The Black Rood

by Stephen R. Lawhead

  Holding the torch before me, I squatted down, ducked through the opening, crawled over the broken bits of timber, and found myself in a small vaulted room containing stacks of slowly moldering papyrus scrolls tied in braided cords. Moving quickly on, I proceeded through the arched doorway at the end of the room and entered a much larger room, this one filled with ceremonial saddles, bridles, and other such tack for horses and camels—row upon row of high-backed saddles trimmed in silver and gold, some displayed on standards, some merely heaped on the floor. There were scores of lances, too, most with cloth pennons and flags attached to their blunted ends; and in one corner, I saw four chariots, resting on their axles, their painted wheels stacked and leaning against a pillar.

  “We have found the treasure house, Wazim,” I said softly. “Now to find the rood.”

  I had expected to find a single, hall-like room filled with the caliph’s wealth and riches—a great jumble of objects, boxes, and caskets filled with coin and plate, bowls and cups, rings and jeweled ornaments, and the like. It was instead a very house: room gave way to room, with connecting galleries and corridors, halls, chambers, and storerooms. We passed quickly through the first two chambers and came to a long, double-vaulted gallery with a central row of pillars and low doorways on either side.

  Upon entering this gallery, the pounding sound—which had been absent for some time—commenced anew; this time the blows were sharper, harder, more measured. I suspected that either newer, fresher troops had been assigned to the duty, or better tools had been found—perhaps both. I did not know how long the iron-bound timber could withstand such battering, but reckoned that we had little time to make our discovery and escape. There were many rooms to explore, but only one torch, and that would not last long. So, without an instant’s hesitation, we started the search—beginning with the nearest rooms.

  The first two chambers contained jars of various kinds; as the dust on the floor revealed no recent footprints, I did not bother looking farther than the doorway. The third room contained rugs, rolled up or tied in bundles; the fourth room was full of caskets of many sizes, and at first I thought I might find some of the treasure that had come to Cairo with me, but again, the dust had not been disturbed in a very long time, so we quickly moved on.

  Meanwhile, the crashing on the wooden door grew steadily louder, the blows falling harder and more rapidly, as if those on the other side were becoming more determined. We had searched but four rooms, and twice that many remained. At the pace we were making, the torch would burn out before we finished—if the Templars did not break through first. “There must be an easier way,” I grumbled, darting toward the doorway of the next room.

  And then it came to me…the dust on the floors—of course!

  Abandoning the search of the chambers at the end of the gallery, I made directly for the rooms nearest the entrance. Holding the torch low, I saw that the chamber on the right-hand side had not been recently used. I cautioned Wazim to silence, and moved quickly to the other side of the gallery, passing the door which was now shuddering under the violence of the attack; I could hear the wood splintering as the axes thudded, and the grunt of the men as they hewed at the solid timber.

  At the doorway to the last room, I paused and held the torch to the floor—holding my breath at the same time. And I saw it: a trail in the dust of the chamber floor caused by the passing of many feet. “This way,” I whispered. I stepped into the chamber, and my heart sank.

  It was not a chamber at all, but another gallery, and larger than the one we had just searched. The torch was already flickering as it burned the last of its fuel, and from the sound of the shuddering door, the Templars would soon be through. There was nothing for it, but to go on and hope for the best.

  Holding the torch low, I moved as quickly as I could, following the trail in the dust. Once inside the gallery, however, the trail quickly dissolved as footprints scattered everywhere across the floor. It seemed to me that most of them tended toward the rooms on the left-hand side of the long, double-vaulted room, so that is where we began.

  The first chamber contained a quantity of small wooden caskets—many carved and inlaid with mother-of-pearl; a swift inspection revealed the boxes contained cups, bowls, and ornamental bells. “Hold this,” I said, giving the torch to Wazim. And, taking up one of the caskets, I dumped out the cup and carried the empty box back out into the gallery where I smashed it against a pillar. The wood was old and dry, and splintered easily into pieces. I instructed Wazim to break up the pieces still farther, and hurried back for another. I did this with three more of the boxes, then heaped the broken fragments against the base of the pillar and, using a wad of cloth from the inside of one of the caskets, set the heap on fire with the torch.

  “Stay here and keep the fire going,” I instructed Wazim. Taking up the torch, I hurried on.

  The second room contained earthenware jars filled with perfumed oil, and in the third rolls and bundles of cloth of gold, and silver, and multicolored, richly patterned Damascus cloth. I looked in three more—each with similar items, but there was nothing I recognized as having come from Amir Ghazi’s hoard.

  As I rushed on to the next rooms, a great crash sounded from the main gallery. The sound seemed to fill the treasure house, resounding and echoing through the underground corridors. This mighty clash was followed by a long silence, after which the pounding of the axes resumed in earnest.

  I quickly completed the search of the last three rooms—one was little more than a narrow alcove and contained nothing but a few pottery jars and, high up on the end wall, a large, square vent covered by a partially open ironwork grate. The other two rooms were each filled with items of ceremonial armor: stacks of painted wooden shields, bundles of tasseled halberds, sheaves of curved swords standing upright in wooden barrels, helmets ranged around the walls and floor in ranks. Upon examining the last room, I dashed across and started in on the opposite side of the gallery.

  Feeling the grip of desperation tightening around me, I prayed, “Great King, if you care about the honor of your name, help me to restore it now.”

  In truth, I do not know what I meant by this; the words came to me and I spoke them out. The reply was immediate—if from an unexpected source.

  “Da’ounk!” Wazim Kadi shouted behind me. I turned to see the little Saracen standing beside the pillar, the fire at its base burning brightly in the gloom of the gallery. He was pointing across to a chamber on the other side of the entrance. “Look!”

  I glanced where he indicated and saw the glow of a torch as it passed from view into the chamber.

  “Did you see who it was?” I called, already running for the doorway.

  “It was a father,” he replied.

  At least, that is what I thought he said; it did not make sense to me, but there was no time to ask questions. I sped to the chamber and looked in. It was a large room with several columns forming aisles, between several of the columns someone had heaped up mounds of objects. There was no sign of the torch-bearing man Wazim had seen. Was it a trick of the light? Had we imagined it? Then I saw the gold-trimmed box containing Bohemond’s head, and all questions vanished. Having carried that grotesque trophy all the way from Kadiriq to Damascus, I would have recognized its gleaming tracery and metal-bound edges in my sleep.

  I started for the heap, just as another tremendous crash resounded from the main gallery—this one accompanied by a slow, creaking, cracking sound and a second clatter. I guessed part of the door had given way. It would not be long before the Templars and their Fida’in allies gained entrance.

  I dived into the mound and, tossing the torch to the floor, began pulling things from the heap and throwing them aside. Many were objects I recognized, and this encouraged me greatly. But as the pile diminished, my hopes began to fade.

  There came another enormous, walloping crash, followed by a long, groaning crack as another portion of the ironclad door gave way. An instant later, the low-burning torch gave a last spu
ttering spurt and sizzled out. I raced back to the doorway, and called for Wazim to bring a piece of wood from the fire.

  “They are getting very close now,” he said, handing the burning brand to me.

  “So are we,” I replied. “The relic is in this room somewhere.”

  There came another tremendous crack on the door. I could hear the timber splintering as sections were ripped away.

  “What would you have me do, Da’ounk?”

  “Pray, Wazim.”

  To my surprise the little jailer folded his hands, closed his eyes, and began chanting then and there. Leaving him to his prayers, I took the burning chunk of wood and, kneeling beside the casket containing Prince Bohemond’s head, I unfastened the clasp and opened it.

  The flickering light playing over the embalmed prince’s frozen features made it seem as if he was trying to awaken from his serene and perpetual sleep. “May God forgive me for what I am about to do,” I said, and touched the burning wood to the prince’s stiff hair.

  The resulting flame was much brighter and larger than I expected; due to the pitch resin in the embalming mixture, the waxen flesh burned readily. I watched for a moment as the flames licked across the contours of his face, singeing off eyelashes and brows, and painting his becalmed expression with a liquid glaze of shimmering flame. Satisfied that the flame would not go out, I picked up the box and carried it quickly along the colonnade to the next mound of plunder. There, by the light of Bohemond’s flaming head, I began pawing through the trove—this time to Wazim’s rapidly muttered prayers, which he interrupted long enough to urge me to hurry faster.

  Two more booming crashes trembled the walls of the treasure house before I reached the bottom of the heap, only to come up empty-handed. My frustration was eased by the thought that there was only one mound left and the rood must be there.

  The casket containing the burning head was on fire now and too hot to pick up, so I shoved it with my foot to the next hoarded heap and waded in, scattering valuable objects right and left.

  Crack! The door in the main gallery splintered and groaned.

  “Hurry!” shouted Wazim. He was standing at the chamber doorway. “They have made a hole in the door. I can see them now.”

  “Over here!” I called. “It has to be in this heap somewhere. Help me find it.”

  Wazim hastened to my side and together we plowed into the mound of objects. Heedless, I strewed costly objects everywhere; I tossed aside jeweled daggers, carelessly threw away a fine bow and quiver of golden arrows, and sent silver bowls and chalices clattering across the floor. And then, I found it: the rug in which I had wrapped the holy relic. I fell upon it at once and pulled it to me.

  Even as my hand closed on the rolled rug, however, I knew my hope was disappointed. The roll was empty. The Black Rood was gone. Beneath the rug, I saw one of the gem-encrusted, gold bands that had capped the ends of the piece; the other gold band lay beside it, mangled and flattened by the bearer’s clumsy feet. My poor heart rending with dismay, I stooped and retrieved the flattened band. There, in the dying light of Bohemond’s burning skull, tears welled up in my eyes as my failure overwhelmed me.

  All that time I had spent in captivity, nursing the hope, however tenuous, that I might rescue the sacred relic. But the Black Rood was gone.

  “Da’ounk?” said Wazim. “What is wrong?”

  “It is gone,” I replied, letting the gold bands slip from my hands. “We are finished.”

  From the main gallery there came a final thunderous crash and the sound of splintered timber careening across the floor. A cheer went up from the soldiers on the other side. With that, the last of the flames gave out; the box broke into embers and the skull rolled onto the floor, empty eye sockets staring at me, lipless mouth grinning in grim mockery. The burned bone glowed red for a moment, and then that, too, disappeared in the darkness.

  Wazim called me again. I made no reply.

  There was nothing to say. The soldiers would be on us at any moment, and that would be the end of it.

  I heard Wazim moving in the darkness, and felt a touch on my arm. I thought he meant to move me along. “I am sorry, Wazim,” I said. “It was all for nothing.”

  Out in the main gallery, the last remnant of the door gave way and, with shouts of triumph, the Templars stormed into the treasure house.

  FORTY-TWO

  I STOOD IN THE darkness, listening to the whoops and shouts of the Templars and Fida’in resounding through the main gallery and echoing in the chambers and passages, as the light from their torches flickered dimly on the walls—a phantom army swarming up from the netherworld to plunder the caliph’s treasure.

  And they would have it, too. There was no one to stop them. Templars and Fida’in together, I thought. On what unholy day had that alliance been forged?

  I listened to the sounds of their hurried footsteps as they raced to the plunder…a race I had hoped to win.

  I had failed—a truth made more brutal for the fact that I had allowed myself to believe that God was with me, leading me each step of the way, that my trials had been for a purpose, that my suffering had meaning.

  But it was all a lie. I knew it now, and the knowledge made my heart writhe like a snake in hot ashes. I could have wept for the futility of it, if not for the knot of hard, hot anger coiling in my gut.

  Wazim whispered my name again, gently pulling me from my miserable reverie. “Look!” he said in a voice half-stifled with awe. “The holy father is here!”

  I turned my head toward the sound of his voice and saw a faint glimmer of golden light reflecting on the surface of one of the stone pillars behind us. It vanished again before I could determine the source. Nevertheless, I moved toward the place and discovered that the pillar stood before the alcove I had examined a few moments ago. The light appeared to emanate from within this narrow, cryptlike room.

  Stepping quickly to the low entrance, I saw a man dressed all in white holding a torch in his left hand. His robe was that of a cleric—a priest of an Eastern order, so I thought—and his bearing both lordly and humble, that of a venerated patriarch. I understood at once why Wazim had called him a holy father. Yet, in face and form he was youthful still, his beard and hair black, the glance of his dark eyes keen.

  He beckoned me to him, but astonished as I was, I made no move to join him. For, although he held a torch, it was not the torch which shed the light, it was the whole of his being.

  Raising his hand, he beckoned me again, more insistently, and said, “Come quickly, Duncan, time grows short.”

  At the sound of my name, I edged forward a step or two. “Who are you, lord, that you know me?”

  “Duncan,” he said in a tone of gentle reproof. “Does not the master know his servants? How should I forget one who has served me so well?”

  “The White Priest,” I whispered. Wazim Kadi sank to his knees beside me, bowed his head and shut his eyes tight.

  “Call me Brother Andrew,” he replied lightly. “As I once asked your father, so I now ask you: what do you want?”

  It seemed a strange question—with soldiers clattering through the main gallery behind us, rushing eagerly to the plunder, what difference did it make what I wanted? Strange, too, his question instantly brought to mind the cool clean breeze of the northern Scottish coast, and I saw the dark waves driven white upon the hard rock shingle of Caithness bay, and standing on the high headland gazing out to sea, two figures: one tall and gaunt, one small, cherubic, her long hair blowing in the wind—Murdo, my father, with little Caitríona by his side—and they were searching the wide, wave-worried sea.

  At that moment, I wanted nothing more than to be sailing into that bay, and to hold those people in my arms. “I want to go home,” I murmured, feeling the tears rising to my eyes.

  “So did your father,” replied the White Priest, “but he was proud and would not admit it.”

  “Perhaps he was made of sterner stuff than his unfortunate son.”

  “Wh
y unfortunate?” asked the mysterious monk. “You have the Holy Light to guide your steps along the True Path. Murdo paid dearly to learn what you already know.”

  There came a shout at the door of the chamber behind us. Wazim, on his knees beside me, clasping his hands and muttering fervent prayers, jumped to his feet, turned and ran to the alcove entrance.

  “I know nothing,” I said, feeling my failure afresh. “And unless you help us, I will not live to see another morning in this land.”

  “O, man of little faith. I will tell you what I told your father the first time we met.”

  “What is that?”

  “Take heart. You are closer than you know.”

  At that moment, Wazim called from the doorway. “Da’ounk!” he whispered urgently. “They are coming this way!”

  I glanced toward Wazim as he spoke, and as I did so the light in the alcove began to fade. “What if—” I said, turning once more toward the White Priest. He was gone, leaving only a gently fading glow where he had been standing. But in that shimmering light, I saw that he was right.

  “What are we going to do?” Wazim rasped in desperation. “They are almost here!”

  “Peace, Wazim,” I whispered. “Come away from there.” Taking his arm, I pulled him away from the alcove entrance. “Brother Andrew has led us to the treasure.”

  He glanced around the near-empty room, and then turned frightened eyes on me. “Where?” he asked.

  “There,” I told him, pointing to the vent shaft where an old length of timber was propping open the iron grate. “He has also shown us our way out.”

  As darkness closed around us, I reached up and caught the edge of the shaft opening. I jumped, and Wazim took hold of my legs and boosted me up into the opening, whereupon I scrambled into the shaft. Once inside, I reached down and pulled Wazim up after me. Then, carefully, reverently, I took hold of the short wooden beam and, with Wazim’s help, gently eased the heavy iron grate shut. It closed with a dull clank, as two Templars entered the chamber behind us.