“I never saw it. Our flight was… interrupted, and we landed in Wadi Rumm. It was necessary for us to find shelter, and fresh water. We began to search the caves there and I was alone when I slipped and fell into the sink. I suppose my only mission was to find my way home. We meant to try and reach Akaba, you see. Is that where I am now?”
It was clear, as Jabr translated, that the Kadi did not expect to hear such a revelation. In fact, he had the aspect of a man who was unwilling to believe what he was being told. His heavy lips pursed with disapproval, and his eyes narrowed. Paul saw how he clenched his fist in the palm of his other hand, as though distraught, or greatly troubled. Then he fixed Paul with an avid stare and spoke tersely, with stone in his voice. Jabr hesitated, and whispered a hasty translation.
“Are you a Templar? You must answer truly now.”
The man’s manner carried a presentiment of warning. Paul could sense how the tension in the question had infected Jabr as well. His translator swallowed, his throat dry, and Paul could not help glancing at his dark eyes. The fear had returned to them, traced with just the barest hint of suspicion.
He wracked his brain, knowing that his answer was somehow very important to these men. A Templar? What on earth did they mean? His hesitation prompted the Kadi to push harder on the door he was opening, and before Paul could answer the man spoke again.
“Are you Hospitaller then? What order do you serve?”
“What order? I don’t understand what you are asking me. I serve no order.” Then the words broke through to a point of understanding in his mind. Templar… Hospitaller… Those were the names of the fighting orders of Christian knights in Medieval times. There were modern equivalents, but they were nothing more than church socials and fraternal lodges, like the Knights of Columbus. Some were still shrouded in mystery, and rumored to be secret societies of the Church. Perhaps these men placed credence in those stories, and thought him to be some kind of agent.
“Look,” said Paul. “It is clear that I am a Westerner—an American, in fact. I have told you how I came here, or at least all that I can recall, yet you people have been talking in these riddles and I can’t seem to get a straight word out of anyone. Now, answer me this: am I a prisoner here? Do you mean to hold me hostage? If so get on with it then and bring out your video camera or whatever else you intend. I’ll be more than happy to become a star in your little show.” He folded his arms, angry and frustrated, yet also a bit unsettled that he had allowed his emotions to get the better of him. Who were these people? The question rankled him, and he had decided to have it out with them here and now—in spite of the gratitude he felt for their rescue and the kindness of their hospitality.
Jabr looked at him, a bit wide eyed, and then slowly translated what he had been saying. The Kadi kept looking from Jabr to Paul, clearly annoyed, yet determined. His brows drooped and returned a flash of the same anger Paul had postured, resolving more to a stern indignation. He spoke again, his voice clear and loud.
“Then you claim to serve no order? You are not a sergeant, or even a squire? Do you speak truly?”
They were going to hold to this drivel about knights and squires, and Paul shrugged. “No,” he said disconsolately. “I am not a knight, or a sergeant or a squire or anything else. I was simply here on an archeological dig to recover a fossil. Now, if you must know, the find was very valuable, and yes, we were removing it without papers. I can’t imagine that is very much of a crime, and we can offer any compensation that may be asked—along with the return of the Ammonite, if that matters. Now I want to be put in contact with the American embassy in Amman. Is that clear?”
While Paul had hoped his directness would bring this matter to a quick conclusion, Jabr looked more and more bemused as he went on. He began speaking to the Kadi, but Paul realized that he was not making a simple translation. The two men were speaking to one another now, clearly animated, as though trying to reach some mutual conclusion on what to do next. The Kadi waved his arms, giving Jabr a clear instruction until he turned to Paul and spoke, his voice low and controlled.
“The Kadi does not understand—we do not understand the things you speak of. Yet, he must reach discernment here. This is very important Do-Rahlan. You must speak truly, and open yourself. Otherwise the judgment here could be harsh.”
There was a cold scrape of metal and the echo of hard footsteps. All eyes turned to see a man striding from the shadow of an alcove behind the dais. He was dressed in white robes, hooded, with a sable sash tying off his garments at the waist. Paul saw that his hand rested on the hilt of a sheathed weapon, and wondered if this was a captain of this little troop of Arabian guards. All the men in the room seemed to defer to him as he emerged, the guards stooping to a kneeling position as they caught sight of the man. Even Jabr averted his eyes and lowered his head. Only the Kadi sat straight, chin high, an indignant fire in his eyes as he watched the extraordinary figure approach. Paul sensed the edge of tension between the two men, and realized that the audience had taken a strange turn, spiraling into some unpredictable level of danger that he now sensed quite clearly in the room. The guards were not merely deferring with respect, they were afraid. Jabr bowed low and Paul saw that his hand was shaking as he did so.
The man’s tread slowed, and softened on the thick carpeting as he drew near. Paul was drawn to him, catching the glint of his eyes from beneath the hood of his garment. He cut an ominous and threatening figure, and seemed very intent upon Paul. Then the Kadi spoke, as though to draw the attention of the man, pulling at the interloper, who turned from Paul to heed him.
The two men exchanged words, and the tone seemed quite unfriendly. Then the Kadi pointed at Jabr, and called his name. The translator quavered a bit, bowing first and then whispering in Paul’s ear. “I am instructed to interpret for you now, and I advise you to be cautious in all you say here. The third pillow has arrived, and the time of your judgment is now at hand.”
Paul glanced at the empty cushion to his left. Good cop, bad cop, he thought. This must be the real interrogator, or perhaps the ringleader of this little group. They’re terrified of the man—except for the Kadi. Those two stand on equal footing, and there’s some enmity between them, that much is clear.
“This is Sami Abdul-Basir of Massiaf, Servant of the All Seeing. He will question you now, and the Kadi will listen. You must speak truly, and may Allah guide you in all you say.”
The Sami pointed at Paul and spoke, his voice quiet and almost melodious, his eyes catching and magnifying the wavering light of torches, though his face remained shrouded in shadow.
“The Sami has heard all that was spoken before,” said Jabr. “He asks you now to chant your oath, and reveal the Order you serve.”
Paul looked from the Sami to Jabr, and then made up his mind. “Tell him I serve no order, and I take no oath.”
“Ana Laa Afham. The Sami does not understand how this can be so, for all Walkers are sworn. He asks if this is taqiyya—forgive me,” Jabr explained. “He does not believe you. He suggests that you deny your true faith and position out of fear, or to conceal your real motives.”
“You mean he thinks I’m a liar.” Paul did not mince words. “Well, he can think whatever he wishes, but I hold to no order, as he suggests. This is nonsense!”
“Then how is it you have come to this place at the appointed time. The Kadi has said your coming was written. You were expected. Explain this.”
“I have no idea what the Kadi means,” said Paul, holding his ground in spite of the hostile tone in the Sami’s voice. “My arrival here was an accident, nothing more.”