Palestine, 1291 AD
BALIAN, MASTER OF THE Fortress of Saint Jean, had always done his duty. Now only one remained. From the rocky escarpment above the Sea of Salt, he could see the end approaching. Jerusalem had fallen and with it the dream inspiring the Crusades. Soon the land of Christ would no longer be a protected province for Christian pilgrims as the Knights Templar had envisioned.
A message had just arrived confirming his worst fears. Terse in the extreme, it did not carry the slightest hint of the promised reinforcements or the launching of a counter-offensive. Instead, the words reeked of defeat.
“All Templars,” it said, “still occupying outlying fortresses are ordered to fall back to Acre immediately.”
The Pope’s promises are not worth the price of his indulgences, Balian thought bitterly. As for the king’s assurances…If reports are true, his treasury is as empty as our granary.
With sorrow akin to a lost love he knew that when Acre fell, Christendom’s last foothold in Palestine would be gone forever and Islam’s crescent moon would at last have conquered the cross of Christ.
Light from a single lamp painted flickering shapes on the walls of the small room where Balian sat at a crude table. For a moment, the quill quivered in his hand above the parchment on which he had been writing. Then, with grim resolution, he willed himself to sign his name.
Done, he tipped the lamp bowl and let the hot wax drip on the parchment below his signature. Then, removing his signet ring, he pressed it into the wax, rolled up the letter, and put it in the leather pouch along with the ancient scroll and stone.
From a shelf above the table, he retrieved his personal journal and found his account of the Bedouin shepherd’s story. The man reported he had come upon a cave while herding his sheep in the hills above the Sea of Salt. Entering, he was surprised to discover a stone jar, but after breaking its seal was disappointed to find it held nothing but a scroll and a translucent, oblong stone with queer raised markings wrapped in a piece of animal skin. Knowing the Christian warriors and their holy men’s interest in such worthless things, he brought his discoveries to the fortress hoping for a reward.
The scroll’s ancient language was a mystery to Balian. As for the stone, one look into its shimmering depths was enough to convince him the Bedouin’s only reward must be a merciful death. What dark powers slept within its heart was a mystery, but he trembled at the thought of what might happen if evil men awakened them. With the end so near, he could not keep such a secret to himself. It was imperative that the scroll and stone be carried to Beaujeu, commander of the fortress at Acre. He would know how to protect them so that none but The Brotherhood would ever know of their existence.
Bracing his hands against the edge of the table, Balian pushed himself slowly to his feet, pausing for a moment before reaching down and rolling up his journal, and returning it to the shelf. Then, picking up the leather pouch, he squared his shoulders, walked across the room, and retrieved his sword and helmet from a rack. A dozen steps brought him through the door and down the passageway to the cave’s entrance where for a moment he paused, letting his eyes follow the Jordan River snaking through the valley below. Then, in a voice betraying resignation to his fate, he barked an order.
“Seal the cave! Prepare to form up! We ride to Acre!”