Desert near Acre, the Holy Land. 1183.
Dark clouds hid the moon as the four knights rode out across desert scrub to the ruined temple in the Judean Hills. A blanket of night lay across the land, dulling all sound but their hoofbeats and a single far-off cry of a night bird. Crusaders had besieged the village that once surrounded the temple, the people slain or forced out under the banner of the scarlet cross. Only shadows remained now and perhaps the restless spirits of those who couldn’t move on, but William de Tracy did not want to think of spirits tonight.
He looked up as a sliver of moonlight pierced the clouds and touched the edge of the ruined temple, turning the rough-hewn stone into the mottled silver of a blade. It had taken much blood and gold to uncover the ancient myth that surrounded this place, and William could only hope it would be worth it.
Twelve years fighting the heathen in this god-forsaken country.
Twelve years into a lifetime sentence for something he only did to serve his king.
Could this temple hold the key to ending their perdition?
Richard de Brito vaulted from his horse, leading the creature to the shadows as he tethered it at the side of the temple. Reginald FitzUrse and Hugh de Morville followed suit, but at a slower pace, both men suffering from battle wounds.
William’s own movements were just as hampered, his body and soul exhausted from the penance of servitude, even as a knight here in the Holy Land. They had the privileges of rank, but they had no freedom to leave, banished by the Pope for their sins, their service the only way to buy a way into heaven.
In blazing days under the desert sun, William dreamed of England — the babbling brook at the edge of his estate, the dappled light of the forest, so gentle on the eyes compared to this savage land. It was holy to some, perhaps, but William would give it all to be home again.
“Are you sure this is the place, Will?” de Brito called out as he climbed over a low wall. “It looks to be only a ruin.”
“And no doubt some Moor bastard has beaten us to whatever’s left of the treasure.” FitzUrse was bad-tempered at the best of times, but tonight, he seemed particularly out of sorts. His preferred squire had recently left and his armor was tarnished, his beard unkempt. The darkness that plagued them all hung over his head the most.
As de Morville helped his friend down, William dismounted, leaning gingerly on his left leg, a sword cut still healing on the limb. He would have considered it nothing in his younger days, but they were no longer knights of carefree summer. The memory of those years still held them together, but the bond of spilled blood remained their strongest tie. Without it, they would have gone their separate ways by now.
From his tunic William pulled a tattered map, a scrap of goatskin painted with intricate markings matted with dirt and hair that smelled of the grave. “This is the place. Before it was sacred to the Jews, it was an ancient burial ground. A place where those of myth were worshipped and where it’s said, long life could be found.”
William looked up from the map and into the labyrinth of broken pillars. “Come, we must be away before dawn.”
The four knights picked their way through broken masonry, the destruction so complete that they were barely able to make out what once stood here. The air was still, as if something in the shadows held its breath, daring them to take another step.
The Crusaders had done their worst here, for sure, and the label of Crusader was one that William detested. It gathered all those who fought for Christ under one banner: the rabble of poor souls who begged at the roadside with empty bellies and the knight with jeweled armor and a feast awaiting him after battle. Both would meet God in heaven on the same terms, but down here, they would never be equals.
De Brito scrambled ahead until he disappeared into the darkness of a stone arch, still partially standing above the wreckage.
A minute later, he stuck his head back out. “Over here, there’s a way down.” He reached for an oil lamp and struck it alight, holding it high to illuminate the way ahead as they descended into darkness.
The stone steps were worn and slippery with the passage of feet over years, evidence of the life that once filled this place. It had echoed with the laughter of families, songs of praise to the Most High, and the weeping of mourners for the slaughtered. Now it was silent, and the scent of incense lingered under the damp mossy smell of water on stone as nature reclaimed what it had lost with each passing generation.
William let de Brito lead the way, aware of traps set for enthusiastic tomb raiders and keen for the younger man to set them off first. But no thud of stone on flesh came from ahead as they spiraled down into the earth, the circular staircase growing narrower as they descended.
This would be easy to defend, one way in and out, and no ability to see what was ahead. But William could sense no soldiers waiting in the dark. The bones of the dead were all that remained.
The air grew thin as they reached the bottom of the stairs and emerged into a vast circular tomb. There were niches around the sides, each one with a casket mounted within. These were not the body-sized coffins of English tombs, but boxes just big enough for long bones stacked beneath skulls after flesh had rotted away.
In the darkness, William stepped into a cobweb with viscous, thick strings that stuck to his face and quivered as he fought to escape. A huge spider with a bulbous body scuttled out of a hole in the stone. William thrust his arm up, slashing the web away, brushing it from his face as if to ward off the mark of the grave. He held up the torch to see more cobwebs coating every surface. A twitching layer, entwined with the hard stone, alive with the bodies of arachnids that spun their lives down here. Spiders that grew fat on the flesh of the dead.
William turned to look at the tomb. A deep pit lay in the center, edged with copper, engraved with words in Hebrew, Greek and Latin. FitzUrse picked up a fragment of masonry and dropped it down the hole. They stood listening for a moment, but there was no answering clunk, only a silence that spoke of the depths below.
“It would be better if we found decent plunder up here, old friend,” FitzUrse grunted. “If it’s down there, we’ll have to find a scrawny infidel to retrieve it for us.”
“Let’s have a better look at this place.” De Brito held his torch high and the flickering light played over a dusty scabbard encrusted with rubies. The reflection cast a crimson pall over the faces of the gathered men, and William had a sense that they were all bathed in tainted blood.
He shook his head to stop the memory flooding back, but as it had so many times, the vision rose up.
Archbishop Thomas Becket lay on the stone floor in a pool of blood, his skull split, ivory lumps of brain spilling out. As the white heat of their fury dissipated, William and his fellow knights stood with swords dripping gore, panting with exertion. The smell of sweat mingled with the metallic scent of blood and Becket’s body lay motionless as they realized what they had done.
But it was too late to take back the killing blows.
The Archbishop of Canterbury was dead, a martyr lying on the stone of the cathedral floor, a rough hair shirt of penance visible under his pallium cloak of office.
Monks gathered around, wailing and crying out to God on their knees, even as others drew near to dip pieces of cloth in the martyr’s blood.
William could still feel the cold wrench that twisted his guts that day — not at the bloody corpse, for he had seen many sights worse than that — but at what he had lost with a single sword stroke. For all his faults, the Archbishop was anointed by God and even a king’s order could not stand against that truth.
Hugh de Morville had taken charge and as chaos swirled around Canterbury Cathedral in the aftermath of the martyrdom, the knights escaped to de Morville’s castle of Knaresborough. They waited for word of pardon from King Henry II, since they had gone to Becket at his urging after the Archbishop invalidated the coronation of the king’s son. But no word came from Henry, only rumors that the king himself would do penance for the murder with a pilgrimage to Canterbury, where he would be whipped by the monks for his sin.
William still smarted from the betrayal of his old friend, the monarch choosing to side with Rome and the Church over the knights who avenged the offense upon him.
The Pope excommunicated the four, banishing them to the Holy Land to fight for a way back into the good graces of the Church. But William hoped this tomb might hold the promise of early release from such earthly purgatory.
He took a deep breath and wrenched himself back to the present.
The three other men examined the caskets, opening lids and peering inside, picking out jeweled rings as they filled their bags with anything that looked valuable. They had found much treasure in their expeditions under the auspices of taking territory for the Church. Since they were damned already for the murder of the Archbishop, it seemed of little matter to add more sin to their tally.
On the flagstones beneath the caskets lay piles of archaic manuscripts, brittle scrolls and old books, ancient wisdom discarded down here — or perhaps hidden from those who destroyed the temple above.
There were symbols above each niche, chiseled into stone by the hand of long-dead craftsmen — a mix of geometric shapes, Hebrew letters and Greek notations. William scanned the room, looking for something that might identify what he sought.
One particular niche caught his eye.
It had the symbol of water inscribed above: three wavy lines undulating across the rock. Water represented life in every culture, especially here in this punishing landscape of desert and scrub. A humble casket lay below, an unmarked chest of hardwood that the other knights ignored in favor of gold and jeweled boxes that promised more obvious riches.
William walked around the pit to the far side and approached the niche, his heart racing as he tried to hide his excitement from his companions. Could this finally be the relic he sought?
The others didn’t know of the private audience that William attended with Pope Alexander III on the night before they left Rome — and he had no intention of sharing it with them.
The Pope was old and sick and the many relics laid upon his body brought no relief while the prayers of the faithful did nothing to ease his pain. The Pope had legitimized forced conversion of heathens and promised remission of sin for fighting in the Crusades, but he had so much more to do to fulfill his mission on earth.
That night, Pope Alexander had told William of a fabled relic, the heart of Methuselah, who lived for nearly a thousand years. It promised the miracle of long life and if he brought it to Rome, William would be absolved of his sins. More than that, he would be honored with high office and reunited with his family.
He could return to England.
The relic was his way back and the longing for home drove William onward. They plundered tomb after tomb until, finally, he discovered the map to this one.
He bent to examine the casket more closely. It was carved from walnut wood, but the whorls once polished to a fine grain were now covered in cobwebs and the dust of ages. William brushed the casket clean with the hem of his cloak to reveal what lay beneath. Etched Latin words next to Greek, Hebrew, and what looked like images of ancient Egyptian hieroglyphics. Perhaps the same phrase repeated in each language to make sure the meaning was clear. William could read the Latin and Greek.
From death comes life. Life is the price.
He frowned. Surely life was the reward?
He opened the casket. The hinges squeaked a little, stiff with rust and lack of use. Inside lay a shriveled organ, blackened with time, a desiccated heart resting upon a piece of folded parchment. William glanced back at the others. They were busy stuffing bags full of relic boxes, raiding each niche for valuables, bundling up precious items with cobwebs and dust to sift out what could be sold on later.
But this tomb of relics held only one real treasure.
William pushed down the dark foreboding that rose inside, pulled off his glove and reached out a finger.
He touched the heart. It was strangely warm, even in the chill of the tomb.
It pulsed suddenly with a double beat.
William jerked back with a quick intake of breath. He looked around to see if the others had noticed, but they were engrossed in their plunder and paid him no heed.
He reached out once more and laid his fingertips on the organ.
It pulsed again.
William frowned as he considered what it might mean. Other relics were mere pieces of dead flesh, but this was clearly something far more. If the Pope wanted it, then it was precious indeed.
Unseen by the others, William wrapped the heart in the parchment it lay upon and slipped both inside his tunic, next to his skin. He placed the box in his bag and joined the others in ransacking the surrounding niches. They would have a rich haul tonight, enough to buy them many months of luxury in the Holy Land. Enough to satisfy the others so they did not question what he withheld.
As the four knights left the tomb, now relieved of all its relics, William felt the heart pulse next to his own, a promise of life in every beat.
Perhaps he would not take it to Rome after all…