The Keeper's Cup: A Controversial Archaeological Thriller

by Ken Fry

  The colour drained from Gallo’s face, leaving it an ashen grey.

  “Hey, you okay? You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.”

  Gallo pulled himself back to normal. “Don’t worry, I’m fine. It’s a regular thing with me … excitement maybe. What’s missing, do you know?”

  “Daft question. How would we know that? We don’t even know what it is yet. It’s interesting though, don’t you think? The tags are two sided, so we may be able to work out what the missing plates could be.”

  Gallo gave an all-knowing smirk. “I’m sure you will.”

  “Well, when the test results are back, we’re having a meeting to discuss what this discovery could be. I don’t know what to do now, but I’m planning to check on some of those old prophecies these ancient Jews and Romans were always banging on about.”

  Gallo paused; his eyes held an odd glint. “Will they ever come true, or have they already done so?”

  “Who knows?” Rachael replied. “But I bet for all the tea in China, that little find of Joshua’s has something spooky to tell us.”

  “Rachael, I don’t speculate. It’s a futile response. I prefer facts. Now, if you will excuse me. I’ve work to do.”

  “God, Julian, you can be a right tetchy bastard at times. Don’t worry, I’m off!” The door slammed hard as she left.

  Gallo breathed a sigh of relief, stood, and then moved across the room and locked the door. He opened his desk drawer and reached to the back of it. Buried beneath a pile of papers, he detached a black velvet drawstring bag. Reaching in, he pulled out an ancient looking leather-bound booklet. The edge of the pages was crackled and discoloured to a yellow brown hue. He held the book to his lips and kissed it. Opening it with great care, he turned several pages before he found what he wanted. Producing a lens, he peered at the writing and copied it into his notebook. Then, he opened his computer, accessed a site that was not listed in English, and began to type in what he had written. When done, he knelt on one knee, and murmured a prayer.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Patmos, Greece

  1549 A.D.

  THE SENESCHAL STEPPED onto the sacred soil of Patmos and knelt. Picking up a small rock, he kissed it with reverence. He had followed The Keeper’s commands to the letter.

  To this island, the blessed John had been banished by the Roman Emperor, Domitian, for preaching Christianity. On this very soil, the beloved disciple had received, in a sequence of seven angel-given dreams, the greatest of sacred revelations. He had been instructed by Christ to record and deliver them to the seven churches of the island.

  He had said: I will hurt, and I will bleed, and I shall die. This I do for you all. You will scribe what I say, and when your writings are found, it will mark the final times. This, the seneschal believed. He knew that John, fearful of the Church’s collapse by the Romans, had the contents of his dreams depicted upon small metal tablets by two of his followers, Ephraim and Manasseh. There, they had revealed their understanding of the fate of humanity, measured not by events, days, weeks, months, years, decades, or centuries, but by millennia. The seven tablets or Seals, when broken, would herald the birth of a new world. Only the most favoured of men would be able to achieve this.

  The two followers of John had returned to their homes near Jerusalem and took their secrets with them, but John’s final words, he told them not. These he entrusted to a woman named Marathea, a descendant of Mary, to pass on to the accursed Guardians to ensure their safekeeping. When the times were in sequence with John’s words and transcriptions, all would be revealed.

  It had become perilous. Domitian was determined to wipe out the locusts of this Christian disease.

  The seneschal knew of the seven churches, alleged to possess the sacred seals. Each of them had a characteristic synonymous with the prophecies. He searched, travelling to each location and making enquiries, but not a trace of the fabled relics could be found. They told him they never existed, and if they had, they had long ago been destroyed or lost.

  But he didn’t listen, and soon, his faith was rewarded.

  While scouring the seventh church of Laodicea, the church that John described as ‘lukewarm and insipid to God,’ the seneschal found the only reference to the missing Seals. In a faded and almost colourless fresco, behind the altar and at floor level, was his first and only evidence. He became breathless. His hands trembled as he read in faded Hebrew:

  I am the Seventh and to be found in Beit-Guvrin

  Supplanting it was an obvious depiction in faded blue and red, of some sort of scroll held by an uplifted hand.

  Lukewarm and insipid to the Pope, but never God! He was overjoyed. His mission had not been fruitless. The Keeper would be pleased. Here was evidence that there existed a form of documented proof. What or where Beit-Guvrin was, he had no idea. It had taken centuries to find this one small clue, and it could take another century or more before another would come to light.

  †

  One Year Later

  The Sistine Chapel, The Vatican

  1550 A.D.

  Standing under it, Cosimos Ricci felt the full significance of Michelangelo’s The Last Judgement bearing down upon him from its divine throne. It didn’t help the apprehension he felt for the meeting he had been summoned to today.

  Behind the cause of his anxiety was the seneschal, not only of the Sistine Chapel, but of the clandestine society, I Apocalittici Guerrieri di Cristo (The Apocalyptic Warriors of Christ), of which he was a member. Their avowed intent is the destruction of the Roman Catholic Church, and existing world orders, no matter how long it would take. Their main interest is the implication of Christ’s rule on earth, and to help bring about its devastation as foretold in the Book of Revelation. They had been searching for the Seven Seals, for whosoever possessed them would wield power beyond the imagination of men.

  To bolster their worth, the society claimed and tried to prove at every turn, albeit discreetly, that the Pope and his Church were instruments of Satan, preparing the way for the Antichrist. That if allowed, they would deviate people from the true doctrines, water them down, and allow heathens to open their mouths and preach from the Sacred Chapels of Christ in Saint Peter, seducing the masses with their blasphemous and vile words.

  Cosimos worked as an artist with a burgeoning clientele. At twenty-five years, he had an enviable reputation, and had accumulated wealth at his young age. His forte was the depiction of notables set in scenes of rural idyllic. His recruitment to the Apocalyptic Warriors of Christ, or AWC, took place five years back. It happened the way all members experienced it; the casual encounter, the praise, an arranged meeting with someone of importance, the flattery, and then the subtle implantation of their ideas and philosophy.

  Cosimos learned early on that any act that furthered the truth of the AWC was considered as approved by God. Second to that came complete obedience to their leader, The Grand Keeper. All unbelievers were considered poison. The Grand Keeper’s identity remained unknown but to a small Inner Circle. His successor had always been appointed by his command alone. Nobody else possessed the authority to approve or disapprove any appointments to the society.

  Cosimos had been flattered that a secret society, possessed of the highest knowledge and aspirations of men, should honour him with an invitation to become their disciple. He received a hidden thrill from knowing things, secrets and information that only the Apocalyptic Warriors of Christ knew of. They became integral to his life. He accepted and believed their tenets, without question. He had become close to the seneschal, but he feared him and his uncanny ability to see into a man’s secret soul.

  Waiting for his mentor in the half-light of the Chapel, Cosimos gazed around, feeling daunted by the overwhelming magnificence of the frescos. So different from his own work.

  Soft footsteps from behind alerted him to the ghostlike presence of the seneschal. A stooped figure with a black cowl around his head, in the guise of a monk, beckoned him to a seat. His face, somewhat obscured,
emitted an unmistakeable ageless intelligence. The seneschal stared down at the floor as he spoke, his voice curling around Cosimos like a wet tongue.

  “Brother Cosimos, listen to what I say. As you are aware, the next part of your training is upon you. Few reach this point, and to do so is a high honour indeed. There have been but two others before you. The path is arduous and not without its dangers and heartaches. You may be required to do things part of you would rebel against but are necessary to our cause. Yet, think again of what we will ask of you. If you decide to proceed, you will be taken from here to our novitiate, and you will begin the next level of your training. You will, of course, continue to paint. You will remain as Cosimos Ricci, the artist, to those who know of you. Perhaps, your hardest choice─” He stopped and seemed to stare at him from under his cowl. A few minutes passed before he continued, as if choosing his next words carefully. “You have a lover, Portia. You will be required to leave her. With what we have planned for you, you cannot be distracted by love and its ability to loosen willpower, dedication, and tongues.”

  Cosimos gasped. “How do you know about her?”

  “We know everything about you from the day you were born. That is all I need say. You have three days in which to decide. To refuse will be considered as a request to leave us and will activate the possible consequences that decision would incur. Is that understood?”

  Cosimos understood the veiled threat. For him, there was but one consideration. Choosing between Portia and his Apocalyptic brothers.

  He sensed that the seneschal wanted an immediate response. Hesitation, and the delay of three days would indicate uncertainty, indecision, … not the qualities of a candidate destined for a high rank.

  His heart lurched, like a log upon a block about to be split. Dizziness spun his head. Yet, there could be but one answer. Reaching out, he clasped the seneschal’s tattooed, white bony hands in his own. With a low voice, he said, “I am yours to command, Master.”

  A thin smile crossed his mentor’s face. “Congratulations, Cosimos. I knew you would not fail us. You have passed your first test. And now for the second …”

  Cosimos blanched at the seneschal’s second demand. His hands shook. The seneschal’s imperative made it clear to him that Portia was perceived as less than worthy, an embarrassment, and a hindrance to AWC’s greater cause. In their battle with the evil descending upon the world, many unpalatable ordeals would have to be faced. Portia had become one such.

  Before they parted, the seneschal had given the greatest promise he could possibly award the young Cosimos. Upon completion of his mission, he would get to meet the Grand Keeper.

  GET A COPY OF THE PATMOS ENIGMA

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Bestselling, and multi-award-winning British author, Ken Fry, holds a university master’s degree in Literature and has extensively travelled around the world. The places and events are reflected in his stories and most of his tales are based on his own experiences.

  He has extensive knowledge of the Art world. This he acquired while working as a Publisher in a major UK publishing house, a wholly owned subsidiary of the HEARST Corp of the USA. In his thirteen years with the company, he worked within the Fine Arts and Antiques division of the organisation and controlled four major international titles.

  He is now retired and devotes his full time to writing. He lives in the UK and shares his home with 'Dickens' his Shetland Sheepdog.

  DOWNLOAD YOUR FREE eBOOKS

  Visit Ken Fry's Website

  Follow Ken Fry on Amazon

  Connect on Twitter

  Follow Ken Fry on Goodreads

  Follow Ken Fry on Book Bub