C. Palov - Ark of Fire

“My dear, before you depart, you must have a look at my collection of incunabula,” Sir Kenneth said, gesturing to a bookcase jam-packed with leather-bound volumes.

Put on the spot, Edie gave the bookcase a cursory glance, recalling a philosophy professor who’d once invited her to his house to look at his collection of Chagall prints. She sidled closer to Caedmon.

Sir Kenneth motioned to a pair of upholstered chairs positioned in front of a paper-laden desk, one stack of papers weighed down with a rusty astrolabe, another with a snow dome of the Empire State Building. Behind the desk, beautifully framed in gilt, hung a reproduction of Trumbull’s painting depicting the signing of the Declaration of Independence.

“Sir Kenneth has a love of all things American,” Caedmon whispered in her ear as he dislodged a dozing cat from his chair. “Do be on your guard.”

“That’s why you’re here, Big Red,” she whispered back at him.

Walking over to them, Sir Kenneth jovially slapped Caedmon on the back. “Middle age becomes you, young Aisquith.” Then, turning his attention to Edie, he remarked, “When he first arrived at Oxford, he was a gangly-limbed lad with a thatch of unruly red hair.”

Grinning, Edie gave Caedmon a once-over. “Hmm. Sounds cute.”

“Ah! The lady doth have a penchant for redheaded buggers.” As Sir Kenneth took his seat behind the desk, Edie heard him mutter, “Lucky bastard.”

CHAPTER 36

At finding himself seated in Sir Kenneth’s study, inundated with the twin scents of damp wool and musty leather, Caedmon experienced an unexpected burst of painful nostalgia.

Striving for an appearance of calm, he glanced at the stained glass triptych that overshadowed the room. A beautiful piece of medieval artistry, the three windows articulated that most famous of cautionary tales, the Temptation in the Garden.

Overtly phallic snake. A bright red juicy apple. Hands shamefully placed over fig-leafed genitals.

For some inexplicable reason, it reminded him of his student days at Oxford. Perhaps because, he, too, had dared to eat the fruit from the Tree of Knowledge.

And if he was the hapless Adam, Sir Kenneth Campbell-Brown could only be the conniving Lucifer.

Although in his impressionable youth, he’d cast his mentor in a far more exalted role.

A brilliant scholar, a rigid taskmaster, and at times a capriciously cruel bastard, Sir Kenneth demanded an unswerving fidelity from his students. In return, he gave his charges an unforgettable academic journey. Ever mindful that Oxford had its start when groups of young scholars gathered around the most illustrious teachers of the day, Sir Kenneth maintained the tradition, hosting weekly tutorials within the stone confines of Rose Chapel.

For nearly eight years, he and Sir Kenneth had maintained a close relationship. Not unlike a father and his son.

Initially, Sir Kenneth had approved his dissertation topic, intrigued by the notion that the Knights Templar might have explored the tombs and temples of Egypt during their tenure in the Holy Land. But when he dared to suggest that the Templars had turned their backs on Catholicism and become devotees of the Isis mystery cult, Sir Kenneth not only refused to countenance the notion, he took the backlash one step further, publicly ridiculing him for having “embraced rumors and passed them off as the truth.”

It was as if he’d been mugged in the middle of a dark and rainy night.

Thirteen years later he turned misfortune to advantage, his derided dissertation paper becoming the cornerstone for his book, Isis Revealed .

Shoving aside the old memories, Caedmon cleared his throat, ready to embark on what would undoubtedly be a bumpy ride.

“Let us suppose for argument’s sake that Galen of Godmersham did discover the Ark of the Covenant while on reconnaissance in Esdraelon,” he carefully began, mindful that Sir Kenneth dealt in “fact, not innuendo.” “Is there any evidence to support that particular supposition?”

Leaning back in his tufted leather wingback, his blue-veined fingers laced over his chest, Sir Kenneth’s gaze narrowed; the old man was undoubtedly deciding whether to reply. With a noticeable lack of enthusiasm, he finally said, “There are a few shreds of historical data to support your supposition.”

“Like what?” Edie piped in; subtlety was not her strong suit.

“As you undoubtedly know, theories have waxed and waned as to how and why the Ark disappeared. However, if one carefully shifts through centuries of biblical silence, the Ark’s disappearance might possibly be laid at the sandaled foot of the Egyptian pharaoh Shishak, who invaded the holy city of Jerusalem in the year 926 B.C.”

As his former mentor began to speak, Caedmon was reminded of the fact that Sir Kenneth never prepared for his tutorials, always speaking extemporaneously. And brilliantly. Most who flew by the seat of their pants crash-landed midway in flight. Never Sir Kenneth Campbell-Brown; his lectures were legendary.

Caedmon turned to Edie. Filling in the gaps, he said, “Shishak’s invasion occurred not long after Solomon’s son Rehoboam inherited the crown of Israel. Because the northern tribes had recently broken away during a contentious power struggle, the Kingdom of Israel was left vulnerable.”

“In other words, the opportunistic Egyptians swept down like vultures on roadkill.”

Sir Kenneth laughed aloud, clearly amused. “Well put, my dear! Well put, indeed.”

On the far side of the room, the study door suddenly swung open, the convivial mood interrupted by the heavy thud of rubber-soled shoes. Without uttering a word, the housekeeper, bearing a tray laden with Wedgwood and pewter, walked over to the tea table. Still silent as the grave, the stern-faced matron handed each of them a tankard of mulled wine and a dainty plate with two petite tarts.

Watching the housekeeper depart, Caedmon thought he recognized the woman, unable to fathom why any domestic would willingly suffer Sir Kenneth’s mercurial ways for so many years. Clearly, the woman possessed the patience of Job.

“The blasted Aga has been running full throttle since the first of December. If I’m not careful, I’ll pack on a stone before Twelfth Night.”

Forgoing the beautifully incised dessert fork, Edie plucked the miniature tart off the plate with her fingers. “You were about to regale us with the story of Shishak’s invasion of Israel.”

“So I was.” Choosing wine over sweets, Sir Kenneth cradled his tankard between his hands. “According to the book of Kings, in the fifth year of Rehoboam’s reign, ‘Shishak, king of Egypt, came up against Jerusalem: And he took away the treasures of the house of the Lord, and the treasures of the king’s house; he even took away all.’”

“Meaning that the pharaoh stole the Ark of the Covenant!” When her exclamation met with silence, Edie’s brows puckered in the middle. “Well, what else could it mean?”

“The Old Testament makes no mention of Shishak seizing the Ark. It merely records that the pharaoh managed to come away with five hundred shields of beaten gold.”

“Solomon’s famous shields,” Caedmon murmured.

“Some biblical historians have theorized that King Rehoboam willingly handed over the five hundred gold shields as tribute to repay a debt of honor. Years earlier, the pharaoh had granted the wayward Hebrew prince asylum when his father ordered his assassination. All that internecine rivalry between family members is what makes the Bible such a jolly good read,” Sir Kenneth said in an aside, broadly winking at Edie.