The Black Rood

by Stephen R. Lawhead

  “I care nothing for your troubles,” he said, turning away abruptly. “Take whatever you want and go. Leave me in peace.”

  He shuffled slowly away, leaving me to gape after him.

  TWENTY-TWO

  DEAREST CAITRÍONA, SOMETHING has happened which has me shuddering with a ferment of excitement I have not felt in a very long time. An event of uncertain significance, I realize, yet I cannot bring myself to see it as anything other than a sign of great importance. It would not be the first time a lonely prisoner saw in some minute and arbitrary alteration of his bleak life the false gleam of expectation, I know. Still, my mind races and my hands sweat with anticipation.

  Early this morning—the sun had not risen, and the palace was dark—the guards came for me. I was roughly roused from sleep so I had no time to prepare my departure; they would not even allow me to seal my missive to you, dear heart. Fortunately, Wazim, wakened by the noise, came padding down the corridor, and I was able to tell him what to do. Thus, I went to face my fate secure in the knowledge that whatever befell me, my labor of love would find its way to you one day.

  Accordingly, I was hauled before Caliph al-Hafiz to receive my judgment. All was exactly as before. Indeed, if I had not been aware of the passage of the last few days, I might have imagined that I had left the room, turned around in the corridor and returned to find everything as I had seen it only moments before. The caliph, splendid in his snow-white turban with the peacock feathers, still sat on his golden throne beneath his palm tree, squinting with undisguised animosity as I was brought in.

  I was shoved to my knees before him, and made to kiss the polished stone floor, whereupon I was jerked to my feet once more. The caliph twitched his finger, and the guards released me to stand upright in his presence. He sat for a time, gazing at me in a very hostile way and stroking his long, gray mustache, and I gazed back with as much serenity as I could summon.

  “So!” he said after a time. “They tell me you are very busy these days writing in your book.”

  “That is true, Most Excellent Khalifa. I try to occupy my time.”

  “What is it that you write?”

  “I am making an account of my—”

  “Captivity,” he said, supplying the word himself.

  “Travels, my lord,” I corrected. “I am making an account of my travels in Outremer.”

  He grunted, and pulled on his mustache as he considered this reply. I realized then that the man before me was discontented and oppressed by worry. The eyes that gazed at me were fatigued, and the day was new. “Who will read this account of your travels?”

  “I am making it for my daughter. Although she is still very young, I hope that one day she will want to know what became of her father and she will read it for herself.”

  “Tcha!” he cried, as if he had caught me in a lie. “How do you imagine she will receive this book of yours? Who will take it to her?”

  “I cannot say how it will reach her,” I replied readily. “That is for his Honorable Potentate the Khalifa to decide.”

  The answer caught him off guard. “For me to decide?”

  “Even so, my lord. It was promised in your name that my last request would be granted. My last request is to have my writings reach my daughter.”

  The caliph turned his head and demanded of one of his many advisors, “Is this so?”

  The man, a dark-bearded fellow with a basket of rolled-up parchments beside him, consulted the document before him and nodded. “It is so, Excellent and Exalted Khalifa. The promise was given in recognition of the prisoner’s nobility, according to the custom of Baghdad.”

  The caliph’s small eyes almost disappeared as his squint deepened. He drew a deep breath through his nostrils and blew it out, then said, “So shall it be done.”

  I bowed courteously. “I thank you, My Lord Khalifa.”

  “You love your daughter, I suppose,” he said stiffly.

  “Of course, my lord. She is the jewel of my heart and I cherish her beyond all measure.”

  “A parent should love his children,” al-Hafiz declared, as if instructing a stubborn pupil. “So it is written in the Holy Qur’an.”

  “And in the Bible,” I pointed out.

  “You are not afraid to die,” he observed.

  “No, my lord.”

  “Are you so pure of heart and soul that you do not tremble to stand before the Throne of Divine Judgment?”

  “How should I tremble, my lord, when even now my righteous advocate intercedes before the throne on my behalf?”

  This appeared to interest the caliph. “This advocate—who is he?”

  “He is Jesu, called the Messiah.”

  “I know of this Messiah,” said al-Hafiz, with an impatient twitch of dismissal. “Among the faithful, he is considered a very great prophet.” He frowned, as if daring me to answer, and asked, “Why should this prophet intercede for you?”

  “He intercedes for anyone who trusts in him,” I answered.

  Caliph al-Hafiz raised his chin, indicating he was finished with me. “Then we will see if this advocate has the ear of Allah,” he said. “At the sixth hour your head will fall to the axe and you will stand before the Throne of Judgment. May your advocate’s eloquence open the gates of paradise for you.”

  Even though I knew it was coming, hearing the words made me weak in the knees. Somehow, I summoned the strength to bow in humble acceptance of his decision.

  “Does this not concern you?” he demanded, apparently rankled by my tranquil demeanor.

  “My Lord Khalifa,” I replied, trying to keep my voice steady, “I love my life as much as any man, but it is in your hands. I am your servant. Judge me how you will.”

  “You hope I will pity your insignificant faith and pardon you,” he said, his voice taking on a defiant tone, as if daring me to beg him to spare my life.

  I already knew what I would say. “With all respect, my lord, my hope is in Almighty God, the Merciful Redeemer, who alone holds the power of life and death—in this world and the next.”

  He stared at me, and I thought I saw doubt creeping into the deeply creased lines of his face. Suddenly—as if the thought had just occurred to him—he said, “What do you know of affairs in Cairo?”

  The question so surprised me, I could not think how to answer. “Why, I know nothing of affairs in Cairo,” I replied, when he had repeated it once more. “I have been a prisoner of the palace since coming here. I see no one, and no one sees me.”

  “Just so!” he declared triumphantly, and I understood the question had been a test, but what it was meant to reveal, I could not grasp. Gesturing to the guards, he ordered them to take me back to my cell.

  I was swept from his presence and returned to my cell where I spent my last moments praying and preparing myself for the grim ordeal ahead. I do not know how much time passed—it seemed I spent an eternity on my knees—and I heard footsteps outside my door once more. I heard the key in the lock and rose to meet the guards who would conduct me to the place of execution.

  It was Wazim who entered, however; and he was alone.

  “Da’ounk,” he said, his face beaming like a swarthy sun, “good tidings! The execution is delayed.”

  “Delayed?” Relief flooded through me. “Why?”

  “I was not told the reason,” he answered. “But I know there is some trouble in the city and the khalifa has sent all the guards to deal with it. He has said that no prisoners are to be executed until peace is regained. Is that not wonderful indeed?”

  I agreed that it was wonderful, and asked, “What is the trouble? Why should the executions be delayed?”

  “I do not know what has happened,” Wazim said. “But if you wish, I will make it my duty to find out. Do you wish it?”

  Instantly, I recalled the caliph asking me what I knew of events in Cairo. Inasmuch as I owed my physical well-being to affairs in the city, it made sense to learn more about them if I could. “Yes,” I told him, “find out all you
can, please.”

  “With pleasure, Da’ounk.”

  Grinning, Wazim left my cell; I heard him scurrying away, and, after a heartfelt prayer of thanksgiving for my stay of execution, I returned to my table.

  After a long time pondering the implications of the unforeseen development in my situation, I picked up my quill once more, and returned to the work at hand.

  Leaving the house of Yordanus Hippolytus, I rejoined Roupen and Padraig in the yard. They were sitting beside the little pool, talking quietly. Taking one look at the expression on my face, Padraig said, “He refused to see you.”

  “No, I saw him. He refused to help us.” I quickly explained that I had told him of Commander Renaud’s recommendation. “He said he did not care about our troubles.”

  “Then I say we shake the dust off our feet,” Roupen said. “We have wasted enough time with this already.” He rose abruptly. “We never should have come here in the first place. We would be halfway to Anazarbus by now if we had not listened to that Templar.”

  I was forced to agree with him, and we decided our best course was to return to the harbor and see if we could find a boat to hire; although, considering the little we had left from Bezu’s largesse, I reckoned our chances very slender. Nevertheless, we started from the yard and, as I passed through the low gateway, I heard someone calling me and looked back to see Yordanus’ daughter hurrying toward us.

  I told the others to wait a moment, and turned back.

  “Where are you going?” she asked. “I thought you wanted to see my father.”

  “I have seen him,” I replied. “He did not wish to help us. He said he did not care about our troubles.”

  “He says that to everyone,” she sighed. “I should have warned you.” Her brusque manner had softened somewhat, and I wondered why. “He can be difficult to understand sometimes.”

  “I understood him perfectly well. I am sorry to have troubled you.” I thanked her for her help, and took my leave. “You will excuse me, my friends are waiting.”

  “Don’t go.”

  The desperation in her voice brought me up short. “My lady?”

  “Please, dine with us tonight. I will speak to my father. He will receive you in a far better mood, I promise you.”

  Now it was my turn to frown. “We have spent all day trying to find this place, only to be told to go away—first by you, and then by your father. Now that we are about to do just that, you say you want us to stay.”

  She smiled suddenly—a delicious, winsome flash of fine white teeth against the tawny hue of her skin. For the first time I realized she was of an Eastern race, for her coloring was dark—her hair and eyes were black, and radiantly so, and her flesh glowed with a lustrous sheen the color of honey mingled with cream.

  “Our business is urgent,” I told her. “We dare not waste time indulging the whims of an old man.”

  “Please,” she said, laying a hand on my arm. “You need to eat somewhere, and it is a long time since we have welcomed guests beneath our roof. Dine with us tonight and let us see what comes of it.”

  She was right, the day was rapidly dwindling away, and we would have to find somewhere to stay for the night. We had come this far, I thought, we might as well see it through to the end. “Very well,” I said. “I will speak to my friends.”

  “Good,” she said, brightening instantly. “Fetch them back, and I will show you where you can rest and refresh yourselves.”

  I hurried out through the gate, and told Padraig and Roupen there had been a change of plan. Upon rejoining Yordanus’ daughter in the courtyard, she said, “As we are to dine together, I must go to the marketplace. It is cool here in the courtyard and there is water in the pool to refresh yourselves. I will return soon.”

  I thanked her for her thoughtfulness, but as she made to take her leave, Roupen suddenly demanded, “Do you mean you would eat with them?”

  Before I could reply, he added, “I will not eat with Jews!” With that, he pointed to a bronze disc over the door of the house; it showed the outline of two simple triangles, one inverted and imposed upon the other to form the Star of David, a symbol much employed by the Jews.

  “I will not put my feet beneath the same board as a Jew,” Roupen growled angrily. “Do what you like, I will not break bread with them. I would rather starve first.”

  “Then you may do so,” I told him bluntly, aghast at his crude incivility. I had never seen him so irritated and angry.

  “They are Jews!” he protested unashamedly. “They cannot be trusted. We do not need them anyway. I am leaving.” With that, he spun on his heel and hastened off down the road. Padraig flew after him, attempting to calm him and bring him back to beg forgiveness.

  Mortified by the young lord’s discourtesy, I quickly turned to apologize. “I am sorry, my lady. He is distraught and upset by the urgency of our predicament, but that is no excuse for his uncouth behavior.”

  “And what about you?” she asked sharply. “Do you also hold Jews in such low regard?”

  “I confess I have never known any Jews,” I answered; desperate to make amends, I added: “Still, if they are even half so kind and generous as you have been, then they are indeed a noble race—and I will fight anyone who says otherwise.”

  She gave the remark a dismissive huff and stared at me, her dark eyes searching mine as she pursed her lips in thought. After a moment, she said, “Do you still wish to eat with us?”

  “I would consider it an honor, my lady.”

  “Then you may return this evening.”

  “With pleasure,” I replied, trying to redeem a bad business. “In the meantime, I will calm my young friend and teach him better manners.”

  “Do so,” the lady replied crisply. “You may also find it worthwhile to meditate on this: my father and I are not Jews.”

  “No?”

  “We are Copts,” she said, and disappeared into the courtyard, slamming the door behind her.

  TWENTY-THREE

  WE SPENT WHAT little remained of the day in the market square of the upper town. Under Padraig’s ministrations, and mollified by the fact that our host was not a Jew after all, the haughty young lord allowed himself to be persuaded to partake of a meal without farther insult.

  As a pale yellow moon rose above the surrounding hills, we found ourselves once more standing before the low door in the high wall at the end of the long uphill climb. There was an iron ring hanging from a chain beside the door. Padraig gave the ring a strong pull, and a bell chimed distantly from somewhere inside. We waited for a time, and nothing happened, so he pulled it again, and then once more for good measure. The monk was about to pull the bell yet again when the door flew open and a small brown man poked out his head. He spat a stream of invective which none of us could understand, and then slammed the door again.

  “There! You see?” grumbled Roupen, only too ready to abandon what appeared to be an increasingly hopeless enterprise.

  “Pull the bell chain,” I directed, refusing to give in.

  Again the door flew open, and again the man glared and jabbered fiercely at us. This time, however, I reached in, took hold of his tunic and yanked him out into the street. He sputtered and cursed, and began kicking at us with his bony bare feet.

  “Peace!” I said, holding him back. “We mean you no harm. Stop your fighting. We only want to talk to you.”

  He loosed a blistering torrent of angry words at us, all the while kicking, and swinging his fists. I held him at arm’s length—as much to keep him from hurting himself as any of us, and was considering what to do next when there appeared in the open doorway a very fat man in a loose-fitting robe. He looked at us with a large, languid unimpressed eye, and said, “Yes?”

  I greeted him politely—still holding off the angry little man—and said, “Yordanus is pleased to receive us for dinner this evening.”

  “So you say,” replied the man, wholly unmoved by my declaration. Reaching out, he tapped the squirming, spitting m
an squarely on top of the head. Instantly, he stopped fighting; I released him and he scurried away.

  “Have you something for me?” asked the fat man when the little porter had gone.

  Uncertain how to reply, I glanced at Padraig, who merely shrugged unhelpfully. “No,” I answered at last. “Should I have something for you?”

  “That is for you to say.”

  “I was given nothing for you,” I told him.

  “Pity,” he replied. He rolled his eyes lazily from one to the other of us, then sighed and fell silent.

  “Is Yordanus at home?” I wondered after an awkward moment.

  The fat man yawned, then turned and beckoned us to follow. The three of us stepped through the doorway and crossed the deep-shadowed courtyard. We were led to the door of the villa. “Wait here,” the man instructed; he pushed open the door and vanished into the darkness within.

  In a little while, the small wiry fellow returned. He saw us waiting before the door and instantly flew at us, shouting and waving his hands. He seemed determined to drive us from the house, and might have succeeded, save for the abrupt appearance of Yordanus’ daughter. She wore a long white robe and carried a lash of braided leather with which she proceeded to whip the little man.

  “Go to, Omer!” she cried, swinging the lash. “Go to!”

  I was about to interpose myself in this attack, when I noticed that most, if not all, the whip strokes struck the earth. The desired effect was achieved, however, and the little mad fellow ran off gibbering.

  “You must forgive Omer,” the lady said, recoiling the lash. “He is not often well.” Stepping to the door, she said, “Come this way, please.”

  The house was in darkness, and we crept like thieves through one passage after another until coming to a room in one of the long wings of the extensive villa. The chamber was ablaze with candlelight and the windows were open to allow the soft evening breezes to waft in—setting candles fluttering on the large candletrees around the room. There were no chairs, but after the fashion of the East, we reclined on large cushions either side of the low table which had been spread with fine, ornately woven Damascus cloth.