“I’m sure there are, but we really want to take a look at this one, if that is not a problem?”
The man looked at them for a moment, and then glanced out at the car park where the Range Rover was parked. He did not build a business by being rude to strange, rich tourists. “It is not possible to drive all the way, but you can go part of the way up if you follow the road behind the barn, let me show you.”
The ground under their tires was solid, but loose, so Sparke kept the car in low gear and crept up the track. On both sides of them, deep green vines began to crowd in until they reached a point where the slope was too steep for cultivation.
The track now disappeared, but the heavy car pulled itself over the ground without apparent effort until it reached the high tree line.
“The car could keep going, but I’m not going to risk the paint job,” said Sparke, stopping the vehicle. “Any sign of a path?”
“I think we are only about a hundred meters from the top,” said Tilly. “Time for a bit of foot slogging. Are you sure you are up for this?”
“It doesn’t look too rough. I’ll give it a go.” Sparke stepped out of the car and squinted through the trees. “I’m not too sure I can help carry much, though,” he said.
“I’ve got it,” said Tilly throwing her camera bag and the pack containing her new gauge over her shoulder.
It was a twenty-minute walk through the trees before they reached a spot where the land flattened out. In front of them lay a clear circle of stone, perhaps two feet high and thirty yards across. The circle was broken at what had clearly been the entrance to the building.
They walked into the circle and looked around them. The view was breathtaking. The Tuscan landscape fell away on all sides and the hilltop town of Radda was visible in the distance.
“Fortification,” said Tilly, unpacking her camera. “Classic early-medieval layout.”
Sparke walked around the rim of the outline until he reached the point where a line of rock headed out from the main building.
“Different stones here,” he said.
“Probably a later addition. Look here, internal walls. See, just over two yards apart, a whole series of them.”
“Right size for a monk’s cell?”
“Not one for guessing, but they would fit the bill.”
“Looks like we might have found Doreen’s castle.”
“Could well be.”
“Seen anything like this before?” said Sparke.
“Oh yes, loads of times, although not with these little rooms. See, the wall base stones are about seven feet across at the base, far too wide to be anything except defensive. Mind you, why would anyone build something up here that wasn’t?”
“Look at the field of vision,” said Sparke. “Not an easy place to sneak up on.”
Tilly began to look closely at the stone. There were a few pieces of stonework that were not dug deeply into the ground. She took her gauge out of its case and began scanning the surface of the top of the exposed stone.
“What are you doing?” said Sparke. “You’re not likely to find any old carvings on the top of stones.”
Tilly peered intently at the screen. “Unlike you, I do read instruction manuals. You see, this lovely little piece of kit doesn’t just show where stone has been worked, it also shows the condition of the surface compared to the stone underneath. If we assume that this stone was cut and then put in place shortly afterwards the top we are looking at was covered by walls on top of it for the time the building was in place. It only started to weather once the walls were taken down.” She put the gauge down and pulled out the instruction book.
“These stones have been quite heavily weathered on the top. Lots of little frost cracks and degradation. Been exposed for quite a long time.”
She put down the gauge. “Might be worth excavation, but it is not a hot site.”
“It does give us a great question, though,” said Sparke.
“What?” asked Tilly, brushing hair out her eyes.
“Well, it didn’t fall down, doesn’t look as though it was abandoned and there is no sign that anyone blew it up or anything. There are no stones or rubble lying around.”
“So where did the stones go?”
From their vantage point, it was easy for them to see the valleys below them. They both scanned the countryside, then looked at each other.
“How old do you think the buildings in that vineyard are?” said Sparke.
Boxes
Nothing in the world reminded the Mason more of death than a lead coffin. He looked at the dull metal casket in the floor at his feet and marveled again that something could be so devoid of color. It appeared to absorb light, giving no reflection of the blazing torches that lit the subterranean chamber he and Salvatore stood in.
He had been surprised when Salvatore had succeeded and returned with the box, hidden for so long in the tomb of the knight D'Anton in Tripoli. In truth, he had expected that Salvatore would either return, having gotten close enough to the secret cache to bring back valuable information about how the task might be accomplished, or fail to return at all, but here it was, one of the worlds most treasured and revered objects, secure again in the hands of the Order.
"Two months ago," he said to Salvatore, "a ship arrived in Acre carrying a group of pilgrims. There were nine dead amongst them. The journey had been long and they had succumbed to the wasting sickness. They were from Scotland and one of them was a longtime friend of our Order. The story you must tell is that you are returning their remains to their homeland."
"Will I travel alone?" said Salvatore.
"As far as the eastern coast of Scotland you will travel with a Templar escort. From our house in Balantrodach you must make your own arrangements."
"Why not take one of our own ships the whole way?"
The Mason knew that now Salvatore was passing into the realms of the Order's most guarded secrets, he would need to talk to him more openly, withholding less and showing him more of the true nature of things.
"You have been a Templar now for ten years. You know the men of this Order," he said. "They are only ordinary men, and men talk. They may say things by accident that they do not realize are important... talk amongst themselves, and when people talk, others listen."
"When you say 'others', you mean others like my own brother?"
"Massimo is a tireless servant of the church, but he is no friend to the Templars. He feels we are too far from the control of papal authority."
"By papal authority, he means himself, of course'" said Salvatore. "He has always had a desire to be near the heart of power."
"I do not question his motivation, only his actions, and he has rarely acted in any way that benefits our Order."
Salvatore looked at the casket. "I take this as far as Balantrodach with escorts. Then what?"
"Then you need to find a place, a small cove on the west coast of the great island. The island is called Lewis and the cove is named after the town there of Carloway. Not a town as you and I know it. It has a fortified position on a hill to the north of it. The people there call it a 'Broch'. We have a troop there at all times. The leader of the troop is a good man, Brother Ulli. He can be trusted and will trust you when he knows I have sent you."
"He will take the box?"
"Yes," said the Mason. "Then you must make your way back to Tuscany. You are needed in Radda. I will expect you there by All Souls Day. So you have four months."
Unlike other Templars, Salvatore felt no tension when his tasks took him outside the normal confines of the Order's strict life, but now, for a few days, he returned to the comforting routine of a warrior monk. He slept, like all Templars did, in a cell he shared with another brother, always with a candle burning.
Back within the confines of the Order, Salvatore could wear his Templar habit. Even though the Grand Master had blessed his simple Fra Muratore medallion with the authority of his Templar uniform, it was still a relief to be back in the garb
of his brotherhood. Each day he observed the liturgy of the Hours, the seven times of prayer. His free time was devoted to endless practice with sword and lance.
He sought out the Sergeant Master-at-Arms and dedicated his practice hours to learning the skills of close combat; fighting with two knives, the use of his hands as weapons in the Turkish fashion and developing the speed and agility to avoid the blows of enemies without relying on armor. Whatever the future held in his missions for the Mason, Salvatore was sure that riding within a troop of armored Templars was only part of what would be required.
As Salvatore was training, learning and practicing in Acre in preparation for his journey to the far north of Europe, his brother was also on a path towards new knowledge in Tripoli. He had found much that needed his attention. The cathedral finances were poorly kept, bad practices had crept in amongst the priests and the death of the bishop seemed less of a case of nighttime gluttony than it had seemed.
More than his death seemed wrong. Massimo had known the bishop and evaluated him as being neither good nor bad. To learn that he was now regarded as a warrior hero came as a surprise. There were many fighting men amongst the clergy, but the bishop had never seemed to be one of them. There was also the bishop's strange willingness to provide a special blessing for a war machine, right in the precincts of the cathedral.
He assembled some of the men who had been with the bishop during his famous battle with the Saracen bandits and it took less than an hour for him to grasp the real story of the fight and how the Templars had been the true victors.
A visit with the Provost of the Commune led him to seek out the maker of the famous war machines which the bishop had been so keen to provide with his personal blessing. This too was strange story.
The street where the boatyard of Dimitrios was situated was filthy and the stench of pack animals was almost overwhelming. The noise of the animals was equaled by the constant sound of men arguing and pushing heavily laden caravans through the mob.
All of these sounds and smells evaporated for Massimo; his entire world became focused on a small square of stone, obviously just cut, and now perched as an ornament on the gatepost of the boatyard. It was an image from his own youth, an image he had seen every day growing up in Radda, but never since. It was the emblem of their village patron, Fra Muratore.
Wine
After the heat of the hillside, the tasting room of the vineyard was an oasis.
"Need to pop off to the loo," said Tilly, leaving Sparke alone in a room now filled with an American tour party enthusiastically sampling wine. Many had order forms in front of them and they were discussing shipping cases of wine to their homes in the Midwest. The vineyard owner was in the middle of the tasters, and clearly the center of attraction for many of the women in the group.
"Would you like to taste our Reserve sir?" Sparke spun around to see the young woman who had been in the tasting room when he and Tilly had first arrived.
"No thanks, all wine tastes pretty much the same to me," Sparke said. Confusion swept over the young woman's face.
"We ship directly all over the world," she said, persevering with her script. Sparke took the offered glass and drank the wine. It was excellent.
"Is this only drunk here in Italy, or do other countries buy it?"
"This is a very popular wine, recognized and enjoyed all over the world." The young lady smiled.
"So, I can buy this where I live? I live in Germany?" Sparke was not responding as a normal client was supposed to.
"Yeeees, we have very good partners in Germany," she said.
"Then why would I buy it here and pay to have it shipped when I can buy it where I live?"
Several of the American tourists had turned away from staring at the vineyard owner to watch Sparke now.
"Many people love to sample our wines and have them shipped, directly to their homes," said the young woman, now casting nervous glances at her boss.
"But it's the same wine I can buy in a good wine shop in Munich, right?" said Sparke, unable to grasp the logic of the offer.
"Can I provide you with a taste of our Special Reserve?" said the young woman.
"Is this wine available in the USA?" said an older lady from the tourist group wearing a T-shirt that had an 'Only Keno Makes Sense' logo. "I mean, can we buy it back home?"
"Look, I found it on Nebraska Wine Mart," said another member of the group, reading from her smartphone. "Same price and free shipping for any twelve bottles or more."
There was a flurry of activity as the tourists checked their phones and started a discussion on the virtues of the Nebraska Wine Mart. The order forms lay, now ignored, on the tables.
The vineyard owner looked across at Sparke with a face full of unadulterated venom. Tilly returned, smiling, from the bathroom.
In the few seconds it took her to cross the room, she realized that something, something very bad, had happened during the time she had been in the restroom. She put on her best Tilly smile and marched towards the owner.
"Can I steal you for a minute?" she asked. The owner, in a state of shock over the loss of a surefire order of several thousand dollars, allowed himself to be led away, his eyes flitting between the abandoned order forms and the hateful figure of Sparke.
Tilly spoke quickly and urgently to the owner, but it was only her repeated and insistent use of the word ‘publicity’ that dragged his gaze back towards her.
"When was this vineyard built?" she asked when she was finally sure that she had his attention.
"The main buildings, where we are now, were created around eighteen twenty-five. We are one of the original Chianti Classico houses," he answered by rote.
"And tell me," said Tilly, "do you have any idea where the lovely stones for this building came from?"
"The stones? The buildings were made from the stones from the old castle on the hill. I already told you that."
"Did you? Sorry, my fault. Well, my colleague and I will leave you to your guests and just wander around a little, if that's all right with you."
The look from the owner made it clear to both Sparke and Tilly that their departure would be welcome, so they left the tasting room and walked back outside, leaving the tour group from Nebraska exuberantly sharing their discovery of the price differences between the low price of wine bought back home, and the prices charged by the vineyard.
Outside, Tilly looked closely into Sparke's eyes. "How did you manage to do that?"
"Well," said Sparke, "you see, they sell wine here and charge two hundred dollars to ship it internationally, so all I asked was..."
"Let's stop this conversation, just for the moment," said Tilly. “There's no way it has a happy outcome. The owner, our former friend, tells me that some of these buildings were built from stone from, what he calls, the old castle on the hill in the early nineteenth century."
"Makes sense I suppose,” said Sparke. "A small, fairly useless fortification like that. Why not demolish it and use the materials for a new building?"
"The fate of many buildings," said Tilly. "Let's have a wander. Check out door and window frames, bigger stones."
The two walked a few yards apart, staring intently at the stonework. "See anything?" said Sparke. "Not really sure what I'm looking for."
"These stones look pretty normal compared to other buildings we have seen round here," answered Tilly. "It's probably possible to work out if they have been reused, but that, in itself, doesn't tell us much. Looks like the stones might have been broken up. Make them easier to bring down the hill."
They walked round every building in the vineyard. Many were made of stone that looked particularly well dressed and regular, but none showed any signs that they were particularly unusual. After an hour, it was clear that whatever had remained of the tower that Doreen, the eighteenth-century author, had witnessed was now gone, absorbed into the buildings of a Tuscan vineyard.
"I know when I'm beat," said Tilly.
"We still have quite a few
hilltops round here to survey," said Sparke. Tilly nodded, but it was clear that she thought they had bet, and lost, on their best chance. They climbed into the Range Rover and drove down the dirt track towards the main road.
"Any particular restaurant tonight?" asked Sparke.
"Not sure that I feel like going out tonight."
"Should we drive past the store and pick up something to eat?"
"Not sure I want to cook."
Sparke slowed the car as he reached the main road and drove under the stone archway. A tiny Fiat 500 hurtled past, only inches from the front of their car, causing Sparke to slam the brakes on, bringing the huge car to a sudden stop. He looked at Tilly in apology, but she seemed oblivious to what was going on.
Carefully, Sparke checked the road in both directions and, from a lifetime of habit, checked his rearview and side mirrors before pulling out.
After a few seconds, Tilly looked across at him, frozen in his seat, peering into the mirror.
"What's up?" she said.
Sparke said nothing, but turned the engine off and stepped out of the car.
"What are you doing?" she said, then unbuckled her seat belt. "Did you run over something?"
Sparke was standing with his head tilted upwards. "Better get your gauge," he said.
Tilly followed his gaze. The stone archway they had driven under was weathered virtually smooth, made even more featureless by the strong, early-afternoon sun. Despite the glare, Tilly could now make out what had stopped Sparke. On the main keystone at the top of the arch was the faint, but clearly legible, carved image of a figure, one hand pointing, surrounded by a ring of faded letters, "MURA.O.E".
Republics and Allies
"Your Order has an absurd obsession with secrecy," said Massimo. He was pacing around the tiny chamber the Mason used as his office within the Templar base in Acre. As he paced, he occasionally stopped to examine random objects that caught his attention.
The Templar Thief: Peter Sparke book 4 Page 17