The Sacred Scroll by Anton Gill

hung on the walls, and costly illuminated volumes of the Bible were placed on lecterns in the assembly hall, once the
musalla
, and elsewhere. Cells for the knights’ accommodation were arranged round the vast central atrium.
    Dandolo and his retinue, including Leporo, two interpreters (one in case of need, and one to correct the other if anything should, accidentally or by design, be lost in translation) and a discreet half-dozen of his bodyguard, were greeted at the main gate by two tall, austere-looking young men in plain brown garments marked with a discreet red cross. Dandolo wondered if this muted dress was designed to send him some kind of signal – wherewere the resplendent white robes emblazoned with the great red cross on chest, back and upper arms? Had they sent
underlings
to welcome him?
    But whether the affront was real or imaginary, he swallowed it, and allowed himself to be escorted across the atrium, already growing hot in the sun despite its well-watered lawns and palms, to a cluster of small, domed buildings which had once been designed for the use of senior priests and scholars of the
Quran
. The Templar attendants paused at the door of one then entered. They emerged again within moments and took up places on either side of the door, admitting Dandolo, the interpreters and Leporo. The bodyguard would remain outside. So much for disguising them as monks, thought Dandolo irritably; but the Templars hadn’t got where they were by being stupid.
    The modest exterior of the place he’d entered was not belied by the room he found himself in. It was simply furnished, only distinguishable from a monk’s cell by its size, for it was large, dim and cool. The only decoration on the peeling white walls was a simple wooden crucifix, and there was no bed. Instead, two plain wooden tables and, on a rack, a suit of chain mail.
    Two men were seated behind the tables. One of them rose and surveyed his visitors with distant eyes of startling blue. A gaunt man, with a leathery face browned and lined by the sun, he was dressed in a black robe woven of light wool. The other, small and wiry, whose eyes were black and intense, wore the black habit of a Cistercian under the brown cloak of the Templars who had accompanied Dandolo’s party from the gate.
    ‘Enrico Dandolo.’ Dandolo spoke into the silence. ‘Special Envoy of the Doge of Venice.’
    ‘I know who you are,’ replied the man in black, in perfect Italian. ‘I am Odo de St Amand. At your service.’ His smile was as arid as a desert.
    Odo de St Amand. What was
he
doing here? Dandolo had thought him to be in Paris. And what honour was he being accorded in being received by the Grand Master himself?
    ‘What can we do for you?’ continued Odo in the same level tone. He did not introduce his companion. ‘And, as you see, we have no need for your interpreters,’ he continued. ‘Unless you prefer me to continue in French. You may find fault with my Italian. It is a little rusty.’
    ‘Your Italian leaves nothing to be desired.’
    ‘Good. Then you may dismiss them. And your other man.’
    ‘By your leave, he stays.’
    After the slightest of pauses, Odo nodded. The interpreters withdrew, to join the rest of Dandolo’s party outside.
    Once the four men were alone, Odo gestured to Dandolo and Leporo to sit on the simple wooden chairs in the room. There was no other furniture, except for a stout cabinet which stood against a wall. No refreshment was offered, not even water.
    Odo relaxed slightly. ‘It is, I am sure you will agree, better that we keep our discussion open to as few ears as possible.’
    Dandolo watched him. How much did the Grand Master already know about the true nature of his mission?
    ‘I am gratified that you grace us with your presence here.’
    ‘Why not the Hospitallers?’ interjected the other Templar, his tone edgy.
    ‘Because the Knights Hospitaller do not quite share … all … your interests,’ replied Dandolo, with an equal