Paul Christopher: The Sword of the Templars

“No,” said Rodrigues gently. “You’ve traveled halfway around the world and back putting your lives in jeopardy for this.”

He picked up a small, rubber mallet from the worktable and brought it down hard on the side of the amphora. The jar shattered, pieces of brittle clay dropping to the zinc surface of the table. Half a dozen gleaming cylinders of pure, butter-colored gold tumbled out, each one about ten inches long and three inches in diameter. The cylinders, like the wine jar, were sealed with resin at one end. Rodrigues picked up one of the tubular objects.

“A scroll from the ancient royal library at Alexandria, saved by the military commander Amr ibn al-As, not destroyed by him during his conquest of Egypt in the sixth century-a story, by the way, that Saladin was quick to quash, since Amr ibn al-As was a contemporary of Muhammad and many of the works in Alexandria were in contravention of the Koran and thus should have been destroyed under strict Muslim law.”

Rodrigues shrugged, shifting the gold cylinder into his other hand. “Perhaps an unknown work by Homer? One of the Greek tragedies by Euripides? Mathematics from Archimedes? A map to the secret location of Imhotep’s fabulous tomb? The way to King Solomon’s Mines? A treatise on medicine by the first true doctor, Aesculapius?” He paused. “The Holy Church’s greatest fear is in this place-I have seen the evidence myself-the Lost Gospels of the Apostles from their own mouths, in Aramaic, not handed down through centuries of translations each with their own interpretation. Somewhere hidden there might well be the most sacred and dangerous of them all-the Gospel of Christ himself.” He shook his head. “No wonder the Vatican and the Sodalitium Pianum would have you dead, and me, as well. News of this place would shake St. Peter’s Basilica to its very foundation.” The ex-priest lifted his broad shoulders once again.

“Who knows what else lies here? I have been working at this for more than fifty years and have only barely scratched the surface; others were here before me, as well.

“It is not just the Library of Alexandria that was hidden in Jerusalem. Hadrian’s library is here, as well, the Library of Pergamon in Athens, the texts from the Villa of the Papyri in Herculaneum, long thought to have been destroyed in the eruption of Vesuvius, all of them are here and more. It is the wisdom of the world, nothing less, wrapped in skins of gold, all of it.”

“There are more scrolls then?” Holliday asked, excited. “More amphorae?”

“Thousands,” answered Rodrigues. “Enough to fill the hold of the Wanderfalke and its sister ship Tempel Rose, the Temple Rose. Ten thousand, perhaps more; I’ve never bothered to count. De Flor was a well-known trader in wine out of La Rochelle and the Levant; what better and safer way to move such a treasure about than hidden in clay casks? Even in crusader times they knew that gold was inert and would be the safest form of transport; that is why they had a smelter at Castle Pelerin. The scrolls have remained intact for the better part of a millennium. The ones still to be examined wait in the lava tunnels that you see around the cave. The rest are in the good hands of friends of the Order.”

“Order?” Holliday said. “You mean the Templars?”

“Of course,” said Rodrigues. “As I said to you, there have been White Templars and Black since the beginning. We couldn’t let all this great knowledge fall into the wrong hands. That’s why your uncle joined us.”

“Grandpa was a Templar?” Peggy asked. “He knew about all this?”

“Yes,” nodded Rodrigues. “That is why he hid the sword.” The ex-priest turned to Holliday. “To protect and pass the secret on to you if you proved yourself worthy of the task.” He turned back to Peggy. “And you, as well.”

Suddenly the dim lights in the huge cavern flickered. Almost instinctively Holliday’s hand reached out and swept up the old sword from its pedestal mounts. With his other hand he wrenched the Czech automatic from its holster and thumbed off the safety. Then the lights flickered again and finally went out. Utter darkness fell.

The lights came on again almost immediately.

“What the hell?” Peggy said.

“A crude approximation of an alarm,” said Rodrigues, hefting the shotgun. “Apparently my fireworks didn’t disable all our visitors. They’re almost here. We have to leave. Now.”

“We could stay and fight,” said Peggy.

“No. He’s right. They’ve got automatic weapons; we’ve got a shotgun and a pistol. Time to bug out.”

“This way,” said Rodrigues. He bent down and picked up a battery-powered lantern from beneath the table with the shattered wine jar and headed across the cavern toward one of the lava-tube entrances. As they climbed the ascending layers of petrified lava Holliday saw a flicker of movement out of the corner of his eye and turned.

“Go!” he commanded. On the far side of the cavern one of Kellerman’s men appeared, a squat weapon in his hands and a set of American Technologies lightweight night-vision goggles balanced on his forehead. Holliday saw a red beam flash across the cavern from the man’s weapon: a fire-and-forget laser scope. He didn’t wait to see the man’s elected target, or take the time to aim his own weapon; at this range it would be futile. He simply aimed high and squeezed the trigger of the Czech pistol, spraying the entire clip of twelve rounds in the enemy’s general direction. Delay was the objective now, not accuracy. The inside of the cavern rang with shattering echoes as he emptied the gun. The man got off one shot and ducked away. Behind Holliday there was a grunt of pain and surprise. He turned. Rodrigues had been hit, blood blossoming on his shirt, low on his right side. Hopefully no more than a flesh wound. He sagged against the smooth wall of the cave by the entrance to a lava tube. Peggy took the big flashlight and the shotgun from his hands, supporting him under one arm.

“Into the tunnel, as fast as you can,” the ex-priest moaned.

Holliday tossed away the empty gun, transferred the sword into his right hand, and ran up the last few levels to take Rodrigues by the other arm. Together he and Peggy helped him into the relative safety of the lava tube. Behind them there was the sound of ringing automatic fire. More than one weapon. Kellerman’s people had arrived in force.

“Twenty paces into the tunnel. The generator,” grunted Rodrigues. “Be careful,” he warned.

Holliday and Peggy eased the wounded man forward, the tunnel barely wide enough to allow them passage, the ceiling low above their heads. Ahead of them they could hear the roar of the diesel generator, the fumes souring the air slightly. Holliday could also feel a slight movement of the air across his face. Fresh air.

At twenty paces there was a widening of the tunnel, man-made, and a deep, square-cut little chamber on the left. Inside the tiny room there was a bright yellow six-thousand-watt Yamaha diesel generator chugging quietly and a hundred gallon tank of kerosene. A length of PVC tubing led up into a narrow crack in the ceiling, carrying most of the fumes away.

“The switch,” managed Rodrigues.

Holliday found the switch on the side of the generator and threw it. The sound of the generator stopped in mid-cycle, and the lights went off. It might slow their pursuers for a moment, but with the active infrared goggles it wouldn’t stop them. Peggy switched on the battery-powered lamp. A cone of light bloomed, showing the way ahead.

“Another ten paces,” muttered the ex-priest. He coughed and dark, coffee-ground blood poured over his lips and down his chin. Not a flesh wound then, noted Holliday. The man was bleeding internally. He needed medical attention, and quickly.