'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.