Steve Berry - The Templar legacy

He stepped to one of the stacks and examined the top cover. What was once surely gilded silver atop wood boards had turned black. He studied the engravings of Christ and what appeared to be Peter and Paul, which he knew were formed from clay and wax beneath the gilt. Italian craftsmanship. German ingenuity. He gently lifted the cover and brought the light close. His suspicion was confirmed. He could not make out many of the words.

"Can you read it?" de Roquefort asked.

He shook his head. "It needs to be in a laboratory. It will take professional restoration. We shouldn't disturb them."

"Looks like somebody already did that."

And he stared into the spill of de Roquefort's light and saw a pile of books scattered on the floor. Bits and pieces of pages lay about like charred paper from a flame.

"Sauniere again," he said. "It'll take years to garner anything useful from these. And that's assuming there's anything to find. Beyond some historical value, they're probably useless."

"This is ours."

So what, he thought, for all the good it would do.

But his mind raced with possibilities. Sauniere had come to this place. No question. The treasure chamber had provided his wealth-it would have been an easy matter to return from time to time and cart off unminted gold and silver. Actual coins would have raised questions. Bank officials or assay clerks might want to know their source. But the raw metal would have been the perfect currency in the early part of the twentieth century when many economies were either gold- or silver-based.

Yet the abbe had gone a step farther.

He'd used the wealth to fashion a church loaded with hints that pointed to something Sauniere clearly believed. Something he was so sure about that he flaunted the knowledge. By this sign ye shall conquer him. Words carved not only here underground, but in the Rennes church as well. He visualized the inscription painted above the entrance. I have had contempt for the kingdom of this world, and all temporal adornments, because of the love of my Lord Jesus Christ, whom I saw, whom I loved, in whom I believed, and whom I worshiped. Obscure words from a ancient responsory? Maybe. Yet Sauniere intentionally chose them.

Whom I saw.

He fanned the light bar around the room and studied the plinths.

Then he saw it.

Where to hide a pebble?

Where, indeed.

MALONE WALKED BACK TO THE GENERATOR, WHERE STEPHANIE and Henrik stood. Cassiopeia was still "working" on the tripod. He bent down and made sure there was gasoline in the engine.

"This thing going to make a lot of noise?" he asked in a low voice.

"We can only hope. But unfortunately they make these units fairly quiet nowadays."

He did not touch the tool bag, not wanting to draw any attention to it. So far none of the guards had bothered to check inside. Apparently the defensive training at the abbey left a lot to be desired. But how effective could it be? Sure, you could learn hand-to-hand combat, how to shoot, how to handle a blade. But the choice of recruits had to be limited, and only so many silk purses could be crafted from a sow's ear.

"All ready," Cassiopeia said loud enough for all to hear.

"I need to get to Mark," Stephanie whispered.

"I understand," Malone said. "But we have to take this a step at a time."

"Do you think for one moment de Roquefort is going to allow him to climb back out of there? He shot Geoffrey with no hesitation."

He saw her agitation. "We're all aware of the situation," he muttered. "Just stay cool."

He, too, wanted de Roquefort. For Geoffrey.

"I need a second with the tool bag," Cassiopeia breathed as she crouched down and stuffed the screwdriver she'd been using back inside. Four of the guards stood across the church, beyond one of the fires. Two more loitered to their left, near the other fire. None seemed to be paying them much attention, confident that the cage was secure.

Cassiopeia stayed crouched by the tool bag, her hand still inside, and gave him a slight nod. Ready. He stood and called out, "We're going to crank the generator."

The man in charge signaled to go ahead.

He turned back and whispered to Stephanie, "After I crank it, we're going over to the two men standing together. I'll take one, you the other."

"With pleasure."

She was anxious and he knew it. "Easy, tiger. It's not as simple as you think."

"Watch me."

MARK APPROACHED ONE OF THE STONE PLINTHS SITTING AMONG the remaining dozen or so. He'd noticed something. While the tops to the others were supported by a variety of pillars, some singular, most in pairs, this one was held aloft by a rectangular-shaped support, similar to the altar above. And what drew his attention was the stone arrangement. Nine compact square blocks across, seven high.

He bent down and shone his light at the underside. No mortar joint appeared above the top row of block. Just like the altar.

"These books have to come off," he said.

"You said not to disturb them."

"It's what's inside this thing that's important."

He laid the light bar down and grabbed a handful of the olden manuscripts. Disturbing them churned up a dust storm. He gently laid them on the gravelly ground. De Roquefort did the same. Three loads each and the top was empty.

"It should slide," he said.

Together they grasped an end and the top moved, much more easily than the altar above since the plinth was half its size. They pushed it free and the chunk of limestone pounded to the ground and split into pieces. Nestled within the plinth Mark saw another container, smaller, about twenty-four inches long, half that wide, and eighteen or so inches tall. Made of gray-beige rock-limestone, if he wasn't mistaken-and in remarkably good condition.

He grabbed the light bar and thrust it into the support. Just as he suspected, writing appeared on one side.

"It's an ossuary," de Roquefort said. "Is it identified?"

He studied the script and was pleased that it was Aramaic. To be authentic, it would have to be. The custom of laying the dead in underground crypts until all that remained was dry bone, then collecting the bones and depositing them into a stone box was popular with Jews during the first century. He knew that some thousand ossuaries had survived. But only about a quarter of them bore inscriptions that identified their contents-most likely explained by the fact that the vast majority of people from that time were illiterate. Many fakes had appeared through the centuries-one in particular a few years ago had claimed to hold the bones of James, Jesus's half brother. Another test of authenticity would be the type of material used-chalk limestone from quarries near Jerusalem-along with the style of carvings, microscopic examination of the patina, and carbon testing.

He'd learned Aramaic in graduate school. A difficult language made more complicated by its varying styles, its slang, and the many errors of ancient scribes. How the letters were carved was a problem, too. Most times they were shallow, scratched with a nail. Other times they were scrawled across the face haphazardly, like graffiti. Sometimes, like here, they were engraved with a stylus, the letters clear. Which was why these words were not difficult to translate. He'd actually seen them before. He read from right to left as required, then reversed them in his mind.

"Jesus, son of Joseph," he said, translating.

"His bones?"

"That remains to be seen." He spied the top. "Lift it off."

De Roquefort reached in and grasped the flat lid. He worked it from side to side until the stone released. Then he lifted off the cover and rested it vertically against the ossuary.

Mark sucked a breath.

Inside the repository lay bones.

Some had turned to dust. Many were still intact. A femur. A tibia. Some ribs, a pelvis. What looked like fingers, toes, parts of a spine.