Paul Christopher - The Sword of the Templars

Stabat mater dolorosa

iuxta Crucem lacrimosa,

dum pendebat Filius.

Cuius animam gementem,

contristatam et dolentem

pertransivit gladius.

At the Cross her station keeping,

stood the mournful Mother weeping,

close to Jesus to the last.

Through her heart, His sorrow sharing,

all His bitter anguish bearing,

now at length the sword has passed.

Pertransivit gladius. Yet another sword. The Altar of the Stabat Mater in the Church of the Holy Sepulcher was a carved stone niche containing a tearful statue of the Virgin Mary with an area in front for the lighting of candles called “mensas.” There almost certainly would have been a version of the Stabat Mater at Pelerin, in which case the octagonal stone would have stood directly in front of it.

The brilliant sun was baking the rocks around him as Holliday worked on. A flock of Yellow-legged Gulls whirled and careened above him, calling loudly to each other as they rode the roller-coaster currents of the air. A hundred yards away he could hear the dull, hammering roar of the sea battering against the low cliffs at the end of the promontory.

By the time Peggy and Wanounou returned, Holliday had roughly cleared off a twelve-by-twelve area, revealing an intricate pattern of interlocking squares fanning out from the central octagon. Whoever had laid the floor had known something about geometry.

Peggy and the professor had brought a selection of tools from the rear compartment of the Land Cruiser including a small pick, a geologist’s hammer, a spade, a toolbox full of dentist’s tools and paint brushes, three trowels, and two flashlights. In addition to the tools he’d also brought a cooler full of Neviot bottled water, an assortment of sandwiches, and a thermos full of iced sweet tea.

“You’ve been working hard,” said Wanounou.

“Hard enough,” agreed Holliday.

Wanounou handed Peggy a waxed paper-wrapped sandwich, tossed one to Holliday, and chose one for himself. Holliday sat himself down on a foundation stone and unwrapped the sandwich. He peeked between the slices of bread and laughed out loud.

“Where do you find a ham and cheese sandwich in Israel?”

“I have my sources.” The professor winked. They ate quickly, then the professor handed out bottles of the cold spring water.

“What’s next?” Peggy asked, taking a slug of water.

“I’ve got an idea,” said Holliday. He stood up, holding his own bottle of water, and crossed the freshly swept area to the octagonal stone. He crouched down, then trickled water from the bottle onto the hot stone, darkening it. Wanounou came and looked over one shoulder, and Peggy looked over the other.

“I’ll be damned,” murmured the Israeli archaeologist.

On the wet stone a faint faded pattern had appeared: etched in the octagon stone were two overlapping squares turned at right angles to each other, making an eight-pointed star. In the center of the star, quite distinct, were two letters: PG.

“What is it?”

“A ‘Lakshmi Star,’ ” explained Holliday. “It’s supposed to represent the eight Hindu types of wealth. Alexander the Great imported the symbol from India, and the Freemasons picked it up.”

“It’s an Arabic symbol, as well,” added Wanounou. “The mark they use at the end of each surat, or verse, in the Koran. There was a big controversy a few years back because the asterisk on most Western typewriters is a six-pointed star, which the Muslims identify with the Star of David, so they had to change all the keyboards to eight-pointed ones.”

“That’s silly,” scoffed Peggy.

Wanounou shrugged. “We’re just as silly here-Israeli math textbooks don’t use a plus sign because it’s a Christian symbol, so they cut off the bottom bar, and you guys don’t put a Star of David on top of the Christmas tree even though Christ was born a Jew.”

“The whole world is silly,” sighed Holliday. “That’s why we have wars.”

“What about the ‘PG’?” asked Peggy. “Parental Guidance, maybe?”

“I have no idea.” Wanounou shrugged.

“I do,” said Holliday. The water was evaporating under the hot sun, and the design was fading. He poured on more water, and it reappeared.

“So give, why don’t you?” Peggy said.

“Pertransivit gladius,” said Holliday. “ ‘The sword is passed.’ ”

Wanounou knelt down beside the stone with a two-inch paintbrush and a trowel. He worked his way carefully around the eight sides of the central stone, first scraping then brushing out the accumulated accretions of dirt. Whether by accident or design or simply the passage of almost a thousand years, there was no sign of grout or mortar used to bond the central stone to its neighbors. Holliday poured water along the newly cleaned joint between the stones. The water drained away.

“Interesting,” he said quietly.

“Hand me the crowbar,” said Wanounou.

Peggy put it into his hand. The archaeologist worked the chisel end of the tempered steel bar into the very narrow crack between the stones and heaved. The stone lifted an inch. Wanounou pushed the bar in a little farther and heaved again. The stone came up another few inches, and Holliday slipped an old chunk of the foundation into the space, jamming it open.

“The Musgrave Ritual,” said Peggy, watching.

“Pardon?” Wanounou said.

“It’s a Sherlock Holmes story,” explained Holliday. “A man deciphers an old family code, and he and his girlfriend find a stone like this and lever it open. The girlfriend figures out the man is going to cheat her and traps him under the stone.”

“Never trust an Englishman,” said the archaeologist. He looked at Peggy. “You wouldn’t do that to me, would you?”

She smiled. “Not unless you tried to cheat me.”

“Let’s get on with it,” said Holliday. He and Wanounou went to the far side of the stone. “On three,” said Holliday, and counted. They heaved the stone up and back, then eased it down carefully, only dropping it the last few inches. They stood back, hands on knees, puffing from their exertions. Peggy peered into the hole the octagonal stone had covered.

“What do you see?” Holliday said.

“A staircase,” said Peggy. “A spiral staircase made of stone.”

“I hate this, I hate this, I hate this,” muttered Peggy as they descended. The staircase was impossibly narrow, the stone treads dangerously smooth. The only light was the narrow puddle of illumination from Wanounou’s flashlight. The air was close, heavy with the sharp scent of mold, mildew, and dissolving limestone. As they went downward step by step their shoulders brushed against the smooth rock walls.

The deeper they got the narrower the staircase seemed to get; Peggy could almost feel the enormous weight of the stone pressing in all around her. She was breathing quickly, trying to fill her lungs and failing. It felt as though she was suffocating.

“This was a really, really bad idea,” she said.

“You can always go back,” said Holliday from behind her, grinning in the near pitch dark. Wanounou led the way with the flashlight, crowbar in his other hand, while Holliday brought up the rear, carrying the geologist’s hammer and the second flashlight. Peggy was sandwiched between them, which made things even more claustrophobic.

“Go back? How am I supposed to do that? There’s no way to turn around, and anyway, you’re blocking the way. Besides, if I was up top I’d be worrying about you guys too much.”

“So nice to feel wanted,” laughed Wanounou.

“How far have we gone?” Peggy asked, her voice urgent.

“ A hundred and fifty-one steps,” said Holliday. “I’ve been counting.” He did a quick calculation. “About ten inches between the steps… I’d say about a hundred and twenty-five feet.”