by C. M. Palov
Everything was running smoothly for Franco when, suddenly, ‘the Great Fall’ befell the Fiorio family.
It was early spring, midway into his junior year when Franco received a frantic phone call from his mother, ordering him to straight away drive home to Baltimore. Worried that Rosella may have fallen ill, he jumped into his beaten-up Volkswagen Beetle and made the forty-mile trip in record time. Leaping over the front gate, he ran inside the house, momentarily stopped in his tracks by the thick smell of Three Kings incense and the heat thrown off from the twenty or more lit votive candles set up on the altar in front of the Virgin’s statue.
But that was nothing compared to the welcoming committee that waited for him in the living room. In addition to his teary-eyed mother, the parish priest, Father McCarty, and Monsignor Hellerman were present. Wondering what incited the heavy artillery, Franco eased himself into the chair that had been placed in front of the sofa, inexplicably feeling like a prisoner in the dock.
Because his mother was too distraught to speak, it was Father McCarty who got stuck with the unpleasant task of informing Franco that his brother Angelo had left the priesthood under sordid circumstances; the announcement of which caused his mother to start sobbing anew. Clearly uncomfortable, the old parish priest, in a lowered voice, went on to say that Angelo had got involved with a woman whom he intended to marry. And to ensure that his mother never recovered from the shock, the woman in question was a Carmelite nun.
Franco didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.
Or to beat a hasty retreat. Because suddenly the room had gone very quiet, all three of them – his mother, the priest and the monsignor – staring at him expectantly.
When, a few seconds later, his mother got up from the sofa and fell to her knees in front of his chair, flinging her arms around his waist as she begged his forgiveness, Franco was thrown into a state of complete confusion.
‘Forgiveness for what, Mom?’
‘I had the wrong son, Franco. All these years, I’ve been blind to the fact that Our Lady chose you to be Her Son’s emissary here on earth.’
Hearing that, Franco tried to break free of his mother’s embrace. But she only tightened her hold on him.
Not only did he love college, but he’d just started dating a cute girl in his Ethics class. He didn’t want to become a priest! He wanted to live a normal life. Raise a little hell. Then settle down. Get married. Have two point five kids. He did not want to pass out communion wafers at Sunday Mass.
Sensing that he was about to punt the ball, Monsignor Hellerman got up, walked over to the chair and put a staying hand on Franco’s shoulder.
‘You’ve been selected, Franco, by the Queen of Heaven, to continue Her Son’s work. There can be no greater joy for a man. To turn your back on Our Lady would constitute a grave sin.’
Terrified, the life he’d not yet lived passing before his eyes, Franco found himself wordlessly nodding his head. The fear of hell had been ground into him from an early age, the nuns at Fourteen Holy Martyrs having done a bang-up job. Since his father Sal had died two years earlier, he had no one in his corner. No one to argue his case. There was nothing he could do but capitulate.
In that instant, Franco felt as though he’d been shanghaied.
As the years passed and the fallout from the Second Vatican Council became more obvious, Franco belatedly realized that he’d been the victim of the lax morals that had infiltrated the Roman Catholic Church in the aftermath of those despised ‘reforms’. Angelo Fiorio wasn’t the only priest to leave the Church during that tumultuous period. By the late sixties and early seventies, they were leaving in droves. All jumping ship. Swimming ashore. And getting drunk as sailors.
Leaving the real men, like Franco, to clean up the mess.
In promoting their watered-down faith, the liberals had sullied the purity of the Church. Seducing the clergy and laity alike, liberals were no different from Lucifer in the Garden. Forcing Roman Catholics to gorge on the false fruit of Vatican II.
Although it didn’t happen on that long-ago afternoon when he was pressured into joining the priesthood, in time Franco had his epiphany. When it did come, it was just as powerful, just as furious, as Paul’s instantaneous conversion on the road to Damascus. In one shattering, life-altering moment, he was made to realize that he was the chosen one. The one who’d been selected by the Queen of Heaven to purify Her Son’s Church.
Hearing his mobile phone ring, Franco stepped back into his study and snatched the phone off his desk. Pleased that the call was from Gracián Santos, he hit the TALK button.
‘I’m listening. Go ahead,’ he said gruffly.
‘Forgive me if I’ve called at an inconvenient time, Your Eminence. However, there has been an unusual development that I thought you should be apprised of. The Englishman has gone to see a nobleman in Madrid.’
The skin on the back of Franco’s neck instantly prickled. ‘Do you know the nobleman’s name?’
‘According to my men, it is the Marqués de Bagá.’
Hearing that, Franco gasped aloud. No! No! No!
The Marqués de Bagá had been very vocal about his intentions – he wanted to crush the Vatican. Revenge for the auto-da-fé that destroyed the Knights Templar.
‘I need a moment,’ he husked, yanking the mobile away from his ear.
Horrified by the latest turn of events, Franco grasped his pectoral cross. So hard that the gold edges cut into the palm of his hand.
Why did Caedmon Aisquith seek out the Marqués? Was the Englishman hoping to strike an alliance with the old aristocrat? Or was he simply seeking information pertaining to the Marqués’s ancestor, Fortes de Pinós?
Franco didn’t know on which side of the great divide the answer fell. While he had faith that the Englishman would relinquish the Evangelium Gaspar to save his daughter’s life, he couldn’t take the chance that a known enemy of the Church would be privy to the gospel’s explosive contents. Should that happen, there was no doubt in his mind that the Marqués de Bagá would use the ancient gospel like a weapon. One capable of obliterating the Roman Catholic Church.
I must stop the enemy in his tracks!
His mind made up, Franco put the phone back to his ear. ‘The Marqués de Bagá poses an imminent threat,’ he hissed. ‘Under no circumstance can we allow the Spaniard to obtain the Evangelium Gaspar.’
‘But, Your Eminence . . . perhaps Caedmon Aisquith simply went to Madrid to gain information pertaining to the gospel’s whereabouts,’ Father Santos nervously argued.
‘No doubt he did. Which is why I want your men to wait until the Englishman takes his leave before dealing with the Marqués. And while they’re at it, I want them to sweep the premises clean and destroy any documents pertaining to the Sovereign Order of the Temple.’
‘Wh-what does that mean?’ the priest stammered.
‘Do I have to spell it out for you?’
The question was met with silence.
Damn the man! He has balls the size of raisins, Franco fumed silently.
Well aware that Gracián Santos was a coward at heart, Franco knew that he had to press the only leverage he had with the priest – his fear of losing Sanguis Christi to foreclosure. Without the fellowship, Santos would emotionally implode for Sanguis Christi was his child. His family. His raison d’être.
Needing Santos to stiffen his backbone, Franco said quietly, ‘I should have the funds to pay off your mortgage later this evening. As soon as your men secure the Evangelium Gaspar, I’ll be able to wire you the money.’
‘Your Eminence, I . . . I can’t thank you enough!’ the priest gushed, his relief all too evident. ‘Tell me what must be done and . . . and I will see that your orders are carried out.’
Franco smiled, the priest having quit the field without so much as raising his sword. ‘The Marqués de Bagá is an enemy of the Church and must be shown no mercy.’
None whatsoever.
To safeguard Christ’s Church, crusades had been
launched, inquisitions ordered and bloody wars fought. And just as Franco was prepared to give of his own blood to protect the one true faith, he had no qualms about shedding the blood of an unrepentant heretic.
33
‘Well played, Miss Miller,’ Caedmon complimented.
Edie, flintlock pistol in hand, walked over and ceded him custody of the weapon.
The nobleman glared at both of them. ‘I protest! This is an outrage!’
‘Don Luis, I refuse to believe that a man who’s devoted so much time and effort into researching his Templar lineage is unaware of Fortes de Pinós’s voyage to the Malabar Coast in 1307 to retrieve the Evangelium Gaspar. This makes me think that you’ve been economical with the truth.’ Caedmon aimed the pistol at the older man’s chest. ‘I suggest that you reconsider your position and spill some valuable beans.’
‘I can’t tell you what I don’t know.’
Caedmon kept his gaze on the nobleman, searching for telltale signs – pupil dilation, averted gaze, indrawn breath – to determine if the wily bastard was being disingenuous. ‘It will be to your benefit to be forthcoming, Don Luis.’
‘Is this where, in a sinister tone of voice, you inform me that if I don’t comply, you’ll put a bullet through my heart?’
‘Ah! You know the drill.’ Caedmon smiled humorlessly. ‘That simplifies matters immensely. I’m all for efficiency.’ Glancing over at Edie, he said, ‘Would you kindly pull up the Chinon riddle on your iPad?’
Approaching the desk, computer in hand, Edie shot Caedmon a chastising glare, clearly unhappy with his bully-boy tactics.
A bit too late for that, Caedmon thought sourly. She had, after all, commandeered the weapon.
‘When your ancestor Fortes de Pinós was questioned by the Dominican inquisitor regarding the whereabouts of the Evangelium Gaspar, this is the reply that he gave.’ Caedmon gestured to the iPad that Edie had placed on the desk in front of the Marqués. ‘Does this mean anything to you?’
The Marqués made a big to-do of peering at the tablet computer. A moment later, shaking his head, he said, ‘It’s nonsensical gibberish.’
Undeterred, Caedmon slowly recited the riddle. ‘“To see the house where Lucas dwelled, the faithful pilgrim sought the brother’s way. Setting forth from the lion’s castle, he dropped the French iron in a Spanish harbor.” Does any part of that strike a chord?’
‘Your instrument is badly tuned. As I said, it’s complete rubbish. Nothing more than the ramblings of a man subjected to excruciating torture.’
Caedmon might have agreed with the Marqués’s dismissive assessment had the rest of the transcript not been so lucid, each one of Fortes de Pinós’s replies pitch perfect. ‘As I’m running short on time and patience, I want you to –’
‘Hold the phone!’ Edie exclaimed suddenly. Standing near the fireplace, she excitedly gestured to a medieval jousting shield mounted above the mantelpiece. ‘The “lion’s castle” is right here on this shield!’
‘Bloody hell! Are you serious?’ Still keeping the pistol trained on the nobleman, Caedmon strode over to the mantelpiece and examined the shield painted in bold shades of black, red and gold.
His jaw nearly came unhinged, a key piece of the puzzle having been in blatant view all along. ‘This jousting shield bears the coat-of-arms for the medieval Kingdom of Castile and Léon. Or “the lion’s castle” as Fortes de Pinós referred to it in his riddle.’
Hand tightening around the wooden pistol grip, Caedmon stalked back to the desk. Under no circumstance could the Marqués have not known the significance of ‘the lion’s castle’. Originally two separate kingdoms, Castile and Léon were united in 1301. As the old man knew full well.
‘An oversight on my part,’ the nobleman said blithely, having correctly deduced Caedmon’s thoughts. ‘Like most men, I don’t think clearly when I’m staring down the barrel of a loaded gun.’
Hearing that, Caedmon’s pulse pounded furiously in both temples, inducing a nauseating burst of pain.
He took a deep breath. Then another. Until just a few moments ago, he’d not considered that Fortes de Pinós may have travelled to the Iberian Peninsula before he was arrested in France and taken to Chinon Castle.
If that was the case, Fortes may have hidden the Evangelium Gaspar somewhere in the Kingdom of Castile and Léon.
And he reckoned the Marqués de Bagá knew where precisely that might be.
‘Don’t trifle with me, old man.’ He pressed the barrel against a pulsing blue vein in the Marqués’s left temple, severely tempted to thumb the hammer into the firing position.
‘I refuse to cooperate with a disreputable English treasure hunter.’ The Marqués obstinately folded his arms over his chest; a Spanish Grandee standing his ground.
‘Allow me to correct an oversight; I don’t seek the Evangelium Gaspar for fortune or fame.’ Lowering the half-cocked pistol, Caedmon retook his seat on the other side of the desk. ‘Seven days ago, a group of men working under the auspices of the Church kidnapped my daughter from her home in Fort Cochin, India,’ he said matter-of-factly, opting for honesty. ‘They have demanded the Evangelium Gaspar as ransom for her safe return.’
Clearly surprised, the Marqués de Bagá’s eyes opened wide. In that instant, Caedmon saw a flicker of compassion.
‘Is this true?’ The Marqués put the question to Edie.
She nodded. ‘In fact, we had a run-in with one of her captors yesterday in Kottayam, India,’ she replied as she walked over and sat down in a vacant chair.
The Marqués swung his head back in Caedmon’s direction. ‘How do you know that the kidnappers are Church operatives?’
‘Not only do they take their marching orders from a Catholic priest, but all of the kidnappers have a Chi-Rho cross branded on the palm of the right hand.’
‘In hoc signo vinces,’ the Marqués murmured, clearly aware of the cross’s significance. An instant later, he pushed out a deep breath; a show of surrender. ‘To answer your earlier question, yes, I have heard of the Evangelium Gaspar. However, I don’t have it in my possession. To the best of my knowledge, the gospel is still cached where Fortes de Pinós hid it in December of 1307.’
‘Did he hide it in the Kingdom of Castile and Léon?’ Edie asked, taking the question right out of Caedmon’s mouth.
‘I believe that he did.’ The Marqués opened a desk drawer and removed a thick folder. ‘These are the evidentiary documents that I’ve compiled for my court case against the Vatican,’ he said as he removed a single sheet of parchment sheathed in a Mylar sleeve from the folder. ‘This is a letter written on December the eighth, 1307, by a Knights Templar named Rodrigo Yañez. He was the provincial Grand Master in the Kingdom of Castile and Léon. According to his missive, Fortes de Pinós asked for and was granted safe sanctuary at a Templar-owned estate.’
‘Does the provincial Grand Master mention where the estate is located?’
‘He does not.’ The Marqués handed Caedmon the letter for inspection. ‘He merely stipulates that it is located in the Kingdom of Castile and Léon.’
Caedmon hurriedly scanned the Latin-scribed parchment. Just as the Marqués claimed, Rodrigo Yañez didn’t reveal the specific location of de Pinós’s safe sanctuary.
‘This letter proves that Fortes was on the Iberian Peninsula in late 1307,’ Caedmon said, handing the document back to the Marqués. ‘Yet, soon thereafter, he travelled to France. Whereupon, he was arrested by the king’s men and sent to Chinon Castle. In March of 1308, he died while held in captivity there.’ He drummed his fingertips on the desktop, trying to fit the pieces together. ‘According to the Chinon transcript, Fortes de Pinós attempted to use the Evangelium Gaspar to bribe King Philippe le Bel into releasing the Knights Templar.’
‘Knowing that the French monarch had arrested so many of the Knights Templar, Fortes had reason to be leery,’ Edie remarked. ‘I’m guessing that he stashed the gospel in the Kingdom of Castile and Léon, knowing that he could later r
etrieve it if the king agreed to the swap.’
Caedmon nodded, her premise having merit. Turning his attention back to the Marqués, he said, ‘Because of the nature of your lawsuit against the Vatican, I presume that you’ve researched the known Templar holdings in Castile-Léon.’
Thumbing through the open folder, the Marqués extracted a second document, a crisp photocopied sheet of paper. ‘This is a map of the medieval kingdom with all of the Templar-owned churches, castles, farms and fortresses marked.’
Interested to see the list, Caedmon took the proffered sheet of paper.
‘As you can see, the list of known Templar properties in the Kingdom of Castile and Léon is extensive.’
‘Good God!’ Caedmon exclaimed, stunned. ‘There are at least sixty properties indicated on this map. I had no idea that the Knights Templar had owned so much real estate in the one kingdom.’ It would take weeks, if not months, to search each and every holding. ‘Is there any way to narrow the list?’
The Marqués made no reply. A silence that spoke volumes.
Caedmon raised the flintlock, the old man trying to fob him off with a lie of omission. ‘Tell me what I want to know and you’ll live to fight another day.’
The ploy worked, the Marqués acquiescing with a terse nod. ‘While the Spanish Templars weren’t arrested en masse, the pope did send an apostolic inquisitor to the Iberian Peninsula to investigate the Order. Fearing the worst, Rodrigo Yañez asked a Castilian prince to take possession of four Templar fortresses in Castile-Léon.’
‘And what reason did the Grand Master have for doing this?’