The Parchment Read online

  CHAPTER XI

  UTREMER

  THE 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.

  Gerard rode over to one of the Templars. “Is the sun playing tricks with the man's eyes?”

  “No. Pilgrims call this place Montjoie. From here, when the sand does not blow, you can see Jerusalem.”

  Gerard jumped off his horse and clambered up the side of the hill behind the others. In every pilgrim's mind there exists an imaginary Jerusalem — an idealized place where the Son of God lived and died. What Gerard saw that day from Montjoie beggared his imagination. Shimmering magically in the afternoon sun was a city of turquoise domes and golden crosses. As he stood looking at the distant Jerusalem, Gerard knew that destiny had brought him here.

  The first sight of Jerusalem affected each pilgrim in a different way. After months of traveling, most wanted to be left alone with their innermost thoughts and emotions. Others sought to share the excitement and joy they felt. Like children, they danced around in circles, embracing and kissing anyone in sight. One man stripped naked and rolled head over heels down the side of Montjoie. Although each pilgrim reacted differently, there was one bond they all shared in common. They were devout Christians who had risked their lives to come to Jerusalem to experience the closeness of Christ. What sustained them through their long and dangerous pilgrimage was not theology or the promise of papal indulgences, but the dream of worshipping at the place where Jesus had died and risen from the dead. Now they were almost there.

  Without warning, an elderly German pilgrim struggled to his feet and threw off his cloak. “I must pray at the Tomb of Christ — I must go, I have not much time.” Before anyone could stop him, the old man started to hobble down Montjoie toward the City. The fervor of the old pilgrim struck a deep chord in the hearts of others in the caravan. As if some floodgate had opened, groups of pilgrims began to follow the old man down the side of the hill. As the number of pilgrims grew, a Templar rode after them.

  “Jerusalem is over four leagues away,” the Templar shouted. “You have no water. In this heat, you will not get halfway there.�
�� The Templars' stark warning went largely ignored. Even Gerard paid no heed to it as he ran wildly down the side of Montjoie.

  After running for half a league, the old German pilgrim staggered and collapsed on the sand. His breathing became labored as though a heavy stone had been laid on his chest. He cried out for water. Minutes later, a second pilgrim collapsed on the ground, then a third and a fourth. They all stretched out their hands and begged for water.

  Without stopping to help, Gerard ran past the old German and the other pilgrims who lay on the ground. The city, like a siren, pulled Gerard irresistibly toward it. Nothing else seemed to matter except reaching the walls of Jerusalem. The glare from the sun made it difficult to see the ground ahead of him. Gerard tripped over a rock and fell on his knees He stood and stumbled again, this time falling face down on the ground. Wiping the sand from his eyes and mouth, Gerard struggled back up. Twenty meters more and he fell a third time. He lay on the ground exhausted, gasping for breath.

  Then Gerard heard the voice — it came from somewhere deep inside of him. “Have faith, Gerard. Jesus fell three times on His way to Golgotha.” As he lay on the burning sand, a shape began to materialize in front of him. A nimbus of bright light surrounded it. Gerard blinked, his eyes convinced that what he was seeing was an illusion. But the figure gradually grew larger and more distinct. He heard the sound of hoofbeats and could see a rider wearing the familiar red cross of a Templar. When he reached Gerard, the Templar jumped off his horse and pulled a goatskin bag from his saddle. Water poured into Gerard's mouth. When Gerard had drunk his fill, the Templar rode off to help other pilgrims who had collapsed on the ground. Soon more Templars rode out from Jerusalem with water. Despite their efforts, however, dehydration took the lives of five pilgrims. Like Moses and the Promised Land, God had allowed them to see Jerusalem but not enter it.

  His strength renewed, Gerard stumbled ahead. The battlements of Jerusalem lay only half a league away. With one final burst of energy, he reached the city's walls. Gerard fell to his knees sobbing, his leg cramping with pain. Holding out his hand, Gerard gently caressed each stone as if it were a precious relic. He took the piece of parchment his mother had given him and pushed it into a crack in the city wall. He could hear his mother's voice whispering in his ear. “Gerard, your destiny lies here in Jerusalem. Follow God's plan.” A door blew open in his mind. He pulled out from under his shirt the copy of Evardus's chronicle that Edouard had given him. Was it his destiny to find the copper scroll?

  The gates of Jerusalem were closed from sunset until sunrise. As the evening shadows began to lengthen, crowds of late-arriving pilgrims hurried to reach the city before the gates were shut. Somewhere amidst these throngs, Gerard heard pilgrims singing a hymn he had learned as a child. “God is my shepherd and my staff,” it began. The music reached out to Gerard like an encouraging hand. When he joined in the singing, Gerard felt the oneness that unites all Christians. Drawing strength from the faith of those around him, he steadied himself and staggered toward the gate of the Holy City.

  At the Damascus Gate, a merchant caravan arriving from Antioch was given priority in entering the city. Gerard stared curiously at a long line of camels carrying woven rugs from Azerbaijan and Tabriz. The animals passed before Gerard like disembodied spirits, their padded feet making no sound on the desert floor. Behind the camels rode wealthy Saracen merchants on magnificent white stallions. As a sign of wealth and position, one of the merchants carried a hooded falcon on his arm. What amazed Gerard most, however, were the Numidian bearers — each one tall and regal in bearing and each capable of balancing double his body weight on his head. Absorbed by the spectacle of the caravan, Gerard did not notice the swarm of vendors busily seeking customers before the Damascus Gate was closed.

  A short, unpleasant looking man accosted Gerard. “For three copper coins, I'll sell you a piece of John the Baptist's staff and take you to the place on the River Jordon where John baptized Jesus.”

  “I'll take you there for only two coins.” The second man grabbed Gerard's arm and held it tightly. “And I'll add a stop at the house of Joseph of Arimathea for no extra charge.”

  Gerard pushed the two men away only to have a portly Lebanese merchant shove a vial of perfume under his nose. “Buy it for your wife.” Gerard shook his head but the merchant was persistent, pulling out of his pocket a small packet of tea from Persia. “She may prefer instead this aphrodisiac.” Gerard shook his head again. Undaunted, the merchant put the tea in Gerard's hand and waited to be paid. Gerard threw the tea on the ground and kicked the merchant as he bent to pick it up.

  The haggling frenzy outside the Damascus Gate was suddenly interrupted by shouts of pain. Off in the distance, Gerard saw a line of pilgrims approaching the city. Each carried a heavy wooden cross on his back.

  “Who are they?” Gerard asked a well-dressed man standing next to him.

  “You have never seen a procession of contrition before? These pilgrims are called flagellantes because they mortify their bodies with whips and carry crosses into Jerusalem as a sign of their sinfulness.”

  As they drew near to the Damascus Gate, the flagellantes lay down their crosses. They knelt on the ground and, in loud voices, recited their sins — fornication, robbery, and sodomy, to name a few. As they confessed their sins, they untied ropes from around their waists. Begging God for forgiveness, the flagellantes whipped themselves on their backs and legs. The blows came faster and faster.

  “See the red stripes on their backs.” The man pointed to three penitents who had collapsed to the ground. “They have fainted from loss of blood. Their scourges contain pieces of metal.” Gerard was revolted by what he saw.

  When the last of the caravan had passed through the Damascus Gate, the pilgrims surged forward to enter the city. Gerard's heart pounded with pent-up emotion as the excited crowds carried him along. Passing through the gate was a triumphal moment for Gerard. God had called him to Jerusalem, and now he had answered his call. “Domine Non Sum Dignus”— “Lord I am not worthy.” Gerard recited the ancient Latin prayer as he stepped over the threshold of the Holy City.

  The Damascus Gate opened into a warren of narrow streets and alleyways. From the faces of those he encountered, Gerard could sense conflict and division. A Jew with dangling phylacteries stared sullenly at a Saracen fingering his worry beads. A white-robed Dominican glared at a Byzantine priest with the beard of an Assyrian king. An Arab woman, her eyes squinting from under her galabeya, muttered obscenities at a passing Christian knight.

  Exhausted, Gerard walked a few more streets into the city, but had to stop and regain his strength. He sat down against the wall of a house and started to fall asleep. A familiar voice startled him.

  “So my nursing skills were successful, Gerard de Montelambert.”

  Looking up, he saw Marguerite bending over him. “Do you have lodging in the city?” she asked.

  “No,” answered Gerard.

  “Come with me then. I have quarters not far from here.”

  Outside Marguerite's house, an old man sat under an awning dreamily pulling on a water pipe. The old man motioned for Gerard to inhale the vapors.

  Marguerite smiled. “He wants you to take the pipe. He will be insulted if you refuse his hospitality.”

  Gerard sat down next to the old man and inhaled deeply. A burning sensation in his lungs made Gerard choke and gasp for air.

  Marguerite laughed. “Opium is to be inhaled slowly. The drug is like a woman. It prefers to be handled gently.”

  His face flushed with embarrassment, Gerard inhaled the pipe again. This time a warm and sensuous feeling coursed through his body.

  When he entered the house, Marguerite saw that Gerard was limping. “Gerard, you are in pain. Let me ask one of the women to bathe you. The opium and the warm water will soothe you.”

  Gerard smiled. “I thought you came to Jerusalem to change your life.”

  Marguerite looked indignant. “I have. A young monk helps me
with my daily prayers. He has even taught me some Latin.”

  “And what have you taught him?”

  “A few things.” Marguerite patted her strong buttocks. “Sit down, Gerard. Let me find someone to massage you.”

  Minutes later a tall Ethiopian woman entered the room. Her black hair cascaded down her back to her waist.

  The women's voice was like honey. “Marguerite has sent me to bathe you.”

  The woman filled a large copper basin with warm water. With a piece of pumice stone, she scrubbed the dirt off Gerard's body. When she had dried Gerard, the woman poured oil in stripes across his back and massaged his neck and shoulders. “The oil is made from the leaves of the acacia plant. It will take away your pain.” She gently rubbed more of the oil down Gerard's spine and lower back. The touch of her hands felt sensuous. The woman massaged his buttocks and moved her hands slowly to his thighs. She laughed when she saw his awkwardness. “You must take more opium.”

  The old man had come into the house. He handed the pipe to Gerard.

  “This is my first time with a woman.”

  She smiled. “Ah! Your first time! Then you have much to learn. When you are invited to a banquet, you must savor the food bite by bite. You do not tear at it like some wild animal. Hunger is best satisfied when the food is digested slowly. The same is true of desire. To satisfy a woman, you must linger over her body.”

  As the woman spoke, she loosened her robe.

  The next afternoon, Gerard left the woman's bed chamber. He heard her giggling with a new client in the next room. Although the woman was a prostitute, he could not forget the smell of her body and the pleasure of her touch. Gerard now understood the meaning of passion and desire. And jealousy!