“I do not see any soldiers,” I pointed out.
“They have taken the royal family and fled to the citadel.”
“Where is the treasure house?”
“It is under the hareem,” Wazim said. “Below the ground, you know?” As Wazim spoke these words, I recalled my midnight meeting with the Caliph and his unexpected entrance by way of the hidden tunnel.
With admirable efficiency, the treasure house had been constructed beneath the hareem so the same soldiers might guard all the caliph’s various treasures at the same time. There were no lights showing in any of the windows, and the huge building was silent. “This way,” I said, starting toward the entrance.
Although the guards were gone, the door was barred, and the bars were secured with large, iron boxlike locks which required the use of keys to open. “You see,” whispered Wazim, creeping up behind me. “They are locked. You cannot get in. We will leave now.”
“There must be another way in.”
“There is only this way,” Wazim maintained. “It is the hareem. There is no other way.”
“Because it is the hareem,” I contended, “there must be another way.” Although I knew little of such things, it seemed to me unlikely that the caliph would wish his visits to his various wives to be known by one and all throughout the palace. I reckoned that, as with the private audience chamber behind the throne room, there must be another, less conspicuous entrance to accommodate his visits.
I looked around the square at the surrounding buildings. There were two long ranks of storerooms, one to the left and one behind the hareem; a wing of the palace enclosed the third side, and on the fourth side, a low building with four funnel-topped domes along the roof. “What is that?” I asked.
“The kitchen and ovens for the hareem.”
I started toward the building. “You will find nothing there,” Wazim said, scuttling after me.
At first look, it appeared he was right. The long, low room was empty, the large, square hearth bare, the ovens cold. There were a few loaves of bread lying on a table, and some pears in a basket, but I could see nothing else in the dark interior. I went in, and felt along the raised rim of the hearth. “What are you doing?” said Wazim. “They will find us. Let us go from here, my friend.”
In a moment, I found what I was looking for: a pile of straw used for kindling to start the fires. I took up a handful and bunched it in my fist, then leaned over and reached out into the center of the hearth and swept away the top layer of ash to reveal a few glowing coals beneath. Holding the bunch next to the coals, I blew gently on the straw and was soon rewarded with a pale yellow sprout of flame. Soon the rest of the bunch was alight and, holding it up, I quickly searched the room for a candle, finding three; I lit one, stuck one in my belt, and gave the third to Wazim, and told him to stand by the door and keep watch. “Warn me if anyone comes into the garden,” I said.
By candlelight, I made a thorough search of the kitchen, pausing only to tear one of the loaves in half and cram bits of it into my mouth. It was stale, but edible, and I resumed my search as I chewed. I searched around and between the ovens, and found a small doorway leading outside through which fuel for the hearth and ovens could be brought in. I went outside and found myself in a closed-in area stacked with wood, bundles of twigs, and straw. Cupping my hand around the flame, I moved along behind the row of ovens, and came upon a wooden cover on the ground between two of them. Lifting the cover, I held my candle into the void and saw a short flight of steps leading down.
I removed the cover quietly and set it aside, then fetched Wazim. He took one look at what I had found and said, “It is the ash traps—for cleaning the ovens. There is nothing here.”
Ignoring him, I moved down the steps and found that he was right. A brick rampart ran along the back of a dressed stone wall, forming a large box to catch the ash falling through the oven grates above. A walkway in front of the rampart allowed the cleaners to remove the ash; at one end of the walkway was a small opening for air to feed the fires from beneath, and at the other end of the walkway, a door.
I called Wazim to follow me, and proceeded to the door. Lifting the latch, I opened the door and stepped through into the cool, damp darkness of a great, cavernous room. I heard the liquid drip of water splash in the distance. “It is the cistern for the hareem,” Wazim announced upon joining me. His voice echoed from unseen walls. “Come, there is nothing here.”
“But there is,” I told him. “Look.” Raising my candle, I held it close to the wall to reveal a torch in an iron sconce beside the door. I took it up, lit it from the candle, and the resulting flame revealed a short walkway forming a ledge alongside the basin of the cistern. At the end of this walkway there was another door. “This way.”
The door opened onto a small room which served to connect two corridors, one to the left, and one to the right. As we were now beneath the hareem, I imagined one corridor or the other must lead to the treasure house. While thinking which to try first, a sharp tapping sound came from some distance away down the corridor on the right-hand side: three taps, followed by a short silence, and then three more.
Wazim heard them, too, and pulled on my sleeve. “Someone is down here,” he whispered desperately. “They will find us if we stay any longer.”
“Stay close,” I said, and started down the corridor. It was a low, vaulted passage of brick and stone; I held the torch before me and crept quietly along, listening to the rhythmic tapping which grew louder the farther we advanced. A line of small openings ran along the top portion of the tunnel; no larger than a man’s hand, I could feel cool air moving through these openings as I crept past.
The passage ended a few score paces along, joining another, larger tunnel, which angled sharply down. The tapping sound was louder here, and I could hear something else—it sounded like voices, but too muffled and indistinct to make out what they were saying. Drawn on by these sounds, I descended the passageway, Wazim trembling behind me, tugging insistently at my sleeve and urging me away with every step.
We soon arrived at another juncture; I could see it for the faint flickering of torchlight on the brickwork several score paces directly ahead of me. The rhythmic tapping had become a steady thudding pound, punctuated by grunts and mutterings.
“Stay here,” I said. Handing the torch to Wazim, I slipped the strap on the bundle of papyri from my shoulder and handed that to him as well. “I will see what is ahead.”
He made to object, but I waved him to silence, and pointed to the spot on the ground where he was to plant himself, and then crept forward alone. As I neared the end, I could see that a heavy iron grate sealed the opening. I lay down and squirmed forward the last few paces on my stomach and, looking between the thick bars of the grate, peered around the corner and into the adjoining corridor beyond.
By the smudgy light of half a dozen torches scattered around them on the ground, two men with short axes were hacking at a timber door. The door, however, was bound with thick iron bands and was resisting their best efforts. The men were Arabs, dressed in black with dark brown turbans, and were unlike any I had ever seen among the caliph’s soldiers or bodyguard. Their determined expressions and relentless hammering gave me to know that I had indeed found the treasure house.
I edged back from the grate and was about to withdraw until I could devise a plan for getting rid of my unwanted fellow thieves, when someone called out. The two stopped working and for a moment the passage became silent. Curious, I crawled back to the grating. The two had downed their axes and were talking to someone who had joined them. The third man remained out of sight beyond the edge of the corridor, and although I could not see who it might be, something about the sound of the voice held me.
From the way the thieves were complaining and gesturing to the door with their inadequate axes, I guessed they were bemoaning their lack of success to an impatient superior—who apparently had little sympathy for their troubles. For, as I lay watching, one of the black
-turbaned thieves offered his axe to the newcomer, indicating that he should try the door himself.
The proffered tool hung between them, and for an instant I thought the other would decline, but then a hand reached out and took the axe. The newcomer stepped into view and proceeded to try his hand at the unyielding door. The blade clattered against the wood—once, twice, and again, whereupon he stopped, and handed the axe back to its owner. He turned, and my breath caught in my throat as his face was revealed in the fluttering torchlight: the Templar Renaud de Bracineaux.
FORTY-ONE
DE BRACINEAUX RETURNED the axe to the Arab, and the two stood discussing the matter. My first thought was to call out to him, to let him know that I was here—but the sight of the Templar commander instructing Arab thieves in their own tongue was too strange and, as it seemed to me, sinister. I hesitated, watching silently.
I was still trying to decide what to do when I felt Wazim creep up beside me. Raising a finger to my lips, I cautioned him to silence, and then allowed him to peer around the corner. The instant he put his face to the grate, a strange thing happened: he sniffed once, and again, then froze, his eyes going wide with terror. He backed away at once and retreated down the passage. I went after him, pausing to retrieve the torch he had dropped. By the time I caught up with him at the junction, the pounding had begun again.
Grabbing hold of his elbow as he entered the adjoining corridor, I arrested his flight. “Who are they?” I demanded. “The Arabs—you knew them. Who are they?”
“Fida’in!” Wazim gasped.
“Are you certain?”
He nodded, his eyes still wide with fright. “The smell,” he said. “Did you not smell it?”
Now that he said it, I did recall a sweet pungency. “I thought it was from the torches.”
“It is hashish. We must get away from here. If the Fida’in find us, they will kill us.”
Templars and Fida’in together? Were these not the fanatical sect that had caused the death of Yordanus’ son, and the reason he had to flee Damascus? Any other time I might have doubted such an unlikely alliance. As extraordinary as it seemed, however, I knew Wazim was right.
What were they after in the caliph’s treasure house? Not, I thought, his gold and silver—at least not entirely. The presence of Renaud de Bracineaux put the thought in my head that they, too, sought the Black Rood. The amount of plunder gleaned from the massacre was not great, but de Bracineaux would know that the capture of the Holy Rood was a greater calamity than the destruction of Bohemond and his troops.
The more my thoughts raced along this path, the more convinced I became that de Bracineaux’s quest and my own were one and the same. If the Templars found the rood first, I would lose it forever.
“Please, Da’ounk, let us go. All the treasure in the world will do you no good if you are dead.”
“I care nothing for the caliph’s gold.” I decided it was time to trust Wazim with the truth. “Listen to me, my friend, there is something you must know.” I told him about the remnant of the Sacred Cross even now residing in the caliph’s treasure house.
“By all that is holy…” breathed Wazim Kadi, lapsing into an astonished silence.
His reaction surprised me. I had not expected the Saracen to hold such reverence for a Christian relic. But there was no time to wonder about it now. “That is why the Templars are here. They know Bohemond lost it, and they are here to get it back.”
“Then they will surely succeed,” concluded Wazim gloomily. “We cannot subdue the Templars or the Fida’in, and we cannot fight them together.”
“I do not intend to fight them for it,” I told him. “Neither will I stand aside and watch them grab it away again.” So saying, I slung the bundle of papyri over my shoulder and started off along the passage again, this time in the opposite direction, and with a heavy heart. I counted de Bracineaux a friend; in any other circumstances I would have hailed him and embraced him as a brother. But cruel fate, aided by Bohemond’s folly, had placed us in sharp contention for the prize. If I got hold of the Black Rood first, I would not be giving it back to the Templars, or anyone else. I had made a sacred vow, and it was not in me to betray it.
“Please, can we leave now?” said Wazim, padding dutifully after me.
“Not until we find another way into the treasure house.”
“But there is no other way. It is a treasure house; there is only one way in.”
“That is what you said about the hareem.”
We hurried back to the first junction where the passage divided to the right and left. The left-hand side led back to the cistern, so I took the passage to the right. “This way.”
Almost immediately, we came to an opening with steps leading up—into the hareem, I supposed. There was an unlit torch in a sconce beside the steps and, taking this, I handed it to Wazim, and continued on. After a few hundred paces, the passage narrowed and began to bend downward. There were two more openings off the main passage, one to the right, and one to the left. The one on the left was half the height of a man, and the one on the right was not much larger.
As we passed the opening on the right, a faint rush of air fluttered the torch flame; the air was warm and I could smell the scent of flowers. I put the torch into the opening, but could see little save a downward angled shaft and another vertical shaft directly above. Leaning into the shaft, I looked up into the connecting vent and saw stars in the square opening above.
There seemed no point in lingering, so we moved quickly on. The downward angle of the slope increased sharply; every few paces a step appeared, and then two, and then three at a time. No more junctions or openings appeared, however; nor did this tunnel of a passageway divide or branch off.
After a while, I lost heart and began to think Wazim was right after all. I came to a long flight of steps, the end of which I could not see in the feeble light of the torch, and there we paused.
“Why are we stopping?” asked Wazim a little breathlessly.
“Listen.”
Down the passageway—some distance ahead, by the sound of it—I heard the ripple and splash of moving water—an aqueduct, perhaps, supplying water to the palace.
“It sounds like a stream. We have left the palace behind. It might be the Nile.”
“Perhaps,” I allowed, and started off again. The steps led down and down, and soon I could smell the water and feel the cool dampness on my skin.
The last few steps disappeared beneath the surface of the water, dropping away so quickly I was almost in the stream before I caught myself. A rusted iron ring protruded from the step on which I stood, and there was a rope tied to the ring. Bending down, I pulled on the rope, but it was secured to something heavy which remained out of sight beyond the small circle of light. Handing the torch to Wazim, I took the rope in both hands and pulled harder; there was a rippling sound and a boat came gliding into view.
Wazim took one look at the boat and said, “This is the canal of Khalifa al-Hakim. It leads to the river.”
“You know this?”
He shrugged. “I have heard of it. The canal was built many years ago—a hundred years or more. Al-Hakim was despised. He built many great things—the palace, the hareem, and the citadel…many things—but he taxed the people hard to pay for all these buildings and there were many riots in those days. They say he built this secret canal so that he could escape if the people ever revolted against him.” Indicating the channel, Wazim added, “You hear many such things in the palace. Until now, I never believed all these stories.”
Time slipped away; every moment we wasted, the Templars’ quest advanced unhindered, and mine faltered. Back we raced, taking the steps two at a time as they came, arriving breathless at the top of the passage. A few more steps brought us to where the two smaller openings joined the tunnel, and I decided to try the low one on the right-hand side first.
Once more, I gave Wazim the bundle of papyri and bade him wait for me. Going on hands and knees, I entered th
e opening; it was dry and dusty, and ended after only a few dozen paces. Unable to turn around, I backed up. “It is closed up with brick,” I said upon rejoining Wazim. “We will try the other one.”
Stepping across the passage, I entered the second opening. The roof of the tunnel was higher than the last one, though not so high that a man might walk upright, and it was narrow; after a few steps I was forced to turn sideways. A few more steps and I had to slide along with my back to the wall—difficult to do as I could not fully stand.
In this slow way, I proceeded along until I came to a tight, sharply angled bend, beyond which all was darkness and I could see nothing. If not for the fact that I could feel cool air moving on my face, I would have turned back. Instead, I called Wazim to follow with the light, and, taking a deep breath, squeezed through the opening and waited for him on the other side.
The moving air made a faint but steady breeze which guttered the low-burning torch. “It will go out soon,” Wazim observed.
“Give it to me,” I told him, “and keep the other one ready.”
Once past the angled bend, the passageway opened out once more. We moved on and came to a small, three-cornered room, one side of which opened onto a steep flight of stone steps. The steps were set in a spiral which ended in a room identical to the one below, and with a narrow tunnel leading on in the opposite direction. We paused a moment to light the second torch; I retrieved from him my precious bundle and then moved along.
Just ahead, this new passage ended in a short downward flight of steps, and the shattered remains of a wooden door. The door had been barred, but the timber was old and rotten; someone had kicked their way through the lower half of the door, the fractured pieces of which were scattered over the floor inside.
The Black Rood Page 40