He inspected the various oils on the table between the two pools, rubbing himself carefully with them over the parts of his body that he could touch without sin, trying out the various colors in the bowls until he found the one he thought he should use for his hair. At last his entire body was smeared with oil. Then he stepped back into the cool water of the pool and washed himself, immersing himself completely. He even washed his hair and beard. He lay still for a moment, floating in the water and staring up at the Saracen patterns decorating the vault of the ceiling. It was like an atrium of Paradise, he thought.
After a while he began to feel cold, so he went over to the hot pool, which had now cooled to such a comfortable temperature that at first it felt like climbing into nothingness. He shuddered and shook his body like a dog or a cat. Then he lay still in the warm nothingness and managed to wash even the impure parts of his body that one must not touch. Without being able to stop himself he sinned. He knew that the first thing he had to do when he returned to the castle in Gaza was to confess this sin, which for so long he had been able to refrain from committing.
He lay dreaming for a long time, totally motionless in the water, as if floating in his dreams. He was here in the anteroom of Paradise but at the same time far away, back home as a child by the river in Gascony, back when the world was good.
The shrill, ungodly sound from the unbelievers screeching out their prayer over the crepuscular city woke him up as if by alarm. Horror-stricken and filled with guilt he climbed hastily out of the water and reached for the two soft white cloths to dry himself.
When he returned to the little outer room, all his old clothes were gone, even the felt layers he wore against his skin beneath his chain mail. There lay a new black mantle of precisely the same type he had worn into Jerusalem, and other new clothing that all fitted perfectly.
Soon he was ready to leave the two strange rooms and go out to the corridor with his mantle over his arm. His lord Arn was waiting, also attired in new clothes. His mantle with the black border showing his rank was fastened around his neck and his beard was combed. Both of them had hair cropped so short that they only needed to run their hands through it.
“Well, my good sergeant,” said Arn without expression. “How did you like that?”
“I obeyed orders; I did everything as you said, lord,” replied Armand uncertainly with his head bowed. He was suddenly apprehensive because of the blank look Arn gave him, as if he had been tested and failed.
“Fasten your mantle and follow me, my good sergeant,” said Arn with an amused little laugh, slapping Armand lightly on the back, then hurrying down the hall. Armand hastened after him as he struggled to don his mantle, not understanding whether he had broken some rule or whether he had missed a joke.
Arn seemed able to find his way without hesitation through these endless corridors, stairways, small courtyards with fountains and shuttered houses that seemed like private residences. He led his sergeant over to the Temple of Solomon. They descended through some sort of back entrance and suddenly stood in the huge long hall covered with Saracen rugs. There a multitude of writing-desks and tables stood in long rows. The hall was filled with men in green, the guardians of the faith, and men in brown who were apparently workers, but also knights in white who were reading or writing or had meetings with all sorts of foreigners in worldly garb. Arn led his sergeant past all this activity to the far end, where white gates separated the hall from a large rotunda with a high cupola. This was the sanctuary itself, the holy of holies of the Order of the Knights Templar.
As they entered and approached the large high altar with the cross beneath the cupola, water was still dripping from their beards onto the cold marble set in black-and-white star patterns. At the high altar they fell to their knees; Armand copied everything his lord did and was given a quick whispered instruction to say ten Pater Nosters and a personal thanks to the Mother of God for their fortunate homecoming from their mission.
When Armand knelt like that, reciting the prescribed number of prayers, he was struck anew by a burning thirst. It seemed so powerful that he briefly thought he might go crazy, and almost lost count of the number of prayers he had said.
No one took any particular notice of them; there were people praying everywhere inside the round sanctuary. Armand was a bit concerned about why they were kneeling before the large altar when nobody else had dared approach it, but he soon pushed away such thoughts. He acknowledged that he did not yet comprehend all these new rituals, and he continued to keep a precise count of his prayers.
“Come, my good sergeant,” said Arn when they were finished. They got up and crossed themselves one last time before God’s cross. And then they resumed their labyrinthine wanderings down long corridors, across new courtyards with fountains and flowers in sumptuous profusion, and again into dark corridors that were illuminated only by occasional torches. Suddenly they were in a huge whitewashed hall decorated solely with banners of the Order and knightly shields lining the walls. Here there were no Saracen decorations or other colors to break the whiteness and the strict lines of the setting. High vaults soared overhead and an arcade supported by pillars ran down one side of the hall as in a cloister. That was all Armand managed to notice before he caught sight of the Master of Jerusalem.
Jerusalem’s Master, Arnoldo de Torroja stood erect and stern in the middle of the hall with the white mantle bearing the two small black lines indicating his rank fastened at his neck and his sword at his side.
“Now do as I do,” Arn whispered to his sergeant.
They approached the Master of Jerusalem, stopped at a respectful six paces away as the rules prescribed, and instantly dropped to their knees and bowed their heads.
“Arn de Gothia and his sergeant Armand de Gascogne have returned from their mission, Jerusalem’s Master,” said Arn in a loud voice but with his gaze fixed on the floor.
“Then I ask you, master of the Gaza fortress, Arn de Gothia, was the task successful?” said the mighty one in a loud voice.
“Yes, brother knight and Jerusalem’s Master,” replied Arn in the same formal manner. “We sought out six ungodly robbers and the spoils they had taken from believers and infidels. We found what we sought. The six are already hanging from our walls. All their goods can be set out before the rock tomorrow.”
Jerusalem’s Master at first did not reply, as though he wanted to draw out the silence. Armand did as his lord did, staring at the floor before him without moving, hardly daring even to breathe loudly.
“Have you both washed as our Jerusalem rules prescribe? Have you thanked the Lord and the Lord God’s Mother, the special protectress of our Order, in the Temple of Solomon?” asked the Master of Jerusalem after his long pause.
“Yes, Jerusalem’s Master. I therefore beg respectfully for a bowl of water after a long day’s work, the only wages we deserve,” replied Arn quickly, keeping his tone neutral.
“Fortress master Arn de Gothia and sergeant Armand de…de Gascogne, right? Yes! That’s what it was, de Gascogne. Rise, both of you, and embrace me!”
Armand did as his lord did, standing up quickly, and when Jerusalem’s Master embraced Arn he also embraced the sergeant Armand, though without kissing him.
“I knew you could do it, Arn, I knew it!” Jerusalem’s Master then exclaimed in a completely different tone of voice. Gone were the dull, thundering words; now he sounded like a man inviting two good friends to dinner. At the same moment two Templar knights hurried up, each carrying a silver bowl with ice-cold water, which they handed to Arn with a bow. He in turn handed one to Armand.