Paul Christopher - The Sword of the Templars

“You’ve seen it?” Holliday asked. He felt a sudden surge of hope. If Brother Timothy had seen the copy of the letter that meant it had somehow survived the destruction of the archives.

“Yes,” replied the monk. “It makes interesting reading. An apologia from a saint on the subject of spilling blood in the name of Christ. A philosophy espoused by less saintly men, several of your American presidents in particular.”

“You would have been too young to know about the book during the war,” said Peggy, ignoring the pointed comment and voicing Holliday’s unspoken objection.

“I was nine, a foundling orphan. Our abbey, l’Abbazia di San Martino di Camaldoli, lies on the next hill, less than a kilometer from here. I watched the palazzo burn from the window in my room. It burned for a day and a night. It made Brother Albano, our abbot and the man who raised me, weep.”

“I’m not sure I understand,” said Holliday. “What was the connection between your abbey and the Archives?”

“The Villa Montesano was originally the Priory of San Martino. Even after the property was sold the Abbey held stewardship of the villa’s lands. It still does, which is how I come to gather walnuts here.” The monk sipped his tea, added a slice of lemon, and then went on.

“Brother Albano was more than just the abbot. He was also the sacristan, personally in charge of the scriptorium and the library for which our abbey was well-known. Mussolini despised the Roman Catholic religion from an early age. In fact, Brother Albano had taught him as a boy in the Salesian Fathers’ boarding school in the town of Faenza.

“He worried that Mussolini would take his revenge on the monasteries the way Henry VIII did in England, so he hid the most precious of the monastery’s volumes at the Villa Montesano just in case. Before he died Brother Albano charged me with their care, particularly the copy of De laudibus novae militiae.”

“How did it survive the fire?” Peggy asked. “Why didn’t Lutz Kellerman find it?”

“Do you know the meaning of the word ‘crypsis’?” Brother Timothy responded.

“Something to do with codes?” Holliday ventured.

“With subterfuge certainly,” answered the monk. “Crypsis is the ability of an organism to escape detection.”

“Camouflage?” Peggy said.

“Quite so,” said Brother Timothy. “The Dead Leaf Mantis, which looks exactly like its name. The Tawny Frogmouth owl of Australia whose feathers mimic tree bark perfectly. The Gaboon viper of Africa, colored to look like the jungle floor. These are all cryptic animals.”

He paused, plucking the lemon slice from his tea and popping it in his mouth. He chewed thoughtfully on the pulp for a moment, then put the bare rind down on the little table. He continued speaking, his voice a pleasant professorial drone.

“Brother Albano was something of an amateur naturalist, a follower of the renowned Italian collector Francisco Minа Palumbo. Albano’s great interest was the common wall lizard, a cryptic reptile, Podarcis muralis, a familiar creature among the rocks and stones hereabouts. The ability of the creature to disguise itself within its natural environment fascinated him.”

“I don’t quite see what all this has to do with the book,” said Peggy, sounding a little frustrated.

“I do,” said Holliday, putting it all together. “It means the book was hidden in plain sight.”

“And where would you hide a book in plain sight?” Brother Timothy asked, smiling.

“In a library,” said Peggy.

“Precisely,” said the monk, clapping his hands together happily. “In the library of the Villa Montesano.”

“But the library must have burned along with the Archives,” said Holliday.

Brother Timothy explained.

“There had been foraging patrols in the area for some days, soldiers on motorcycles looking for food-chickens and calves and the like. The day before the Archives were burned, September twenty-eighth, one of those patrols came to the Villa.” The old man paused again and added a cube of sugar to his tea.

“They did nothing, only bullied Signora Nicolini, the owner, and the director of the Archives who was resident at the villa, a man named Antonio Capograssi, if I remember correctly. As soon as the patrol left the premises Signora Nicolini came to the abbey to warn Brother Albano. It was everything he’d feared. He couldn’t bring the precious manuscripts back to the abbey on the chance they would be found there, so he hid them again.”

“Where?” Peggy asked.

“Here,” said Brother Timothy, tapping one sandaled foot against the paving stones. “Under the floor of the humble gardener’s cottage.”

“It’s not still there, is it?” Peggy asked, startled. She stared at the smooth stones beneath her feet.

“Certainly not,” laughed the old monk. “The De laudibus is written on gevil, the processed skin of a stillborn or unborn fallow deer. It was the most common form of paper in use during the time of the Crusades. Ironically it is the same material used in the creation of Jewish holy documents like the Sefer Torah. Left beneath the floor it would have rotted away.” He smiled. “It has been safely hidden again, however.”

“Where?” Holliday asked.

Brother Timothy sat back in his chair. Outside the cicada had stopped singing. A cloud passed overhead and for a few seconds the interior of the cottage darkened. In the distance Holliday thought he heard the faint, distant sound of summer thunder. Finally the monk spoke again.

“You have asked enough questions for the moment. Now it is my turn,” said Brother Timothy.

“What would you like to know?” Holliday asked.

“How you came to know about the Sword of Pelerin.”

“It was my uncle’s. He discovered it in the Berghof at the end of the Second World War.”

“Hitler’s summer house,” nodded Brother Timothy.

“That’s right.”

“Who is your uncle?”

“Was,” said Holliday. “He passed away recently. His name was Henry Granger. He was a medieval historian.”

“And my grandfather,” added Peggy.

“Henry Granger. Watchmen of the Holy City,” nodded Brother Timothy. “The definitive study of the Templars in Jerusalem. A fine book. I’ve read it.” The old monk paused and pursed his lips. “Where is the sword now?”

“Hidden safely,” said Holliday, “like your copy of the Alberic letter.”

“This Nazi you mentioned, Kellerman; other than the burning of the Archives, how does he fit into this?”

“It’s a long story,” said Holliday.

“I have time,” said the monk placidly.

So they told Brother Timothy everything they knew.

It took a little more than an hour. When Holliday and Peggy finished up their tale the white-haired man took off his glasses, cleaning them on the broad cuff of his habit, then set them back onto his nose again. He eyed them speculatively.

“How do I know anything of what you say is the truth?” Brother Timothy asked.

“Why would we lie?” Peggy said a little hotly. “Besides, we have the sword.”

“Prove it,” the monk said flatly.

“Show him,” said Peggy.

Holliday stood up and undid the buckle of the Tilley Endurables money belt and stripped it off. He’d carried the belt since his first rotation in the Gulf, and it had the worn, comfortable look of a favorite piece of clothing. He turned the belt over and unzipped the twenty-inch pouch. He carefully extracted the long piece of gold wire that had been wrapped around the hilt of the crusader sword. The wire had been turned to make three loops so that it fitted into the belt. It had been carried, hidden, ever since they’d left Fredonia. He handed the wire to Brother Timothy and explained: