The Parchment (18 page)

“No.”

“Try some.” Brother Michael broke off a small piece and handed it to Gerard. “The Saracens call it candy. Let it dissolve in your mouth.”

The candy had a deliciously sweet taste; it reminded Gerard of the taste of cherries in late summer. “This candy is for the saints in heaven. How can the infidel make something so delicious?”

“A Saracen may not believe in Jesus Christ, but he is still a human being. You have much to learn in Palestine, my young Montelambert.”

That night Gerard could not sleep. The thought of finally reaching Jerusalem made his heart pound with anticipation. Leaving the commanderie, he walked along the wharves of the Tortosa harbor. One large, triple-masted galley caught his attention. The ship loomed out of the water like a behemoth. As he stood admiring it, an Italian merchant walked over to him.

“It is a Venetian ship. We sail for Jaffa in two days. For a fee you can come with us.”

“No, but thank you. I go tomorrow to Jaffa on a Templar ship.”

“A Templar ship!” The man's voice could not conceal his contempt. “These Templars pretend they are monks but they all have the same bone between their legs like the rest of us. They rape woman and bugger young boys on their ships.”

Later that night when he returned to the commanderie, Gerard repeated to Brother Michael what the man had said.

At the sound of the word Venetian, the old Templar spat on the ground in disgust.

“The Venetian scum hate the Templars.”

“Why?” asked Gerard.

“Because our ships take business from them,” answered Brother Michael. “Pilgrims prefer to travel to the Holy Land on one of our vessels. There have been too many stories about the Italians.”

“What stories?” Gerard could not contain his curiosity.

“The Italians sell young boys and girls to slave traders. During a storm last year, Genoese merchants threw pilgrims overboard to protect their cargo. A piece of brocade is more valuable to them than the life of a pilgrim.”

“But the Venetians accuse the Templars of pretending to be holy.” Gerard could see Brother Michael becoming angry. “They say the Templars perform indecent acts with women and young boys.”

Brother Michael exploded. “Greed makes the Venetians say these things. The pope needs their ships to transport his spoils back to Rome. For doing that, the pope gives them a third of his booty. We Templars give them nothing.”

“Ah,” Gerard chuckled, “business has made you implacable enemies.”

“The Italians will suffer damnation—all of them.”

“Unless St. Peter will take a bribe,” retorted Gerard.

The Templar ship, the
Madeleine
, lifted anchor and sailed out of the port of Tortosa. Gerard held tightly to the rails as the ship rolled in the swells of the outgoing tide. As he looked up to the heavens, Gerard saw that dawn was pushing Cassiopeia out of the northern sky. The surface of the water flashed silver as schools of flying fish leapt high into the air—heralds announcing the arrival of a new day. As Gerard marveled at what he saw, two dolphins broke the surface of the water.

The captain of the
Madeleine
stood behind Gerard. “The Romans believed that dolphins were sacred to the sea god Neptune. They also believed that dolphins could move a ship more swiftly over the water.”

A loud sound from below deck interrupted the captain. “It is the horses. The rolling of the ship frightens them. They need stable footing.”

“Where are you taking them?”

“To Jaffa. The order trains horses in Provence and ferries them to our commanderies in Palestine.”

Another crack sounded.

The captain looked concerned. “I had better go below. A horse can kick a hole in the side of a ship.”

Gerard stood alone on the deck. The sails lofted in the wind as if fighting over which way to go. As he looked up, Gerard saw Beauseant, the black-and-white standard of the Order of the Temple, unfurl in the wind. The standard pointed the
Madeleine
south toward Jerusalem and Gerard's destiny.

Next morning, Gerard could hardly control his excitement. He was sure that he could see a faint line of gold separating the sea and the sky. It had to be Jaffa. Gerard ran in search of the captain.

“Jaffa is still a good half day away, my impatient friend. Most likely what you see is a sandstorm that has blown out to sea.”

“No, Captain, the line is growing more and more distinct. I am sure of it.” The captain started to laugh at Gerard's persistence, when two gulls appeared in the distance. The captain hurried below and returned with a small brass tube.

“The Saracens use these. They call them telescopes — they enlarge what you see.” The Captain pointed the tube toward the horizon and looked into it. As he adjusted the distance, a sheepish look came over his face. “It is Jaffa.” Shrugging his shoulders, the captain looked at Gerard. “Maybe the Romans were right about dolphins. But they must have worked night and day to get us here so fast.”

As the
Madeleine
anchored in the harbor, Arab dhows with long frontal bowsprits ferried produce from ships moored in the harbor to shorefront markets. As the sails of the
Madeleine
were furled, Gerard waited impatiently to disembark. Ever since he was a young child, his mother had told him stories about the Holy Land — about Jesus and his Virgin Mother, about St. Peter and Saint Stephen. Now he was about to set foot in Outremer, the land where they had lived and preached. Gerard had always dreamed of this day. He wept openly.

When he disembarked from The Madeleine, crowds of pilgrims seeking lodging in Jaffa swept Gerard along. Thankfully, Brother Michael had given Gerard instructions on how to find the Templar commanderie in the city. “Look for the tower of the Monastery of Saint Catherine. Our building is within its shadow.” When Gerard arrived at the commanderie, a group of Arab boys stood in the courtyard grooming horses. They must be the ones that came on the
Madeleine
, thought Gerard. An old Templar knight hobbled about the courtyard barking out instructions. His face was creased and fissured like a walnut shell. Gerard remembered Brother Michael's warning about the ravages of the Judean sun.

Gerard walked over to the Templar. “Sir, do you have a space for the night?”

The old man made a dismissive gesture toward Gerard. “There are no beds. Come back tomorrow.”

Gerard took out the Templar voucher given him in Tortosa and handed it to the old man. “Ah, you have a voucher. That makes things easier. There are a few places left.” The Templar pointed to a small building at the far end of the courtyard. “There's a place there — take it. It will be cooler during the night.”

“When does the next pilgrim caravan leave for Jerusalem?”

“Early tomorrow.”

“Is there still room?”

The Templar smiled. “There are over six hundred pilgrims now. One more hardly matters. Just show your voucher.”

When Gerard left the commanderie, it was four hours after midday. There was enough time to buy a horse and some loose-fitting clothing for the journey. Despite an occasional breeze from the Mediterranean, Jaffa was brutally hot. Gerard knew that the desert road to Jerusalem would be hotter still.

UTREMER

T
HE BELLS OF
St. Catherine's Monastery tolled three o'clock in the morning. Gerard left the commanderie and walked to the eastern gate of Jaffa, where the caravan was scheduled to assemble. A large crowd of pilgrims had already gathered for the trip. Hovering around the fringes of the crowd were vendors hawking food and drink. Gerard looked on in amusement as an old man swung his walking stick at a particularly determined vendor. As he watched the old man, he felt someone tugging on his sleeve. It was a young girl no more than six years of age.

“Please, sir, a few copper coins for bread and tea.” Pitying the child, Gerard took some coins from his pocket. At the sight of money, several more children materialized out of nowhere. They circled around Gerard like a swarm of bees.

One of the children, a scrawny boy, pulled at Gerard's cloak. “Sir, these stones are from the Tomb of Christ.”

A second boy grabbed his scrawny friend by the hair. “He lies! They are just ordinary stones — but this piece of wood is from the True Cross of our Savior Jesus.” At the name of Jesus, the child blessed himself in mock solemnity.

Another said, “These bones are relics of St. Veronica—the woman who wiped blood from Jesus' face with her veil.”

“And I suppose you have a piece of the veil as well?” asked Gerard.

The child responded. “I do not but my friend Jusef has half of it.”

Gerard laughed at the utter brazenness of the child. As the pushing and shoving continued, Gerard became exasperated and
pretending to be angry, drew his sword. The children scattered in all directions.

Free of the children, Gerard walked to the farthest end of the campground where there was a line of mule teams hitched to wagons. For a price, sick or elderly pilgrims could travel to the Holy City, in more comfort. More affluent pilgrims could hire horse-drawn carriages with stretched canvas to block the sun and woven mats to cushion the jolts in the road. Many of the more self-righteous pilgrims grumbled when they saw these horse-drawn carriages. Jesus had entered Jerusalem on a donkey, and they believed it sacrilegious for a Christian to enter Jerusalem on any other beast of burden.

As the bells for matins rang in St. Catherine's Monastery, three horsemen rode out through the east gate of Jaffa. When the crowd saw they were Templars, the people grew silent. One of the horsemen spoke to the assembly. His deep voice boomed through the darkness.

“The caravan leaves within the hour. By midday, we will reach the Oasis of Bletheres. You will find ample water and shade there. We start again when the day becomes cooler.” The Templar sat silent for a moment, as if underscoring the importance of what he was about to say. “Every day, pilgrims are robbed and killed along the road we are about to take. The Saracen devils have a favorite pastime — before they kill a Christian, they cut off a limb, usually the right arm. If you value your life, stay close to the caravan. Elderly and sick pilgrims are the easiest targets. So, muleteers, keep up with the rest of us. I want all of you to be able to shake hands with St. Peter at the gates of heaven.”

When the Templars finally gave the signal to begin, a wave of emotion swept over the pilgrims. Shouting “God wills it,” a priest ran to the front of the procession. Many joined in and the chant echoed out into the desert. As the morning progressed, children found it increasingly difficult to contain their exuberance. Whenever a village appeared, one of the children would run up to a Templar and ask if it was Jerusalem. For his part, Gerard spent most of the first day staring at the countryside. The strange textures and colors of the desert fascinated him. Provence, where he had been born and raised, was a land of green forests and lush fields,
a land where the hills were lined with well-tended orchards. The desert was stark and monochromatic, a land of hypnotic and ever-changing shapes — a place where one's soul focuses on God without the distraction of color and topography.

When he awoke on the morning of the second day, Gerard became caught up in the excitement. Barring a change in the weather, the caravan would reach Jerusalem before the end of the day. Gerard began to daydream. He wondered what the holy places would look like. How wide was the River Jordan? Was the House of Lazarus still standing? Where did Mary learn that she was with child? Preoccupied by his thoughts, Gerard did not notice when a large contingent of Saracen cavalry appeared from behind a ridge to the east of the caravan. The Templars stopped the convoy. Squinting into the sun, Gerard counted over two hundred Saracen horsemen deployed along the top of the ridge. Many had fitted arrows to their bows.

One of the Templars rode over to Gerard.

“We need your help, Montelambert. Ride along the western side of the convoy. Keep the pilgrims calm. The Saracens should leave us alone.”

Two Templars trotted slowly out toward the line of Muslim horsemen. A Saracen carrying a green flag waited for the Templars at the foot of the ridge. The Templars and the Saracen embraced each other and spoke for several minutes in Arabic. Finally the Saracen wheeled his stallion about and rode back to his comrades. Moments later, the Saracens turned away from the caravan and rode down the back slope of the ridge. When the Templars returned to the convoy, one of them shouted, “We can move on; they will not harm us.”

Gerard was amazed by what he had just seen. He rode over to the Templar who had asked for his help. “Why did you embrace that heathen?”

“It is a Saracen custom for men to embrace. It shows that you are not carrying weapons. We told them that this is a pilgrim caravan, and that was that. Saracens have learned to trust the word of a Templar.”

A pilgrim who was out ahead of the caravan climbed to the top of a steep hill. When he reached the summit, Gerard saw him fall on his knees. Pointing his finger off in the distance, the pilgrim began to shout aloud. “There it is! Jerusalem! The Holy City! I can see it!” Tears welled up in his eyes as he began to sing a hymn to Mary, the Mother of God. The man's singing electrified the caravan. Throwing aside whatever belongings they carried, men and women streamed wildly up the hill.