The blask rood

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 towards 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 towards 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, crypt-like 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 forwards 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 Caitriona 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.'

'Why 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 towards Wazim as he spoke, and as I did so the light in the alcove began to fade. 'What if -' I said, turning once more towards 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.

They searched the room, sweeping the corners with torchlight and, finding nothing, swiftly moved on. I allowed myself a low sigh of relief, and sat back a moment to catch my breath and reflect on how best to make our retreat. 'Now we go,' I whispered to Wazim.

'What about the Holy Cross?' he asked.

'The search is over,' I told him. 'Here-give me your hand.'

In the darkness, I found his hand and guided it to the scarred length of timber cradled in my arms. Like a blind man, his fingers traced the deep-grooved lines and ridges of the ancient wood, and tears formed in his eyes, and mine, as, each in our own way, we honoured the sacred relic.

The voices of the Templars and Fida'in echoed in the chamber below, and my thoughts turned once again to escape. Of the few courses open to me, I determined that the vent shaft offered the best chance of evading discovery and capture. The ascent was steep, but not impossibly so. I soon found that I could crawl up the incline slowly on hands and knees, pushing the rood before me.

This I did, and a short time later Wazim and I had reached the secret passage above. Although it was as dark as the deepest cavern, I smelled the night-blooming flowers in the breeze from the vertical shaft and knew without a doubt where we were. Standing with my back to the shaft, the tunnel opened out to the right and left. The passage to the right led back to the cistern and the ash-traps below the kitchens; the left-hand passage led to the underground canal.

The canal would take us to the river, thereby avoiding not only the palace and any lurking Templars or Fida'in, but also the overcrowded streets with their rioting throngs. This, I decided, was the way we would go.

Hefting the rood piece onto my shoulder, we started off- one blind man following the other. Wazim walked before me with my bundle of rolled papyrus scrolls slung across his chest, and I followed, keeping my left hand outstretched, my fingertips brushing his back – more for comfort than need, since the passage led in only one direction, without divisions, branches, or turnings; there was no chance of becoming lost.

Thus, we made our way to the secret stream, stumbling now and then, but proceeding with good speed. The sacred relic was heavy and unwieldy, but after carrying Bohemond's head all that time, I had learned how to bear a burden without tiring myself unduly. And, after a time, I found I did not greatly mind the darkness; although I was blind as a stone, I knew the canal lay just ahead, and that there was a boat waiting to take us to the Nile, where at long last I would be reunited with Padraig and the others.

In a little while, the downward trend of the passage increased and we came to the first of the series of low steps-first one, and then two, and so on, until I could hear the ripple and splash of the stream ahead. We checked our pace, and continued with greater caution, arriving at the water's edge at last. Passing the rood to Wazim, I knelt down on the last step and felt along the edge of the wall for the ring to which the boat was tethered. After much fumbling, I found the ring and then set about untying the rope.

It was knotted tight and there was no loosening it. The braided cord, however, was old, and scuffing it against the brickwork of the passage it soon frayed to the place where, using all my strength, I was able to pull it apart.

Wrapping the end of the rope around my hand, I pulled the boat to the steps and instructed Wazim to lay the rood down on the path behind me, and get into the small craft. 'I will steady it for you,' I told him. 'When you are ready, I will hand you the rood.'

Slowly, and with exaggerated care, we settled Wazim in the boat, and I handed him the rood, telling him to hold it upright and clenched between his knees, keeping one hand on it at all times. Then it was my turn; I was able to get in without capsizing our vessel, and allowing the stream to turn us, I released my hold, pushing away as the bow came around.

The flow of water was not fast and the boat glided away slowly. It was strange, floating along in utter darkness. But for the gentle stirring of air on our faces, we might have been sitting completely still in the water. From time to time, I dipped my hand in the stream to test that we were indeed moving along with the flow. Once we bumped against the side of the canal-which startled both of us, and caused Wazim to cry out in alarm. I was able to push away without incident and from then on kept one hand out so as to fend off another collision.

Unfortunately, the damage was already done. The boat was old, the wood rotten, and the impact, though mild, had loosened part of the hull and caused a seam to open, allowing water to seep into the boat. The first I knew of it was when I felt my feet getting wet; I put down my hand and realized the bottom of the boat was awash.

'Stay very still,' I warned Wazim. 'The leak is slight, and we may yet reach our destination before the hull fills with water.'

That was not to be, however. Soon water was sloshing over our ankles. Bailing was futile. Although I tried for a while, cupping my hands and flipping it out by the handful, I could not keep pace with the rising water. 'Can you swim, Wazim?' I asked.

'No, master,' he replied, his voice taking on a quaver of concern.

I assured him that I could swim well enough for both of us and that there was nothing to worry about. I was still offering this assurance when the boat struck the canal wall again and the seam opened wider. I felt the water rising, and said, 'Listen carefully, Wazim. I am going to get out of the boat and into the water. Stay just as you are, and do not move. I will hold to the side of the boat and all will be well.'

This was far too optimistic, however; the darkness complicated everything-even simple movements became manoeuvres fraught with difficulty. In the end, I succeeded in sliding over the side without overturning our fragile craft. The water was not overly cold, and I reckoned that by removing my weight from the boat, we just might make it to the river before the vessel sank.

We struck the side two more times in quick succession, and the second bump spun the boat around. Despite being in the water, I was able to keep the vessel from overturning, and perhaps we would have made it to our destination intact if the current had not picked up markedly at the same time. I could not see what caused the stream to move more quickly, but thought it must be that the walls of the canal had narrowed.

And then, in the distance, I heard the rushing splash of falling water. Not wishing to alarm Wazim, I said, 'I think it would be a good idea to join me now.'

'I am happy to remain in the boat, Da'ounk,' he*replied, his voice trembling in the darkness.

'I think you may have no choice, Wazim. I want you to hand the rood to me first, and then ease over the side. We can hold to the rail. The boat will float a long time yet, even with water in it.'

I could feel the stream beginning to swirl around me as the current strengthened. The rushing sound grew louder. In the dark, it would be impossible to judge the severity of the drop, or even to know how far ahead it lay. I kept this to myself, however, as I did not wish to frighten Wazim the more. 'Here,' I said, tapping the rail with my hand, 'let me take the rood, and then I will help you over the side.'

Muttering in some incomprehensible tongue, he passed the holy relic to me, and then prepared to ease himself over the side. Gripping the side of the boat, he made to stand and at that moment I felt the bow veer sharply away; the boat struck the wall of the canal and poor anxious Wazim was thrown off balance. He gave out a terrified yelp and released my hand as he fell back into the boat.

I heard the dry crack of rotten wood. There was a shuddering splash and the fragile craft began to break apart. Grappling with chunks of wreckage, I shouted for Wazim and made for the sound of his thrashing and coughing.

All at once the water surged around me. I felt the floor come up sharply beneath my feet, and floundered for a foothold. Chunks of stone scraped my knees and shins as I was dragged forwards by the force of the water. I shouted for Wazim to keep his head up, and then felt a rising swell like that of the open sea as I was swept over the falls.

Holding tight to the rood, I plunged sideways and struck a jumble of stone blocks on the bottom of the stream bed. I was tumbled along beneath the surface of the water, pummelled by pieces of wreckage as the ruined boat came sliding over the falls. The Black Rood slipped from my hands as I was rolled over again and again by the force of the water.

All was darkness and turmoil. I could not tell where I was, nor which way to the surface. I flailed underwater, desperate to rise, but the stream went on and my lungs felt like they were on fire. My chest ached. I must soon breathe, or burst.

And then I collided with something hard-a dense and solid mass, moving with me in the water. Even blind and confused, I knew it was the rood. I threw my arms around it and let it guide me to the surface.

I clung to the Holy Rood, gasping, gulping down air, and thanking the Swift Sure Hand for his timely deliverance.

I felt something squirming in the water as it slid past; I snaked out a hand and snagged the edge of Wazim's robe, and pulled him up. He spluttered and coughed, and thrashed around wildly.

'Peace, Wazim!' I shouted. 'I have you now. Be still. You will not drown.'

I had to repeat this several times before he ceased struggling; but eventually the fight went out of him and he allowed me to bear him up.

Holding to the rood with one hand, and to Wazim with the other – while at the same time trying to keep my head above water-I could do little more than drift with the current, and this I did, until the stream began to lose some of its force and turbulence. We bobbed along for a time, until I struck the side of the canal with my foot. Releasing Wazim for a moment, I fumbled in the darkness for a handhold on the rough stonework. 'Here, Wazim,' I said, dragging him to the wall. 'We are saved. Grab hold and hang on.'

We were saved, indeed. Pushing the holy relic before me, I worked my way along the wall, feeling for each handhold and talking to Wazim all the while, soothing him with words of encouragement. We edged along this way for untold ages. It is strange, but in the darkness, with nothing to mark either passage or progress, time seemed to stop; we floated in a timeless eternity with neither beginning nor end, only a very wet and endless present.

As I say, I do not know how long we continued this way, but there came a place where I reached for a handhold and instead of stone, my fingers touched wet moss or slime, and slipped; my head sank below the surface. I kicked my legs to right myself and touched something soft underfoot-not once only, but twice, and then again. It took me a moment to realize that it was mud.

The bottom of the canal was covered with soft, mushy silt. A short time later, I found I could stand and keep my head above water. 'See here, Wazim,' I said encouragingly, 'the water is growing more shallow. Get your feet under you and stand.'

We moved on a little further, and the level of the stream continued to drop as the channel grew wider; soon we were sloshing through waist-high water. I pushed the floating rood along beside me, and a short time after that, I noticed a watery grey dimness seeping into the air. After so long a time in the inky blackness of utter darkness, I did not trust my eyesight. But the wan gloaming held and strengthened, and after a time I could deny it no longer. Wazim noticed it, too. 'I think it is getting lighter, praise God's Almighty Christ,' he said, crossing himself in the Eastern manner.

'You surprise me, Wazim.'

'Why? Did you think you were the only Christian in all of Egypt?' He gave me a wry smile. 'The Copts may not be numbered among the mightiest, but what we lack in strength, we make up in stealth.'

'You knew-all this time you knew I was a Christian, yet you never said anything, you never let on. Why? Why did you not tell me, give me a sign or something?'

'A Christian in the khalifa's court must be very careful if he cares to keep his head on his shoulders.'

The water level continued to fall as the walls of the canal stretched further apart; I noticed that the roof had become bare rock, instead of brick, and soon we were slogging through water just over our knees. I picked up the rood and carried it on my shoulder.

We walked on and the light grew steadily brighter. It came to me that this was because it was growing lighter outside. While we toiled below ground, night had passed in the wider world and dawn was breaking; people were rising to begin their daily tasks, and I… I was free and on my way home with the prize I had set out to rescue.

The satisfaction I felt in this achievement was sharply diminished a few steps later when I realized I had lost my sheaf of papyri.

'Wazim, the bundle I gave you-where is it?'

He stopped and patted himself about the chest and back. 'I do not know, my friend.' He turned and looked into the solid black recesses of the tunnel behind us. 'I think the strap must have come loose when I fell out of the boat.' He turned mournful eyes to me. 'I am sorry, Da'ounk.'

'No matter,' I replied weakly, feeling the loss. All the time I had spent in that singular labour… gone. How absurd to bemoan such a trivial thing, I thought. The letter was merely a meagre attempt at consolation for my failure to return home and, all things considered, it was far better to have survived in the flesh. Still, foolish as it was, I regretted losing something that had occupied so much of my thought and care these many months. I felt as if a part of my life had been carelessly lopped off and discarded.

'See there, Da'ounk,' Wazim said, drawing me from my thoughts.

I looked where he was pointing and saw sunlight on a pale grey wall of stone a few hundred paces further ahead; a short time later we rounded a bend in the canal and reached our destination.

A massive iron portcullis covered the canal entrance, but this was so old and rusted there were gaps showing in the ironwork and it was but the chore of a moment to force a hole wide enough to squeeze through. A few more steps, following the stream around the base of a massive shoulder of fallen rock loosed from the overhanging cliffs above, and we were standing in the reed-fringed shallows, peering with dazzled eyes at a golden sunrise shimmering on the Nile.