“And God be with you, Esther the Israelite,” Dominique said, while staring at Jacques.
The pair used the remainder of the night to search for more spall around the intaglios and to discuss the scroll that obsessed their waking thoughts.
***
“There was another important question I wanted to ask the
Jewess,”
whispered Jacques when he peeped out from the chamber into
morning’s
first light. “I knew there was.” He pivoted around, making sure
there were no witnesses to their departure from the underground.
“And what would that be?” asked Dominique as she pressed
herself upright, dusted off her garments, and tried to straighten her legs.
“When we first met Esther, she mentioned that Godfroi de Bouillon, a Jew, led the Templars.” Jacques threw his bundle over his
shoulder. “Why, I ask you, would a Jew lead a
Christian
army of
Templars, of Crusaders?”
“An intriguing question, but one that we might refrain from asking Esther after her scolding last night.”
“Possibly. But why not ask? All she can do is refuse more of our money, order her bird to attack us, and shut the door on our toes.”
Dominique laughed, then threw her bundle on her shoulder and blinked at the morning sun. “Hmm,” she said, staring at Jacques, “a woman could use more adventure on this adventure.”
“Madame, your stimulation shall be tended to, sped by the
wings of Mercury. Administered by the tongue of Casanova.” He
winked.
***
“Is that you, Petrine?” asked Jacques, poking his head around the corner of the bed.
“It is. I return. And my back seems mended,” Petrine said as he shoved open the door. “This lodging lacks charm, if you ask me,” he declared. He set down the objects he held in his arms and closed the
door. “I’ve spent time at the market, mixed with the local
inhabitants, and attended to the thousand duties required of my position, sir.”
“You’ve been gone all day? Did you manage a—?”
“And I managed two fine bottles of wine.”
“Good. Dominique and I are just rising.”
Not long after, Jacques sat at table with Dominique, Petrine, three cups, and a bottle.
“You, my good man, are a favorite of Esther’s,” Jacques said, “so
be your best behaved. Where our gold might be of no use, your appeal may be.”
“She’ll not want me there, Master Jacques,” Petrine slurred. “I shouldn’t—”
“You are the main chance when we return to the Jewess.”
“Then I must have more wine before we set off.” A forced grin
crossed the valet’s face. “To enhance my appeal, you see.” He
emptied his cup and immediately refilled everyone’s. The three raised their cups several times, drinking a good deal, voicing their displeasures with the little progress they’d made with the search.
Early twilight was descending upon Jerusalem when the trio of adventurers made their way shoulder to shoulder down the narrow
meandering corridor that led to Esther’s. There were no human
beings in sight, the late afternoon heat still working its will.
Petrine cocked his ear and cackled. “That perverse melody I hear? Maimonides, the parrot, I‘d wager my life on it.”
“Yes,” Jacques said. “The bird that speaks Hebrew, Greek, and Latin. I marvel that this rare intelligence does not defecate in one of those languages.”
“How do we know the bird is a ‘he’?” laughed Dominique.
“That’s another question I’ll put to our former guide.” Jacques playfully swung Dominique’s hand in his as the three advanced toward Esther’s dwelling. “Maimonides the Maniacal, I’ll find you a maiden to mollify your madness.”
“Who will mold your madness into memorable misery,” garbled Petrine.
“Rascals!” Dominique laughed. After batting Petrine’s shoulder,
she removed her veil, shrieked like a parrot, and pantomimed a
madcap—hands on ears, silent scream on face—then raced toward Esther’s.
“Delightful—her silliness,” Jacques said.
He and Petrine watched in amusement while Dominique took a
ridiculous stance in front of Esther’s door, knocked, then quickly
covered her nose.
Striding toward Dominique, Jacques wheezed with laughter
until a disturbing odor stole the smile from his face.
Dominique frantically jabbed a finger toward the hulking wooden door.
Suddenly Jacques felt too weak to shut out the putrid odor. Or the parrot’s strident squawk. Finally, he shouldered the door open. The last vestiges of twilight overran the dingy room. The parrot went silent.
“Esther? Esther the Israelite? We’ve come to ask one more question.”
Dominique pointed to the overturned incense burner and to the straw mattress, upon which two books lay open.
Jacques stepped further into the room. He pulled a pistol from his caftan just as Petrine rustled through the doorway behind him.
“Light a candle.”
“No matches.”
“Here, take these,” Dominique said.
Jacques’ free hand trembled. He fumbled it into a pocket
underneath his caftan and, producing a handkerchief, thrust it in Dominique’s direction. She covered her mouth and nose while Petrine crept to the table and lit two tapers.
Jacques closed the door quietly behind him and aimed his pistol at the curtained archway opposite. “Petrine, where does that lead?”
“It’s a smallish room with a wardrobe and an assortment of books. That’s all.”
Jacques—grim concern straining his face—shouted a bit too
loudly. “Esther, we’re entering your back room.” His fist tightened around
the pistol’s handle. With the gun’s barrel, he prodded the heavy
makeshift curtain.
A throng of flies, like hissing arrows, swooped past.
Jacques’ scalp seemed to lift from his head.
He glanced at Petrine and Dominique, signaling them to stay behind him, then plied the curtain wider.
Before him lay a corpse splattered in blood.
“Horror. Oh, horror,” exploded from Jacques’ gut to the tip of
his
tongue. Ripping the curtain closed, he staggered back from the
gruesome sight. He pressed his hand to his mouth to quell the possibility of
retching, then pointed Dominique across the room to the table and
chair.
“Petrine, you and I must see what can be done. Stay at the table, Dominique.”
The woman buried her face in the handkerchief wrapped around her hand.
“Old Maimonides—dreadfully mute,” Jacques said. “As if his
world is forever changed.”
Laying his pistol next to Dominique, Jacques stepped toward the curtain and opened it. He stepped into the room that was perhaps
five meters long and well lit by a single small window in the
opposite wall. Seeing now the offal and the crusted blood that pooled the floor, he felt as if a sharp spur rode full-length down his back.
“The woman is rotting. From the heat,” Petrine said, trembling. He closed the curtain behind them, genuflecting while he knelt.
With his dagger in hand, Jacques examined the wardrobe in the
wall niche of the room. Two garments, nothing more. Stooping
beside Petrine, he stared at the unblinking wretch whose pale face was
speckled with splotches of gore. Jaw agape, sunken eyes, body
sprawled
and twisted in an ungainly manner—all evinced the terror she’d
assuredly experienced in her last moments.
Jacques rose to his feet. “She has quite a decent collection of books in these shelves,” he said in an attempt to divert himself.
“Yes, master.”
“Who would do such an unspeakable—?”
“A monster,” Petrine said, blistering pain in his voice. “Stabbed several times.”
“Excruciating death. What did this old woman do that brought her this end? She has no means.”
Jacques peered again at the books: philosophy, history, religion,
and the Templars. Then other titles quickly seemed to leap at him.
Unexpected titles: alchemy, magic, excavating, mining.
“Why did Esther say she owned nothing of value?” Jacques
muttered.
“She has a worthy library here. Perhaps she lied about her
possessions.”
“Pardon?”
Jacques handpicked several small books from the shelf. When he did so, he discovered—out of sight behind the others—a small book flattened against the wall. He freed the book from its resting place,
and when it fell open in his hand, he saw a word that his brain—
though feverish from the grisly scene—immediately imprinted:
Olissibona.
He shut the thin volume and put it and several others in his caftan.
“We leave Jerusalem at once, Petrine. We’re not involved in this
affair. If we tell anyone, we risk our lives.”
“I agree.”
“Quickly,” snapped Jacques as he exited the foul-smelling room
and looked to Dominique. Head bowed, she stood opposite
Maimonides, clutching the ivory crucifix on her necklace. Her lips moved silently.
“We leave immediately, Fragoletta. We’ll send a messenger boy to Khalif. He is a man of character. He’ll know best.”
“I’ve prayed for Esther, for all of us,” Dominique said, her voice quivering. “Her God will fetch her soul. Of that I’m certain.”
Jacques pressed Dominique’s hand gently to his chest. “Is
everyone at the ready?” He proposed an answer to his own question but was cut short by a rude and disconsolate source.
“
Illustrissimo, si. Illustrissimo, si
,” screeched the gray parrot
perched in the corner.
Instantly, Jacques turned toward the bird as if an invisible
puppeteer maneuvered him. A single thought shot like a lightning bolt through his mind:
Maimonides knows three languages only. The bird speaks no
Italian. Who, then, does the parrot mimic? Who’s been saying “Yes,
Illustrious One” in his presence? Esther’s murderer
?
Jacques looked to his companions. Their dismay suggested the same alarming questions.
***
Jacques contacted Khalif not only for Esther’s sake but also for
the safest and surest transport back to Acre. With Khalif at their
head, the adventurers hastily departed Jerusalem, camping on the far outskirts of the city.
Stirring the fire, Petrine glanced at other campfires on the far
perimeter before fastening his eyes on Jacques and Dominique. “No treasure yet.”
A noise at his right attracted Jacques’ attention.
“Van Doormolen’s as fine a sailor as there is in the
Mediterranean,” reported Khalif, walking into view, “but like many men from his
land, he’s as hardheaded as a block of stone. Antonius van
Doormolen is his name, but he’ll answer to absolutely nothing but Captain.”
Dominique shot a puzzled look to Jacques.
Khalif stood beside the fire, shifting his feet in the sand. “As for
Esther, I’ve made arrangements. She was a spirited woman, a
woman with great learning, and an ally to me in difficult times.”
Jacques thought he detected in Khalif's voice more than a
passing friendship.
“Do her honor, sir.”
Khalif bowed a goodnight before pacing towards his far shelter.
“And take care of that prattling parrot,” Petrine shouted.
“I shall,” answered Khalif in the darkness.
Dominique watched sparks fly upward from the campfire. “I’ve prayed,” she said quietly. “Aren’t God’s mighty heavens beautiful?” She waved her hand across the night sky. “I’ll be glad to return home. Shall we be bound for France tomorrow?”
“No.” Jacques blew on a piece of meat he held in his hand.
“We’ve not yet found treasure.”
“A good woman has been murdered,” Dominique said. “We may be in some way responsible. Or we ourselves may be killed. Your scroll, Jacques—we go round and round.”
“Part and parcel of our adventure.”
“Adventuring—I now see—is no more than wandering
whichever way the wind blows.”
“I prefer to call it freedom, madame.” An ember popped from
the fire. Jacques cleared his throat. “I’ve given my all to our
endeavors, you may agree. There have—”
“The violence sickens me,” barked Dominique.
Jacques sniffed the meat he held on a spit and lowered it over some coals. He motioned for Dominique and Petrine to come nearer. Only Petrine moved.
Glaring into the ruby-red cinders, Jacques continued.
“What I discovered in Esther’s library, and what appears on this,” he said as he produced Fragonard’s scroll, “confirmed to me that we must sail …” From beneath his caftan, he produced several small books and set them in the sand next to him. He chose a thin one, held it near the fire, and showed its title.
“Have you forgotten?” snapped Dominique. “I don’t read.” She tossed the remainder of her meal into the fire, blasting a shower of orange sparks into the air.
“
Lisbon: Favored City of Christians
is the book’s title,” Petrine read as he leaned toward Jacques.
Jacques held out the book in his palm. “Ah,” he said, “it again falls open on the twelfth page—just as it did at Esther’s. Here is the sentence that struck me. ‘Under the Moors, the city had various names: Lisbon, Lixbuna, Luzbona, Ulixbone, and Olissibona.’”
“I’m far from ignorant, master, but I see nothing here that tells us—”
“Look closely and cleverly. The word on our scroll,
“SONBOISILA,” is an anagram. An anagram made up of the letters from Olissibona. Lisbon.”
Petrine’s jaw dropped. “It is, master.”
“Knowing I could probably make no headway with the esoteric verses on the scroll, Fragonard—with his personal advice—tied our mystery to the Templars. Researching the Templars in Rome lead us to the Stables of Solomon. I figure that past treasure hunters, hearing old Templar legends, excavated the stables. But they didn’t have our advantage: the scroll. Those treasure hunters certainly found the intaglios—as we did—but the intaglios led them no further.