The Emerald Scepter Read online

  Thomas and his men were waiting when the traders struck out on their own. One trader resisted and died. Philip was visibly upset at Thomas, but relented when the Crusader said the man’s death must have been God’s will because it persuaded the other merchant to lead the way.

  After weeks of travel through remote and rugged country, the travelers broke through a mountain pass into a verdant land. They followed a stone-paved road, mingling with a growing number of merchants, traders and farmers. The road led to the turreted gates of a city as large as any in Europe. A magnificent palace overlooked the city from high on a hill.

  The gem trader had papers from a previous visit and the city guards allowed him to pass. He quickly disappeared through the gates, grinning at the former captors as he left them behind. Philip told the guards that he had a letter for the king. The guards took the letter and threw the strangers into a dungeon. After languishing a few days, the prisoners were visited by a black-robed man.

  Speaking in a strange Latin dialect, the robed man said he was the king’s minister and that he had read the Pope’s letter. He had them moved to cleaner, more spacious quarters. They were well-fed and given robes to wear. Their every need was attended to, but they were still prisoners. The men gambled. Philip passed the time keeping a journal. It was not a terrible existence, but they were overjoyed when the minister sent a message saying the king wanted to see Philip and Thomas.

  Guards escorted the two men to the hill palace through streets lined with opulent mansions and bustling shops. Philip had expected a throne room filled with courtiers. Instead, he and Thomas were ushered into a small, simply furnished chamber.

  A middle-aged man with close-cropped gray hair and beard sat behind a dark-wood table. Unlike the minister and the guards, whose features had a faint Asian cast, the man’s long handsome face was Caucasian. He wore no crown or opulent cloak, only a plain robe that differed from the others in its color, an imperial purple.

  In a regal voice that was compelling, in spite of its softness, he told his guests to sit, and apologized for not seeing them sooner.

  “I was away to another part of my great kingdom,” he said. He placed his hand on the letter from Alexander, which lay on the table, the papal seal broken, and gazed at Philip with deep-set eyes the color of amber. “Tell me about your Pope and your long journey.”

  Philip related how Alexander had recruited his physician to carry the message to Prester John. The king listened intently, nodding occasionally. Only when Philip had finished his story did the king ask probing questions about European politics and religion. At the end of the interrogation, he snapped his fingers and the minister handed Philip a vellum scroll sealed in wax.

  “I would like you to carry this letter to your Pope. Your journey was arduous, and I regret having to ask that you repeat it so soon,” the king said. “You will have two days to rest and another three to prepare.”

  Philip’s eyes went to the steel-bound ebony chest around three feet long that sat on a side table. The minister lifted the black box in two hands, set it in front of the king and removed the lid.

  Thomas muttered a prayer, and Philip didn’t blame the astonished knight. They were gazing at a golden scepter, made in the shape of a long cross and encrusted with emeralds.

  “It’s beautiful,” Philip whispered.

  A quick smile came to the king’s lips. “Yes, it is beautiful, but it is more than that. It is the symbol of my power. I entrust you to carry this gift to your Pope along with other tokens of my esteem to reassure him that I will soon lead my armies to be by his side in the fight against the infidels. I wish you a safe journey and Godspeed.”

  He rose from the table and disappeared through a curtained door. The minister gently lowered the lid. The audience was over.

  Five days later Philip and his men left the kingdom of Prester John and headed west. They were accompanied by fifty fierce-eyed horse archers clad in black-robes over light breast armor made of segmented steel plates. Steel skull caps protected their heads. They carried curved swords, but their main weapon was a short bow made of wood and horn, fashioned with the tips curved forward to exact the maximum power from the bronze-tipped arrows launched from the animal sinew strings.

  The archers guarded a column of twenty mules harnessed together in pairs and several mule-drawn wooden supply carts. Each pair of mules carried an ebony chest in a hammock slung between their broad backs. The chest holding the scepter rode by itself in a mule cart positioned in the middle of the column. The horse archers called themselves the Guardians. Their sworn duty was to defend the contents of the boxes with their lives.

  The iron-handed captain of the Guardians made sure the tightly-spaced column moved at double the average caravan travel speed of eight miles a day regardless of weather or physical barriers.

  Philip and Thomas rode side-by-side at the head of the procession. The Italian’s olive complexion had been darkened to near mahogany by years of exposure to harsh sunlight. He rode a fine-limbed chestnut Arabian horse. Like the archers, he wore a breast plate and skull cap. Thomas towered above him, sitting astride a giant Percheron of dappled gray.

  As the horses jogged along, Philip looked off at the scorched hills and jagged, snow-peaked mountains. He swept his arm in the air.

  “You know me to be a man of great piety, Thomas. But If God is all-powerful, why did He not bring beauty to every part of the world?”

  The doctor’s philosophical meanderings had become a familiar refrain against the clop of hooves over thousands of miles traveled together.

  “Perhaps He is testing us,” Thomas said.

  “Well put, Thomas. Worthy of the most learned theologian. And what a test is in store for us! Just look at this awful place. It is difficult to imagine that God is behind every stone.”

  The Crusader was looking at the wrinkled landscape, but with the steely gaze of a military man who saw potential danger rather than the Almighty lurking behind the massive boulders and in the deep ravines. They were traveling along a path that led down into a narrowing valley hemmed in by hills that grew steeper and closer together. A ragged carpet of waist-high bushes and trees with twisted trunks covered the boulder-strewn slopes. Their guide had insisted that the canyon was the quickest way through the mountains.

  Thomas saw that it was also a perfect place for an ambush. The caravan could turn back, but the search for another way through the mountains would delay their journey to Rome, and their pack animals needed the water that the guide promised they would have further into the valley.

  Thomas had begrudgingly hired the guide at the last caravan stop because he spoke English he had learned from passing travelers. He said he had led many caravans. Thomas didn’t trust him. He had kept a close eye on the man who was riding ahead of the caravan with a knight at his side. He watched as the guide dropped back a few paces from the knight, removed his turban and used it to wipe the sweat off his face.

  As if released from a magician’s hat, a flock of silver-feathered birds erupted near a clump of trees about half-way up the slope to the right. Philip watched the birds whirl into the sky, then glanced back and saw a quick on-off firefly glint in the trees.

  A cut-off force was in hiding. Another force was likely hidden on the opposite side of the canyon; both were positioned to stop a retreat once the column was ambushed.

  The release of the caged birds would signal the main force that the caravan was entering the trap. Thomas smiled. If he had been leading the ambush he would have made sure every shiny metal weapon that could catch sunlight had been sheathed away from the sun’s rays. The lack of discipline was a good sign. The caravan would likely be facing wild bandits rather than a trained army.

  Thomas raised his mail-covered fist above his head and the caravan came to a crawling halt at the signal. He leaned over in his saddle and said:

  “Master Philip, if you would be so ki
nd as to convey a message to the captain?”

  The doctor was the official leader of the caravan, but he deferred to the battle-scarred ex-Crusader in all matters of security. He asked no questions and quickly relayed the message to the captain who rode back along the column to convey the orders to the Guardians.

  Two archers slid from their saddles. One went over to a mule-drawn cart that carried a clay pot in a bed of sand and removed the pot cover. Heat blasted from the glowing red embers that allowed fire to be moved from camp to camp. From another cart, the second man removed a wooden bucket that held pieces of smoked meat preserved in melted fat. He carried the bucket along the lines and the archers each plunged arrows into the thick goo.

  His comrade fashioned a torch from pieces of kindling and held it close to the embers until it caught fire. He followed the bucket and touched the torch to the fat-soaked arrows. As each arrow flared into flames, the Guardian holding it peeled away from the main column.

  The guide galloped back to Thomas.

  “Why have we stopped?” the man demanded.

  Ignoring the question, Thomas said, “How much did they pay you to betray us?”

  Fear flickered in the guide’s dark eyes. He snapped the reins and jerked the animal’s head aside, digging his heels into the mule’s flanks. The move ignited the animal’s reflexes. It lurched forward and broke into a fast trot.

  Thomas’ horse reared up on its powerful hind legs and sprang forward with an unexpected agility, covering the ground with long thundering strides. As Thomas caught up with the mule and its rider, he drew his broadsword from its chest scabbard in an exquisitely timed motion and brought it around in a sweeping arc.

  The razor edge of the German-forged blade caught the guide’s neck at the base of the skull. The head separated from the shoulders and hit the ground like a ripe melon.

  As Thomas galloped back to the caravan, the two lines of Guardians positioned at the base of the hills on both sides of the canyon began to shoot flaming arrows into the air. Each arrow that disappeared into the tree-tops planted a fiery seed. Smoke blossomed where fire had taken hold. Tendrils of flame merged and spread, quickly turning the hillsides into infernos.

  Movement rippled down the hillsides ahead of the advancing flames. The men who had been hiding in the brush were running for their lives. The moving wall of fire enveloped some men, but others made it safely to the valley floor where they brandished swords and spears and charged the horse archers in a shrieking mob. The bowmen easily picked off the attackers. Within minutes the valley was littered with bodies.

  The fast-moving fire rapidly burned off the vegetation. As the rainfall of gray ash diminished and the haze thinned, the valley revealed itself to be honey-combed with openings. Men streamed from the caves and swarmed down the glowing hillsides. Shouts of anger and blood lust echoed throughout the smoke-filled valley.

  The Guardians coolly adjusted their tactics for rapid fire. Each horse archer clutched a handful of arrows in his hand and drew the bow string back to his cheek instead of the ear. Killing clouds of feathered shafts descended on the attackers.

  For every bandit who fell, the caves disgorged three more to take his place. Some bandits were armed with bows. While their aim was poor, the deadly cloud of arrows began to tell against the lightly armored horse archers. Several Guardians were killed outright. The others walked their horses backwards, trying to hold formation while they kept up a steady rate of fire.

  Thomas saw the horse archers fade back and rallied his men, who had been guarding the panicked pack animals. The Crusader way to deal with an attack was to attack.

  Three knights galloped off to one side of the canyon. Thomas led another trio in tight formation toward the bandits on the opposite side.

  In its day, nothing devised for warfare could rival a Crusader charge in sheer shock power. A mounted knight was the medieval equivalent of a modern battle tank. The Percheron weighed at least two thousand pounds even without armor. The Destriers the other knights rode were nearly as big.

  The horses mowed down the first rank of attackers, drove deep into the living sea, spun around and headed back, leaving splintered bones and bloody pulp in their wake. They broke into the clear, then spun around and charged again. The bandits were better prepared for the second attack. A deft spear thrust unseated the man to Thomas’ left and the bandits butchered the body as the horse dragged it along.

  Thomas and his men took advantage of the diversion and hacked their way into the open. The tide of battle was turning. The bandits had outflanked the archers and others were closing in on the pack animals. Philip was courageously using his short sword against three spear-carrying men on foot. Thomas rode to his aid. He cut two of the bandits practically in half and his horse trampled the third. It was too late.

  A spear point had slipped through the edge of Philip’s breast plate under his raised armpit. The sword dropped from his fingers and he leaned weakly on his horse’s neck.

  The Guardian captain fought his way over.

  “Take the pack animals!” he shouted. “We’ll hold the bandits off as long as we can.”

  Thomas grabbed the reins of Philip’s horse and ordered his men to round up the pack animals carrying the black chests.

  Horse archers formed ragged defensive lines to protect their retreat.

  In a clatter of hooves and wagon wheels, the knights galloped further into the narrowing valley to a bend flanked by high cliffs that soared up on either side like the walls of a great cathedral. The natural stone gates had acted as fire-breaks, keeping the blaze away from the smaller section of the ravine.

  Thomas hoped the archers might hold their lines until he and his men could exit the other end. His plans were dashed against a sheer vertical wall of shale hundreds of feet high. They were in a box canyon. Below the wall was a pond surrounded by reeds. The guide had been telling the truth when he said there was water.

  While the men and animals refreshed themselves at the water hole, Thomas rode up one side of the canyon, then dismounted and climbed the last few hundred feet to the top. He saw a hill that reminded him of a camel’s hump. His horsemen might be able to follow in his steps, but not the pack animals and carts.

  On his descent he discovered an opening partially hidden by brush. He explored the cave entrance and saw that it was reinforced with timbers. A dozen paces past the entrance the cave widened dramatically. There would be plenty of room for men and animals.

  He signaled his men to climb to him, and led them into the cave. Thomas lifted Philip from his horse and laid his friend out on the hard floor. He removed the doctor’s armor and using the basic first aid he had learned on countless battlefields, he fashioned a compress with Philip’s shirt to slow the bleeding. The lessons on how to treat wounds also made him a good judge of their severity.

  Philip was dying.

  Thomas removed his helmet to reveal thinning reddish gray hair. He was weary, but he kept his voice strong and reassuring.

  “It’s only a scratch, Master Philip. We’ll be on our way after a short rest.”

  Philip managed a slight smile. “I’ve come as far as I can. You must travel the rest of the way without me. Where is the journal I’ve been keeping?”

  Thomas held up the blood-soaked leather bag that contained Philip’s daily writings.

  An expression of relief came to the face of the dying man. “You must keep it safe, Thomas.”

  “And what of the letter to the Pope?”

  A faint smile came to Philip’s cracked lips. “I delivered one letter. It is up to you to deliver the reply.”

  The smile hardened into a grimace. Philip tensed his body and his eyes rolled up in his head. A guttural sound escaped from his throat. Thomas felt a leaden heaviness in his chest. For the first time in many years he was feeling an unusual emotion. Sadness.

  Someone called his name. Th
e scout had returned to the cave with a breathless report. “I saw no sign of the Guardians, but the bandits are not attacking.”

  “They know we have no place to go,” Thomas said. “They will tend to their dead and rob the Guardians. Then they will rest and attack at dawn.”

  “We’ll stand and fight to the end,” the look-out said.

  The other men echoed his determination with shouts of defiance.

  “No. We will carry the fight to them,” Thomas said. “But first we have some work to do.”

  Thomas fashioned a torch and walked further into the cave. He saw that it had been used as a tomb. Bones lay in an elevated wall niche at the end of the tomb. Clay wine vessels had been placed at the feet of the skeleton in the alcove.

  While his men unloaded the chests and stacked them, Thomas swept aside the occupant of the niche. He placed Philip’s body in the opening, covered his friend with his armor and bloody robe. He slipped the helmet onto Philip’s head. He mumbled a soldier’s prayer and made the sign of the cross.

  After a moment of thought, he removed the plug from of the wine vessels. The contents had evaporated and the top was encrusted with dry resin. He placed Philip’s journal in the vessel, then use his torch to melt the resin into an airtight seal when he pushed the plug back into the opening.

  His men had finished unloading the chests. He unlatched the lids and allowed his men to examine the contents. They gasped when they saw the fabulous wealth in gold and jewels, but they went silent when Thomas lifted the scepter from its container.

  He placed the scepter on Philip’s body and the gold cross on his forehead. He took two gold coins from a chest and placed them on his friend’s eyes to buy his way into heaven.