hesitation, crawling along the dead man's body, searching for his weapon. His hands soon grasp something that resembled a pommel. Silvanus clasped the sword and pulled enough of the blade to suit his purposes. An intense desperation sped him along as he severed the bonds.
Soon, Silvanus secured his freedom. Although the cave held no light, he knew he wanted to go away from whatever the Templar fled.
Sword before him, Silvanus stalked onward, praying to reach the entrance, to see the sunlight streaming though, to feel the wind against his cheek. The poised sword clanked against stone and the spy sighed in defeat, running his hand along the smooth face of the boulder blocking his exit.
"Only one way to go now." Turning about, he crept back, picking up the deceased's buckler while passing by. The old fear returned, rising like bile in his throat, and the spy wondered why the fools locked themselves inside.
"Searching," a soft voice replied in the darkness, giving Silvanus notice that he spoke the last thought aloud. The soft sounds of weeping caused Moschus to glance down at his feet. A shadow in the darkness shook as it wept.
Silvanus knelt close by and chose to speak French. "What's wrong with you?"
"My soul."
The dark musing came from a familiar voice of Hugh de Payens. "What?" Silvanus shook his head. "Why are you here, Hugh?"
"Searching for-"
"For what?"
"Salvation."
"You're -- mad."
Footsteps echoed from around a sharp bend "No, he's not mad He just didn't like what he saw."
Silvanus looked up at the stranger, a scrawny adolescent holding a torch above his freckled cheeks still fat from childhood. "You are no knight."
The boy held out his palm -- and returned it to his side after the spy refused to shake it. "Squire François, sir." The boy's dark eyes regarded de Payens with a hint of commiseration. "You might as well leave him be, he has to find his own way -- I think. If you're looking for answers, follow me." The squire turned around, taking his precious light away.
Silvanus followed, leaving Hugh to his fate. "So why are the Templars interested in Samuel's Tomb?"
"They're not," François started before shaking his head, "Sorry. I mean we're not. Watch your step, there're bones everywhere."
Silvanus glanced down and tried to leap out of skin as the corpses in various stages of decay stretched before them. The ebony lacquered armor of a Hun skeleton sat to his right. Beside it, the mummified remains of a Roman Legionnaire clutched an ancient standard of a black eagle on a crimson field. The golden armor of the Saracens glimmered against the flame's light as they trekked past. Further still, the recent dead lay, bearing the familiar marks of the empire. "Armenians, the Emperors mercenaries. What is all this?"
The pale boy seemed to pale more as they crossed the gauntlet of dead. "I don't know."
Silvanus placed a hand on the boy's shoulder, whose palatable fear reminded the spy of his own children when the Crusaders arrived at the gates of Byzantium. "Perhaps we should stop."
François shook his head. "No, you need to see this."
They walked around a natural curve in the tunnel and came across a squared alcove lined with flaming torches along the walls, their light glistening off a wide table of solid gold. Silvanus controlled mouth-watering greed as he eyed the golden bowls, plates, and wineglasses set about it. A second teenage squire hovered above two sergeants, their lifeless forms beneath the opulent scene, turning the moisture in Silvanus' mouth to ash.
The ornate dinner scene intrigued the master of disguise. He strode toward it with sword and shield poised, as if expecting attack, and paused when the nameless squire gasped at his incredulousness. Irritated, he jerked the boy from the scene, tossing him toward François. Inspecting the corpses from a distance, Silvanus found no wounds marring their armor, no signs of a struggle. Curious. "How did they die?"
"Screaming," François muttered.
The second piped in, "They tested God, and He killed them."
Moschus held back a condescending retort. In his line of work, an answer always lay beneath the religion of the ignorant masses. Thoughts drifted back to his journey with the Crusaders through Antioch and the barbarous slaughter of defenseless Muslims in the name of the same God their enemies worshipped. What God of peace bloodies His hands with innocents, and what do you say for the fools who die in His name?
François clucked in irritation "Wasn't God you buffoon. They did it to themselves. They tried to steal it."
Silvanus concealed a smile before facing the two. One of them has hope. "Steal what?"
François rolled his eyes, "The chalice sir, the Holy Grail. The cup Jesus held for his last supper. It's right there in front of you, ready for the taking. That's what the Templars -- what we wanted."
Silvanus stared hard at the wineglasses around the table. "They look like normal glasses to me?"
"Well then, you try touching it," the other boy dared.
Silvanus did not take the offer. Only heroes die for their courage. Who locked us in the tomb?"
"God did."
François sighed. "He might be right about that one -- rock just tumbled on its own when were all inside."
Frowning, Silvanus surveyed the room for signs of unnatural nooks or cracks, the telltale signs of manmade traps. "Tell me everything that happened in this room."
"Well we were looking for something Lord de Payens called, 'the symbol of our order.' Lord de Payens runs to the table, grabs for the chalice, and starts babbling stuff like, 'This isn't me! I'm a knight! I'm a holy man of God,' and on and on until he starts crying like a baby. The other two tried to steal the other glasses and they just -- fell."
Silvanus sat down and brooded over the problem, thankful for the blissful silence from the boys. A litany of odorless, colorless poisons loomed in his thoughts. However, none that penetrated the skin matched the hallucinogenic symptoms of de Payens. But that does not mean that none exist. The incapacitated men at arms represented another obscure puzzle with no answers. Concentrate of what you can rationalize, Silvanus. A slow, painful death from starvation plagued his mind.
He stared at the table, at the golden objects adorning the stone table. Unless -- Thoughts of his wife and children obliterated the suicidal thoughts. Placing face in hands, the spy uttered a weary sigh, "I should have never followed you. I don't care about the Templars and I don't care about Jesus' damned wineglass. I just want to get out."
A small tremor interrupted his musings. The gold dinnerware melted away to nothing, leaving a single bowl placed in the table's center. Azure flames erupted from the bowl. A scene played within the fire –
A Hebrew, well dressed and young, argued with a man with Mediterranean features, donned in the uniform of an Urban Cohort. The Roman nodded, and the man sprinted to a hill lined with three crosses with dead men nailed to them. A woman watched as he pulled a slender frame from the center cross and carried the body to a tomb. She perched a small wineglass, golden, and studded with gems atop the raised grave.
The flames died. The rumbling ceased. Silvanus leaped to his feet, shocked by the inexplicable. A life ground in the quest for secrets offered no solace, no answer for this oddity. Silvanus felt something caress his cheek. "The wind. The cave is open!" Laughing at the stunned youths, he engulfed them beneath his arms and escorted the pair out of the cave.
Arriving at the entrance, Silvanus noticed an armored shadow silhouetted against the rising sun.
"You might as well come out," the shadow commanded. "You have something that belongs to me."
Shocked at the lunatic's recovery, Silvanus uttered the truth. "We don't have anything, Hugh. I swear to God."
"You have the chalice. How else could the cave open? I felt the Hand of God. I want it. I want it!" The shadow charged, raised longsword screeching across the tomb's ceiling.
Without thought, the spy pushed the lads behind him, ushering them back to the alcove, back to -- a golden table littered with bowls, plates, and wi
neglasses --
"To the sides!" Silvanus picked up the weapon and shield he left behind, turned to face the madman, feeling overmatched and foolish as rationale sunk in. I await a knight's charge -- and for what? He peered at François to the right, turned toward the nameless one perched against the left wall, and thought about his own children.
The screech of steel against stone preempted Hugh's entrance. He screamed and unleashed a mighty chop against Silvanus' buckler. The impact knocked the smaller man backward into the table.
Silvanus realized the futility of his situation before the attack and planned for the inevitable failure. With Hugh distracted, Silvanus screamed, "Run, boys," and watched the pair escape beneath the shelter of a dented shield.
The knight snatched Silvanus' source of defense from his grip, launching the metal across the room, and lifted the stunned Byzantine by the hair. "It will be mine!"
Fearing for his life, Silvanus strained to employ his strongest weapon, his mind. "You would kill me on hallowed ground?"
Hugh's face slackened for a moment, but only that, before a grimace of anguish and lunacy marred his features. "I am worthy."
"Then take it. It's still here."
Ebony pools widened as Hugh surveyed the magical scene. His grip slackened, and Silvanus slid to the cold floor like a lifeless sack. A gauntleted hand reached for the gem-encrusted cup and paused, surrounding the chalice but not clutching it. "No." Hugh pulled the Greek to his feet and turned him round toward the dinner