“Sir?”
“When I visited your father’s estate, I had just returned from the Vatican. There the pope himself showed me proof—a batch of letters written by priests who secreted the relics out of the city when it was besieged and the Temple destroyed. For years they kept them safe, always on the move, often hidden in nothing more than primitive caves. As the years passed, the priests recruited new members to their group to keep the relics safe. Their goal was to rebuild the Temple and return the artifacts to safety. And it would appear from the letters they were successful.”
“But where?” I did not say it, but it seemed to me that Sir Hughes was placing a great amount of faith in some old letters written by a group of questionable guardians.
“Right here,” he said, patting the bricks. “Behind this wall.”
Digging
Sir Hughes and I went to work on the bricks with our daggers, carefully chipping away at the mortar between them. For hours that night we worked in the glowing torchlight. You must understand. It’s different now. We put all of our most valuable things—works of art, antiques, documents like the Constitution and the Declaration of Independence—in museums and carefully built archives.
In those days, nothing like that existed. There were paintings and statues adorning buildings. The temple itself was decorated with tapestries and other works of art. But to find the Ark of the Covenant? The One True Cross? The Holy Grail? To discover that the most sacred relics in all of Christendom not only existed, but to set eyes on them? The possibility was too exciting.
“My measuring and pacing, which looked so strange to you, led me here,” Sir Hughes said as we worked. “I discovered that this interior wall stops nearly twenty paces short of the exterior wall. There is no door or entrance. I believe it encloses a hidden room. Someone went to a great deal of trouble to conceal it. And why would they do that if not to hide something valuable? It does not conceal a column or support the weight of the roof. I can find no other architectural reason for this space to exist. It must be here for some other purpose. What if it is true, young Borneo? What if we are about to make the greatest discovery yet made by mortal men?”
His excitement was infectious. Croc seemed to sense my exhilaration and as we worked, he paced about, keeping watch and sniffing the air, ready to warn us should anyone approach. Sir Hughes told me more of what he learned by poring over documents in Rome. After a while, his story started to sound plausible. He had found multiple sources, different texts and scrolls that pointed toward a small group of men who had spirited the relics away hundreds of years ago and then secretly restored them to the Temple when it was rebuilt.
It had been much harder and more tedious work to remove the bricks than it would have been to knock the wall down. But as Sir Hughes explained, the Temple was one of the holiest places in Jerusalem. What we were doing, if we were wrong, bordered on desecration. Still, as we stood there soaked in sweat from work and anticipation, we cast our torches about, expecting to find a vast store of relics.
We finally removed enough bricks to see that there was indeed a void space behind the wall. It was a hidden room. If Sir Hughes’s information was correct it should be full of relics.
There was nothing there.
At first the disappointment was overwhelming. The room was nearly empty. A few bricks and tattered, rolled parchments were scattered about the floor. The space held no ornate cabinets that might house the One True Cross. Nor was there any sight of the Ark of the Covenant, which legend said housed the actual stone tablets upon which Moses had inscribed the Ten Commandments. Only dust and spiderwebs and our frustration occupied the room.
The flickering torchlight revealed the despair etched on Sir Hughes’s face. I understood then. He had not come to the Holy Land just to protect pilgrims. He had come for this. Fighting and defending the weak and innocent may have been his primary mission. But finding these relics was what drove him. To recover and protect them and carry on the work of the priests who had safeguarded them was his true calling. Perhaps he had even been ordered to do so by the pope himself.
We stood silent for several minutes. Sir Hughes took his torch to every corner of the room, looking for any sign that he might have been right. But it appeared as if this space had not been disturbed for dozens, if not hundreds, of years.
At first it was barely noticeable. But from someplace, either within the room or nearby, came a faint, barely audible humming. In a few seconds the noise was all around us. Croc became agitated, his superior hearing picking up the noise loud and clear.
“I assume you hear that?” Sir Hughes asked.
“Yes . . . but where is it?” I turned about, looking for the source of the strange sound.
Croc padded across the room, his paws kicking up dust. He jumped and clawed at a spot on the wall, barking and growling.
“You must keep him silent,” Sir Hughes hissed. “No one can discover us here!”
“Croc, off. To me,” I said. But it was one of the rare times Croc has ever disobeyed me. He was obsessed with something in that spot. He scratched and dug at the wall.
Then a strange glow came from a small crack in the place where he was digging. It was a faint blue, but as we drew closer to it, the color deepened. A small alcove was carved in the wall and covered with a lead panel. Either Croc had knocked it loose, or over time the panel had shifted and now the light escaped through the tiny opening. Using his dagger, Hughes pried the panel off—and there it was.
It was a cup sitting on a pedestal, and the light was coming from it. Almost as if it contained its own power source or as if a fire of some kind burned within it. It grew so bright we had to shield our eyes. Then the color faded and we were left with only the torchlight again.
“What just happened?” I asked. “What is this?”
“I do not know for certain, young Borneo,” Sir Hughes said. “But I have an idea.”
In those brief seconds my life changed forever. And it is why I sit here before you. It is why I am able to do what I do—what you call the poof! And it is why I’ve lived nearly a thousand years. More than that, I believe it is the power behind the ghost cell.
And we must find it or—through no fault of its own—it will destroy us all.
The Stuff of Legend
It was the Holy Grail.
Sir Hughes had been right. The other relics had been removed, perhaps looted or deemed too valuable to all be kept in one location. But the Grail had remained hidden in its safe spot. The light had glowed brightly for perhaps a minute. Then it dimmed, until it disappeared.
“Did you see that? What just happened?” I asked Sir Hughes, consumed with questions. My heart raced.
I know it sounds ridiculous to you now. Why would a briefly glowing light stir such a feeling in us? Again, remember this was the twelfth century. To us, what we had just seen had sparked our curiosity, mixed with a healthy dose of fear. Imagine how you might feel if a flying saucer were to suddenly appear over your head—something you clearly knew was otherworldly or outside the realm of our current level of technology and intellectual understanding. Then you might have a glimpse into our mindset at the time.
“I do not know,” Sir Hughes said. “We . . . I . . . need time to consider this.” He examined the small alcove and the panel that had concealed it. “How strange they would use lead to cover it, since there are so many other, stronger materials to keep it safe,” he muttered. “Perhaps the lead shields it in some way, keeps the light from leaking out.” He continued his examination, calmly and without haste, muttering as he looked at the cup.
“Sir Hughes, do you think . . . is it true? Could this be—” But I couldn’t say the words. Legends of the cup of Christ were too numerous to mention. But until that moment, I believed that was all they were. Legends.
Hughes gently placed the cup back in the small alcove and replaced the lead panel covering it.
“Come, young Borneo,” he said. “We must return to our barracks and sleep
on this. Perhaps the hand of God will guide us. Until then, mention this to no one, not even Quintas.”
“As you command, Sir Hughes,” I said.
When I turned toward the opening we had made in the wall, I was suddenly across the room in a heartbeat. I had been standing next to Sir Hughes at the alcove and the next instant I was at the opening itself. Much like what happened to you in Chicago, Q, I felt a wave of nausea wash over me. I vomited on the spot. My head spun and I sank to the ground. Sir Hughes rushed to my side.
“Tonye,” he said, and he almost never called me that. Always it was “young Borneo” or “Sir Borneo.”
“What happened? Are you ill? How did you do that?” He peppered me with questions I could not answer. I was too dizzy.
“I . . . I . . . do not know,” I said to him. And I didn’t. It just happened. I had been given a command, and without thinking I followed the order. Now I felt disoriented and sick.
Sir Hughes helped me through the opening. I had to wait, slumped against the wall while he worked as quickly as he could, carefully replacing the bricks we had removed.
“Are you able to walk?” he asked.
“I think so.” I was weak and shaking. Wondering if I would suddenly “jump” like I had in the chamber. Taking one last look at the wall, he took me by the arm and led me back to our sleeping quarters.
“Again, young Borneo,” he cautioned, his voice low, “you can tell no one of what we have found. And especially what happened to you. Any word of this would see us both hanged as heretics.”
I staggered to my bunk. Croc curled up at my feet. Quintas still snored away. I doubted he had stirred since I’d left a few hours earlier. I was exhausted. However, I could not sleep. By turns I was fascinated and frightened by what had happened to me. Part of me was afraid to close my eyes—worried I might wake up across the room. Or somewhere else that might require an explanation I was not prepared to give.
There was no sleeping for me that night; I tossed and turned until dawn. At first light we roused ourselves to ride out on patrol. Sir Hughes met Quintas and me at the stables. He made no mention of the night’s events. The three of us were silent as we rode out onto the main road leading west from Jerusalem. As he always did, Croc raced ahead of us, back and forth, acting as an early-warning system.
Sir Hughes was one of the best military commanders I’ve known. We were a small unit, surrounded by a superior force composed of enemies who had hated us for centuries. But Sir Hughes understood the psychological aspects of warfare.
We rode in bright white tunics with red crosses emblazoned across our chests. You could almost say they were targets. But we did not sit back and act like targets. We attacked. The bandits and tribesmen we battled were disorganized but dangerous. Sir Hughes’s tactics confounded them. Our mail, helmets, and weapons were always polished to a high sheen. Our horses were resplendent, giant destriers that also wore armor and bright white coverlets to protect them from the sun. Our appearance was a statement. Whenever we rode out of the city, Sir Hughes would repeat in Latin, Ecce ferox, saevire over and over. Loosely translated, it means “Look fierce, be fierce.” And so we did.
“Quintas?” Sir Hughes said, his eyes straight ahead, scanning the desert.
“I see them,” Quintas answered. My lack of sleep and the illness that had overcome me in the chamber left me functioning at less than peak efficiency. I glanced to my left and observed a group of raiders trailing us far across the valley floor. They were a large force, nearly thirty in number. Sir Hughes and Quintas had noticed them almost immediately. The raiders were trailing us far to our left, near the foothills, but Sir Hughes gave no indication that they had been seen. He kept us riding forward across the valley floor. Until he was ready to face them.
“Halt,” Sir Hughes said.
We reined to a stop and turned our mounts to face them. As we waited, our lances pointed skyward, Sir Hughes looked at me through the eye slit of his helmet.
“Young Borneo,” he said. “Are you ready?”
“Ready for what, Sir Hughes?”
“Battle,” he replied. Without warning, he lowered his lance, spurred his horse and charged toward their line. Quintas and I both shouted in unison, not a war cry but in surprise. We three alone had never faced so large a force.
The raiders were surprised and at first watched in amazement as these three crazed knights and a single dog bolted across the desert floor toward them. They recovered quickly and spurred their own mounts toward us. Surely we were doomed. We were outnumbered more than ten to one.
As the first raider reached Sir Hughes, he drove his lance into the man, driving him from the saddle. And as he rode among them, he took the reins in his teeth, drew his sword and struck down two more. And as he cleared their line, three men descended on him.
He disappeared.
The men were confused as his riderless horse galloped away from them. Once it was past them, Sir Hughes was suddenly on its back again. He reined the horse around and rode back into them, hacking away with his sword. The three men fell to the ground mortally wounded.
I do not know if Quintas saw what I saw, but many of the raiders did. They shouted in confusion. A small group of them had not witnessed this miraculous event, though. They came charging straight in my direction. I took down the lead rider with my lance. The second died the same way.
But the next four riders were nearly upon me. I screamed and drew my sword, ready to die.
Instead, just like Sir Hughes, I disappeared.
Secrets
When we returned to the temple that night, Sir Hughes explained to Quintas what had happened. But he did not take him to the chamber. Quintas was a devout and holy man and the three of us agreed to keep the existence of the Grail a secret. I think in truth a part of him was afraid to be exposed to it.
Quintas was also a clever man. If he were alive now I think he would be an engineer or inventor of some type. He was our X-Ray, always experimenting with weapons and the devices of the day, trying to find ways to make them better. When we described what we’d uncovered in the chamber and told him that the Grail was secreted behind lead, he was curious. In the Middle Ages lead was rarely used except as weights, anchors, that sort of thing. Quintas worked with the armorers in Jerusalem, the men who made and repaired our weapons. He knew that when you added a small amount of molten copper to melted lead, the resulting alloy gained strength and was resistant to corrosion.
He deduced that those who had guarded the Grail had chosen a plate of lead treated with copper to shield the Grail from the elements. Whether by luck or plan, the plate had also prevented the cup’s light from shining through it. But Croc had probably pawed it loose and we were unintentionally exposed to its power.
Sir Hughes decided that the Grail should be ready to be moved at a moment’s notice. If Jerusalem were overrun, leaving it in the Temple was far too dangerous. He tasked Quintas with building a container that would be portable, yet keep it safe. Furthermore, he decided that I would be the one to carry it to safety.
“There is no better rider in our group,” he said. “If all is lost, you must take it to a place where it will be safe.”
Quintas worked on this container while the rest of us fought. Sir Hughes carefully used our newfound power to build up our legend. We learned to control it. Not only that, we were soon able to blink further distances. And in doing so, Sir Hughes turned our ability into a powerful recruiting tool.
“You and I together are like one hundred knights,” he said. And indeed he was right. We would ride into the camps of our enemies and disappear before their eyes, reappearing behind them to strike them down. We would attack a small group of bandits, and a few moments later attack another force miles away. We would suddenly appear in the middle of their camp—always on foot because we could never blink with the horses—which made it seem the Templars were everywhere at once.
“When word of our victories spread, more knights will flock to our cause. Wa
tch. You’ll see,” he said.
He was right. Before long dozens, then hundreds of knights arrived in Jerusalem requesting to join the Order. Sir Hughes became the first grand master of the Knights Templar. We sent the original members back to Europe and recruited more knights, and the Order’s power and influence grew. In two years’ time, we were one of the most powerful and fearsome fighting forces in history.
Quintas invented an ingenious container to hold the Grail. It was a wooden cylinder, lined with lead. But the crowning achievement was the intricate combination he created as part of its design. One night he asked to measure my hands.
“My hands?” I said.
“Don’t ask questions. Put your hands on the parchment,” he said. Quintas could be bossy when he was working on his projects. Again, he reminded me a great deal of X-Ray.
He traced my hands with a quill dipped in ink. He was careful and meticulous.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
“You’ll see,” Quintas said. Done with his tracing, he blew the ink dry and scurried away.
A few weeks later, he summoned Sir Hughes to our quarters. It was late at night, but since our ranks had grown, there were often brother knights coming and going at all hours. We spoke in whispers.
“Something so valuable must have extra levels of protection,” Quintas said. From a cloth bag he removed the container. At the time I’d never seen anything so beautiful. It had been carved from the trunk of a pistachio tree, which is a notoriously hard wood. But somehow he found a way to carve carefully constructed grooves within it. It must have taken him hundreds of hours. He handed it to me. On top of one end he had carved the Templar seal.
“Place your left hand over the seal and your fingers in the grooves. The seal always goes in the palm of your left hand. Your right hand will fit in the grooves on the other side,” he said.
“Amazing, Quintas—you made this specifically for young Borneo?” Sir Hughes asked.
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