The Templar Scroll: Book six in the series

by Scott Chapman

  The Mason nodded, saying, “That is true, certainly. If an army of angry Saracens cannot see you, you could carry out any task with impunity.” He paused, then said, “Is there more to this plan or is that as far as you have reached so far?”

  “I have an idea, but not a plan,” said Salvatore.

  “Always good to start with an idea before you create plans. When you need funds let me know. Can you tell me your next step?”

  “As soon as I have a next step to take I will let you know. Right now I need to find a way of making a bad idea into a good plan.”

  “If you do find a plan you will be one of the few men in Acre who knows what he is doing,” said the Mason. The two men were walking along the battlement of the outer city wall. They began at the northern edge of the city, then along to towers held by the Hospitalers, then south passing through the other strong points until they reached the Tower of the Patriarch by the harbor. They had taken to doing this most days once the heat of the afternoon had passed. The Mason stopped walking and placed his hands on the rough stonework and looked out to the east.

  The Arab siege encampment already looked like a city. Smoke rose from a thousand cooking fires, and workshops and farriers stood on land that had been home to goat herders days before. New wells had been dug to replace those which the defenders had poisoned.

  The slums and lean-to buildings that clustered around the walls of Acre had been flattened to give the defenders clear fields of fire, range markers for their catapult artillery had been placed, and a few patches of scrub growth were still smoldering.

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

  “How can I help?” asked Salvatore.

  “There is something. Whenever your work, whatever it is, can spare you, make sure that you find yourself in the company of the Grand Master. Let him become used to your presence. When you are look to his companion, you know the one I mean?”

  “The grey beard?”

  “The same. He is often called the Old Guardian by the brothers,” said the Mason.

  “I know him, a man of great importance, at least by his own estimation.”

  The Mason laughed and said, “Yes, he is happy that the world thinks of him as a man of some value. He has been with the Grand Master for as long as I have known him. As far as you can, make him easy with your company. Perhaps find a way to show respect to his position with the Grand Master. Ask him to tell you some stories, whatever you think will make him easy with you.”

  “As you wish,” said Salvatore. “Can I help in any other way?”

  “Help? 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 rang out over the city. “I have to go,” said the Mason. Salvatore never asked the Mason where he was going or why, but he knew that every evening he and the Grand Master met with the leaders of the Hospitalers and the Teutonic Knights.

  “I wish you well,” said Salvatore. The Mason stopped and turned around.

  “I thank you for the thought, but save your good wishes for your own task. Your value will come after we have all failed.”

  Control

  He was not a senior pilot for nothing. He had learned to fly on single engine military aircraft that had been designed before he was even born. Over his career he had seen every possible situation that a pilot could expect to encounter, from engines choking when he flew into a flock of flamingos in Kenya to having his aircraft seized by gunmen on the tarmac in Somalia.

  It took him less than a second to recognize that his co-pilot had panicked, throwing his aircraft into a climb that they did not have the airspeed to maintain. The resulting loss of wing-lift had turned his state of the art aircraft into a flying brick. In the time it took for him to reach for the joystick control he cursed his co-pilot, cursed the Syrian ground controller for distracting him and cursed the Israeli Air Command for turning an emergency situation into a career-wrecking crisis.

  “I have control,” he snapped.

  “We’re losing altitude,” said the co-pilot. “We have no control. I don’t know what’s happening.”

  “I have control,” said the pilot. He seethed with anger at the young co-pilot and his whole generation. They had no idea how to fly. They had been brought up entirely dependent on technology and fell to pieces when anything happened that actually demanded some flying skill.

  The only way out of a stall is to radically increase airspeed and the only way to do that is to throw the aircraft into a steep dive.

  The pilot pushed the tiny joystick forward with his left hand and the aircraft began to respond. Broad flaps slipped out of the smooth wing surface and dug into the flow of air. This new interference acted as a drag, effectively making the air under the bottom of the wing move more slowly than the top and pulling the nose of the plane down. In normal cruising the flight control computer would even-out the commands from the pilot to make the change in pitch as smooth as possible, but with autopilot disengaged the plane lurched.

  For the passengers, it was a moment they would never forget. The sudden downward pitch immediately increased airspeed, driving more air into the two engines creating a deafening roar. Simultaneously, everyone was jerked upwards from their seats and a new avalanche of luggage and crockery was released.

  The aircraft was, in effect, pivoting on its center of gravity meaning that the nose and tail sections moved further and faster than any other part. In the front section of the aircraft a passenger had loosened her seat belt to reach for her fallen briefcase just as the maneuver started. She was thrown upwards, out of her seat. Her fellow passengers could only stare in horror as she screamed, pinned to the ceiling until the inertia in her body caught up with the movement of the aircraft and she dropped like a rag doll onto the seats below her.

  Screams came from every section of the aircraft as loose debris was hurled around the cabin.

  Sparke, his hand still on the release mechanism on his seat belt, jack-knifed forward, his head almost hitting his knees. Even before he bounced back upright he was smiling in relief. The noise of the engines and the sudden change in pitch could only mean that the pilots had taken action to recover from the stall.

  He looked across at Tilly. Her eyes were two wide circles and her skin was drained of color. She stared at Sparke as though unable to absorb the noise and chaos around her.

  Slowly he reached over and placed his hand on her arm, saying, “Everything is good, this is good, they have it under control now.”

  Her expression froze as she looked at Sparke. Then, slowly, her face changed, not to any kind of relief, but to a look – it seemed to Sparke – of utter incredulity.

  “You know what’s happening?” she said.

  Al Mansur

  Yusuf and Omar sat on their horses in the shade of one of the few trees on the plain outside the city. Twenty yards away, a mass of men crawled over a wooden structure that looked a little to Yusuf like the gallows that Christians used to hang each other.

  The men seemed to all be shouting at each other simultaneously as they worked on the structure. A few took time from their labors to strike each other occasionally. Yusuf crossed his arms and gestured towards the men with his head.

  “I should speak with the man in charge,” he said. Omar nodded and walked his horse over to the workers. A moment later he returned with one of the men, still talking loudly walking in front of his horse.

  “Good morning,” said Yusuf. “You look thirsty.” He leaned forward and gave the man a water-skin. The man took the skin hesitantly, looking back and forth between the two horsemen.

  “The Caliph presents his complements,” said Yusuf. “He congratulates you on your labors and orders that you begin.”

  “Begin?” said the man.

  “Now, begin now,” said Yusuf.

  “But, sir,” began the man. Omar flicked his lance and struck the man in
the back with the heel-end. The man stumbled forward a few steps.

  “Sir, we need more time. Another day.”

  “No,” said Yusuf. “You are mistaken.” He flicked his hand towards Omar. “My good friend here will now ride to the Caliph and tell him the wait is over. He will tell him that you have worked a miracle and are ready. I would say you have… how long will it take you, Omar?”

  “An important task like this, only a few minutes,” said Omar.

  “There, now we know how long it will take,” said Yusuf to the man. “Now, run back to your wooden monster. The army is waiting for you, the Caliph is waiting.”

  The man looked back and forth between the two horsemen and then watched as Omar turned his horse and started to ride to the center of the Arab lines. He looked down at his hands as though he had just noticed the water-skin. He lifted it up and handed it back to Yusuf, then turned and ran screaming to the gang of workmen who crawled over the massive catapult.

  All along the Arab line, groups of drummers pounded out a slow heartbeat that brought the defenders of Acre to the walls. Arab soldiers and civilians drifted forward towards the wicker fence that marked their forward positon.

  A trumpet blast cut through the drumming and the whole line fell silent. A moment later the monster catapult fired. First one, then two, then half a dozen dark specks rose into the sky from the Arab positions. The rattling from the catapults echoed across the no man’s land between the besieging Arab army and the city walls.

  Salvatore counted eight missiles as they climbed up their slow arc towards him. Their release was a signal for scores of smaller weapons all along the line to fire and a swarm of smaller missiles took flight.

  For a moment there was dead silence; the drumming stopped, the missiles were sailing noiselessly up into the sky, both besiegers and defenders gazed at the mass of dark objects as they hurtled towards the city.

  From somewhere in the Arab ranks a deep roar began. It sounded to Salvatore like the noise an excited crowd made at a joust as two knights closed on each other with lances. The roar swept along the Arab line until twenty thousand men were roaring with excitement as scores of missiles began their descent towards the city. It was at this point that Salvatore noticed a flicker of movement along the wicker barricades. Sections of the fencework fell forward revealing scores of light catapults and two-man crossbows mounted on timber frames. Their missiles and heavy bolts now flew towards the city walls, their high-pitched hum joining the rising cacophony.

  No part of the sky was empty as the barrage fell towards the Christian positions.

  For Salvatore, the seconds between the firing of the lighter weapons and the impact of their missiles lasted an age. Every instant of that wait was etched into his memory: the dark line of wicker barricade with the new gaps, the scores of dark dots that filled the sky, the sound of the jubilant Arab army as they cheered their weapons on to their target.

  His hands were resting on the top of the battlement and he noticed, for the first time, a small indentation on the left cuff of his chain mail sleeve. There was a sound of a dog barking in the city behind him, and a man cursed somewhere to his left.

  Salvatore turned towards the Mason who was standing next to him and opened his mouth to speak. Just beyond the Mason was a Templar sergeant who was holding a full-length battle shield marked with the black and white emblem of the Order.

  Salvatore had time to wonder at why the man was carrying a shield on the battlements and realized that it was actually a sensible idea just as the crossbow bolt struck.

  The iron head of the bolt was a two-pound slug of unfinished iron on a short, fat shaft. The distance it had travelled from the Saracen lines was barely a hundred yards, but the Saracen archer who fired it had aimed low. Instead of sailing over the wall and crashing into the city beyond, it had only just reached the top of the battlement, sailing through a gap in the crenelated wall that ringed the battle-run.

  The bolt crashed into the Templar sergeant’s shield and pierced it, pushing through far enough to crush the man’s ribs and kill him instantly. The force behind the missile was still more than enough to pick up the sergeant’s body and spin it like a leaf. The dead man’s shield flipped over his left shoulder and spun across the battlement.

  Salvatore saw the shield and, as though in slow motion, turn flat, its pointed end flash past once, then twice, then crash into the Mason’s left shoulder.

  He saw a look of surprise on the Mason’s face as the shield hit him and carried him backwards. He still wore the same expression as he tumbled back over the low rear wall and down through the air for the fifty feet to the ground below.

  The impact of hundreds of rocks, arrows and bolts sounded like hail rattling on metal as the barrage landed. The air was filled with the sound of screaming as men were crushed and pierced. Every person in the city threw themselves to the ground, seeking shelter wherever they could.

  Everyone except Salvatore.

  He stood clutching the top of the rear battlement wall looking down at the broken, unmoving figure of the Mason on the ground far below.

  Balance

  When the captain had first learned to fly large passenger aircraft, the flight controls had been mechanically connected to the flaps and rudders by wire cables. Pilots could feel the movement of the air across the wing surfaces, and gauge the flying conditions by the resistance of the controls.

  Modern aircraft like the one on Flight 771 had been designed without the classic steering column that pilots had once pushed or pulled when they wanted to change the pitch of the aircraft. Instead, both pilot and co-pilot had a one-handed joystick like the ones used in computer games.

  As soon as he had told the co-pilot that he was taking control, the pilot pushed the joystick forward to its maximum point, throwing the aircraft into a steep recovery dive.

  He knew that behind him was an aircraft full of terrified passengers, and he knew that every one of them would be contacting the airline to complain as soon they landed. With a start, he remembered the in-flight Wi-Fi and realized that the complaints would already have started. In fact, it was more than possible that his airline already knew what was happening. Was the best way to talk to his airline through his passengers? What type of message could he give two hundred angry and frightened people that would be passed back in a way that would show him as a calm veteran who saved a situation rather than a pilot who had allowed his plane to fall ten thousand feet without realizing it?

  “Flight 771 this is Israeli Air Command. Report speed, altitude and course. This is an instruction.” Shauna’s voice snapped him into attention.

  “Israel Air Command, this is 771. We experienced a significant loss of altitude but are in a recovery maneuver now,” he said, his voice calm and steady.

  “Report your speed, altitude and course immediately or I will alert Air Sea Rescue,” said Shauna. The mention of a rescue alert sent a cold wave of fear through the pilot.

  “Altitude fourteen thousand feet, course zero eight three, speed two hundred ten knots. We are under control and continuing to our scheduled destination,” he said.

  “Confirmed,” said Shauna. “We will be watching your progress.”

  The pilot nodded silently, then said, “Confirmed,” and flicked off his microphone.

  Now that the rapid descent had begun, the experience of those people within the aircraft had returned to something like normal. Everything on board was now moving at the same rate and the main sensation was the buffeting of the fast-moving storm around it.

  He took a deep breath and clicked on the intercom.

  “Ladies and Gentlemen, we have just experienced some difficult flying conditions. Our first concern is for your safety and comfort, so we are making a rapid change in altitude. Our aircraft is one of the most advanced in the world and everything on board is working just fine.” He nodded to himself. The phrase “just fine” was good, just the sort of calm, folksy sort of thing that people would remember.


  “In a few moments we will be making a climb back to a more comfortable cruising altitude, so you will experience a little more shaking I’m afraid.” He now needed a sign-off line. “I know this will be a flight you’ll remember, and I look forward to talking to you all personally once we land in Amman.”

  As far as his reputation went this had started out as pure damage control, now he began to see that this might even have a silver lining to it. A crazy Syrian military ground controller and a flake for a co-pilot, plus an unexpected storm front, he was doing quite well.

  His left hand was still on the joystick, pushing forward to keep the plane in a dive until he had picked up enough airspeed to turn this thing back into an aircraft that was actually flying instead of just falling out of the sky.

  The airspeed indicator read two hundred and five knots, so it had actually reduced. He looked at the altimeter and saw that he was now down at ten thousand feet. This was impossible, they were diving downwards but were actually slowing? For a hideous moment he thought back to the last thing his stupid co-pilot had said. Was there really something wrong with the controls? Everything that was said in the cockpit was recorded, not just the radio transmissions. He imagined a team of crash investigators clustered around his flight data recorder shaking their heads in amazement at his poor judgement.

  His aircraft was still falling but not picking up speed. It was impossible. His hand was pushed hard forward, but there was no indication that there was a control malfunction. There was literally nothing he could think of that could make this happen.

  Then he looked over to the co-pilot.

  Swimming in smoke

  “If you really want to die, I can find you much simpler ways to do it. Even ways that can keep you dry. People should stay away from water whenever they can.” The voice came from nowhere, but the Mason was sure that it was not addressing him. He had the feeling that he had walked into a room during a discussion, but he had no idea what room he might be in or where he would have come from.