Thief on the Cross: Templar Secrets in America (Templars in America Series Book 2)

by David S. Brody

  NOTRE DAME BASILICA DELTA OF ENOCH

  Cam motioned to one of the basilica tour guides. “Excuse me, can you tell me how old this pulpit is?”

  The woman smiled. “The church you are standing in was built in the late 1800s. But the original structure dates back to the 1670s. This pulpit was salvaged from that structure.”

  Cam nodded. So Notre Dame Basilica was built at the same time as Bon-Secours Chapel, no doubt by the city’s Sulpician founders. The name was not surprising—the Templars almost always dedicated their churches to “Our Lady,” Notre Dame. The use of the Delta of Enoch, on the other hand, astounded him. The Delta was far more telling than the Templar crosses at Bon-Secours—at least the Templar cross was a Christian symbol. The Delta of Enoch, on the other hand, clearly evidenced Sulpician ties to the ancient Gnostic secrets and traditions. It was the type of thing that could get oneself burned at the stake.

  Cam looked again at the letters, turning his head to orient himself to read them better. With the first letter missing, the Hebrew read Hey, Vav, Hey. He zoomed in close with his camera to see if the fourth letter had faded away or been covered by the Delta’s wooden frame. But based on the spacing there was never a letter Yod there. He stared at the symbols for a few seconds, trying to make sense of them. Suddenly his neck burned. “Chava,” he whispered.

  “What was that?” Amanda asked.

  “It says Chava. The three letters. They spell Chava. And Chava is Hebrew for Eve.”

  Amanda’s eyes lit up. “Inside the sacred Delta!” she exclaimed.

  Georgia didn’t follow. “Guys, slow down.”

  Amanda explained. “Whoever built that pulpit changed the name of the divine being inside the sacred triangle from ‘Yahweh’ to ‘Eve,’ the name of the first woman. They did it very subtly, by just removing a single letter which is really no larger than an apostrophe. But there’s no doubting their meaning: They are saying that they worship the female aspect of our creator along with or even more so than the male.” Amanda motioned around her. “Look at the all the female imagery in this church, all the tributes to Mary Magdalene and of course the Virgin Mary. This church is a veritable shrine to the sacred feminine. These people were carrying on the old Gnostic traditions, the very teachings the Vatican was trying so hard to suppress.”

  Georgia nodded. “The very teachings the Templars believed in.”

  “Bloody amazing,” Amanda breathed.

  “This is all very interesting,” Georgia said after a few seconds, “and it tells us we’re on the right track, but what about the bones?”

  A tall, gray-haired priest in a long black robe appeared as if by magic from behind the wooden pulpit. He smiled kindly, his large brown eyes on Astarte and his hands clasped behind his back. “Yes, what about the bones?” he repeated, his English refined behind a French accent. “We have been asking ourselves that same question for many centuries.”

  Father Jean led the group down a side hallway toward the back of the massive basilica, speaking over his shoulder as he did so. Amanda noticed that, somehow, the massive stained glass windows glowed even in the dimming late-afternoon light. “I make a point of coming out to meet visitors who study the Delta of Enoch. It is, as you deduced, quite a unique feature of our church. For those who have eyes that see, it reveals much of our history. And of our secrets.”

  Eyes that see. What did he mean by that? In any event, Father Jean had a commanding presence—it apparently didn’t occur to him that his guests would do anything other than fall in line behind him. She took a deep breath. “Excuse me, Father, but where are you taking us?”

  Father Jean smiled; his face reminded Amanda of the handsome priest played by Richard Chamberlain in “The Thorn Birds” television miniseries she and Cam recently watched. Father Jean no doubt broke a few hearts when he joined the seminary. “Well, where would you like to go?” he asked.

  Amanda responded. “I suppose we’d like to see whatever’s left of the original structure of the church.”

  “Of course you would,” Father Jean said. “And that is precisely where I am taking you.” The priest stopped and turned. “And perhaps once I’ve earned your trust you’d be willing to show me that ancient scroll of yours?” He raised an eyebrow.

  Cam blurted out a response. “How do you know about the scroll?”

  Father Jean turned up both palms. “How else would you know about the bones?”

  Astarte liked Father Jean. He spoke to her like an adult, and when he smiled his eyes twinkled like he really meant it. Plus he was a priest in the most beautiful church in the world.

  But it surprised her that he seemed to agree with Miss Amanda and Mr. Cameron that Jesus’ bones were not in heaven. In fact, it was almost like he was expecting someone to show up looking for them here at his amazing church. How could he be a priest if he didn’t believe Jesus ascended? Astarte knew that when Jesus was resurrected it was his whole body, not just his soul, that went to heaven.

  Father Jean led them down a narrow staircase and into a hallway. Three red steel doors lined the passage; the priest unlocked the one at the far end. He pulled it open, flicked on a light switch and stepped aside. “After you,” he said. The room looked like other basements Astarte had been in, with a cement floor and pipes on the ceilings. Plus lots of cobwebs and the smell of a furnace.

  Mr. Cameron went first; Miss Amanda held Astarte’s hand and followed, with Miss Georgia behind. “Is this the original foundation?” Mr. Cameron asked. He bent low to examine the stone walls; perhaps he thought they would find more Templar crosses or other writings.

  Father Jean stood by the door. “Yes it is. In fact, during your Revolutionary War prisoners were held in this very room.” He backed away. “I regret that I am going to have to use it for that purpose again.”

  Mr. Cameron leapt for the door but Father Jean was too fast for him. He slammed it quickly and locked it. “I hope you will forgive my poor hospitality.”

  CHAPTER 19

  Cam paced the square cement room, ignoring the throbbing in his left knee. “I can’t believe I let some old priest sweet-talk us into a jail cell.” They had been in the room a half-hour. Long enough to learn the door was thick and the walls thicker. And that there was no cell coverage.

  “This is my fault,” Georgia said. “I’m supposed to be the trained operative.” She, Amanda and Astarte sat on a plank they had set between two old paint cans.

  “This is nobody’s fault. We all trusted him,” Amanda said, rubbing her hands together.

  “Not very smart of us.” Cam ran his hand through his hair. “Why would Father Jean want to help us? He’s a priest. And we found evidence his whole religion is based on a fat lie.” He turned to Georgia. “Any chance you have a weapon?”

  “No. I knew I couldn’t fly with it.” She smiled. “Besides, I didn’t plan on having to shoot you.”

  Astarte spoke, her head on Amanda’s shoulder. “What do you think he’s going to do with us?”

  The poor kid had been through so much in just three days. Cam didn’t want to scare the girl and tell her what he really thought: The priest was going to turn them over to Buckner and his goons and leave it up to them to make sure the secret stayed buried. So he lied. “Maybe he just wants to make sure we are who we say we are. Then he’s going to let us out.”

  Astarte pondered this. “No, I think he doesn’t want you telling people Jesus wasn’t really the son of God. That’s why he locked us in this room.”

  Amanda smiled. “That’s a good theory, Astarte. But I think Mr. Cameron is probably correct this time.”

  Another half-hour passed in the cramped, damp basement of the church. Cam had been busy fashioning a weapon—he pried a section of two-by-four off of a workbench and, using a piece of scrap iron as a hammer, drove some old nails through the wood so that the points extended out the back side. He also held a rag against the light bulb until it flamed, then let it smolder on the cement floor, occasionally blowing on it or add
ing sawdust to keep the weak flame alive. “I don’t want it to burn too strongly or the room will fill up with smoke,” he said. “But there’s a can of paint thinner we can use to make a mean fire bomb if we have to.” He appreciated that Amanda didn’t ask how he planned to use it without blowing them all up.

  Footsteps in the hallway. They all froze. Cam pulled the paint thinner closer to the smoldering rag and hoisted the spiked two-by-four. He motioned for everyone to move to the back of the room and unscrewed the light bulb with another rag. The world turned black. Perhaps the only thing worse than being locked up down here was being let out—who knew what kind of violent death might they face?

  A key slid into the lock. Cam wasn’t sure of an exact plan. All he knew was he wasn’t just going to allow Amanda and Astarte to be dragged away to face some staged death. The first guy would get a face full of nails. After that it would be a street brawl. And if he needed to set himself afire and throw himself at the enemy, well, so be it.

  The door creaked open a few inches. The outside hall was dimly lit. Cam waited—he needed a bigger opening to swing his club. He counted to three. Still nothing. Slowly he reached out and pushed on the door. No resistance. He took a deep breath, shoved the door open and swung the club wildly, straight down like an axe man. Whoever was standing beyond the threshold didn’t stand a chance.

  The two-by-four swished through the air and crashed against the cement floor. Cam stumbled behind it, his momentum propelling him through the doorway. His knee gave way and he skidded to the floor. A flashlight flicked on, partially blinding him. “Easy, Mr. Thorne.” Father Jean’s voice. “Put down your weapon. I am alone. I’ve come to get you. It is time to see the crypt.”

  Astarte wasn’t sure Mr. Cameron wasn’t going to try again to hit Father Jean over the head, but Miss Amanda put her hand on his shoulder and Mr. Cameron lowered the piece of wood. Astarte had never seen anyone try to hit a priest before. But she had never known a priest to lock people in a prison either.

  Father Jean led them to the steel door at the opposite end of the hallway. “I apologize for having to detain you,” he said. “But I needed to make sure your story checked out. The girl referred to you by name; I quickly found your images on the Internet. And your works. You have done some fine research.” He had turned his back on Mr. Cameron, apparently not afraid that Mr. Cameron would attack again. Astarte wasn’t so sure—he looked pretty angry still. “And I needed to be sure I was following proper protocol. You must understand, I have been waiting for this day for decades, and my predecessors for centuries before me. But I also never thought it would come.”

  “So you locked us in some … dungeon?” Miss Amanda was also pretty angry.

  “My dear. We are talking about the greatest secret in … well, in the history of the modern world. An hour locked in a basement is inconsequential. I do apologize, but I’m sure you see my point.”

  As he pushed open the door a wave of cool, dry air washed over them. “We keep the room climate-controlled.” He flicked on some lights and ushered the group into a square room that reminded Astarte of Uncle Jefferson’s underground bunker with its white walls and dark blue carpet and lack of furniture.

  A round, stone building sat in the middle of the room; it looked like something a rich person might build for his dog to live in. Astarte counted eight pillars holding up the domed roof of the little house, but the area between each of the pillars was filled in with stone so she couldn’t see any way to get inside. Each of the pillars had a Templar cross carved on it, the kind that looked like a plus sign with flared ends.

  The grown-ups all stared at the stone building and Miss Georgia’s face seemed paler than normal. Finally Miss Amanda spoke. “How long has this been here?” She didn’t sound angry any longer.

  “From the earliest days of the Basilica, sometime in the 1670s. As soon as the original church was built, this crypt was constructed here in the basement. As you know, the Sulpician order had—and still has—strong ties to the Templar families and legacy. The story that has been passed down is that two men on horseback arrived in the middle of the night carrying a satchel containing a skull and a pair of thigh bones. They deposited the bones in the crypt, the crypt was sealed, and here we are.” He smiled. “The crypt has never been moved, though as you can see we have renovated the room around it. Behind the white walls and ceiling the room is encased in thick stone. This is all that remains of the original church foundation; in fact we are not even under the existing church, we are under the street.”

  Astarte listened intently. Uncle Jefferson would have been fascinated by all this. Even if it did ruin his plans to have Astarte unite the world’s religions. But … maybe the bones didn’t ruin his plans….

  She pulled on Miss Amanda’s sleeve.

  “One second, honey.”

  “I’m sorry, but it’s very important.”

  Miss Amanda crouched to look her in the eye. “Okay, what?”

  “Uncle Jefferson taught me about DMA--”

  “Do you mean DNA?”

  She sighed. She wished she were smarter. “Yes. DNA. If these really are Jesus’ bones, would DNA prove that I am his descendant?”

  Miss Amanda blinked and then nodded. “Yes, yes it would. In fact, not only could it determine if you are his descendant, but it also could determine how closely related you are.”

  “Uncle Jefferson said I have as much of Jesus’ blood in my veins as anyone else alive.”

  “If that is so,” Amanda said as she raised an eyebrow, “then DNA testing could tell us that as well.”

  “Okay. Thank you.”

  Astarte edged away as the adults continued to talk. Turning her back, and typing as quickly as she could, she sent a text to Aunt Eliza; it would transmit as soon as they left the basement.

  Hopefully Miss Amanda and Mr. Thorne wouldn’t be too angry if they found out.

  “What about security?” Mr. Cameron asked, motioning toward the door. “That’s not much of a lock.”

  The priest shrugged. “Nobody knows what’s down here, so what’s the need for security? We tell people the bones of the architect who built the church are buried in the crypt. If we had an elaborate security system, it would just make people curious about what we might really be hiding.” He paused. “And if they did know what we were hiding, no amount of security could keep it safe.”

  Cam circled the crypt. “Is there any way to open it?” he asked.

  He meant it as more of a rhetorical question, but Father Jean answered nonetheless. “I am not a Templar Knight, so it is not for me to say.”

  Amanda turned on the priest. She was obviously still peeved about being locked up. “But it’s in your church. You’ve been its caretakers for over 300 years.” She didn’t bother to mention that neither Cam nor she were Templars either.

  “Yes, caretakers. But not owners. The only instructions that have been handed down to us through the centuries are, first, to preserve the crypt and second, to allow access to the crypt to those who have eyes that see.” He paused. “As far as I know, you are its first visitors. The first who have eyes that see.”

  “So you wouldn’t stop me if I took a chisel and tried to pry it open?” Cam asked.

  “Stop you, no. I might counsel you not to be rash, to perhaps think about the ramifications of your actions. But presumably if you are wise enough to have discovered its location, you are wise enough to … well, to not need my counsel.” He clasped his hands behind his back again and took a small step backward.

  Cam smiled at Amanda. “Well, no pressure on us, is there?”

  “If I may,” Georgia said. “I have some experience in public relations and in working with the media. I think, with Father Jean’s help, that we could pretty quickly put together a press conference that would bring enough attention to you that it would prevent Trey Buckner from … doing anything stupid.” She exhaled slowly. “But the question is, do we … or I should say do you … really want to let this cat ou
t if its bag?”

  “Yes, that is precisely the question,” Amanda answered. “What’s that line Mary Magdalene sings from Jesus Christ Superstar? ‘He’s a man. He’s just a man.’” She looked at Father Jean. “Is the world ready for Jesus to be just a man?”

  “Unless you plan to attack the crypt now with your pocket knife, I suggest we go back upstairs and discuss your next move,” Father Jean said. “And, yes, my motives are partly selfish: I am anxious to examine that scroll of yours.”

  Cam nodded. On the one hand the priest had locked them in the basement. On the other hand he had then freed them, and also showed them the crypt. And his story seemed to make sense—he wanted to make sure his visitors’ story checked out before giving away the Basilica’s centuries-old secrets. Cam decided to trust him. “Okay. And I’d like you to see the scroll. We’re not one hundred percent convinced it’s authentic—my guess is you might help with that.”

  Father Jean smiled. “You are correct. Part of the legend regarding the crypt is that the scroll will, within its text, contain a hidden authentication code.”

  Cam glanced at Amanda. This was actually good news, as it would be a check against another January hoax. Amanda was with him, plus one step ahead. “We’d like to film you examining the scroll,” she said. “No doubt later on there will be those who question both its authenticity and its provenance.”