I quickly completed the search of the last three rooms-one was little more than a narrow alcove and contained nothing but a few pottery jars and, high up on the end wall, a large, square vent covered by a partially open iron-work grate. The other two rooms were each filled with items of ceremonial armour: stacks of painted wooden shields, bundles of tasselled halberds, sheaves of curved swords standing upright in wooden barrels, helmets ranged around the walls and floor in ranks. Upon examining the last room, I dashed across and started in on the opposite side of the gallery.

Feeling the grip of desperation tightening around me, I prayed, 'Great King, if you care about the honour of your name, help me to restore it now.'

In truth, I do not know what I meant by this; the words came to me and I spoke them out. The reply was immediate-if from an unexpected source.

'Da'ounk!' Wazim Kadi shouted behind me. I turned to see the little Saracen standing beside the pillar, the fire at its base burning brightly in the gloom of the gallery. He was pointing across to a chamber on the other side of the entrance. 'Look!'

I glanced where he indicated and saw the glow of a torch as it passed from view into the chamber.

'Did you see who it was?' I called, already running for the doorway.

'It was a father,' he replied.

At least, that is what I thought he said; it did not make sense to me, but there was no time to ask questions. I sped to the chamber and looked in. It was a large room with several columns forming aisles, between several of the columns someone had heaped up mounds of objects. There was no sign of the torch-bearing man Wazim had seen. Was it a trick of the light? Had we imagined it? Then I saw the gold-trimmed box containing Bohemond's head, and all questions vanished. Having carried that grotesque trophy all the way from Kadiriq to Damascus, I would have recognized its gleaming tracery and metal-bound edges in my sleep.

I started for the heap, just as another tremendous crash resounded from the main gallery-this one accompanied by a slow, creaking, cracking sound and a second clatter. I guessed part of the door had given way. It would not be long before the Templars and their Fida'in allies gained entrance.

I dived into the mound and, tossing the torch to the floor, began pulling things from the heap and throwing them aside. Many were objects I recognized, and this encouraged me greatly. But as the pile diminished, my hopes began to fade.

There came another enormous, walloping crash, followed by a long, groaning crack as another portion of the iron-clad door gave way. An instant later, the low-burning torch gave a last sputtering spurt and sizzled out. I raced back to the doorway, and called for Wazim to bring a piece of wood from the fire.

'They are getting very close now,' he said, handing the burning brand to me.

'So are we,' I replied. 'The relic is in this room somewhere.'

There came another tremendous crack on the door. I could hear the timber splintering as sections were ripped away.

'What would you have me do, Da'ounk?'

'Pray, Wazim.'

To my surprise the little jailer folded his hands, closed his eyes, and began chanting then and there. Leaving him to his prayers, I took the burning chunk of wood and, kneeling beside the casket containing Prince Bohemond's head, I unfastened the clasp and opened it.

The flickering light playing over the embalmed prince's frozen features made it seem as if he was trying to awaken from his serene and perpetual sleep. 'May God forgive me for what I am about to do,' I said, and touched the burning wood to the prince's stiff hair.

The resulting flame was much brighter and larger than I expected; due to the pitch resin in the embalming mixture, the waxen flesh burned readily. I watched for a moment as the flames licked across the contours of his face, singeing off eyelashes and brows, and painting his becalmed expression with a liquid glaze of shimmering flame. Satisfied that the flame would not go out, I picked up the box and carried it quickly along the colonnade to the next mound of plunder. There, by the light of Bohemond's flaming head, I began pawing through the trove-this time to Wazim's rapidly muttered prayers, which he interrupted long enough to urge me to hurry faster.

Two more booming crashes trembled the walls of the treasure house before I reached the bottom of the heap, only to come up empty handed. My frustration was eased by the thought that there was only one mound left and the rood must be there.

The casket containing the burning head was on fire now and too hot to pick up, so I shoved it with my foot to the next hoarded heap and waded in, scattering valuable objects right and left.

Crack! The door in the main gallery splintered and groaned.

'Hurry!' shouted Wazim. He was standing at the chamber doorway. 'They have made a hole in the door. I can see them now.'

'Over here!' I called. 'It has to be in this heap somewhere. Help me find it.'

Wazim hastened to my side and together we ploughed into the mound of objects. Heedless, I strewed costly objects everywhere; I tossed aside jewelled daggers, carelessly threw away a fine bow and quiver of golden arrows, and sent silver bowls and chalices clattering across the floor. And then, I found it: the rug in which I had wrapped the holy relic. I fell upon it at once and pulled it to me.

Even as my hand closed on the rolled rug, however, I knew my hope was disappointed. The roll was empty. The Black Rood was gone. Beneath the rug, I saw one of the gem-encrusted, gold bands that had capped the ends of the piece; the other gold band lay beside it, mangled and flattened by the bearer's clumsy feet. My poor heart rending with dismay, I stooped and retrieved the flattened band. There, in the dying light of Bohemond's burning skull, tears welled up in my eyes as my failure overwhelmed me.

All that time I had spent in captivity, nursing the hope, however tenuous, that I might rescue the sacred relic. But the Black Rood was gone.

'Da'ounk?' said Wazim. 'What is wrong?'

'It is gone,' I replied, letting the gold bands slip from my hands. 'We are finished.'

From the main gallery there came a final thunderous crash and the sound of splintered timber careening across the floor. A cheer went up from the soldiers on the other side. With that, the last of the flames gave out; the box broke into embers and the skull rolled onto the floor, empty eye sockets staring at me, lipless mouth grinning in grim mockery. The burned bone glowed red for a moment, and then that, too, disappeared in the darkness.

Wazim called me again. I made no reply.

There was nothing to say. The soldiers would be on us at any moment, and that would be the end of it.

I heard Wazim moving in the darkness, and felt a touch on my arm. I thought he meant to move me along. 'I am sorry, Wazim,' I said. 'It was all for nothing.'

Out in the main gallery, the last remnant of the door gave way and, with shouts of triumph, the Templars stormed into the treasure house.