Li Vaux Moyse
Palestina Tertia
September, 1099

Henri de St. Clair leaned back against the cool limestone of the canyon wall and shut his eyes. In the afternoon heat, the shade was welcome relief. So was the silence. He held his breath and listened. There was no sound but the desert wind whispering through the narrow canyon.

Wincing, he pulled up his sleeve to look at his arm, bloodied where a Bedouin lance had pierced his chain mail shirt. The wound was deeper than he had thought.

He unstopped the goatskin water bag that hung at his side and brought it to his lips. Though the water was brackish and warm, he drank deeply. He poured the remaining water over his arm, then pulled a wad of white muslin from the pocket of his dusty breeches, daubed off the clotted blood, and tied the cloth in place.

Then he heard the sound, rising and falling on the wind. Unhurried hoof beats.

He flattened himself against the canyon wall, behind a spur of smooth sandstone. He slid his broadsword from its leather scabbard. Above the mottled sunburn of his cheeks, his gray eyes were clear and watchful.

The hoof beats grew louder, echoing through the canyon -- now very close. Then the sound stopped.

A horse nickered.

St. Clair raised his sword.

With a quick whisper, a blade flashed out of the silence.

St. Clair parried the blow with a sharp clash of steel on steel. Darting away from the wall, he somersaulted across the path and jumped to his feet. The rider reared his mount, the horse pawing the air with its hooves.

St. Clair readied a blow at the rider’s leg when he saw his weapon -- a long-handled Danish ax. One of ours! Then he recognized the rider.

“C’est moi!” he shouted, backing away.“Master Payens, it’s me! Henri de St. Clair!”

“St. Clair?” The rider reined his horse about, still holding the ax at the ready. “Why were you hiding like that?”

“Sorry, sir. I never imagined to see anyone down here so soon.” St. Clair shook his head and sheathed his sword. “Is the high ground secure, then?”

“It is, and I've posted a guard at the mouth of this canyon.” Hugues de Payens leaned forward on the pommel of his saddle and looked up at the tall canyon walls framing a narrow sliver of blue sky. From beneath his mail coif, red hair, tinged with gold, fell to his shoulders. A reddish blond beard, close trimmed in the French fashion, covered his chin. “How did you fare down here?”

“The Bedouin we didn’t kill or capture are gone into the desert, sir.”

“Vanquished?”        

“Not at all, sir. The desert is their home.” St. Clair pushed his chain mail hood onto his shoulders. His sandy hair was close-cropped like his beard.

“And we'll pursue them no further.” Payens swung one leg across the withers of his bay horse and slid to the ground. “What of our losses?” he asked, cinching his battle-ax to the saddle.            

“As of sext, sir, two dead, three dying, and a few badly wounded.”    

Payens pointed at St. Clair’s bandaged arm. “Are you counted among the wounded, Henri?”

St. Clair’s white teeth flashed in a quick smile. “Not yet, sir.”

“Walk with me, Henri. I wish to see this ruined city they say is carved from the red flesh of the living rock.” Payens rubbed the horse's muzzle and took hold of the lead rope.       

Together they strode the shaded path -- a twisting river of sand through the canyon. Above them loomed frowning walls of undulating sandstone, patterned by the wind's breath and the hand of time. Beyond a bend in the road, a wild fig tree clung to the rocky soil of the canyon wall. Beneath the tree lay a Bedouin in dusty robes, a jagged red swath across his chest. His eyes were open, staring at nothing.

St. Clair bent down and closed the man's eyes. He removed the Bedouin’s checkered head cloth and waved away the flies.

“How many enemy dead?” Payens asked.

“Scores, sir. There are more up ahead, beyond the canyon.”

“In their encampment?”

“There was no encampment, Sir, only the ruined city.”

“No encampment?” Payens repeated and scratched his beard. “Yet they fought so tenaciously.”

“Perhaps it was something else…” St. Clair hesitated. “Some of the prisoners speak of a treasure.”

“By God's grace, I hope so.” Payens paused as St. Clair unfurled the Bedouin's checkered head cloth and spread it over the body.  “You would so honor the enemies of Christ?”             

St. Clair looked Payens in the eye. “Does Christ not teach us to love our enemies?”

“Indeed, and given this, how did you feel about the massacre of our enemies following the conquest of Jerusalem?” Payens asked warily.

Unflinching, St. Clair replied. “I could not tolerate it, but I could not stop it. That’s why I volunteered for this expedition. I had to get out of Jerusalem.”

Payens’ demeanor changed. Smiling, he laid a mailed gauntlet on St. Clair's shoulder. “You answer well, Henri. Many feel as you; that we should hold to the noble and elevated teachings of our faith -- that we should be something other than mere butchers for Christ.” Payens leaned forward, adding in a low voice, “We meet upon the Temple Mount within the space of three days. I want you to join us.”

St. Clair bowed his head. “I will, sir.”       

“Good!” Payens clapped him on the shoulder. “Good. Now show me this cliff city of red rock.”

Following the path through the narrow canyon, the only sound was the clicking of chain mail and thudding of boots in the sandy earth.

The shadows darkened as the canyon walls converged, almost touching above them. Rounding a sharp twist in the road, a burnished radiance glowed beyond a narrow chasm between the rock walls. They stepped through and stood blinking in a broad valley bathed in sunlight and bounded by high cliffs. Before them loomed a towering façade of tall columns with figured capitals, soaring gables, porticos, and graceful figures in bas-relief carved into a sheer wall of red sandstone.

“What, in the name of heaven, is that?” Payens asked in a reverent whisper.

“The Bedouin call it al-Khazneh -- the treasury.”

“And the treasure is through that doorway?”

“No, sir. That leads to an empty room carved out of the rock. There’s nothing in there, though the stone walls show wondrous patterns, like the inside of a seashell.”  

“So, where’s the treasure?” 

“I don’t know that there is one, Sir, but I know someone who has spoken of nothing else all day.” St Clair pointed with his chin.

“Phillippe Arnot.”

Standing in front of the façade’s six massive columns was a knight with shoulder-length hair so blond it looked almost white. Oblivious to their approach, Arnot was pointing upwards and shouting. “Let him further down!”

St. Clair and Payens craned their necks, looking up.

High above the canyon floor, a man, his white robe stark against the red stone, was being lowered by a rope from the cliff's edge.

"Who is that?” asked Payens. 

“Begging your indulgence, sir. Not one of ours. Just one of the sand pigs.” Arnot’s eyes remained fixed on the man dangling from the rope.

“Why isn’t he with the other prisoners?” asked St. Clair.

“Because he’s going to make us rich, Henri.”  Arnot cupped his hands and shouted, “There! Stop right there!”

“Get that man down,” said Payens evenly.

“Soon enough, sir. Do you see that urn carved into the rock, there?" he pointed, “at the very pinnacle of the Khazneh? That's where the treasure is. The prisoner told me so.”

Arnot turned and smiled. “I’ll warrant there will be gold enough for all of us!”

St. Clair shaded his eyes against the glare and watched as the Bedouin captive swung out and back high above them, his white robe fluttering in the wind, “How did you convince him to do this?”

“I made an arrangement with him,” Arnot replied smoothly. “He fetches the gold, and I let him live.”

“You dishonor the cross with your greed.”          

“Don’t preach to me, St. Clair!” Arnot shot back as he shaded his eyes. “Look, he’s almost there.”

The man had managed to swing into position beneath the overhang of rock, clinging to the urn at the highest part of the façade. After a minute, he held up something dark and waved it over his head. Then he drew back his arm and let it go. A dark speck floated in the bright blue air, landing soundlessly not a stone’s throw from where they stood.

“What in perdition is that?” Arnot wondered aloud as he sprinted over and bent down. When he turned and started back in their direction, he was loosening the cords of a worn leather pouch. Then he took out what looked to be a scroll, spreading it out in his hands.

“Is it a map?” asked Payens.

“Nothing but chicken scratches.” Arnot spat, his face twisted in an ugly mask. “No map, no gold, nothing!” He threw the scroll and pouch angrily at St. Clair’s feet. “Nothing!”

St. Clair knelt and picked up the scroll, carefully spreading out the parchment’s curled edges.

There was writing inscribed within two overlaid triangles. Blowing off the dry sand, St. Clair studied the cramped black letters of an alphabet he did not recognize. He carefully rolled up the scroll, put it back in the pouch, and tucked the pouch inside his jerkin. Looking up, he saw the Bedouin, still clinging to the façade with one arm, pointing downward with the other – clearly asking to be lowered to safety.    

“All right,” Payens said emphatically. “Get him down.” 

“Oh, we'll get him down, all right, sir.” Arnot cupped his hands and called, “Cut the rope!”

“Wait…” Payens began.

But as they looked on, the rope seemed to pop off the cliff edge far above. It slithered down the rock face like a long white worm, until it hung, waving back and forth, against the red canyon wall.  The Bedouin, now tethered to air, hugged the urn. Then he seemed to lose his balance. He pumped his legs, frantically searching for a foothold.

Then he lost his grip.

Cart wheeling backwards, his white robes spread out against the blood-red stone, streaming upward, like a comet’s tail.