James Acton 04 - The Templar's Relic (5 page)

He pulled a large, soft-haired brush from his tool kit he had bundled in his satchel, and gently began to clear the centuries of dust and recent debris from the shield as Laura circled around to join him. Done, he stood back and they both shone their flashlights at what he had revealed.

“Is that what I think it is?”

Acton nodded. “That’s a Templar Knight’s shield.” He shone his light quickly at the other three stone carvings topping the sarcophagi. “They’re all Templar Knights.”

Laura placed her hand gently on the forehead of the carving. “At least now we know why you were forgotten.”

Al 'Ayadiyeh, Outside Acre, Dominion of Saladin

1191 AD

John covered his mouth and nose with his sleeve, batting away the flies with his free hand. His tear-filled eyes sought his friend, his friend who he had met only days before, and who he had never shared a conversation. But there was a bond there, a bond he knew he would feel for the rest of his life.

He had watched Malik die, powerless to stop it, the horror of the massacre imprinted on his memory for eternity. How King Richard could order such a thing was incomprehensible.
What could possess a man to such evil?

A horse whinnied and a voice called out. “You there, we are leaving. Saladin’s men are returning!”

John waved the knight off. In the horror of yesterday he hadn’t realized that a small band of Saladin’s men, after witnessing the start of the massacre, had attacked, in a heroic, albeit useless, attempt to stop the slaughter. They had fought valiantly, but ultimately their sacrifice was for naught, evil triumphing in the end.

After seeing what his fellow Christians were capable of, he no longer believed they had the moral high ground. And as far as he was concerned, death at the hands of Saladin’s men was deserved, for he was responsible for Malik’s death, and the death of the three young boys who had been his companions by chance.

His father had left for the Holy Land ten years before, when John was just a boy. And when John had turned fourteen, he had left to find him, to the protests of his mother. It had taken over two years to arrive in the land told of in the Bible, and that had been relatively short only because his wealthy cousin had agreed to let him accompany his contingent. Well-funded, they had little problem securing passage when necessary, fresh horses, supplies. And when they had arrived, he had found his father quite quickly, his name, Sir Guy of Ridefort, apparently well-known and respected.

It was a triumphant reunion. His father had a banquet in his honor, attended by King Richard himself. John had shaken the butcher’s hand. And after, in the few brief months they were reunited, father and son, he had continued his instruction in becoming a knight, training his cousin had begun on his two year journey. He had become quite adept at the use of the sword, at how to move freely in the heavy equipment they wore into battle, and in hand-to-hand combat as well.

Though only sixteen, he knew how to handle himself, and sufficiently impressed, he was due to be accepted into the Poor Fellow-Soldiers of Christ and of the Temple of Solomon, or, as the common man knew them, the Knights Templar.

But that was before his dad was killed, and John was captured.

It had been cowardly, ambushed in their sleep by the very Bedouin slavers Malik had freed him from. They were both asleep, under the stars, when their attackers slit the throats of the guard supposed to watch over them, most likely themselves asleep at their posts. And he had been taken prisoner, the only survivor.

Until Malik.

John gasped, recognizing the face of one of the little boys who had been his companion for weeks, amongst the throngs of dead. He bent down, moving arms and legs, revealing the face.

It was him.

Tears flowed down John’s cheeks, and he followed the tiny arm, its hand grasping a larger one, and John knew who it was. He pushed the headless body of an old man aside, revealing his friend, still holding the hand of the first boy, his other arm around the other two.

John collapsed on top of Malik, sobbing. For it was his fault. If he hadn’t of called out to the knights, if they had just found a village instead, they might all be alive. But instead he had trusted in his fellow Christians, and this was the result.

The pounding of horse’s hooves broke the eerie silence, the sound of the rider jumping off causing John to turn. It was his father’s Sergeant, Raymond.

“Sir John, thank the good Lord you are alright!” he exclaimed, running over to him. “When we found your father’s encampment, and you were gone, we feared the worst.”

John didn’t say anything.
Sir John?
He placed a palm on Malik’s chest, and felt something hard underneath.

“Sir, we must leave at once. Saladin’s army is coming, and there will be no quarter for those he finds, not after this.”

John moved aside Malik’s robe, and found a long tube, a strap holding it around his friend’s neck. He gently removed it from his friend’s body. He touched Malik’s forehead. “I will take care of this for you now.”

“Sir, we must hurry!”

John stood and took one last look at his friend and their three tiny companions. He wiped the back of his hand across his soiled face, clearing it of the tears burning streaks of sorrow down his cheeks. He turned to his father’s most trusted companion.

“Why do you call me ‘Sir John’?”

Raymond placed a hand on John’s shoulder. “For you are the eldest, and with your father’s death, you inherit his wealth, his title, and, should you accept it, my loyalty.”

John nodded, suddenly feeling a heavy weight fall on his shoulders, as the realization of his new position, his new responsibilities, sank in.

He gripped Malik’s tube, then slung it over his shoulder. Raymond called for another man to bring a horse, and John, Sir John, mounted the beast, it already skittish from the pounding of thousands of hooves as Saladin’s army closed in, hell bent on revenge.

Sir John dug his heels into the sides of the mighty beast, urging it forward, as the remaining Christian soldiers beat a hasty retreat to the secure walls of Acre, leaving behind thousands of nameless innocents, including the bodies of four who would forever remain burned in his memory.

Rest in peace my brothers.

Northern Wall Construction Site, Vatican City

Present Day

“If these are indeed the bodies of Templar Knights, then you’re right, we now know why they were sealed in and forgotten.”

Laura ran her finger along the edges of the distinctive flared cross extending from top to bottom of the shield, and across to the sides. “The shields would certainly suggest they’re Templar’s.”

“Agreed.”

Acton swept more dust away, below the shield and his heart skipped a beat.

“There’s an engraving.”

Laura rounded the sarcophagus to get a better look as Acton ran his finger along the text, reading it aloud. “Here rests Sir John of Ridefort, son of Guy, and Knight of the Order of the Temple, died in Rome, 16 July in the year of our Lord 1215, as he lived, a hero, saving the life of an innocent, and honoring his Lord our God, and the Holy Roman Catholic Church. May he forever rest in peace.” He looked at Laura. “I guess that settles that.”

She nodded, patting the boot of the stone effigy. “I’m afraid, Sir John, that we will be interrupting your rest, at least for a short time.”

Acton resumed cleaning the top of the sarcophagus. With these being Templar’s, it was understandable that the Church had sealed this chamber off. The Templars were once the mightiest of orders, probably even rivaling the modern day Triarii for how widespread they were. Founded in 1119 with the approval of King Baldwin II of Jerusalem by Hugues de Payens under the auspices of providing protection to European pilgrims on their way to the holy land, they were given special dispensation in 1139 by Pope Innocent II to be exempted from all local laws. They were poor, at first, hence their emblem of two men riding on the back of one horse, and their official full name of the Poor Fellow-Soldiers of Christ and of the Temple of Solomon.

But they quickly grew wealthy through money paid by the pilgrims, and bounty collected from the criminals they killed. Their power grew, and at their peak had twenty thousand members, of which almost two thousand were knights. A vast administration ran their business; their wealth grew exponentially when they began to offer the first international banking system, where a pilgrim or other traveler could deposit their wealth at a Templar office, receive a piece of paper confirming the value of what was deposited, then, travel in safety with nothing of value to have stolen. When they reached their destination, they would hand over their ‘check’, payable only to them, and receive the equivalent value.

Less a service charge of course.

But as with all wealth came jealousy, and bad business partners. King Philip IV of France borrowed a fortune from the Templars to wage war against England, and was unable to pay the money back. Rather than own up to this, he convinced Pope Clement V to prosecute the Templars on many charges including apostasy, idolatry, heresy, obscene rituals and homosexuality, financial corruption and fraud, and secrecy. On Friday, the 13
^th
of October, 1307, Templars across France were arrested en masse, and charged. Eventually the arrest order was extended across Europe. Most of the leaders were burned at the stake. In the end, none confessed to any crimes except under torture, and once freed, recanted.

The Templar network had been destroyed, and what remained was folded into the Knights Hospitallers, thus ending the most powerful order of knights to have ever existed, all due to a French king who didn’t want to pay his loan back.

And with the Templars shamed, the walls of this chamber were most likely sealed, these four men no longer considered worthy of the honor bestowed upon them, and conveniently forgotten by the time the Church categorically but quietly forgave all Templars in 1308 of any wrongdoing.

With the top cleared off, Acton knelt down and unrolled his leather tool kit. Selecting a long, thin probe, he carefully inserted it between the lid and the sarcophagus body. It slid in easily. He continued probing several more times, then replaced the tool and stood up.

“It’s not airtight, so we’re safe to remove the lid.”

Laura nodded. “I’ll have them start bringing down the equipment.”

Acton ran his hand along the lid of the sarcophagus containing Sir John.
You died as you lived, a hero, saving the life of an innocent.
He wondered what the story was, what could have killed this man, in Rome of all places, when he had survived so many battles of the Third Crusade.

Rome

1215 AD

Sir John of Ridefort felt much older than his forty years, what with much of those years spent in battle and the harsh climate of the Holy Land. But his years of fighting were over. He was heading home, to a home he barely remembered, and to a family that may no longer be alive. There had been no communication in almost five years, which had led to this journey.

He looked over at Raymond, his faithful servant these almost twenty-five years. His weathered face, almost a thick leather, the creases so deep they camouflaged the battle scars littering his visage. Raymond had been his father’s confidante, and had quickly earned the trust and admiration of the son. They had fought at each other’s side through countless battles, and when Sir John had suggested Raymond retire and return home, Raymond had refused. “My place is at your side.”

Loyalty such as this was rare, even more so when it was mutual. There was a friendship here forged in battle, in prayer, in peace. They knew each other’s secrets, desires, wants, and sins. They were brothers in arms, they were friends until death, and they were Templars.

“Look.”

Sir John followed Raymond’s gaze. Saint Peter’s Basilica, built by Emperor Constantine the First, in 326 AD. It was impressive, it was inspiring. To think that Saint Peter himself was buried under its foundation. Sir John wondered what the first Bishop of Rome would have thought of the crusades. Would he have hailed them as the work of God, or decried them as the bloodlust of man disguised with the trappings of Christ’s church.

Sir John felt the words fill his heart with joy, the ancient Latin he was now able to understand thanks to years of instruction from the faithful Raymond. “And I say also unto thee, That thou art Peter, and upon this rock I will build my church; and the gates of hell shall not prevail against it.”

Raymond looked at him, a smile creasing the tanned face. “Your Latin remains excellent, I see.”

Sir John chuckled. “With you drumming it into my head for twenty years, it better be.”

“Well, someone had to teach you some culture. The heathen child I met at Acre was in desperate need of teaching beyond the sword.”

Sir John nodded. “What was it you always said? ‘Wisdom wields more power than the sword’?”

“Correct. But do you believe it?”

Sir John thought back on the years of battle, and the years of administration involved after a victory. Conquering a city meant running that city, and the Templars had many holdings throughout Christendom. In the past decade, most of his time had been spent pushing parchment rather than a blade, and that had suited his weary bones just fine. He placed his hand on his friend’s shoulder.

“Absolutely, but”—he held up a finger—“
not
for years.”

“With age comes wisdom.”

“Then you are the wisest man I know.”

Raymond frowned. “And apparently little respect.”

They both roared with laughter, and urged their steeds on.

Suddenly a shout rang out, then more. Raymond and Sir John spun in their saddles to see what the commotion was, and Sir John gasped. A cart had broken loose and was rolling down the cobble stone road they now occupied. Quickly he scanned the road, and his heart leapt. There was a group of children playing, ignorant of the threat that now bore down on them. He jumped from his horse and ran toward them, shouting for them to move. They looked up at him, but not at the danger he pointed at.