Gazing down to the cathedral's front steps, he scanned the assembled papal prelature seated there and tried to find Clement's ugly face. Having failed miserably in his appeal to King Philip to reinstate the Order, the damned traitor did not have the nerve or decency to make an appearance. Three cardinals sat center stage to officiate and act the role of executioners.
A large crowd had gathered to watch the impromptu trial, eager to lay eyes on a fallen hero about to meet a tragic end. DeMolay felt like an actor, alone on an ominous stage, until moments later, three other Templar dignitaries were pushed up the wooden stairs and herded beside him.
With pride, Jacques DeMolay glanced over to them: Geoffroy DeCharnay, Hugues DePairaud, and Geoffroy DeGonneville-- all honorable men who had served the Order nobly. Unfortunately, they too had been in France almost seven years earlier when King Philip had ordered his armies to secretly round up the Templars.
Minutes later, the farce began with fiery testimonies from sharp-tongued priests inciting the crowd with their farrago of accusations and false charges levied against the Knights Templar. Particular emphasis was paid to lurid accounts of homosexuality and devil worship, since those fabrications played well with the crowd's emotions. Then, as DeMolay listened in utter amazement, the priest read a document to the crowd that itemized DeMolay's signed confessions to the charges-- a document he had never seen before.
The lies seared DeMolay's ears like burning embers, but he remained defiant, occasionally glancing up at the stone gargoyles leering down from Notre Dame's facade.
Silence fell abruptly over the scene when one cardinal stood, pointed at the Grand Master, and yelled: "And you Jacques DeMolay, the very evil who leads this ungodly Order, what say you to the charges presented herewith? Do you once and for all profess your guilt by affirming that these confessions are your true testament so that you may reclaim your dignity in the presence of God?"
DeMolay eyed the cardinal curiously, amazed that he had once so loyally served men like this. So many Templars had died in the name of Christ in the Holy Land. He felt like shouting out the lies that these sanctimonious bastards had propagated through the centuries to undermine that sacrifice. But no one would ever believe the amazing things he had learned and the equally amazing relics still hidden beneath the site of Solomon's Temple in Jerusalem that attested to those truths. Without proof, he would merely tarnish his reputation further and play into the hands of his executioners. DeMolay took solace in knowing that some day the truth would be discovered...and woe to all who tried to deny it, he thought. He knew that these men were determined to destroy him. Whether it happened today, or after more years slowly rotting to death in some vile prison cell, he was doomed-- the target for the king's malicious scheme.
The Grand Master looked deep into the eyes of his three friends and saw a common resolve beneath a thin veil of fear. The brotherhood would endure until the very end.
Clearing his throat DeMolay stared back at the cardinal. "It is only right that when my life is to be taken by those I have so loyally served, that I should make known the deceptions here presented and that I tell the only truth from my own lips. Before God and all who witness this injustice"-- his eyes panned over the crowd-- "I admit I am guilty of a gross iniquity. But not one fabricated by my accusers." He swung his gaze back at the cardinal. "I am guilty only of the shame and dishonor I have endured through torture and threat of death to induce these disgusting charges laid against the Templar Order. I declare before you now that the noble men who have served this Church to protect Christianity have been unjustly demonized. Therefore, I disdain to disgrace my brothers by grafting yet another lie."
Astounded at the prisoner's brazen rebuttal, the cardinal stood mute for a long moment before declaring, "By denouncing this sworn confession, you leave me no choice but to invoke the decree of King Philip that you shall perish by fire."
DeMolay smiled thinly. Finally, the end would come.
Then the cardinal addressed the remaining three Templars, sentencing all to life imprisonment. DeMolay was shocked when Hugues DePairaud and Geoffroy DeGonneville confessed to the charges.
Then the cardinal asked the same of Geoffroy DeCharnay.
Suddenly possessed, DeCharnay bared his teeth and yelled: "I too renounce all charges brought against me! For God as my witness, these lies serve only a contemptuous pope and an equally villainous king. The only just man who stands here today is Jacques DeMolay. I have followed him into battle and I will follow him to God."
The cardinal was fuming. "You shall have your wish!"
Jacques DeMolay and Geoffroy DeCharnay were then taken to a boat for the short journey to the neighboring Ile des Javiaux, the site where dozens of Templars had already been burned alive.
The sun melted into the distance and darkness crept over Paris.
As the two prisoners were escorted to the two stakes, both already blackened by charred flesh, DeMolay turned to his Templar brother. The years of torture and imprisonment had rendered DeCharnay to a shadow of the robust warrior he had known in the Holy Land, but the man's expression was surprisingly resolute. "Remember what we leave behind in Jerusalem," DeMolay told him. "Your service and sacrifice will be justly rewarded by Him. And His day of justice is soon to come, Geoffroy. You have done the most noble deed a man can do. You have served God. Leave this broken body behind and don't look back. Tonight, your soul will be free."
"Bless you, Jacques." DeCharnay said. "It has been my honor to serve with you."
As the French soldiers forced DeMolay against the post, he turned to them. "I am no threat to you now," he insisted. "Unbind my hands so that I may pray in my final moments."
Reluctantly, the guards cut the ropes from the old man's wrists, but used heavy chains to bind his body to the stake. The wood heaped around DeMolay was still green. By express order of King Philip, his death was to be prolonged by slow fire.
Looking over his shoulder, DeMolay gave his last thanks to DeCharnay, shackled to the post behind him. As the pyre was ignited, Notre Dame's bells began to toll.
The heat crawled up the old man's feet and legs. Then the tongues of flame began to slowly broil his lower body. When the fire intensified, his flesh roasted into red blisters, blackening his feet. As the inferno grew, DeMolay screamed out in agony, the flames licking their way higher up his legs. He could barely register DeCharnay's screams. Weaving his hands together, he threw them to heaven and yelled: "May evil find those who have wrongly condemned us! May God avenge us and cast these men into Hell!"
As his body was consumed Jacques DeMolay felt his spirit lifting.
The Templar Grand Master was swallowed by the inferno, his mortal remains a brilliant torch against the night sky.
FRIDAY
47.
ROME
Opening the front door of his quaint townhouse overlooking Villa Borghese's manicured park, a robed and barefoot Giovanni Bersei retrieved the morning's delivery of Il Messaggero from the front step. The sun was barely glowing a deep blue over the neighboring rooftops, and the light posts lining the empty street were still casting a warm glow. This was his favorite time of the day.
Turning to go back inside, he paused to glance over at the iron railing that still hung loosely from its mount on his home's stucco facade. Carmela had been after him for three weeks to fix it. Today would be the day the job would get done, he vowed. Closing the door, he went directly to the kitchen.
The coffee pot, dutifully set on a timer, was already full. He poured himself a cup and sat for a long moment to enjoy the silence. Cupping the heavy porcelain mug in his hands, he sipped the black coffee slowly, savoring the deep, rich flavor. What was it about a great cup of coffee? He swore there was no better elixir.
Last night, he hadn't slept well at all, his mind endlessly churning over the ossuary, the skeleton, and the shocking symbol that accompanied the relics. The mere possibility that he had touched the physical remains of Jesus Christ had left him feeling ashamed and
vulnerable, searching for an explanation. Bersei was a practicing Catholic-- a believer in the most powerful story ever told. He went to church each Sunday and prayed often. And later this morning, he was going to be asked by the Vatican to explain his findings. How could anyone explain what he had witnessed over the past days?
Scratching the gray stubble on his chin, he put on his reading glasses and began scanning the newspaper's front page. A headline on the bottom of the front page read: MUSLIMS AND JEWS ENRAGED OVER RUMORED THEFT AT TEMPLE MOUNT. He ignored it, flipping directly to the funnies. Then, almost as an afterthought, he turned back to the front page.
Though articles sensationalizing the tenuous political problems in the Holy Land were regular media fodder, these past few days he noticed that it had dominated the headlines even more than usual. Perhaps all the lab-talk concerning ancient Judea, Pontius Pilate, and crucifixion made him consider this one more closely. The piece's accompanying photo showed Israeli soldiers and police trying to hold back violent protestors just outside the famous Wailing Wall-- the Temple Mount's western wall.
He read the report.
Following Friday's violence at Jerusalem's Temple Mount, Islamic officials are pressuring the Israeli government to release details concerning the mysterious explosion that inflicted serious damage to the site. Resident Jews are demanding answers as to why thirteen Israeli Defense Force soldiers were killed during a firefight that erupted shortly after the explosion. Thus far, authorities have only confirmed that an Israeli military helicopter had been used to transport the alleged attackers from the site....
"That's not good," he muttered.
...Many have criticized Israeli officials for ignoring rumors that the incident involved religious artifacts stolen from the site.
"Religious artifacts?"
"What, love?" Carmela emerged from the doorway, donning a powder blue robe over her silk pajamas. She bent to kiss him on the head before making her way to the cupboard for a mug, her fuzzy pink slippers scuffing along the tile floor.
"Probably nothing. Just reading about all this turmoil in Israel."
"They'll never get along," she said, pouring coffee into her favorite mug, shaped like an animated elephant head with a curved snout as its handle. "They all just want to kill one another."
"Seems so," he agreed. Seeing her without makeup and her hair tousled, he smiled to himself. So many years together.
He directed his attention back to the newspaper. The article went on to say that efforts toward a more formal and lasting peace accord between Israelis and Palestinians had once again been tabled.
"Will you be home early tonight?"
"Should be," he said, preoccupied.
Carmela pushed down on the newspaper to get his attention. "I was hoping maybe you could take me out to that new bistro Claudio and Anna-Maria were talking about the other night."
"Of course, sweetheart. That would be wonderful. Would you make a reservation for eight o'clock?"
"Maybe you can find some time to fix that railing before we leave."
Grinning, Bersei said, "I'll see what I can do."
"I'm going up to take a shower." Sipping her coffee, she shuffled away.
Bersei turned to where the article continued. Immediately, he felt like he had been punched in the gut. Staring up at him was a photofit rendition of a man that looked all too familiar.
Reading the caption beneath, he mouthed the words aloud: "'The suspect is said to be a Caucasian male, approximately 180 centimeters tall and 88 kilos. Authorities state he is traveling under the assumed identity of Daniel Marrone, and are looking for any information concerning his whereabouts.'"
Suddenly, everything was moving in slow motion. He collapsed back into his chair.
The only possible explanation could be that the Vatican was somehow involved in what was happening in Israel. But that was impossible. Or was it?
Bersei tried to reconcile the timing of the events over the past few days. According to the news report, this theft in Jerusalem had occurred last Friday. A week ago. Both he and Charlotte had arrived in Vatican City shortly afterward. She'd flown into Rome on Sunday afternoon. He arrived on Monday morning, shortly before Father Donovan and Salvatore Conte returned with the mysterious crate.
Of course. Recalling the woven impressions left on the ossuary's patina, he no longer suspected a careless extraction. He suspected a rushed extraction. A theft?
He remembered Father Donovan's expression when he opened the crate-- anxiety...and something else playing in his eyes. The crate's Eurostar shipping label was still imprinted into his brain. Bari, the final resting place of Saint Nicholas. The vibrant tourist spot on Italy's east coast faced the Adriatic with direct sea routes to the Mediterranean...and Israel. Bari was 500 kilometers from Rome-- probably less than five hours by rail, he guessed. But it had to be at least 2000 kilometers from Israel.
You'd need an awfully fast boat for that, he thought. But cruising at twenty knots-- just over thirty-seven kilometers an hour-- it was manageable in perhaps two days. Conservatively allowing for two and a half days at sea and another half day traversing Italy, the shipment fitted comfortably into the time frame.
He went back to the news article. Thirteen Israeli soldiers killed. The thieves had been sophisticated and no meaningful clues had been found.
Was the Vatican really capable of pulling off an operation like that? But an Israeli helicopter employed in the theft? It didn't make sense. Certainly Father Donovan-- a cleric for Christ's sake!-- wasn't capable of such a thing.
But Salvatore Conte...He eyed the photofit again and felt nothing but fear.
Bersei considered a second theory. Maybe the Vatican had bought the ossuary from whoever stole it and had been unwittingly caught up in the incident? Even so, that could prove very problematic for the Vatican. They could be drawn into this mess as an accomplice. One thing was certain: somehow the relics sitting in the Vatican basement had a very questionable procurement.
He wrestled with how to deal with all this. Should he consult with Charlotte? Or should he go to the authorities.
You can't make wild claims without adequate proof, he told himself.
Setting the paper down, Giovanni went over to the phone and asked the operator to connect him to the local substation for the Carabiniere-- Italy's military police force that walked the streets of Rome with submachine guns as if the city was under a constant state of martial law. A young male voice picked up the call and Giovanni requested to speak with the resident detective. After a few brief questions, the young man informed Giovanni that he'd need to speak with Detective Armando Perardi who wasn't expected in the office until nine-thirty.
"Can I have his voice mail, please?" Giovanni requested in Italian.
The line clicked and went silent for a few seconds before Detective Perardi's glum greeting came on. Giovanni waited for the tone, then left a brief message, requesting a meeting later in the morning to discuss a possible Roman link to the theft in Jerusalem. He left his mobile phone number. For now, he didn't make any reference to the Vatican. That would only confuse the issue since the Vatican was its own country. Ending the call, Bersei hurried upstairs to put on his clothes. He would need to act quickly.
* * *
Parking his Vespa in the personnel parking lot outside the Vatican Museum, Giovanni quickly made his way through the Pio Christian gallery's rear service entrance.
As the elevator doors opened into the basement corridor, he experienced a wave of panic, hoping that no one else had decided to come in early this morning. He checked his watch-- 7:32.
What he needed to do had to be done alone. Charlotte Hennesey couldn't be dragged into this. After all, what if he was wrong?
As he moved out of the elevator, the corridor seemed to come alive, as if he were Jonah being swallowed by the whale. He lightly treaded his way to the lab and used his keycard to unlock the door. Looking over his shoulder to see that the corridor was still clear, he ducked insi
de and went directly to the workstation.
The spikes and coins sat on the tray. Beside them lay the last of the ossuary's mysteries-- the scroll cylinder. There was something about it that stirred him. If his foreboding about all of this were correct, there'd be no future opportunity to read it. And something prompted him that it contained critical clues about the relic's provenance.
Careful study of the ossuary and its relics had left him in little doubt that the ossuary originated from Israel. The stone and patina were both specific to the region. He eyed the skeleton laid out on the workstation-- the bones, too, supported the relic's provenance. Crucifixions had been commonplace in Judea during the first century. And studying the ossuary one last time, he ran his fingers over the early Christian symbol for Christ-- the very thing that had broken down his final wall of doubt.
All were damning facts, pointing to the Vatican. Bersei punished himself for not making the connection sooner. But it had all seemed too fantastic.
From the tray, he picked up the cylinder and removed the unsealed cap. Then he teased out the scroll. As he gently unfurled the calfskin his heart was pounding. Glancing quickly around the room, he swore he felt invisible eyes boring into him.
Lingering questions bothered him. How could such a profound discovery have remained secret for so long? If the bones were truly those of Jesus-- or even one of his contemporaries-- why hadn't it ever been documented? And no matter who this man had been, how was it that the Vatican had discovered the secret only now, two thousand years later?
The Sacred Bones Page 22