The History Thief: Ten Days Lost (The Sterling Novels)

by Joseph Nagle

  Michael wanted more answers and interrogated, “The origin of the crown and the shroud are separated by nearly fourteen centuries—how are they related?”

  The colonel didn’t answer.

  This time it was Sonia. She understood almost immediately. “Oh my God! It’s not how they are related, it’s to whom they relate, isn’t it, Colonel?”

  Michael and York looked at each other first before casting their stares at Sonia. The colonel sat back and gestured for her to continue.

  Sonia didn’t skip a beat. “Apart, the crown and the shroud mean little; just bits of history laced with conjecture and some presumption. They both point to Christ, but we know that’s not the case.”

  “How so?” interrupted York, suddenly intrigued.

  This time Michael answered. “Kid, science has easily proven that the image on the shroud is not that of Christ’s. It may look like the generally accepted image of him, but it’s entirely too young. The shroud dates from the fourteenth century, whereas Christ was believed to have lived in the early first century. There is no way the image on the shroud is Christ’s.”

  Sonia regained the floor from her husband and directed her words toward the colonel. “Three years ago, my husband was blamed for assassinating the ayatollah. There was an attempt on the pope’s life, too. But it was the Order who was behind both actions, and they wanted something rather badly.”

  “The Hand of Christ,” responded the colonel.

  Michael added, “The Order wanted a vellum that proved Christ didn’t die on the cross; that he had a lineage—that he had fathered children.”

  “This is what you meant, Sonia, isn’t it?” questioned the colonel. “The thefts are about to whom they relate.”

  Sonia poured another cup of coffee as all of the men watched her carefully. When finished, she spoke, but this time it wasn’t as the wife of the deputy director of the Clandestine Services: it was as a doctor, as a professional and highly educated scientist. “The Order has stolen the crown and the shroud to create a genetic connection between them, not to prove that they were both worn by Christ.”

  The colonel offered a single and slow nod.

  York was a bit confused. “I don’t understand. How can the two artifacts create a connection with Christ and his descendants?”

  It was at this point that Michael removed from his pocket the medallion he had been given and the vellum he had taken from Queen Isabelle’s decayed fingers. He laid them gently on the dark wood of the table.

  The colonel’s eyes widened at the sight of them.

  Sonia leaned over to York and answered his question in a whispered voice, “Science, Jonathon. The crown and shroud may both have remnants of DNA on them. If so, the DNA can be tested and would create a genetic map of those remnants. Put side by side, they can be compared and offer proof of a familial relationship—Christ’s family.”

  York understood. He jumped to his feet and violently kicked away the old wooden chair, causing Sonia to startle and to nearly spill her coffee. “So my men were killed, and we are risking our fucking lives, so some group of assholes can validate their fucking family tree?!”

  Michael stared with ire at the child in a man’s body who stood red-faced before them. “Take it easy, kid. It goes a bit deeper than that. We are talking about the family tree.” Michael pointed to the chair, which lay on its side, and barked, “Now pick up that chair and sit back down!”

  York ignored the command. “I don’t give a shit if it’s a goddamn orange grove of solid gold fruit, because all I’ve seen in the last couple of days is a lot of people dying for no damn good reason at all! And we’re sitting here sipping coffee from expensive porcelain with our pinkies in the air and casually eating fucking olives in a castle with one of them! I’m sorry, Colonel, if that offends your sensibilities, but when I look at you, I only see one of those assholes that condone killing to chase bullshit fairy tales!”

  The colonel stared back furiously; his teeth were clamped together. It took all of his strength to stay in his seat.

  Sonia quickly stood, recognizing the signs of two men about to lose control, and put her hand on York’s arm. Her face showed a slight ripple of fear mixed with sadness, but her voice was soothing and controlled. “Take it easy, Jonathon, please. I know you’ve lost some good people, men—friends—you were close to; I can’t imagine how that must feel. I really can’t. For whatever reason, we have been forced into this maddening situation, but there will be time to grieve, Jonathon, I promise. Right now, I’m scared, and I could really use your strength. I need you to stay focused, because if you lose it, I think I might, too.” Sonia gave his arm a reassuring squeeze.

  York was angry; he had every right to be. Inside, all that he could think about was how he wanted nothing more than to be at home with his wife Elizabeth and how he wished that he and his men had never been sent to that cave in Afghanistan. He felt Sonia’s warm hand on his arm; her gentle touch reminded him of his wife’s. He didn’t know why, but he didn’t resist and let her guide him slowly to his overturned chair. Almost begrudgingly, he righted the chair and retook his seat. York growled toward Michael while pointing a stiffened index finger at him. “I want to end this; I want to find the assholes responsible for putting me in the middle of their bullshit club. You said this goes deeper: enlighten me,” he said, and then added for effect, “please.”

  Michael picked up the medallion and handed it to Colonel Camini; the colonel’s eyes latched on to York’s. Both men didn’t waver as the colonel took the medallion from where it sat on the table. A few long moments ticked by before the colonel turned his attention to it.

  York didn’t look away; his chest heaved slightly from the anger still flowing rapidly in him.

  The colonel continued to slowly and meticulously study every part of the medallion. He turned it over from one side to the other and back again and then cupped it between both, as if osmosis would bring an answer to their questions.

  Finally, he asked, “The engravings; what do they mean, Michael?”

  “The first one—Tanto Monta—was easy,” replied Michael.

  “They amount to the same,” added the colonel. “Yes, this one is simple: Queen Isabelle and King Ferdinand.”

  York’s memory fleeted to Granada and the tomb of the Catholic Monarchs; it was there that they had found the vellum.

  “And the other one, what do you make of it?” asked the colonel.

  “I was hoping that you could tell me.”

  The colonel read the engraving out loud, “From Four to Fifteen: Ten are Lost Forever.” He scratched his head and then added pithily, “I’ve no idea.”

  “But you do know to whom the medallion belonged, don’t you?”

  The colonel laid down the medallion slowly and thought about his response. He stared blankly at Michael as if calculating whether or not he should divulge the answer.

  He didn’t get the chance.

  Michael picked up the medallion and did so for him. “In 1578, a young king—King Sebastian the First of Portugal—went missing in a battle that took place just inland from the coast of the Mediterranean in North Africa. His body was never found. This medallion hung around the neck of Sebastian and can be seen in a painting by Alonso Sanchez Coello of the king when the king was about twenty-one years old.”

  The colonel continued the story. “It was the medallion worn by each master of the Order of Christ, but was last seen, as you’ve just mentioned, around the neck of King Sebastian in the late sixteenth century. The Order has searched for his body for four centuries.”

  “To create the DNA link,” Sonia stated.

  “With the advancements in modern technology, yes, that is what they precisely intend to do,” the colonel added.

  York jumped in. “But you don’t know what that other engraving means?”

  “I’m afraid not, Staff Sergeant.” The colonel tapped the words and finished his thought. “The two engravings were etched at different times. The styles
of the etchings are not the same; that much I can tell you.”

  “I’m hoping that this might help,” added Michael.

  On the antique table, Michael opened the vellum and flattened it so that it could be read. Across the top of the vellum, the words Revelation 14:9 were written in a faded crimson ink.

  “What do you know of this?” quizzed Michael.

  The colonel studied the vellum and its words, but not for content. He saw something else; his eyes shook slightly. There was anger in his voice as he recognized something, but his tone was even when he said, “This was made at the Vatican.”

  Michael sat forward with interest. “How can you be sure, Colonel?”

  “It was my job as head of the Swiss Guard to know intimately every square meter of the Vatican, including her history. In the middle 1500s, four Cardinals oversaw the actions of a print shop in Rome—they were deputati sopra la stampa.”

  “The print police, eh?” asked Michael.

  “For lack of better words, yes, but that didn’t last for too long. Sometime in the late 1500s, a papal bull was issued titled Eam Semper ex Omnibus, if memory serves me correctly. This dictated the creation of a Pontifical Printing Press. The Vatican wanted to better comply with the Council of Trent and brought control of any Roman publication onto Vatican grounds.”

  Michael pulled the vellum closer, but it was Sonia who looked at it with more scrutiny. The words were not written by hand but were typeset.

  Sonia’s face was twisted slightly in both confusion and recognition. “Michael, Colonel,” she interrupted, “I think that this isn’t ink. I think it’s blood.”

  “Blood?” quizzed Michael.

  “More precisely,” Sonia replied, “King Sebastian’s blood.”

  Colonel Camini and York spun their heads in her direction; both instantly were curious.

  “I’ve seen this before, when I was in medical school and doing my rotations. I took a course in medical forensics that put us in the hospital’s forensics lab. We studied a number of things, including blood stains on various materials and the effects from the elements and time. See the letters on this parchment? They are darker in the middle and, if you look closely, fade dramatically toward their edges. You can see that some of them have flaked slightly.”

  Both the colonel and Michael looked more closely at one another and then at the parchment. Sonia was right. “But how can you be certain that this is blood and not some other fluid?” asked the colonel.

  “Solubility and density,” answered Sonia. “Ink would soak into the material it was printed on and would hold fast to the fibers. It may fade, but not in this pattern. Blood is not as dense as ink and wouldn’t work as well. That’s why the edges of the letters are much lighter and show signs that the blood didn’t soak all the way into the material. And because blood is much more soluble than ink, any part not completely embedded into the fibers of the parchment will eventually dry, age, and flake.”

  “You learned this during your internship?” asked the colonel.

  “Yes, but what made me think of it was the realization that the crown and the shroud may have a genetic link. What if the Order wants this parchment because they know about the blood? What if the blood belongs to Sebastian, one of Christ’s descendants? What if you two were sent to find what the Order couldn’t and to help them create that link?”

  Colonel Camini rubbed roughly the stubbles on his squared jawline. Michael stared at Sonia with a look of pride.

  Instead of answering Sonia’s questions, Michael turned toward the colonel and asked, “Colonel, you recognize this document to be from the Vatican’s printing press, from their specific machine, is that right?”

  “I do. It’s from the Vatican’s Gutenberg. To me it was quite obvious, but it wasn’t just the style of type, Michael, that made it clear.”

  Michael, York, and Sonia all simultaneously leaned in.

  The colonel had a devilish look upon his face that could almost be mistaken for a smile. He stood and held the parchment close to the bulb of the iron chandelier above the table.

  Sonia gasped, and Michael smiled. The middle of the parchment appeared more translucent. A watermark appeared, but not just any watermark.

  “The papal tiara and crossed keys,” whispered Michael.

  “Framed by four concentric circles—the external one is pearled,” the colonel pointed out as he finished the description of the seal of the state of Vatican City.

  The colonel sat down and replaced the parchment onto the table’s top. He removed his cup of coffee and took one long swallow that seemed to bring him a quiet enjoyment as it drizzled down his throat. Slowly, he set the cup back to its place on the saucer and looked across the table, not to Michael, but to Sonia. His voice was baritone, smooth even, when he suggested, “You think there’s more, too, don’t you?”

  Sonia was almost embarrassed and felt out of place; she was afraid to answer and swallowed dryly. Finding her courage, she replied, “Even if there’s a genetic link between all three, it wouldn’t mean much without a body.”

  The colonel tapped his thick index finger a few times heavily on the top of the wooden table. It was a gesture as if he were exclaiming agreement.

  Michael’s eyes were wide when he said, “Let me guess—we’re off to your old stomping grounds, Colonel.”

  Without taking his eyes off of Sonia, the colonel replied, “All matters seem to point that way, wouldn’t you agree? Besides, it’s been some time since I’ve visited the Vatican.” He then added, “I’d keep my eyes on this one, Michael; she’d make a good addition to your team.”

  This time it was Sonia’s turn to blush.

  CHAPTER EIGHTY-TWO

  REVELATION 14:9

  CASTLE D’CAMINI

  Sonia was the first to ask the question. “The Vatican? What’s there that can help us?”

  The colonel’s voice boomed almost like a preacher’s when he recited, “The third angel followed them and said in a loud voice: if anyone worships the beast and his image and receives his mark on the forehead…”

  Michael finished the scripture, “…he, too, will drink of the wine of God’s fury. Revelation 14:9.”

  “That’s what that means?” asked York as he pointed to the words Revelation 14:9 written across the top of the parchment.

  “It’s a passage from the Bible, kid.”

  Sonia interrupted, “But what does it mean?”

  “I’m not sure,” replied Michael to his wife. “Colonel, what does the rest of it say?”

  The colonel took the parchment and began to read aloud and from the top, “Revelation 14:9—The line of the day loses ten; the wind no longer blows. A time forgotten.”

  “That’s it?! That’s all that it says?” cried out York.

  “Yes,” answered the colonel, “that is all. Unfortunately, most codes are designed to be difficult to solve.”

  Michel pushed back from the table and stood. His leg was still quite sore and felt a bit stiff. Standing felt good. He rubbed his face as he thought. He was tired, and his body hurt. Putting both hands on his hips he stared almost blankly at the wall. It was filled with paintings—mostly oil. Some were rich landscapes, while others depicted violent acts of history. Some were biblical.

  On he stared.

  No one spoke.

  York took another sip of his coffee; the bitter taste was growing on him, but he wouldn’t tell the colonel.

  Michael’s eyes darted from one painting to the next. His mind was moving fast.

  The crown.

  The shroud.

  The Vatican.

  Revelation 14:9.

  Sebastian.

  The year 1578.

  Then he stopped. All thoughts ceased. Michael’s eyes opened wide.

  “Colonel,” he shouted, “read it again!”

  Obligingly, the colonel read, “Revelation 14:9—The line of the day loses ten; the wind no longer blows. A time forgotten.”

  It was obvious. Michael dro
pped his head and laughed slightly.

  “What is it, Michael?” Sonia asked. “What do you know?”

  “Time,” retorted Michael as he thrust his hands outward. Turning aboutface, he looked directly into the colonel’s eyes and stated again, “Time. The year 1578. The Gregorian calendar.”

  The colonel’s face contorted slightly as his mind searched history. It didn’t take long. “Of course! A time forgotten!” shouted Colonel Camini as he slapped the wooden table heavily with the meat of his thick hand, making Sonia and York both jump. He, too, knew.

  The two men stared at one another. The colonel sat erect, and his voice boomed, “How could I have not seen it?”

  “Seen what?” questioned York. “You guys want to include us in on your little secret and tell us what a calendar has to do with this?”

  “Kid,” began Michael, “in 1578, King Sebastian went missing; his body was never found. He was the master of the Order of Christ.”

  “It was also in 1578 that the shroud was given to the Vatican by its owners,” added the colonel.

  “You two ain’t sayin’ anything that we haven’t already learned,” interjected York.

  Michael was clearly growing a bit frustrated at the impetuous manner of his underling and was ready to snap at him, but one look from his wife told him otherwise. So, instead, he held up his hand in a paternal fashion, asking for patience from the young Green Beret. “The year 1578 was one helluva year for the church; that year, the Vatican made a startling decision, but took four years to bring it into effect. In 1582, Pope Gregory XIII issued a papal bull forcing the Holy Roman Empire, and, thus, the rest of the world, to eventually to remove ten days from the calendar. When October fourth finished, instead of the next day becoming the fifth…”

  Sonia leapt to her feet. “It became the fifteenth! Ten days lost, Michael! That’s what the inscription on the medallion means: four into fifteen, ten are lost forever! The ten that are lost refers to the days!”

  A time forgotten, thought Michael.

  Michael was finding a new energy. His chest hurt and his leg still burned, but he was on fire with adrenaline; he was in a swirl of thoughts and replied, “That’s what the first line of the parchment alludes to! The line of the day loses ten. The line refers to a real line—to a meridian line.”