The Keeper's Cup: A Controversial Archaeological Thriller

by Ken Fry

  “Please see to it and God will reward you when you pass away. Now, I have a bigger target for you. The financial reward would take care of you for the rest of your life.”

  “What’s that?” He leant eagerly forward as a small glob of food spat from his mouth, missing the cardinal’s wine glass by the narrowest of margins.

  The cardinal pulled back and quickly covered his glass with his hand. “It is extremely risky and will take some planning. But if your weapon is what you say it is, then there shouldn’t be a problem. There’s no rush yet, but it’s on the cards.”

  Cracker glared hard and tapped his knife blade several times on the edge of the cardinal’s plate. “Stop pissing about. What’s the job?”

  The cardinal appeared wary as he cupped his hand across the side of his mouth, looked to his left and right, checking all was clear. He couldn’t see anyone paying attention to them. “The pope may need to go to heaven.”

  For once, Cracker was lost for words or threats. His jaw dropped and his eyes held a look of incredulity. Not one to swear often, he eventually replied, “Fuck! You are not joking, are you?”

  “Lower your voice. I have never been more serious.”

  Cracker’s appetite had vanished, and he put down his knife and fork with unusual gentleness. He gulped heavily on his beer, pausing only to wipe a large hand across his wet lips.

  Not far away, Rizzo’s concealed listening device picked up every word.

  It transmitted directly into Rizzo’s earpiece. Rizzo didn’t know who was more startled, himself or Cracker. He was eavesdropping on a potential plot to assassinate Pope Adrian. For a moment, he was spellbound with a sense of inadequacy, but then his training kicked in and he felt the reassuring comfort of the Beretta concealed around his shoulder. This can never happen. Both of these men need constant monitoring. I’m going to need backup. I must get to the pope urgently.

  As the two men prepared to leave, their last remarks sent a chill through Rizzo. Both the cardinal and Cracker left the agenda open, agreeing to meet when it was time, and after the matter of Rizzo has been settled.

  Rizzo realised it was now urgent to move the game up a few notches, and fast! He reached for his smartphone and punched out his assistant’s number. Angelo Florentino was swift to answer, and a meeting for later that afternoon was arranged. Rizzo’s next call involved using his and the pope’s mutual Signal encryption app. The reply was immediate, and he recognised the pope’s distinct accent.

  34

  Glastonbury

  “Shine your torch with mine onto that slab.” Miriam grabbed at Kelvin’s arm and swung it in the direction she was looking at. The slab was free standing. It looked unnatural and far too smooth. It had to have been man made. “Just look at that...” She pointed to a familiar symbol.

  Kelvin was taken aback. “It’s another triskelion. I knew there would be another! But what’s it doing here?”

  “If we search long enough, we might find out. This limestone rock has been ironed out flat, almost smooth, like some kind of altar.” Miriam leant forward to touch it for closer inspection. “When was the last time anybody touched this?” She smiled.

  “There’s more. Look at this.” On top of the structure, he could see a circular indentation with a diameter of about eight to nine inches. Centrally placed was another iron ring, which seemed to open the circle. He grabbed hold of it and gave it a gentle twist in both directions. To his astonishment, he felt it shift. “Hey, it’s moving.”

  This time, Kelvin exerted extra strength and the entire circle let out a loud, scraping sound, similar to someone treading on a cat.

  “It’s quite heavy.” Kelvin gritted his teeth and gave it one last tug. With an unexpected whoosh… the cover came off cleanly. It was a perfectly formed stone circle about three inches thick. It could have been put there yesterday.

  They both stood stock still… not daring to speak. The atmosphere was like a church congregation in silent prayer. In the gloom, they stared at each other, almost afraid to breathe. Without a word, Kelvin shone his flashlight on the plinth and knelt on one knee with his head bowed. Miriam could hear the soft murmur of what she imagined was a prayer. She didn’t move nor peer into the now exposed pillar. She waited, and as she did so, she felt an emotion that brought tears to her eyes. She didn’t know why.

  After what seemed like hours but was only a few minutes, Kelvin stood and said, “C’mon, let’s light up this discovery.”

  She gripped his arm and gave it a gentle squeeze. “I understand what you did.” She didn’t know what she understood exactly, but his response was totally appropriate.

  “When was the last time a pair of eyes looked into this?” It was a breathtakingly illuminating moment, as all discoveries are.

  With bated breath, she shone a powerful beam into the opening. It didn’t look deep. She swung the beam around the entirety of the cavity.

  “See anything?” Kelvin asked.

  She peered long and hard before she scrambled backwards, her hand covering her mouth. “Oh my God!”

  “What?”

  She pointed into the plinth. “Look in there and pull out what you see.”

  He bent low over the aperture as she shone the torch above the opening. He stretched down to his fullest extent. “I’ve got something.” He picked up an object and placed it next to the column and then repeated the exercise and did the same again. For a third time, he reached in. “This is the last I can see. I’ve got it… and out it comes.”

  It was Kelvin’s turn to look astonished. Before him stood three inscribed stone tablets – not unlike his previous find but equally as stunning – a plain, copper-alloy stemmed chalice, embossed with a Celtic cross.

  * * *

  Later that day, the professor was glowing with happiness as he examined the finds. He estimated the chalice as eighth century AD and was certainly not the fabled cup of The Magdalene. This cup was empty. He got into full flow.

  Miriam rolled her eyes and looked at Kelvin who only smiled.

  Fergy began. “I’ll get the cup carbon dated… there’s a new method available now. Why not C14? There has always been a problem with copper. When exposed to air, a natural layer of cuprite known as Cu2O covers copper surfaces. That can screw up the findings and cause possible damage. The new method is electroanalytical. It compares various corrosion products that form over long periods of time and works with only a few nanograms of material. So it causes almost no damage to the artefact. What’s more, it’s spot on accurate. So my guess at eighth century could be way out. I’m only going on the evidence of the Celtic cross. There weren’t many of those about before that century.”

  “Prof,” Miriam said with a drawn-out sigh. “Belt up for a bit, won’t you? I’m trying to concentrate here.”

  Fergy raised his hands upwards. “Sorry, Your Highness.” But he shut up with a grin and poured out more wine for them all.

  The tablets were again etched in Aramaic, but one of them, inscribed with the use of ink onto stone, was in Middle English. Miriam hadn’t attempted a translation yet. She was waiting for Fergy’s inevitable, irascible demand. She didn’t have to wait long.

  His impatience began to flourish. “This is an important discovery, but it presents as many problems as questions it could answer. We’ve taken lots of pics and now we need to know what it says. Get going on it, Miriam. Here’s a lens, plus pens and paper. I haven’t told our priestly overseer yet, but that is something we can decide on later. We’ll have a drink while you are doing it.”

  “Charming as ever, Fergy. It’ll be interesting to see how it matches up with Kelvin’s original tablet.” She began her examination using an eye lens, going through the words from right to left. Her first statement confirmed its authenticity as Aramaic. It appeared to be written in straight prose and not verse. “Here’s something that’ll make you sit up and take notice. It appears to be signed.”

  “What?” The professor’s surprise caused him to spill his dri
nk.

  Kelvin said nothing but gave an enigmatic smile. Miriam looked intense as she bent over the tablet surrounded by reference books and piles of paper. “Give me about an hour and I’ll have this finished. I think the medieval Middle English will be more difficult than the Aramaic. I’ll look at that later.”

  Eighty minutes later, Miriam looked up, took a long gulp on her third wine, and eyed them both. “Well, that’s done. It was difficult. Many of the etched strokes seem to have faded, presumably with time. So you two, please do not interrupt me or say anything until I have finished reading it back to you. Liberties have been taken where text is obscured or broken down, but I sense my interpretation is consistent with the tenure of what was originally written. You’ll find it startling, and I think it goes a long way to support Bishop Vincent’s original hypothesis – that those unearthed gospels are ancillary works of the apostles, Thomas and Philip.”

  The message is on two tablets. She began.

  ‘Yeshua, beloved father, Mary, most beloved mother, it is thee we honour and obey. Our grief at your joining with the Parent is a sadness we must bear, but also mixed with joy. In this place, this joyful land, you’re honoured and known as Jah and Magda. We sense you with us at all times. We accept your charge and your mantle. We shall travel when needed. With your blessing, our Keeper of the Cup, the never-ending blood and water of Yeshua will pour, heal, and spell your words and those of the Parent, known here as God, throughout the lands.

  You spoke to us of nails, of wood, and your flesh hammered together in pitiless horror in a land far off. A land we may never enter, which myself and Sarah feel so strongly for. Drinking from your cup cannot cure our sadness. Yet we must endure and rejoice in God’s legacy and in each new cure.

  The holy vessel will pass disguised through time and generations. Each Keeper a descendant of you, Yeshua, and you, Mary the Magdalene, Keeper of the Cup.

  Eternally, Judah and Sarah.

  Three separate minds were entwined in a silence like drifting sand in a desert.

  “Holy mothers!” Fergal’s whispered response was heard and endorsed by the other two. His face drained of all colour. “It’s unbelievable. I thought Christ’s mother, Mary, had a cup – the one from the last supper, known as the Holy Grail. That cup is the stuff of legends. But this... this is new and would be a world shaker, Miriam.”

  Miriam’s hands shook slightly. “This is telling a different story.” Her next words came from a place she did not know. As she spoke, her eyes rolled backwards.

  “Mae'n gudd, ond byth ar goll.”

  There was an immediate response from Kelvin. He stood straight… his eyes closed.

  “Bydd i'w gael a byddwn yn dod o hyd iddo. Fy mod yn gwybod yn awr.”

  The professor looked baffled. “Stop! What are you two on about for God’s sake?” His voice cut across the room and broke the interaction.

  Kelvin appeared normal but Miriam was ashen and shaking like a leaf. “It was a Welsh derivative, spoken by our Celtic Druids.” he said. “And Miriam was saying, ‘It is hidden, but never lost,’ and I replied, ‘It will be found, and we shall find it. That I know now.’”

  Miriam appeared to have regained her senses. “But I don’t even speak Welsh. This is getting spooky. What happened here?” Her scientific, rational mind had suffered a serious assault, but she refrained from saying so.

  Fergal ignored the weirdness of the moment and asked, “How do you know we will find it?”

  “It was an intuition, Fergal. It just seemed right. I speak Welsh, but I’m surprised that Miriam spoke it fluently. She says she had never studied the language. Mysterious, to say the least.”

  Miriam protested. “All I can say is that I absorb languages like a sponge. Working so closely with Celtic culture, it is not so surprising I spoke as I did. I pick up things so easily. Listen, hypothetically four thousand years old, Welsh is one of the oldest living languages in Europe. It originates from the Celtic language spoken by the ancient Britons and the tribes around here. The ancient names for the Tor and of Avalon signify that. Before the Roman invasion, Celtic languages were commonly spoken across Europe.”

  “If this plaque is to be believed, the implications are staggering. If it becomes common knowledge, this mission is over. Amateur diggers, the press and TV, will besiege us forever more. I’m suggesting we see what the ME version has to say first. It’s a leap forward in centuries. What that tablet has to say will determine our next move. Father Vincenzo and his mentor, the cardinal, are not to know of this. The only outsider who will hear of this, at this stage, will be Pope Adrian. Agreed?”

  They all agreed.

  * * *

  Miriam began a preliminary examination of the remaining stone tablet. She picked it up, turning it around in her hands. She knew that stone tablets, clay and wooden writing tablets, and even wax-covered wooden tablets were common writing materials of the Middle Ages. She didn’t doubt the stones antiquity, easily confirmed by the laboratory. That would be easy. The ink used was another matter. Whatever was used in this tablet would have to be authenticated. The most common ink colour was black, which early in the Middle Ages, was made from carbon scraped from singed objects then mixed with gum and water. Later, black ink made from oak galls was used. It was the swellings found on oak trees where a gall wasp has laid its eggs. The composition became more refined as technology increased across the centuries. The stone she was looking at had been written on with black ink and that would have to be examined in the laboratory.

  She turned her attention to the ink-written text. It was definitely written in Middle English, the language used in the Middle Ages. Geoffrey Chaucer’s works, including The Canterbury Tales, were good examples of its usage. There were six lines of text. She copied them down and then read them out loud.

  Atte chays et Chamelot sacren grund

  Thilke ease whare quenes eterne cuppe kunnenn beade funden

  Yette her et atte tor standen hin as defensens

  Searce jette elles-hware street ant henne

  Ant tyre in middle-seaxe canstow finden

  As arten opyn al ant ehes ant kepen nat blinden

  Miriam felt a surge of excitement she had not known since her work on an early, unknown language discovered in Turkey. Written down, it was estimated at eighth century BC. She was now experiencing the same sensation, and all thoughts of Vincenzo and the cardinal evaporated. Her natural desire to learn and know had taken first place in her mind.

  Using various textbooks, she began to translate.

  I never studied the forms of ancient English, but I should be able to manage. What she noticed was that… whoever the author was, they were either badly educated or overly so. The text was an amalgamation of various ME dialects. In various places, the dialects rejected her attempts to translate it into plain, modern English.

  After two hours and several drinks later, she turned around to the two men. They hardly noticed her. They were locked in a game of chess.

  “Hey, you two! Attention, please. I think I’ve got most of what is written here. If you can tear yourselves away, I’ll read it out to you.” She sounded exasperated. Men! We have the discovery of a lifetime and they’re playing Chess?

  “Sorry, Miriam, you have our complete attention. Fire away!” Both men sat upright and turned towards her.

  She gave them a soft glare, and began speaking slowly and with care, ensuring that the relevance of the translation would not be misunderstood.

  The Chase at Camelot’s sacred ground

  Shows where a queen’s eternal cup can be found

  Yet here the Tor stands in its defence.

  Seeker get elsewhere straight and hence.

  And there in Middlesex ye may find

  If ye open mind and eyes and keep not blind

  Miriam beamed. Her audience had eyes the size of saucers.

  “That’s so specific. Does it say who wrote it?” Fergal looked stunned. “Middlesex! Hardly Glastonbury, is it? It’s par
t of London now and full of noise, tube trains and technology. He spread his hands open wide. “The Chase at Camelot is where it can be found. Is this some sort of prank?”

  “Well, it does say to get there and keep an open mind. I find it thrilling.”

  Kelvin held up both hands. “Hold on a minute, you two, let me check something on the computer.” In seconds, he had accessed and navigated to the book page. He found what he was looking for. “I remember this book from some time ago. I have a copy of it somewhere at home. I’d forgotten all about it. ‘London’s Camelot and the Secrets of The Grail.’ Christopher Street is the author.”

  Both the professor and Miriam, with added interest, peered intently at the screen.

  Kelvin agreed to bring it in so they can all read it. It might have information they can use. Maybe then the ME references would not appear so laughable.

  35

  Rome

  A thousand miles away, Angelo Florentino, at Inspector Rizzo’s command, had started investigating Cracker. Interpol, on request, had forwarded all that was known of the man. Reading through the list of charges and imprisonments, he understood that his target was a dangerous prospect. He would be keeping a constant watch on the man and report directly back to Rizzo to determine the next steps. Rizzo was busy monitoring Cardinal Nicholas. It was tedious work, slow moving and boring. But Florentino was aware that Cracker was tracking Rizzo and it would only be a matter of time before he made an attempt on him.