The Swagger Sword

by David S. Brody

  Cam sensed Amanda had something important to tell him. She pulled him aside as soon as they had parked on the shoulder of the road next to some pasture land, apparently the location of Roberto’s secret burial mound. “So Brian was here. Yesterday. With the sword.” She recounted everything Emmy had said, including the part about Archbishop Marcinkus. “Hard to believe it’s just a coincidence.”

  Cam chewed on his lip, studying the horizon as Roberto led them up a rise past yet more grazing sheep. Brian knew Monsignor Marcotte, and it was Marcotte who recommended Roberto’s inn. This was possibly all innocent, with Marcotte suggesting Brian ask Roberto about Archbishop Marcinkus. But he was more inclined to side with Amanda on this. “I don’t believe in coincidences,” he said as they dropped back a bit to talk in private.

  “So what’s going on?”

  “Clearly Brian thinks the sword—that is, the symbols on the blade—lead to a Templar treasure. He must have heard the same rumors I did, that Marcinkus knew about it also and was hot on its trail.”

  “Wasn’t Marcinkus part of the Vatican Banking Scandal?”

  “Not just part of. At the center. So much at the center that some people believe Marcinkus actually assassinated Pope John Paul I as a way to cover up the scandal and save his job.”

  “Really? That’s a serious charge.”

  “I know. It was in all the Italian papers. Anyway, despite Marcinkus’ efforts to cover everything up, eventually it blew up in his face. This was in the early 1980s.”

  “Emmy said her father was an accountant working for Marcinkus. I wonder what he knew.” Amanda paused. “And if Marcinkus murdered the pope, would he hesitate to kill an accountant who knew too much?”

  The question hung in the late afternoon darkness, Cam wondering whether Brian knew more than he was letting on about a possible Templar treasure in the Catskill Mountains. When Amanda and he had searched there five years ago, following maps and clues given to them by Astarte’s now-dead uncle, they had been focused on locating ancient artifacts described in a Templar travel log recounting a secret journey across the Atlantic in 1178. The travel log had been discovered by an American black ops team in war-torn Italy after World War II, the manuscript apparently having originally been the property of the Vatican but somehow lost during the chaos of the war. The team brought the manuscript back to America and, with the help of experts such as Astarte’s uncle, followed the maps and clues left in the travel log to find artifacts proving the authenticity of the history-altering excursion to the Catskill’s Hunter Mountain. Though they were successful in locating many artifacts (and later Cam and Amanda located others), pieces of the puzzle—including a purported Templar treasure—remained lost to history. Or not.

  In 2017, historian Zena Halpern, with the help of Cam’s friend Ruthie, gave new life to the mystery by describing the Templar journey in great detail. Her book had refocused attention on the possibility of a lost treasure, and amateur treasure hunters like Brian had descended upon the trails of Hunter Mountain to follow the clues contained in Ms. Halpern’s narrative. Clues which, based on Brian’s visit to Roberto, apparently led here to Ireland.

  Cam glanced at Amanda and Astarte. This trip was supposed to be about Amanda healing and Astarte experiencing the ancient pagan worship sites. Plus some quality family time. But apparently the fates had other plans.

  His mind turned back to the 1178 travel journal. One of the fascinating things about it, and the thing that in Cam’s mind conclusively proved its authenticity, was the fact that it was purchased by top Vatican officials in the mid 1990s from the then-elderly remaining member of the black ops team. Actually, ‘purchased’ was probably not the correct word. The Vatican official conducting the negotiation made a generous offer, and also made it clear that it was an offer that should not be refused. The identity of this official? Archbishop Paul Marcinkus. Marcinkus had returned to the U.S. from Rome after being disgraced, but otherwise not punished, in the Vatican Banking Scandal of the late 1980s; the scandal saw the Vatican Bank charged with laundering money for organized crime and be forced to pay $240 million in penalties. As Cam and Amanda had discussed, a 1984 book accused Marcinkus of assassinating Pope John Paul I to save his job and, more importantly, avoid jail time. Another book accused him of ordering the assassination of Soviet leader Yuri Andropov. Still another tied him to the deaths of fellow Vatican bankers involved in the scandal—one dying of cyanide poisoning and the other found hanging from London’s Blackfriars Bridge. Cam shook his head. No wonder the surviving member of the black ops team had not refused Marcinkus’ offer to purchase the journal.

  From what Cam had read, Marcinkus had long been tracking the Templar’s Catskills treasure. He turned his full attention to it upon his return to the United States in 1990 with the purchase of the Templar travel journal. But poor health apparently prevented him from completing his pursuit of the treasure. Now, a generation later, the mystery of the Templar treasure seemed to be bubbling to the surface again.

  All of this passed through Cam’s mind as Roberto led them toward a large oak tree atop a gentle rise. Did Roberto know anything about this mystery? According to what Amanda had heard, Roberto’s father worked for Marcinkus as an accountant at the Vatican Bank and had died suddenly. Another curious coincidence.

  Cam pulled Amanda back as the group marched. “Am I remembering this correctly? In Zena Halpern’s book, doesn’t she mention the swagger sword and say it was connected to the Vatican?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did she say Marcinkus ended up with it?”

  “I can’t be certain, but that rings a bell.”

  But the timing was off. “So that would mean Marcinkus bought the journals after he already had the swagger sword with the symbols carved on it.”

  She nodded. “I don’t see a problem with that. He probably needed the journals to understand what the symbols meant.”

  “Then who carved the symbols onto the sword in the first place?”

  “The book said the swagger sword dated back to the 1930s. Maybe whoever knew what the symbols meant died in the war. Somehow Marcinkus found the sword, but didn’t know how to interpret it.”

  “Okay. Makes sense. But that would indicate someone back in the thirties knew about the treasure. What if they already found it?”

  “Then why bother carving the clues onto the blade of a sword?”

  He shrugged. “Good point. We’re just going in circles.”

  She took his arm. “Enough of this.” She gestured toward where Roberto stood between the tree and a standing stone wedged against the side of the hill. On one knee, he pawed away a pile of grass, leaves, acorns and small stones. Turning sideways, he grinned and ducked into what apparently was the entry to the secret mound. Amanda tugged Cam. “Come on. Let’s appreciate what we’re about to see. It could be magical.”

  First Emmy, then Astarte and Amanda, and finally Cam—careful not to put too much weight on his injured arm—followed Roberto through the car window–sized opening in the side of the hill. Once inside, they slid down a dirt incline for a few feet to a narrow passageway lined with massive stone slabs. Roberto shone his light on the walls and ceiling. “Imagine. This was built over 5,000 years ago.” Crouching, they waddled down the passage. Twenty feet in, the channel opened into a round, domed chamber similar to the beehive chamber in Newgrange. Its walls were, like the passageway, comprised of stone slabs, with the domed roof built in the overlapping corbelled fashion. Roberto shone his light, this time on an egg-shaped slab of clear quartz, about the size of a loaf of bread, set in the wall at the far end of the chamber. Near the center of the wall, but not exactly so. Just like at the Newport Tower.

  “Note this is the only quartz stone in the entire chamber,” Roberto said.

  Amanda nodded. “That’s where the sunbeam will fall. They probably set the quartz in last, after they saw exactly where the sunbeam hit.”

  “Correct.” Roberto stood aside. “Today, the old oak serves
a useful purpose in keeping this chamber hidden. But its branches can also block the illumination.” He smiled. “I think the Earth Mother will forgive me that I removed a few branches. Gently, of course.”

  Astarte asked, “What’s this chamber called?”

  “It has no name,” Roberto replied. “I found it myself, and I only bring special guests to see it.”

  “Can we name it?”

  “Why don’t you and Emmy decide together on a name?” He checked his watch. “We have about fifteen minutes before the light comes in.”

  Cam and Amanda shared a smile, watching as Astarte pulled Emmy to the far side of the chamber to confer in private. The trip was serving its purpose—Amanda was almost back to her usual merry self. After a few minutes, Astarte cleared her throat. “We think Quartzbarrow is a good name.” She explained, “A barrow is another name for a burial mound. And, well, the quartz is obvious.”

  “Excellent.” Roberto brought his hands together. “Quartzbarrow it is.” He pulled a blanket from the rucksack he had been carrying and spread it on the dirt floor. “Now, let us wait and watch. Remember, we are a few days past the solstice so the illumination will be slightly off.”

  Ten minutes later, the light from the setting sun began to shine through the barrow opening and illuminate the floor of the passageway. Roberto snapped off his flashlight. The light beam crept along, inching its way toward the domed chamber interior like an incoming tide.

  Suddenly the slow creep became a sweeping onslaught as the setting sun plunged to the horizon. Within seconds the sun cast a light beam onto the quartz stone. The quartz glowed to life, illuminating the chamber in a soft radiance.

  “Amazing,” Amanda breathed. She took Cam’s hand, squeezed it, and leaned her head onto his shoulder. “This is just what I needed.”

  They returned to Milano Farm just after five o’clock on Tuesday. Emmy tugged on Astarte’s sleeve. “Usually I have to help Aunt Kaitlyn make dinner. But tonight she said I can play with you instead.”

  “Okay.” It was the least she could do for the girl-woman.

  In the twilight Emmy led her to a red wooden barn. She pushed open a wide door and flicked on a light. The barn had been converted to a garage, with a concrete floor and a number of pieces of farm equipment and tools scattered about. Emmy led them to a cleared out rectangular area in the back corner of the barn, its borders outlined by tall metal shelves. “Roberto lets me use this as my play area.” She pointed to the floor. “Hopscotch is my favorite. Want to play?”

  On the floor, in chalk, she had drawn a hopscotch board. But rather than the usual numbering, with one closest to the start line and ten at the far end, Emmy had numbered the board in a seemingly random fashion. “I’ll go first,” she said, pulling back her hood, her hair still secured by a dark bonnet. She flipped a beanbag onto the first square and called out its number. “Two!” She proceeded along, skipping some squares in a haphazard fashion. She moved stiffly, befitting her forty-six-year-old body, but with the exuberance of youth. It reminded Astarte of the way some adults moved when they were drunk. “One! Seven!” When she reached the last square, she yelled, “Three!” Then she repeated the sequence. “Two, one, seven, three,” and concluded by lifting her arms in the air and declaring, “Emmy!”

  She returned to the start line and handed the bag to Astarte. “Is that how you want me to do it? The same order you did?”

  Emmy nodded. “Yes. Please.”

  Astarte followed the girl-woman’s path. It was more challenging than normal hopscotch, because by skipping squares, many of the jumps were longer. Perhaps Emmy changed the rules to challenge her adult body. When she finished, Astarte called out the numbers and her name, “Two, one, seven, three, Astarte!”

  Emmy stomped her foot. Her mismatched eyes narrowed. “No. That’s not how you play.”

  Astarte wasn’t sure what she had done wrong. “Am I supposed to call out your name then?”

  “Yes. Do it again.”

  Astarte rolled her eyes but held her tongue. “Okay.” Apparently doing this the right way was really important to Emmy. Astarte repeated the course. “Two, one, seven, three, Emmy!”

  Emmy clapped, her face aglow. “Yes. That was perfect. Let’s play again.”

  They spent a half hour playing, always the same pattern, always calling out the same victory chant when they succeeded in not stumbling or landing on a line: “Two, one, seven, three, Emmy!”

  Finally Amanda appeared. She watched for a few minutes as Astarte and Emmy each reached the final square and called out the victory chant. “Come wash up for dinner,” she said. “Did you have fun?”

  Emmy took Astarte’s hand as they walked through the barn. As if in answer, she called out, “Two, one, seven, three, Emmy!”

  Astarte sighed. That chant would echo in her head for weeks.

  Roberto excused his family immediately after dinner, explaining that farm life began early. “The sun does not rise until almost nine, but the animals are not so lazy.” Astarte said goodnight to Emmy, opting out of trying to hug the woman-child and settling instead for a wave and smile. She joined Cam and Amanda in the guest wing of the house where they did a jigsaw puzzle and watched the news in the common room between their two bedrooms.

  “I asked Kaitlyn if I could go with her to the farm stand tomorrow before breakfast,” Amanda said at around nine. “I’m going to call it a night.”

  Astarte read in bed for a while and then tried to sleep, but every time she closed her eyes the hopscotch chant sounded in her head. When she finally drifted off, the hopscotch game turned into a nightmare: Astarte sat in a swing, arching higher and higher until she soared so high that she turned upside down. She tried to hold on, but her fingers slipped and she spilled out, headfirst, the ground rushing at her from below. As she fell, a group of girls playing hopscotch nearby looked up and grinned, chanting, “Two, one, seven, three, Emmy!” Astarte startled awake just before crashing into the ground, only to fall back asleep and have the dream repeat itself. Finally, in the middle of the night, she kicked the covers off and went in search of a glass of water.

  A doorway from their common room led to the main part of the house. Astarte quickly found the kitchen and filled a glass, gulping greedily. When she turned the faucet off, she heard a bed creaking and some low moaning. It sounded similar to Cam and Amanda when they made the floorboards squeak, but was coming from the innkeeper’s side of the house. Probably Roberto and Kaitlyn. For some reason her mind turned to Raja. Would she want him atop her like she had seen in the movies? The thought made her shudder. The idea of someone on top of her, controlling her, scared her. But if she were on top, kissing Raja, maybe that would be okay…

  A sound down the hall, in the living room, startled her. Was Emmy awake? Astarte peered out in the dim light. A woman sat in a chair, backlit by the moon filtering through a window, working something in her hands. Her head turned, perhaps sensing Astarte. Kaitlyn. Holding what looked to be prayer beads. But if Kaitlyn were in the living room, what was the noise Astarte heard? She ducked into the shadows. She didn’t like Kaitlyn, and for some reason now felt guilty intruding into their living area. She tiptoed back to her room. Whatever sound she had heard before had stopped. Maybe it had been her imagination.

  But she knew she would not sleep. She dreaded the idea of the dream haunting her again. And the thought of Raja, beneath her on a bed, had washed away any desire for sleep.

  Amanda’s phone alarm woke her at six. After doing some stretching and calisthenics in the common room of the inn, she took a shower, grabbed an energy bar, and said goodbye to Cam. She let Astarte sleep.

  “When it gets lighter, I’m going for a run,” Cam said.

  It was seven, but still almost pitch-black. “Okay. I think breakfast is eight-thirty. I’m going to the market with Kaitlyn. I was surprised she agreed to take me. She’s not exactly Miss Hospitality.”

  “No. Clearly this inn is Roberto’s baby, not hers. She never looks
very happy.” Cam smiled. “Maybe she wants your bright personality to cheer her up.”

  “More likely she needs me to help carry groceries.”

  Kaitlyn was waiting for Amanda in the kitchen. “I think your daughter came in here last night to get some water.” She looked as if she hadn’t slept much. But more than that she looked unhappy.

  “Um. Okay.”

  “I put glasses in the Jacks for you.”

  “The Jacks?”

  “The toilet.”

  Right. The Irish didn’t call it a loo or bathroom. “At home we only drink the tap water from our kitchen faucet, where we have a filter. Astarte probably came to the kitchen out of habit.” Amanda wasn’t sure why she had to defend this.

  Kaitlyn sighed, as if this were just another of many crosses she had to bear in life, flicked on an outside light, and led Amanda to the driveway. They climbed into the pickup truck and drove the ten miles into town in silence. Just as Amanda was beginning to wish she had stayed home, Kaitlyn raised her chin and spoke. “The muppets at the market are horrible gossips. Pay no heed to what they say about us.”

  “Okay.”

  Kaitlyn parked on the side of the road in front of a large blue tent containing a few dozen stalls displaying fresh produce, baked goods and dairy products. Only a third of the tent was full—Amanda guessed that in the summer it would be more crammed. “Fresh bread, two loaves,” Kaitlyn instructed.

  Amanda wandered off on her task, content to be free to immerse herself in the local culture. She followed her nose.

  A heavy-set older woman, her grayish-brown hair pulled back and tied with a yellow ribbon, offered a wide smile. A pair of eyeglasses hung from a cord at her chest, the stems framing a large but simple silver cross she wore atop her floral smock. “Tastes even better than it smells,” she said with a thick, sing-song accent.