Paul Christopher - The Sword of the Templars

“So we’re not the first people to look for treasure here?” Peggy asked, her eyes twinkling.

Wanounou twinkled back, then turned and pointed to the craggy slopes of Mount Carmel two miles or so west across the narrow coastal plain.

“We’ve been excavating up there in the caves at Wadi el Mugharah since 1951,” said the professor, “the Brits and you Yanks even before that. Where we’re standing now is the biblical Plain of Sharon. We’ve found material dating back to the Neanderthals and even before, to the early Stone Age.

“There’s been human occupation of one kind or another in this area for two million years. There’s even good evidence to show that this was once the biblical Garden of Eden, at least as far as the old prophets were concerned.” He turned around, arms spread out. “The sea, the plains, the mountains. Everything old Adam and Eve could have asked for.” Wanounou smiled. Peggy smiled back.

Holliday frowned, then sighed, wondering if it was time to have a chat with her about the potential dangers of the situation. Wiser to keep his mouth shut for the moment, he thought.

They reached a high, rusty razor wire fence that stretched across the neck of the narrow peninsula. There were faded red notices in Hebrew, Arabic, and English every ten or fifteen feet along the wire:

No exclamation marks, just a simple and explicit statement of fact.

“Heartwarming,” said Peggy. On the other side of the fence they could see a slight dip in the ground that marked the position of the old moat. A few yards farther in the earth thin sandy soil rose steeply, thick with coarse weeds and shrubs, all that was left of the original imposing curtain wall.

They walked on down the path for a short distance, stopping in front of a gateway set into the fence. It was secured with a heavy padlock. There was another sign on the gate. This one was even clearer:

“Are you sure we have permission for this?” Holliday asked.

“Better than that,” said Wanounou, digging into one of the pockets of his baggy fatigue pants. “I’ve got a key.”

“Uh, what about the mines?” cautioned Peggy.

“There aren’t any,” said the professor, smiling broadly. “The signs are to impress the tourists and scare off any kids.”

“Said the one-legged blind guy with no fingers,” muttered Peggy.

“Your connections must be better than I thought,” said Holliday. They went through the gate, and Wanounou locked it behind them and pocketed the key again. They headed up a sandy footpath that crossed the old moat and wound its way up the hillocky remains of the old wall.

“Turns out that the navy hasn’t used this place in ages,” the professor said as they trudged up the path. “They used to train in Haifa Bay, but it got too polluted, so they moved down here. But then they cleaned up the bay, so they moved back. They might have left some equipment behind, but the property is empty. They left the fence and signs in place until they figure out who to hand it over to-the archaeologists or the tourists.”

A flight of dowdy-looking, pale brown Marbled Ducks flew overhead in ragged V formation, heading for the marshland where they’d spotted the flamingos. The air tasted of salt and the sea, and there was a light onshore breeze taking the edge off the midday heat. A hundred and fifty miles away Cyprus crouched invisibly on the blue horizon. They reached the top of the path and looked down on the ruins spread out before them.

Enough of the gigantic castle remained to make visualizing it relatively easy. From the low foundations to the seaward end of the castle was more than two football fields in length. From side to side the structure had been about half that size. There had been north and south towers on the inner wall, a higher upper ward flanked by sunken undercrofts flanking it and the massive castle keep in the center.

There had been walls on all three sides, including the side facing the sea with a seawall and a long breakwater that still remained, jutting out into the shallow, natural harbor. Lateen caravels and square-rigged cogs would have unloaded there, safely protected and out of range of any attackers from the landward side.

Ringing the keep, there had been five great halls, each one at least a hundred feet long. Now, only lines of half-buried stone and ghostly dips and patterns in the soil remained. Tufted patches of sea grass grew here and there, slabs of paving stone appearing between them, marking old walkways like long scars in the dirt.

“Needle in a haystack,” said Peggy, looking across the enormous interior of the castle’s inner wards. “That’s an awful lot of ground to cover.”

Raffi Wanounou reached into his pocket again, this time taking out a folded map. It was a diagram of the castle excavations, done years ago when he’d spent three summers here when he was a graduate student. He turned it in his hands, orienting himself.

“What does your little ditty say?” he asked.

Holliday had memorized it:

“In the black waters of the Pilgrim’s Fortress

A treasured silver scroll is found,

A thirst for knowledge girded round

These holy walls without a sound.

With dead Saladin’s echoing voice it calls

Us into battle once again.”

“The ‘black waters’ might well refer to the castle’s water supply,” said the professor, looking down at the diagram and up at the huge expanse of broken ground in front of them.

“You said there was a spring and some kind of pool,” said Peggy. “Maybe that was it.”

“I can’t see them burying a treasure in an open pool,” said Wanounou. “It’s more likely near one of the wells.”

“Where were they?” Peggy asked. She came and looked over his shoulder at the diagram, her arm brushing his. “Show me,” she said.

“They’re long gone,” replied the professor. “We never found anything remotely like a well when we were excavating.” He shrugged. “Mind you we barely touched the surface here before the IDF kicked us out and brought in Shayetet 13.”

“Maybe I can do one better,” said Holliday, stepping between Peggy and Wanounou, glancing at the diagram in the professor’s hand. “The verse says, ‘A search for knowledge girded round these holy walls…’ That sounds like a church to me.” He pointed down at the diagram. “That long oval shape with the square at one end, close to the seaward wall, what’s that?”

“The undercroft-the crypt-beneath what we think was the chapel,” said Wanounou. “We called it the Round Church.”

“Mimicking the Church of the Holy Sepulcher in Jerusalem,” nodded Holliday. “Like all Templar churches.”

“That’s right,” said the professor.

“ ‘These holy walls,’ ” said Holliday. “It’s worth a shot.”

They picked their way slowly down the embankment and began to make their way across the rubble-strewn expanse of the castle’s middle ward.

“From the way you speak about them I take it you’re not one to toe the party line when it comes to the Templars,” said Wanounou.

Walking between them, Peggy laughed.

“Doc doesn’t toe the party line when it comes to much of anything.” She grinned. “Must run in the family.”

“You’re not a believer in their Christian piety?” the professor asked, cocking a skeptical eyebrow.

“I think some of them were religious fanatics,” said Holliday. “Most of them were mercenaries. There were a lot of unemployed knights back then. A few of them might have believed in the cause, but not many.” He shook his head. “I’ve been in a lot of wars in my time, Professor, and one way or another they’ve always been about money. The Crusades were no different.