Later, when I awoke from my long sleep, the first thing I saw -once the daylight had ceased causing my eyes to water-was Sydoni's lovely face as she bathed my brow with a cooling cloth. For she, too, has been a constant visitor, rarely absent from my side for more than a few brief moments when she takes her own much-needed rest.
The Greek monks do not usually allow women to remain behind their protecting walls beyond sunset, but the wise abbot offered a special dispensation for Sydoni. In view of the circumstances, however, it was as much a necessity as a blessing-although, I imagine they would have had a fight on their hands had they tried to send her away. She has been a perpetual source of strength and comfort to me, and I have needed both-especially in those first days after waking when, too weak to lift my head from my pallet, she fed me and nursed me. I do believe Sydoni pulled me back from death's dark and silent gate by the sheer force of her unflagging resolve.
Padraig, too, has been a very champion-a hero the great Celts of old would not hesitate to welcome into their exalted companionship. Padraig has been the rock of salvation for me, my soul's true friend, my anam cara in word and unfailing deed. It is to Padraig's quick thinking that I owe my continued existence in the land of the living.
For, following my collapse in the road, the canny priest swiftly discerned that the severity of my wounds could not alone account for my sudden decline. He summoned Sydoni who confirmed that the Fida'in most often poison the blades of their knives so that should they fail to strike a killing blow, even the smallest cut will eventually prove fatal. He wasted not an instant, but bundled me in a robe and put me – along with the box containing the Holy Rood-in a borrowed wagon and carried me with all speed to Ayios Moni. If it was the monks who healed me with their shrewd knowledge, it was Padraig who gave them the chance.
Poor Sydoni faced the cruel dilemma of accompanying me to the monastery, or staying behind and seeing to her father's burial. Not that she had time to linger over the choice; Padraig needed help to get me to the monastery, and could not allow her to remain in any event. He foresaw the likelihood that another attack would be forthcoming as soon as those who instigated the first began to suspect it had failed.
Nor did his watchcare end there. Far from it. No sooner had he delivered me into the capable hands of the Greek brothers, than he hastened back to Paphos to move the ship. He sailed to Famagusta and, with the ship's pilot and crew, and Gregior and Omer's help, loaded the Persephone with as much of Yordanus' treasure as he could without raising local suspicion. He then hid the ship in a tiny cove on the north-western side of the island-a little fishing village called Latchi near the ancient Roman city of Polis-thus safeguarding our surest and best chance of making good our escape when the time comes to do so.
Having seen to these arrangements, he returned to the monastery to help relieve Sydoni in her long and selfless vigil at my bedside. They took it in turn to pray over me, and anoint my insensate body with holy oil and medicinal balms, which they rubbed into my half-dead flesh. Along with the Greek brothers, they worked the slow miracle of my recovery.
Two seasons passed while I hovered between this life and the next. I awoke one fine spring day with brilliant white light streaming in through the open window of my cell. I use the word 'awoke' for I know no other way to describe it. Yet, the sensation was unlike any awakening I have ever known. I opened my eyes and looked around and it was as if I had come into the world as a newborn infant, possessing neither memory nor knowledge of anything that had gone before. I raised a hand to shield my eyes, heard a gasp and turned my head towards the sound. I looked at the face of the woman clutching my hand and understood only that she was dear to me-I knew not how. Neither did I know her name, or anything about her. I loved her for the kindness in her face, and the joyful tears in her eyes.
And then I slept again.
This time it was a genuine sleep, deep and restful. When I opened my eyes on the next morning, Sydoni was there beside me, praying for my healing. The moment I beheld her graceful head bent over her folded hands, her arms resting on the edge of my bed, I knew I would live and not die. Each day thereafter, I enjoyed some small improvement – drinking my broth unaided, eating my first solid food, sitting upright, and the like. Although it would be a long time yet before I could walk unaided under my own strength, that day was the beginning of my recovery.
Though Sydoni and Padraig spent the greater portion of every day with me, I nevertheless had a great deal of time to think. As I grew stronger and could sustain the effort, I considered what had happened. At first my memories were vague, shadowy and unreal -through a glass darkly, as Padraig would say. But as I put my mind to it, more came clear, and still more, until I could at last recall the events of that terrible night.
Alas, it would have been better to allow the memory to sleep undisturbed. The horror of that painful night will haunt me for a long time, I fear. I lost good friends, and cannot help feeling that my own stubborn will is to blame. Padraig tells me this is foolishness, that I was not the one who sent the Fida'in to kill and recover the relic. That was Commander de Bracineaux's decision alone, and I believe in my bones that he is right.
Yet, as I have passed the days in contemplation, I cannot swear before the Judgement Throne that this is so. As much as I believe the Templar commander bears the responsibility, I have no real proof of his guilt-only hardened suspicion. True, de Bracineaux was the only person who knew where we could be found. Did he desire the holy relic so fervently he would kill for it? It must be remembered that it was Renaud who sent me to Yordanus to begin with. I ask myself, could he so easily betray his friends to death?
Perhaps he did not mean for anyone to be killed. But if that is the case, then why send the Fida'in? Why not come himself and demand the return of the relic?
Then again, it may be that he did not send them. Perhaps they came on their own accord, hoping to recover the holy relic and thereby win favour with the Templars for obscure reasons of their own. Maybe that is the way of it. Again, I cannot say. And I think no one will ever know.
Thus, although I do believe Renaud de Bracineaux was the author and agent of the bloody butchery of that awful night, the fact remains that I can offer no decisive proof one way or the other. I do know, however, that I am fully to blame for my part in it. If I had walked empty-handed from the caliph's palace Yordanus, Wazim, and Anna would still be alive today. I grieve for them, and I lament their cruel deaths. Before I leave this island, I will stand beside their graves and beg their forgiveness, as I have done a thousand times already in my heart.
Padraig says that each of life's experiences has great volumes to teach any ardent enough to seek the learning. So, I ask myself: what I will take from this strange pilgrimage of mine? Try as I might to reclaim something golden from the dross of this misbegotten enterprise, I cannot help hearing Nurmal of Mamistra's voice saying, The enemy you meet today might be the friend you call upon tomorrow.
I think of this, and I remember Emlyn telling me how the crusaders of the Great Pilgrimage, inflamed by blood lust and ignorant greed, slaughtered Greek and Jew, Armenian, Copt and Arab alike, recognizing no distinctions, lest any foe escape. On my pilgrimage, however, it has been the enemies of those first crusaders who have befriended me, while the friends I thought to trust were worse to me than enemies foresworn.