“The prestige and power of the Templars, impressed many in Outremer and other militant orders of warrior monks arose to fill the demand. The second was the Order of the Knights of St John of the Hospital. The Hospitallers, as they came to be called, were originally a mendicant charity who cared for pilgrims. Considering the parlous state of crusader defences, that duty soon extended to protection and so it grew in importance and in time became a serious rival to the Templars in the Holy Land.”
A selection of different shots highlighted the differences in uniform between the white of the Templars and the black of the Hospitallers, and so having settled the basics, he moved on to the root of the lecture.
“War is an expensive pastime of princes. Although they may look a tad primitive in suits of mail, with only a shield, sword, lance and horse, you have to consider that each crusader knight was the equivalent of a modern Abrams battle tank in both effect and cost. I’m sure, as commerce students, you are all aware of the horrendous multi billion dollar debt the United States is building up over supporting its forces in Iraq. Well, the Militant Orders of the Templars and Hospitallers faced the same problems, reinforcing their castles and garrisons of Outremer, from their bases in France, Germany and England. As distance increases so does the cost. You could have ten knights in say, Anjou in France, for the price of one facing the Saracens in Outremer, after you deduct fodder, wages, equipment and transport.”
Peter always hoped that one scotched the persistent questions over Templar wealth that had fuelled so much wild speculation.
“What about National Treasure?” A call from the back seats of the hall set all the students sniggering.
No, apparently it didn’t. He shook his head, gave a sigh and paused the display. “Nicolas Cage’s film is an excellent piece of adventure theatre and work of fiction. Sorry to disappoint you, but let’s go through a few simple facts.”
Peter held up his hand before the audience and ticked off his first finger. “Any treasure found in Jerusalem by the crusaders was automatically recycled into coin to pay for mundane things like mercenaries, castles and bribes. Secondly, the discovery of any sacred treasures or items would have been publicised all over the west as justification for the crusade and as a display of the Lord God’s approval. Thirdly, if you accept the bizarre supposition that the Templars secretly sailed to a distant shore in the Americas, then one or two events occur; they find nothing in the north and go home. Or, if they by chance discovered the riches of Mexico, we’d have had crusades launched against the gold rich pagan Mixtecs as soon as the boats could be built.”
Peter had always found those arguments of the Templars travelling everywhere ridiculous. Strangely, the authors always found ‘evidence’ that perfectly fitted their original theory - amazingly prescient of them!
“What about the Holy Grail?” Louder than the previous question, this one caused an explosion of laughter through the lecture hall.
Peter couldn’t be sure, but the call from the back sounded like the first interjector. He frowned in exasperation, suppressed a groan, then shook his head. Students were supposed to ask questions. That was how they learned, but why did they have to be such stupid ones? He paused for a moment trying to translate high school level history into something simple a commerce student would understand.
“All right, let’s lose the Monty Python stuff or the Robin Hood you watch on the tellie. The Templars were the elite warriors of their time, a synthesis of the French Foreign Legion and the US Marines. As killers and experts in warfare, they have no equals and then marry that with the financial network and ethics of any famous Wall Street institution like Lehman Brothers.” He let those concepts percolate through the assembly before giving a final boot to the Holy Grail idea.
“Where as a Lehman Brothers type merchant bank may have a copy of a secret bible in its vaults, you will agree that they’re more concerned with its asset value than any revelation it may contain.”
That seemed to work, well that was to say, he didn’t have anymore interjections so Peter continued the lecture outlining the network that the Templars created across Europe and the Mediterranean for trade and finance. He wound up the lecture by referring to the increasingly bitter rivalry with Hospitallers that led to open warfare in the few remaining cities of Outremer. The last set of slides Peter felt were particularly good thanks to shots from the film Kingdom of Heaven, as he related the story of the siege and storming of Acre by the Mamluke sultan Baybars in 1291 that effectively ended Templar presence in the east.
So for this set of students the crusades were over. He reminded them of assignments due after the break, before being mobbed by the usual petitioners for extensions. His instincts must have been skewed by last night’s drinking session, this looked like being an easy day and from tomorrow he had a fortnight off to laze on the beach.
YEEEEAAAH!!!
Chapter 3 A Simple Task
“DAMN, DAMN, DAMN BLOODY FLIP, FLIPPER AND FLIPPING HELL!!!!!!!”
It was a slowly repeated litany as Peter drove north on the A1, past Brisbane, heading up towards his assigned destination of Gympie. This was supposed to be his flippin’ break! He should be on the flipping Beach! Eyeing cute bikini clad Aussie girls! No, that just wasn’t going to happen!
BUGGER Adams!
BUGGER Jacobs!
BUGGER Bloody Wallingham!
And the whole rabbit-hearted pack of scrotes at the Commerce faculty with a barbed wire wrapped pole, up the cloaca, the conniving pack of PRICKS!
He should have known that yesterday had been too easy. He finished the morning lecture, ran a couple of tutorials filled with bored students as eager as he was for the coming break, then off to his shared office to review the last set of assignments, nothing too taxing before shooting off up the coast for sun, sand and bikini spotting.
That was the plan. Then the reality drive of Skaze University kicked in. As he’d passed the faculty reception counter, Mira, the office secretary, beckoned him over, and in hushed respectful tones informed him that the Vice Chancellor himself had requested his presence this afternoon, if he could manage it. Peter felt a sudden chill unrelated to the, in theory, cooler weather of the Gold Coast winter. So far apart from a brief welcome he had managed to avoid the Master of Skaze.
Dr William Wilberforce Adams was an academic of formidable reputation. In his prior capacity, as an econometrician, he had served as a key adviser to the Prime Minister and Cabinet of Australia. To the Commerce faculty he was nothing less than a hero, whose feats of privatisation of several government institutions of significant value were talked about in worshipful awe amongst the denizens of the latte set. This deified status had been made apparent to Peter soon after his arrival when he’d been invited to a faculty barbeque, at the Dean’s residence, set amongst the green clad hills to the west of Surfers.
It was an imposing mansion recessed into the hill on three levels with a garden edged glade the size of a football field. If the sheer expanse wasn’t enough of a statement, the arena also contained a sparking pool in the centre and an undercover, lavish outdoor entertaining plaza, complete with gushing fountain and a barbeque big enough to roast an ox. As a scenic view point it was unparalleled. You could sit back in one of decor style sun chairs and sip Chardonnay while looking over the glitzy sparkle of the Esplanade to the wide blue ocean beyond. It was impressive and distinctly up market compared with the kind of academics’ dwellings he’d seen in Canberra, which could be best described as ‘quaint older style residence’ or perhaps a ‘suburban charmer, suit handyman’. The pay scale here must be significantly better than further south.
Once the introductions had been concluded in the mansion’s atrium during which he’d tried very hard not to remember the University of Woolloomooloo skit by Monty Python with all the Bruces, Peter was hauled down to the expanse of poolside, nicely complimented by a cluster of bikini clad ‘associates’ draped along pool lounges. Dragging his eyes away from the scenery he then observ
ed a whole host of bizarre rituals to do with beer, charred meat, Chardonnay and the discussion of real estate options. Then to round off a very Dali-esque week, Peter looked on bemused as the assembled economists and financial experts sang a hymn of praise to Dr Adams, thanking him for their brimming share portfolios before a universal cheer had them draining their drinks with a distinctly Russian gusto.
That’s when Peter had his first doubts about the transfer. Why was a history lecturer being ensconced amongst the proponents of modern corporate management? Had the paperwork for his transfer been misdirected? Shouldn’t he be over in Communication or Arts?
That misapprehension was soon sorted in a most abrupt and disturbing manner. Being a newly arrived Pommie bastard, (for any who don’t comprehend the Aussies’ use of metaphor, they tend to use that vile insult in the most affectionate manner even referring to their dearest friends as old bastards) and supposing him unacquainted with the local culture, Peter was singled out as an easy mark to roll while tanked up on XXXX, a local Queensland lager of mild potency and adequate taste.
That was a very stupid move. Back home in Blighty, Peter had no trouble in bending the wrist and his hosts would have been stunned to hear of the many and varied alcoholic concoctions he worked through as an aficionado of small breweries and home distilling. Amongst the most memorable were Carrot Whisky, a cheeky little number that after a few years in the barrel was capable of convincing anyone to dance on the table after only two glasses, though it tended to make one fall over legless by the fourth, not to mention a mature batch of Raspberry Suicide of three month vintage left the fresh summery taste on the tongue while delivering the full toe curling assault of a hundred and forty proof. That didn’t even take into account the lethal Somerset tradition of scrumping and applejack producing, from the humble apple, a drink of legendary status. So the quaint quaffing of the Aussie beer left him slightly blurred and mostly sober, a condition that seemed to slip the notice of his hosts.
As he was taking a closer look at some wildly colourful plant that looked like a cross between an outraged galah and a green hedgehog, the first interrogator sidled up, a friendly gentleman with a warm damp handshake and a smile bigger than Luna Park. He called himself Barrie Hendricks and stated proudly that he headed the CAP division of the faculty. To a historian like Peter that could have meant anything, such as Cloacae Aurelaius Piscum or as he figured out later, Creative Accounting Practioners, so he wasn’t that far of the mark. Well after the usual effusive welcomes and clashing of stubbie holders, (that was weird, a stubbie holder was an insulated sleeve to put your can of beer or short glass bottle in – as it barely stayed in the can long enough to loose its chill what was the point?).
So as soon as this greeting ritual was concluded and they’d downed the first gurgle, his new good mate Barrie started pumping him for information, at first just simple things, like how well did Peter know the vice chancellor back at Portlee and the usual casual questions about family and ranking in the university hierarchy. Now a note to those unblessed with a university experience, nothing was dearer to the heart of a denizen in the hallowed halls than their place in the food chain. So nothing special or extraordinary and after a few more polite queries, Barrie moved off leaving the field for the next off the rank, a cheery economics professor named Rob Charlton. His visitation was a memorable event that lingered long afterwards. Professor Charlton was outstanding in many fields, a man of singular demeanor and dress sense, that is if one considered it’s definition as including the profile of an aardvark, dressed in a lurid Hawaiian shirt, tight crotch-hugging khaki shorts and long white socks sporting open toed leather loafers. Even to a non Sloane Ranger like Peter, it was as far distant from the démodé of fashion as cosmically possible.
Well Peter must have missed something, an arcane signal or telepathic switch, for one moment he was happily chatting about his research thesis, when Charlton moved into a directly inquisitorial line of questioning. In ordinary circumstances it was a masterful piece of cross examination, as Professor Charlton probed and delved into all the facets of Portlee under the current administration. If Peter had been a naive undergraduate, then within minutes he’d have been a smear on the windscreen of this relentless juggernaut. As it was he felt that he’d given a good impression of amiable befuddledness, without revealing anything more than common rumour.
Finally satisfied with his effort, Professor Charlton gave a pleasant smile and merged back into the scrum surrounding the sizzling meat and Peter took a deep breath as two more jovial finance lecturers engaged him in a tag team round of pointed questions, to do with Portlee’s fiscal status and trust accounts.
His chance of escape came when another grinning faculty member, waving a pair of glasses, and a full bottle of Sparkling white, approached. Giving a cheery wave to his next inquisitor, Peter made the excuse that he had to, as the Aussies called it ‘bleed the lizard’ and made his wavering way towards the main house, giving the lounging bikinis a really good inspection. He mustn’t have paid much attention to the layout. He entered a glass sliding door, walked through some kind of a sunroom down a corridor and then got completely lost before stumbling into a well appointed study.
The dean appeared to like art. He had every free inch of wall space festooned with paintings In pride of place was a luridly colourful landscape of the Australian bush, featuring a clump of white gum trees foregrounding a saw tooth ridge of ochre red. Stunning and dramatic but not what he was after. Luckily a discreet doorway camouflaged by a bookcase brimming with corporate law tomes led into an ensuite bathroom.
Peter took his ease in the white tiled splendour, reveling in the cool quietness of contemplation, away from the pack of overly inquisitive academics. He’d expected a bit of curiosity and he knew from last time that Aussies were a fairly friendly, open bunch. Perhaps a visiting Brit was a singular curiosity at Skaze University. He’d a’ thought that with cheap airfares and the advances of the internet, their hysteria of cultural isolation would have lessened, though from what he’d encountered today apparently not enough.
“Come in and have a look at this, John. I picked it up at an auction last week in Brissie.” The voice boomed into the silence of contemplation, and Peter nervously edged the door closed with his foot as a second voice filled the empty space.
“Gerald you old bastard! How the hell did you come across that? I though all those paintings had been snapped up years ago!”
“Nah. Found it at a deceased estate sale one of my students mentioned. You wouldn’t believe what I paid for it! Just five hundred!” The swelling pride and satisfaction of the tone was obvious. Peter didn’t need to see the speaker to realise how wide he was grinning over his acquisition.
“Come on, don’t give me that bullshit. You couldn’t have! Christ, the last Namatjira sold at Sotheby’s in Sydney for sixty thou! You lucky bastard. Let me know the next time you score a strike like that!” The second speaker was also as easy to read. His reply combined envy and chagrin in equal measure over his friend’s triumph.
“It’s all down to who you know. Remember Parkinson? Well, his son’s in my business management unit and wouldn’t you know it, old Parkinson made senior partner last year. Now he handles most of the deceased estates and nursing home admissions for southern Brisbane, so I always get advanced notice if anything interesting crops up. Tell you what, help out with this little task of Adam’s and I’ll bring you in.”
“Is this to do with that Pommie historian we’ve been lumbered with?”
“Yeah. Adam’s wants him watched.”
“What the hell for? He looks pretty harmless to me, your usual dozy pom. Give him a warm beer and a pair of tits to ogle and he’s happy.”
“The Vice Chancellor doesn’t think so. This one’s got a bit of history. According to a mate of mine down in Canberra, when Wilks was last here he sprung some scam the archaeology department were running down at Central Uni. Resignations and forced retirements all round. Then a month ago
he was involved in some scandal that rocked Portlee Uni, and his history faculty was taken over by Wallingham’s pet dean. After that, Wilks gets sent here.”
“What the fuck do you think he’s here for?”
“Well it isn’t for the sun and the beaches. Adam’s reckons he’s some kind of agent provocateur, working for Wallingham. He gets sent in to do over faculties. Only an idiot would believe that stupid cover story about his thesis upsetting a whole swag of Pommie profs.”
“Oh shit! You don’t think he knows anything, do you?”
“That’s why we get the pleasure of his company for the duration of his stay. We milk the sucker dry and see what he’s after. Adams’ has already placed him on every committee possible, as well as a few other surprises.”
“Awwh crap, the poor bugger. Committee hell! I almost feel sorry for him.”
“I wouldn’t bother. Just sit back and watch the fun. Anyway, I’ve got to take you upstairs. Cheryl’ll be pissed off if I don’t show you the new kitchen. It’s all done out in black marble, expensive as all get out, but it’ll keep her happy and away from the Visa card for awhile.”
The chatty voices disappeared back down the corridor, obviously gone to admire the new kitchen bench top, and Peter released a long pent up breath, which in itself was a good thing since he’d found he’d been biting his finger and it bloody hurt! He slumped back on the porcelain throne with a despairing shrug. Well that at least explained his cross examining, but it didn’t make his situation here any better. In fact it made it a great deal worse. If he had even a smidgen of commonsense, he’d take a taxi out of here and immediately jump on the next plane back to dear old England.
Terra Australis Templar (A Peter Wilks Archaeological Mystery) Page 5