Authors: Yoram Katz
Roland laughed. “Your
young general is not just party to this; he is the prime initiator of this move
and worked hard at convincing the Directory to send him to Egypt. I met him as
well and yes, I was deeply impressed. The man is a brilliant politician and
strategist, but he is also very ambitious. He is a self-proclaimed Julius
Caesar, and I am not at all sure about his real motives. I suspect that this
young maverick is thinking of imitating Alexander’s great conquests in the
east. In any case, the main reason, in my opinion, that the Directory accepted
his grandiose plan, was that these five dignitaries wanted to see him far away
from Paris. Your general is too capable and too popular. He is a threat to
them.”
“I am no politician,” interjected
Pascal, “but I assure you that the general is above suspicion. He is the
greatest Frenchman alive today and a true servant of the revolution.”
Roland smiled, but his
eyes were cold. “Perhaps, but enough of that." He raised his glass to his
lips and took a sip. For a short moment, he closed his eyes, rolling the wine
on his tongue and enjoying the fine taste. Then, he put the glass down. “I know
your time is precious, son, and that you must return to Toulon, to your
soldiers who are waiting for you to lead them. There is another reason I asked
you to honor me with this visit apart from my desire to bid you farewell and
wish you success before you sail under the French flag. I had better get down
to it.”
Pascal was silent. He
did wonder why he had been summoned home so urgently.
“Well, son, you have
often wondered why a devout Christian like myself despises the papacy so much.
Over the years, I have told you stories about this infamous establishment,
which has consistently destroyed the most decent men among its believers. This
institution has long ago forgotten that the only reason for its existence is the
serving of the Lord and his Message. However, I never told you the whole story
and how it touches our family’s legacy. Today, I will do that.”
Pascal straightened
himself up on the divan and looked at his father in surprise.
“You surely remember
January 21
st
, 1793.” Roland de Charney never liked using the new
revolutionary calendar. Pascal nodded. He would never forget that day. “It was
a holy day for me. I know it was barbaric. I saw your face then, and I know
what you must have felt. Sometimes I think the Lord will never forgive us for
all the horrors we have perpetrated in the name of the revolution, but that
moment, when the king died and the monarchy perished, gave me sublime happiness
and not just for the reasons you may imagine.”
Not a muscle moved in
Pascal’s face. He was listening intently.
“Do you know what place
it was, from which that evil man, Louis XVI, was taken to the guillotine in the
Revolution Square? You do not, so I will tell you. The wretched king and that
Austrian slut of his, Marie Antoinette, were kept in the Paris Temple. Do you
know what that building used to be?”
Pascal did not know.
“It used to be the
headquarters of the Paris Templars. They were a glorious order of believers who
devoted their lives to fighting the Lord’s battles and to winning Christian
domination in the Holy Land. You know who the Templars were, right?”
Of course Pascal knew.
The Templars and their history were an obsession with his father. The library at
their home was loaded with Templar writings and Templar history, which his
father hungrily devoured. Pascal himself did not think much of these old-time
stories. Engaging in ancient history seemed to him useless and unsuitable for
young men. When he was a child, his father often told him the story of the
small order which had been founded in the Holy Land by nine knights under the
leadership of Hugues de Payens to protect pilgrims arriving in the Holy Land
from Muslim bandits. From this humble start, the order was transformed within a
short period into one of the most influential powers in the church, in politics
and in Europe’s economy.
“What happened to the
Templars, Pascal?”
Pascal knew. It was the
story of the conspiracy between King Philippe IV of France, nicknamed “Philippe
the fair,” and his protégé, Pope Clement V, for the annihilation of the Knights
Templar. Philippe owed an enormous sum to the order which, at the time, was also
the largest bank in Europe. Destroying the order and taking over its vast
assets, was the way by which the king meant to solve his financial difficulties.
On Friday, October 13
th
1307, all Templar leaders in France were
arrested. The hunt spread to the whole of Europe and within a few years, all
Templar assets were confiscated and members of the order were delivered into
the hands of the inquisitors. Some were broken into admitting to sins they had
not committed, while others chose to hold on to their truth and burn at the
stake.
Roland sighed softly.
“I know that you never had real interest in this story, and that you often wondered
about my obsession with the Templars. Well, son, here are some details you are
not familiar with, and which will make you understand.”
Pascal sat erect on his
divan, puzzled.
“On March 18
th
,
1314, after seven years of incarceration, the last Templar Grand Master,
Jacques de Molay, and three other senior Templars were to be sentenced to life,
based on confessions that the inquisitors had extracted from them under extreme
torture. Two of the four men humbly accepted the sentence, but then the broken,
seventy years old de Molay stood up in defiance. In front of the judges and the
astonished audience, he went back on his confession and claimed absolute
innocence. While he was still talking, the last Templar on the bench jumped to
his feet and supported the claims of the old man. If they were guilty of
anything, the two claimed, it was of the fact that they had surrendered to
torture and admitted to false crimes and sins, thus betraying the Order. The
Order, they said, was pure and holy, the indictments were fabricated and the
admissions were void of any legal validity.
The stunned panel of
judges immediately adjourned the meeting, not sure how to deal with this
unexpected twist. Philippe the fair was more decisive. The furious king
summoned the judges for a short consultation, which resulted in a proclamation
that the two defying Templars were relapsed heretics, and should burn at the
stake on a slow fire. The two men burned alive that very night, in front of the
Notre Dame cathedral in Paris. The peace of mind they displayed at the stake
impressed all who watched the horrible scene. Before he died, de Molay cried
out from among the flames that were consuming his body. He announced that
before long, both King and Pope would join him for a final judgment before God.
When, a few hours later, this horrific scene ended, many people were picking at
the ashes, collecting relics from the remains of the two, who were already
considered martyrs.”
“I know this story,
Papa, perhaps not all the details…”
The old man raised his
hand. “A moment, my son, have patience. There is one important detail you do
not know. This brave man, the Preceptor of Normandy, who at the moment of
truth stood by de Molay and then burned at the stake next to him... his name
was Geoffroi de Charney.”
Pascal was not sure
what to make of it. “De Charney?” he repeated the name, somewhat mystified.
His father stood up and
walked towards the far wall, on which a few old portraits were hanging. He
pointed at one of them. “You must know this portrait, Pascal. It has been
hanging here for as long as I can remember. This is Geoffroi de Charney, one of
your ancestors, and now you know who this brave man was.”
Pascal put down his
glass on a little table beside him, stood up and joined his father to look at
the portrait. It was hard to make out much of it. The portrait was dark with
age.
“Now you can perhaps
understand how I felt on that day in January 1793. Indeed, some justice was
done at the time, when, as de Molay had predicted, both King Philippe IV and
his puppet Pope Clement V died within a year of the burning of the martyrs. But
in 1793, justice was carried out to the next level. With wretched King Louis,
the whole corrupt institution of the Monarchy was put to death - the ultimate
punishment for the despicable crimes of Philippe the fair. This is what made
that day so fulfilling for me. Now, all that is left for me to see is the fall
of the other party to the conspiracy - the rotten, unholy papist institution
which calls itself ‘The Holy Throne’.”
Roland de Charney
closed his eyes and recited from the Bible. “
When I sharpen my flashing sword
, and
my hand grasps it in judgment, I will take vengeance on my adversaries and
repay those who hate me
.
[vi]
”
When he opened his eyes Pascal saw tears in them. “Justice must be done, my
son.”
They returned to their seats.
Roland sipped some wine to wet his throat. Pascal was apprehensive. He knew the
intensity of the energies hidden in the heart of the old lion and how he had
always worked to achieve his goals. What was he up to now? He kept silent and
waited, but now his father closed his eyes again, as if in a trance. A minute
passed, which to Pascal seemed an eternity. Then the older man opened his eyes.
“Well, son, His will requires that this villainy is fully avenged. Furthermore,
the consequences of the deed must be erased from the face of the earth and that
which was destroyed by evil must come to life again. Otherwise, justice will
not be fully served, will it?”
Pascal said nothing and
looked into his father’s eyes. The gray-blue eyes were burning in a strange
fire. “And justice will be done only when the spirit of the
Poor
Fellow-Knights of Christ and the Temple of Solomon
rises again, renews its
ages-old message and takes its revenge upon the evil Church.”
Roland de Charney let
the words resonate in the air for a while and then fixed his gaze on Pascal.
“And now, my son, I come to the reason for which I have summoned you here.”
T
he Templar fort was
the only military facility in the city still standing. It was a pentagon, located
on the southwestern tip of the Acre peninsula. Each side of the pentagon was
about 200
Paris feet
[vii]
long
.
Two
of the walls faced southward and westward, bordering on the sea, and the
remaining three walls were heavily fortified. The northeastern wall faced the
city, with the fort gate in its middle and a square watch tower on each side.
This wall was now manned by knights and sergeants, who kept a close watch on the
city which was gradually being taken by the Saracens, who would soon be closing
in on them.
Sagging under his load
and with the last remains of strength he had in him, Philippe de Charney banged
on the fort’s gate. The sentries recognized him and let him in immediately.
Philippe stumbled in and was instantly surrounded by the guards. With their
help, he carefully unloaded the wounded man.
Mark de Tramelay,
Captain of the Guard, and three sergeants in their black uniform, were
approaching hurriedly. They stopped when they reached Philippe and looked at
the wounded man. All identified him and instantly turned pale, the shock
showing in their faces.
“Is the Grand Master
still alive?” asked Mark in a quivering voice.
“I am not sure.”
Philippe fought to regulate his halted breath. “He was wounded while leading
the attack on the Accursed Tower, which we tried to win back from the Saracens.
Please take him to the infirmary immediately and alert the Marshall.”
Mark signaled to one of
his sergeants, who promptly hurried away. The other two sergeants transferred
the injured man onto a stretcher and carried him inside, into the fort.
* * *
Guillaume de Beaujeu, Grand
Master of the Templars was lying on the bed with two physicians fussing over
him. Besides them in the room stood Philippe de Charney, Mark de Tramelay and
Pierre de Severy, Marshall of the Templars.
One of the physicians
straightened up and crossed himself. His eyes met Pierre’s, and he shook his
head. “The arrow penetrated his armpit and pierced the heart. He had no
chance.”
Pierre thanked him with
a nod and signaled him to leave. The two physicians promptly retired.
“The arrow hit the
armpit gap in the armor. The Accursed Tower has lived up to its name,” said
Philippe gloomily.
“Indeed it has,” agreed
Pierre. “We just got word that the second attack on the tower had failed as
well.”
“Sir,” Philippe lowered
his head. “You are Grand Master now.”
Pierre shook his head.
“Acting Grand Master perhaps, de Charney, and not for long.”
The three men fell
silent, their eyes fixed on the body of their revered Grand Master as it lay on
the bed, trying to fathom the calamity they had just suffered. Finally, de
Severy turned to de Tramelay. “Mark,” he said in a low voice, “please leave me
with Philippe.”
De Tramelay bowed and
left the room. Pierre then turned to de Charney. It was some time before he
spoke.
“Philippe, my brother,”
he said at last. “I will not lie to you. We are approaching the end of our way.
We will still take with us many Saracen heretics to the grave, but the Kingdom
of Jerusalem is about to fall.”
Philippe had controlled
his feelings so far, but now there were tears in his eyes. He tried to say something,
but Pierre raised his hand to silence him. “Listen to me carefully, Philippe de
Charney. I am about to assign to you the most important task you have ever been
assigned. You are to do exactly as I tell you without a word of protest, even
if you find my words unacceptable.”
Philippe looked up,
surprised.
De Severy picked up a
small object from a nearby table. It was a cylindrical package, wrapped in
treated, waterproof leather and carefully tied with leather straps. “This is
the most treasured asset of our Order and the source of our strength,” he said,
handing the package over to Philippe. “It was discovered inside the ruins of
the Temple in Holy Jerusalem, by Hugues de Payens and the Founding Fathers of
our Order, 170 years ago, and has been entrusted in the hands of the presiding
Grand Master ever since. Grand Master de Beaujeu gave it to me for safekeeping
before he left for his last battle. I have no idea what is inside, but it must
pass to the next Grand Master, which I do not expect to become. Your mission is
to take this package and get it to a safe place. You will guard it with your
life and deliver it to the next Grand Master, whoever he may be. Now, change
your clothes quickly and go to the port. Patriarch Nicholas’ ship is about to
leave for Cyprus. I sent him a message, and he is waiting for you. Time is
running out, my brother. Now go!”
Philippe de Charney
froze where he stood, staring at his commander in shock and disbelief. “Are you
ordering me to abandon my brothers on the eve of the last battle?” he asked
incredulously. “How can I ever live with such shame? Are you telling me to… to
desert in the face of the enemy?”
“Philippe, my dear
brother, please trust me. You will be doing the Order a much more important
service than merely killing a few heathens. You must believe this with all your
heart.”
Not knowing what to
say, Philippe lowered his head.
“God bless you,
Philippe de Charney. I do not think we shall meet again.”
The two men embraced.
* * *
Philippe went down the
stairs leading into the fort basement. The armed sergeants at the tunnel entrance
knew him and let him pass. He entered the tunnel and moved with quick steps.
The Templar Tunnel had been dug many years before as a shortcut from the
Templar fort on the west side of the peninsula, to Acre’s main port in the
east.
The mounted burning
torches painted dancing shadows on the stone walls and arched ceiling, and
Philippe’s brain was flooded with terrifying visions. The horror he had
experienced during the last few hours was now coming back to haunt him. His
massacred friends… the Saracens he killed with his sword… the rivers of blood
flowing on the stones beneath his feet… and above all, he was reliving, time
and again, the most terrible moment of them all, the moment he knew all was
lost.
* * *
He is charging at the head
of his men toward the Accursed Tower. He is following Grand Master Guillaume de
Beaujeu in a desperate attack to retake the tower which fell to the Saracens a
short while ago. De Beaujeu is running forward headlong, immune to the burning
catapult missiles and the rain of arrows whistling around him, inspiring his
men with his leadership and invoking in them such courage and strength they
never knew they had.
There was a prevailing
myth among the knights, sergeants and soldiers, that Guillaume was protected by
the heavens and that there was neither an arrow yet made, nor a sword forged, which
could stop him. And now they are following him crazed, like so many blind men,
believing in their power to turn defeat into victory. The noise around them is
immense and terrible, with the drum beating of hundreds of Saracen camel riders
drowning their battle cries and the cries of the wounded moaning for help.
And then it happens.
Guillaume, who has been
advancing fearlessly until this moment, stops abruptly. He throws his hands up
and paces backwards, swaying like a drunken man. The soldiers hold their
breath, staring at him in fear and amazement. And then, an incredible thing
takes place. The invincible Guillaume casts down his sword and shield, turns
around and starts making his way back through the ranks of his men. The
warriors fall silent for a while, trying to comprehend what their eyes are
telling them. Their revered leader has had a change of heart… he is quitting
the battle! The Templars, trained never to fear death, are dumbfounded and
stunned. A first shout of contempt is heard from the ranks, and then more are
joining, booing the disgraceful sight, jeering at their failed commander. Philippe,
too, is thunderstruck and overwhelmed with shame and disappointment in his
fallen idol…
Then Guillaume throws his
hands up again and cries to his men, “I'm not running away; I am dead. Here is
the blow.” And now Philippe and the rest can see it. The end of an arrow is
visible, stuck in the left armpit of the Grand Master, exactly at the opening
in the armor, with most of the arrow buried deep in the flesh. Guillaume
collapses… At that moment, the rain of arrows intensifies. As more soldiers
fall to the ground, the momentum of the attack is broken and courage gives way
to despair. The offensive fizzles out, and the knights start withdrawing.
Philippe throws away his shield, kneels down, loads his mortally wounded
commander on his shoulders and starts running.
* * *
Philippe felt the package
pressed against his heart and quickened his step. The solemn stone walls were
now rapidly passing by. Somewhere ahead he saw a glimmer of daylight and
minutes later he found himself on the eastern side of the tunnel. The guards greeted
him with a nod, and he stepped out into the bustling port of Acre.