Even as he fought on, he took comfort in imagining the miles unfolding before Francois de Charney as he rode ever farther away, bidding farewell to all those places he had called home. He trusted that the knight would save the shroud of Jesus and see it safely to France. His heart had told him to give the cloth over to de Charney, and he knew he had made the right decision. The man who forty years ago had brought the shroud from Constantinople in his youth was now keeping custody of it once more, on the road toward the West.

Two fierce Saracens bore down on the Grand Master, and he felt a new surge of strength, furiously fending off their great scimitars with his sword and shield. But oh! What had he done? Suddenly he felt a terrible pain in his chest. He could see nothing-night had fallen. Insh'Allah!

Jean de Perigord pulled the body of Guillaume de Beaujeu over to the wall. The word spread fast: The Grand Master had fallen. Acre was on the verge of being overrun, but God willed that it not be that night.

The Mamelukes returned to their camp, from whence came the smell of spiced lamb and the sound of songs of victory. The knights came together, exhausted, in the chapter meeting hall. They had to elect a new Grand Master, there, now-they could not wait. They were bone tired, and they cared little who became their leader, for tomorrow, or the next day at the latest, they were all to die-what difference could it make? But they prayed and meditated, and they asked God to enlighten them. Thibaut Gaudin was elected successor to the valiant Guillaume de Beaujeu.

On May 28, 1291, it was hot in Acre, and it smelled of death. Before the sun rose, Thibaut Gaudin ordered his remaining knights to Mass. Then they took their positions and once more met the enemy. Swords clashed unceasingly, and arrows blindly found their targets. The fortress resembled a cemetery. Only a handful of knights remained alive.

Before the sun set, the flag of their enemies flew over Acre. Irish'Allah!

ANA WOKE UP SCREAMING, HER HEART pounding in her chest as though she were in the middle of battle. But she was in the heart of London, in a room in the Dorchester Hotel. Her temples were throbbing, and she felt the sweat running down her back.

Overwhelmed by a sense of grief and anguish, she got out of bed and stumbled to the bathroom. Her hair was stuck to her face and her nightgown was soaked through. She pulled it off and stepped into the shower. This was the second time she'd had a nightmare about a battle. If she believed in the transmigration of souls, she'd swear she'd been there, in the fortress of Saint-Jean d'Acre, watching the Templars die to a man. She could describe the face and behavior of Guillaume de Beaujeu and the color of Thibaut Gaudin's eyes. She had been there; she could feel it. She knew those men.

She stepped out of the shower feeling better, and pulled on a T-shirt. She didn't have another nightgown. The bed was soaked with sweat, so she decided to turn on her laptop and surf the Internet awhile.

Professor McFadden's thoughtful explanations, plus the documentation he'd provided on the history of the Templars, had affected her deeply. And he had showered her with details on the fall of Saint-Jean d'Acre- according to him, one of the most bitter days in the order's history.

That was surely why she'd dreamed so vividly of the doomed defense of the fortress, as she'd done when Sofia Galloni told her about the Byzantine troops' siege of Edessa.

Tomorrow she was scheduled to see the professor again. This time she was going to try to get something concrete out of him-something other than colorful stories about the slow fall and terrible deaths of the Templars.

The smell of the sea lifted his spirit. He did not want to look back. His years were taking their toll, for he had wept without shame when he set sail from Cyprus, the last port of the East, as both he and Said had done when they at last made their farewell. Their parting was akin to one man being cut in two. In all these years it was the first time they had embraced.

For Said, the time had come to return to his own people, while he, Francois de Charney, was returning to his native land, a land about which he knew almost nothing nor felt to be his own. His homeland was the Temple, and his house, the East. The man who now made his way to France was but a shell. He had left his soul at the foot of the walls of Saint-Jean d'Acre.

Despite the heaviness that had settled into his heart, the presence of a few Templar knights who, like him, were returning to France made the voyage easier, although they were careful to give him his privacy. The crossing was calm, though the Mediterranean was a treacherous sea, as Ulysses himself had learned. But the ship traversed the waves without incident. Guillaume de Beaujeu's orders were clear: De Charney was to deposit the Holy Shroud in the Temple fortress in Marseilles and await new orders there. The master had made him swear that he would never relinquish the relic to those outside the order and that he would defend it with his life.

The port of Marseilles was impressive, with its dozens of boats and countless people milling about, shouting and talking incessandy. When they disembarked, they found waiting for them an escort of knights, who conducted them to the Temple's chapter house in the city. None knew of the relic that de Charney was carrying. De Beaujeu had given him a letter for the precept of the Temple chapter in Marseilles and for the superior. "They," he had said, "will decide what is best."

Jacques Vazelay, the superior, was a nobleman of curt gestures and few words. But his eyes were kind as he listened to de Charney's story. Then he asked the old knight to show him the holy shroud.

For many years the Templars had known the true face of Christ, for Renaud de Vichiers, the first master to hold the shroud, had had its astounding image copied and sent to every Templar house and chapter. Still, Vichiers had counseled supreme discretion. Each chapter kept its copy of the image in a secret chapel to which only knights went to pray. No others were to see it or even know of its existence.

Thus had the secret of the Temple's possession of the only true relic of Jesus Christ been kept through the years.

De Charney opened his pack and took out the linen-wrapped bundle he had carried so carefully. He unrolled it, and… the two men fell to their knees in wonder, such was the miracle that had occurred.

Still on their knees, Jacques Vazelay, superior of the chapter, and Francois de Charney gave thanks to God for what He had wrought.

THE GUARD ENTERED THE CELL AND BEGAN to go through Mendib's locker, collecting the few clothes he found. The mute watched, unmoving.

"Time to look pretty for the outside world, my friend. Looks like they're going to let you go, and we can't have prisoners leaving with dirty clothes. I don't know whether you understand me, but whether you do or not, I'm taking this stuff to wash it and I'll bring it back clean. Oh! And those stinking sneakers of yours too-they smell like shit!"

He went to the bed, bent over, and picked up the shoes. Mendib began to stand up, alarmed, but the guard put a finger on his chest.

"Now, now, take it easy. I'm just following orders. We'll bring everything back tomorrow."

When Mendib was alone again, he closed his eyes. He didn't want the security cameras to see the turmoil he felt. He couldn't suppress his excitement at the prospect of freedom. But something was wrong. He was sure of it.

Marco had been at the prison for hours. He had interrogated the Bajerais, despite the doctor's protests, but he'd gotten nowhere. He had started with routine questions, those they would expect him to ask. The brothers refused to say where they were going when they were attacked, or who, if anyone, they suspected of beating them. As best Marco could tell, they weren't aware of Frasquello's involvement.