The Templar's Secret (The Templar Series)

by C. M. Palov

  Edie, who had very succinctly informed him that clambering down the tower in the dead of night was akin to madness, waited for him at the bottom. Bated breath a given. And while he was unable to entirely banish his own queasy doubts about the risky endeavor, he did manage to shove them to the far corners, refusing to dwell on the fact that the rope was secured to an 800-year-old merlon, the high part of the squared saw-tooth that rimmed the top of the tower.

  If, indeed, Fortes de Pinós had left a telltale signum on the tower’s exterior, he too would have had to rappel down a length of rope.

  Those damned Knights Templar.

  While the warrior monks had always fascinated him, quite frankly he never understood what would have compelled a man to join. Although the Templars were glamorized in modern movies and novels, monastic life was one of endless privation. Once initiated into the order, a warrior monk led an austere and grim existence. Meals were taken in silence; the monks were forbidden personal possessions; and to make even their slumber a torturous affair, they were forced to sleep with the lights on. During their waking hours, when they weren’t busy with rigorous martial training, a Templar monk strictly adhered to the Liturgical schedule of prayers, mass and biblical readings. All-in-all, a cheerless and loveless life. The latter would have been particularly hard to bear. Unless a man had joined as a widower, he would never have known the joy of hearth and home.

  At the midpoint of the descent, Caedmon glanced down at Edie, the stolen glimpse causing him to momentarily loose his footing.

  ‘Fine time to be a stumble-bum,’ he rasped, exhaustion beginning to set in.

  ‘Caedmon! Be careful!’ Edie called up to him, her voice fraught with worry.

  ‘No need to be concerned. I simply –’

  Fuck me! There it was. The signum that he’d been searching for. An unmistakable symbol carved into a smooth stone – the Tau – from whence derived the astrological sign of Taurus, the bull.

  The nineteenth letter of the Greek alphabet, it was a symbol steeped in sacred meaning. A visual depiction of the spiritual precinct where the earth meets the heavens, it harkened to the Templum Hierosolyma, the Temple of Jerusalem from which the Templars took their name.

  The Tau.

  A key to treasure – clavis ad thesaurum – the symbol had been used since ancient times to mark the place where riches had been hidden.

  The Tau.

  The age-old sign of redemption.

  ‘Oh, how I do hope,’ Caedmon whispered. Relief washing over him in waves, he rested his cheek against the cool stone, waiting for his heart to beat at a less dizzying rate.

  ‘Caedmon, are you all right?’

  ‘Yes, I . . . I’ve found the signum,’ he yelled down to Edie as he wrapped the rope around the brake rack on his harness.

  ‘Are you sure about that?’

  Caedmon smiled. ‘Quite.’

  Securely locked into place, he removed the chisel and mallet from the gear loops on his harness and began to chip away at the mortar around the stone. Raising his arm, he bit back a groan, his joints stiff, his body having been pushed to the limit over the last few days. Despite the pain in his shoulders and neck, he experienced an exuberant burst of hope as small chips of lime mortar pelted his cheeks.

  This had to be where Fortes de Pinós cached the Evangelium Gaspar.

  Since their demise in 1307, rumors had long swirled that the Knights Templar had devised a secret code known only to twelve high-ranking knights: the Grand Master Jacques de Molay and eleven of his closest associates. In case of a Doomsday scenario, any surviving member of the twelve-man cabal could use the code to retrieve the Templars’ most sacred relics. But from where? That had always been the big mystery, many Templar scholars claiming the hidden stash was safeguarded in faraway Scotland.

  Caedmon was beginning to suspect that the Templars’ treasure had been squirreled in Spain rather than the Highlands.

  I shall soon find out.

  Finished chipping out the mortar, he shoved the chisel and mallet into their respective gear loops and reached for a flat-edged screwdriver. Prying the slender tool under the loosened stone, he slowly eased it forward. A southerly breeze lifted strands of damp hair off his brow, his face beaded with perspiration. He finagled the stone a few inches, just enough to enable him to get a firm, two-handed grip.

  Time to raise the curtain.

  Slipping the screwdriver into a loop on his harness, he grasped hold of the block and slid it free.

  ‘Stand back,’ he instructed Edie. ‘I’m going to drop a stone to the ground.’

  He glanced down, verifying that she’d moved out of range before he let go of the liberated block.

  Releasing a tightly held breath, he peered into the cavity.

  Seeing the tarnished copper plates cached in the hollowed-out space, he experienced a giddy burst. Heart pounding wildly, he reached inside the stone niche and removed the copper plates which were approximately ten inches by twelve inches and –

  Christ, no!

  There were only two plates! Where the bloody hell was the third plate?

  The blood fast drained from his face, his hope of securing the full ransom obliterated.

  Would two plates suffice?

  Somehow, he didn’t think so.

  ‘Did you find them?’ Edie called up to him.

  ‘Yes . . . no. Er, not entirely,’ he sputtered.

  ‘What do you mean “not entirely”?’

  ‘I’ll tell you when I get down.’ Panic-stricken, his thoughts jumbled, Caedmon stuffed the two plates inside his rucksack. It was Thursday night; the deadline for delivering the ransom was noon on Sunday. That left him precious little time to find the third plate.

  The sodding Tau.

  Symbolic of the Temple and the Templars and tempos. Father Time. Ticking, ticking, ticking.

  Maybe there was another Tau carved on to a different stone. Or perhaps there’d only been two plates to begin with.

  No, he self-corrected. According to the Chinon Transcript, there were three copper plates. So, why would Fortes de Pinós have only put two plates in the –

  Without warning, the rope suddenly jerked. Plunging a full twelve inches, Caedmon’s knees pounded into the stone facade with a bruising impact. Immediately he checked the rope twined around the brake rack and verified that it was tightly wound. Wondering what could have caused the sudden drop, he peered up towards the saw-toothed merlon at the top of the tower. Even in the shadowy light, he could see that it was askew.

  Christ.

  Unlike the ancient Romans, who added aluminum oxide and silicon dioxide to make a dense mortar, the stonemasons of the Middle Ages used lime. Full of impurities, cured lime mortar was known to deteriorate under long-term exposure to wind and rain. Ponferrada Castle had been exposed to the elements for eight full centuries.

  Caedmon stared at the cockeyed merlon, transfixed, afraid to move, afraid the merlon would give way at any moment. Body curved, he dangled like a displaced quarter moon.

  The rope jerked another few inches. While he knew it was an illusion, the stars in the night sky seemed to jerk in unison.

  Disoriented, he heard Edie shouting at him from below. He glanced down and saw that she was frantically waving her arms. A dancing shadow.

  He made a quick calculation. It was a long drop. A good twenty-five feet. One that could very well prove fatal. People had been known to break their bloody necks from as little as a five-foot fall.

  The thought made him feel very much like a dead man on shore leave.

  His pulse pounded in his ears.

  But it wasn’t his death that he feared. He was terrified of what would happen to Edie, and to Anala, should he plunge to his death. Before she even had time to mourn, the bloodthirsty Calzada would undoubtedly execute Edie. Pull the trigger, ‘pop’ her, and be done with it.

  He stilled his breathing, afraid that even the slightest motion would send him hurtling through the air, base over apex.


  In the next instant, just as he’d feared, the merlon gave way, chunks of stone flying through the air.

  Bracing himself, Caedmon fell to earth.

  40

  ‘Ding-dong.’

  Hearing Anala’s overture, the guard glanced up from his video game, an annoyed frown stamped on his face.

  ‘I’m not feeling well,’ she told him, wincing in pain. Having carefully written the script, Anala raised her manacled hands, showing him a blood-smeared palm. She then gnawed worriedly on her bottom lip, trying to appear as mortified as humanly possible. ‘As you can see, I’ve just started to menstruate.’

  The guard’s eyes opened wide, genuinely horrified by the disclosure. So far, so good. She was banking on the fact that, like most men, he’d have an unnatural fear of anything related to the female reproductive system.

  ‘Wh-what does that have to do with me?’ he stammered, staring at her as though she’d just sprouted horns, hoofs and a tail.

  You sodding moron, what do you think? I need to use the toilet!

  ‘Can you please take me to the loo? Since I tend to be a heavy bleeder, this is something of an emergency.’ Bringing her knees together, Anala tried very hard to convey the image of a woman holding back the dam.

  The indelicate postscript worked, the guard nodding brusquely. ‘Hurry up. Let’s go.’ Getting up from his chair, he motioned for her to get off the cot. As he saw the dark red bloodstain on the cot mattress, he visibly blanched.

  Head bent at a submissive angle – not wanting to arouse his suspicions – Anala obediently followed him down the hallway to the toilet.

  ‘Thank you for being so kind,’ she said just before she closed the door.

  In a hurry to execute the plan, Anala flipped on the light and stepped over to the disgustingly filthy sink. Finagling a hand into the pocket of her cargo trousers, she retrieved a wadded paper napkin. Inside the napkin was the piece of glass that she’d earlier used to puncture her fingertip so that she could stain the cot.

  She pinched the thick piece of glass between her thumb and index finger and, turning her manacled wrist, began to saw through the plastic band.

  Hurry, hurry, hurry!

  When the band finally snapped apart, her shoulders sagged with relief.

  Worried about what the future held, certain that her mother would never be able to meet the outrageous ransom demand, she’d devised an escape plan. And while the thought of having to hurt, maim or even kill someone turned her stomach, the fear of being summarily executed was even more gut-wrenching.

  Rewrapping the piece of glass in the napkin, she shoved it back into her pocket. Ready to implement Phase Two, she removed the heavy porcelain lid from the back of the toilet, taking care not to make any undue noise. Tightly grasping the lid, she stepped behind the door and raised the lid above her head.

  ‘H-help me!’ she croaked in a weakened tone of voice. ‘I can’t get up!’

  Hearing a heavy footfall, she held her breath, her heart beating so fast she feared it might jump the tracks.

  A split second later, the door flew open. As soon as the guard charged into the room, Anala struck him on the back of the head. Caught by surprise, he staggered several feet before toppling forward, collapsing on the floor in an ungainly heap. Knocked out cold.

  Still holding the lid, she quickly put it back on the toilet.

  ‘Excuse me. Have to dash,’ she said, stepping over the sprawled body.

  Rushing out of the loo, she sped towards the wooden staircase at the end of the hallway, taking the stairs two at a time. The treads creaked and groaned under her weight. At the top of the stairs, she came to a sudden stop, taken aback at finding herself in an empty assembly hall. She turned full-circle, searching for an exit. Spotting a set of double doors at the other end of the hall, she sprinted in that direction.

  Fear giving way to euphoria, she flung the doors open and ran outside, gulping in mouthfuls of crisp air. For days now, she’d been forced to breathe the most foul, mildew-laden air imaginable.

  Amazed that the plan had gone off without a hitch, she peered at the hilly countryside, the towering trees casting ominous shadows. For some inexplicable reason, she was actually comforted by the fact that there was no sign of human habitation. Until she figured out where she was, she didn’t know who, if anyone, she could trust.

  Craning her head, she glanced at the building she’d just escaped from.

  Blimey!

  Her mouth fell open, astonished that it was a small-scale replica of the Greek Parthenon.

  ‘I am definitely not in Athens.’

  So where the bleep am I?

  41

  ‘Death, be not proud.’

  Or, at the very least, don’t be quite so brutal, Caedmon silently pleaded, the journey to the great beyond turning into a grueling ordeal. His head hurt, his ribs ached and his right hip felt as though it’d been ripped from his body. Punishment for a life of sin and cynicism. If he’d known beforehand, he would have parked his arse in the pew with greater frequency.

  Too late now.

  ‘Caedmon! Wake up!’

  Somewhere, in the far distance, a woman called to him through a dimly lit tunnel. A muffled voice filtered through a dense cirrostratus cloud. A preposterous juxtaposition. Why was there a cloud inside a tunnel?

  Annoyingly persistent, the woman again called his name. More strident this time, the summons was accompanied with a sharp slap to the cheek.

  Bloody hell! That’s a fine way to treat a dead man.

  He blinked, the light inside the tunnel growing brighter with each passing second. First white, then yellow, and then a luminous shade of Persian blue. St Elmo’s Fire. An incandescent ball of plasma that left him awestruck.

  A beautiful will-o’-the-wisp.

  He raised a hand to touch the glowing orb, struggling to keep his eyes open. A frustratingly impossible endeavor.

  ‘Whatever you do, don’t close your eyes,’ the woman in the tunnel ordered.

  Thinking his Angel of Death a stern mistress, he managed to keep his lids from draping over his pupils. ‘He was one of the Fourteen Holy Helpers.’

  ‘Who was?’

  Belatedly realizing that she was shining a flashlight directly into his eyes, he shoved it aside. ‘St Elmo, of course.’

  Slowly coming out of his stupor, Caedmon became aware of the fact that he was sprawled on the ground, the Taurus tower looming above him. A voracious stone vulture. Unnerved by the sight, he struggled to sit up, groaning as he did so.

  Edie put an arm around his shoulders, helping him to raise his back off the ground. The effort cost him, every muscle in his body shrieking in protest. While no bones were broken, he most assuredly had suffered several cracked or bruised ribs, making each indrawn breath an agonizing affair.

  ‘How many fingers am I holding up?’

  ‘That’s an asinine question,’ he snapped. Even as he said it, Caedmon obliged and glanced at Edie’s raised hand. ‘Two.’

  ‘Do you have any broken bones?’ she next inquired.

  ‘I don’t think so.’ A miracle given that it’d been a bleeding long drop. He sucked in a deep breath, biting back a painful moan.

  ‘Just to be on the safe side, I’m going to call an ambulance.’ Edie opened her messenger bag and removed a mobile phone.

  Caedmon immediately snatched hold of her wrist. ‘I don’t want Calzada to know that I’m injured.’

  ‘But you could be suffering from a concussion.’

  ‘If I am, being jostled about in an ambulance isn’t going to cure me,’ he countered, rest being the only remedy for that particular malady. ‘The copper plates are inside my rucksack.’

  Her worried expression instantly morphed into animated expectancy. ‘So you did find the Evangelium Gaspar?’

  ‘Yes, but there were only two copper plates inside the cavity.’

  Her brow crinkled again. ‘According to the Chinon Transcript, there’s supposed to be three plates.’


  ‘Leaving me somewhat in the lurch.’ Unsnapping his rucksack, he removed the plates and set them on the ground, grateful that they’d not been damaged in the fall. ‘For whatever reason, Fortes de Pinós only placed two plates inside the niche.’

  His headlamp lost in the fall, Caedmon snatched Edie’s flashlight, aiming it at the ground. Although badly tarnished, the incised lettering was still clearly visible. Written in Aramaic, the language spoken by Jesus and his apostles, both sides of each plate were engraved. A precursor to modern-day Hebrew, Aramaic was one of those dead languages that he’d never taken an interest in. Alas.

  Crouched beside him, Edie stared intently at the plates as she ran her fingers over the incised surface. An instant later, she jerked her hand away as though she’d just been singed. She didn’t say a word. She didn’t have to. She knew that the Evangelium Gaspar had spelled Fortes de Pinós’s doom.

  God only knows what was scribed on the two plates.

  ‘Do you think that Anala’s captors will accept two plates as full ransom?’

  Caedmon took a swig of water from Edie’s bottle, rinsing the metallic taste from his mouth. ‘I intend to call G-Dog and find out. But first, I want you to make rubbings of each plate as we discussed earlier.’

  In addition to the climbing gear, they’d also purchased white butcher’s paper and wax crayons during their shopping foray, worried that if he did find the Evangelium Gaspar, Edie wouldn’t be able to take clear enough photographs of the 2000-year-old gospel with the iPad. Hector Calzada, a thieving bastard as well as a murderous thug, had confiscated her Nikon.