by Rene Fomby
“Money?” she asked, a slow smile playing across her face. “Who said anything about money?”
Mehmed’s confusion sounded in his voice. “But—insurance. That’s how it works. You get paid to cover your losses—”
“Right.” Sam turned back away from the window, her phone pressed to her face. “That’s how insurance usually works. But this policy was a little different. Remember when I told you there were twelve rows of amphorae, twelve being a magic number to the ancient Romans and the Templars?”
“Yes, yes, of course,” Mehmed said, still not following her. “Twelve signs of the zodiac, twelve Greek gods, twelve apostles, all that. So? Why does that matter?”
“Well, as it turns out, I may have told you, our faithless friend Archie and the ding-dang Pope a little white lie. Good thing Maddie wasn’t there to make me pinky swear promise about everything.”
“So there weren’t twelve rows?”
“No, no, that part was right. But if you remember, the jars I had pledged to the Vatican consisted of a grand total of thirty-six jars, three columns of twelve,” Sam explained. “Three also being a magic number.”
“Okay, yes, as in Lazarus was dead for three days before Jesus brought him back to life, as was Jesus himself after the crucifixion. You’re still not making any sense.”
“Mehmed, the jars I found at Ca’ Ricciardelli, they were extra extra magical. There weren’t just three columns per row. No, there were actually twelve columns of jars under the statue. Twelve columns, twelve rows. Twelve times twelve. In other words, one hundred forty-four jars, of which—even with Sir Archibald’s little act of treachery—one hundred eight still remain in storage, locked up safely in the vault at BancItalia. And I have every reason to believe that the jars he pilfered from us are the least valuable of them all, at least from a historical point of view.”
For the first time since he had first heard about Archie’s disappearance, Mehmed could finally breathe. Thirty-six jars had been lost, perhaps forever, but three times as many were still safe. Sam’s little “insurance policy” had worked out very well, after all. Then he remembered the last part she had mentioned, the part about the remaining jars somehow being more valuable. “Sam, what do you mean by that, that you gave the Vatican the least important jars?”
“Well, until I knew for sure that the goons at the Vatican were going to keep up their end of the bargain, I couldn’t very well hand over the most important jars, now, could I? Here, I’m sending you something.” She pulled up the photo gallery on her phone, and sent him a picture, then waited a few seconds while the photo made its way through the Internet to Mehmed’s phone.
“Okay, I got it. What’s this a picture of?” he asked.
“What you’re looking at is a small inscription on the seal of one of the jars,” Sam explained, now smiling broadly to herself. “Normally I wouldn’t have paid any attention, but there was an exhibit of Roman amphorae at a museum I visited recently, and it described how these markings were often used to record the contents of the jars, and the date when they were sealed shut. When Tim and I first crawled down into the storage vault, he noticed the markings on the seals, as well, and was easily able to decipher the dates from the jars. It seems the amphorae were laid out in a very specific pattern, with the oldest jars being in the far right corner, and the newest being at the front corner, on the left.” She paused, remembering the moment. “So, you see, the first jars I was willing to share with the Vatican were actually the newest. In fact, almost all of them dated back no earlier than around 1100 A.D., well after the fall of Caesarea.”
“So they most likely would have been documents either found or created after the contents of the library at Caesarea had been transferred to Acre,” Mehmed suggested, now catching on to her trickery.
“Exactly,” Sam agreed, now very pleased with herself and her decision not to fully trust the Church. Even if the treachery wound up coming from another direction altogether. “And, even better, the inscriptions on the oldest jars suggest they may have come from the Temple of Solomon itself.”
“The legendary Library of Solomon? Sam, I could just kiss you right now!”
She laughed. “Let’s just keep things on a professional level for now, shall we? And, along those lines, if it’s not asking too much, it looks like I’m going to be needing someone to take over Archie’s place as head of the project. I’ve asked Tim to stay in the loop, but he’s way too busy with Stabiae to oversee the restoration, and I really need someone I can trust, so would you consider—”
“Really? Are you serious? I would jump at the chance!”
“Great. It’s settled, then. I’ll call the people at the Vatican right away and let them know the good news. And then I’ll need to place another call to the Pope himself. You think he’ll be willing to absolve me for lying to him the first time?” She chuckled into the phone. “Oh, what am I thinking? Why the hell should I care, anyway? I’m Jewish!”
96
Cappadocia, Turkey
A buff-colored Land Rover carried him from the unpaved landing strip and covered hangar to a camouflaged cantilevered door that opened briefly to let them in, then just as quickly closed behind them. A uniformed military aide led him down a long series of unmarked corridors and stairways, all well-lit with recessed LED lighting, but still showing their original rough-hewn construction. Finally they stopped before a large wooden door at the end of a long tunnel. The aide opened the door, ushering him in.
“He will be with you shortly,” was all he was told as the aide turned and left, closing the door tightly behind him.
Peter Boucher stared around the room, unable to shake the feeling of claustrophobia pressing in on him, despite the ten-foot ceilings. The dim light in the room didn’t help. His best guess was that he was now almost ten meters underground, surrounded by a massive complex of rooms that had been carved into the bare rock many thousands of years before. He wandered along the wall as he waited, drawn to the seemingly endless collection of photos of famous politicians and industrialists. And the deep and poorly lit niches carved into the walls, holding an odd assortment of items, only one of which he recognized. Clearly, this was His Excellency’s trophy room, a room meant to awe and diminish those few lucky souls whom He deemed worthy of a personal audience.
At the center of the room was a simple desk, with one large leather chair facing the doorway, and two lesser chairs facing the back of the room, which was left completely in the dark, so that the back wall wasn’t even visible in the gloom. The only thing sitting on the desk was what looked like a well-worn Bible, bound in black leather.
Finally bored with examining the photos and trophies, Boucher decided to take one of the smaller chairs in front of the desk and wait.
Several minutes later, he heard the unmistakable sound of a door opening somewhere in the back of the room, and he rose from his chair, standing stiffly at attention.
“No, no, sit down, by all means, Pierre,” a voice boomed from out of the dark. His Excellency Constantine the Great strode confidently into the light, his shoulders draped in a thick ermine and red velvet cloak, covering a golden doublet and simple black breeches. He took the large chair directly across from Boucher, slouching back, a large smile showing on his face.
“Eusebius has given me some encouraging reports concerning your activities, Pierre. I look forward to hearing more about them in person.”
“Yes, Your Excellency,” Boucher answered, bowing his head
“Come, come, none of that courtier nonsense, not from you, the head of my army,” Constantine ordered. “It’s just Constantine to you. At least when we’re not in public.”
Boucher nodded, giving his emperor a thankful smile. “Constantine, then. And, yes, I’ve been quite busy, now that you’ve given me the honor of leading your Knights of the Cross.”
“Hmm. Yes. A much better use of your time than running that drug company. But I guess it was a good investment,
all in all. And not just for the money. That little hypnosis drug may wind up making all the difference in this war. And the neurotoxin. A pity it all had to end so soon. Perhaps, when the war is over, we can take up our research into useful little chemicals again.”
“I think that might actually be mandatory,” Boucher suggested. “After all, even after a conquest, there is the matter of holding onto your gains. And to do that, it is important to keep your subjects on a tight leash.”
“And I am glad to have your hand holding that leash, my bishop.” Constantine paused to consider a piece of paper he held in his hands. “I see that our Palestinian friends have failed us yet again. The woman still lives.”
“Along with her Mohammedan friend, yes. The bomb went off prematurely, I’m afraid.”
Constantine set the paper down on his desk with a frown. “Yes, that presents a small problem for us, but a temporary problem at worst. Once the war begins, all of that will be moot. I take it you’ve still not identified the banking instructions on the Jew’s iPad?”
“No, and I’m ashamed to say that my information regarding all of that may be incorrect. My cyber people have been all over the tablet and the phone, and there’s simply nothing there, encrypted or not. Just the usual selfies and Facebook nonsense you might expect from such a trivial young woman. But I must say I’m a bit surprised that we haven’t found anything there. Your daughter-in-law was quite insistent that she kept all that information on her tablet, and I’ve never seen anyone be able to hold on to a lie that well and that long while under the influence of the sacraments. And I used a pretty strong dose.”
Constantine shook his head unhappily at the news, his brow deeply furrowed. “Hmm. A pity. I suppose the dark forces raised up against us can still prove to be quite difficult, quite formidable. But, at this point, it may not even matter. Our people at the bank tell me that there’s not really any money left there now for us to plunder. One more minor opportunity squandered.” He let a brief moment pass while he thought about what all that might ultimately mean to their plans for the future, then set his jaw and decided to change the subject. “Our mole in Naval Intelligence tells us that their officer is sniffing around our business in southern Europe. Along with that FBI agent I thought we’d long disposed of.”
“Yes, they have been surprisingly resourceful. They raided our offices at Labarum just over a week ago, but of course they found nothing.”
“Nevertheless, again, it is a mistake to ever underestimate the power of Satan, his cunning.” Constantine pushed the paper he was holding across his desk. On it was listed the names of Andrea Patterson and Gavin Larson. “We need to put an end to this meddling before it turns into something else, something that might interfere with our plans. And this time, I want you to handle it personally. No mistakes. No excuses.”
“I understand, Your Excellency. It will be done as you wish.”
Constantine nodded, then stood and walked over to a dimly lit niche cut into the wall to his right. He reached in and pulled out a small wooden cup, shallow and slightly broken, its edges long since worn away over the years by the lips of hundreds of supplicants.
“The Nanteos Cup,” he said with quiet reverence. “The Holy Grail, itself. How did you ever manage to retrieve this for me?”
“We used the sacrament, Your Excellency. A member of the family that owned the cup was shown the light of the Lord, and was told to offer the use of the cup to an elderly woman in Herefordshire, England, who was suffering from an untreatable condition. We arranged for the cup to be sent to her home, instead of to the hospital where she lay dying. It was then a relatively easy thing to spirit it away under the guise of a break-in. It took us almost a year to have it painstakingly replicated, before handing the fake cup over to the police.”
“And they have no idea the cup they recovered is a forgery?” Constantine asked.
“No idea at all. The woodsmith was very careful to make the new cup an almost perfect match, even using a thousand-year-old piece of wych elm that we found in an old abbey. And, of course, it helps that the family absolutely refuses to have the cup tested in any way, afraid that the cup will be damaged even further.”
“And you’re sure this is the real Grail?”
“As sure as anyone can be, Your Excellency. A Reverend Peter Griffiths is one of only a few non-family members to ever see the cup, and the family at one time gave him permission to send water that was touched by the cup to a large number of very sick people. And the result was truly miraculous. A blind man’s sight was instantly restored, a leper of eleven years saw his disease disappear almost overnight. Cancer, arthritis, the list goes on and on. The sheer number of miraculous cures associated with the Holy Grail is far too great for it to be a mere coincidence.”
Constantine nodded slowly, replacing the cup in its protective niche. “And is it capable of offering its possessor everlasting life?”
Boucher considered that question carefully. “None of the individuals cured by the cup has stopped aging, and many have died at some point later on. So it’s clear that one exposure to water blessed by the cup isn’t enough to stop the ravages of time entirely. But perhaps, if one is to drink from the cup perpetually, the curative powers may be sufficient to hold any future illness at bay. Maybe even put a halt to aging itself.”
“We shall see, I suppose,” Constantine mumbled, mostly to himself. He walked back over to the desk and sat down in his chair. “Okay, back to our plans for the future. The Christ child is coming along nicely, and we can expect the holy birth to come about in a little over a month. That fits in nicely with the completion of the ordination of our priesthood across southern Europe. How are we doing with our Roman strategy?”
“I have a meeting tomorrow to finalize our plans for the election. In addition, my people have identified several vulnerabilities within the Vatican security staff, and used the opportunity posed by the discovery of the Templar Library to test out our plans. We were easily able to gain access to the necessary security codes, as well as the documents we needed to deceive the bank. My daughter informed me just as I arrived here that the operation was a total success. The Library is now in our hands, and I anticipate no further problems gaining access to the innermost areas of the Vatican when the anointed time is nigh.”
“Excellent!” Constantine rubbed his hands together eagerly. “And when shall we learn what is actually in the Library?”
“I’m afraid we’ll have to wait a little longer,” Boucher told him, regretfully. “We have a laboratory that’s currently being prepared in Florence to make sure the contents of the amphorae are well protected when we open the jars. We can’t afford a mistake there, just because we’re too anxious.”
“Well, I guess that’s to be expected, given the fact that we only had a few days to prepare.” Constantine stood up again, getting ready to leave. “Although I would really like to know what the scrolls have to say about the Faith before we launch the final phase of our plans.”
“I’ll do everything in my power to make sure that happens, Your Excellency.”
“Very well, then. And the English scholar? What was his name? Benningford?”
“Bennington, Your Excellency. He turned out to be the easiest aspect of that entire operation by far, never once questioning the credentials of our soldiers who were posing as the Vatican Guards, or the change we made in the schedule.”
“And what is your plan for him? His continued existence presents a significant security risk for us.”
“Yes, Your Excellency. He has been—disposed of.”
“Good, good. Details like that can often seem small, but can nonetheless grow into major obstacles in the future if you let them. Speaking of which, what can you tell me about our allies of convenience, Lega Nord and the others?”
Boucher smiled. “I am told they are well ahead of schedule, except for our friends in Spain. We are holding back there until the western half of the country is ready. T
he Italians, meanwhile, have been especially helpful. They, of course, do not fully understand the true struggle we are facing, and are focused solely on material, temporal matters. But they are proving quite easy to manipulate, particularly since several of my most qualified lieutenants have penetrated their upper leadership.”
“Excellent. The greatest agent of change is fear, always remember that. When the time comes, we must drive southern Europe to its knees, leave them all kneeling before God. Begging for His divine mercy. The seeds we are sowing today we will reap in abundance when His time is come on earth again.” Constantine had been smiling, but now he looked harder at Boucher, his eyes narrowing just a bit. “But—something else seems to be troubling you. What is it?”
“I—I don’t mean to bother you with this, Your Excellency, but—this place, the underground city. Are you sure it’s safe? Now that we’re so close, shouldn’t we be thinking about moving to somewhere more—modern? Closer to the city?”
“Safe?” Constantine rose from his chair, laughing. “Why, what could possibly be safer? This city and the others right around us have served our faith for almost two thousand years, from the earliest persecutions of Rome to the hordes of Mohammedans riding across the Cappadocian plains overhead, blunting their swords against the walls of God’s sacred city. Here, let me show you.” Constantine walked over to retrieve a scroll from a darkened niche in the wall, returning and spreading it out across the desk. “These cities are like castles, with impenetrable defenses built right into the walls themselves. A single pull on a lever will bring down a massive stone, blocking a passageway. Another will open up pits in the darkness, their floors lined with sharpened spikes. And any attempt to use force against these traps would only bring down the ceiling on top of the invaders. And if that’s not enough—” He stopped to point out two red lines, leading away from the edges of the city. “These are underground tram lines, leaving this city and exiting at other hidden underground cities, many miles away. So, even if someone did manage to breach our defenses, the trams offer a last ditch escape route, especially when we detonate the explosives lining the entrance to the tram lines, sealing them off for all eternity.”