Chapter 3
Armand de Gascogne, sergeant of the Order of the Knights Templar, was a man who knew neither fear nor dread. Not only was it against the Rule—a Templar knight was forbidden to feel fear—it was also against his image of himself and against his most fervent wish in life, to be taken into the Order as a full-fledged brother in arms.
But when he spied the walls of Jerusalem in the setting sun, the center of the world, looming up before them, it seemed that he did feel dread, and as if a chill went through him and the hairs on his forearms stood on end. But instantly the heat was back in his face.
Their ride had been very hard; his master Arn had allowed them only a brief rest at midday, and they had ridden in silence without any stops except to dismount now and then for a moment and rearrange the cumbersome loads on the horses. The six corpses had grown rigid in awkward positions, and as the sun climbed in the sky and the heat increased, they had gathered greater and greater clouds of flies around them. But the corpses were not the most difficult things to handle; they could be bent to fit better among the packs. On the other hand, the robbers’ loot in the little grotto had been sizable and hard to load. There was everything from Turkish weapons to Christian communion goblets of silver, silks and brocades, jewelry and Frankish arms ornaments, spurs of silver and gold, blue stones of the Egyptian sort, and gemstones that Armand had never seen before colored violet and blue-green, small golden crucifixes affixed to leather cords or chains of hammered gold. These items alone told them that more than a score of the faithful souls, peace be upon them, must now be in Paradise after meeting a martyr’s death on their way to or from the place where John the Baptist had immersed the Lord Jesus Christ in the waters of the Jordan.
Armand’s tongue had swollen up so that it felt like a piece of thick leather in his mouth, and it was as dry as desert sand. This wasn’t because their water had run out, for with each step the horse took, Armand could hear water sloshing in the leather sack by his right thigh. But it was the Rule. A Templar knight controlled himself. A Templar knight must be able to withstand situations that other people could not endure. And above all, a sergeant could not drink without the permission of his lord, just as he could not speak without being spoken to or halt without orders.
Armand sensed that his lord Arn was tormenting him, but not without purpose, since he was also tormenting himself. It had something to do with that morning. That morning he had responded truthfully, as the Rule demanded. The question he was asked was whether he wished to be admitted as a knight and bear the white mantle. His lord Arn had merely nodded pensively at his reply without showing any emotion, and since then they had not spoken a word. They had ridden for eleven hours with only one brief stop to rest; they had halted occasionally whenever they found water to give the horses, but not themselves, and all this during one of the hottest days of the year. For the past hour Armand had seen how the horses’ quarter muscles had quivered with each step as they moved forward; for the horses too it had been a very hard day. But the Rule also seemed to apply to the horses of the Knights Templar. One never gave up. One obeyed orders. One endured what others could not.
When they finally neared the port in the city wall that was called the Lion’s Gate, a fog clouded Armand’s eyes briefly and he had to grab the pommel of the saddle so as not to fall off his horse. But then he rallied, if for no other reason than out of curiosity to see the tumult that arose at the city gate as he and his lord and their unusual cargo approached. Or perhaps it was because he thought that he would soon get something to drink, in which case he was mistaken.
By the city gate stood guards who were the king’s soldiers, but also a Templar knight and his sergeant. One of the royal soldiers came over to Arn de Gothia’s horse to take it by the bridle as he questioned the rider about his intentions and right to enter the city. The white-clad Templar knight behind him instantly drew his sword and held it in his path, ordering his sergeant to keep the curious away. And then Armand and his lord rode into the center of the city without needing to utter a word, because they belonged to God’s holy army, and they obeyed no person on earth except the Holy Father in Rome.
The sergeant from the city gate escorted them down narrow cobblestone streets toward the temple square, shooing off street urchins and other bystanders who, if they were Christian, wanted to flock around their cargo and spit on the corpses; or if they were unbelievers, wanted to see whether they recognized any of the dead. A myriad of foreign languages buzzed around Armand’s head; he heard Aramaic, Armenian, and Greek, but many others he failed to recognize.
When they neared the temple square they rode down toward the stables located beneath the Temple of Solomon. Down there was a high vault furnished with huge wooden gates, and more guards stood there who were all sergeants in the Order of the Knights Templar.
Now Armand’s lord slowly dismounted, handed the reins to one of the sergeants waiting politely, and whispered something before he turned to Armand and in a rough voice issued the order to dismount and keep a tight rein on the horses. A white-clad Templar knight came hurrying up and bowed to Arn de Gothia, who bowed in return, and then they were allowed to enter the long colonnade of huge stables. They halted inside at a table where green-clad sub-chaplains did the bookkeeping. Sir Arn and his brother knights in white had a brief conversation which Armand couldn’t hear, and then the sergeants began to unload the horses and prepare to show object after object to the scribes, while Arn beckoned to Armand to follow him.
They passed through the endless stables. The stables were very beautiful and clean; not a horse-dropping in the corridors, not even a wisp of straw, nothing but clean cobblestones. Row after row of horses stood either lost in their own dreams or being curried, shoed, watered, and fed by an army of brown-clad grooms. Here and there a black-clad sergeant was working with his horse, or a white-clad brother knight with his. Each time they passed by a sergeant, Armand bowed. Each time they passed a Templar knight, Arn did the same. What Armand saw was a power and a force he never could have imagined. He had been to Jerusalem only once before, to visit the Church of the Holy Sepulcher with a group of recruits; every recruit was required to have visited the church at least once. But he had never been inside the Templars’ own quarters in Jerusalem. Despite all the rumors he had heard, it was larger and mightier than he could have ever imagined. The value in gold of these beautiful and well-cared-for horses of Arabian or Frankish or Andalusian blood would be enough to defray the cost of a small army.
When they came to the end of the stables they saw narrow spiral staircases leading upward. Armand’s lord seemed to know his way like the back of his hand. He had no need to ask directions of anyone, and he chose the third or fourth staircase without hesitation. They walked up the stairs in the dark in silence. When they suddenly emerged in a large courtyard, Armand’s eyes were blinded by the light as the setting sun flashed off a great cupola of gold and a smaller one of silver. His lord stopped and pointed, without saying a word. Armand crossed himself before the holy sight and then was amazed, now that he stood so close, to discover that the golden dome he had previously seen from a distance was covered with rectangular plates of something that could only be solid gold. He had always imagined that it was made of tiles with a gold-colored glaze. That the entire roof of a church could be made of pure gold was beyond comprehension.