The Templar's Secret (The Templar Series)

by C. M. Palov

  The housekeeper, submissively bowing her head, backed out of the room.

  Seated at an ornately carved wooden desk was the wheelchair-bound white-haired Marqués de Bagá.

  ‘Qué descaro!’ the Marqués spat out, clearly angered by the intrusion. ‘Esto es un ultraje!’ Eyes narrowed, he opened a desk drawer and, to Edie’s horror, removed an antique flintlock pistol.

  31

  ‘While you may be outraged, Don Luis, he who is of noble birth must acquit himself nobly,’ Caedmon said in a measured tone, uncertain which would kill him first, a lead musket ball or the Marqués de Bagá’s deadly glare.

  ‘I not only hail from a noble ancestry, but an illustrious one as well,’ the old patrician rasped in a scathing tone of voice.

  Although the retort grated – a not so subtle reminder that it was the Spanish who introduced the asinine notion that a nobleman’s blood was blue not red – Caedmon was relieved that Don Luis Fidelis de Pinós spoke fluent English. In his experience, when conversing with the infernal serpent, it was always best to do so in one’s native tongue. It minimized the risk of a fatal misunderstanding.

  Biting back his annoyance at the other man’s insufferable conceit, Caedmon contritely bowed his head. ‘Please accept our apologies for the scheduling error,’ he said with feigned deference. ‘Miss Miller and I have travelled a long distance to speak to you regarding the Sovereign Order of the Temple.’

  The glare still affixed to his face, the Marqués deposited the ancient flintlock into a desk drawer. Despite being a wheelchair-bound octogenarian, the Marqués de Bagá obviously fancied himself the daring musketeer. And quite the dandy as well, the man immaculately attired in a cream-colored double-breasted suit, his bold striped tie and paisley pocket square studiously mismatched. A sartorial affectation that conveyed a sense of dégagé at odds with the nobleman’s withering condescension.

  ‘How do I know that you’re not an agent provocateur sent by the Vatican to discourage me from proceeding with the lawsuit?’ the nobleman hissed.

  Detecting a steel core beneath the aristocratic veneer, Caedmon pondered how best to flake the gild.

  Suddenly inspired, he approached and purposefully placed his right hand on the polished desktop. The midday sun streaming through the nearby floor-to-ceiling window glinted off his Templar signet ring.

  ‘As you can plainly see, Don Luis, I am not your enemy.’

  Eyes suspiciously narrowing, the Marqués glanced downward. An instant later his facial muscles visibly relaxed as he waved a liver-spotted hand, gesturing to the two vacant chairs in front of his desk.

  An audience having been granted, Caedmon pulled out one of the velvet-covered chairs for Edie.

  ‘Actually, if you don’t mind, I’d like to shoot some pictures for the article,’ she demurred, removing a Nikon DX3 camera from her leather satchel. ‘If that’s all right with you, Don Luis.’ Camera in hand, she waited expectantly for the nobleman’s permission to take his photograph.

  Acting as though he’d only just noticed her presence, the Marqués gave Edie a cursory appraisal. Several moments passed before he nodded his consent. ‘Yes, I think that’s an excellent idea. I want the world to see the man who has the courage to confront the cassocked jackals inside the Vatican.’

  ‘Thank you, Don Luis. And no need to pose. I think candid shots will work best. Just act natural and pretend as though I’m not here.’

  ‘Seven hundred years may have come and gone, but do not think for one moment that the Church’s crimes are not ongoing,’ the Marqués intoned as Caedmon seated himself. ‘In the past, our cri de coeur has gone unanswered. This time, however, the self-styled princes of the Church will have to acknowledge that they willfully and illegally stole a fortune from the Knights Templar.’

  Caedmon wondered if that massive swindle was any different from the fortune that the Spanish Conquistadors stole from the Aztec Empire. Thieving parasites, the lot of you.

  Determined to polish the gnarled piece of wood, Caedmon shoved his personal feelings to the wayside and said, ‘Indeed, it’s a story that appeals to those fascinated by medieval history. Particularly given that you claim to be a direct heir to the Templar legacy.’

  ‘I do not claim to be a direct heir . . . I am a direct heir.’ As he spoke, the Marqués grasped the arms of his motorized wheelchair. A monarch gripping his throne.

  Thinking that the perfect segue, Caedmon removed a spiral reporter’s notebook and pencil from his inside jacket pocket, two purchased accoutrements to add credence to the artifice. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Edie go down on bended knee to snap a few close-up photographs.

  ‘Enlighten me, please,’ Caedmon invited. He had no qualms about the fraudulent obtrusion, willing to do or say whatever was necessary to glean actionable intelligence.

  ‘From the very beginning, the de Pinós family was closely involved with the Knights Templar, making generous donations of land, coinage and property. As did many other noble Spanish families.’ The Marqués jutted his chin towards the bookcases filled with leather-bound volumes. ‘No one familiar with medieval history can dispute the strong presence of the Knights Templar on the Iberian Peninsula. The warrior monks played a decisive role, not only in the Reconquista, but in protecting the pilgrim routes to Santiago de Compostela as well.’

  Edie lowered the camera from her face. ‘I apologize for not being up on my Spanish history, but what’s a “reconquista”?’

  ‘Soon after the Moslems conquered the southern half of the Iberian Peninsula in the year 711, the Christian kingdoms in the north began a series of military campaigns to vanquish the Moors from the peninsula. The Reconquista finally came to a close when the Christian forces under Isabella of Castile reclaimed the Kingdom of Granada, the last Moorish stronghold,’ Caedmon said in response to Edie’s question, galloping through eight centuries of Spanish history.

  ‘While the Vatican authorized the creation of the Knights Templar because they needed a cadre of warriors who would swear fealty to the pope rather than a European monarch, the Templars’ true agenda was one which the Church did not foresee and was at great pains to suppress. That is the real reason for the bloodthirsty auto-da-fé of 1307,’ the Marqués was quick to emphasize.

  ‘I gather that you’re referring to the Templars relentless search for knowledge,’ Caedmon said, the subject near and dear. ‘Indeed, it has often been said that the Knights Templar were the proprietors of dark secrets that those in power greatly feared.’

  ‘Nonsense!’ the Marqués rebuked, dismissively waving a richly veined hand. ‘The darkness emanated, not from the Templars, but from the pontiffs in Rome; depraved men who not only abused their power, but turned their backs on the teachings of Christ. Los clérigos venden a Dios y las indulgencias por dinero contante.’

  ‘The clerics sell God and their indulgences for hard cash,’ Caedmon translated. A maxim that even a devout Catholic would be hard pressed to deny.

  ‘During their tenure in the Holy Land, the Templars came into close contact with Jews, Muslims and heretical Christian sects,” the Marqués continued. “This spawned a radical shift in their religious beliefs, the Templars realizing that the key to everlasting peace in the Holy Land was to establish a transcendent, ecumenical belief system that would unite the three people of the Book.’

  ‘You refer, of course, to the doctrine of Prisca Theologia, which alleges that there is one universal theological truth that can be found within every religion,’ Caedmon remarked.

  ‘The Templars’ search for that unifying strand of common spirituality is what engendered their demise.’ Propping his elbows on the wheelchair’s armrests, the Marqués threaded his fingers together. ‘Had they been successful, it would have spelled the Church’s doom.’

  Caedmon thoughtfully stared at his notebook and the scribbled notes he’d made. He wondered if the Templars’ ‘radical shift’ had inspired an odyssey that eventually ended with Fortes de Pinós sailing to the Malabar
Coast of India.

  An intriguing hypothesis.

  In the near distance, a church bell tolled the hour. A stentorian call to the faithful.

  The time having come to sharpen the inquest, Caedmon shot Edie a quick, meaningful glance before his gaze darted purposefully to a framed portrait hanging on the wall behind her. Picking up on his silent directive, she slipped the camera into her leather bag and walked over to the painting. Arms crossed over her chest, she slowly tipped her head from side to side, giving every impression of being totally engrossed with the portrait of a seated man grasping a skull.

  Just as Caedmon had hoped, the Marqués maneuvered his wheelchair over to where Edie was standing.

  ‘It’s an impressive piece of artwork,’ Edie murmured, intently staring at the painting. ‘Is it a portrait of one of your ancestors?’

  ‘Captured for posterity by Murillo, one of Spain’s great Baroque artists,’ the Marqués off-handedly informed her.

  Getting up from his chair, Caedmon joined the pair. ‘I’m curious, Don Luis, about another of your ancestors: a Templar by the name of Fortes de Pinós.’

  ‘Where did you hear this name?’ the Marqués hissed, craning his neck to peer up at Caedmon.

  ‘I happened upon it while doing some research in the Vatican Secret Archives.’

  His cheeks stained with angry red splotches, the other man pointed an accusing finger. ‘This is the real reason why you’re here, isn’t it?’

  Since there was nothing to gain by denying the charge, Caedmon nodded. ‘And given your livid reaction, I was correct in initially withholding the true purpose of our visit. However, now that the cat is bounding about the room, it’s pointless to continue the deception.’ He stuffed the notebook into his jacket pocket. ‘Specifically, I am seeking information pertaining to an ancient gospel called the Evangelium Gaspar that Fortes de Pinós had in his possession.’

  At the mention of the gospel, the Marqués’s eyes opened wide, the man clearly startled.

  ‘I’ve never heard of the Evangelium Gaspar,’ he avowed a split second later, yanking the figurative shutters closed.

  ‘Given that the Templars’ Grand Master Jacques de Molay sent Fortes de Pinós to India to retrieve the Evangelium Gaspar from the Nazrani Christians, I find it hard to believe that you’ve not heard of the long-lost gospel.’

  ‘How dare you insinuate that I am lying! Get out!’

  ‘Not until you tell me everything that you know about Fortes de Pinós and the Evangelium Gaspar,’ Caedmon replied, refusing to yield.

  ‘I will not tolerate this insolence!’ Grasping the joystick mounted on his armrest, the Marqués quickly pivoted the wheelchair and zoomed back to his desk. Jerking the top desk drawer open, he rifled through the drawer’s contents.

  ‘By any chance are you looking for this?’ Edie inquired, brandishing the flintlock pistol.

  32

  Rione di Borgo, Rome, Italy

  Peter could most definitely do with a few extra pennies, Cardinal Franco Fiorio ruminated, the Archives budget forecast for the next quarter dismal at best. Uncertain how he was going to pay Paul, he now regretted having brought the financial papers home with him.

  Earlier in the day he’d feigned a migraine headache, escaping the Vatican to work on the reports in more quiet surroundings, his flat in the Borgo providing the solitude and privacy that he needed. More importantly, he didn’t want to deal with meddlesome interlopers should Father Santos contact him with an update.

  Discouraged by the bleak projections, Franco shoved his reading glasses to the top of his head and rubbed his eyes. Balancing the budget was a tedious and thankless endeavor. In order to make ends meet, he would have to dismiss twenty employees, the Secret Archives still reeling from the disastrous licensing deals that his predecessor had naively entered into. Misappropriation and mismanagement of funds were two problems, among many, currently plaguing the Holy See.

  ‘It’s enough to make a grown man weep,’ he muttered, the Vatican in dire fiscal straits. Having survived barbarian invasions, the Plague and the Protestant Reformation, it was now the bankers banging at the gate.

  As Vatican observers knew, shaky finances were the reason behind many of the notorious scandals that had besieged the Holy See in the last few decades, desperate cardinals and bishops having resorted to illegal means to raise funds. Money laundering. Embezzlement. Bank collapses. Just a few of the charges leveled at the Vatican in recent years, the fallout of which had caused a spate of unsolved murders, mysterious suicides and, if the rumors were to be believed, the death of Pope John Paul I. That unsavory bit of business occurred a mere thirty-three days into his pontificate, a high-ranking member of the Curia supposedly using deadly means to prevent the newly elected pope from exposing the massive corruption taking place within the Vatican Bank.

  Over the centuries, as the Church had expanded, so too had the administrative duties of the Roman Curia. Until, in modern times, it had taken on the size and function of a multinational corporation. Vatican, Inc. The dollar is down. The euro is up. Gold is trading higher. Beset with annual budget crises, sordid corruption and a swollen bureaucracy, the unwieldy leviathan was in dire need of an overhaul.

  Leaning back in his shabby, velvet-covered chair, Franco stared out of the French doors on the other side of the study and set his weary gaze on St Peter’s. His flat boasted an unobstructed view of the gleaming dome, the iconic masterpiece soaring above the tiled rooftops. A simple man, unlike some in the Curia, his residence was far from opulent, with the apartment’s sixteenth-century bones clearly visible, the windows framed with plain marble cornices and the ceilings braced with wooden beams. Two of the walls were lined with glass-encased bookcases with stacks of other books strategically placed throughout his study. The hallway that ran the length of the flat, as well as three of the walls in the dining room, was also lined with floor-to-ceiling bookcases. All-in-all, an austere residence more befitting an Aquinas-like theologian than a Prince of the Church.

  Impatient for an update from Father Santos, Franco drummed his fingers on the wooden desktop. A few seconds later, he picked up his half-eaten porchetta panino. His housekeeper, Beatrice, had unobtrusively entered his study a short while ago, setting the luncheon plate on the edge of his desk.

  There once was a time, during the high Renaissance, when powerful cardinals built magnificent palazzos where they held court supported by hundreds of retainers and sycophants. And though he could undoubtedly reside in more luxurious surroundings had he opted to live within the papal city, Franco had declined the Vatican apartment set aside for the Prefect of the Secret Archives. Under normal circumstances his decision to live ‘off-campus’ would have rippled the papal waters, but in this instance Pius XIII was only too happy to have a cardinal that he considered a dangerous enemy sequestered in the Borgo.

  Little did Pius know that an enemy cannot be hidden away like some crazy uncle in the attic.

  Finished with the pork sandwich, Franco shoved the plate aside and got up from his desk. Placing his hands on the small of his back, he stretched, causing several bones to loudly crack. As he walked towards the set of French doors he momentarily stopped in front of the framed photograph of the Fiorio family, circa 1960. The blissful years before the infamous ‘Fall from Grace’. Before his mother’s divine visitation changed the course of their lives.

  Opening the French doors, Franco stepped out on to the rooftop terrace. As always, he tuned out the raucous sound of the traffic below; a constant in Rome. In addition to the small bistro table with two chairs, scattered around the base of the balustrade were pots of leafy shrubs and trailing vines, including several tomato plants brimming with ripened fruit. All tended to by Beatrice who, in addition to being a meticulous housekeeper and superb cook, was blessed with a green thumb. Deeply devoted to the Church, she was a consecrated virgin; and had been handpicked by his mother to manage his household when he was elevated to the cardinalate. The latter meant that Beatric
e Vaccarelli’s loyalties were, first and foremost, to Rosella Fiorio.

  Although ninety-one years of age and wheelchair bound at a senior retirement community in Baltimore, his mother was determined to keep tabs on Franco, with the housekeeper acting as her eyes and ears. After the shameful debacle involving his brother Angelo, she wasn’t about to let her younger son veer off-course. She’d learned her lesson. In hard, painful fashion.

  After Rosella’s second visitation from the Blessed Virgin Mary, there was no doubt in her mind that Our Lady intended for her eldest son Angelo to join the priesthood and consecrate his life to Christ’s ministry. While Angelo, then fifteen years old, wasn’t nearly as certain, he did revel in the sudden attention that he received from family, parish priests and the nuns at Fourteen Holy Martyrs Catholic School. Despite the fact that money was always tight in the household coffers, funds none the less became available for Angelo to go on weekend retreats and various other activities sponsored by the archdiocese. The bill for those events was footed by parish benefactors who were certain that the Blessed Virgin had chosen Angelo for great things.

  The prodding worked, Angelo finally relenting and entering the seminary; and breaking his girlfriend’s heart in the process. In the winter of 1968, he was ordained at the Basilica of the National Shrine of the Assumption of the Blessed Virgin Mary. The day was one of joyful celebration for family and parishioners alike, one of their own about to begin a most holy undertaking.

  Left on the sidelines, Franco was free to decide his own future having won an academic scholarship to Georgetown University, that great Jesuit institution of higher education. Since the family didn’t have the money to send him to college, he’d had to work his ass off to get there. Unlike Angelo’s divinely dictated aspirations, his were motivated by the fear of getting drafted into the military and shipped to Vietnam. It was one of the reasons why he’d decided on a philosophy major. Granted, he’d always been something of an argumentative bastard, but he could also drag that particular major out to years of graduate work, deferring the draft indefinitely.