Finally, we arrive at one of the Vatican gates. It looks like a medieval castle gate, three stories tall, with a high brick archway topped with grand sculptures of Roman figures and ornate shapes. The walls that extend around and above the entrance are twice as tall, made of old bricks and mortar. Such history here. Such a grand old city. So grand, in fact, that it makes me feel small and young. Inside the lavish gate is the impressive Sistine Chapel, surrounded by many other classical buildings I read about in a brochure. Catholicism will always foment a false idol with its gold trimmed cathedrals and lavish ornamental decor. Their priests’ robes are even as ostentatious as their ceremonies. But, because I am in their house, I keep my criticism to myself. I go directly to the library, following the map on the brochure.
I step into the Gallery Library. My feet tap on the solid marble floors. It’s quiet with the occasional echo of something whispered or dropped. The library is bright, lit from all angles by the sun. There are so many works of art along the walls. Paintings from the Renaissance and other periods adorn every nook and cranny. It is quite stunning. They shouldn’t belong in the city of God, but that’s an argument for the ages. There are walls and walls of books, both ancient and contemporary. The library is two stories tall with high-arching gold ceilings. There is quite a warmth to this place.
I move past the index section and go to a service librarian. They are expecting me. I learn that what I’ve come here for is kept in the basement. I paid a heavy price for an afternoon of uninterrupted research in the basement archives. I’m provided white lint-free gloves and a map of the shelves. A librarian helps me pick twenty or so books to start. Those are replaced six hours later with ten more books. Time slips through my fingers like the sand in an hourglass. My hunger is suppressed, and my mind stays focused. I push through information as easy as a drill seeds wheat.
I carefully open the next book and start skimming the pages. Half way through it, I discover a transcript from the Eighth Crusade detailing the conquering of the port city of Caesarea in Northern Israel. The transcript was written by a scribe from France’s King Louis IX’s Army of God. Where the first army failed, the second army succeeded rather easily because they found no resistance when they approached the gates. The strange thing about the account is that when the second army of French troops entered the city, they only found dead people. They did not find any gold or treasure, which was odd because Caesarea was a port city, known to be quite wealthy. I turn back a page to see why the first army failed but there are no details. All it said was how the first army was led by a great leader, John the Mighty. If he was so great, why did he lose?
Louis IX’s second army piled the bodies high and burned the dead. Because they were afraid of disease, they burned everything in the city. The King’s army moved north to capture Acre. Believing, after all, that conquest was not an act of murder, their quest was supposed to be an act of salvation. The dead city of Caesarea was useless to the King.
The lack of information regarding the first attack bothered me. I’m intrigued and totally surprised at where this investigation is leading me. There’s nothing in these books that leads me to the Stone of Allah. I turn the page and scan the end of the account. King Louis IX seemed to be angry about losing his first army to an empty city. He was thanking God for victory, but also questioning the loss of his best soldier, John the Mighty. Who is this John the Mighty?
I look through a different book for references to the first army that attacked Caesarea. I cannot find any records. I might have to scan a few dozen other books or more. A few lights are dimmed at the far end of the library as they are closing. More lights go out. Only the lights along the walkway to the exit and the one above me are still lit.
A priest emerges from the dark and approaches me.
“I guess I got to go?” I ask, feeling dissatisfied.
The priest wears a black robe with the typical white square collar. Deep wrinkles and a scrunched nose hold up his thin gold-rimmed glasses. He speaks English with a thick accent. “I see you are interested in the Eighth Crusade.”
“I’m looking for the transcript of the first attack on Caesarea. It seems that King Louis IX had to take a great loan and many troops from the Templars to conquer Caesarea only to find everyone already dead. How did the Caesareans defeat his first army and why aren’t there any accounts of it in these books?” I look at the notes I have made. “Something is missing.”
The priest pulls a worn and thin book from his robe and sits down. He slides the book toward me. “There is only one copy of this text. The original has been lost.” I look at the book then slide it back. “Is there a transcript? I don’t read Latin.”
The priest smiles. “Picture this. You are John the Mighty, a loyal and fierce warrior in the court of King Louis IX. You ride up to the great stonewalls of Caesarea on your massive stallion with an army of ten thousand men behind you. Your body is covered in steel armor, as is your horse. Your army has counterweight trebuchets, steel weapons, thick armor, and is better trained and more experienced than any other. You fly the French colors. You have God on your side. You see, the Crusades were retaliation for all the wars the Arabs brought to the Mediterranean. It was a re-conquer. Just because the Muslims had the land for over a thousand years does not mean it was theirs in the first place. They were the first to soak the land in blood. That is the truth that John the Mighty fought for. As did most of the crusaders, for that matter.
“The first order of business in any siege is to surround the city gates, then launch attacks by arrow and trebuchet. After a few weeks the Caesareans should have been hungry and weak and easy to conquer. All was going according to plan. In fact, John and his bravest soldiers were so confident, they played games and ate and drank during the evening hours. The translation says that the heavens shined on their efforts, a quarter moon after the siege began, with a great light show in the early morning.”
The priest leans closer to me and continues, keeping his voice hushed. “The light show was a meteor shower. It lasted for two days. Thousands of burning falling stars. John rejoiced. He believed it was a sign. On the third morning, before the sun rose, John gathered a group of his best warriors and approached the main gates. He was almost at the siege line — ”
I interrupted, “What is the siege line?”
“It was the line you couldn’t cross until the siege was over. The Caesarean arrows didn’t have a very long range. Their maximum distance was marked in the ground and called the siege line. If you crossed the line you could be shot by an arrow. John had not crossed the line. There are a few accounts saying that he did cross the line, but he was too smart for that. He stood well behind the line and called for surrender. John the Mighty waited for an answer. It was said that he grew impatient. Then the most amazing thing happened. He was struck in the chest, killed instantly.”
“An arrow struck him?”
“No. This document says a meteor struck him. The official account says arrow, but that was not true. I believe it was a meteor. The chest plate was penetrated as if it were made of paper.”
“Why do you believe that it was a meteor?” I ask, because that would seem like a huge coincidence. “Is there any evidence of this?”
“This is the oldest account we have. It is much older than Albert of Aix-la-Chapelle’s account in the 11th Century text.” The priest flipped to a page and pointed. “It says here that the French army found the meteor under John’s dead body. It was reported to be a clear stone in the shape of a large cut diamond. It had a rusty shape in the heart of the stone that glimmered, even in the night, as if it had a power unto itself.” The priest took the book and tucked it back into his robe. “The French were confused, disheartened. So the Caesareans seized the advantage and made a desperate attack. The French army retreated, but had not prepared a strategy for retreat because of their arrogance. The Caesareans were able to kill most of the French in a bloody assault. After the battle, the meteorite was taken by the victorious Cae
sareans and hailed as the Stone of Allah.”
“Then why did King Louis IX find the city dead after he came back with his second army?”
The priest shrugs. “No one knows. But it would seem that the city died from some disease. Maybe, during the first siege, their food and water supply became contaminated with dysentery or some other disease.” The priest gets up from the table and nods to me slightly. “Fascinating isn’t it? To be struck by a meteor would most surely be the will of God.”
I thank him for his time and find my way out of Vatican City and to my hotel. My room overlooks the River Tiber that runs through the heart of Rome. I stay for many weeks, not wanting to return home. I become obsessed with why or how the Caesareans died. Surely dysentery wouldn’t have killed every last woman and child. I look up many other siege conquests on the Internet. None played out in this way. Caesarea was truly extraordinary.
One night, while watching the city lights from my balcony, I make a conclusion. The dead city of Caesarea had to connect to the Stone of Allah in some way. Did the meteorite kill the people? Did its famous nature bring thieves to the city? Maybe a civil dispute? I draw a diamond shaped stone in my notebook and scribble a dark heart in the center.
I find an online article about King Louis IX and his last crusade. It claims his brother pushed him to go to Tunisia for one last conquering. There he grew sick and died. Tunisia is a small Mediterranean country next to Libya and directly south of Italy. There the King died from what historians believe to be dysentery. There is also another dysentery reference, another coincidence. I circle the word in my notebook over and over and over.
A pop goes off somewhere in the city. Lights burst in the night. It almost stops my heart. Another pop. There are fireworks going off as a celebration begins. I watch the firework show and wonder why I feel so obsessed with this stone. What is God trying to tell me?
I go back to the Internet. In the margin of the Louis IX article is a picture of an ornate crown. It looks too large and cumbersome to be worn, but who knows. Catholics can get really gaudy. I read further. The crown is a piece of art bought by Louis IX called The Holy Crown of Jesus Christ. It was commissioned just after the Caesarea attack. It is now on display at the Notre Dame in Paris. I know I have to follow every lead regarding the King, and this is a lead.
I hop on the Eurostar train and take it to Milan early the next morning. It’s an incredible ride through fields of grape vines, sheep, and a castle on a hilltop. Buildings centuries old still stand and function. The train flies by a poor shepherd grabbing for his cell phone. At a train track crossing I see a wealthy man in a limited edition BMW, tapping his fingers impatiently on the steering wheel. I stare out the window like a kid at the circus. In Milan I transfer to a different train and head to Paris. I dine on fresh bread, Fourme d’Ambert cheese flavored with mixed nuts, and a glass of pinot grigio. I arrive shortly after eleven at night, full and alive. I stay at a nearly five-hundred-year old hotel in a small but quaint room.
The next morning, I take a taxi to Notre Dame de Paris after some fruit and a pastry for breakfast. The church’s shadow looms over me as I step out of the taxi. The architecture is truly amazing. Two square towers stand as a front entrance to the church. The towers are adorned with arched windows. Centered between the towers is the Grand Gallery. It has a pointed roof with a circular stained glass window at the apex. The church’s girders extend from the pointed roof and continue over the sidewalls, finally arching to the gardens. I think they are called flying buttresses. They look like the ribs of some enormous creature. The bell tower is in the back with pointed archways and steeples. It’s beautiful. I recognize the gargoyles that adorn the building. It is the very definition of Gothic architecture.
I enter the massive front doors behind a group of tourists. The vaulted ceiling and all the elaborate stonework makes me dizzy. I walk down the aisle between richly stained wooden pews and lines of tourists.
Along the sides of the great room are exhibits. I find the crown easily. It’s an elaborately formed piece of gold. It has a huge round top piece with a typical crown top. It rests on a gold pedestal that has gold figures sitting on thrones positioned around the base. Jesus Christ is depicted in the center, the Virgin Mary on the left side, and some other figure on the right. Maybe that is supposed to be the Holy Spirit in human form. Maybe it was John the Baptist.
A woman stops next to me and stares at the same crown. She is young, has darker skin than I, and is of mixed African decent. Her hair is black and straight, not curly. She wears thick glasses and looks bookish. “Beautiful, isn’t it?” she asks.
Even though I dislike these pieces, I nod. They were paid for with church money that was stolen from the people. I don’t think God would appreciate that. It’s the corruption of the Catholic Church that paid for these pieces with the sweat and blood of slaves. I mumble so she can’t quite hear me, “You shall not make for yourself an idol in the form of anything in heaven above or on the earth beneath or in the waters below. Exodus twenty-three, verse four.”
“The piece was bought from Baldwin II who ruled Constantinople at that time. It was later sold to King Louis IX. It’s incomplete. If you can believe that,” she says. She’s obviously American and probably happy to speak with other countrymen on the subject.
“Is that right?” I reply. “What more could they do? This is already filled with too much detail. I think it would make my mother faint, God rest her soul.”
“It’s not a wearable crown. It’s a decorative status piece. But he would have carried it with him on occasion. The piece was said to have the power of God.” The woman stands on her toes and points to the top of the crown. “There are four clasps inside the crown that are bent inward around a gold cup.”
I peer into the crown and notice the clasps. “I see. Something was supposed to go in there?”
She nods. “Clasps like those usually hold a precious stone.” Her eyes widen. “Must have been made for a rather large stone.” She smiles and moves on to the next exhibit.
I study the group of clasps in the middle of the crown. The woman is right. It must have been made for an unusually large stone. The Stone of Allah. Did King Louis IX recover the meteor in the diseased city of Caesarea? It was written in the transcript that there were no jewels or treasure left in the city, but what if there were? What if that one meteorite had been kept secret because it was an embarrassment to King Louis IX and his Holy Army, a stone he would not part with? His trophy. I picture the King carrying around the audacious crown. It was absurdly large, but fit his ostentatious attitude. It is silly to make trinkets to worship.
I find a seat in on a wooden bench. Light filters through a glass window and hits me in the face. I squint, but choose to stare at it. The light is warm on my face. I believe it is the light of God giving me the opportunity to uncover a six-hundred-year-old secret. Me, of all preachers!
The night arrives and I still have no appetite. I make my nightly call to my wife early, eager to hear her voice.
She sounds concerned. “What you are telling me is that you’re going to stay in Italy for another week?” she exclaims. “I’m worried about you, Markus.”
“I’ve got to see this through, Marian. I have a purpose now,” I emphasize. I feel more alive than I have in years. “When I return you will understand. Please trust me.” I close my cell phone. I’m going to find out what this Stone of Allah is all about, and why there are men who will kill to keep it a secret. I will bring this information out of the shadows and into the light, and maybe this war will end and I can go home.
Chapter 1.12
Ian:
I walk to Central Park, a couple of blocks east of my condo, wondering how I’m going to get out of the city. My pack is loaded with hiking gear and as much water as I can carry. It’s about sixty pounds on my back, a bit much, but I don’t want to take any chances. Two years ago I had spent two weeks deep in the Chimborazo Mountains in Ecuador on an Earth expedition with the S
ierra Club. That’s when I fell in love with hiking. It was a chance to get out of the city. I love the quiet, or at least, thought I did. As it turns out, the real quiet is this dead city. No cars, horns, bikers, no one yelling, no alarms or sirens, no birds, rats, crickets. Nature’s silence is different -- richer, and filled with subtle sounds. That is real beauty. This is unnatural.
As I round the corner of One Hundredth Street I hear a shot. I duck instinctively. It’s an overweight guy, probably about thirty years old, looking all messed up, holding a six-shot revolver. I wonder if he is sick, until I see him pull out a flask and swig from it. He isn’t sick, just drunk. I look around and see only dead people.
I approach and introduce myself, “My name’s Ian.”
“Hey, I’m Ben.”
He puts the gun away, which I’m glad for. He turns out to be a decent person that just looks like shit. I probably look like I’ve been slapped around too.
“Are you sick?” I ask hesitantly. I don’t quite know what else to say, but I’m tired of the dialogue in my head being my only friend.
Ben shakes his head. “Na. Just pissed.”
“You made any plans?”
“What do you mean?” He puts his hand on his forehead. “Sorry, I’m slow.” A moment of silence passes. “I guess I’m gonna get out of here.”
“I was thinking the same,” I reply. So we start walking north. “I need to pack some more food first, and then we can find where the people are.”
Ben kicks a dead guy lying in the street. “Yeah, let’s find people that are alive. That’d be a fuckin’ good start.”
“I heard the jets yesterday. I think they took out the bridges,” I mention.
6th Horseman, Extremist Edge Series: Part 1 Page 10