by C. M. Palov
Past Opus recipients have included –
Edie stopped reading once the article veered off-topic. ‘The photograph of the awards ceremony seals the deal: G-Dog and Father Gracián Santos are definitely one and the same.’
‘The good padre forgot to mention that his “multi-level solutions” include murder, abduction and extortion,’ Caedmon snapped, his cut-crystal accent more clipped than usual. ‘Making Sanguis Christi a crime syndicate rather than a Catholic fellowship.’
‘I’m not so sure that Father Santos is the godfather that you’re making him out to be,’ Edie countered, struck by the glaring disconnect between the admirable do-gooder in the article and Caedmon’s criminal mastermind. ‘Don’t get me wrong – Santos is up to his eyeballs in this mess. But you gotta admit that the guy’s a Nervous Nellie. It almost makes me think that the timorous Father Santos is acting against his will. Perhaps he’s being pressured by someone.’
Her defense of the priest didn’t go over well, the conversation instantly nose-diving into a brooding silence.
Scowling, Caedmon reread the article. A few moments later, he sighed resignedly. ‘It pains me to say that you may have a point. And, of course, we still haven’t accounted for the individual who sent the original ransom email to Gita, the self-styled Irenaeus.’
‘The newspaper article mentioned that Santos has a mentor who aided him with the fellowship, an archbishop.’ Inspired, Edie typed ‘Archbishop Franco Fiorio’ into the computer search engine.
‘Did you find anything?’
‘Oh . . . my . . . God,’ she murmured, stunned. ‘The archbishop is now Cardinal Franco Fiorio, the prefect and head librarian at the Vatican Secret Archives. What do you wanna bet that he’s –’
‘Irenaeus,’ Caedmon interjected, beating her to the punch. Grabbing the iPad out of her hands, he examined Cardinal Fiorio’s official Vatican photograph. ‘“Let us detest all priestcraft,”’ he grated between clenched teeth, his scowl deepening.
46
Caedmon stared at the photograph of the red-caped bastard. At that moment the rallying cry of the English Enlightenment seemed as bang-on relevant as it had 400 years ago.
Although he had no proof, his gut instinct was that Cardinal Franco Fiorio was the mastermind behind Anala’s abduction, Father Gracián Santos his reluctant minion.
‘They’re not all bad apples,’ Edie remarked, quick to come to the Church’s defense. ‘There are plenty of good priests on the tree.’
‘While that is undoubtedly true, the problem is, and always has been, that it’s impossible to regulate an entity that holds the keys to heaven. They have the congregation right where they want them and they know it.’ Still holding the iPad, Caedmon committed Cardinal Franco Fiorio’s thickly jowled, balding features to memory. ‘Pudgy little porker,’ he scoffed uncharitably.
The impolite slur caused a frown to instantly materialize on Edie’s face. ‘Do you think that they’re holding Anala in Dutchess County at the Sanguis Christi Fellowship?’ she asked, abruptly changing the subject.
‘They’re certainly not holding her at the Vatican. A remote 300-acre complex in upstate New York seems a likely location.’ To commit a whole host of crimes, he thought but didn’t dare utter. If he couldn’t find the third plate, there was no doubt in his mind that ‘Irenaeus’ would carry out his deadly threat against Anala.
Of course, Cardinal Fiorio won’t be the one pulling the trigger.
The clergy never do. They had a despicable habit of hiring mercenaries to do their ‘wet work’. It was how they absolved themselves of their more heinous crimes. Ecclesia non novit sanguinem – ‘The Church never sheds blood’ – was a doctrine that dated to the fourth century when Priscillian, the bishop of Ávila, was beheaded, the first Christian heretic put to death by fellow Christians. The Catholic synod of bishops had condemned Priscillian to death, but let Emperor Magnus Maximus carry out the execution order. It was a barbarous tradition that reached its zenith during the Inquisition and surely the most atrocious hypocrisy ever perpetrated by a religious entity that supposedly embraced the teachings of the Prince of Peace.
‘We can compile background dossiers on the principals and download satellite imagery of the Sanguis Christi compound later. Right now, we need to decipher this blasted code.’
‘In that case, another cup of coffee is in order,’ Edie said. Scooting her chair back, she walked over to the service tray.
Picking up the sheet of paper on which he’d drawn a grid cipher, Caedmon refocused his attention on the series of slashes and dots. Although he knew that it was his imagination, the lines seemed to bleed, one into the other.
Fuck the Knights Templar! And the horse they both rode in on.
He bit back the profane utterance. Scrunching up the sheet of paper, he tossed it across the room, the ‘ball’ landing in the trash bin next to the bedside table.
Hag-ridden, he lurched to his feet. His ribs ached with a brutal intensity; the four aspirin that he’d earlier ingested merely put a dent in the pain. And a small one at that.
Needing to clear his mind, he strode to the window and unlatched the metal lock. Then, very slowly, his bruised body protesting each and every movement, he slid the window open and inhaled deeply. The smell of rain was thick in the air. The scent of the gods. Or so the ancients believed, unaware that the unique odor emanated from plant oils released during a rain shower.
He stared at the moody landscape, the rain falling with a monotonous patter.
Just then, a fork of lightning broke free from the charcoal-colored clouds and pierced the night sky. The atmospheric pyrotechnics briefly illuminated the monumental bronze equestrian statue set in the middle of a nearby roundabout. In that burst of bright light, he could see that the bloke on the horse was a medieval Knights Templar. The Keeper of the Secret riding off into the rain-drenched night. Willing to risk life and limb to safeguard the Evangelium Gaspar.
Edie approached and, smiling wearily, handed him a cup of coffee. Long moments passed as they stood, silent, at the window. Two etiolated sprigs clinging to a wilted vine.
‘When I was a graduate student at Oxford, I arrogantly believed that I had unraveled the mystery of the Knights Templar,’ he said, breaking the silence, his gaze still set on the bronze horse and rider. ‘It turned out to be a very foolish profession of faith.’
‘The guys in white had you fooled, huh?’
‘And damn them for doing so. I rue the day I ever heard of the Knights Templar.’ Realizing how petulant that sounded, he snorted derisively. ‘I’m sulking. Forgive me.’
‘Given everything that you’ve been through these last couple of days, you’re entitled to a little self-pity.’ Edie sidled closer and leaned her head on his shoulder. Her physical presence comforted him, proving that misery does indeed love company.
The rain began to fall harder, the hypnotic sound inducing a somnolent wave.
Caedmon took a sip of his coffee, fighting the surge.
‘It’s as though I’m banging my head against history’s stone wall; and receiving nothing for my efforts but a blistering headache. I could have the Wisdom of Solomon and still not be able to crack Fortes de Pinós’s blasted –’ He stopped abruptly, hit with a latent memory. ‘Wasn’t there something in Fortes de Pinós’s inquisition transcript about King Solomon?’
‘I honestly can’t recall. Let me pull up the transcript on the iPad.’ Stepping over to the desk, Edie retrieved her computer. A few seconds later, she began to read aloud the pertinent passage from the Chinon transcript: ‘“When asked why he had carved the Seal of Solomon on to the wall of his cell, Brother Fortes claimed that he had been contemplating the wisdom of that great king which he believed to be a precursor to the wisdom that our Lord Jesus Christ imparted to his twelve disciples.”’ Edie glanced up from the iPad. ‘Would you like me to continue reading?’
‘No, that won’t be necessary. Medieval historians have long been intrigued by the fact that many of t
he incarcerated Templar knights carved glyphs and symbols on to the dungeon walls at Chinon Castle.’ Seized with a germinal hope, Caedmon dashed over to the desk, coffee sloshing en route.
‘So, they were – what? – secretly communicating with one another from inside their cells?’ Edie asked, joining him at the desk.
‘Undoubtedly. And, as you just read, Fortes carved a Seal of Solomon on to the wall, a symbol better known as the Star of David.’
‘That’s the six-pointed star that’s on the Israeli flag, right?’
‘It is.’ Snatching a pencil, Caedmon drew the Seal of Solomon – a six-pointed star – on to a blank sheet of paper. Then, because Fortes had specifically mentioned the twelve disciples, he inserted twelve dots on to the star.
‘The Templars were particularly fond of substitution ciphers in which each letter of the alphabet was replaced with a symbol, dots being a favorite encryption device. Now, bearing in mind that the letters “j” and “u” weren’t in use during the early-fourteenth century, we should be able to add the twenty-four letters of the Medieval Latin alphabet on to the star,’ he told Edie as he placed the first letter – “a” – in the twelve o’clock position.
‘Yes, that’s it,’ he whispered a few moments later, his pulse racing. ‘All of the slashes and dots that Fortes de Pinós carved on to the Tau stone are contained on the Seal of Solomon.’
Edie’s eyes glimmered brightly. ‘So, let’s hurry up and decipher the code!’
‘Right.’ Placing the sheet of paper with the rubbing from the Tau stone next to the Seal of Solomon, Caedmon used the star to decipher the encoded message.
Anticipation building, his heart thumped annoyingly against his sore ribs as he wrote out Fortes’s message, adding slashes to divide words.
La/vierge/dans/episcopvs/pres
Standing behind him, Edie peered over his shoulder. ‘I’m on pins and needles here. What does it say?’
‘“La vierge dans episcopvs pres.”’ Admittedly baffled, Caedmon pondered the deciphered text. What the bloody hell does it mean? He handed the sheet of paper to Edie. ‘The phrase is a combination of Latin and French. Translated into English, it reads, “the virgin in the bishop’s meadow”.’
‘Yes! Thank you, baby Jesus!’ Edie exclaimed with a joyful whoop. ‘I am officially riding a little happy high.’
‘I wouldn’t shout from the rooftops just yet. I have no bleeding idea what it means,’ Caedmon informed her.
Edie’s jaw slackened, bubble instantly burst. Crestfallen, she eased herself into a vacant chair. ‘You’re kidding, right?’
Thunder boomed in the near distance.
‘Would that I was,’ he murmured, his blitz-battered mind struggling to make sense of the new riddle. Christ! He didn’t have time to meander through another medieval conundrum. There were only three days left.
Damn you, Fortes de Pinós.
‘“The virgin in the bishop’s meadow,”’ Edie repeated as she planted an elbow on the desktop. Sighing deeply, she rested her chin on top of her balled hand. ‘I know that what I’m about to say is probably due to sleep deprivation, but it reminds me of that board game; the one with Colonel Mustard in the library.’
‘With the infamous candlestick. Were it only as simple as a game of Clue.’ He stared at the deciphered message.
Think, man, think!
‘The “virgin” undoubtedly refers to the Virgin Mary,’ he said at last, sloshing into the breakers. ‘With the word “bishop” being the key that unlocks the riddle.’
Hearing that, Edie set down her coffee cup and reached for the colorful brochures stacked on the edge of the desk. ‘If so, the copper plate might be hidden somewhere in or around the cathedral at Compostela.’
‘Good God! I hope not,’ he retorted. ‘It’s a stone colossus. What makes you say that?’
‘I read something in the tourist brochure that I picked up in the hotel lobby.’
He gave the pamphlets a disinterested glance.
Undeterred by his lack of enthusiasm, Edie unfolded a brochure emblazoned with a photograph of Santiago de Compostela. ‘Listen to this: “In the year 814, Theodomir, the bishop of Iria Flavia, discovered the bodily remains of Saint James the Great. After official validation by the pope as a sacred relic, a pilgrimage settlement was founded by Bishop Diego Gelmirez.”’ She glanced up from the brochure, verifying that she had his full attention. ‘Right there, we’ve got, not one, but two bishops mentioned.’ She emphasized the last point by raising two fingers. ‘And here’s another interesting tidbit: “Legend has it that Theodomir was guided to the site by a star in the night sky. Thus giving to the settlement the name Compostela, a corruption of the Latin phrase Campus Stellae, meaning –’
‘Field of stars,’ Caedmon interjected. ‘A field and a meadow, one and the same.’
‘And Fortes de Pinós encoded his message on to a star.’ A determined look in her eyes, Edie tapped a finger against the Seal of Solomon that he’d drawn.
‘Does your guide book mention that Santiago de Compostela is one of the largest cathedrals in the world?’ he countered in a crabby tone of voice. ‘I wouldn’t hazard to guess how many statues, paintings and holy objects involve the Virgin Mary. It also bears mentioning that while the Knights Templar owned numerous holdings along the Camino de Santiago and were commissioned by the kings of Iberia to protect the pilgrim routes, I don’t believe that they had any direct affiliation with the cathedral.’
‘Which explains why Fortes de Pinós might hide the third plate at Santiago de Compostela. He figured it’d be the last place the inquisitors would look.’ Remarkably steadfast, Edie continued to argue her case. ‘Here’s one last point to ponder: if Fortes was worried about being apprehended, he could very easily have shaved his long Templar beard, chucked the snowy white mantle, picked up a walking stick and disguised himself as a pilgrim. The Camino de Santiago went right past Ponferrada Castle. All he had to do was hop on the love train and walk to the cathedral. A very easy way to get out of Dodge.’
‘Mmmm.’ Caedmon mulled it over, Edie’s argument a persuasive one. Moreover, had he been in Fortes’s leather-clad boots, that’s precisely how he would have evaded arrest. Except . . .
He shook his head, annoyed by a niggling detail. ‘According to the deciphered message, Fortes intended to take the third plate to the bishop’s field. Not the “field of stars”. If he planned to cache the plate at the cathedral at Compostela, why didn’t he simply encode the Tau stone with –’
The bishop’s meadow!
‘Of course,’ he murmured, peeved that the solution hadn’t come to him sooner. ‘Your theory is absolutely correct except for one small detail. When Fortes left Ponferrada disguised as a pilgrim, he did travel to a church. But it wasn’t Santiago de Compostela.’ Caedmon glanced at his watch. 0143 hours. ‘We must quickly devise a plan to elude Calzada. If the Bête Noire gets his hands on the third plate, we’ll have no leverage.’
‘As in “pop” goes the weasel.’ Grim-faced, Edie glanced at the bolted door that separated the two adjoining rooms. ‘Making you and me a pair of defenseless weasels.’
‘We’re not as defenseless as you seem to think. Clearly you’re unaware of the fact that “weasel” derives from the old Anglo-Saxon word weatsop.’
‘Okay, I’ll bite. What does that mean?’
Smiling humorlessly, Caedmon said, ‘Roughly translated, weatsop means “a vicious, bloodthirsty animal”. The sweet-faced weasel’s secret weapon.’
And one that he intended to use to devastating effect.
47
Santiago de Compostela
Friday
Tourist brochures in hand, Caedmon and Edie made their way across the Plaza del Obradoiro, the grand square that fronted the western facade of Santiago de Compostela. Craning his head, Caedmon peered over his shoulder. Excellent. Hector Calzada still trailed in their wake.
It was a clear August morning and camera-wielding visitors and the devout faithf
ul thronged the open expanse. An exuberant press of humanity. While many, if not most, had disembarked from a tour bus, there were hardy pilgrims in the swarm who’d made the journey on foot, having departed from such faraway locales as Paris and Lisbon. No different to the pilgrims who first paid homage to the Apostle more than a millennium ago, twenty-first-century visitors were anxious to fulfill the age-old rite of passage – to tour the cathedral and see the Apostle’s tomb.
Feigning an interest in the flamboyant cathedral, Caedmon slowed his step, enabling Calzada to catch up to them. ‘Few people are aware of the fact that, during the Middle Ages, the famous apostle was known as Santiago Matamoros, St James the Moor Slayer,’ he remarked, having assumed the role of tour guide.
Shoving her sunglasses on to the top of her head, Edie glanced over at him. ‘And just how did St James earn the name Santiago Matamoros?’
‘Interesting story that. In the year 844, the Apostle James supposedly resurrected himself from his tomb and led the Christian army to victory at the Battle of Clavijo,’ he nattered on blithely, if for no other reason than to lull the Bête Noire into a false sense of security. ‘Cervantes himself declared St James one of the most valiant knights the world has ever seen.’
‘When Jesus commissioned his disciples to go out into the world and spread the Good News, I’m not exactly sure that’s what he had in mind.’ Although outwardly calm, the muscles in Edie’s neck were visibly taut, betraying her anxiety. Like Caedmon, she was aware that, hidden under his shirt tails, Hector Calzada had a Beretta semi-automatic pistol shoved into the waistband of his trousers.