fast, cold, northern European storm and the immense mass of dry Saharan air reached the point of resolution. Billions of cubic meters of warm air started its collapse into the deep trough created by the cold storm.

  The rush of air, as the two mixed, created violent winds. Warm, still air turned into hundred knot gales within the space of a mile.

  The resulting cocktail was a fast-moving mountain of hot wet air that stacked up from sea level to an altitude of fifty thousand feet. As the moisture condensed it started to fall as rain, sending cool water through the lower clouds and sending drying air rocketing upwards.

  The whole weather system began to consume the air around it, pulling the storm edge south, directly over the sea.

  Encounters

  “No greeting for your old friend?” said Olav. The silence since Olav’s Muslim greeting had been absolute.

  “Alaykum salam,” said the Mason eventually. He dismounted and walked over to the open gate where Olav stood.

  “You’re not one for jokes,” said the Mason.

  “No jokes from me. Brother, I am a Muslim now,” said Olav. “Come out of the sun, we can talk inside, both of you.”

  As the three men walked into the farm building, Salvatore saw a woman and some children scurry into a room and close the door behind them. Olav looked at the two Templars and shrugged, saying, “They are not so used to seeing Christian knights.”

  “Tell me?” said the Mason.

  Olav sat on a bench at the table in the middle of the room. “Tell you? Tell you why I am a Muslim now? It was an easy choice to make,” he said. “Last month I had a visit, a very friendly social call from an Imam and a dozen or so mounted men. We had a long conversation about the problems of being a Christian and the benefits of becoming a Muslim in such an isolated spot. They came back a few days later and I agreed with the points they had made so clearly. I entered the fold of Islam.”

  The Mason remained standing.

  “Who are you?” he said softly.

  “I am as I ever was. I am Olav.”

  “And if your fellow Muslims ask that you join in attacking us?”

  “I am Muslim, not an Arab,” said Olav. “I will say no.”

  For a long moment the Mason stood looking at his old friend. “You changed your faith like some men change shirt,” he said.

  “You think the difference is so great? Great enough to leave my wife a widow and my children orphans? The men who came told me that my wife could not be married to a kaffir like me, and that since she was not
married they would find her a good Muslim husband.” He stood and reached up to a shelf behind him and brought down a large knife, then a loaf of bread. “I could fight them and die, I could run away and live in some slum in Acre or I could mumble a few words and stop eating pork. There was no question.”

  “You fought beside me for years,” said the Mason. “For the Cross. Did you believe nothing then?”

  “Believe? Let me tell you what I believe. My old grandmother had a crucifix by the fire at home, next to it she hung a foot of a crow, a symbol from the old religion. She prayed to both. Every winter she and the other women would burn a handful of corn and mix the ashes with chicken blood, then daub the mess onto the lintel of their doors to their huts. They were Christians because some Teutonic Knights had given our people the choice between converting or death. If there was a god, he would understand.” Olav cut the bread into three pieces.

  “How do I know you can be trusted?” said the Mason, reaching for the bread.

  “Ask me about the movements of the men who were here,” said Olav. “You know me well enough to tell if I am lying.”

  The Mason handed Salvatore one of the pieces of bread then sat down. “What have you seen?” he said.

  “The men were not from here, they were from Damascus, scouts. They tested the wells,” said Olav. “They counted the sheep in the valley.”

  “So, they’re coming,” said the Mason.

  “I expect to see the first of their advance guard any day now.”

  The Mason broke the bread he was holding and began to eat. “How will you live without pork? I never saw you without a fat piece of sausage near your mouth,” he said.

  Olav sighed and said, “Such is the price I pay for my devotion.”

  For a second the Mason and Olav looked at each other, then both burst into laughter.

  “We only have one life,” said the Mason. “Live yours as best you can.”

  “If I can live through the next few months I will live to an old age. But it will be a difficult season.”

  “Qalawun is playing his last move with us,” said the Mason. “I hear from a Muslim friend, another Muslim friend, that they worry more about the Mongols than about cleansing the Holy Land of us unbelievers.”