The Seal(101)

At that moment there was the sound of the key turning in the lock and the door swung open.

A notary entered carrying the usual bundle of papers under his arm and a lamp in his hand.

‘Next time bring your letter or I shall not let you in!’ the jailer spat at the young man, then mumbled to himself these words: ‘The right hand knows not what the left hand does . . . every time the same ... How am I to run my jail ...?’ He closed the oak door and locked it.

The lawyer stood and moved his eyes over the figure of the notary and then down to where his hands were clasped.

Pierre thought how many times he had been before notaries and asked that he and his colleagues might form a proper defence, that all confessions made should not be held against the Order since they were clearly lies, spoken because of fear of death or because of grave torture or through fear of it, since the punishment of one is the fear of many. He told them, as they thought of the bed or food that awaited them on their return to the palace, that the Templars ate weevil-infested porridge and slept on stone pallets with no blankets.

‘You have asked for a notary, monsieur?’ the young man said, bringing him back to the present.

‘Yes, of course,’ the lawyer said and remembered his manners once so refined. ‘I am a little tired. Please, will you sit down?’

The notary looked around him in the narrow cell and placed the lamp on the floor. Having sat on the edge of the pallet he proceeded to sharpen his quill and to select a suitable parchment. After a moment of this he looked up and his eyes fell on the lawyer.

Pierre de Bologna felt that regard as an indignity upon the wretched state of his body and apparel. His mind flashed to a time when the smallest blemish on his white habit would have annoyed him.

‘What is your name, monsieur?’ he asked.

‘Julian.’

‘Julian, you are named after a great but misunderstood man, Julian the Apostate. A man who wished to remember what was forgotten . . . I am Pierre.’ He straightened his back. ‘Italian by birth and proud to be a knight of the Sovereign Order of the Temple of Solomon.’

The notary bowed a little. ‘A good man gave this name to a foundling . . . He was a man of your Order.’

The man’s eyes became round and he blinked many times. ‘In the Holy Land?’

‘At Acre.’

‘You are the notary, then, who has assisted us?’

‘Yes.’

Pierre de Bologna smiled and his eyes welled with tears. The two men came to a silent understanding. ‘I am happy to have met you finally . . .’

‘I am honoured. I fear you have suffered great indignity, Monsieur de Bologna.’

‘Yes . . . is it not to be marvelled . . . that there are those of us who have lied.’ He said with a half-hearted smile, ‘I suppose it is even more astonishing that there are those who have kept to the truth!’ He looked at Julian. ‘Shall we begin?’

‘One moment.’ Julian began to write while the lawyer waited until there was a nod for him to commence.

‘The dangers and tortures which . . . which those who speak the truth suffer continually, are great! The menaces and outrages, the offences against their person, which are sustained daily, are not to be dismissed! They contrast with the advantages, favourable conditions, pleasures and liberties which the liars have, and the great promises which are daily made to them . . . they can only be imagined . . .’ He ended out of breath, holding on tight to the pallet and feeling that he was losing his balance.

‘Is something wrong?’ Julian asked.

‘Yes ... I ... must ...’ He stared up at the young man patterned by shadows. ‘Where was I?’

‘That advantages are given to those who confess and those who do not suffer outrages.’

‘Ahh . . . yes . . . It is a marvellous thing indeed . . . and greatly astonishing to all, that greater faith is placed in these liars who, having been . . . corrupted . . . in this way, have testified such things in the interests of their bodies, rather than those who, for the purpose of sustaining the truth, have died by torture!’ There was a pause. ‘What do you think of it?’

‘I?’ Julian said.

‘Of course, that is my argument to the commissioners. Perhaps it will do no good since all I say mostly leaves them as unchangeable as the seasons – it is hopeless to think summer could appear in December!’ The lawyer smiled weakly at this jest. ‘I have requested that an inquiry be made into the evidence of Templar brothers who have died in prison, from the priests who gave them their last sacraments. They should be required to give evidence as to the deathbed confessions of these poor tormented souls . . . Nothing has come of it. Think about it, my friend, why else have men not wanted to join the defence if not from fear of their lives?’