The Brotherhood Of The Holy Shroud (38 page)

He would ask Said to accompany him for a while, but then he would ride on alone. He could not ask his friend to leave his homeland-Said would never become accustomed to living in France, however much de Charney had told him of the wonders of Lirey near Troyes, the town of his birth and boyhood. There, de Charney had learned to ride through the green meadows near his family home, to wield the little sword that his father had the ironsmith make for him and his brother so that his sons might grow up to become knights. No-Said had grown old, like him, and it was too late now to learn to live another life.

He carefully finished folding the shroud within the new linen and then he slipped it into the leather shoulder bag he always carried. Then he found Said and told him of the Grand Master's orders. Said simply nodded when de Charney asked him if he would ride with him for a time before they separated to go their own ways. The squire knew that when he returned, there would be no more Christians in Acre. He would return to his own people, to live out what remained to him of his life.

It was raining fire. Hosts of flaming arrows flew over the top of the walls, igniting all they struck. The Mameluke siege of Saint-Jean d'Acre had commenced on April 6 of that year of our Lord 1291. For several days now, after weeks of attacks, the enemy army had been battering the fortress, even as the Templar knights fiercely defended it. How many knights remained? Barely fifty were defending the walls they refused to surrender.

On the day the siege began, Guillaume de Beaujeu had ordered his knights to make their confessions and take communion. He knew that few if any of them would survive, and so he had asked them to make their souls' peace with God.

Now, within the walled city of Acre, in the great Templar fortress, the fighting was body against body as the walls were at last breached. The Templars refused to yield a palm of ground; they defended each inch with their lives, and only when that life was taken from them could the enemy advance.

Guillaume de Beaujeu had been wielding his sword for hours; he did not know how many men he had killed or how many had died around him. He had urged his knights to try to escape before Acre fell, but the petition fell on deaf ears, for they all fought in the knowledge that soon they would be with God.

Even as he fought on, he took comfort in imagining the miles unfolding before Francois de Charney as he rode ever farther away, bidding farewell to all those places he had called home. He trusted that the knight would save the shroud of Jesus and see it safely to France. His heart had told him to give the cloth over to de Charney, and he knew he had made the right decision. The man who forty years ago had brought the shroud from Constantinople in his youth was now keeping custody of it once more, on the road toward the West.

Two fierce Saracens bore down on the Grand Master, and he felt a new surge of strength, furiously fending off their great scimitars with his sword and shield. But oh! What had he done? Suddenly he felt a terrible pain in his chest. He could see nothing-night had fallen.
Insh'Allah!

Jean de Perigord pulled the body of Guillaume de Beaujeu over to the wall. The word spread fast: The Grand Master had fallen. Acre was on the verge of being overrun, but God willed that it not be that night.

The Mamelukes returned to their camp, from whence came the smell of spiced lamb and the sound of songs of victory. The knights came together, exhausted, in the chapter meeting hall. They had to elect a new Grand Master, there, now-they could not wait. They were bone tired, and they cared little who became their leader, for tomorrow, or the next day at the latest, they were all to die-what difference could it make? But they prayed and meditated, and they asked God to enlighten them. Thibaut Gaudin was elected successor to the valiant Guillaume de Beaujeu.

On May 28, 1291, it was hot in Acre, and it smelled of death. Before the sun rose, Thibaut Gaudin ordered his remaining knights to Mass. Then they took their positions and once more met the enemy. Swords clashed unceasingly, and arrows blindly found their targets. The fortress resembled a cemetery. Only a handful of knights remained alive.

Before the sun set, the flag of their enemies flew over Acre.
Irish'Allah!

ANA WOKE UP SCREAMING, HER HEART pounding in her chest as though she were in the middle of battle. But she was in the heart of London, in a room in the Dorchester Hotel. Her temples were throbbing, and she felt the sweat running down her back.

Overwhelmed by a sense of grief and anguish, she got out of bed and stumbled to the bathroom. Her hair was stuck to her face and her nightgown was soaked through. She pulled it off and stepped into the shower. This was the second time she'd had a nightmare about a battle. If she believed in the transmigration of souls, she'd swear she'd been there, in the fortress of Saint-Jean d'Acre, watching the Templars die to a man. She could describe the face and behavior of Guillaume de Beaujeu and the color of Thibaut Gaudin's eyes. She had been there; she could feel it. She knew those men.

She stepped out of the shower feeling better, and pulled on a T-shirt. She didn't have another nightgown. The bed was soaked with sweat, so she decided to turn on her laptop and surf the Internet awhile.

Professor McFadden's thoughtful explanations, plus the documentation he'd provided on the history of the Templars, had affected her deeply. And he had showered her with details on the fall of Saint-Jean d'Acre- according to him, one of the most bitter days in the order's history.

That was surely why she'd dreamed so vividly of the doomed defense of the fortress, as she'd done when Sofia Galloni told her about the Byzantine troops' siege of Edessa.

Tomorrow she was scheduled to see the professor again. This time she was going to try to get something concrete out of him-something other than colorful stories about the slow fall and terrible deaths of the Templars.

The smell of the sea lifted his spirit. He did
not want to look back. His years were taking their toll, for he had wept without shame when he set sail from Cyprus, the last port of the East, as both he and Said had done when they at last made their farewell. Their parting was akin to one man being cut in two. In all these years it was the first time they had embraced.

For Said, the time had come to return to his own people, while he, Francois de Charney, was returning to his native land, a land about which he knew almost nothing nor felt to be his own. His homeland was the Temple, and his house, the East. The man who now made his way to France was but a shell. He had left his soul at the foot of the walls of Saint-Jean d'Acre.

Despite the heaviness that had settled into his heart, the presence of a few Templar knights who, like him, were returning to France made the voyage easier, although they were careful to give him his privacy. The crossing was calm, though the Mediterranean was a treacherous sea, as Ulysses himself had learned. But the ship traversed the waves without incident. Guillaume de Beaujeu's orders were clear: De Charney was to deposit the Holy Shroud in the Temple fortress in Marseilles and await new orders there. The master had made him swear that he would never relinquish the relic to those outside the order and that he would defend it with his life.

The port of Marseilles was impressive, with its dozens of boats and countless people milling about, shouting and talking incessandy. When they disembarked, they found waiting for them an escort of knights, who conducted them to the Temple's chapter house in the city. None knew of the relic that de Charney was carrying. De Beaujeu had given him a letter for the precept of the Temple chapter in Marseilles and for the superior. "They," he had said, "will decide what is best."

Jacques Vazelay, the superior, was a nobleman of curt gestures and few words. But his eyes were kind as he listened to de Charney's story. Then he asked the old knight to show him the holy shroud.

For many years the Templars had known the true face of Christ, for Renaud de Vichiers, the first master to hold the shroud, had had its astounding image copied and sent to every Templar house and chapter. Still, Vichiers had counseled supreme discretion. Each chapter kept its copy of the image in a secret chapel to which only knights went to pray. No others were to see it or even know of its existence.

Thus had the secret of the Temple's possession of the only true relic of Jesus Christ been kept through the years.

De Charney opened his pack and took out the linen-wrapped bundle he had carried so carefully. He unrolled it, and… the two men fell to their knees in wonder, such was the miracle that had occurred.

Still on their knees, Jacques Vazelay, superior of the chapter, and Francois de Charney gave thanks to God for what He had wrought.

THE GUARD ENTERED THE CELL AND BEGAN to go through Mendib's locker, collecting the few clothes he found. The mute watched, unmoving.

"Time to look pretty for the outside world, my friend. Looks like they're going to let you go, and we can't have prisoners leaving with dirty clothes. I don't know whether you understand me, but whether you do or not, I'm taking this stuff to wash it and I'll bring it back clean. Oh! And those stinking sneakers of yours too-they smell like shit!"

He went to the bed, bent over, and picked up the shoes. Mendib began to stand up, alarmed, but the guard put a finger on his chest.

"Now, now, take it easy. I'm just following orders. We'll bring everything back tomorrow."

When Mendib was alone again, he closed his eyes. He didn't want the security cameras to see the turmoil he felt. He couldn't suppress his excitement at the prospect of freedom. But something was wrong. He was sure of it.

Marco had been at the prison for hours. He had interrogated the Bajerais, despite the doctor's protests, but he'd gotten nowhere. He had started with routine questions, those they would expect him to ask. The brothers refused to say where they were going when they were attacked, or who, if anyone, they suspected of beating them. As best Marco could tell, they weren't aware of Frasquello's involvement.

Then he went on to probe their outside connections, the rumors circulating in the prison about all the money they'd boasted of having. He was trying to walk the tightrope between pushing them to give up the details of the plot and alerting them-and whoever was behind them-that he already knew their target.

But the Bajerais had nothing to say. All they did was moan about their pounding heads and the fact that this cop was torturing them with his questions. They weren't going anywhere, they'd just noticed that the cell door was open, they stuck their heads out, and somebody jumped them. Not a word more. That was their story, and nobody was going to make them change it.

Back in the warden's office, Marco picked up the mute's shoes, freshly laundered, so that the tracking chip could be installed. The warden urged Marco to press the Bajerais explicitly about why they were going after the mute and who had hired them, but Marco continued to resist taking that step. In any prison, hundreds of eyes were watching. Who knew who the link to the outside was? As Marco gathered his papers to return to the hotel, the two agreed to revisit the question in a few days.

Neither of them noticed the cleaning lady leaving the office. She'd been in the warden's private washroom changing the towels, an innocuous part of the prison landscape.

Marco dropped off the shoes at carabinieri headquarters. When he reached the hotel, Antonino, Pietro, and Giuseppe were waiting for him in the bar. Sofia had gone up to bed, and Minerva had promised to come down after she'd called home.

"So-five days to go, and the mute will be on the street. Anything new?" Marco asked.

"Nothing definite," Antonino replied, "but it looks like the beautiful city of Turin has special charm for immigrants from Urfa."

Marco frowned. "What does that mean?"

"Minerva and I have been working like dogs on this. We put the Bajerai family and everything else we could think of through the computer and did some old-fashioned shoe-leather work, too, and some interesting things came up. You know the old guy in the cathedral, the porter? The one named Turgut? He's from Urfa-I mean
he's
not, but his father is. His story pretty much matches the Bajerai brothers'. His father came to Turin looking for work, found a job with Fiat, married an Italian woman, and Turgut was born here. Other than the similar backgrounds, though, there's no apparent relationship between the families. But you remember Tariq?"

"Tariq?" Marco asked.

"One of the electricians who were working in the cathedral when the fire broke out," Giuseppe reminded him. "He's from Urfa too."

Minerva came into the bar. She was tired, and looked it. Marco felt a twinge of guilt; he'd been piling the work on her and Antonino over the last few days, but she was far and away the best computer person he had, and Antonino's data-gathering and analytical skills were superb. Marco trusted both of them to do the best work it was possible to do.

"Well, Marco!" Minerva exclaimed as she sat down. "You can't say we don't earn our salary."

"So I've been hearing," he replied. "This Urfa connection is definitely worth pursuing. What else have you turned up?"

"That they're not practicing Muslims-they may not be Muslims at all. They all go to Mass," Minerva said.

"Let's not forget that Turkey is secular, thanks to Ataturk. The fact that these people aren't practicing Muslims is no big deal. That they go to Mass and by all appearances are devout Christians, though,
is
interesting," Antonino pointed out.

'Are there many Christians in Urfa?" Marco asked.

"Only a small minority," replied Minerva.

Antonino jumped back in. "But in ancient times Urfa was a Christian city-its name then was Edessa, as a matter of fact. And you'll recall that the Byzantines besieged Edessa in 944 in order to capture the Holy Shroud, which was in the hands of a small Christian community there, despite the fact that at the time the city was ruled by Muslims."