Bertrand was horrified. Such evil, in the bowels of Acre, before his very eyes?
He stepped forward, dagger pointed at Laurent de Rennes, captain of the Order. "What is the meaning of all this!?" he demanded. "You dare defy the will of God, and worship demons in the Holy Land?"
Everyone turned to look at the intruder. Laurent raised his hand, quieting the crowd before it could begin to mutter, and smiled. "While I would love to know how you learned about us, I am afraid you have stepped well beyond your boundaries, crusader."
"That matters not," Bertrand exclaimed. "Captain de Rennes, the Visitor-General shall know about this. Your corruption will end today!"
"Oh, you poor fool. You really are naïve, crusader." Some of the men-at-arms at the place drew swords, standing before the captain and the soldier. "Did you really think it was God who gave us victory? Learn the truth before your death – joining the scores of brothers killed within the city."
Bertrand knew very well what Laurent spoke of. Several members of the Order had been slain in recent days, at least one each day, in unknown circumstances. Their deaths had all been swift and silent, with cuts and thrusts so precise it only meant they were taken by surprise. The most important – the death of the Commander of the Vault, Guy de Anjou – was the most daring, as he always traveled with an escort, and none of these well-trained soldiers even noticed he had been struck through the kidneys, bleeding to death as he fell unconscious. That was perhaps the only mistake of the murderer, for that was what alerted the Order to its furtiveness.
"So," Bertrand asked. "Were you the one that killed them?"
"I could turn the accusation towards you, brother. Perhaps it is best that we do? Such a crime would cancel your indulgence, mind you."
Bertrand was horrified. The pope had promised a plenary indulgence to anyone who served in the Holy Land as a crusader, which had motivated them to do wicked acts. Only grave actions would cause the chaplains to plead before His Holiness to deny such indulgence, for only he had the keys to Heaven. To know that, if he didn’t stop them, the wicked would enter the Pearly Gates while he would be condemned despite his service, was further motive to stop them.
"You would dare accuse me," the crusader exclaimed, "to hide your misdeeds? The Order must know about this."
"And you think they don’t?" The men-at-arms pressed forward as the captain grasped a staff. "That matters not. To know that the Order of the Temple of Solomon has consorted with the very demons that the Wisest of Kings enslaved will be the last disillusionment you face before your death."
Bertrand was outnumbered, but not outpowered. He dreaded his gifts, but now, they were the only thing that could save him. Extending his hand, he lifted one of the men-at-arms in mid-air, and crushed him. "Then, may the Hand of God guide me."
With a tumbling roll, Bertrand grasped the sword of the man-at-arms and locked in blows with the other. Despite a lucky blow to the shoulder, he turned the tide by returning the blow in earnest, using his gift to inflict the greatest of pain. The blood in his wound staunched, while a phantom wound manifested in the shoulder of his opponent, disabling him. The crusader then hurled the other man-at-arms away, knocking him off.
Five more soldiers, all experienced sergeants, drew their weapons and threw themselves at Bertrand at once. But Bertrand, almost impervious to their telling blows, withstood them, and their strength waned as they faced him. It was as though they were facing Death itself. Yet they relented not, facing their death without remorse.
Then it was only Laurent and Bertrand – the women had hurried away down some secret corridor. The captain seemed to meditate, holding his staff before him. Then he drew his sword. "Such hypocrisy, Bertrand de Rouen," he sneered. "You are yourself a sorcerer."
"I asked not for such talents, and I wield them in service to God."
"That does not make you any less of a hypocrite." Laurent thrust his sword at Bertrand, and disarmed him with a blow and sent him reeling back. "My strength comes in faithful answer to prayer. What of yours?"
"I know not from whence it comes," the crusader cried, as he snatched up the blade from one of the fallen warriors. "I only know they are mine, and I beg for them not with any foul prayers."
"Then you are worse than a sorcerer. You are a monster." Laurent and Bertrand traded blows, then apart again. "And a monster should know the truth about the Order he serves under."
"You offer me a confession? You will have time to confess to the Visitor-General, cur!"
"You think the Visitor-General is not one of us?"
Bertrand blanched, and in that moment Laurent disarmed him again, and chased him with the point of his blade as Bertrand scrambled for another. "It is through our guidance, brother, and those who guide us, that the Order succeeds. Through us has it earned riches and power beyond belief. The world is promised us. And after that ... Heaven itself?"
Bertrand spat at the captain. "God shall damn you."
"Make your prayer in His presence. If He accepts you, sorcerer." Laurent thrust the blade at Bertrand's breast.
But the point stopped a bare finger's breadth from his mantle, for Bertrand had seized and held it with a bare hand. Yet his palm bled not, as if it were mailed with an invisible glove. Laurent gasped.
And as he stared, Bertrand twisted the blade with his hand, and broke it. "God have mercy on your soul," he said as he threw the blade away. "For I will not."
Laurent's eyes flickered at something behind Bertrand, who stepped to one side as another figure entered by the same door he had come through. By the flickering torchlight, Bertrand saw a man in pauper's garb, with the dark, clean-shaven face of an Arab. "Now you see the corruption in your own Order, brother?" the newcomer said.
Bertrand snatched up a blade and pointed it at the newcomer, who only glanced at it without flinching. "This has been the doing of you and yours?"
"Nay, this is a perversion deeper than any argument between the Christ and the Prophet," replied the other, still concentrated on Laurent. "And not all of your Order are corrupt, brother. But if we do not excise the poison, soon they may be."
As Bertrand had grasped a blade, so Laurent now lunged for a sword. But as he bent, something flickered in the air between him and the newcomer, and he fell to his knees. "Curse you both," he gurgled. "Baphomet shall rule—" He fell onto his face, and moved no more.
Bertrand shook himself in his confusion, and his brow furrowed. "My thanks, stranger. But who are you? By your face and garb, I warrant we have fought, if not each other then on opposite sides."
"On the same side, brother, though under clashing standards," replied the other with a smile. "And mercy you have shown me. 'May they show me mercy when my time comes'?"
"Then I thank you, and I thank God."
"Yet, even in your anger, you never could have killed me, brother. The ousiarchs have so decreed."
He knew the word, and started at it. "Then you are also--"
"I am a Wandering Star as are you, and I am overjoyed to have found you. I was sent cut a corruption from the heart of an enemy, but found an ally there." He put out his hand.
Yet Bertrand stared at it doubtfully. "We serve different masters. And I rejected your Order, O Wander Star, when I learned of it. Still I reject it, and shall serve out my days as a Templar."
"As you have chosen," said the other, not withdrawing his hand. "But if we will not be comrades in arms, may we at least be friends."
Doubt still sat on Bertrand's brow, but he suffered to take the other's hand, and let him depart in peace. Not until later did he find the scroll the other had surreptitiously slipped into a pocket under his mantle.
--
You smile as John finishes reading the tale you wrote. Only one thought crossed your mind, and as soon as he lifted his hand, you revealed it. "Frank would love this, right?"
John chuckled. "Oh, indeed! He loves the stories of Saint Bertrand de Rouen."
"Saint?"
"Not in the canonical sense, mind you. The Church holds him venerable, and has never chosen to canonize him. Some claim he’s a myth – but of course, you and I don’t. And Giuseppe is as devout as Bertrand, sharing even the same ousiarchs."
"So Bertrand was a Stellae?"
"He rejected us until the very end, but the Stellae of the time never abandoned him." John tapped the manuscript, seemingly interested in something else. "I’m intrigued by this particular tale, though."
"Why?"
"It suggests the late twelfth century to early thirteenth, which would make it the first mention of the brotherhood of Baphomet."
"Then—" You pause. You recall hearing that word coming from the Templar captain’s mouth.
"The Brotherhood of Baphomet. The Templars were accused of worshipping false idols, in particular the prophet Muhammad. However, the power they acquired very late on suggested a supernatural boon."
"Magic?"
"Indeed. Perhaps I should tell you of this group in due time. The Stellae and the Akshardham are not the only secret societies in this world, after all."
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