Free The Mystic Rose by Stephen R. Lawhead Page A

jerked his arms up over his head. The young man, pleading for his life, began to thrash and wail.
    â€œIn the end, there is only one way to assure silence,” said the Templar commander, lowering the knife to the young man’s chest. The hot blade seared the thin fabric of his mantle. The cloth began to smolder.
    â€œThey went to Bucoleon Harbor,” shouted Philippianous. “Please, spare me! Listen, my uncle owns many ships. His name is Stakis—ask anyone, they will tell youhe is a very wealthy trader. He will reward you handsomely to let me go. Whatever you ask—I swear before God, he will pay it.”
    â€œBut we do not need your money.” He drew a line with the hot blade down the center of the young man’s chest, searing the skin. The air filled with the stench of burning flesh.
    Philippianous screamed, “In the name of God, I beg you. Spare me!”
    â€œI do not think God can hear you,” said the Templar, pressing the hot knife deeper. Blood oozed up from the wound, spitting and sputtering as it touched the hot metal.
    â€œOh, why not let him go?” said d’Anjou. “I have not had a thing to eat or drink, and the stink you are making turns my stomach.”
    â€œVery well,” replied de Bracineaux. He lifted the knife away and plunged it back into the coals. “Still, it would not do to have our glorious and renowned order ridiculed by the filth of the street. Once people find out the Templars can be lied to with impunity, we will be mocked from Rome to Jerusalem—and we cannot allow that. So, I think an example is in order.”
    â€œNo!” shrieked Philippianous. “No! Please, I will not tell a soul. I will not breathe a word to anyone.”
    â€œFor once I believe you,” said the commander. His hand snaked out and, snatching the knife from the brazier, he pressed the glowing tip hard against the young man’s teeth, forcing his jaws open. The hot blade slid into his mouth, searing his tongue. A puff of smoke rolled up, and the blade hissed. Philippianous gave a strangled scream and passed out; his body slumped.
    Only then did de Bracineaux remove the knife. “He has soiled himself,” he observed, wiping the blade on the young man’s clothing. “He stinks. Get him out of here, sergeant.” He turned away from the inert body on the gray stone slab. “Come, d’Anjou, I am thirsty. I think I would enjoy some more of the emperor’s excellent wine.”
    â€œMy thoughts exactly, de Bracineaux.” The baron turned and shuffled from the chamber, followed by the commander.
    Gislebert regarded the unconscious Greek. “What do you want me to do with him?”
    â€œThrow him back in the street,” replied the commander over his shoulder. “He will serve as a mute, yet nonetheless persuasive reminder to all who think to defy the Order of the Temple.”

SIX
    S HE PRESSED THE hem of her mantle to her nose and paused, putting a hand to the mildewed wall as her stomach heaved. So the Saracens would not think her weak, she swallowed back the bile, steadied herself and walked on into the suffocating stench of the dungeon. For the first time since leaving Constantinople, Caitríona doubted whether she was doing the right thing.
    That first night aboard ship, with the vision of the White Priest still burning in her mind, her course had appeared obvious, the way clear. Ignoring Alethea’s pestering and petulance, she had taken the letter to her father’s quarters to examine it alone in greater detail. By the gently wavering light of three lamps and four candles, she had read the document three times—most of it was in Latin, save for a small section in an unknown script. She puzzled over the obscure portion trying to make out the curious text; it was not Latin, or Greek, much less Gaelic or Norse—the only languages she knew.
    The letter had been written by a Portuguese cleric