The Templar's Code (3 page)

As he pecked away, Caedmon noticed a rail-thin man approach, a copy of
Isis Revealed
clutched to his chest. Shaggy-haired and disheveled, the man looked out of place in the clean-cut crowd.

“I’ve got some information about the Knights Templar that might interest you,” the towheaded man announced without preamble.

Removing his fingers from the keyboard, Caedmon straightened, giving the other man his full attention.

Long years ago, when he’d been a doctoral student at Oxford University, he’d written his dissertation on the Knights Templar, his research leading him to conclude that during their tenure in the Holy Land, the Templars had been secretly initiated into the Egyptian mysteries. To his chagrin, the dissertation he’d meticulously researched was publicly ridiculed by the head of the history department at Queen’s College. Realizing his advance degree would not be conferred, he left Oxford, tail tucked between his legs.

Whereupon he’d promptly been recruited by MI5, Great Britain’s Security Service.

MI5 actively sought men like him, defrocked academics keen to prove their worth. Such men made good spies. He’d spent eleven years in Her Majesty’s Service before returning to his first love, history. No longer concerned with how his controversial theories might be received, he’d written
Isis Revealed.

Although he suspected the opening gambit would lead nowhere, Caedmon inclined his head toward the shabbily dressed younger man. “Pray continue.”

Visibly anxious, the blond man used the ball of his shoulder to wipe several translucent beads from his upper lip. Then, a determined look in his hazel blue eyes, he thrust the copy of
Isis Revealed
in Caedmon’s direction.

“Open it.”

Thinking the impolite command odd, Caedmon took the proffered volume.

A half second later his jaw slackened as he read the handwritten message scrawled on the inscription page.

Saviour Panos opened an oversized bronze door and stepped inside the House of the Temple. In no hurry, well aware that the blond-haired archaeologist was now trapped within the confines of the stone colossus, he stopped at the guard station located just inside the vestibule.

A green-eyed mulatto, his drab uniform hugging a trim figure, looked up from the book he’d been reading. “Welcome to the House of the Temple.”

“I am pleased to be here,” Saviour replied in a cultivated accent that had taken years to perfect. He glanced at the battered copy of
The Iliad
splayed on top of the podium, greatly amused. Beware Greeks bearing gifts. . . .

“English literature major at Howard,” the other man offered, noticing the direction of his gaze. Warmly smiling, he gestured to the nearby coatroom. “Would you like to check your jacket?”

“No, thank you.” Saviour returned the other man’s smile. He frequently used his physical beauty to advantage, well aware that one could conquer the world with a smoldering glance.

Pleased that he’d so easily found his quarry, he stepped into the atrium. No sooner did he enter the dimly lit space than he came to a sudden halt, taken aback by the lavishly designed chamber.

“It’s magnificent,” he murmured, dazzled.

Well acquainted with ancient architecture—Thessaloniki, the city of his birth, inundated with churches, towers, and Roman arches—the atrium was wholly different from those grandiose monstrosities. While the expansive chamber with its massive granite columns had the heft and gravitas of a basilica, this was no Christian sanctuary. There were no Byzantine saints casting down their stern disapproval. No lavishly painted enthroned Madonnas. In lieu of the Stations of the Cross, there were bronze medallions with bas-relief symbols. The square and compass. The sun and the moon. The All-Seeing Eye.

The temple proudly flaunted its pagan origins.

Beautiful. Erotic. Like a muscle-bound youth.

Enthralled, he walked toward the center of the room, drawn to the gargantuan marble table supported by carved double-headed eagles. Marveling at the superb craftsmanship, he ran his palm across the top of it. As he did, he envisioned a certain blond archaeologist, naked, sprawled on top of the marble slab.

A dagger through his heart.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the security guard approach.

“That table is a replica of one they found in the ruins at Pompeii.” The other man held his gaze a second too long.

“I have always wanted to visit Pompeii,” Saviour replied. Then, exploiting the overture, he lowered his voice to a husky whisper. “I was supposed to meet a friend here. Perhaps you saw him, a blond-haired man.”

There was no mistaking the flash of disappointment. “Yeah, I saw him. He came through a few minutes ago. Asked where the lecture was being held.” He motioned to a placard set on an easel near the entryway.

Saviour examined the publicity photo of a red-haired man. “ ‘The Egyptian Origins of the Ark. A Lecture by Author Caedmon Aisquith.’ This lecture, where is it being held?”

The guard pointed to a hall on the other side of the atrium. “Take the stairs to the basement level. Then walk through the portrait gallery. The reading room’s on the right. Can’t miss it.”

“It is a beautiful sanctuary,” Saviour murmured, glancing about one last time. “You, my friend, have an enviable job.”

The other man shrugged. “There are better jobs.”

“Trust me, brother, there are far worse ways to earn a living.” Degrading, humiliating ways. For a few coins, the price of two oranges at the fruit vendor’s stall, he’d learned that man’s depravity knew no bounds.

Saviour shoved the unpleasant memories aside. Those days had passed. He had reinvented himself. A feat no other wharf rat could lay claim to.

He stepped toward the staircase, his stride purposeful. Perhaps it was the energy exuded by the exotic chamber, but suddenly he was excited. Invigorated. A Greek warrior about to launch an attack against the unsuspecting Trojans.

He’d been following the blond-haired man for the last week. Ever since the archaeologist dug up the mass grave site. There could be no witnesses to the massacre. Not even five hundred years after the fact.

Not now.

Not ever.

“Shit, where are my manners? Like I forgot to introduce myself. I’m Jason Lovett.
Doctor
Jason Lovett,” the blond-haired man quickly amended. “Which makes me a bona fide archaeologist rather than some Templar nut job.”

A statement no doubt meant to assuage any misgivings or preconceived notions.

Misgivings aplenty, Caedmon politely nodded as he shook Dr. Lovett’s right hand. “I am pleased to make your acquaintance.”

He detected a tremor in Lovett’s arm.
The man’s a tangled package of nerves.
Like a downed electric wire flapping in a gale-force wind.

“Okay, I know that what I wrote on the inscription page is
way
out there”—the shabbily dressed archaeologist jutted his head at the copy of
Isis Revealed
still clutched in Caedmon’s hand—“but I found it. Or rather, I’m
really
close to finding it. I just have to decipher some Templar symbols. Which is why I need someone who’s not only well versed in Templar symbolism but who can think outside the box. Dude, you’re an academic renegade. I couldn’t put that damned book down. And I’m not even a big fan of Egyptian mysticism.”

“Such high praise puts the blush to my cheek. But returning to your assertion regarding the Ark of the Covenant. . .” He let the opening dangle, hoping to steer the anxious archaeologist back on course.

“The Ark. Right. I checked out your Web page and saw that you’re a Templar expert. So, I won’t bore you with any details about the Templars and their sordid tale. You know the facts better than most.”

Indeed, he was well acquainted with the “sordid tale.” An order of warrior monks, the Knights Templar were founded during the Crusades, the church-sanctioned series of bloodbaths that attempted to free the Holy Land from the Muslim infidel.

When Acre, the last European stronghold in the Holy Land, fell in 1289, the Templars lost their raison d’être. With no more wars to fight, the Templars returned to France, a move that gave the French king, Philip le Bel, fitful sleep. What monarch of sane mind wanted the powerful Templars encamped on his doorstep?

Strapped for cash, the French king concocted a stratagem to have the entire Order arrested en masse on heresy charges, enabling him to confiscate the Templar treasury. With Pope Clement’s blessing, the plan was enacted on October the thirteenth, 1307. A Friday. On that fateful morning, the Templars were arrested by the king’s seneschals and turned over to the Inquisition. Accused of everything from worshiping Satan to ritualized sodomy.

So went the conventional history.

From his doctoral research, Caedmon knew that was a slanderous myth. During their tenure in the Holy Land, the Templars were exposed to the Egyptian mysteries. That exposure had a profound effect on their religious beliefs. When the Templars returned to France, they were Catholics in name only. The religious
volte-face
was the
real
reason for their downfall.

“I am well acquainted with the Templars,” Caedmon replied, keeping his thoughts to himself.

“Then you know that the Templars were obsessed with finding the Ark of the Covenant.”

“Their search proved futile, the Ark’s whereabouts still a mystery.” As he said it, Caedmon wondered if the youthful archaeologist had even been present for his earlier lecture.

Extending his arm, Lovett jabbed an index finger against the book cover. “Like I wrote, I’ve got proof to the contrary.”

“Indeed.” Out of the corner of his eye, Caedmon saw Edie Miller approach bearing a capped water bottle. Seeing him, she broke into a grin.

“What do you know? Conspiracy theorist makes good.”

“A conspiracy theorist? You’ve obviously been reading my reviews. Regardless of what the critics write, I am but a simple man trying to earn an honest quid,” he retorted, feigning indignation. Having met four months ago, he and Edie were taking a stab at a transatlantic relationship. Currently they were in that hazy stage between the hay and the grass.

“Great lecture, by the way.” She offered him the plastic bottle. “Here. I thought you might need to wet your English whistle.”

“Dr. Jason Lovett, allow me to introduce you to Edie Miller. Edie shot all of the photographs during the recent Ethiopian trip.” Tucking the unopened bottle under his arm, he opened the book cover, allowing Edie to view the scrawled inscription. “Interestingly enough, Dr. Lovett is an archaeologist.”

Edie’s brow furrowed. Just as he knew it would.

“Correct me if I’m wrong, but there’s a glaring historical fact that you seem to have overlooked. . . . Columbus didn’t discover America until 1492,” she baldly stated. “My medieval history is a little rusty, but weren’t the Knights Templar rendered null and void in the early fourteenth century?”

“Columbus never set foot in America. Besides, Irish monks and Norse Vikings reached these shores long before ol’ Chris ever set sail,” Lovett countered, his feathers clearly ruffled.

Caedmon joined the fray. “The Templars had Arabic sea charts acquired in the Holy Land during the Crusades. Moreover, they were able to navigate with a primitive but effective lodestone compass. Making a transatlantic journey entirely possible.”

Edie rolled her eyes. “You are
such
a history wonk.”

“Who happens to be right on the money,” Lovett remarked. “The standing story is that the mighty Knights Templar were laid low by the French king. While it’s true that a general arrest warrant was issued for every friggin’ Templar in France, only a handful of them were actually arrested. Meaning that a whole slew of them managed to escape.”