‘Well, it’s too late to turn back now. The main gate must be over to the left.’ William steered his horse towards an opening in a low stone wall, fifty feet from the leading wall. They made their way through, and noticed a number of men gathered by some narrow stone steps beyond it, some armed with guns, others dressed in long black gowns with long grey beards.
Brother Jericho gestured to them. ‘Monks?’
William nodded and spurred his horse into a trot. He put one hand in the air and began to smile nervously. Here goes, he thought to himself as they closed on the steps, praying they understood Latin.
‘I am William Saxon. Of the Order of Saint Sallian, Villeda. Sent here by the Papacy. Whom am I addressing?’ he shouted.
There wasn’t an instant reply, but a chorus of murmur, then shuffling, and finally one man with a grey beard longer than the others stepped forward. ‘I am Brother Stephanos,’ he shouted, ‘of the Order of Saint Catherine. State your business, brother, for you came bearing weapons, and that throws doubt on your story.’
‘I apologize for my appearance, Brother Stephanos. We are monks of an unconventional kind,’ William called back.
‘I see. And from an Order none of us have heard of,’ The Greek monk replied cautiously.
‘I admit you will not have heard of the Order of Saint Sallian prior to this day. There are few who have. But there is good reason for this, which I might venture to explain if you allow us refuge, or at least to camp within the grounds of your monastery.’
The Greek monk stared down at them and then cupped his eyes to look down the plain towards the thousands of riders massed there. ‘What evidence can you offer, to show that you are telling the truth?’ he called back.
‘Evidence?’ Brother Jericho murmured by his captain’s shoulder.
William frowned. He then remembered the Papal seal around his neck. His hand reached up to touch it. ‘Stay here,’ he said to the brothers and rode ahead.
Brother Jericho held his breath as the soldiers on the walls trained their guns on his captain, Sheikh Fahd was equally worried that William would be shot from his horse without warning.
As William neared the steps he brought out the chain with the seal attached. ‘This marks an envoy of the Roman Catholic Church, Brother Stephanos,’ he called out a few yards from the steps.
The Greek monk shuffled down the steps and crossed the ground to William’s horse. William pulled the chain from around his neck and handed it down to him.
‘Pope Pius,’ Brother Stephanos remarked as he looked over the seal. ‘You appear to be genuine, yet you lead an army.’
‘Yes,’ William admitted, ‘but on a holy cause, Brother.’
‘There is nothing holy about war,’ the monk decried.
You may feel different when I tell you what our cause is,’ William replied. ‘We are looking for the Rassis in the Valley of Fire’
The monk’s expression changed suddenly as though an invisible hand had slapped him in the face. ‘Not many would dare speak of the Valley of Fire, nor of the ghosts that dwell there. Are you chasing the Devil himself?’
William grinned ironically. ‘That we are, Brother. That we are’
Very well. You may come inside the walls. But your army stays where it is,’ he replied, the main gate opening wider to admit the ten arrivals.
VI
‘Let us sit,’ Brother Stephanos suggested, lowering himself down upon a rather old and fragile stool behind a simple wooden table. William sat opposite, feeling his own stool wobble under his weight. Sheikh Fahd sat next to him, finding the experience amusing, not quite trusting the whole of his weight to the chair he sat on.
Brother Stephanos called for water for their guests, while William introduced his monks first, and then Sheikh Fahd.
‘A Bedouin sheikh?’ Brother Stephanos said. ‘And those are his men to the north?’
‘Not just him, but three other sheikhs ride with us,’ William told him.
‘Then you are soldiers and this is an army,’ Brother Stephanos concluded.
‘That notion does my cause a disservice, Brother Stephanos,’ William objected. ‘You speak as though we are invaders or conventional conquerors. We are neither.’
‘Then explain to me who you are,’ Brother Stephanos said as several monks in black gowns brought jugs of water. ‘Drink?’
William nodded and took a wooden cup filled to the brim. ‘My thanks.’
‘Thanks be to God,’ Brother Stephanos corrected. ‘This is His will, Brother Saxon. For while the seasons have been dryer than most, our wells still hold water.’
‘A miracle, Brother Stephanos,’ William replied formally and sipped. He tasted sweet cold water, far purer than anything he’d drunk from the oases, and so he sipped again, thirstily draining the cup, much to his own embarrassment.
‘You have travelled long, I see, Brother,’ Brother Stephanos said, with a hint of surprise as he regarded William’s now empty cup.
‘Yes,’ William replied, and added: ‘Though I confess, I am not a monk.’
‘You said you were . . .’
‘I said I came from the Church, and the men I lead are monks. A common misconception,’ William explained. ‘I am Captain William Saxon. I was recruited by the Vatican while I was serving with the British army seven years ago.’
‘A soldier?’
‘An officer,’ William corrected.
‘That explains why you are dressed in such a manner,’ Brother Stephanos said, and gestured to William’s clothes. ‘And what is that I see on your sleeve? Blood? You have the air of bandits.’
‘The Order of Saint Sallian is an Order with a different task,’ William told Stephanos. ‘Since we left Rome some weeks ago, eleven of my monks have been killed. Four others are terribly wounded and are resting at this sheikh’s camp.’
‘How did this happen?’
‘The infernal, Brother Stephanos,’ William replied bluntly. He felt no need to play games with this fellow. Either the religious men of St Catherine knew about the infernal, or they did not. Time was slipping by. He needed answers quickly.
‘You speak of evil men,’ Brother Stephanos parried.
William could see deception in his eyes. He narrowed his own, and leant forward. ‘Not men. These are monsters, Brother Stephanos. Creatures with no soul.’
Brother Stephanos sat back and shook his head slightly.
‘Do not feign ignorance,’ William warned him. ‘I see it in your eyes.’
‘I know only of ghosts, Officer Saxon,’ The monk protested.
William recalled the same conversation with Sheikh Fahd. ‘Of course. And they dress head to foot in dark blue? And they murder?’
Brother Stephanos nodded. ‘There are stories of such terrors.’
‘And what stories have you heard?’ William tried to curb his impatience.
Brother Stephanos locked his fingers together and directed a cautious gaze at William. ‘The story I have heard is told among the nomads to the south. They speak of silent ghosts who come down from the mountains to raid their camps. They kill the men and rape the women, and then they fade away into the night. After several years, the ghosts return.’
‘Why?’ William asked.
‘To reclaim their progeny,’ Brother Stephanos replied. ‘Those children who have not been killed at birth by angry tribes are then taken away by these ghosts once they are weaned. The children are never seen or heard of again.’
‘But how? Ghosts do not have children.’
‘There lies the flaw in the story,’ the monk agreed.
‘Do you believe these “ghosts” are flesh and blood?’ William asked.
‘I believe they are men,’ Brother Stephanos replied.
‘And these children . . . How do the ghosts know which are theirs?’
‘Because they carry the marks at birth.’
‘Marks?’ William prompted.
Brother Stephanos fidgeted. ‘I have only seen one supposed bastard child of t
hese “ghosts”. They are shorter than other Bedouin children; their skin is lighter, like sand, and their hair is thick black. But their eyes tell it all – long and narrow, like knives. They are not Arabs.’
‘Then from where?’
‘I do not know. Far away, I expect,’ Brother Stephanos said. ‘So what does a soldier of the Vatican want with ghosts?’
‘They are guarding something terrible, Brother Stephanos,’ William replied. ‘The infernal.’
The monk folded his arms with displeasure. ‘You use that word glibly, Officer Saxon. May I ask what exactly they are hiding?’
‘Two hundred and fifty artefacts straight from the pit of Hell,’ William said plainly. ‘The term Scarimadaen may not be one familiar to you, but believe me, you will be glad to never hear that word again. If we fail to destroy these “ghosts” and what they are hiding, imagine what could happen should the Devil walk our streets with two hundred and fifty of his foot-soldiers alongside him.’
‘You speak of the Apocalypse,’ Brother Stephanos said in dismay.
‘I do,’ William confirmed. ‘It could start here in the Sinai, unless our mission is successful.’
Brother Stephanos looked horrified. He rose slowly and ran the tips of his gnarled fingers through his beard. ‘If you had been simply a man plucked from the desert, I would have considered you wild at best, insane at worst. But you are not.’
‘No,’ William replied sadly, ‘I am not.’
The Greek monk turned to the others behind him and began speaking in hushed whispers.
‘Do you believe you have succeeded, Captain Saxon?’ Sheikh Fahd murmured to him in English.
‘I hope so, sir,’ William replied. ‘We are running out of water and food. And some shelter would be a fine thing.’
Brother Stephanos said something in a language William didn’t recognize, but believed was probably Greek, and the Orthodox monks departed humbly. The old monk addressed him again.
‘The Arabs may camp within the outer walls if they wish,’ he said. ‘We have lodgings for thirty men. Will that be enough for your Order?’
‘It will. Thank you,’ William said and rose from the table. ‘There is also an English merchant we saved in the desert, and his servant. They have become victims of this horror also.’
‘I am sure we can find lodgings for them,’ Brother Stephanos said. ‘But they will be simple’
‘If there is a place to rest our heads, it will do just fine,’ William said, somewhat relieved.
VII
After washing and dressing, William walked into the courtyard of St Catherine. It was quiet as the sun set and the sky turned a dark blue. The strongest of stars dared to waken and a three-quarter moon hung over the mountains in the distance. It was cool, but not cold, and William was stripped to his shirt, his jacket washed and drying with the rest of the Order’s jackets. He had shaved, and as he stood in the evening air with Marco at his side, he ran a rough hand over his chin and felt satisfied. It was good to be housed within a building for the first time since leaving Rashid.
Peruzo arrived in the courtyard with a broad smile, the first since Bastet.
‘You look revived, Lieutenant,’ William remarked.
‘I could have had two baths, Captain, there was so much dust.’
‘And the company?’
‘Resting. Talking. Eating and drinking,’ Peruzo replied gladly. ‘Shall we find our host, Brother . . .’
‘Brother Stephanos,’ William replied. ‘I suppose we should.’
‘What of the Englishman?’ Peruzo asked as the three of them strolled across the courtyard.
‘Thomas elected to stay in his room,’ William replied. ‘He is looking forward to a long bath.’
‘He does not like washing with the others,’ Peruzo remarked.
‘He prefers his privacy,’ William replied. ‘I was once like Thomas. Most merchants are. But in the army you do things differently. Being shy whilst bathing is the last thing you think about.’
The observation tickled Peruzo, who chuckled as they walked towards a large building at the northern wall of the monastery. It was grand, with flawless walls and windows, newly built amongst the more antique buildings about them.
They entered a hall that feigned to be simple at first, yet as the eyes adjusted to the gloom, lit intermittently by tall candles and several small lamps, they noticed elegant murals and paintings on the ceilings.
Peruzo admired them for a few minutes before one of the Orthodox monks nodded for them to sit at a large table. ‘Impres-sive,’ Peruzo murmured and gestured to Marco to look up as they took their seats. The boy’s eyes widened as he saw figures in historic settings, depictions of saints and their fates.
‘This is nothing, my friends,’ Brother Stephanos said behind them. He walked in carrying himself carefully, appearing older now than William had first believed. Beneath that thick black gown was a body fragile with age. When he sat down it was slowly, lowering himself by degrees and under strain.
‘Tomorrow I will show you our basilica, and there you will see beauty. A wondrous sight, even for those who have seen the Vatican.’
‘I regret, we cannot,’ William said. ‘We must leave at first light tomorrow.’
‘Unfortunate,’ Brother Stephanos replied. ‘Then I will enjoy your company tonight instead.’
The conversation throughout that evening was much muted, but necessary. William found it a refreshing diversion as they talked about all things secular and eventually personal as William admitted his position as an exile.
As the evening turned into night and they bade Brother Stephanos goodnight, the monk took William aside.
‘Your path is a violent one, Captain Saxon,’ he said.
‘It is the path I must take, Brother Stephanos. I do not choose it willingly.’
The monk gripped William’s arm, his strength belying his age. ‘You must one day renounce this violence.’
‘The violence is for the sake of Christianity,’ William replied. ‘How can I renounce a cause that is just?’
‘Because it puzzles me that the Church would pursue such a cause,’ Brother Stephanos lamented. ‘Regardless whether daemons exist in this world, we cannot kill our brothers. We must use prayer and faith in God.’
‘Prayer will not stop these creatures,’ William told him bluntly. ‘Guns and swords will.’
‘Spoken like a true soldier,’ Brother Stephanos remarked, exasperated.
‘I beg your forgiveness,’ William said and bowed, ‘but sometimes sacrifices must be made. I fight tooth and claw so that men like you do not have to. What would you do if two hundred and fifty invincible creatures, taller than a man, with only violence in their hearts, came pounding at your gates? Would you pray for deliverance? Would you use scripture to attack them?’
‘I would do all that I am prepared to do. but I would not raise my hand to them,’ Brother Stephanos replied.
‘Then be glad there are men who will,’ William replied. ‘Men who sacrifice much for those who will turn the other cheek. Sometimes, Brother Stephanos, simply turning that cheek is not enough.’
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Lies in the Desert
I
Hammid looked down on the camped Bedouin riders during the steady dawn, feeling torn between his allegiances. His eyes were ringed black and threaded with thick red veins as though constantly sore. But it was inside that hurt most, the terrible mass growing within him, painfully thrusting its way through his organs, making him void himself uncontrollably at times, coiling him in agony at others. Only Thomas Richmond had offered any respite, and a purpose.
The Englishman appeared at his shoulder.
‘You wish to stay with them?’ Thomas asked.
Hammid shook his head. ‘They ask too many questions,’ he replied awkwardly.
‘And what answers do you give them?’
‘Only those you wish me to,’ Hammid replied.
‘Good,’ Thomas said, and smi
led, a grin without humour. ‘We have a long journey ahead of us, Hammid. Are we packed?’
‘Yes.’ Hammid bowed.
‘Then stop lingering here and take my belongings to the courtyard.’
Hammid bowed again and left quickly. Thomas stayed at the turret to look towards the mountains in the distance with a feeling of expectation.
II
The farewells had been perfunctory at best. William had all he needed from the Orthodox monks, and the Greeks wanted the Bedouin army away from St Catherine’s. Brother Stephanos did not care for ghosts, nor daemons, nor vampyres, but when an army of thousands came to his gate, headed by someone speaking for the Vatican, then it was time for alarm. The captain from Rome troubled him greatly, as did the direction of the Roman Church, and he decided he would write to the Vatican soon to express that concern.
William, for his part, had suspected that something ill would come of their visit to St Catherine. It was after the meal that evening that he confided in Peruzo what trouble there might be.
‘Surely he would not stop us,’ Peruzo had said.
‘No,’ William replied, ‘but he might raise questions with our superiors. Remember that a duty of our mission is stealth. To hide all evidence of war. I have just led an army of Bedouins to the gates of an important monastery in the very name of our war. I have broken the code.
‘They will do nothing,’ Peruzo said and shrugged. ‘What can they do?’
William smiled. ‘Nothing I would regret,’ he said. ‘If they ask me to leave the Order, I’ll do so willingly.’
‘Surely not . . .’ Peruzo said, alarmed.
William nodded. ‘I would, my friend. I would. Adriana has already requested it.’ He appeared grave for a moment, almost lost. ‘Everything has changed. I no longer feel righteous. My reasons to continue fighting are not so clear to me, Peruzo. Everything that has happened since we arrived in Rashid, the deaths of the brothers . . . And what we did to that woman at Bastet . . .
‘She was a vampyre’ Peruzo insisted. ‘You had no choice. It would be a great blow to the cause if you left because of ill-founded guilt.’
‘If we succeed in this mission, Peruzo, I doubt there will be much of a cause left,’ William said ruefully. ‘And if we fail . . .’
The Hoard of Mhorrer Page 33