The Templar Scroll: Book six in the series

by Scott Chapman

  With the accepted assumption being that the scrolls were created during the Roman’s savage clampdown on Jewish religious Orders following the Jewish rising of 66 AD, it was logical that any scrolls would have been hidden in places of importance by those organizations, the case in point being that the Copper Scroll was hidden in the cache known to the world as the Dead Sea Scrolls.

  Burying such documents was common practice, so a Jewish Order was highly likely to have buried a document in or near a place of great significance to them. It could be taken as reasonable that the Jewish sect would have buried such a document in the locality where the Temple was located.

  Given the social disintegration of the region following the crushing of the rising, and the fact that Palestine lost a great deal of relevance to the political powers, it was an acceptable conjecture to state that anything buried with care could have lain undisturbed from the time of the Roman attack until Jerusalem was occupied by Christian forces during the Crusader period.

  The probability that the Knights Templar occupied the site and conducted excavations was extremely high.

  The net result of all of these probabilities was that it was highly possible that the Silver Scroll could have existed, was buried in the site of the Jewish Temple and had lain undiscovered until the Christian occupiers, specifically the Knights Templar, found it.

  “Can we use all this computer stuff for the program?” asked Tilly.

  “I’ll check with Trondheim, but they’ll probably be fine with it,” said Sparke.

  “Cool, so where does this take us?”

  “It takes us to a place where the Templars could have taken possession of this scroll, then they lost it.”

  Tilly picked absently at a pistachio nut and looked at the screen.

  “There is nothing on any record that I have seen that the Templars ever possessed it,” she said.

  “So, that means they never had it?”

  “Nope. It means that it was never audited.”

  “Audited?” said Sparke.

  “Hmm, they were obsessed with record keeping, but only for earthly wealth, land, rent, sales of crops, financial transactions, that sort of thing. Spiritual artifacts were only recorded when they were a part of the pilgrimage business. If people paid to see the head of John the Baptist it was a financial asset, that sort of thing. If this item was not something that had any cash value, there is no particular reason they would have entered it in their ledgers. Unless it was moved and some Templar treasurer somewhere was asked to sign for it.”

  “If it was moved then there would be a receipt?” said Sparke.

  Tilly nodded.

  “Screen, find me the list of all archives from Templar property moved out of the Holy Land following the fall of Acre,” said Sparke.

  “Let me get that for you, Peter,” said the screen. “But you know that the descriptions of the items are not supported by other sources and have multiple duplications.”

  Tilly nodded silently as the screen began to display lists of items which Templar archives reported as being delivered to their positions as Crusader forces fled the collapse of their empire in the Middle East. There was nothing that could have described any Silver Scroll.

  “Looks like it’s very possible that this scroll could have existed and been in Templar hands, but it never reached them once Acre fell. Either the thing never existed or it did exist and was lost in the chaos…”

  “Or it was still there when the Arabs retook the city,” said Sparke. “To the victor the spoils.”

  Breakthrough

  The Accursed Tower was now largely undefended. Every soldier in the city knew that this was where the Arabs would strike, but there were now too few men to man the length of the ramparts. Every man in the city also knew that no matter where he was now, it would be worse in the path of the final assault.

  The first crack in the wall had developed a wide fissure. A barrage of hits from Saracen artillery turned this into a breach. The old stones groaned and began to tumble leaving a cloud of dust and a pile of broken masonry that formed a ramp into the gaping cleft in the wall.

  Desperate defenders tried to fill in the breach with wicker bales, but these were set on fire by Arab archers who filled the sky with burning arrows. The streets around the breach were swiftly blocked with makeshift barricades, and men stood, waiting and shaking as they looked at the collapsed wall above them. Smoke from the burning wicker rose into the sky marking the Tower like a funeral pyre as a troop of Hospitalers took position behind the makeshift defenses, ready to make their counter-attack when the enemy came.

  Beyond the walls the ranks of disciplined Arab infantry and cavalry had been swelled by mobs from every city from Syria to Egypt. The chance of being part of ridding their land of the unbelievers was too great an opportunity to miss.

  Within this host of civilian volunteers was a force driven by a desire to die for their cause that outstripped any other. They were known to Arab and Christian alike as “Martyrs”. For them death in a holy war meant immediate access to paradise: they sought death like others sought life, and their every thought was on how to achieve a perfect death.

  The mob of Martyrs filtered forward through the ordered lines of Syrian and Egyptian soldiers towards the wall and its smoking breach. The soldiers, happy to see the Crusaders being offered alternative targets for their arrows, did nothing to stop them.

  The flames from the wicker were still licking the stone walls when they came. No command was given. A few shuffling steps became a charging mob as the untrained civilians rushed into the breach, pulling at the tumble of masonry and burning barricades with their bare hands.

  Clustered on the walls high above them the handful of defenders let fly a cloud of arrows, slaughtering the front ranks of men. A hail of rocks followed, bowling men over in the rubble.

  Mistaking this rabble for the main attack, the Hospitalers moved forward into the breach. The Saracen heavy infantry saw their moment and advanced. The defenders on the wall were scrambling to reload; the Christian knights had left their street barricade.

  A solid phalanx of Syrian foot soldiers crashed into the knights. For a moment both sides came to a halt and hacked at each other with sword and axe, but the discipline and numbers of Arab infantry could not be held.

  Marching over the bodies of the untrained civilians who had rushed the breach, the Syrians crashed through the Hospitaler line and spread out to take them from the flanks and rear. For a moment there were a few dozen isolated islands of fighting until the last of the Europeans was dragged or chopped to the ground.

  Within ten minutes of the first wild charge the wall had gone from being an effective defense to a pile of rubble. Finding no enemies in front of them, the Syrians rushed up the stone staircases to the battlements, hurling the few defenders they found to their deaths.

  The leader of the Arab vanguard halted the infantry advance and waved a column of heavy cavalry forward. Scrabbling over the broken masonry, the mounted troops rushed into the city. Stunned at being suddenly inside the city they stopped for a moment, looking for direction and orders.

  A voice cut through the new silence. “To the sea, to the sea.” The men twisted in their saddles and urged their horses on into the heart of the city.

  The sight of the cavalry racing into the maze of streets brought a wild roar from the attackers on the walls. Trumpets blared outside the city as a new column of horsemen rushed thorough the breach. The mass of men and horses struggling over broken masonry caused an avalanche of displaced stone work, crushing several of the attackers, but doing nothing to stem the tide.

  The time for orders or strategy was over, the waiting was over, it was the hour of vengeance. Thousands of Arab soldiers and civilians rushed towards the breach, a few moments later the Christian defenders of the West Gate were overwhelmed and its heavy timber door pushed open. Like a sinking ship, the city of Acre was being inundated by streams of invaders.

  For the first time in wee
ks the rain of artillery missiles halted. People in the heart of the city looked up at the sky at the sudden silence, then those nearest the walls heard the sound of charging horses.

  Most civilians and many of the defending troops had already moved away from the walls towards the hope of safety at the harbor. At first the charging Saracens found few targets in the deserted streets, but then a few stunned inhabitants, venturing out to see what the noise was, turned to see Arab cavalrymen sweeping down on them.

  Some Arab horsemen, overwhelmed by their desire to rush forward, ignored the first Christians they encountered, riding past the bewildered figures. For most citizens of Acre, the first they knew of the breach was the exultant chorus of Arab trumpets from the walls. Those who could see the defenses saw the towers falling into the hands of the attackers as, one at a time, the banners of the Christian forces were ripped down. The thin, distant cries of dying defenders could be heard through the deep roar of the advancing assault forces.

  The first scattering of attackers was swallowed up in the maze of streets. Behind them came the first large groups of horsemen on the Road of St Ignatius that led from the Accursed Gate to the harbor. They rode eight abreast, lances lowered, riding down the few defenders who had failed to find refuge in one of the fortified buildings.

  Behind the Saracen cavalry came the first of their foot soldiers. A few stayed in in their ranks, but most scattered into smaller groups and began smashing through the doors that had been closed in a futile attempt to ward off their attack.

  One at a time the invaders cracked open the buildings of Acre, their inhabitants slaughtered or enslaved.

  Fingerprints

  The research building of the museum looked as though it had been designed by the same architect as the hotel they were staying in, and there was a consistency, thought Sparke, to Jordanian architecture that was truly admirable.

  Marble and polished sandstone covered every wall and floor, making the interior of most buildings into a manicured version of the desert landscape that surrounded them.

  “Forgive me for keeping you waiting,” said a voice from behind them. “I am Doctor Afiz.”

  Sparke turned around to see a young, serious-looking man in a dark suit. Despite the stone floor he had somehow approached without making the slightest noise. Sparke had no need to check his watch to know that the man was not, in fact, late at all.

  Tilly smiled and shook the man’s hand. “Doctor Afiz, it’s a pleasure to meet you face to face at last.”

  Afiz nodded politely at Tilly then stepped past her, reaching his hand out towards Sparke. “Mr. Sparke,” he said, “I have been specifically asked to pass on the welcome and best wishes of General Safir. He is most insistent that we do everything in our power to make you feel welcome and to assist you in any way we can.”

  “Please tell the General that I am flattered and pass him my best wishes,” said Sparke, aware that Tilly was staring at him over the shoulder of Doctor Afiz.

  “We have allocated you one of our research offices,” said Afiz. “We thought you might like to have somewhere comfortable to work while you are with us. If you would like to follow me?” He turned, smiling, and led them along one of the long corridors.

  “Who’s General Safir?” said Tilly quietly to Sparke.

  “We worked together some time ago on an incident I was involved in,” said Sparke. “Very friendly chap.”

  “So, he’s a soldier? How come you were working on an incident with a Jordanian soldier?”

  “He’s a sort of policeman soldier sort of thing. He has quite a broad remit. At least he did when I met him.”

  “Seems his remit extends to running out the red carpet in the National Museum,” said Tilly. “Interesting friends you have.”

  They followed Afiz into a large office which contained two desks and a long, bare table. Both desks had slim, modern desktop computers and on one desk there was a phone.

  “We hope you will be comfortable here. These computers are linked to our own intranet and they give you automatic access to our archive listings. We thought you might like to have a little local support, so we have arranged for some specialist help. General Safir regrets that he will not be able to meet you himself, he is engaged on another matter, but he tells us that you are a good friend to Jordan and that we should show you every consideration.” Afiz smiled broadly at Sparke and Tilly, then left the office.

  “Why do I suddenly feel like I am playing second fiddle in my own band?” said Tilly. “You’re supposed to fetch me coffee, but I barely had a look-in with our chum Afiz. What exactly did you do to make this General such a big pal of yours?”

  “Nothing, nothing at all really,” said Sparke. “We had a few projects in the region that I helped out on. The Jordanian authorities are pretty advanced in crisis management. I suppose if you have borders with Israel, Iraq and Syria you have to keep on your toes. Anyway, now that we’re here and have this lovely office to work from, what’s the plan?”

  “Best thing we can aim for right now is a lot of contextual materials,” said Tilly. “We can look at other artifacts from Jewish religious sects of the period and other documents that used metals as a writing medium. We don’t have to state that the Silver Scroll existed, but we can establish that it was a viable concept.”

  There was a knock at the door and Doctor Afiz walked into the office and spoke to Sparke. “I’m sorry to bother you, but the archivist assistant I mentioned will be a little delayed. Perhaps I can give you a quick tour of the building to help you orientate yourselves?”

  Sparke made a small, open-handed gesture towards Tilly and said, “Professor Pink is in charge of our schedule.”

  “We’d be glad to see the museum,” said Tilly, smiling.

  The small group walked back along the cool stone corridor they had taken when they entered and through a set of double doors into the public area of the building. Afiz stopped and turned to face Sparke and Tilly, unable to stop himself from adopting the universal pose of someone instructing the uninitiated. He took a deep breath and described the history of the museum and the various research institutions that were related to it. Unlike most similar institutions in the West, it was not created in the nineteenth century and, being comparatively modern, it was structured along different lines.

  The conventional view of eras, the Iron Age, the Bronze Age, early medieval, which form the basis of the Western view of human development, were not represented in the structure of the museum. Instead, history was mapped by the rise and decline of peoples and civilizations. The small clans of desert nomads that had coalesced and used their mastery of mounted warfare to build the Assyrian Empire, the mother of all human societies that had been born in the first cities of the Euphrates and Tigris which became the waves of Mesopotamian empires whose rapid growth and often savage collapses still echoed across the millennia, the precise, well-ordered bureaucracies that managed the affairs of the Persian Empires until their crushing at the hands of Alexander the Great; all were used as a historical skeleton to hold up the development of human society in this, one of the great centers of world history.

  In addition to these societies which had seen the land as their natural domain, the museum traced the fates of those who lived by their relationship with the sea; Phoenician traders, Greek colonists, Roman imperialists.

  As the Roman Empire had morphed into the Byzantines and then crumbled into nothing, the fate of the region now encompassing Jordan became intimately linked to that of the explosive rise of Islam.

  Sparke and Tilly were absorbed by the narrative, aware that Dr. Afiz was not describing some abstract or intellectual historical process, but as a story of his own people. He spoke of Assyrian kings as though they were a recent and important occurrence.

  The last room they entered displayed a number of grainy black and white images, many of which showed ranks of Western soldiers. Here was the short and brutal chapter of the region under the control of the European empires.


  In the case of Jordan it was the British. In fact, it had been London which had drawn the borders of the country, picked one of the noble clans of the region with whom they felt they could do business and told them that they were now the Royal Family.

  The British had decided, after the horror of the Second World War, that empires were too expensive and no longer made any sense for them. Unlike the other imperial powers it had packed its bags and departed in the blink of an eye, leaving the new nation of Jordan to deal with their even newer neighbor of Israel.

  There was no mention of Israel in the museum.

  “I’m afraid that there is not much here that directly reflects your area of research,” said Dr. Afiz, looking at Tilly. “The period of the Crusader occupations had little significant influence on our country.”

  Tilly nodded. “Little more than a raid in the great scheme of things,” she said. “Still, it had a large impact on Western history. Our little project hopes to look at just this tiny wrinkle of history where our cultures collided.”

  “Indeed,” smiled Afiz. “And you can be sure that we will do all that we can to help you in your project. In fact, here is the archivist who has been asked to assist you.”

  Sparke and Tilly turned to follow Afiz’s gaze, their smiles of welcome dying on their faces.

  “Good morning,” said Laszlo.

  Wave

  The wave of slaughter rolled over the broken city. In every building doors were smashed down or wrenched from their frames by exulting Saracen soldiers venting lifetimes of frustration at having their land occupied by unbelievers.

  Most of those who took shelter in basements were killed where they lay, some were dragged into the light and beaten to show where any valuables had been hidden.

  Any Christians in arms or those wearing any piece of military garb were butchered.

  After the first wave of attackers passed the troops who came next were more studied in their looting, as rich householders were subject to more careful tortures and prisoners were more often taken. The larger houses were cracked open first.