Tom Melley

THE COMMANMENTS

OF THE TEMPLAR



A Crusader Novel

I

 Jerusalem, the Holy City of Miracles, certainly deserved its epithet. Although great miracles hadn’t happened here for a long time, only small ones that weren’t always recognised as such. And yet they did happen.

Ishmael leaned back contentedly, wiped his overworked, watering eyes and admired his work. The delicate bracelet he had fashioned for the first wife of the governor of Jerusalem, Emir Izz ad-Din, was finished. Three finely hammered, gold filigree snakes intertwined to form a lustrous circlet. Their heads were nestled close to their bodies, and tiny eyes of sparkling rubies glittered in the radiant afternoon sun falling through the open window of his workshop onto the wooden workbench.

It was only a small commission, but one of considerable significance for the Jewish goldsmith, who was a renowned master of his craft. This wasn’t the first time the Emir had commissioned a costly piece of jewellery from him. The prince's goodwill drew further commissions from associates of his magnificent court. With every satisfied customer, Ismael’s reputation spread, to the benefit of the city’s steadily growing Jewish community.

As the senior teacher and Rabbi of Jerusalem, Ishmael oversaw the intake and housing of Jewish immigrants arriving in Jerusalem from all over the world. His positive relationships with the Muslim governor and his officials simplified many administrative procedures for the newcomers.

The powerful sultan, Salah ad-Din Yusuf, had recaptured the Holy City from the Christians six years prior. At that point, it was utterly depopulated, so he encouraged Jews in particular to resettle there. His call was answered by many of those suffering hardship and persecution in Christian lands, who wished to finally live in peace in the lands their ancestors. Ishmael was once one of them.

Meanwhile, his work on behalf of the immigrants took up so much time that he scarcely had time to read the old scriptures he so loved, of which there were dozens stacked behind him on a shelf.

Ishmael stroked his thick, white beard, and a smile deepened the creases in his face. He gazed, blinking, through the window, and listened to the twittering birds and children’s laughter. A gentle breeze wafted into the tidy little workshop on the second floor of his house, carrying with it the sweet scent of the blossoming almond tree rooted in the small courtyard below.

Fate has truly favoured me, he thought with a smile. It had only been two years since he arrived here himself as a homeless refugee.

The journey from the cold lands of Alemannia had been arduous and dangerous. He had spent almost fifty peaceful summers in Cologne, until fanatical Christian pilgrims had accused the Jews of being Jesus-murderers and jointly responsible for the loss of the Holy City to the Muslims. Wild bands of rapacious mercenaries, too poor to embark on a pilgrimage to the Holy Land, had begun to plunder and lynch his friends and neighbours. The citizens of Cologne and the nobility proved powerless, allowing the butchers to rampage unhindered. Partly because it conveniently released them from their debts to the gold-lending Jews. Ishmael escaped the carnage with a few other survivors and, despite his advanced years, saw no alternative other than to flee to his younger brother Esau in Jerusalem and start a new life there.

Esau was a widower who lived alone with his daughter Leah and ran a lucrative money-changing business. He had invited his brother long before these terrible events to live with him in the city of their forefathers. Unfortunately, they never saw one another again. Ishmael’s journey was long and arduous, and a few days before he arrived in Jerusalem, Esau died of a heart attack, bequeathing him his house in the Jewish Quarter and a considerable sum of money.

Ishmael assumed guardianship of his unmarried niece Leah, as there were no other relatives in the city to take care of the young woman. Her two older brothers had left long ago to trade as wool and grain merchants in distant Antioch.

Ishmael opened a goldsmith’s workshop in the house, and his business soon flourished thanks to his excellent craftsmanship and reasonable prices. His fellow Jewish citizens admired his knowledge, wisdom and godliness and quickly appointed him as their rabbi.

He was no longer pursued or humiliated in his new homeland. Here, he was under the protection of the Sultan; he paid the jizyah – a kind of poll tax that all tolerated non-Muslims in the realm had to pay – and experienced a happiness he’d seldom known before. Cologne and its bloodthirsty citizens slowly faded in his memory. But he could never forget them.

An impatient knock at the door jolted him out of his reverie.

“Uncle, uncle! Open the door please!”

Ishmael prized himself up from his stool and shuffled to the firmly barred wooden door of the workshop. Many valuables were stored here on the upper floor of their modest house: a supply of small gold and silver bars, rough diamonds, solder, lead balls, copper wire and rare tools for fashioning jewellery. There were also priceless old papyrus scrolls in which the history of the Jewish people was recorded in its entirety.

As a precaution against thieves and intruders, he had heavy hardwood bolts installed inside and out, which he now lifted out of their hasps.

The hinges creaked as he opened the door a crack and looked into his niece’s dark brown eyes.

“What is it, child? I want to use what’s left of the light to read by. If the food is ready, please bring it to me in here.”

Leah shook her dark brown, shoulder-length locks. “No, uncle, you have a visitor. There’s a Muslim at our door, and he urgently wants to speak to you.”

Ishmael raised his ash-grey eyebrows. A Muslim. That was unusual. Perhaps a messenger from the governor. The bracelet wasn’t due to be delivered until tomorrow, but the Emir was known for his impatience.

“Please invite him in. I’ll be down in a moment. Offer him sweet tea and see that he’s comfortable.”

Leah nodded and hurried downstairs.

Good child, thought Ishmael, locking the window’s heavy wooden shutters and crossbar. Although she’s hardly a child anymore. His niece had seen eighteen summers, and he had to admit she had grown into a beautiful, graceful woman. Her mother had died when she was twelve. Leah had been responsible for her father’s household from a young age, and had taken care of her two brothers until they left for Antioch, where they now lived independently. Leah had diligently attended to her father’s bookkeeping. His sudden death after a brief illness hit her hard. Considerate, friendly and compassionate, she now took care of her uncle, who was delighted to have her capable assistance in his old age.

His creaking knees rankled, and walking was no longer easy for him. He shuffled across the workshop and laid the bracelet in a little walnut box lined with green silk, which he carefully stowed in a drawer in his workbench. Upon leaving the room, he closed the door firmly behind him and carefully locked it with a padlock, before cautiously descending the stairs that led directly into the living room.

He saw at once that it was not an emissary of the great Sultan sipping his tea and lounging on the beautifully embroidered cushions that Leah had carefully arranged on a carpet in the centre of the room. The stranger wore a ragged, faded green robe. His dirty, grey turban and filth-encrusted wooden sandals made him look more like one of those dark, Syrian waste collectors who drove to the gate every evening to tip the city’s refuse into deep holes and crevices outside the fortified walls. He looked very young. He was small, underfed, and his dark, restless eyes peered at Ishmael from under a mop of brown curls that fell in a tangle across his forehead. A faint shadow on his smooth cheeks and upper lip hinted at the beginnings of a beard.

When the Muslim saw Ishmael, he leapt up, and a heavy object wrapped in tattered rags clattered from his lap to the floor. He immediately picked it up, clasped it to his chest and bowed deeply. Too deeply, thought Ishmael, even Muslim waste collectors usually treat Jews less respectfully than their cargo.

“As-salamu aleikum!” the Arab rasped hastily, glancing humbly into Ishmael’s crinkled face. Ishmael eyed the visitor with surprise. Muslims never greeted Jews first. Their pride toward the infidel scripture-readers didn’t allow it.

“Shalom,” Ishmael replied coolly, gesturing for the stranger to resume his seat.

“Are you Ishmael, the wise goldsmith, and the Ishmael that the Jews call the old rabbi?” asked the visitor. A hesitant smile revealed a row of gleaming white teeth, whose immaculate condition contrasted starkly with his ragged exterior. His dark eyes darted restlessly, as if he perceived danger in every corner of the room.

“No, I'm the Caliph of Baghdad,” replied Ishmael gruffly. “Of course I am he.”

“Yes, of course. Forgive me,” The Arab bowed nervously. “My name is Harit ibn Tharit ibn...”

“Please spare me your family history! One name is enough for me,” the rabbi interrupted rudely upon noticing the clumps of mud dropping from the man’s filthy sandals onto his precious, silk-threaded carpet. It was the most beautiful item in the otherwise modestly furnished but well-kept house.

The man nodded earnestly. “Then just call me Harit.”

“Well, what do you want from me?”

The Muslim glanced around, as if he suspected the walls had ears, and whispered, “I’ve come to offer to sell you something. Something valuable, I think – in fact, I believe it’s very valuable!”

Ishmael stiffened. Another of these people who believed Jews would buy any of the old junk that piled up every day from the countless pilgrims who visited the eminent city.

“Leave my house, I don’t want to buy anything. I don’t care what you have!” he said brusquely.

Harit bit his lower lip in disappointment and lifted the bulging sack from his knees. “Please, just look at it! You won’t regret it!”

Ishmael sighed and nodded. Mercy and compassion were rare enough in this world, and the young man before him was clearly in need of both.

Even though the two of them were alone in the room, Harit glanced around once again. Then he carefully unwrapped the package. A gleaming, dark grey figurine emerged, roughly a cubit long, half a cubit wide and half a cubit high. A winged lion with a human head, its feathered arms stretched out in front of it and its head slightly lowered. A cherub.

Astonishment flashed across Ishmael's face. It was clearly a very old, beautifully crafted effigy of one of the guardians God posted in front of Paradise to watch over the tree of life. The ancient lore described cherubim just like this. Christians and Muslims called them angels. For the Jews, the protectors of the sacred Ark of the Covenant were a symbol of their connection to God through their faith. The acacia reliquary contained the Ten Commandments of the Lord chiselled in stone, which Moses himself had received from the Almighty on Mount Sinai. The Ark bore two cherubim of pure gold on its lid and, according to the old scriptures, God’s presence on earth was situated between them.

This holiest relic of his people was said to be lost, stolen thousands of years ago.

He carefully took the cherub from the Muslim’s hands. The figurine was surprisingly heavy. Almost three pounds, he estimated as he studied it professionally from all angles.

Harit was pleased by the Jew’s interest, and his eyes shone. “It might be made of stone or even copper. Isn’t it pretty? I didn’t promise too much, did I? Look, there’s even a little gold on it.”

Possibly cast in lead, Ishmael guessed, because his fingers blackened when he rubbed its surface firmly. Or bronze. Indeed, there were some tiny traces of gold to be seen in a few places. Its material value seemed low. Clearly, it was an expertly made replica of the original – the shape and size, at least, matched the descriptions precisely.

“Well, what do you think? It’s worth something, isn’t it? Will you buy it?” Harit was becoming impatient and the questions bubbled out of him.

“Hmm... it appears to be lead or bronze. A casting. I can’t do much with it, but it’s nice to look at. So that you quickly leave my house, I’ll give you a dirham for it. Unfortunately, it’s not worth more than that,” said Ishmael, handing the figurine back. Harit held up his hands in a gesture of refusal.

“Three dirham and by Allah, it’s yours. I have other things like it outside on my cart. Perhaps we could agree on a lump sum for everything?”

Ishmael shrugged. “Oh, I don’t know. Where did you get them? I hope they’re not stolen, because that would make me liable if I bought them from you.”

Harit secretly rejoiced. It seemed he had found another buyer, after having sold a similar figurine for a dirham that morning to a Frankish pilgrim in the suq – the city’s large, bustling, covered market. That infidel had also asked about the origin of the half-human, half-bird statue, but seemed quite satisfied with Harit’s explanation.

“I work for the Emir of our magnanimous Sultan, Izz ad-Din Yurdik, may Allah grant him good health! He commissions me to clear away the debris left years ago by the infidel Jesus-worshippers, the damned Nazarenes. I perform my work in the huge cellars under al haram ash-sharif, the holy site from which Mohammed rose into the heavens. The mosque is currently being rebuilt, and below it are high vaults containing a lot of rubble and stones. The evil Templars – may Allah punish them for their crimes against us true believers – used to keep horses there until our glorious Sultan drove them out. If I find something that the infidels left behind in their haste, I must inform my overseer. He decides whether it’s of value to our Emir. If not, then I can do with it as I will. Usually I cart the junk out to the refuse trenches.”

He wasn’t being entirely truthful. To supplement his meagre wage, he sold his finds. He didn’t dare ask his overseer for permission. It wasn’t theft in his eyes, nevertheless he was careful and took great pains to conduct his business as discreetly as possible.

Harit cleared his throat, sipped his tea and continued, “While I was working, I discovered an unremarkable door at the bottom of a staircase, which led to a small room. I stored this dusty figurine and other objects there. My overseer thought they were worthless, but I knew better, so I packed them on my cart, and here I am!”

Ishmael regarded him thoughtfully. The Arab dug around in the holiest sites of Judaism, which Jews had not been allowed to enter since the Christians conquered Jerusalem. Nor did the current Muslim rulers permit it. The place he spoke of so candidly must certainly be King Solomon’s fabled horse stables. Al Aqsa mosque had been built on the foundations of the Jewish temple, which the barbaric Romans had destroyed over a thousand years ago. They subsequently drove out the Jews, scattering them all over the world. The beginning of a long road of suffering.

The place had served the proud and merciless Templars as their headquarters and church in the Holy Land since the conquest of Jerusalem almost a hundred years ago, until Sultan Salah ad-Din chased them out of the city. The vaulted Temple Mount had been shrouded since ancient times in legends of precious treasures – and still was, though nothing had ever been found.

Ishmael’s curiosity was aroused. Perhaps there’s more to be found down there than just a leaden cherub? Perhaps... the mighty Ark of the Covenant? Impossible... That would be too good to be true.

The thought made the blood rush to his head and he began to sweat.

“Trust me, rabbi. As I said, the refuse was searched by the overseer and handed over to me. I can do what I want with it. You can buy it from me without any misgivings. Come, I’ll show you the rest!”

The anxious Harit had noticed the Jew’s face suddenly flush red. Dealing in stolen goods was punishable by death in the Sultan’s realm. The goldsmith would naturally be circumspect.

Ishmael nodded. “Alright, let’s go to your cart. Show me what else you have to peddle.” He placed the cherub carefully on the floor.

Harit rose cheerfully and helped the old man to his feet. Ishmael’s knees cracked loudly as he stood up.

They left the house and stepped out onto the empty street that snaked through the small, convoluted Jewish quarter in north Jerusalem. All they heard was the chirping of cicadas and their own quiet footfalls on the sand. Evening was drawing in. The blood-red sun hung low above the gables and cast long shadows down the alley. Many of the city’s inhabitants had finished their day’s work and retreated into their cool houses.

The Muslim led Ishmael to his rickety handcart standing two houses further up the street by a locked gate. He continued to glance around him as if he feared he had been followed, but there was no one in sight. Reassured, Harit flung back the threadbare woollen blanket that covered the cart.

There were several rusty nails, a bent iron crucifix, gleaming silver chandelier parts, two well-preserved stirrups and a multitude of pottery shards decorated with Christian symbols. The most valuable-looking objects in this pile of junk were four dark, metal rings hanging from tastefully forged hinges.

“I’ll leave it all with you for...” Harit swept his arm in an inviting gesture, “...for ten dirham.”

He noticed the Jew’s unenthusiastic expression as he sceptically surveyed the supposed treasures, and added, “Fine, I can see you’re interested and I’m not unreasonable. Eight coins would suffice.”

Ishmael’s eyes wandered over the junk and stopped on two pale grey stone slabs, their corners jutting out from under the debris in the back of the cart. He stepped closer and carefully pulled one of them out in the red light of the setting sun.

It was two cubits long, one cubit wide, two thumbs thick, and when he picked it up, it felt about twice as heavy as the cherub.

He carefully wiped away a layer of accumulated dust with his hand, revealing small, engraved letters.

Squinting, he tried to decipher them. He knew this script. He had old, tattered papyrus rolls in his collection with similar lettering, which described the trade relations of a long-lost seafaring people during the reign of the pharaohs. His fingers ran slowly over the unusually warm stone, following the lines of the script.

I am YHWH, your God, who brought you out of Egypt, out of the land of slavery.

After translating the painstakingly engraved Phoenician characters, he shuddered. The Ten Commandments of God began that way! The first five were engraved here. He hurriedly drew out the second stone slab, studied it closely and shook his white head incredulously. Like the other tablet, this one had another five Commandments chiselled into it.

The rabbi’s knees weakened, he staggered back and steadied himself with a hand on the Muslim’s shoulder.

“What’s wrong?” asked Harit, alarmed. “You look like you’ve just glimpsed the fiery pits of hell!”

Ishmael couldn’t answer. The words of the Sefer Shemot, the second book of Moses, thundered through his head like a storm unleashed: Thou shalt put into the Ark the testimony which I shall give thee. And there was nothing in the Ark except the two stone tablets that Moses had placed in it at Horeb, where the LORD made a covenant with the Israelites after they came out of Egypt.

If he wasn’t mistaken, what lay before him were the exceptionally well-preserved remains of the holiest of the holy: the contents of the Ark of the Covenant. The long-lost, most precious treasure in the world!

After it was delivered, the Ark is said to have been robbed by heathen Babylonians and has never been seen since. But... are these really the sacred contents of the Ark of the Covenant lying here? They appear to be... and, of all people, an unbelieving Muslim was the one chosen to find them? I must have certainty... Oh, God... If it’s true...

Ishmael was speechless, torn this way and that by his turbulent thoughts. He heard the young Arab’s voice as though from a distance, babbling about payment. As if money were important now! He reached irritably into the pouch at his belt and counted out twenty silver dirham with trembling fingers.

“I... I’ll buy all of it. But there must be a second winged figurine. Did you find that too?” he wheezed.

At the sight of all the coins, Harit was momentarily lost for words. He held the gleaming pieces close to his eyes. He didn’t earn this much in three weeks of hard drudgery. He wanted to beat himself over the head for not coming to the Jew earlier. Instead he’d sold the first figurine to a Nazarene pilgrim for a price that was clearly too low.

He pictured the tall man with the blue eyes; the way he smugly stowed the cheaply acquired statue into his pilgrim’s sack, and quickly melted away into the thronging market crowds.

“Yes, there is a second figurine, and perhaps I can bring it to you. But that must be worth another...” Harit faltered “...shall we say... twenty dirham?”

“Fine! You’ll have them... I must have the second cherub,” said Ishmael, more to himself than to the surprised Arab, who immediately began pondering the fastest way to locate the pilgrim. For twenty silver pieces, he would search every corner of the city to reverse the bad deal he’d struck with him.

The goldsmith held his breath, carefully placed the stone tablets one on top of the other, lifted them off the cart and carried them like an armful of raw eggs into his home.

By Allah, I don’t know what it is about this junk, but it appears to be very valuable to the old man. Harit refrained from enquiring. The crazy Jew might regain his senses and ask for his money back. He bundled the other objects in the dirty blanket and followed the goldsmith in silence.

Stopping in the middle of the living room, Ishmael pressed the stone tablets tightly against his chest and indicated with a nod for Harit to put the bundle down against the wall in a corner.

“Go now and fetch me the second statue! Bring it to me... as quickly as you can, please...” whispered the goldsmith. Fat beads of sweat glued his hair to his scalp, his voice became shrill and his eyes rolled in his head. “I’ll pay you what you ask!”

“It’s alright... calm yourself. I’ll get it for you. But you’ll have to wait until tomorrow morning,” said Harit with a look of concern. I hope he lives to see another day. The frail little man is swaying like a reed in the wind.

“What? Yes, fine... until the morning... promise me!”

“I promise,” said Harit doubtfully, not entirely sure he could keep his word. But he would certainly try his best to buy the second figurine back from the pilgrim – for three, maybe even five dirham. Then he would still have an incredible fifteen silver coins. He couldn’t let such a lucrative deal slip through his fingers.

Harit was suddenly in a hurry to leave. He hastily bowed and said goodbye, leaving the Jew’s house with a full money pouch and a confident smile.

Ishmael stood alone in the centre of the room, not wanting to put down the unspeakably precious tablets. He couldn’t think of a better place for the Commandments than against his heart. Sweat ran down his cheeks and his head throbbed. Through the feeling of unspeakable joy flashed a nagging doubt. Doubts about the authenticity, doubts about reality, doubts about the truth.

What if it’s just a replica? A fake? I have to find out. Today!

Leah entered the room, humming quietly. She had prepared warm flatbreads with olive oil, thinking she would invite the supposed Sultan’s emissary to dinner. Hospitality was valued highly in the household. Although, she thought the stranger looked more like a young day labourer searching for work. But she had learned from a young age that you couldn’t always judge a person’s status by their clothing. Her uncle, for example, wore very modest, almost destitute-looking robes that revealed nothing of his excellent reputation in the Holy City, as an important rabbi and craftsman of considerable means.

She was startled when she noticed her uncle’s waxen, sweaty face. He was clutching two grey tablets so firmly to his chest that his white knuckles looked like they might dislocate at any moment.

“Is everything alright? Where’s our guest?” she asked with concern.

“It’s nothing, my child. It’s nothing, I’m fine. The little Muslim has gone,” he replied vacantly, then stiffened. “I must go straight to my workshop! I mustn’t be disturbed, do you hear? By anyone!”

He turned abruptly and trudged resolutely up the stairs.

Puzzled and a little worried, Leah watched him go.