At the border, they were stopped by soldiers, dressed in battered uniforms, their faces, exhausted by the war, expressed no emotions. Riflemen warily watched their every movement, as if expecting a trick. They carefully checked the documents, meticulously studying every seal, every signature, as if looking for the slightest discrepancy. They asked tricky questions, trying to expose lies, provoking mistakes. Alexander tried to remain calm, maintain a composed appearance, not betraying his inner turmoil, which was ready to burst out. He felt sweat trickling down his back, his mouth drying up, his heart pounding wildly, ready to jump out of his chest. He understood that their life depended on their composure and ability to convince. Fortunately, after long and agonizing minutes of waiting, everything was fine. The soldiers, finding nothing suspicious, reluctantly returned their documents and let them through. Alexander sighed in relief, feeling the tension slowly receding.
By evening, they reached Damascus. The city was full of refugees fleeing the war.
The streets of Damascus were filled with chaos and poverty, a picture as if descended from the canvases of apocalyptic artists. Destroyed buildings, yawning with black voids of windows, resembled skulls eaten away by time, silently testifying to the destructive power of war. Piles of garbage, dumped right on the sidewalks, blocked the way, exuding a suffocating stench of rotting organic matter and burned plastic. Children, barefoot and dressed in rags, rummaged through these wastes, like hungry chicks, looking for at least something edible. Their faces, smeared with dirt, expressed unchildlike fatigue and despair.
Alexander stopped near one of the piles of garbage, unable to tear his gaze away from a little girl, desperately fighting a dirty dog for a scrap of bread. «Amir, look,» he whispered, feeling a lump rise in his throat. «We have to do something.»
Amir sighed heavily, looking at this scene. «We can’t help everyone, Alexander,» he replied. «If we give money to every needy person, we will be robbed, and it won’t help them. What’s needed here is not handouts, but peace.»
David approached them, holding two bottles of water. «I saw a shop nearby,» he said. «I bought water and some bread. It’s a little, but it’s better than nothing.»
He went to the girl and offered her bread and water. The girl, looking around in fright, grabbed the food and immediately disappeared into one of the back alleys.
Nearby, on the rubble of a destroyed building, sat an old man, a legless invalid, playing an old, out-of-tune violin. His playing was sad and monotonous, as if lamenting the dead city.
«What’s wrong with him?» Alexander asked.
«He lost his legs in a bombing,» Amir replied. «Now he plays in the streets, trying to earn a piece of bread.»
«Do we have anything?» Alexander asked, turning to David.
David took out a few bills from his pocket and put them in the old man’s outstretched hand. The old man nodded gratefully, continuing to play his sad melody.
Armed men stood on every corner, dressed in uniforms of different colors, symbolizing warring factions. They suspiciously looked at passers-by, ready to use weapons at any moment. Alexander felt like an uninvited guest in this world of suffering, as if he had invaded someone else’s tragedy, as if he was not worthy of this grief. He felt ashamed of his well-fed and peaceful life, of the world that he had left behind.
«We must be careful,» Amir repeated, looking around with concern. «It’s dangerous here. This city is a powder keg, ready to explode at any moment. We need to find a safe place, hide from prying eyes, and contact our people. They will help us get to the monastery.»
Amir and David brought Alexander to an old, dilapidated house in one of the poorest and most abandoned quarters of Damascus. The house seemed to breathe history, but this history was full of suffering and deprivation. Cracks spread like cobwebs across the walls, peeling paint exposed the brickwork, and crooked windows with broken glass let in drafts and the noise of the city. Here, in a cramped room, furnished with old, worn furniture, they were to spend several days, preparing for a further, even more dangerous journey. The room smelled of dampness, mold, and dust; it seemed as if time had stopped here.
«We will be safe here,» Amir assured, examining the room. «No one will look for us in this godforsaken place. No one will find us here. The locals keep to themselves and don’t like strangers, so we won’t attract attention. Try not to go outside unless necessary and don’t talk to strangers. The less attention we draw to ourselves, the better.»
Alexander looked around. The room really seemed gloomy and uncomfortable, like a reflection of the hopelessness that reigned outside its walls. The dim light, penetrating through the dirty windows, thickened the shadows, making the objects even more sinister. The old furniture, covered with a layer of dust, seemed alien and uncomfortable. In the corner stood a lopsided closet, from which the paint was peeling, and stains of mold were visible on the walls. The smell of dampness and mustiness permeated everything, penetrating clothes and skin. But Alexander didn’t care. After what he had experienced, after the escape from under the Temple Mount, after a road full of dangers and deprivations, this room seemed to him like a paradise. The main thing was that he was alive. And he was on his way to his goal, to solving the mystery that occupied all his thoughts. The gloomy surroundings did not matter, because his spirit burned with a thirst for knowledge, and nothing could stop him.
In the evening, when it got dark and the room was plunged into twilight, lit only by the dim light of a kerosene lamp, David brought several old books and scrolls, tied with a yellowed rope. He put them on the table, covered with dust and crumbs, and looked at Alexander with a serious expression on his face.
«Here,» he said, handing them to Alexander. «Study. Here you will find answers to your questions. Here are collected ancient texts, legends, and traditions that can shed light on the mystery of the symbols we saw under the Temple Mount. But be careful, Alexander. This knowledge can be dangerous. It can change your perception of the world, of religion, of life itself. Be prepared for what you learn may shock and disappoint you. And most importantly, don’t tell anyone about it. We don’t know who can be trusted and who cannot.»
Alexander took the books and began to examine them. These were ancient texts in different languages: Arabic, Greek, Latin. Some of them were handwritten, others were printed on old printing presses.
«What are these books?» Alexander asked
«These are books about ancient religions, about mystical teachings, about secret societies,» David replied. «In them you will find mentions of those symbols that we saw at the excavations.»
Alexander, with a sinking heart, opened one of the books. Its pages were yellowed with age, inscribed in calligraphic handwriting in ancient Aramaic. With each page, he was captured by the world of ancient secrets and mysteries, a world full of mysticism and mythology.
The first lines described the legend of King Solomon, who, according to legends, possessed not only wisdom, but also power over the jinn, the spirits of the desert. The book claimed that Solomon built the First Temple not only as a place of worship to God, but also as a repository of ancient knowledge, passed down from generation to generation from Adam himself.
The book stated: «King Solomon, may blessings be upon him, was not only famous for his wisdom, but also for his power over the jinn, the spirits of the desert. And he erected the First Temple not only as a place of worship to the Most High, but also as a repository of secret knowledge, passed down from Adam, our ancestor, from generation to generation.»
Further on, there were descriptions