The Parchment Read online

  Never had Gerard seen anything so majestic as the walls of Constantinople. Seventy feet in height, the stone bastions were three times taller than the walls of Cours-des-Trois. As he walked through the wide thoroughfares of the city, Gerard was awestruck by what he saw—crowds cheering their favorite horse in the Hippodrome; wealthy merchants in long silk robes, parading through Constantine's Forum; the Imperial Palace with its hundreds of rooms and chapels glimmering in the afternoon sun.

  But for Gerard all the wonders of the city paled in comparison with Santa Sophia, the great Basilica of Holy Wisdom and the largest church in Christendom. On one of his many visits to the church, Gerard watched a frightened woman running out through the great bronze doors.

  When she saw Gerard, the woman ran over to him and grabbed hold of his arm.

  “Do not go in there. The dome is so high it will collapse on you.”

  Gerard recognized the woman — it was Marguerite from the caravan. “The church was built over 700 years ago.” Gerard spoke to the woman soothingly. “There is nothing to be afraid of. Come back inside with me.”

  The woman clutched Gerard's robe tightly as he led her back through the doors of the church. The inside of the basilica was ablaze with color. Light poured into the church through forty stained-glass windows that ringed the base of the cupola. Marguerite stretched out her hand to touch the colored light. She moved her hand playfully from color to color. Slowly she released her grip on Gerard's arm.

  Gerard prodded her encouragingly. “Look up at the ceiling. It will not fall on you.”

  Marguerite shook her head. “I cannot.”

  “Try to do it.”

  Slowly the woman lifted her eyes. She marveled at the wonders that she saw.

  Gerard and Marguerite arranged to meet at Santa Sophia the next day. Gerard showed her the treasury of the basilica, where many of the most sacred relics of Christendom were displayed. As they walked through the rooms, Gerard showed Marguerite the nails that had pierced the hands and feet of Christ on the Cross, a vial of the Virgin's milk, and the coenaculum, the table from which Jesus ate his last meal with the disciples.

  “Was Jesus married?” Marguerite asked.

  “No, but why do you ask?”

  “Because he had no family to help him through his pain and suffering.”

  “His disciples were his family.”

  “They deserted him at the Cross.”

  “Yes — only his mother, Mary Magdalene, and a few other women stood with him to the end.”

  “Who was this woman you call the Magdalene?”

  After camping for two weeks outside the walls of Constantinople, Gerard and his companions crossed to the Asiatic side of the Bosporus. What lay ahead of them was the vast Anatolian plain, which stretched across Armenia and Cilicia. Day in and day out, they marched through a barren and trackless wilderness where land and sky seemed to merge into an endless space. The Seljuk Turks who ruled the area rarely attacked caravans. They understood that the Anatolian plain itself was a far more potent weapon than their cavalry.

  As the weeks progressed, the sheer monotony and sameness of the landscape brought depression to many. One crusader joked with Gerard. “A skirmish or two would be preferable to this interminable quiet.” Convinced that they would never reach Jerusalem alive, several bands of pilgrims returned to Constantinople.

  When the caravan finally reached the Seljuk town of Zanasra at the base of the Taurus Mountains, the mood abruptly changed. If all went as planned, on the following day they would pass through the Cilician Gates and arrive in Tarsus, the city of St. Paul. A day's journey after that and they would be in northern Palestine.

  No sooner had the caravan bivouacked outside Zanasra, than a group of Turkish women visited the campsite. Angry at the competition, Marguerite and some other prostitutes from the caravan pelted the women with stones and excrement. Several of the Seljuk women were injured and one knocked unconscious Despite the tension earlier in the day, a band of knights rode into Zanasra after dark in search of pleasure. After drinking too much arak, they broke into Turkish homes in search of women. By dawn of the following morning, three of those who had gone into the town had not returned. A party of armed knights rode into Zanasra looking for their comrades. Inquiries were met with sullen glances and insolent looks. Angered by the hostility of the villagers, the knights took hostages and returned to their camp.

  When there was still no word about the missing men on the second morning, Fulk decided to split the convoy into two groups. A contingent of heavily armed knights would remain outside Zanasra and continue the search for their missing companions. The greater part of the caravan would take what was left of the supply wagons and proceed through the Cilician Gates to Tarsus. Lots were drawn, and Gerard was chosen to join those going to Tarsus.

  The climb through the Cilician Gates was difficult. Gerard quickly understood why the mountain pass was often referred to as the “Gates of Judas.” Mountains dark with pine forests stood on all sides like gloomy sentinels warning travelers to turn back. The wind blew down the mountain defiles with such intensity that several muleteers were pushed off the path and fell to their death. As the crusaders climbed higher, ice formed on the ground, forcing those on horseback to dismount or risk sliding to their death down the sides of the gorge.

  After a day of climbing, the advance patrol, commanded by Gerard, reached the top of the mountain pass. Three figures stood menacingly in the center of the road. There was an awkwardness about them, as if they belonged to a different world.

  A knight cautioned Gerard. “We must not go forward. Spirits haunt these passes.”

  “These are not spirits. I fear they are all too real.”

  Gerard spurred his horse ahead. The mutilated bodies of the three missing knights from Zanasra stood propped up with twine and pieces of wood—their arms cut off and their testicles pushed into their mouths.

  Gerard rode back down the mountain pass with news of the gruesome discovery. A meeting of crusaders was hastily assembled. Several knights, including Gerard, argued for restraint—in a few days, they would be entering the Holy Land. A crusader's hand should not be caked with innocent blood. A young knight from Orleans, however, expressed the sentiment of the majority. “The villagers did not just kill our friends; they butchered them. Our comrades must be avenged.”

  That night, the crusaders put Zanasra to the torch and slaughtered its inhabitants.

  When the caravan reached the port of Tortosa, Gerard fell gravely ill with dysentery. For six days he lay delirious in a hospital run by the Knights of St. John. Despite angry stares, the harlot Marguerite insisted on nursing Gerard back to health. She bathed him to bring down his fevers and held him in her arms when he shivered from the cold. After she was assured that Gerard was out of danger, Marguerite left for Jerusalem with the caravan.

  When he recovered, Gerard was advised to travel the rest of the way to Jaffa by ship. He visited the Templar commanderie in Tortosa to learn when he would be able to find space on a vessel sailing down the coast. The Templar commanderie was a large castle-like structure that dominated the port's entrance. As Gerard arrived at the front courtyard, a group of men were unloading bales of cloth and sacks of what looked like pieces of yellow rock.

  Gerard stopped one of the workmen. “Who is in charge here?”

  “Brother Michael. He is inside. You could not miss him even if you tried.”

  As Gerard walked to the door of the commanderie, he was confronted by what could only be described as an elemental force of nature. Standing in the doorway with arms folded was a giant of a man, rough-hewn with large callused hands and pockmarked skin. A cloth patch covered his left eye. Gerard knew that it would be foolish to try to push past him.

  “Are you Brother Michael?”

  As if he found Gerard's question irritating, the man answered brusquely: “Why are you here?”

  Gerard handed the man the letter that his father had given him.

 
; Brother Michael read the letter very slowly—a little too slowly, Gerard thought. After several minutes, the monk looked up with an embarrassed expression on his face. “I learned to read when I joined the Templars but thanks to a Saracen arrow in my eye, reading is not easy for me.”

  Brother Michael looked down at the letter a second time. “Ah, now I understand. It says your name is Gerard de Montelambert.”

  “Yes.”

  “Good French stock that! And it says here you are traveling to Jerusalem. Hold out your hand for a moment.”

  Brother Michael rolled up his right sleeve. “Feel how tough my skin is. If you are not careful, my young Montelambert, in two weeks' time, the Judean sun will dry your skin into leather like mine.”

  Brother Michael's laugh sounded like the roar of a lion. “Now to get you to Jerusalem.”

  The Templar pointed to a door at the eastern end of the courtyard. “Come with me to the treasury.”

  Brother Michael led Gerard into an airless room piled high with dusty forms and documents. Pushing some papers aside, he motioned Gerard to sit across from him. Within the hour, the necessary travel arrangements had been completed.

  “Tomorrow you sail to Jaffa on one of our vessels called the Madeleine. From there you will join a Templar convoy going overland to Jerusalem. Now, for the financial arrangements — pay the cost of your trip all the way to Jerusalem. It is easiest.” The Templar took Gerard's money and after a quick calculation, handed him a parchment voucher.

  “What is this?” asked Gerard.

  “A record of your deposit and current expenses,” answered Brother Michael. “In Jerusalem, we will refund whatever is left on the voucher. It is our system.”

  “You have no guard outside the treasury.”

  Brother Michael looked amused. “A Templar does not steal money.”

  Gerard and Brother Michael left the treasury and walked into the sunlight of the courtyard. Men were still unloading cloth and bales of the yellow rock into a storeroom.

  “What do you call the cloth?” Gerard asked. “It reminds me of gossamer?”

  “Ah — the cloth. Here we call it gauze. They say it is made in the town of Gaza in the Sinai. And the yellow rock, have you ever tasted it?”

  “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 shad
ow.” 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.