The Templar Thief: Peter Sparke book 4

by Scott Chapman

  "I think that some of his required miracles were questioned. Technically, the case is still under appeal."

  "After eight hundred years?"

  "From what I understand, the request to appeal was approved, but no one has ever prosecuted it. It is the way of the Vatican. They only reversed their conviction of Galileo for saying that the earth was not the center of the universe a few years ago."

  "Does the library in Florence have details of Fra Muratore's life?" asked Tilly in the front passenger seat of the Fiat.

  "Any that might exist. Certainly they have a folio on him."

  The car sped through the streets of Florence until it raced down a long, open street running parallel to the river Arno, and halted in front of the imposing facade of the Biblioteca Nationale.

  "Nice building," said Sparke.

  "Nice to look at. But for modern research? Not so good," said Marco. "Most of the real academic work is done in the new annex, but many of the minor folios are still kept here."

  Even at ten o'clock in the morning, the heat was taking over Florence and, within a few seconds of leaving the car, Sparke could feel himself sweating through his casual shirt. Marco locked the car and stopped in the full glare of the sun to light a cigarette.

  "I love the sun," said Tilly, squinting through her sunglasses at the view on the opposite bank of the river, dominated by a Medici villa and a hill full of cedar trees.

  "It suits you," said Marco, smiling.

  They walked past the main door and entered the building through a staff entrance at the side. There was a security point, but a short, loud conversation with Marco seemed enough qualification for the three of them to gain entry.

  From Sparke's perspective, Marco seemed to know at least half of the people they encountered as they wandered through the maze of the library's underbelly, and everyone needed a conversation of several minutes. Tilly was greeted by everyone effusively, Sparke politely. As they wound their way through a maze of corridors and passageways inside the building, Sparke glanced down at his phone, realizing that it had been switched off all day. He turned it on and saw that he had four missed calls, all from Karin.

  Eventually, they arrived at a small office where Marco and the office occupant, an academic, greeted each other. Marco introduced them both and the man gestured towards chairs squeezed around his desk.

  "You have an interest in Fra Muratore, I understand?" he said. "A very specialist topic, but not a rich area for study. I have the folio here."

  The folder on his desk was thin.

  "Would it make sense to show you what we have?" said Tilly, reaching into her bag. She laid out three photographs of the medal which had been discovered on the wreck of the Carloway Cog. She then flipped open her computer to show a 3D model of the object.

  The Professor studied the images and the model for several minutes, stopping to speak several times with Marco.

  "It is a little unusual, certainly, but probably not very interesting in historical terms," he said.

  "We thought it might have been a pilgrim's medallion," said Tilly.

  "No, not likely at all. This figure was not of enough importance to attract pilgrims and anyway, this is not a pilgrim medallion in style. Look," he pointed to the 3D image, "you see, it is well made and very finely finished. If your measurements are correct, it seems to be too heavy. This is a piece of personal jewelry. Probably a small gift, perhaps a family connection, a merchant who wanted a keepsake from his home town."

  "You say that it is well made?" said Sparke.

  "Yes, but not valuable, silver I would assume." He looked at Tilly who nodded. "But made by a craftsman."

  "Something that an ordinary person would own," said Sparke. "Perhaps a sailor, or a laborer?"

  "Not at all, this was probably made for its original owner, not for sale in a market. But of course that does not mean that the person who lost it on your ship was the person it was made for."

  "It could have changed hands, obviously," said Sparke, "been lost, stolen, sold."

  "A thing like this will last a lot longer than the person it was made for," said the Professor.

  Marco looked at Tilly. "And what do you think, Tilly?" he said.

  "Oh, I'm with Peter. The more we know about the context the better. Professor, have you any thoughts on the other items that were found in the wreck?"

  The academic took the list of finds Tilly passed to him and read through it slowly.

  "An interesting collection. Nothing after late thirteenth century, mostly coins from the Siena region and gold coins from the Crusader states in the Holy Land, specifically Templar tournois pieces. I see some interesting work to be done on the coins, but your medal, I'm afraid, is probably nothing of any significance." He sat back in his chair and picked up the thin file from his desk.

  "We have made copies of everything we have on Fra Muratore," he said.

  "That's very kind of you," said Tilly.

  "Nothing at all. Perhaps, one day we might visit you and have the chance to examine some of your famous discoveries from your find in the Scottish Highlands?"

  "Of course, we would be happy to welcome you, but the find was not mine. In fact it was discovered by Peter, here."

  Both the academic and Marco turned and stared openly at Sparke, who fixed his eyes on the desk in front of him and said nothing. A slightly embarrassed silence filled the small office until Marco began the lengthy process of offering thanks and suggesting coffee.

  "I didn't mean to embarrass you," said Tilly, as they walked through the streets of Florence towards a cafe which Marco held in particular esteem. "I never thought you might not want me to mention that you were the one who found the Vault."

  "It's just me being stupid," said Sparke. "I have no desire to attempt to hold my own in any discussion with professionals. I would be happiest if I can remain a silent amateur."

  "Amateur?" said Marco, who was standing in front of the cafe.

  "Yes, I am not a historian and don't want to pretend to be one."

  "Not at all," said Marco. "Amateurs often have an interesting perspective. What do you think of what we heard in our meeting today?"

  Sparke glanced towards Tilly, paused, then said, "There are some things we know, and some things that might be reasonable. We know that a medallion of Fra Muratore was found in a shipwreck off the extreme north western coast of Scotland along with coins from medieval Italy and the Crusader States. The medallion almost certainly belonged, at some point, to a person of some standing from the region of Radda. Either all of this means nothing, or it means something. If it means something, then it suggests that someone of reasonable importance from the town found himself on business which could have involved Templar funding."

  Marco smiled. "That is the joy of not being restrained by professional thinking. You can allow yourself an open imagination. But, of course, there is no evidence here at all for your scenario. Wouldn't you say, Tilly?"

  Both men looked at her, and she appeared unusually uncomfortable.

  "We do have to be careful that we only consider facts."

  The three stood on the pavement, an awkward silence enveloping them.

  "And now," said Marco, "some coffee. We can toast the joy of the amateur mind."

  Death and the Bishop

  Some cities wake slowly, some spring into life with a burst of energy, Tripoli snapped awake like a drunk with a foul temper.

  Within an hour of the cathedral bells ringing matins, the streets were congested with traffic. People pushed each other out of the way without a glance, donkeys brayed like broken trumpets and camels sneered at everything below them, pausing occasionally to spit at the people and the city in general.

  Salvatore had stowed his pack in the small outbuilding and, as he closed the door behind him, had pulled a thread from his cloak which had, until last night, held the Templar cross in place, and fixed it between the door and the frame. Its dark thread was invisible against the old wood to anyone who was n
ot looking for it. There was nothing in his pack that could not be replaced even if it was stolen, and its contents gave no clue as to his task. Under his shirt, he had a flat, leather satchel. The contents of that could not be replaced.

  Keeping his hand on his purse, Salvatore joined the throng, pushing against the tide like a native Tripolitan.

  Although his cloak was no longer an identifiable Templar habit, it still had the look of a monk's robe. He paused at a stall selling a ragbag of clothes, all previously worn, and after twenty minutes of haggling with a foul-tempered merchant, bought a yellow sun-faded coat. He rolled his own cloak into a bundle and rejoined the endless flow of people, feeling almost flamboyantly dressed with his shaved face and civilian garb. No one gave him a second look.

  The main door to the cathedral was open and the moving mass of people spilled into the building. The noise inside was almost as loud as it was in the streets outside. Mass was being said and Salvatore pushed his way towards the front of the crowd, crossed himself and knelt, unable to hear the priest over the endless conversations of his fellow worshipers.

  The inside of the cathedral was as plain and functional as the outside. There were few decorations. The windows were small and high.

  Eventually, a hand bell was rung and the priest blessed his flock and disappeared into a room at the rear of the altar. At this, the crowd suddenly turned and began to squeeze its way through the bottleneck of the main door. Salvatore and a few dozen others whose sins and fears were greater than the rest remained, leaving the cavernous building almost quiet.

  Despite the size of the hall, there were only a few rough benches near the front. On both sides were enclosed seating areas where the great and the wealthy could hear mass without the risk of coming too close to the common herd.

  Salvatore's first objective was to find the tomb. His second was to make sure that no one saw him paying any attention to it. He moved his position to the front of the church and sat down on the far left of one of the benches. Hunched over, as though in prayer, he glanced into the large, gloomy alcove set into the wall. It was perhaps three yards wide and four in depth. The rear of the alcove was the main wall of the church; on either side stone partitions rose about fifteen feet, then tapered into the wall. Above the tomb, the room soared directly to the roof. There were no balconies or other overhanging structures.

  The tomb itself was topped by a full-size effigy of the knight and stood five feet high. In the functional surroundings of the church, it stood out as being of elaborate quality. The floor was as solid and unremarkable as the rest of the building.

  Tripoli was built on solid rock and Salvatore had noticed on his first inspection of the outside of the building that there were no steps leading down to any cellar or basement. The tomb stood on solid stone with stone walls on each side.

  Rising from his position, Salvatore began a slow walk around the inside of the building, making sure that he did not slow as he passed the mausoleum. As he reached the front door, he saw the figure of the priest who had officiated at the mass.

  "A fine Mass, Father," he said.

  The priest did not appear to be used to casual compliments and stared blankly at Salvatore.

  "I have had a long and difficult journey," said Salvatore. "I have much to be grateful for, and I made a pledge to make donation to the cathedral of Tripoli if I arrived safely."

  "A donation?"

  "I thought I might meet with the Bishop, to gain his blessing for the rest of my journey and to offer my thanks through some small financial support for your great work."

  "You have business with the Bishop?" said the priest, dubiously looking at the shabby yellow coat and sword. Poor knights were ten a penny in Tripoli.

  "I hoped to meet him. Perhaps I can begin by offering a small donation, a small token to you for your fine work and great assistance."

  The priest pursed his lips. "Charitable donations to the Church are always a good step on the path to salvation."

  Salvatore reached out with two coins. The priest's hand shot out to receive them. Salvatore hesitated for a moment, fixing his eye on the face of the priest before dropping the coins into his hand which immediately disappeared into his threadbare robe.

  "Your donation can be discussed with the Deacon. The Bishop is not in Tripoli."

  "He is travelling?"

  "Grave news, I'm afraid. We fear greatly for him."

  "Where is he?"

  "He left for the interior four days ago," said the priest. "We hear that his caravan was attacked by Saracen bandits. Some of his party escaped and returned to the city, but we fear His Grace may be lost."

  "And if His Grace is gone, who is responsible for the business of the cathedral?"

  "If, and let us pray that this is not the case, His Grace is dead, we must wait until a new bishop is appointed. No decisions may be made except by the Bishop."

  The priest turned to look at Salvatore only to see his back as he walked out of the main church door and into the thronging streets outside.

  To Siena

  "You seem very quiet," said Tilly as they walked into the foyer of their hotel.

  "Really?" said Sparke.

  "Hmm, well, you haven't said a word since we left Florence so, I would call that quiet."

  "I suppose I have been thinking about what we talked about. I mean, Marco is right. This is not a field for amateurs to be bumbling around in. I don't have the first clue about academic history."

  "Don't talk rubbish. You’ve done some great things. It was you who discovered the Templar Vault and you carried out some great research in Turkey that is still being worked on by experts. You have a track record any professional would give their eye teeth for."

  "But it's not my job. I had a job, one that I was good at, and there was never any chance that I could have been considered an amateur at that by anyone. I lost it thanks to me clowning around like some sort of Sunday morning detective. Now I am an enthusiastic person with a hobby. Can you imagine how you would feel if, all of a sudden, you weren't a history professor? I spent my life building a career as a crisis manager and now that's gone. I didn't quit my job. They fired me. So I need to find a new life and I need to work out where to begin. And that isn’t being an amateur amongst professionals."

  "Marco didn't mean anything when he said you had the perspective of an amateur. He was trying to be nice."

  "If he was trying to be nice to anyone it was you, not me."

  "Don't be silly."

  "There is nothing silly about it," said Sparke. "I am now an enthusiastic amateur history hobbyist, and I don’t like it.”

  "A very rich hobbyist."

  "That's another thing, why am I doing this at all? This is the sort of thing that professionals like you and your pal Marco do for a living. I should be sitting by a pool or buying sports cars or something."

  "Now you sound like a rich bloke feeling sorry for yourself."

  "Sorry for myself," said Sparke, sharply, "you asked me how I felt and then you tell me I'm feeling sorry for myself?"

  "OK, forget about it. Let's get changed and go for a glass of wine."

  "Maybe we should forget about it. I mean, I've been trying to pretend that my life is just the same, but it's not. I’ve got a fortune coming to me in finder’s fee from the Government. I never need to work again and I haven’t given a thought to what that really means."

  "What does it mean?"

  "It means I need to give some thought to what I plan to do with the rest of my life, that's all."

  "So, take some time out and think about it," she said.

  "I think that's what I plan to do. Perhaps now is as good a time as any."

  "What do you mean?"

  "I mean, here I am in the most beautiful countryside in the world, no need to go anywhere, nothing I need to do, you have what you need in terms of some interesting facts about the connection between your wreck and Fra Muratore. Maybe I should take some time out and see Tuscany."

 
"I thought that's what we were doing."

  "I mean like a tourist, travel around a bit, take some tours, be a tourist. I only saw one building in Florence today, maybe I should take my time and see Siena properly."

  "I still need to spend some time taking photographs around here and do a little digging with Marco on the families who ran the city in the late thirteenth century," said Tilly.

  "I know. Perhaps I should get out of your hair while you both work."

  Tilly looked at Sparke in the cool reception area of the hotel.

  "If that's what you want," she said.

  Sparke thought for a moment. He had spent his professional life making major decisions in crisis management situations and was renowned as a planning expert. This decision was one for which he had little experience to fall back on.

  "I think I will grab my stuff and try being a tourist for a while,' he said. “Let’s talk once you are back in Scotland and you can tell me how your research with Marco worked out."

  The pair stood stiffly across from each other. Sparke hesitated, not sure of the process he should go through to say goodbye.

  "OK, well, let's talk soon then," he said. He smiled stiffly, then turned and walked up the stairs, two at a time, leaving Tilly alone.

  It took an hour to pack and to organize a taxi, then another half hour of driving along winding Tuscan roads until he found himself on the outskirts of Siena.

  "Which hotel?" asked the driver.

  "No idea," said Sparke. "Just drop me in the center, thanks."

  "No possible," said the driver. "Taxis not allowed in town."

  "Then just take me as close as you can."

  The driver dropped Sparke at a medieval city gate, the Porta Pispini. He hefted his small bag onto his shoulder and walked through the towering walls and into a city that seemed almost untouched by time.

  The cool, narrow streets were filled with people, some tourists, but many locals, all of whom seemed to be either greeting each other or engaged in long conversations. He walked up the sloping road alone with his bag.

  After walking a few hundred yards, he passed rows of shops and restaurants and then, off to his right, he saw a small group of metal chairs outside a coffee shop. He dropped his bag, ordered a double espresso and pastry and sat down, looking across the Piazza Indipenza at the tiny city buses that used the square as a terminus.