The commander drew the gold-handled dagger and handed it to d'Anjou. 'Exquisite, is it not?'
'I took them to the harbour,' Philippianous said. 'I remember now.'
'It is a very fine weapon,' the baron agreed.
'I took them to Bucoleon Harbour. That is where they wanted to go.’
'It was made by an armourer in Aries-a very artist with steel,' de Bracineaux said, taking up the knife once more. 'It has served me well so many times over the years, yet still looks as good as new.'
De Bracineaux thrust the dagger into the burning coals. 'You know,' he said, as if imparting a closely held secret, 'one must be very careful not to allow the blade to grow too hot-gold melts more readily than steel; or, so I am told. In any case, it would be a shame to damage the handle.'
'I think they had a ship waiting for them,' shouted the young Greek, growing frantic. 'For God's sake, let me go. I can find them for you.'
'It never ceases to amaze me, d'Anjou,' said the Templar commander, pulling on his gauntlets one after the other, 'how very talkative people become when they finally grasp the utter hopelessness of their position.'
'Positively garrulous,' replied the baron with a yawn.
'But then it is too late.' De Bracineaux pulled the knife from the burning coals; the blade shone with a dull, blue-red glow.
'The problem now,' he continued, 'is turned completely on its head.'
'Turned on its head?' enquired d'Anjou idly.
'Yes.' He spat on the blade and the spittle sizzled as it struck the hot metal. 'They simply will not shut up.'
'Listen to me,' said Philippianous, his voice tight with desperation; sweat rolled from his face and neck in great fat beads. 'Wherever they went, I can find them. I have friends in many places. They hear things. Let me go. I will talk to them. I can find these women for you.'
'You see?' said de Bracineaux. 'A very fountain of information.' He nodded to Sergeant Gislebert who, stepping quickly around the sarcophagus, seized the Greek's hands which were bound at the wrist, and jerked his arms up over his head. The young man, pleading for his life, began to thrash and wail.
'In the end, there is only one way to assure silence,' said the Templar commander, lowering the knife to the young man's chest. The hot blade seared the thin fabric of his mantle. The cloth began to smoulder.
'They went to Bucoleon Harbour,' shouted Philippianous. 'Please, spare me! Listen, my uncle owns many ships. His name is Stakis -ask anyone, they will tell you he is a very wealthy trader. He will reward you handsomely to let me go. Whatever you ask-I swear before God, he will pay it.'
'But we do not need your money.' He drew a line with the hot blade down the centre of the young man's chest, searing the skin. The air filled with the stench of burning flesh.
Philippianous screamed, 'In the name of God, I beg you. Spare me!'
'I do not think God can hear you,' said the Templar, pressing the hot knife deeper. Blood oozed up from the wound, spitting and sputtering as it touched the hot metal.
'Oh, why not let him go?' said d'Anjou. 'I have not had a thing to eat or drink, and the stink you are making turns my stomach.'
'Very well,' replied de Bracineaux. He lifted the knife away and plunged it back into the coals. 'Still, it would not do to have our glorious and renowned order ridiculed by the filth of the street. Once people find out the Templars can be lied to with impunity, we will be mocked from Rome to Jerusalem-and we cannot allow that. So, I think an example is in order.'
'No!' shrieked Philippianous. 'No! Please, I will not tell a soul. I will not breathe a word to anyone.'
'For once I believe you,' said the commander. His hand snaked out and, snatching the knife from the brazier, he pressed the glowing tip hard against the young man's teeth, forcing his jaws open. The hot blade slid into his mouth, searing his tongue. A puff of smoke rolled up, and the blade hissed. Philippianous gave a strangled scream and passed out; his body slumped.
Only then did de Bracineaux remove the knife. 'He has soiled himself,' he observed, wiping the blade on the young man's clothing. 'He stinks. Get him out of here, sergeant.' He turned away from the inert body on the grey stone slab. 'Come, d'Anjou, I am thirsty. I think I would enjoy some more of the emperor's excellent wine.'
'My thoughts exactly, de Bracineaux.' The baron turned and shuffled from the chamber, followed by the commander.
Gislebert regarded the unconscious Greek. 'What do you want me to do with him?'
'Throw him back in the street,' replied the commander over his shoulder. 'He will serve as a mute, yet nonetheless persuasive reminder to all who think to defy the Order of the Temple.'
CHAPTER SIX
She pressed the hem of her mantle to her nose and paused, putting a hand to the mildewed wall as her stomach heaved. So the Saracens would not think her weak, she swallowed back the bile, steadied herself and walked on into the suffocating stench of the dungeon. For the first time since leaving Constantinople, Caitriona doubted whether she was doing the right thing.
That first night aboard ship, with the vision of the White Priest still burning in her mind, her course had appeared obvious, the way clear. Ignoring Alethea's pestering and petulance, she had taken the letter to her father's quarters to examine it alone in greater detail. By the gently wavering light of three lamps and four candles, she had read the document three times-most of it was in Latin, save for a small section in an unknown script. She puzzled over the obscure portion trying to make out the curious text; it was not Latin, or Greek, much less Gaelic or Norse-the only languages she knew.
The letter had been written by a Portuguese cleric called Bertrano, Archbishop of Santiago de Compostela, and addressed to none other than Pope Adrian IV. After the usual greetings and salutations, the archbishop announced that the 'secret of the ages' had been revealed-a marvellous treasure had been discovered in Aragon, a part of eastern Iberia which had been, until recently, a Saracen domain. His reason for writing, he said, was to seek the aid of the Holy Father in the protection of this treasure, which he called the Rosa Mystica. Owing to the increased instability of the region, he greatly feared the Mystic Rose would be captured, or destroyed, and 'the greatest treasure in the world would be lost for ever'-a calamity which, he said, would never be forgiven.
The archbishop asked the pope to send faithful and trusted servants guarded by a fearsome company of knights to retrieve the treasure and carry it back to the Holy Land so 'that which is beyond all price, the treasure of the ages, our very real and manifest hope for this present age and the kingdom to come, the Mystic Rose, might be re-established in Jerusalem' where it rightfully belonged.
As she pored over the text, she wondered what this treasure might be, and why the White Priest wanted her to become involved in this affair. The more she thought about it, the more strange and fantastic it all became. In de Bracineaux's chamber, Cait had accepted his appearance as normal and natural as meeting a friend in an unexpected place. But now it seemed anything but natural. Put away your wrath, and believe, he had told her, and promised that when she was finished she would receive the desires of her heart.
Well, what she desired most was revenge. Lord, she prayed, folding the parchment letter carefully, make me the instrument of your vengeance.
She wrapped the letter in a piece of cloth and hid it under her father's clothing and belongings at the bottom of his sea chest, then lifted out her most precious possession. It was a book-her book, written by her father during his sojourn in the caliph's palace in Cairo. Removing it from the heavy cloth bag, she ran her fingers over the tough leather binding with its fine, tight rawhide stitching-the work of the Cele De monks of Caithness. She carefully untied the braided leather cord, opened the cover, and began turning the heavy, close-written parchment pages.