Paul Christopher - The Templar Legion

“More than that,” said Rafi. He turned away from the huge stone coffin and went to the far wall. For the first time Holliday noticed that the walls had been covered with tarpaulins that hung on lines and rings like shower curtains. With no pause for dramatic effect Rafi pulled the dull green cloth aside.

Peggy’s eyes went wide.

“Holy crap,” she whispered, awestruck.

It was a vision of paradise.

“The Garden of Eden,” said Peggy, her camera forgotten.

As Rafi pulled the curtains back from all four walls he revealed an enormous panorama, the sarcophagus in its center. The artist had painted it from some high vantage point, capturing the jungle, the enormous cascades of the waterfall and the nearby hills in perfect detail. Every tree, every branch, every leaf, every rocky crag and outcropping was captured in glowing greens and ochres, blues and whites and brilliant yellows, the magnificent arc of the rainbow as the water dropped into the foaming gorge as perfect as a photograph.

Looking closer, Holliday could see that the jungle was alive, populated with birds, beasts and reptiles, snakes hanging from trees, a jaguar half-hidden by dappled shadows and perfectly in proportion, a line of tiny black human figures winding along the middle hill, wicker baskets balanced on their heads and shoulders as they walked down the hill and delivered their load onto strangely shaped dugouts waiting on the river. It was a masterpiece and a perfect dreamscape for the sleeping knight in the center of the tomb, beautiful enough to last him for eternity.

“It’s magnificent,” said Holliday. “Who painted it, I wonder?”

“It was almost certainly Roche-Guillaume himself,” said Rafi. “The painting is in much the same style as the sketches he made of his other travels.”

“He painted the inside of his own mausoleum?” Peggy said, frowning. “That’s a bit icky, don’t you think?”

“From what I can tell he probably lived here,” said Rafi. “The mausoleum is in the same style as the Coptic monasteries around the lake, so presumably he paid local builders and quarrymen to put it up, building it to his design. The same holds true for the sarcophagus; it’s a European tradition reserved for emperors. Most burials here are much simpler affairs-a mummified body is stacked with dozens or hundreds in a church crypt or a cave. Roche-Guillaume clearly designed the sarcophagus and may even have overseen its construction.”

“And the interment?” Holliday asked.

“Bought and paid for. Most likely a hired priest from the monastery at Tana Kirkos, the big island I pointed out to you on the way here.”

“Once again, ick,” said Peggy. “Paying that much attention to your own death. It’s just a little bit obsessive-compulsive, don’t you think?”

“I don’t know,” said Holliday, looking at the mural. “He visualized paradise and made sure he’d spend eternity right in the middle of it.”

“The mural’s no vision,” said Rafi. “It’s a real place. Ten degrees, twenty-eight minutes, thirty-six seconds north by twenty-three degrees, seventeen minutes, forty-eight seconds east, to be precise. The exact location of King Solomon’s Mines.”

“You’ve been there?” Holliday asked skeptically. “Maybe Roche-Guillaume went looking, but this isn’t done from life,” he said. “It’s a dream, Rafi. He smoked too much local weed, which I understand Ethiopia is famous for. It’s like Coleridge and the Ancient Mariner-a drugged-out fantasy.”

“How do you explain the diamond?”

“He bought it from someone who thought it was worthless. It was a souvenir, like one of those pennants that says, ‘Come to Cleveland,’ on it.”

“Look,” said Rafi, gesturing to Holliday, then stepping over to the wall. He dug into his pocket, took out his Swiss army knife and pulled out the large blade. He began digging into the plaster at a point where the side and front walls of the little mausoleum joined. The plaster was at least half an inch thick and it took a little time but eventually he removed a two-by-two-inch square. He stepped aside and let the weak sunlight play on the exposed surface.

It glittered.

“What the hell?” Holliday said, stepping closer. Instead of the brown basalt stone he’d expected, the little patch was a rich, buttery yellow. He reached out and touched it with the pad of his index finger. “That’s crazy,” he whispered.

“No,” replied Rafi. “That’s gold. Ninety-nine nine pure. I had a few slivers assayed in Jerusalem. All four walls, the ceiling and the floor. This whole place is lined with solid gold almost an inch thick.”

“Where on earth was it smelted?” Holliday asked. “He didn’t bring sheets of it out of the jungle.”

“It’s in two-by-eight panels, heated and welded together. I found a slab of basalt that was used as the form for pouring the sheets buried in the jungle just beyond the clearing.”

“And he kept all this secret?”

“Apparently.”

“This is an incredible find, Rafi. Why haven’t you said anything or published?”

“The country has been on the verge of another civil war for years. Unstable isn’t the word. The Ethiopian government isn’t big on protecting its cultural heritage and it’s as corrupt as most bureaucracies. If word of this got out the place would be overrun and gutted within days if not hours. At the very least it would be turned into a tourist trap. As a site for serious archaeological work it would be ruined. I can’t say anything, not yet anyway.” He paused. “And there’s more.”

“More?” Holliday said, dumbfounded.

“How’s your Latin?”

“Still passable,” answered Holliday.

“Read the inscription on the sarcophagus.”

“What inscription?”

“Just under the overhang of the lid,” said Rafi. For the first time Holliday saw the stone-carved ribbon of writing that ran around the immense stone coffin. He translated as he went along.

“ ‘ My past is my shield, my’. . uh, cruces , ‘cross is my future. Here lies, in the site of their gods, all that remains of the knight Guillaume and the’. . servus , what the hell is servus ?”

“Slave, I think,” said Rafi.

“ ‘Slave and Great Discoverer, Abdul al-Rahman. Requiescant in pace in aeterno. May they rest in peace for all eternity.”

“Al-Rahman’s bones are buried in the same coffin?”

“Either that or the mausoleum was built on the previous site of al-Rahman’s grave.”

“ ‘ My past is my shield, my cross is my future….’ What’s that supposed to mean?” Holliday asked.

“I didn’t get it at first either,” said Rafi.

“Get what?” Holliday said.

“Press down hard on the cross on his shield,” instructed Rafi.

Holliday leaned over the stone effigy of the knight and pressed down on the center of the black basalt-inlaid cross in the center of his shield. Nothing happened.

“A little harder,” said Rafi.

Holliday did as he was told. There was a grating sound, and then Rafi pulled out a tongue of stone that had eased out from the side of the sarcophagus. It was a stone drawer, released by some mechanism within the massive coffin. Inside the drawer was what appeared to be a book bound in leather. With the delicate touch of an archaeologist, Rafi lifted the volume up and laid it on the stone effigy. Slowly and with extreme care, he slipped a leather thong through the cover, which turned out to be a strap keeping the volume tightly shut.

He carefully unfolded a series of thick papyrus pages like an accordion, spreading them out over the top of the sarcophagus. Holliday leaned over it. The pages were covered with line after line of text, the letters so small they were barely readable. Interspersed with the text were simple black-and-white ink drawings.