The Chi Rho Conspiracy (A Sam Tulley Novel Book 2)

by Rene Fomby

  He motioned toward the entrance, and the three of them shuffled over to it, moving cautiously while they got used to walking in the ungainly suits. Stepping over the remaining foot of wall, he moved into the tunnel, activating his flashlight in the gathering gloom.

  “The tunnel slants down here at a fairly sharp angle. I’m guessing close to forty-five degrees, give or take,” he reported as he shuffled carefully ahead. “No steps that I can see, which is a blessing, given these suits.” He shined his light to either side. “And I’m glad we’re not carrying any more equipment than necessary. Things appear to get a little more narrow just up ahead.”

  A camera had been set up behind them to record the expedition, operated remotely so the cameraman could do his work without having to fight with the constraints imposed by the environmental suits. The Israeli archaeologist was also carrying a small video camera, attached with straps to the top of his head. Up until now the only video he had captured was the back of Archie’s and Sam’s heads, but that would hopefully change for the better once they got to the end of the tunnel and emerged out into the subterranean vault.

  The going was treacherous, with their ankles bent uncomfortably backward due to the steep angle of the ramp, but slowly they made progress toward the vault. Dust motes danced in the air like tiny fairies, stirred up by their movement across floors that hadn’t been touched by human feet for almost a millennium.

  “I can see the entrance just up ahead!” Archie told them, unable to hide the growing excitement in his voice.

  In minutes he was at the bottom of the shaft. The entrance to the vault itself was angled sharply to the left, and as he turned to step inside, Archie swept his flashlight slowly across the room, eager to finally learn what treasures waited for them inside.

  ※

  The vault appeared to be completely empty, other than a coin or two he could barely make out, lying on the floor near the opposite wall. “Well, I’ll be buggered!” Archie exclaimed. “Nothing! Not a bloody thing!”

  He moved aside to let Sam and the Israeli archaeologist enter the vault, their flashlights sweeping the room as well and finding nothing at all. The room was completely empty.

  Archie walked over to pick up one of the coins. “Imperial coinage, from Constantinople.” He turned it over to examine the image on the other side. “Hmm. Michael VIII. He was emperor up until about 1280, and the founder of the Palaiologan dynasty that ruled the Byzantine Empire up until the fall of Constantinople in 1453. Probably worth enough to buy us all a steak dinner tonight.”

  ※

  Sam couldn’t imagine what he must be feeling right now. Personally, she felt like she’d been kicked hard in the gut, and she was just along for the ride. In contrast, this was Archie’s life’s work, all in ruins. “I guess there’s not much left to do down here,” she suggested. “Why don’t we head back up and shuck out of these suits? I think maybe everyone could use a stiff drink right about now.”

  “I think I could drain the whole damned bottle,” Archie moaned, turning to follow her back up the ramp. “So much work, so much promise. Even getting the Prince involved. And all for a couple of lousy coins …”

  ※

  Under the circumstances, Sam decided to break her self-imposed sabbatical and join Archie and Mehmed in a glass of wine at one of the restaurants along the main commercial walkway just outside of the Templar castle. Brightly colored paper lanterns wafted in the sea breeze just above their heads, and from off to their right came the rich aroma of roasting lamb, mixed in with another intoxicating odor she couldn’t quite make out.

  “Well, that was certainly disappointing,” Sam suggested, breaking the tension. “Where does that leave us with all this?” She looked over at Archie, who was busily nursing his drink. “Didn’t you say there were still three more tunnels left to explore at Acre?”

  Archie nodded despondently. “Yes, and that will happen at some point, but none of them are likely to turn up anything. They’re all way too small, and far too distant from the Templar fortress to make sense as a place to squirrel away the treasure.”

  “Okay, then, I guess that means the treasure is gone,” Mehmed said, focusing on the tall glass of sparkling water sitting untouched in front of him. “Although what I can’t understand is, why brick up the tunnel when there was nothing left down there to protect?”

  “We’re assuming the Templars did it,” Archie suggested. “But for all we know, it might have been sealed off much later, when the Muslims had control of the fortress. Maybe they were just concerned that someone might get hurt, tumbling down that ramp.”

  Mehmed nodded. “Yes, but that still leaves us with the big question, what happened to the treasure? I seriously doubt the invaders got it. A treasure that size, we would have heard something about it. I mean, people have been seizing hordes like that all throughout history, and in almost every case, we have an iron-clad record of what was found and where it wound up. In this case, though, we have nothing left but a few coins. Which, by the way, at least tells us there was something stored down there just before the city was taken.”

  “If the city was under siege, how would they be able to get anything out?” Sam asked. “Wouldn’t they have had to pass through the invaders’ camps?”

  “Actually, Sam, that’s much easier than you would think,” Mehmed explained. “At the end, when the walls were being breached and all hope was lost, the city was still surrounded by a large contingent of the Venetian navy, warships far more formidable than anything the Mamluks could reasonably bring to bear. So the Europeans owned the seas, but by the middle of 1291, the Mamluk army owned the city itself, except for the final holdout, the Templar fortress. The leader of the Templars had been killed earlier, defending the Accursed Gate. His replacement was a knight by the name of Thibaud Gaudin. According to legend, late one night Gaudin snuck out of the fortress along with a small group of people and the fortune of the Templars, and boarded a galley, headed for the city of Sidon.”

  “So the treasure ended up in Sidon?” Sam was thoroughly confused by now.

  “No,” Archie chimed in. “Gaudin did arrive in Sidon, but the only treasure he had with him was whatever he could carry in his luggage. You saw the room. There’s no way he could have sneaked out with a roomful of treasure almost single-handedly. And no way he could have left without bringing along the one man responsible for guarding the treasure. The Last Librarian, Richard of Lys.”

  “Okay, we’re back to him, then,” Sam said, spreading her hands in front of her. “What in Sam Hill happened to Sir Richard?”

  Mehmed nodded to Archie, suggesting he should answer that question.

  “We really don’t know for sure, except that there are credible reports he had the treasure loaded up on pull carts and hauled down a secret tunnel to the port. He had his men dress up in the fashion of the Mamluks, and when they emerged from the mouth of the tunnel—well behind enemy lines—he was easily able to make his way to the harbor, where he quickly boarded a galley with the contents of the carts and set sail far away from the doomed city.”

  “And that’s where the trail was lost,” Mehmed explained ruefully. “When we heard about the walled-up tunnel here at Acre, we had hoped that the story of Richard’s escape was just a kind of medieval urban legend. But now it appears the story may very well be true. That leaves us with almost no clue as to where the treasure ended up. Quite possibly he was attacked at sea, and all of it now lies somewhere at the bottom of the Mediterranean Sea.”

  “Or, more likely, Richard made his way to Scotland, long a stronghold of the Templars,” Archie said. “Particularly after Friday the 13th, the 13th of October, 1307, when King Philip the Fair of France ordered all of the Templars in France to be arrested at daybreak. And then convinced Pope Clement V to disband the Templars and have all of the knights of the order arrested for heresy. All of which really worked to Philip’s advantage, since he had borrowed heavily from the Templar banks to fi
nance his various and assorted wars against the English and other European powers, and had no real way to pay any of that back.”

  “What happened to all of the knights?” Sam asked. “Didn’t any of them escape?”

  “Some researchers believe that at least thirty or so knights ended up in Scotland,” Archie explained. “Where they fell into the service of Robert the Bruce, king of Scotland from 1306 until his death in 1329. Robert spent most of those years at war with England, and his earliest battles were disastrous. But then a group of mysterious knights arrived in Scotland somewhere around 1307—immediately after the Templar arrests in mainland Europe—and Robert’s fortunes improved enormously. Leading to the Battle of Bannockburn in 1314, where Robert’s forces routed a much larger English army under Edward II of England, turning the tide in the war. Mind you, there’s no actual proof that these knights were remnants of the Templars, but given the timing, and the fact that Robert lacked the means to hire a group of knights anywhere near that talented, I’ll leave you to your own conclusions.”

  “And that brings us to the subject of the Rosslyn Chapel,” Mehmed suggested. “It’s a small chapel in a village just south of Edinburgh. It’s amazing, architecturally and otherwise, literally covered with symbology. A treasure trove of mismatched pieces to a long-forgotten puzzle. People have spent their entire lives trying to decipher the meaning of the codes built into the walls at Rosslyn, and many popular writers have themselves been seduced by the mystery of the chapel over the years.”

  Archie pulled out a picture of the chapel from his briefcase, turning it around and setting it in front of Sam and Mehmed. “Some have suggested that there are hidden chambers beneath the chapel, where treasures like the Holy Grail—or even the mummified head of Jesus—are safely locked away, waiting for the Templar Knights to rise again to protect the faith. But, of course, that’s all horse hockey.”

  Sam looked up from closely examining the photo. “Why do you say that? I thought it was common for ancient structures to have secret chambers and tunnels. Like here at Acre.”

  Archie smiled at her. “It’s nice to know you’ve been paying close attention. And you’re right, secret vaults like the one we visited today were an important part of almost every major structure created way back then. But, first, you have to understand that Rosslyn Chapel wasn’t completed until 1480. So that would have left the Templar treasure sitting around someplace else for almost 200 years. Without anyone ever noticing.”

  “Second,” Mehmed added, “Rosslyn has been one of the most closely studied edifices in history. People have been poking and prodding and drilling holes there for decades, and no chambers have ever been found other than the tombs of the St. Clair family, the Lords of Rosslyn. And all of those have been opened and fully examined, and no mummified head of Jesus was ever found.”

  “And, finally, Rosslyn was one of the sites targeted by the American spy satellites,” Archie concluded. “But unlike here, the only chambers they found within several hundred feet of the surface were the tombs. And no secret rooms within the walls, either. So, I think we can finally write Rosslyn off as the final resting place for Solomon’s library.”

  Mehmed flagged down their waitress and ordered a bottle of Maccabee beer, a local Israeli brand. “There was also a legend about the treasure being buried on Oak Island, in Nova Scotia. Of course, that would be absurd. Only the craziest, most desperate sailors would ever risk braving the treacherous waters of the North Atlantic back then. And, you must remember, this was all well before Columbus set out on his famous voyage. So the idea that the Templar knights would opt to load up their entire fortune—including the precious Library of Solomon— onto a rickety old ship and sail off into the sunset toward what is now Canada makes zero sense.”

  “Okay,” Sam said, wondering for a moment about Mehmed’s willingness to drink a beer when he was now safely outside of Turkey’s prying eyes. “Rosslyn’s out, and Oak Island’s out. Where does that leave us? Any other leads?”

  “Oh, I never said Rosslyn was out,” Archie explained with a twinkle in his eye. “I just said the answer wasn’t buried in the floor, or written in the words or symbols adorning its walls. No, there’s still one clue remaining from Rosslyn, one mystery left to solve. And that mystery is lying right out in the open, for anyone to see. As the old song goes, it appears everyone’s been looking for love in all the wrong places.”

  The beer arrived, and Sam nodded at Mehmed as he took a long pull off the bottle. “Ah, the cat’s away, the mice will play?”

  He looked down at his beer. “Yeah, well, it’s not like I’m actually a practicing Muslim, you know? And in Ankara, being seen with a beer in your hand these days can have some pretty dire implications in terms of your career. So being out of the limelight—it’s like splurging on dessert when you’re supposed to be on a diet. Sometimes a guilty pleasure can taste extra sweet because of the guilt. Plus, if ever a day called for a drink …” He took another swig and nodded toward Archie. “But, back to the treasure, I think he’s right. There’s really no other reasonable explanation for it. It has to be some kind of code.”

  “All right, now I’m totally confused,” Sam confessed. “What are you two prattling on about? What code?”

  Archie smiled. “Well, if you can’t find anything by looking down, and you can’t find it by looking left or right, then that leaves only one direction left to look.”

  “Up,” Mehmed explained.

  ※

  Archie reached back into his briefcase and drew out a wide-angle photo of the Rosslyn chapel’s ceiling. “The chapel was built in the early to mid-15th century by Earl William St. Clair of Rosslyn. And—as his descendants quite recently pointed out—at a time when books were routinely being burned or banned, William St. Clair apparently left some sort of mysterious message for all of posterity to see, chiseled out in stone.” He passed the photo over to her. “This is a picture of the ceiling at the east end of the chapel. As you can see, along the ceiling there are thirteen crisscrossing arches, running from north to south. Look here.” He pointed out a line of small stone blocks protruding from each of the arches. “These little sandstone cubes are placed at almost perfect intervals, seventeen or eighteen per arch, 213 in all. And each cube is adorned with a geometric pattern—a circle, diamond, rosette, twelve distinct shapes in all, appearing in what appear to be random sequences.”

  Mehmed noted several spots where blocks were apparently missing. “Right here, it’s clear that at least two of the cubes are missing, lost sometime in the past five hundred years. And that’s important, because as you’ll soon see, the missing blocks affect our ability to decipher the code.”

  “Code?” Sam asked. “Are you saying the blocks spell out some kind of coded message?”

  “Maybe,” Archie said, sitting back in his chair. “But first, back to what Mehmed was saying, at least two blocks are missing. And I think it might actually be three. Three would put the original number of blocks at two hundred sixteen, a magic number in all kinds of ways.”

  “Two hundred sixteen is a perfect cube,” Mehmed explained. “Six times six times six. Or 666, as in the Book of Revelations. The circumference of the Earth—or any circle or sphere, for that matter—is composed of 21,600 ‘minutes of arc.’ And multiples of 216 appear in the ornamentation of numerous temples around the world, of many different religions. The architect of Rosslyn Chapel would almost certainly have been aware of that.”

  “But why does any of that matter?” Sam asked, still confused. “Two or three blocks out of over two hundred? That’s only around one percent.”

  Mehmed sat back himself and took another sip of beer. “It matters because the code has yet to be broken, and the missing cubes could very well be the reason for that.”

  Sam sat quietly for a moment, considering the picture of the chapel’s eastern ceiling she was holding in her hand. “I guess what you’re saying is, your next step in chasing down the Templar tre
asure—and Solomon’s Library—is to head up to Scotland to check out this chapel.”

  “No, that’s not necessary, Sam,” Archie said. “That ceiling has already been examined and reexamined a thousand times over. Someone even proposed that the cubes were a form of musical notation, and he even managed to work out a melody of sorts, using the patterns in the cubes. But of course, that’s all balderdash.”

  “Why is that?” Sam asked.

  “Because, even giving the patterns their best shot, the tune they came up with was mediocre at best. Raising the question, who would bother to carve a B-side record into the ceiling of one of the greatest architectural marvels of the modern world? It makes no sense. But all the work they put into analyzing the ‘musical notation’ paid off anyway.”

  Archie reached into his briefcase once again and pulled out a file folder stuffed with documents and photographs. Digging through the folder, he finally located a stapled report that he set in front of her.

  “You see, at its heart, music is simply a form of mathematical expression. The rhythms and patterns that we hear, that we feel in music, exist only because the mathematics behind the music are either concordant or discordant. In fact, you might say the same thing about the entire universe—all of reality is simply an expression of some very fundamental mathematical equations. So, by laying out the supposed musical notes, the gentlemen exploring that particular approach to the Rosslyn code actually handed us the real code behind the cubes. A mathematical code. A dictionary code.”

  Sam was flipping through the report in front of her, and suddenly stopped. “What do you mean? What’s a dictionary code?”

  Mehmed set his beer down, now empty, and leaned in over the table. “A dictionary code is one of the oldest forms of encryption, Sam, perhaps thousands of years old. The Romans used it extensively, as well as the Templars, sending messages back and forth among all of their banks and fortresses. And the reason for its popularity is quite clear—it’s very simple to use, and it’s one of the hardest codes to crack. Essentially, the code itself is composed of a series of numbers. Each set of numbers then points to a particular word or letter in a separate reference document, spelling out a message. The thing is, unless you have a copy of the reference document, the code means absolutely nothing. The Enigma machines the Germans used in World War II to send coded messages on fleet movements and air strikes over easily intercepted radio channels were basically nothing more than an extremely sophisticated implementation of dictionary codes.”