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 iron-clad door gave way. An instant later, the low-burning torch gave a last sputtering 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 ploughed into the mound of objects. Heedless, I strewed costly objects everywhere; I tossed aside jewelled 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 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.