The Templar's Secret (The Templar Series)

by C. M. Palov

  ‘Thank God!’ Edie exclaimed as he came to a shuddering stop.

  Bent over, gasping for air, he grabbed the handlebars and swung a leg over the seat. ‘We have to leave! Now! Calzada is right behind –’

  That was all Edie needed to hear. ‘I’ll meet you at the Metro station!’ Handing him the second rucksack, she pushed off, pedaling madly.

  Hearing a resounding clop!clop!clop! echoing behind him, Caedmon quickly shoved his arms through the pack’s nylon straps and, like Edie, made haste to depart.

  Adiós, Hector. Hasta la vista. And, lest I forget, sod you!

  63

  Piazza San Pietro, Rome, Italy

  0602h

  Rosy-hued dawn was still thirty minutes beyond the horizon, St Peter’s Square shrouded in dark shadows.

  Making his way on foot, Cardinal Franco Fiorio entered the keyhole opening in the magnificent colonnade. Seeing a brace of wobbly pigeons foraging for crumbs, he frowned, instantly put in mind of the pigeon-hearted cardinals and bishops who’d been too afraid to stand up to the liberal apostates in their midst.

  Franco had never been afraid.

  But he was now desperate, his despair so great that he couldn’t help but wonder if the particulars of his life had been part of a cosmic scheme designed to taunt him. The Blessed Virgin Mary. The red rose petals.

  ‘The saint has yet been born who, in their darkest hour, did not hate God,’ he murmured, trying to hold on to his love of the Heavenly Host even though he feared that he’d been cruelly abandoned.

  Uncertain what the new day would bring, Franco scurried across the deserted piazza. A short while ago he’d received a phone call from Gracián Santos, the hysterical priest informing him that the Englishman not only had the third plate, but he’d managed to elude the two sentries.

  Why did Aisquith escape with the plate? Did he intend to sell it on the black market? If he did, the ancient gospel would undoubtedly command a very high price. One that would cost Franco dearly. Without the third plate in his possession, he would be unable to affect the outcome of the conclave.

  Cardinal Thomas Moran, the first papabile, will be elected the next pontiff.

  When that happened, Moran and his liberal allies within the Curia would lead Christ’s sheep right over the cliffs of heresy. Assuming that the Church didn’t first implode. Which would undoubtedly occur should Aisquith, instead of selling the third plate, go public with it.

  God help us all if he does.

  The ensuing chaos would destroy the Christian Faith. Leaving nothing but rubble and ash.

  In the early centuries of the Church, the bishops had gone to extreme lengths to suppress the dark secret surrounding the life and death of Jesus the Nazorean. Every heretical gospel that contained the secret had been destroyed, whole libraries burned to the ground. Because the record of that great purge was safeguarded in the Vatican Secret Archives, Franco wasn’t the only prelate in the Holy See who knew the particulars of the dark secret. Many cardinals knew that the Jesus of the canonical gospels was a fiction. But since there was no longer any documentary proof, all of them slept soundly at night secure in the knowledge that the Faithful would never be privy to what had come to be known as ‘The Great Heresy’.

  May God damn Caedmon Aisquith for all eternity!

  Distraught, Franco gazed at the western horizon. Rising above the rooftops of Rome, the dome of St Peter’s dominated the charcoal gray sky.

  Like a child seeking the much-needed comfort of a loving parent, he made his way to the basilica. Designed and constructed by some of the great Baroque masters – Bernini, Maderno, Bramante, Michelangelo – it rose up from the piazza in breathtaking splendor.

  In ancient Rome, the area adjacent to the piazza had been the site of Nero’s infamous Circus where Christians had been slaughtered wholesale because of their beliefs. Jeered and taunted, the Apostle Peter was crucified upside down during one of Nero’s more gruesome spectacles. His body had then been removed and buried in a nearby cemetery. More than two centuries would pass before the newly converted Emperor Constantine would revoke the ban on the Christian religion, an act that finally put an end to the bloodthirsty persecutions. Inspired by his newfound faith, that great and good emperor had built a basilica over the burial ground where St Peter had been laid to rest. For more than a millennium, Constantine’s basilica served pilgrim and pope alike until it was razed to the ground in the sixteenth century to make way for a far more magnificent structure.

  Franco gazed at the familiar facade. Statues. Balustrade. Columns. Vestibules. Niches. It was so staggering, that it was akin to a sky with two suns. The geographical center of the Roman Catholic faith, St Peter’s was the last bastion in a world gone mad. A world overrun with heretics and atheists, and those who despised all things Catholic.

  Exhausted from his night’s labor, Franco trudged up the steps that led to the portico. When he reached the dimly lit atrium, a uniformed Swiss Guard shot him a questioning glance, clearly surprised to see him, the basilica closed. Tight-lipped, Franco brusquely gestured to a massive bronze door, indicating that he wished to enter. He was a Prince of the Church; he didn’t have to explain his actions.

  As the guard hurried to open the door, Franco dismissively glanced at the large plaque set into the marble pavement that bore the coat-of-arms of Pope John XXIII. The plaque commemorated the pontiff who, in 1962, had convened the Second Vatican Council.

  Heresy was no different than trash blowing hither and yon, Franco silently condemned as he entered the nave. It had to be cleaned up or it would litter the Holy See beyond recognition.

  Well aware that his unplanned visit was an act of desperation, he rushed down the center of the nave. The marble-laden aisles that flanked either side brimmed with monuments, side altars and statues of martyrs, saints and angels that at times seemed to defy gravity itself. Consumed with fear, Franco barely took notice, his attention focused straight ahead on the papal altar.

  Who is Caedmon Aisquith? The question kept reverberating, gong-like.

  Although he’d received a dossier from the Vatican secret service, there had been no mention in it of the Englishman’s relationship to Anala Patel or her mother Gita. More worrisome, according to the Patel girl’s official documents, her father was one Dev Malik. In light of Aisquith’s spotty dossier – twelve years unaccounted for – Franco should have questioned whether he was truly the girl’s father. Particularly since Gracián Santos claimed that the girl had never heard of Caedmon Aisquith, a fact that Franco had conveniently ignored, driven – no – blinded by ambition.

  Now, a man who was a known conspiracy theorist had in his possession the greatest conspiracy in all of human history.

  Breathless, Franco came to a halt in the middle of the transept. Above him, the great dome soared above the 95-foot-high baldacchino, the famous bronze canopy that surmounted the papal altar.

  Tilting his head, Franco stared at the giant letters on the gold background that were scribed around the rim of the dome’s base. Those letters spelled out a phrase that perfectly articulated the basilica’s sacred purpose: Hic una fides mundo refulgent. ‘From here a single faith shines throughout the world.’

  His gaze next moved to the gigantic block of Greek marble. The Altar of the Confessio. It was here that the most sacred mystery of the Mass took place; when bread became the Body of Christ and wine was transformed into His Blood. The rogue Protestants had always rejected that most sacred of mysteries, the Transubstantiation. Yet that was the sole reason for celebrating the Mass, the heretics unable to grasp that the mystical rite was performed, not for the salvation of the few, but for the salvation of the entire world.

  While there were many who accused conservative Catholics of being slaves to ancient rituals and medieval ceremonies, Franco knew that the rituals imparted a sense of history that assured each member of the Faithful that they belonged to something greater than themselves. Something that began on the eve of the Crucifixion when Christ and
his disciples gathered to partake of that last meal together.

  But ever since Vatican II, the sacred mysterion had lost its power to spiritually move the laity. Because the liberals could not know the mind of God, they rationalized the Faith. In their materialistic worldview, there was no room for miracles, angels or demons. Or even hell, for that matter.

  Tears pooling in his eyes, Franco stared at the altar that covered the grave site of St Peter the Apostle. The Rock upon which Christ built His Church.

  Petrus est hic.

  ‘Peter is here,’ he whispered softly. Enshrined in the spot that was the beating heart of the basilica.

  Overcome with emotion, Franco bent at the knees, slowly lowering himself on to the marble floor. Spreading his arms wide, he prostrated himself before the holy altar.

  Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.

  By merely paying lip service to his role as Defender of the Faith, Franco had allowed this latest calamity to unfold. Not wanting to bloody himself, he’d refused to jump into the fray. Instead, he’d remained in the safe shadows, letting the unreliable Gracián Santos act as his surrogate.

  Give me another chance, Heavenly Father, and I will do all in my power to ensure that Your Will –

  Franco stopped in mid-plea, startled by his mobile phone vibrating against his waist. Propping himself on his elbows, he unclipped the phone and flipped it open.

  It was a text message from Gracián Santos: Aisquith will deliver ransom tomorrow morning.

  His breath caught in his throat. So great was his joy, Franco could almost feel the red rose petals raining down upon him.

  Determined to follow the path set before him, he shoved himself to his feet. The years of steadfast devotion had brought him to this momentous crossroads. No longer would he be the lone voice crying out in the wilderness. Soon the entire world would hang on his every word.

  For I AM the man who will become the next pope!

  PART IV

  ‘The bravest are surely those who have the clearest vision of what is before them, glory and danger alike, and yet notwithstanding, go out to meet it’ – Thucydides

  64

  New York State, USA

  Saturday 1515h

  Caedmon awoke with a jolt, the drone of the engine having lulled him to sleep.

  Disoriented, he glanced about; most of the train passengers were either reading or tapping away on a laptop computer. Nothing the least bit eyebrow raising.

  ‘Carpe dormio,’ he muttered. ‘“Give him forty winks, and he’ll turn up as fresh as clean sawdust and as respectable as a new Bible.”’

  If only, he thought, glancing at his watch. Since they were scheduled to arrive at their stop within the hour, just the ten winks would have to suffice. The deadline for delivering the ransom was in its waning hours. He couldn’t afford to indulge in a lengthy nap.

  Covering a yawn with a balled fist, he drew back the navy blue curtains from the picture window.

  ‘I say,’ he murmured, the scenery first-rate. Spectacular, in fact, with the midday sun glinting off the Hudson River in a diaphanous shimmer. Just beyond the flowing waters, there was an impressive ridge of craggy mountains. Upholstered with plush foliage and towering trees, the vista evoked the majesty of another age, harkening to that shoal of time when the English explorer Henry Hudson embarked on his failed venture to find the Northeast Passage to China.

  As he caught sight of several colorful kayaks loping past, his arcadian vision instantly vanished.

  Pulling his gaze away from the window, Caedmon glanced over at Edie’s empty seat and retrieved the folded sheet of paper that she’d left in plain view. The scrawled note read, ‘Gone to the snack bar. Will be back soon with a luncheon feast.’

  One can only hope that the fare is more appetizing on the train than the plane.

  To be sure, he regretted eating the rubbery sausage and egg sandwich on the transatlantic flight, the slapdash repast having stayed with him for an uncomfortably long time. The only available airline seats had been in slum class, as Edie called it, where the meals were often a begrudging afterthought.

  Luckily, they’d been able to secure comfortable business-class seats for the train ride to Rhinecliff, New York. According to the online map, the Sanguis Christi Fellowship was located forty-five miles from the train station. He’d already booked a rental car. As soon as they arrived at the fellowship grounds, he would contact Father Gracián Santos and negotiate the exchange.

  Picking up Edie’s iPad from where she’d left it on the drop-down tray, Caedmon checked his email. Pleased that Cedric Lloyd had already translated the third plate, he opened the attachment. Tablet in hand, he stretched his legs, made himself more comfortable and commenced to reading the last section of Gaspar’s gospel entitled ‘The Ministry of Yeshua bar Yosef.’

  Halfway through, his hands began to shake. He took several deep, calming breaths. Not that it did any good – by the time he’d finished the text, he could barely draw breath.

  Fuck me. ‘I never saw that coming,’ he whispered, stunned by Gaspar’s eye-opening disclosure.

  He reached towards the pull-down tray for his G & T, only to realize that he didn’t have a drink.

  ‘I need one.’ Jesus.

  While the contents of the first two plates had been astounding, the revelations contained in the third plate were absolutely explosive. The sort of thing that could ignite a religious conflagration. On a big, bloody global scale. One which would make the wars of religion fought in the wake of the Protestant Reformation seem little more than a trifling affair.

  It certainly explained why Cardinal Fiorio had gone to such extreme lengths to procure the Evangelium Gaspar. Particularly in light of the upcoming conclave. With the ancient gospel in his possession, the red-robed bastard could strong-arm the College of Cardinals into doing his bidding.

  And I’ll warrant that none would dare contest the tyranny. Too terrified of what would happen if the gospel ever saw the light of day.

  Still trying to get his bearings, the intellectual wind knocked out of him, Caedmon stared out of the train window, too lost in thought to notice the flying landscape that passed in a green and blue blur.

  A few moments into his depressing fugue, Edie appeared, her arms laden with foodstuffs. A cheery smile on her face, she announced, ‘I’ve got chili con carne, cheese sandwiches, two questionably fresh garden salads and hot coffee. Pick your poison.’

  Caedmon held the iPad aloft. ‘After you read Cedric Lloyd’s email, you may opt for a stiff drink instead.’

  65

  The Ministry of Yeshua bar Yosef

  The Baptism at the Jordan River

  During Yeshua’s thirtieth year, we arrived in his homeland. Great changes had taken place in those eighteen years since we had left Mount Carmel. The Children of Israel cried out in torment for they had lost faith in all things.

  It came to pass that Yeshua’s cousin, a great holy man who had once lived with the Nazorean brotherhood at Qumran, preached that the Kingdom of Heaven is at hand. He bade his followers to confess their sins and be made pure in the waters of the Jordan River.

  Yeshua and I travelled to Galilee for he desired to see his cousin. The sun was at its zenith when Yeshua waded into the cool water. Yuhanna, who was baptizing, halted when he caught sight of Yeshua. The two cousins spoke briefly before Yuhanna immersed him into the water. When he re-emerged, arrows of piercing light enveloped Yeshua and the water that dripped from his face and chest seemed to have changed colors. The light of the sun then turned a blinding white which dazzled the eyes of all who stood near. There arose a great clamoring from those gathered on the riverbank who had witnessed the marvelous sight and many wondered what had transpired. Although they had seen with their eyes, their minds could not comprehend that Yeshua had become one with the Logos; and that he had twined his spirit with that divinity of creation through which all things are made possible.

  And so it came to be that the Logos filled Yesh
ua so that he would know the mind of the Father. It was for this reason that Yeshua had come into the world.

  The crowd of followers marveled at the transformation for they saw that Yeshua’s eyes were brightly lit with an inner fire. Several cried out in fear, but his cousin Yuhanna stepped forward and told them that Yeshua was the Anointed One who had been baptized in the ineffable water of purity and had become the Christ. ‘Follow him!’ Yuhanna extolled the crowd. ‘For he will lead you to the Father.’

  And Darkness Fell Upon the Land

  During the next three years a multitude followed the Master wherever he went and never left him. Alarmed by these reports, Pilate sent his soldiers to arrest Yeshua.

  And they cast Yeshua into a dungeon where he was made to suffer much physical pain in the hopes that he would confess to his crimes. His agonies were great but the Logos was with him and did not suffer him to die. The soldiers conducted Yeshua to the hill known as the place of the skull. It was there that he was nailed to a wooden cross. The family and disciples of Yeshua wept copious tears as they watched his agony upon the cross. So great were his torments that the Logos became detached from his body and returned to the realm of the spirit.

  Yeshua cried to the heavens, ‘My God, My God, why have you forsaken me?’

  And darkness fell upon the land as a strong wind swept across the hillside. There was much wailing as lightning flashed and thunder rolled. A Roman soldier jabbed a spear into Yeshua’s side, but the Master did not move.

  In the violence of the storm, the spectators scattered and only Yeshua’s mother and brother remained. Yosef of Arimathea arrived with an order from Pilate to remove Yeshua’s body. This was all according to plan for none on the hillside knew that Yeshua did not die upon the cross.