by C. M. Palov
Flabbergasted, Edie’s jaw slackened. ‘And you were going to tell me this when?! For crying out loud, Caedmon! What did this sentry look like?’
‘He was olive-skinned with dark hair.’
Great. A description that fitted nearly every man in Kottayam. Including the guys who’d just jumped off the bus.
‘Oh, yes, and he had a moustache.’
Oh, God. Edie reflexively grabbed the vinyl seat to steady herself.
‘The guy on the red motorbike has a moustache,’ she whispered hoarsely.
Hearing that, Caedmon immediately leaned forward and said to the driver, ‘We’re getting out here.’
18
Caedmon hastily ushered Edie to the curb, peering first in one direction and then the other.
Along the bustling artery conveyances of every imaginable description choked the thoroughfare. An endless stream of honking vehicles belching dark plumes of noxious exhaust. A few feet away, a trio of untethered goats nonchalantly grazed on a pile of rubbish. One of them lackadaisically raised its head, stuck out its tongue and ‘greeted’ them with a quavering ‘Blaaaa.’
‘Great. We’re actually sharing the curb with the Three Billy Goats Gruff.’ A few seconds later, lowering her voice, Edie said, ‘Here he comes.’
Slowly passing them, the mustachioed brute on the red motorbike craned his head in their direction. Leering malevolently, he lifted his right hand off the handlebar. Purposefully showing them the telltale brand on his palm.
The mark of Cain.
Visibly flinching, Edie grabbed hold of Caedmon’s arm.
‘As you’ll undoubtedly recall, Gita was warned not to go to the authorities,’ he told her.
‘But you’re not the authorities. You’re Anala’s biological father. Which, I know, sounded way too clinical. Sorry.’
‘Clinical or not, the abductors have no idea that I’m her father. They may have erroneously concluded that Anala hired a private detective.’
‘But that doesn’t explain why – Oh, Lord Shiva!’ Edie shrieked as the two of them dodged to the far side of the pavement, narrowly avoiding a collision with a blue Tata truck, richly decorated with Hindu symbols, fresh flowers and dangling beads. At the back of the open lorry there was a large elephant in tow, the animal painted in vivid shades of green, yellow, pink and purple. A gargantuan coat of many colors.
‘Our cab driver said that there was a festival going on,’ Edie remarked, wide-eyed. ‘He didn’t say anything about the circus being in town.’
‘My understanding is that Hindu religious festivals are rather like a circus.’ As he spoke, Caedmon glanced at his watch. 2:45 p.m. Ample time to make their three thirty appointment at the St. Thomas Seminary. If they faded into the festival crowd, they could then double-back and hail another taxi, losing the mustachioed brute in the process.
Cuffing a hand around Edie’s elbow, he quickened the pace.
With her free arm, Edie swiped at her brow. ‘And I thought that DC in August was brutal; this heat is debilitating. I feel like a wrung-out sponge.’
‘Just be grateful that we’re not here during the monsoon season,’ Caedmon rasped irritably, the noise, the soaring temperature and the branded bastard all having a disagreeable effect on him.
Up ahead, the lane opened on to a large grassy square jam-packed with lorries, elephants, bare-chested musicians and a milling mob of excited onlookers. A rambunctious kaleidoscope of Indian culture, it was a different world entirely, the air thick with a palpable, frenetic energy.
Closer at hand, an Indian swaddled in a white cotton mundu was in the process of unloading a decorated elephant from a truck, the animal’s forehead majestically caparisoned in a glittering golden nettipattam.
‘Mind your step,’ Caedmon cautioned, guiding Edie around a far less majestic sight – a puny wrangler holding a plastic-lined garbage bin to a pachyderm’s wrinkled haunches.
‘Sorta like cleaning the kitty litter box, huh?’ Edie wrinkled her nose. ‘Although I’m guessing that’s not the most enviable job at the circus.’
‘Obviously, we’ve stumbled into the elephant holding area. We need to –’ Suddenly hearing the sound of a deep-throttled engine, Caedmon peered over his shoulder.
At the far end of the lane, the branded bastard calmly sat on his idling red motorbike. Raising his right hand, he grinned and waved . . . before loudly revving the engine.
Several wranglers glanced nervously around, the elephants becoming noticeably agitated. Just then, one of the behemoths raised its trunk, hurling a loafing truck driver to the ground. Hollering in a foreign tongue, the man nimbly rolled out of the stomping beast’s path. In a whirl of motion, the keepers scrambled to keep their charges calm, rightfully worried that the tuskers might suddenly stampede.
Revving his engine one last time, their adversary suddenly zoomed towards them. Animal handlers hollered. An elephant roared. All three sounds were near deafening.
‘Is he out of his freaking –’
‘Yes!’ Caedmon interjected, that being the short reply. Having no time to brief the troops, he grabbed Edie’s hand and charged towards the throng of festival-goers in the square.
Glancing behind him, Caedmon glimpsed the motorcyclist as he zipped around a parked lorry, forcing a wrangler to leap out of harm’s way. The maneuver caused several pugnacious pachyderms to indignantly bellow.
Christ!
Just ahead of them, a large group of spectators, realizing they were at the forefront of a potentially dangerous scene, surged forward into the milling crowd, inciting a frantic chain reaction. A ferocious jangle of sight and sound.
Caedmon veered to the right, the two of them dashing past a drum and trumpet troupe, the music reaching a riotous crescendo even as the festival-goers charged hither and yon. Over the noise of the crowd, he heard a distinctive motorized rumble.
‘Where to now?’ Edie asked as they shouldered their way into the wild crush. Red-faced, her chest heaved with each ragged pant.
Good question.
Caedmon hurriedly surveyed the environs: to one side of the open square was an ornate Hindu temple; to the other, a line of buildings, the rooftops brimming with festival spectators.
Perfect.
He and Edie charged past a small circle of men twirling sequined parasols in the air. Caedmon tuned it all out – the clanging cymbals, the thunderous shouts, the colorful costumes – his attention fully focused on the line of buildings on the square’s perimeter.
Breathless, they reached the edge of the square, their passage blocked by a line of cars parked bumper to bumper. Letting go of Edie’s hand, he leaped on to the hood of the nearest vehicle. He then spun on his heel and, with an outstretched arm, hauled Edie on to the car. Her white dress flared behind her hips like a ship’s sail.
Together, they jumped to the pavement.
As if on cue, the motorcyclist thundered forth from the frenzied midst. Heedless of the turmoil he’d left in his wake, he braked to a halt, the long line of parked automobiles an obstacle he couldn’t roar through or whiz around. The perfect barricade.
At least until the relentless bastard disembarked and continued to follow them on foot.
‘Keep moving,’ Caedmon ordered gruffly.
Edie pointed to a narrow opening tucked between two buildings. ‘I see an alley!’
‘Right.’
A few seconds later, they cannonballed through the opening. At the other end of the dimly lit passage, Caedmon saw scores of people with shopping bags looped on their arms.
It was an open-air marketplace.
Emerging from the alleyway, he steered Edie into a gaggle of sari-clad women. ‘Run as fast as you can!’ he ordered.
Edie obeyed without argument. Grabbing hold of her skirt, she dashed hurriedly through the crowded market.
As they raced past a table laden with Hindu icons, a merchant, clearly mistaking them for customers, rushed forward. ‘For you, good price!’ he importuned.
�
��No, thank you!’ Caedmon told him. ‘We’re not interested!’
Refusing to take ‘No’ for an answer, the merchant followed them for several feet. ‘Special sale for you!’
‘Illa! Illa!’ Caedmon said forcefully. Hearing the Malayalam word for ‘No’, the merchant finally retreated.
Seconds later, they left the marketplace, making their exodus at a busy intersection. Assaulted by honking horns, darting motorbikes and blasts of foul-smelling diesel fuel, Caedmon feared they’d reached the proverbial end of the road, not a taxi in sight.
Edie peered over her shoulder. ‘He’s about fifty yards back!’
Just then, a dusty red bus, lumbering at a more sedate speed than the other vehicles on the road, rolled past.
‘Hurry!’ Rushing after the bus, Caedmon leaped up and grabbed the metal railing attached to the back end of the conveyance, hauling himself onboard. He then extended an arm towards Edie.
Their fingers grazed.
Then pulled apart.
Edie ran faster, inciting the bevy of Indian men riding on top of the bus to yell raucous encouragements.
Worried that she wouldn’t be able to leap aboard, Caedmon was about to jump off when Edie jettisoned forward. Snatching hold of her wrist, he pulled her on to the narrow steel platform.
As the bus picked up speed, he stared at their pursuer who now stood on the corner glaring at them.
Still panting, Edie clung to the railing. ‘We left him in the dust. Mission accomplished,’ she said breathlessly.
At least for the time being.
19
Mar Thoma Seminary, Kottayam
‘Please accept our apologies for being a few minutes late,’ Caedmon said to the heavily bearded priest. ‘We met with an unexpected delay.’
Having cordially welcomed them to the seminary, the Reverend Doctor Geevarghese Mar Paulos waved away the apology. Attired in a white cassock that perfectly matched his chest-length white beard, the elderly historian was also bedecked in a peaked navy-blue cap with red trim and adorned with the crux quadrata. Other than the color – which Caedmon assumed was a concession to the heat – the clerical outfit bore a striking resemblance to that worn by Eastern Orthodox priests.
‘Shall we adjourn to the library? It’s much cooler there.’
Exhausted by their footrace through Kottayam, Caedmon smiled gratefully. ‘By all means.’
As they strolled under a covered arcade, he peered at Edie who’d donned a long gray scarf, which she’d wrapped around her shoulders and upper arms. The earlier incident had sobered her considerably. Indeed, the episode had been a grim reminder that the men who kidnapped Anala were not bound by laws. Or scruples. Or ethics. And while they had managed to elude the mustachioed Bête Noire, he was still out there, somewhere, roaming the streets of Kottayam.
Glancing about, Caedmon appreciated the fact that the seminary compound was a tranquil oasis. Certainly, it was a marked contrast to the frenetic energy outside the walled enclosure, the grounds exuding an air of spiritual seclusion accentuated by the strains of liturgical music echoing softly across the cloister.
‘The Mar Thoma Seminary choir is practicing for an upcoming concert,’ Dr. Paulos informed them, gesturing to a nearby building.
‘I’m curious about the name “Mar Thoma”. What exactly does it mean?’ As she spoke, Edie adjusted her scarf, ensuring that she was modestly covered.
‘Mar Thoma is Aramaic for Saint Thomas. We are also known as the Nazrani,’ the older cleric replied as he ushered them into the library, a high-ceilinged enclave with wooden tables and chairs uniformly placed amidst numerous bookcases. Tall windows, shaded with intricately carved jali screens, cast exotic filigree shadows on to the floor.
Dr. Paulos motioned them to a table. ‘As I understand it, Mr. Aisquith, you’re writing a book about early Christianity.’
Suffering a momentary twinge of guilt, Caedmon nodded, that being the fabrication he’d used to garner the appointment with the eminent church historian. As he held out a chair for Edie, he shoved guilt to the wayside, embellishing on the lie. ‘I’m particularly interested in the Apostle Thomas and his missionary work in India.’
‘The story is simple enough,’ Dr. Paulos began, taking a seat across from them. ‘Thomas arrived in Muziris in the year 52 AD whereupon he immediately founded seven churches and converted hundreds, if not thousands, of people.’
A young man with a neatly trimmed beard, presumably a seminarian, carried a tray into the library. Smiling shyly, he set three glasses of fragrant chai tea on to the table, taking his leave without a word.
Caedmon accepted the proffered spiced tea, the mingled scents of cardamom, cinnamon and ginger perfuming the air. ‘I presume that the Apostle Thomas was converting Brahmin Indians to Christianity.’
Shaking his head, the bearded cleric said, ‘On the contrary. Thomas came to India to preach to the resident Jewish population.’
‘Jews? In India? I had no idea.’
‘Most westerners are unaware that a large contingent of Zadokite Jews immigrated to the Malabar Coast in the second century BC in the wake of the Maccabean Uprising,’ Dr. Paulos informed them. ‘Although those early emigrant Jews referred to themselves as the “Sons of Zadok”, they are nowadays better known as the Essenes.’
Hearing that, Caedmon and Edie immediately glanced at one another. Earlier in the day, the Essenes had popped up in a discussion about the Knights Templar and Château Pèlerin, the knights having discovered an enclave of Essene descendants at nearby Mount Carmel.
‘Eventually, Thomas’s Essene converts came to be known as the Nazrani.’ As he spoke, Dr. Paulos smoothed a withered hand over his beard.
‘Is the word “Nazrani” of Malayalam derivation?’ Edie asked politely, wading into the conversation.
Again, the older man shook his head. ‘The word “Nazrani” derives from two Hebrew root words: nazir, meaning ‘consecrated’, and notsrim, meaning “The Keepers of the Secret”.’
How very intriguing, Caedmon thought. He had speculated that the Templars may have discovered something at Mount Carmel that had led them to the Nazrani in India. He was now convinced of it.
‘This might be off base, but is there a connection between the words Nazrani and Nazareth?’ Edie inquired of their host. ‘I’m thinking specifically of Jesus of Nazareth.’ Her remark was not only germane, but spot-on, the two words remarkably similar.
The old cleric’s lips twitched as though he were amused by the question. ‘Surely you know that “Jesus of Nazareth” is a fictional persona?’
Edie’s eyes opened wide, her shock plainly evident. ‘I beg your pardon?’
‘According to biblical archaeologists, the town of “Nazareth” didn’t exist prior to the third century of the common era,’ Dr. Paulos explained in a more serious tone. ‘“Jesus of Nazareth” is a third-century mistranslation from the original Greek. “Jesus the Nazorean” is the correct translation.’
The mystery deepening, Caedmon wondered if ‘Nazorean’ wasn’t a linguistic fusion of ‘Nazrani’ and ‘Essene’. While tempted to ask, being short on time, he got right to the gist. ‘In the course of my research, I’ve come across several references to a long-lost gospel known as the Evangelium Gaspar.’
Setting his tea glass on the table, the white-bearded cleric folded his hands over his chest. ‘I see.’
‘Furthermore, it’s my understanding that a Knights Templar by the name of Fortes de Pinós was granted custody of the gospel in the early fourteenth century.’
‘You are ill-informed.’ Gaze narrowing, Dr. Paulos shot Caedmon a penetrating stare. ‘The Nazrani bishops did not give Fortes de Pinós the Evangelium Gaspar.’
‘They didn’t?’ Shite. Caedmon gulped reflexively, on the verge of losing his tea. His search for the long-lost gospel was premised on the assumption that the Knights Templar had acquired the ancient text.
‘Taking advantage of his Nazrani hosts, that unscrupulous knight stole the Ev
angelium Gaspar from the sanctuary in Palayoor,’ Dr. Paulos continued. ‘That, incidentally, is the site of the very first church founded by St. Thomas. Making the Templar’s crime all the more reprehensible.’
Caedmon’s shoulders slumped with relief.
‘Would you happen to know in what language the Evangelium Gaspar was scribed?’ he next inquired, hoping to glean a few more details about the mysterious gospel.
‘It was written in Aramaic, the liturgical language used by the Nazrani until the twentieth century.’
Aramaic. The language spoken by Jesus and the original apostles.
Assuming a bland expression, Caedmon glanced at the nearby bookcases. ‘Does your collection include a copy of the Evangelium Gaspar that I could peruse?’
The older man’s brows drew together; the makings of a disapproving scowl. ‘In the year 1542, a group of Jesuit priests arrived in Malabar. Their mission, simply put, was to coerce the Nazrani to adopt Roman Catholic orthodoxy. To that end, they initiated what has come to be known as the Goan Inquisition. Accusing the Nazrani of heresy, the Jesuits pilfered our churches and burned our sacred Aramaic texts, including all of our copies of the Evangelium Gaspar.’ Dr. Paulos’s scowl finally relaxed, replaced by a more placid expression. ‘By God’s grace, we managed to shake off the Roman yoke in the middle of the seventeenth century.’
Leaning back in his chair, Caedmon rested his chin on his steepled fingers, pondering the meaning of the very informative history lesson. The Nazrani could rightfully lay claim to being one of the oldest Christian churches in the world. Even more astounding, the Nazrani were the Aramaic-speaking descendents of Essenes who’d sought religious sanctuary in India more than two thousand years ago.
The Sons of Zadok. The Keepers of the Secret.
‘Given everything that you’ve told us, I assume that Gaspar, the author of the stolen gospel, was an Essene convert to Christianity,’ Caedmon remarked in passing.
‘Since I’ve never read the Evangelium Gaspar, I can’t rightly say if that’s true.’ Smiling apologetically, Dr. Paulos shrugged. ‘Like so many legendary personages in the Bible, the myth may not accurately reflect reality.’