Edward Whittemore - Jerusalem Poker

So it became worse and worse in Jericho. Joe totally bewildered, only twenty years old, and Maud more distant than ever, afraid of something perhaps but unable to talk to him about it, ignoring him as he sat up alone late at night in the garden behind the little house, drinking until he fell asleep. Drinking until was time to leave once more to smuggle arms into Palestine.

And then toward the end of winter Maud left him. Abandoned the little house in Jericho without even leaving a note behind, not even that. Taking with her the son he had never seen. Born while Joe was away running guns to make money.

Money. That's what he needed, he knew that then. Money had kept him away from Jericho. If only there'd been money it wouldn't have turned out the way it had, or so he thought. And he wouldn't have lost the only woman he'd ever loved, or so he thought.

Money. The treasure maps of the Sinai Bible, the original Bible that was now buried somewhere in the Old City. To find it he needed secret control of Jerusalem, and since Maud had left him, the clues to the past that it contained had become his sole interest in life, or so he thought.

Years ago his father had prophesied that he would become the King of Jerusalem. His father had said it unintentionally, not knowing why he said it. But his father's prophecies were never wrong, so Joe knew he could become the secret king. He knew he could win the Great Jerusalem Poker Game and go on to recover the Sinai Bible. He only had to want it enough.

And he did want it enough, he wanted nothing else. Money and power and the Sinai Bible, they were everything to him.

Or so he thought.

A black day, thundered Haj Harun, suddenly bursting into the room and angrily stamping his bare feet oh the floor.

Black and blacker and blackest, he shouted. As black as the bowels of the devil. Black. Black.

Joe stirred and looked up in surprise. He'd never known the gentle old knight to speak so vehemently.

Listen man, why do you keep saying that in all this heat?

Gloomily Haj Harun stared at a wall and retied the two green ribbons under his chin.

Because I can't forget it, he said. I'll never forget it and it happened on a July day just like this one.

When was that?

Haj Harun frowned.

About eight hundred years ago? Is that right?

It could be. Which event are we referring to?

Haj Harun groaned. Joe could see he didn't want to say it, even the words seemed detestable to him.

And when the old man finally did say it, cringing as he did so, he spat out the words as if they were the most abominable curse in the world.

The Crusaders taking Jerusalem.

Joe paused, feeling sorry for the old man. He nodded grimly.

Ah, that occasion. And to think a moment ago I was imagining I had troubles. Just nothing compared to the unholy carnage you're talking about.

Haj Harun scowled at the wall.

I wonder if they still have the arrogance to celebrate their conquest.

Where?

In the caverns.

Joe raised his head. He smiled.

The caverns, of course. Why didn't I think of that before? It'd have to be a lot cooler down there. They used to celebrate, you say?

They did. Just shamelessly gloating over their brutal victory.

Well, well, cooler at least. Why don't we make a descent to that level and see what's doing?

At the bottom of the ladder that led down from inside the antique Turkish safe, Haj Harun's wizened smile suddenly flared in the solid blackness. He had lit the torch. Joe jumped.

My God man, don't scare a poor soul like that in the underworld. Who's to know whether you're real or not? You could be a caveman's painting or a ghost on the loose or just about anything.

No task, murmured Haj Harun, affords more happiness than being a servant of light. This way now to the Crusades. Just please don't make any noise, Prester John. We don't want them to hear us.

We do not, whispered Joe. And quiet I am in the tunnels of the past, reverent as well. Just please don't get too far ahead of me with that torch. You know where we're going but I don't. And as hot as it is up there above, I don't want to find myself left behind down here in some corner of history.

They walked down tunnels and made innumerable turns. Joe was becoming nervous.

Are you sure you remember the way?

Yes. We're close now.

How can you tell?

The smell.

There was a strange smell in the air. Joe had noticed it. Something very sour and growing stronger every moment. Haj Harun's faded yellow cloak floated around a corner and all at once they were in darkness.

Joe bumped into a wall.

Jaysus it's all over now, he muttered. Blind in the underworld with a ghost for my guide.

He groped his way around the corner and was struck by a blast of cool air.

Jaysus again.

Where's Prester John?

Here for God's sake. Where's the bloody torch?

The wind blew it out. Just a minute.

Joe heard a rustling sound. Somewhere nearby Haj Harun cleared his throat. Suddenly an enormous mournful wail shook the blackness. Joe could feel it vibrating against his skin.

Jaysus Joseph and Mary, what's that?

The lighted torch reappeared. A few yards away stood Haj Harun smiling triumphantly, holding a ram's horn.

Did you like it? he asked.

Like it, you say. Like it? No I did not. It almost scared me to death.

That's what it's for. I keep it here to frighten the knights away just in case. They don't seem to know about this cellar anymore but it's best to be safe.

Safe, said Joe and choked, overwhelmed by the stench he had forgotten in the excitement. Haj Harun was tying a handkerchief over his face and Joe did the same. They were standing in a large vaulted room lined with shelves cut into the rock, the shelves piled high with rows of dusty bottles. Haj Harun took down a bottle and showed Joe the label, a peculiar white cross on a black background, the arms of the cross in the shape of arrowheads, their points not quite touching at the center. Beneath the cross was a date in Latin, A.D. 1122.

Recognize it?

No. But I'd say it must have belonged to a medieval tippler with a Christian bias.

Indeed it did, they all did. The Knights of St John, no less. Also known as the Knights of Jerusalem and the Knights of Rhodes and finally as the Knights of Malta, since that's where they ended up, but their proper name was the Knights Hospitalers. They became the most powerful of all the warring orders, but originally they were founded here to run a charitable hospital for pilgrims.

What's in the bottles?

Cognac.

True?

Yes, they brought it from France eight hundred years ago. They said it was for medicinal purposes. To ease the pains of pilgrims.

Joe whistled softly.

Ah yes, cognac brought to the Holy Land by the Crusaders to ease the pains of pilgrims. Well how's it taste then? Gone off a bit in eight hundred years?

I'm afraid it has, said Haj Harun. I know cognac is supposed to improve with age but that doesn't seem to have happened here. But it was delicious once, as I well know.

Had a nip or two, did you, over the eras?

Well not regularly. I haven't been able to do much real drinking since my liver gave out during Hellenistic times.

What did it then?

Bad shellfish. A Greek grocer said the mussels were fresh from Cyprus, which they might have been, they certainly made a delicious soup. But they were also polluted.

Oh I see, polluted muscles. Well I guess we all have to expect some toxins creeping in over time. As for me, if my liver had given out twenty-two hundred years ago, I think I'd be an unrecognized wreck by now.

But there was a period, mused Haj Harun, when this cognac saved my life. It was when I had tuberculosis.