The Templar Knight Page 8

  “Yes, lord, I understand. But the Rule…?”

  “In the inner room you must wash yourself,” Arn went on without concern, as if he no longer was having difficulty forcing the words out through his dry mouth, “and you shall do so until you see darkness fall; yes, there are windows in there. And when darkness falls and you hear the muezzin, the one who calls the unbelievers to prayer, claiming that ‘Allah is the greatest,’ and whatever else they may shout, then you must return to the outer room. There you’ll find new clothes, although of the same type as those you now wear. You will dress in those clothes. I shall be waiting outside in the corridor here. Have you understood all this?”

  “Yes, lord.”

  “Good. Then I have only one more thing to say to you. You will wash yourself in water, you will immerse your whole body in water, you will have water all around you and over you and a great deal more. But you may not drink a drop. Obey!”

  Armand was unable to reply, he was so shocked. His lord had already turned on his heel and with one long stride he reached the next door and was on his way in. But just as he was about to disappear from Armand’s sight, he seemed to remember something, stopped, turned around and smiled.

  “Don’t worry, Armand. Those who bring your new clothes will never see you naked, and they have no idea who you are. They simply obey commands.”

  And so the Templar knight vanished from Armand’s sight behind a door which he firmly closed.

  At first Armand stood utterly still. He could feel his heart pounding in his breast at the peculiar instructions he’d been given. But then he collected himself and went into the first room without hesitation. Just as his lord had said, there was nothing but a wooden bench and another door. The floor was a gleaming white, the walls were covered with sky-blue tiles with no pattern, the ceiling was of white plaster and formed a small dome with star-shaped skylights.

  He first took off his stinking battle mantle which he had carried over his left arm as his lord did. He unbuckled his sword and then removed his soiled and bloody surcoat without hesitation. Nor was it so strange to remove his chain mail and the mail-clad hose, and with them the steel-covered shoes that went with the hose.

  Then, as he stood in his wet inner shirt reeking with sweat, he hesitated. But orders were orders, so he pulled off his inner shirt and its belt, hesitating once more at his double lambskin girdles; he shut his eyes and stripped them both off. Then he paused for a moment before he dared open his eyes, utterly naked. He felt like he was in a dream, and he didn’t know whether it was a good or bad one, only that he had to proceed, and he had to obey. With manly resolve he pulled open the door to the next room, stepped inside, hastily shutting it behind him as he closed his eyes again.

  When he forced himself to open his eyes he felt as if assaulted by beauty. The room had three rounded arched windows with wooden blinds, so that the light came in but did not escape. He could see some of Jerusalem’s towers and spires and also hear all the sounds coming from the city. Doves flapped past out in the summer evening, but no one could see into the darkness behind these wooden slats set high on the wall.

  The walls of the room were decorated in blue, green, black, and white Saracen patterns that reminded him of the wall of the church with the golden dome. Thin columns of white marble supported the vault of the ceiling, and they were shaped as though they had been twisted up from floor to ceiling. The floor was made of black-glazed tile and solid gold, laid in a chessboard pattern, each plate a double hand’s-breadth square. To the left in the room was a large alcove filled with water and steps leading down into something that looked like a pond big enough for two horses, and to the right the same thing. Two tables stood between the two ponds, with inlays of mother-of-pearl forming Arabic script, and on the tables were arranged silver bowls containing oils of various bright colors, and two small oil-lamps, also of silver, were burning. On a bench of almond wood inlaid with African ebony and red rosewood there were big white lengths of cloth.

  Armand hesitated. He repeated to himself in a murmur the instructions he’d been given and must obey. He went uncertainly over to one of the ponds and proceeded down the steps until the water reached up to his knees, but he regretted it at once. The water was much too hot; now he noticed the vapor rising off the surface. Then he went over to the other pond, leaving wet footprints behind him on the warm gold of the floor and tried again. The water was cool like a stream, and he stepped in up to his thighs and then stood for a moment, unsure what he should do next. He cautiously looked at his body. His hands were brown to an inch or two above his wrists, but everything else he could see was as white as the feathers of seagulls back home by the river in Gascony. Along his arms he saw stripes of salt and dirt that were crusted in layers inside small wrinkles and recesses. It occurred to him that the Rule prohibited any form of pleasure, but at the same time he knew that he must obey. So he proceeded down all the steps and immersed his whole body in the cool water as he glided out into the pond and floated as he now remembered one could do. He imagined that he was swimming in the river below the fortress at home in Gascony, back when he was a child and there were no clouds in the sky, and life was perfect. He submerged his head, got water up his nose, and stood up snorting in the middle of the pond. He took a tentative swimming stroke but came immediately to the edge decorated in blue tile. He dove under and kicked his legs across the water, but foolishly closed his eyes and hit his head hard on the tile on the other side. He yelled, swearing since it was not against the Rule, stood up, and rubbed the sore spot on his scalp. All of a sudden he felt happy in a way he couldn’t explain. He dipped his cupped hand down to the water and splashed a handful into his mouth. But he stopped himself at once and spat out the forbidden liquid in terror, trying to wipe off the last of it from his tongue with his finger; he had been prohibited from drinking, after all.

  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 onl
y 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.

  And Armand again followed Arn de Gothia’s example, swallowing the entire contents of the bowl in one gulp so that the water ran down his surcoat. Panting, he removed the empty bowl from his lips, surprised to find one of the white-clad knight-brothers ready to take it from him with a bow. He hesitated; he had never imagined being waited on by a knight. But the man in white facing him saw his embarrassment and understood it. He gave a nod of encouragement to Armand, who handed over his bowl with a deep bow.

  Jerusalem’s Master had thrown one arm around Arn’s shoulders, and they were carrying on a lively conversation, almost like worldly men, as they walked toward the far end of the hall where cook’s servants in green were setting the table for dinner. Armand followed after receiving another encouraging nod from the knight-brother assigned to serve him.

  They took the seats that Jerusalem’s Master proffered, with Arn and the Master at one end of the table, then the two knight-brothers, and at the far end sergeant Armand. On the table were placed fresh bacon, smoked lamb, white bread, and olive oil, wine and vegetables and great steaming silver bowls of water. Arn said grace over the food in the language of the church as they all bowed their heads, but then they pitched in with good appetite and drank wine without hesitation. At first only Jerusalem’s Master and Arn spoke; they seemed immersed in memories of the old days and old friends, matters that the others at the table could not share. Armand stole a glance now and then at the two high brothers who seemed to know each other very well, behaving like close friends, which was not always the same thing within the Order of the Knights Templar. Armand was careful not to eat more or faster than his lord; he kept checking that he wasn’t ahead of him in either wine or bread or meat. He had to show moderation even though it was a banquet, and not gobble his food like worldly men.

  And as Armand had suspected, the meal itself was brief. Suddenly Jerusalem’s Master wiped off his dagger and stuck it back in his belt, and so all the others did the same and stopped eating. The cook’s servants in green came over to the table at once and began clearing it off, but they left the bowls of water, the Syrian glass goblets, and the ceramic wine carafes.

  Arn thanked the Lord for the gifts of the table while all bowed their heads.

  “So! That was surely a well-deserved wage for your efforts, brothers,” said Jerusalem’s Master, wiping his mouth carefully with the back of his hand. “But now I want to hear how you acquitted yourself, young sergeant. My brother and friend Arn has given you a favorable accounting, but now I want to hear it from yo
u.”

  He regarded Armand with a look that seemed quite friendly, but Armand noticed something sly in his gaze, as if he were now going to be subjected to another of the endless tests. He thought that the most important thing was not to boast.

  “There isn’t much to say, Master of Jerusalem,” he began uncertainly. “I followed my lord Arn, I obeyed his orders, and the Mother of God showed mercy on us, so we were victorious,” he muttered with his head bowed.

  “And you feel no pride for the part you played? You simply proceed humbly along the path that your lord Arn assigns you and accept gratefully the grace that the Mother of God shows you and so on and so forth?” the Master of Jerusalem went on, his tone barely disguising the irony of his words. But Armand did not dare understand the meaning of this irony.

  “Yes, Jerusalem’s Master, that is so,” he replied modestly with his eyes focused on the table. At first he didn’t dare look up, but then he thought he heard some merriment from the other end of the table. He glanced up at Arn and saw him laughing broadly and almost shamelessly. For the life of him Armand couldn’t understand what was wrong with his answer, or what could be so funny when they were speaking of serious matters.

  “Oh, I see!” said Jerusalem’s Master. “I see that you have an ingrained concept of the way a sergeant should speak to high brothers in the Order. Then let me put it this way. Is it true, as my dear brother Arn here has told me, that you want to be accepted as a knight in our circle?”

  “Yes, Jerusalem’s Master!” answered Armand with sudden enthusiasm that he could not hide. “I would give my life to…”

  “No, no, not like that,” Jerusalem’s Master laughed, raising his hand. “As a dead man we have not much use for you. But one thing you must now learn. If you want to become one of us, one of the brothers, then you have to learn never to lie to a brother. Think about that, now. Don’t you think that my beloved brother Arn and I were once young like you? Don’t you realize that we were sergeants like you? Don’t you think that we can see through your dreams, because they were our dreams too? Don’t you imagine that we understand what pride you feel for what you have accomplished, which as far as I can see was fully worthy of a knight-brother? But a brother must never lie to another brother, and you must never forget that. And if you’re ashamed of unworthy thoughts, if you’re ashamed because you’re proud of what you did, then it’s all right that you feel such shame. But it’s always worse to lie to a brother than to feel pride, or what you may think is pride. You can always confess your pride. But faithfulness to the truth before brothers is what you must never forsake. It’s that simple.”