The Isaac Question: Templars and the Secret of the Old Testament (Templars in America Series Book 5)

by David S. Brody

  “Please continue.”

  She held up one finger and took a deep breath. “First, when Abraham and Sarah came to Egypt, he was worried the Egyptians would see Sarah, who was very pretty, and want to steal her from him. So instead of fighting to keep her, wimpy Abraham came up with a plan to tell everyone Sarah was his sister, not his wife.” Amon made a face to make sure she knew he did not approve of this. “Well, sure enough, the Pharaoh came along, saw Sarah and wanted her for his harem. So what did Abraham do? He negotiated a bride price and sold her off. Later, after the Pharaoh had, as the Bible would say, ‘known’ her, he learned she was already married to Abraham, which apparently was bad form even for a Pharaoh. So he summoned Abraham and accused him of cheating him and making him look a fool, which Abraham did. Now here I would think the Pharaoh would kill Abraham, but he showed mercy and instead just exiled Abraham and Sarah from Egypt.” She paused again and smiled. “But he gave Sarah a handmaiden to take with her! What possible reason could there be to give Sarah—who also had lied to him and duped him—a handmaiden? My professor suggested it was because Sarah was far into her pregnancy with the Pharaoh’s child. He says a handmaiden is really just another word for midwife.” She paused to let her words sink in. “If so, what ever happened to this child?”

  Amon had never heard this story, but he had no reason to doubt Rachel’s version of it. “This is hardly the behavior one would expect from a patriarch.” If Amon had a beautiful wife like Abraham, he would fight to keep her.

  “You think? But wait, it gets better. Later, after their son Isaac was born, God told Abraham to take Isaac and bind him to an altar for sacrifice. Well, I’m sorry, no father would obey this command. It goes against every human instinct and emotion.”

  Amon considered his own father. Amon’s mother, before she died, used to joke he would sell his family into slavery if the price was right. But it had been just that, a joke. Rachel was correct—the story went against the basic human instinct to protect one’s offspring. As distant as Amon’s father sometimes was, he would never intentionally do anything to harm his children, no matter what deity commanded it. “So do you think this story is somehow wrong?” he asked.

  “The story’s not wrong, but the premise is. All we have to do is look more carefully at the ancient texts—the clues are all there.” She leaned forward. “Do you know the Talmud—that’s the book of Jewish law—says that when Isaac was born Abraham invited all his neighbors to a feast to celebrate, but only a few of them came? They didn’t believe the child was his.”

  “Why is that?”

  She continued without answering, though she did smile at him as she held his eyes. “And did you know that after they left Egypt, basically after the Pharaoh divorced Sarah, God made her change her name from Sarai to Sarah, meaning ‘queen.’ And,” she paused here for effect, “he promised that Sarah ‘shall be a mother of nations; kings of people shall be of her.’ Not of Abraham, but of her. Her children shall be the kings of nations.”

  Amon was still not sure where this was going, but Rachel’s passion swept him along in her wake.

  “Look at the clues, Amon: Sarah sleeps with the Pharaoh, who gives her a handmaiden. Then God tells her to change her name to queen and promises that her children shall be kings. Then many years later Isaac is born—Sarah is supposedly ninety freaking years old by then—and God promises him a kingdom if he gets circumcised. And, by the way, as I’m sure you know, circumcision is an Egyptian custom. Oh, and when Abraham tries to throw a party celebrating the birth of his new son Isaac, everyone mocks him.”

  Now Amon understood. “Aha! You think Isaac is the son of the Pharaoh, not Abraham.”

  “It’s not what I think. It’s what the Old Testament pretty much says, if you have half a brain. Why else would Abraham agree to sacrifice him?” She shrugged. “Isaac wasn’t his kid.”

  Amon had trouble believing they would teach such damning material at a Jewish institution. “This is the official Jewish position?”

  “No.” She laughed. “God, no. Like I said, the administration forbade the professor from teaching it. They threatened to fire him if he did.”

  There was something to this, something important that Amon could not put his finger on. It related somehow to the story of Scota leaving Egypt and eventually settling in Scotland, a story his father and step-mother were intent on promoting. He would phone his father later. But for now he was focused on Rachel and her wet teeth and dancing hazel eyes. He smiled. “At this dinner, I imagine it made many of the Jewish students uncomfortable?”

  “It sure did. I don’t give a shit because I don’t believe in the Bible anyway in the literal sense, but lots of religious Jews do. Let’s just say the room got really quiet.” She grinned. “So I raised my hand and ask, as innocently as I can, ‘Does this mean the Pharaoh is the father of the Jewish people?’”

  Amon laughed and leaned forward again. “So we are cousins, then, the Jews and Egyptians, all descending from this pharaoh?”

  She nodded. “I suppose so.”

  “This is good.” He grinned. “It means there is no need for you to try to kill me.”

  Cam spent the rest of Saturday afternoon in the House of the Temple, examining Masonic ritual items and poring through ancient Masonic writings in the high-ceilinged library reading room. Plaster busts of famous Freemasons kept watch over him just in case he had the urge to slip one of the priceless tombs into his briefcase. He had made some headway in understanding the Masonic connections to Egypt and the ancient Druids, but he had the strong sense that there were deeper, more fundamental secrets that the Masons kept hidden.

  Rubbing his eyes, Cam set aside an illustrated text recounting the construction of the Temple of Solomon by the earliest Masons and stood to stretch. He remembered as a child reading a story about a boy who lived on a primitive island in the South Pacific and believed the island to be the entirety of the universe. Later, of course, the boy learned that the world was many times more complex and many times more mysterious than what he had originally believed. Cam felt that way now as he explored the House of the Temple and wondered how much more complex and mysterious the true history of the world was, a history hidden and preserved over the millennia by secret societies like the Freemasons.

  From the shadows, Randall appeared. As if reading Cam’s thoughts, he asked, “Have you ever read an account of World War II from the Japanese perspective? Or the Civil War—known as the War of Northern Aggression in some southern states—from the point of view of a Southerner?”

  Cam shook his head.

  “Well, you should. It might make you question history as you know it.”

  “What history?”

  “All history. The Old Testament, specifically. Unless you believe it is the divine word of God—which I doubt you do—then it must have been written by man. As such, it is as flawed and skewed and propagandized as any other recounting of history.”

  Cam had never heard the Old Testament described as propaganda before, and he wasn’t sure what the Masonic elder was getting at. “What does that have to do with the Egyptian connection to the Freemasons?” That was, after all, the focus of his research.

  The elderly man showed his gray teeth. “Think about the Book of Exodus. Written by one of the parties—the Israelites—involved in the conflict in Egypt thirty-five hundred years ago. We call it the Holy Bible, but why should we believe it to be any more accurate than the Japanese version of World War II?”

  Cam wasn’t sure how to respond. Randall held his eyes for a moment before abruptly glancing at his watch. “Six o’clock. Time for dinner.”

  He led Cam to an ornate banquet hall featuring portraits of George Washington and introduced him to a handful of other senior Brothers from the D.C. area. They dined around a large table in one corner of the massive room. Try as he might, Cam was unable to guide the conversation back toward Egypt or the Druids or sun worship or even the accuracy of the Old Testament. Apparently the group had
decided that Randall, and only he, would spoon secret information to Cam.

  Instead they discussed Cam’s research, questioning him about the ancient artifacts scattered around the continent, many of which seemed to point to exploration by their forbearers, the Knights Templar. This was an aspect of history not taught in the Lodges, and the Brothers seemed captivated by the information.

  “What makes you so sure the Newport Tower is not Colonial?” one asked. Many historians argued the structure was built as a windmill circa 1675.

  Cam smiled. “Just look at it. It’s a round stone tower with Romanesque arches. Does it look like Colonial architecture to you? And more to the point, what self-respecting engineer would build a windmill on eight shaky pillars?”

  He pulled up an image of the structure on his phone.

  Newport Tower, Winter Solstice

  He continued, summarizing many of the points he made in Across the Pond. “Not to mention all the astronomical alignments. The Tower marks the winter solstice, and also the 35 possible days of Easter. Whoever built it used it as a calendar as well as some kind of ceremonial site.”

  “Then why didn’t the archeologists find medieval debris when they dug?” another challenged. “All they found was Colonial stuff.”

  “I’ll answer your question with a question: When you go to church, do you throw your trash out under your pew?” Cam smiled. “Of course not. Well it’s the same with all these ancient religious sites—ask any European archeologist. The sites are pristine because people treated them with reverence. And that includes not dumping their trash.”

  “So who built it?”

  Cam leaned forward in his chair. “I don’t know for certain, other than it predates the Colonists. But the Easter alignments tell me it’s a Christian group. There is some carbon-dating of the mortar which dates the construction to the early 1400s. And the architecture is very similar to Temple Church in London, built by the Knights Templar.” He sat back. “So I think the best guess is it was built by Prince Henry Sinclair and his group. Prince Henry was in New England in 1399 and his family had long and close ties to the Templars. When I asked a Native American tribal chief who he thought built it, he also answered Prince Henry.”

  Randall ended the conversation by ceremoniously checking his watch. “We will have to continue this discussion at a later time, though I will say that I concur with Mr. Thorne’s reasoning—as some of you may know, Masonic records show that Rhode Island’s earliest Freemasons took an active interest in preserving the Tower.” He stood. “Sunset is at 8:05 tonight. That gives us an hour to get across town and go through security.” He turned to Cam. “I have a car waiting.”

  “Security?” Cam asked.

  Randall smiled sardonically. “You don’t think you can just waltz into the Capitol building without passing through security, do you?”

  Cam updated Amanda on his plans with a text from the car and twenty minutes later they pulled up to the guard house outside the front entrance to the Capitol. A young man in a dark suit greeted them as they stepped out of the car and led them to a private entrance on the ground floor of the Capitol, where they passed through a metal detector and a pat-down. The staffer escorted them along a back hallway to an elevator, which lurched up a few stories and let them out on a balcony overlooking the famous Capitol rotunda.

  “We are actually halfway up the dome,” Randall said. He smiled and removed his hat. “And we are going higher.”

  The staffer led them to a steep, narrow metal staircase. “You’ll want to use the handrail,” he said. “There are actually two domes here, an inner and an outer. These stairs run between them.” Cam looked up—the stairs wound their way through a web frame of interlocking steel girders that reminded him of the Eiffel Tower. They would be ascending between the two domes, the senior Freemason being given secret access to the inner sanctums of government just as the conspiracy theorists proclaimed.

  Fascinated, Cam climbed, gladly enduring the pain in his ankle from his fall into the dumpster. He knew better than to ask what Randall wanted him to see, though obviously it had something to do with sunset. They emerged on a landing; the staffer pushed opened an arched wooden door and a burst of wind buffeted them. Cam stepped onto the balcony and surveyed the city below, then turned to look up at the colossal bronze Statue of Freedom looming over him like a mythical goddess. For a statue carved in the early 1800s, the figure was surprisingly progressive. No knitting needles for this lady—she carried a sword and wore a battle helmet. And, in another surprisingly inclusive gesture, a Native American blanket adorned her shoulder.

  But it was not the statue Randall wanted Cam to see. They gazed out over the city, the warm wind swirling around the dome and the lights of the capital flickering on as the sun began to set. The Washington Monument, by law the tallest structure in the city, rose above them to the west along the Mall—the famous obelisk would, being due west of the Capitol, mark the equinox sunsets. Randall pointed to the northwest, toward the White House. “Pennsylvania Avenue runs from here to the White House; it is laid out at a very specific angle. That is why there is a jog at both ends—it was the only way to keep the angle precise while also allowing the road to not pass directly through the White House.”

  Cam knew the Freemasons played a prominent role in the design of the city, including sacred geometry and Masonic symbolism in its layout. But he was unsure to what extent the layout was reflective of sun worship. He had the sense he was about to become enlightened.

  Randall continued. “As you know, in some ancient cultures the cross-quarter days—the days halfway between the solstices and equinoxes—were the most important days of the year. Even more so than the solstices and equinoxes.”

  Cam nodded. When Randall spoke of the ancient cultures, it was code for the Druids and the Egyptians before them.

  “In some ways the cross-quarter days most truly mark the seasons,” Randall explained. “Climatically, August 5 is the height of summer, and February 5 the height of winter.”

  Cam had read about this. “And May 5, Beltane, marked the beginning of summer, especially in agricultural communities.”

  “Correct. Which is why in many societies Beltane was the single most important day of the year.” Randall pointed to the setting sun, still a couple of inches above the horizon. “As I’m sure you’ve already deduced, on Beltane the sun sets directly over the

  White House. We are two days past, technically, but the alignment remains almost exact.”

  Cam had witnessed many alignments at both the Newport Tower and New Hampshire’s America’s Stonehenge site, and they never failed to fill him with awe. There was something noble and admirable and even wistful about man’s age-old attempts to synchronize his world with the sun, moon and stars.

  Randall redirected Cam’s attention to the southwest. “And on Imbolc, at the peak of winter, the sun sets atop the Jefferson Memorial.”

  Cam nodded. Another cross-quarter day. And another tie between the Masons and the Druids. “The chambers in New England that we think the Druids built mark the solstices and equinoxes, not the cross-quarter days. So why the difference here?”

  Randall pursed his lips. “First of all, I think you’ll find the New England chambers mark both. As for Washington, the designers of the city needed to be careful. They could not make things too obvious—even in their day, the Masons had enemies. Aligning the city to the cross-quarter days was more subtle than using the solstices and equinoxes.”

  Made sense. “Why did they mark the sunsets and not the sunrises?” Cam asked, thinking about their stone chamber in Groton.

  “For the Druids, the day begins at sunset. Just like the Jews.”

  Again with the Druids. Cam had been studying the Freemasons for years, but the strong Druidic influence on them was completely new to him.

  Randall continued. “Are you familiar with Royal Arch Masonry?”

  “Not really.” More revelations coming.

  “Without getting
too deep into the subject, suffice it to say that Royal Arch is the primary degree in Freemasonry.” He paused. “Typically it is symbolized by a crest or banner featuring four creatures.” He raised an eyebrow. “I suggest you use that phone of yours to find a picture of the banner.”

  Cam quickly found many versions of the banner, all containing the four creatures. He showed one to Randall.

  Masonic Royal Arch Banner

  “That will do. Can you identify the four creatures?”

  Cam peered at the phone. “Going clockwise, looks like an eagle, a lion, a bull, and a man.”

  “And how are you with your zodiacal signs?”

  “Let’s see: The bull is Taurus, the lion is Leo …” He shrugged. “I don’t know what the eagle and man symbolize.”

  “The eagle, along with the scorpion, is a symbol for Scorpio. And man is a symbol for Aquarius, the water-carrier.” He paused, as he liked to do before making a point. “So we have Taurus, Leo, Scorpio and Aquarius.”

  It hit Cam. “Those four signs match up with the cross-quarter days.” May 5, and also early August, November, and February.

  “Exactly. In fact, the cross-quarter days fall at the precise midpoint of these zodiacal cycles.”

  Cam blinked. “So the Masons … this Royal Arch degree … they are marking the cross-quarter days.”

  “Not just marking, Cameron. Venerating.” He lowered his voice, as if somehow someone could be eavesdropping on their conversation atop the Capitol dome. “Freemasonry venerates the cross-quarter days. Just as the ancient Druids did.”

  Cam felt like a man who had just been taught to read. He knew that Masonry was full of ancient symbolism and allegory, but he had no idea it tied back so closely to the Druids. It struck him again that there was so much he didn’t know, hadn’t seen.

  Randall directed their attention back to the White House. The sun, as it always seemed to do, dove to the horizon in the final few minutes before dusk. The yellow orb rested precariously and momentarily atop the center of the White House roof, as if impaled on the soaring flag pole, while the dying embers of sunlight blazed a fiery trail up Pennsylvania Avenue.