Later that same morning, we gathered our things and proceeded by carriage up into the foothills of the Troodos mountains to the little village of Panayia, where a cottage had been hired for us. We arrived near dusk and Melos took us to our cottage, and introduced us to our housekeeper-a sister of his named Helena, a small, plump woman of mature years who chattered like a mynah bird whether anyone was listening or not. She had a meal ready for us when we arrived, showed us where to find everything, and then left us to eat and sleep in peace.

We spent a wonderful first night in our little cottage, dining by candlelight with the windows open onto the courtyard where late roses were still in bloom. The next morning, our inestimable host collected us and took us to the monastery.

'Ayios Moni is a very ancient place,' he said. 'The monks there maintain a library of many priceless manuscripts.'

It was, of course, these manuscripts that I had come to see -rather, it was one manuscript in particular.

Upon our arrival, we were introduced to the bishop, who conducted us on a tour of the small, but tidy monastery, which was now home to fewer than thirty monks. At the end of the tour, he said, 'I suppose you will be wanting to get started.'

'To tell you the truth,' I replied, silently thanking Rossides for my new-found fluency, 'I would like nothing better. Unfortunately, I do not know precisely why I have come.'

Bald Bishop Naxos laughed, and said, 'You have come to view the Caithness Manuscript.'

'Caithness,' said Caitlin, when I had told her what the bishop had said. 'You mean the Caithness in Scotland?'

'Haven't the foggiest.'

He led us to the library where a few monks were working away, hunched silently over old vellums and parchments. He spoke a few words to the brother in charge of the collection, and the black-robed monk disappeared into the stacks, returning a few moments later with a weighty bundle wrapped in heavy homespun linen.

'Behold,' said Bishop Naxos, 'one of our order's prize possessions.' He directed Brother Nicholas to a nearby table beneath a window, and there the monk opened the parcel. 'The ink is faded, and there are a few water spots-we had a bad storm in the fifteenth century, and the roof leaked. Still, it is in remarkable condition for a document which was written in 1132.'

I translated the priest's words for Caitlin, who marvelled at the age of the venerable manuscript.

He passed his hand lovingly over the bundle of parchment, and fingered the silk cord which bound the bundle together. 'This will be the last time the manuscript is seen in the place where it was created. I think it highly appropriate that you should be the reader.'

He regarded me meaningfully, but the reference was lost on me. 'I do not understand,' I said.

'Next month it is going into a vault at the Ministry of Antiquities in Athens,' he explained, but before I could tell him that this was not what I meant, he added: 'It is felt by my superiors at Khyrsorroyiatissa that our order can no longer protect it adequately.'

'Nonsense!' grumbled Melos sourly.

'We have it for a little while yet.' He smiled sadly, and pulled a chair from the table. 'Please, sit. We would be honoured for you to be our guest for as long as you like.'

Again, I understood that he was according me a special favour, but his meaning remained beyond my comprehension.

I told Caitlin what he had said, and asked if she minded very much amusing herself for awhile. 'Go on with you,' she said, 'and don't be silly. Of course I don't mind. I can well look after myself for a few days.'

So, with the blessing of both bishop and wife, I settled myself into the chair I was to occupy for a good many days. When the others had gone, I loosened the silken cord and turned back the battered old covering.

The script diat met my eye was strong and fair. The rich black tone had faded to a pale reddish sepia, but remained clearly legible. I read the first words, and knew why I had been summoned to this task. My heart began to beat with such force I thought I would have to abandon the work before I had even begun. Before me on the table was the account of Murdo's son, Duncan, and, in his own words, a record of his pilgrimage in the Holy Land.

Amir Ghazi's arrival in Damascus was hailed as the triumphal entry of a conquering hero. He massed his army on the wide plain outside the city walls and then proceeded to lead his victorious troops and their wretched captives into the city. The wily amir spared no pomp in making his entrance as impressive as possible. Drummers went before the amir and his bodyguard, pounding out dull thunder; children ran beside the amir's horse, scattering flower petals; trumpeters blew shrill blasts to part the crowds who stood and gaped at the passing spectacle.

We marched through the streets to the citadel where Atabeg Buri and all the officials and dignitaries met the grand cavalcade in the courtyard of the Rose Pavillion. Proud Ghazi made a great show of displaying his prize captives; the prisoners were paraded before a double rank of noble Arabs, some on small cushioned stools and some on thrones, and made to bow before them in a show of subservient humiliation. I, who had carried Bohemond's head on my back, was forced to display the ghastly prize to the Arabs.

Summoned from the fore-ranks of the captives, I was marched before the Seljuqs and Saracens as they sat in festal splendour, enjoying the subjugation of their hated foe. Two guards led me to the foot of the low rise of steps leading up to the perfumed pavilion and, at Ghazi's direction, I was commanded to open the box. The Arab noblemen laughed to see the mighty prince, and bane of their people, disgraced in death.

One of the Arabs, however, did not laugh with the others. Dressed in opulent robes that glowed with the iridescent blues and greens of peacock feathers, and wearing a huge blue turban, he observed the Christian prince's shame with a rapt and thoughtful expression. At the height of the mirth, he beckoned Atabeg Buri nearer and spoke privately to him for some time. Meanwhile, I stood and held the open box for the delight and delectation of the others, hating the display and my part in it.

When the two finished their conversation, Buri invited Amir Ghazi to join them. The amir advanced and was presented to the stranger in the blue turban, whereupon he immediately fell to his knees and pressed the nobleman's hand to his forehead. The Arab potentate endured the fawning servility of the amir with cool aplomb and, to my great chagrin, raised his hand and pointed directly at me.

Ghazi jumped up and, with an ostentatious flourish of his arm, waved me forwards. Accompanied by the guards, I was led to the pavilion steps and there made to kneel, holding the box while the strutting amir presented the resplendent onlooker with the gift of Bohemond's head.

Why he should want the grotesque thing, I could not say. But the bestowing of it filled old flat-faced Ghazi with a rare elation. His rough and weathered visage cracked wide in a grin of exaltation and, in a fit of largesse, he lavished the whole of his trove upon his obviously superior overlord: the objects of gold and silver, the saddles, weapons, and armour, the horses, and all the rest he had accumulated-including the prisoners. Yes, and myself as well.

Although I guessed what was happening at the time, I did not learn until much later that day the identity of the glittering luminary who was to be my new master. It was Sahak, the Armenian scribe and advisor, who told me, and took great delight in the telling. 'You belong to the Caliph of Baghdad now,' he said, unable to suppress a wicked smile at what he imagined would be distressing news to me.