The Templar Scroll: Book six in the series

by Scott Chapman

  “Screen, run file,” said Sparke. The image flickered into life showing an expanse of Jordanian desert, then scanned around to show the shocking bright blue of the Dead Sea before stopping as the figure of Tilly came into view.

  “These desert sands cover many of history’s greatest secrets but rarely give them up,” she said, brushing hair from her face. “But sometimes we are offered just a glimpse of what lay behind some of the most important events in human history.”

  “You’re awfully good,” said Sparke. Tilly made a face and reached for a biscuit. Her eyes were glued to the screen as the television version of herself explained to her viewers the history of the Dead Sea Scrolls and the Copper Scroll found with them. Despite the fact that Sparke knew she had filmed several takes of this introduction, she looked as though she was speaking casually to an interested friend. The rough edit of the program abruptly cut from the desert scene and the screen showed the words “Insert historical images 348a and 351f”. A moment later the image of the Orthodox Church in Amman appeared.

  The camera panned along the wall of Christian relics as Tilly spoke, telling in a few sentences the outlines of the history of the Arab Christian Church.

  “Here it comes,” said Tilly, dropping a crumb from her biscuit which Sparke picked up absently. “You’re a total genius for this.”

  A man appeared on the screen. He had the look of a fashionably shabby academic who was not quite as young as he would have liked. An open-necked, casual shirt, rolled-up sleeves and a heavy wristwatch gave him the look of a man comfortable in the outdoors, and the slightly unkempt hair which fell over his face as he spoke showed a faintly rebellious streak. He spoke quietly but with great authority about the relics which the Orthodox Church possessed.

  “I would never in a million years have thought you could pull this off,” said Tilly. “It was like a flash of genius.”

  Sparke sipped his tea and watched the fashionable younger man on the screen. It had been no little surprise to him either. No one watching could ever know that the shabby chic young academic on the screen was Doctor Laszlo, transformed in the space of half an hour by Tilly and an assistant from the television company and using the Arabic name he was born with.

  Laszlo had taken a lot of persuading. It was only Sparke’s realization that the one consistent thing about Laszlo had been his unending disdain for popular history, and that had given him the key to winning his cooperation. The conversation had lasted all day, but Laszlo’s icy demeanor had thawed, then cracked, when Sparke had asked whom Laszlo could recommend as a representative of the Jordanian academic world to give the scroll some historical context. It became clear to Laszlo that after dismissing every other potential candidate that he himself would be the only possible person worthy and able to fulfill the role.

  That and the offer to present the discovery of the Silver Scroll as being down to the Church had allowed Laszlo to convince himself that the best way to serve the interest of history and the Orthodox Church was to take part in the charade that they were now watching on the screen.

  “He’s a screen natural,” said Sparke.

  The screen was now filled with Tilly’s face, she smiled softly and spoke to the camera. “We now know that the Orthodox relic known to many as ‘The Leper’s Cup’ came into their possession as a gift from the Caliph Khalil, the leader of the Saracen armies which recaptured Acre and drove the last Crusader forces from the Holy Land.

  “At some point in its history this unremarkable vessel came into the hands of the Knights of the Order of Lazarus, a military order made up of leper soldiers. We have no idea how, or why, but it seems likely that while they had it in their hands it became the hiding place of this.” The camera cut to a brightly lit table top. In the center of the table sat a dull, squat, metallic object.

  “This,” said Tilly, her face coming into focus behind the object as she leaned close to the camera, “is a metal scroll. In fact it’s made of silver. The small part of the scroll which we can see shows us a few tantalizing letters of script. Is this the Silver Scroll of Judeo-Christian legend? Does it contain the answers to long forgotten questions or the locations to other artifacts? Unfortunately, the answers to these and many other questions will remain closed to us for now. The owners of this object, the Orthodox Church, have decided that it may be examined in its current state, but that no attempt can be made to open it out. X-ray analysis is of little use on an object of solid silver.

  “For now we must be content that it seems as though we have at least discovered one of the most fabled lost treasures of one of the bloodiest eras in human history.”

  Light

  There was a bright light in the distance, it seemed to dim and flare, but never drew nearer or moved farther away.

  Do I have a choice with this light? thought Salvatore. Is this what I have been waiting for here in the dark? This is the choice of a coin toss: moving towards the light can either make things better or worse, there would be no point in having a light to move towards if it had no import. If I do have a choice, then why should I have to choose at all? Perhaps I may choose to do nothing.

  A moment passed. Perhaps it was an hour or a year, Salvatore had no way to measure time and no concern about it. Why should a dead man care? The light reappeared, larger this time. It grew, split into two, then four lights, then a dancing galaxy of flares.

  So, the light comes to me, thought Salvatore.

  An instant later he was drenched in light, and with the brightness came a new sensation, an old sensation. For the first time since the last stand in the lepers’ bastion he had the burning tingling rush of physical pain. Was this a new birth?

  The light and this new pain ebbed and moved around Salvatore like a fast tide. He could feel movement close to him.

  “They’re hard to kill these Templars,” said a voice behind the light.

  “Fetch me some water,” said another voice.

  The light moved and Salvatore saw the face of a man, a face he had seen before.

  “I’m alive,” said Salvatore.

  “You sound disappointed,” said the man.

  “I’m alive.”

  “You were closer to dead than alive when we found you,” said the man. “Your clothing saved you from the Martyrs. They were told to kill all the men wearing the green cross of the Knights of Lazarus. The Caliph had told them that only they could defeat the lepers so they had little interest in you. They crushed your helmet and your head with a rock and left you for dead. So yes, you’re alive, Signore Salvatore the Tuscan.”

  Salvatore had never known such a weight of weary pain. To be alive back in this world was worse than any horror he had imagined when he had thought himself dead.

  He could see now that he was lying on a bed, and the light he had seen had been a lamp viewed through a piece of rough sacking that had covered his face. The pale light showed Salvatore that he was in a large room with a plaster ceiling.

  The man’s face followed Salvatore’s eyes. “You have been here before,” he said. Salvatore continued to look around but said nothing. The second man returned and the two spoke in Arabic for a moment before the second man left again.

  “He is going to fetch a surgeon. We need to find out if you can be moved without dying.”

  Salvatore looked at the man and said, “You are Yusuf, the friend of the Mason.” He looked at the room again. “We were in this room. I brought the wine for you.”

  “Good,” said Yusuf, “that crack on your head must look worse than it is. Yes, this is the room where we met. It is my home, my house here in Acre. He looked around as though seeing it for the first time. “It was good luck that it is still standing. Not many buildings were so lucky.”

  Salvatore slowly lifted both his arms until he could see his hands, then he looked back at Yusuf. The Arab smiled and said, “See, no chains. You are my guest, not my prisoner, probably the only Crusader still alive in the Holy Land who is neither dead nor a slave now. The last little Chris
tian positions on the coast were abandoned once Acre fell. We have our land back. Our cities and castles are all our own again. The mosques that were turned into churches will return to Islam and holy things will be cared for.”

  “What happens to a Templar guest in a Muslim house in Acre?” said Salvatore.

  “What happens? Once arrangements are made you will be put on a boat and sent to Cyprus, a gift for my friend.”

  “I am your gift to the Mason?”

  “A gift and a part repayment for an old debt I have to him. We will take you to Cyprus and return you to your Order.”

  Salvatore looked silently at the man, Yusuf, who seemed content to sit and return the gaze.

  “The others?” said Salvatore eventually. “No one else survived?”

  “Of the lepers, no, there were no survivors. Of the rest of your garrison, there were a few taken. They will not be returning with you.”

  “But if we now have peace surely we can ransom them, perhaps exchange prisoners?” said Salvatore.

  Yusuf stood up and looked down at Salvatore. “We have no need of ransom for now, but we will always have need to remove dangerous enemies like Templars. Don’t think we have peace now, Tuscan. If we meet again on the field of battle I will not hesitate to kill you.”