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  So, here, I must leave it. A tale unfinished, but for time. I have prepared a second letter for my father and mother. If, by chance, it fails to arrive with this one, please tell your grandfather Murdo that he was right about everything: the Holy Land is a realm of demons, and only madmen think to conquer it.

  Still, I had to try.

  Farewell, my love, my light. I pray our Gracious King to send bright angels to surround you all the days of your life. Farewell…

  PART II

  November 11, 1901: Papkos, Cyprus

  In the days and weeks following that fateful meeting of the Inner Circle, I determined to educate myself in the crucial events taking place in the world around me. Inspired, not to say alarmed, by the vital importance of the work now before us, I endeavoured to emulate the example of the others by learning all I could of the current social and political climate of Europe and the West, thinking a firm grasp on contemporary affairs would aid me in the coming battle. The Seven had other plans for me, however, as I was to discover one rainy afternoon in early spring.

  A wintry gale was blowing cold off the North Sea, lashing the windows and making the lights flutter above my desk. It was nearing closing time, and I was not looking forward to braving the elements on my way home for the evening. I heard footsteps outside my office, shortly accompanied by a rapid knock. 'Enter,' I called, glancing up as the door opened.

  To my surprise, it was Pemberton, and with him, Zaccaria. I jumped to my feet at once, for never had a single member of the Brotherhood darkened my door-and now there were two. 'Gentlemen, welcome. Come in,' I said, rushing forth to relieve them of their dripping coats and hats. 'It is beastly out there. Come in, both of you, and sit by the fire. We'll have you dried out in no time.'

  'Thank you, Gordon,' said Pemberton genially. 'I hope you will forgive this intrusion.'

  'Intrusion? Not at all,' I replied, pushing chairs towards the fireplace where the coals were glowing red and warm in the grate. 'It is, in fact, a welcome break in the monotony that passes for studious industry in a legal firm.'

  'You are most kind,' said Zaccaria, settling into the offered chair with a sigh. He patted his face with a folded handkerchief to dry it.

  I pulled my own chair from behind the desk and, feeling slightly awkward playing the host, I said, 'May I offer you something to chase the chill-a tot of brandy, perhaps?'

  'Splendid,' said Pemberton, rubbing his hands to warm them. 'Just the thing.'

  I stepped to the tray of decanters on the sideboard and poured three small snifters of the firm's tolerable brandy, and passed them to my visitors. 'Slainte!' Pemberton said, raising his glass. We sipped our drinks then, and I took my seat and waited for them to reveal the reason for their visit.

  'No doubt you will recall that last time we met mention was made of, shall we say, the imperatives before us,' Pemberton said, settling his lean form back in his chair. He cradled the bulbous glass in his long ringers as he swirled the aromatic amber liquid.

  'Indeed, yes,' I replied. The dire warnings voiced in that meeting had scarcely been absent from my thoughts.

  'You were a classicist at university, I believe?' said Zaccaria suddenly. A small, energetic man of swarthy complexion and sturdy build, he burns with a lively, barely contained intensity many people mistake for giddiness.

  'Why, yes,' I allowed, somewhat cautiously, uncertain of the pertinence of this fact, 'now that you mention it, I was. It's been so long since anyone accused me of that, I had all but forgotten.'

  'History, too, isn't that correct?'

  'I hope you haven't spent too much effort rooting around in the hall of records. I'm afraid my academic career does not make scintillating reading.'

  Zaccaria smiled, but did not disagree. 'At least, you showed a distinct affinity for the ancients rarely seen these days. For that, I commend you.'

  'You will have studied Latin,' Pemberton said. 'Did you enjoy it?'

  'After a fashion. My tutor was a dry old stick, prone to bouts of absentmindedness. He should not shoulder all the blame, however; had I applied myself with a modicum of effort, I might have made a better job of it. Still, Virgil, Cicero, and Julius Caesar have stood by me through thick and thin. Also, being in the legal profession, I have the chance to brush up the odd phrase now and then.'

  'What about Greek?'

  'Ah, no,' I replied. 'Greek was never my strong suit. After a brief flirtation, I abandoned the enterprise completely. Euripides almost did me in. I managed enough to scrape by, but only just.'

  'I suspected as much,' mused Zaccaria; he made it sound as if he had long harboured grave misgivings about my natural parentage and patriotism.

  'Then that is where we will begin,' said Pemberton. He tossed down the rest of his drink and set the glass aside. 'We have been thinking it was time you were better acquainted with your heritage, so to speak.'

  'My Greek heritage?' I said. 'I wasn't aware I had any.'

  'Oh, you'd be surprised,' replied Pemberton with a smile. 'Shake a family closet, and you never know what might tumble out.'

  'I think it more precise to say your Greek-speaking heritage,' Zaccaria said.

  'I am intrigued,' I said. 'Please, continue.'

  'The Greek islands are pure enchantment. Have you ever been?'

  'Only by way of Homer.'

  'An excellent introduction to be sure, but not a patch on the real thing, I must say.'

  Pemberton leaned forwards earnestly. 'We have a challenge to set before you, Gordon. Would you like to hear it?'

  'By all means.' I put aside my glass and gave him my full attention. I imagined this unprecedented visit owed much to the new order anticipated by the Inner Circle and, aware of the seriousness of our endeavour, composed myself with all gravity for what was shortly to be asked of me.

  'We want you to learn Greek.'

  'Greek!' The suggestion made me laugh out loud. Given the climate of danger into which we were descending, I had anticipated a slightly more noble, if not perilous, undertaking. 'Whatever next? Do you think I am up to it?'

  'I think you are more than up to it,' Zaccaria assured me solemnly.

  'May I ask why you wish me to learn Greek?'

  'That need not concern you at the moment,' Pemberton said, brushing the question aside lightly. 'Let's just say that an opportunity has lately arisen which we are keen to have you exploit to the full. To do that, you will need a good working knowledge of Greek-both antique and modern.'

  I looked from one to the other of them. They were quite serious. In fact, Pemberton regarded me with such intensity, I began to suspect there was more to this proposal than I had been told so far. The only way to find out more, I understood, was to accept what had been put before me. Nor was I inclined to turn down my first genuine assignment as a member of the Inner Circle. In any case, I would have agreed just to see what came next.

  'Well, why not?' I said at last. 'Yes, of course. I'll do it. With any luck, I'll be speaking like a native in no time at all.'

  'That,' said Pemberton dryly, 'is about how long you have to master it.'

  'Sony?'

  'You have from now to the end of September,' he said.

  'Good heavens!' I counted quickly on my fingertips. 'It's less than six months.'

  'If it were up to me, I would give you as much time as you liked. Unfortunately, we no longer have that luxury.'

  'I see now why you called it a challenge.'

  I had, I suppose, imagined great deeds of high daring to answer the clarion call I had heard so clearly at the last meeting of the Seven. I had allowed myself to believe that when my turn came to serve, it would involve something far more grand and exciting than stuffing my head full of ancient Greek syntax. To tell the truth, I was slightly deflated.

  Pemberton astutely read the disappointment in my mood. 'It is important, Gordon,' he said softly, 'vitally so, or I would not have asked you. What is more, you will learn much to your advantage. That I promise.'

  'Qui
te,' agreed Zaccaria. 'Now then,' he reached into his suit pocket and brought out a calling card, 'I have taken the liberty of giving your name to an acquaintance of mine. His name is Rossides, and he is a scholar of the first order.' He handed me the card. 'He lives in Lothian Street near the university.'

  I took the card and read the name aloud. 'M. Rossides, D. Phil.' It was written in both Greek and English. 'Do you think he would be inclined to take on a student of my low aptitude and qualification?'

  'Oh, indeed,' Zaccaria assured me seriously. 'He has guided many a floundering Odysseus through the Scylla and Charybdis of aspirated vowels and masculine verb forms. If anyone can get you ready in time, he can.' He reached out and tapped the card in my hand. 'I dare say he'll even get your Latin back in fighting trim.'

  'Then I will certainly pay him a visit first chance I get. I'll send him my card and arrange a meeting next week.'

  'He is expecting you tomorrow,' Zaccaria informed me. 'Stroke of six. Don't be late. The good professor expects punctuality in his students.'

  As if in anticipation of this meeting, the clock in the hallway beyond chimed the hour, and my two guests rose to leave. 'You will want to be getting home, I expect,' said Pemberton. 'Give your lovely Caitlin my best regards, and tell her it might be a good idea to keep the autumn clear in the social diary.' He smiled, enjoying his little mystery. 'I have a feeling you two will be spending some time in sunnier climes.'

  SIXTEEN

  I have seen the caliph. All praise to our Great Redeemer, I still live -under sentence of imminent death, it is true – nevertheless, it appears I am to be allowed to draw breath in this world another day. For, after the briefest of audiences, I was returned to my rooms to pray for the salvation of my soul.

  Since I have every confidence in my redemption, I will use this time to set down a little more of my tale so that you, dear Gait, will have the benefit. That said, I looked over what I wrote yesterday, and would not change a word.

  It was as I said it would be: a little after midday, Wazim came to my room. 'Da'ounk,' he said, bowing low, 'the hour has come. His Majesty the Khalifa Muhammad Ibn al-Hafiz, Protector of the Faithful and Glorious Potentate of Cairo, has commanded you to be brought before him to answer for your crimes.'

  This is how they talk.

  'Da'ounk' is the closest semblance to my name my little jailer's Saracen tongue could produce. And this word 'hour' is much liked by the Arab tribes, especially Egyptians; it is less easy to designate, but if you quarter the day from sunrise to sunset, and then divide each quarter into three, you will have cut the daylight into twelve equal parts. Each one of these twelve parts is called an hour. There are likewise twelve hours of darkness, too; and all of these have different names, but I do not know them. What is more, Arab philosophers employ various methods of counting these hours throughout the day; and although the reason for this escapes me, it does exercise them greatly.

  What Wazim meant, of course, was that my moment of judgement had come. The men with him were dressed in the bold red and yellow of the palace guards-yellow siarcs and trousers, with short red, open-fronted tunics, and large turbans-that is, war helms made of extremely long strips of cloth wound round and round the head in the most cunning fashion imaginable. They carried the distinctive curved sword of the Saracen in the winding cloth that serves the Arab for a belt. They also wielded long, broad-bladed pikes, and curved knives in jewelled sheaths which were fastened to thick gold chains around their necks.

  Wazim bowed low as I rose and stepped forwards. I had long ago decided not to argue with my captors, or try to defend my actions in any way, but to accept my portion with good cheer whatever befell me. Since I remained calm and self-possessed, the guards did not lay hand to me, and I was permitted to walk upright and of my own volition into the caliph's presence.

  I was taken to a region of the palace I had never visited before. The corridors are wider, the rooms more lavish than any I had seen heretofore, with gold in endless supply gleaming in the furnishings and ornaments, and even the cloth which covered the walls and floors. The rooftrees are polished cedar; the enormous doors are a dark hard wood called ebony, black and shiny as polished jet.

  The throne room itself is larger than any banqueting hall known in the West. Wazim told me that once, in observance of the previous caliph's day of birth, fifty men on horseback performed mock battle for the entertainment of scores of spectators. I believe him, for it is an exceedingly spacious hall. And sitting in the centre of it, beneath a live palm tree under which a tent-like canopy had been erected, is the solid gold Throne of Cairo. And on that throne, watching me with eyes as hard as chips of flint, was Hafiz the Resplendent himself.

  Surrounded by ranks of servants, aides, scribes, and court officials of various kinds – most of them sitting on the polished marble floor on enormous tufted cushions, the Caliph of Cairo was a much smaller man than I anticipated, very brown, and with the aspect of someone who has spent an active youth beneath the scorching sun of the desert. His skin was deeply creased like well-used leather, and his hair was thick and entirely grey. Like many holy men, his beard was long, and woven into two braids which were drawn up into his turban somehow. And aside from his turban, which was purest white and glistening like sunlight on fresh snow, and bore an enormous blood-red ruby surrounded by the turquoise tips of peacock feathers affixed in gold over his brow, the caliph dressed in the manner of a simple tradesman or farmer. His clothes were spotless and finely made, but of humble, hard-wearing cloth.

  He sat on a broad cushion upon his throne with his legs crossed beneath him, as if he were in a tent in a wilderness camp. He frowned when he saw me, and I knew my sentence was sealed.

  Still, I bowed low as Wazim presented me and, by way of greeting, I spoke the few words of Arabic which he had taught me. 'Most Excellent and Exalted Khalifa,' I said, 'may the One God who created all men preserve you forever. I am deeply honoured to meet my lord and master, whose kindness and generosity have so long sustained me.'

  Although the words were Wazim's, I meant what I said; I was grateful for my benign captivity under his roof. I knew how easily it could have been otherwise.

  The great man's frown deepened further, but with consternation. He made no reply, but sat pulling on his long, grey moustache and watching me narrowly.

  'As you are an educated man,' he replied in good Latin, 'let us speak directly.'

  I was much heartened by this, to be sure; any time an Arab -be he Saracen, Seljuq, Danishman, or Egyptian-deigns to speak to you in your own tongue, number yourself among the few and fortunate. Still, I did not allow my elation to show in my manner or my speech, which would have been disrespectful. 'As you will, lord,' I replied evenly.

  He regarded me for a time, and then said, 'You have been sent to me by the Khalifa of Baghdad.'

  'That is true, my lord. No doubt he imagined I would be a useful addition to your illustrious court.'

  Al-Hafiz grunted at my small attempt at humour. 'What is your name?'

  'I am Lord Duncan of Caithness in Scotland. I am on pilgrimage, my lord, and was sojourning in Anazarbus when it was attacked by Amir Ghazi. I was captured and taken prisoner by the Seljuqs.'

  'Khalifa al-Mutarshid says that you are a spy and a traitor to Islam. He has condemned you to death.' Then, with a dismissive wave of his hand, he added, 'I see no reason to alter his judgement.' Addressing the guards, he said, 'This one is to be executed at once. Take him away.'

  As the guards stepped forwards and grasped me by the arms, al-Hafiz demanded, 'Have you nothing to say?'

  Placing myself firmly in the palm of the Swift Sure Hand, I replied, 'No, my lord. All is as the Great King decrees.'

  The guards seized me, turned me around, and led me from the hall. Wazim, padding along behind, distraught, muttered platitudes of comfort under his breath. I paid him no heed, for I was gathering my courage to face the headsman's axe.

  We reached the great ebony doors and halted while they wer
e opened by two blue-robed porters. From the throne behind us the caliph called, 'Infidel, who did you mean?'

  The guards halted, and I was hauled around to face the caliph. 'My lord?'

  Lifting his hand from his lap, he motioned the guards to bring me before him once more. 'You spoke of the great king just now. Who did you mean?'

  'I meant the Lord God, Ruler of Heaven and Earth, Shaper of Destiny, Architect of the Ages, and Champion of the Faithful.' These last were titles the Muhammedans used for the Almighty, and which any Christian could also espouse in all good faith.

  The caliph's dark eyes grew narrow-whether with anger or distrust, I could not tell. 'There is but one God,' he declared, thrusting a long finger into the air above his head. 'Allah is One.'

  'That is so, my lord,' I said, bowing my head in reverence. 'There is no god but God Alone.'

  The frown reappeared upon his dark, wrinkled face. 'What do you know of such things?'

  'Very little, my lord. I am but a simple pilgrim -'

  'So you have said,' he snapped. 'But not so simple as you make out, I think.' Frowning furiously, he leaned forward, chin in hand, and glared as if trying to decide what to do with me. Finally, he said, 'Do you deny you are a Christian?'

  'No, lord,' I answered. 'I am a Christian. With your permission, I would merely point out that I have nothing to do with either Rome or Byzantium. Neither pope nor emperor hold authority over me.'

  This surprised him. And, strangely, his surprise gratified him. It was as if he had suspected something curious about me, and now his suspicion was rewarded. The frown vanished instantly, and he regarded me with an expression of wary interest. 'So! You, too, are an Armenian. We know of these Christians.'

  'I beg your pardon, Most Excellent Khalifa,' I replied, 'but neither am I an Armenian.'

  'Not an Armenian?' he said. 'What are you then, Christian? Tell me quickly.'