James Acton 04 - The Templar's Relic (6 page)

The roar of the wood wheels on the ancient stone echoed through the street, and finally the children realized the danger, most of them running out of the way, leaving one tiny girl crying on the road, frozen in terror. Sir John’s legs pumped, protesting against the effort they were now unaccustomed to, as he grew ever closer to the wailing child. He glanced over his shoulder and saw the cart, laden with heavy bags of flour, almost atop them both.

There wasn’t time.

He dove, grabbing the girl, and shielded her with his body. The impact was jarring, more powerful, and more painful, than anything he had ever experienced. He pulled the screaming girl closer as the rear wheel smashed into his already broken frame. It surged over him, continuing on its destructive path, ended with a crash into the side of a building at a bend in the road.

Sir John couldn’t move. Pain racked his body, the little girl’s screams actually providing him some comfort.

She was alive.

A woman ran over, crying, and pried the tiny girl from Sir John’s arms, thanking him profusely. He couldn’t speak. He gasped for air, but he knew it was no use. His lungs had collapsed. He looked up and saw the little girl hugging her mother, apparently unharmed, and he smiled.

Raymond was at his side in moments.

“Sir John, are you okay?”

But Sir John could tell his friend already knew the answer. He was not. He could feel himself weakening, and he knew he only had moments to live. He reached up and grabbed Raymond by the back of the neck, pulling him closer.

“Save the scroll.”

And with that, a hero of the Third Crusade to free the Holy Lands, the survivor of innumerable battles against Islamic hordes and pilgrim-harassing bandits, and one of the most respected of the Templar Knights, died as he had lived, rebalancing the scale of life, his silent prayer for the future of the small child he had just saved. For as Malik had died from saving a young Sir John, Sir John now died to save the life of this little child, and he prayed she would earn the reward she had just been granted.

Northern Wall Construction Site, Vatican City

Present Day

“Heave!”

Acton and several of the construction crew pulled the ropes now running under the lid of the sarcophagus, the lid having been pried up earlier with crowbars to position the ropes. The lid didn’t budge, but the slack was removed from the rope, the teeth of the pulley system preventing the rope from slipping back.

“Heave!” ordered Laura again.

The men pulled again, and this time the lid moved.

“Once more, heave!”

They pulled, grunting at the weight and the humidity. The lid lifted. Acton handed off his rope to another worker, and stepped toward the lid. He and Laura swung it clockwise, perpendicular to the body of the sarcophagus.

Acton heard Laura gasp and he took a quick look, feeling his heart begin to hammer in his chest. He quickly returned his attention to the ropes. Reaching up, he grabbed a small rope tied to the teeth.

“Okay, when I pull this, lower the top as gently as you can. Ready?”

The Italian crew nodded after one translated.

Acton reached up and yanked the line, the teeth snapping free. Grunts surrounded them as the men slowly let the line out the couple of inches they had raised it.

The lid came to rest atop the sarcophagus, the stone meeting stone echoing through the small room. Acton tested it for stability, then gave a thumbs up to the crew.

“Great work, guys. Now take a break. We’ll move this out of the way after we’ve completed our first examination.”

The men let go of their ropes and began to climb the ladder out of the chamber as Acton joined Laura at the sarcophagus.

“Look, James. It’s incredible.”

Acton shone his flashlight inside, revealing the skeleton of Sir John, encased in his nearly perfectly preserved armor and dress of the day, his heraldic and Templar symbols proudly displayed, his sword, pointing downward to his feet, held tight against his chest by gloved hands. It was like countless other finds, however this was Acton’s first Templar, and definitely first knight discovered on Vatican soil.

No valuables, no treasures, were evident, Templar Knights taking a vow of poverty upon joining the order. This disappointed Acton only slightly. Treasures were common, especially of that era. What interested him more as an archaeologist and anthropologist was how this man lived, and how he died. What secrets would be revealed by the x-rays that would be taken of his body, what small trinkets might he have on his person to remind him of loved ones back home, of his comrades in arms.

Acton froze, shifting his light back to where it had just been. “What’s this?”

He leaned forward, as did Laura, both shining their lights down the left side of the body. A tube, not two feet long, made of some sort of hardened animal hide, lay on the bottom of the sarcophagus, almost out of sight. Acton reached in and carefully removed the item as Laura provided extra light.

“What do you think it is?”

Acton examined it closely, careful not to rotate it, aware that whatever was inside hadn’t been disturbed in almost eight hundred years, and was likely very fragile. He looked at the seal at the top. Wax.

He looked at Laura. “This needs to be opened under the right conditions.”

She pointed at the wax. “If that seal didn’t fail, whatever is inside might actually still be intact.”

Acton nodded, his heart hammering in his chest.

What secrets could this tube hold, important enough for a Templar, sworn to poverty, to have buried with him?

Sapienza University, Rome, Italy

Two weeks later

Acton felt Laura’s hand grip his, as they both waited on the other side of the glass. The scroll had been transported to the Sapienza University’s state of the art restoration lab, x-rayed and sampled in a vacuum, and it was quickly determined that there was a single rolled piece of parchment of some type inside, and there was some type of writing on it. The seal was broken in a vacuum chamber, and the parchment sampled. It was vellum made from cow hide, very durable, yet from the scans, appeared to only be a scrap, perhaps a left over piece from some previous written work.

And it was old.

Far older than the knight, whose bones were carbon dated to within twenty five years of his death as inscribed on the sarcophagus. The scroll had been dated much older, to around 600 AD, plus or minus 65 years. What could be written on it, Acton didn’t dare imagine. The parchment had been created around 600 AD. The writing could be from any time after that, and was impossible to date. But even so, regardless of what was written on it, or when it was written, it was a piece of history about to be revealed.

The sample taken had first been used to determine the condition of the parchment, then was destroyed to carbon date it. And the condition was good. Rehydration techniques had been applied, and the scroll was ready to be revealed for the first time. On the monitors close-up images of the cutting were displayed, Acton alternating between the video, and the real thing.

He couldn’t remember the last time he had been so excited.

“This better not be Al Capone’s safe.”

Laura chuckled, looking around. “Nope, Geraldo isn’t here, I think we’re good.”

Acton gave her hand a squeeze. “Look!”

The technician had the tube in his left hand, and a pair of tweezers in the right, his hands and arms covered inside the sealed, climate controlled chamber to prevent contamination.

He reached in with the tweezers and Acton held his breath.

A gentle tug, with the open end of the tube tipped slightly.

The technician was rewarded with a tiny scrap of the paper.

He held it up to the camera.

Acton let his breath out.

Not promising.

The technician’s voice could be heard.

“Should I continue?”

Acton gave him a thumbs up and activated the intercom panel next to the window.

“Once more.”

The man nodded, and again, a small scrap.

Acton pressed the intercom button. “Try gently rolling the tube, squeezing slightly. It may just be stuck in one spot.”

The tech nodded and set aside the tweezers, laying the tube flat. Placing both hands on top, he gently rolled the tube, it warping slightly as he applied pressure. Repeating this several times, he retrieved the tweezers and again pulled.

And the scroll slid out smoothly.

Laura jumped, giving Acton a hug.

He pressed the button on the intercom. “Get every camera you’ve got on that now. I don’t want the scroll held open any longer than we need.

Monitors flickered as cameras were redirected, everything now focused directly on the scroll, including some that would record beyond what the human eye could see.

The technician spread out his fingers, and gently unrolled the parchment. Acton wasn’t focusing on what might be written, but was instead watching one monitor with an extreme close-up, making certain that the ancient parchment didn’t begin to break apart.

It didn’t.

Laura gasped.

“It’s Arabic!”

“We’re clear!” called another tech, who was controlling the cameras. The tech with his hands in the chamber gently let the scroll slowly roll itself up, then removed his hands.

The text appeared on all the monitors, very clear, the contrast still good after all these years. Acton saw several copies roll off a printer, and one of the techs brought them each out a copy.

“What do you make of it, Professors?”

Acton looked to Laura. “Arabic is your thing. What does it say?”

She quickly scanned it, and gulped. “If this is what I think it is, this is an incredible find.” She looked at Acton with fear in her eyes. “And an incredibly dangerous find.”

“How so?”

“It’s from the Koran, but it’s different.”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s one of the more famous lines from the ninth Surah. It’s been used to justify killing non-Muslims for a millennia, but this is different.”

Acton’s chest tightened. “How,” he said, his voice low as several of the technicians gathered around to see what had been found.

“It says, ‘And when the sacred months have passed, then kill the polytheists, but only the polytheists, wherever you find them and capture them and besiege them and sit in wait for them at every place of ambush. But if they should repent, establish prayer, and give zakah, let them go on their way. Indeed, Allah is Forgiving and Merciful.’” She paused. “Then it says, at the bottom, ‘As recited to me by the Prophet Mohammad, peace be upon him’.”

Acton whistled. “So this is an original verse, before the Koran was formally compiled.”

Laura nodded. “It would appear so. I don’t think anyone would dare make the claim in those days.”

“Agreed.”

“You said it’s different. How?” asked the tech who had worked on the scroll.

“The original doesn’t have the words, ‘but only the polytheists’.”

“What’s a ‘polytheist’?” asked a young undergrad that Acton had been introduced to earlier.

“Antonio, was it?”

The young man nodded. “Antonio Esposito.”

“Well, Antonio, it’s someone who believes in more than one god, like the ancient Greeks or Romans. Essentially what we commonly call a pagan,” replied Acton.

“Ah, pagan, I see.”

Laura pointed at the printout. “This verse over time has been reinterpreted to essentially lump all non-Islamic people in with the polytheists, because of a verse later in the same surah, that states, ‘The Jews say, “Ezra is the son of Allah”; and the Christians say, “The Messiah is the son of Allah.” That is their statement from their mouths; they imitate the saying of those who disbelieved before them. May Allah destroy them; how are they deluded?’”

“In that verse it says ‘May Allah destroy them’,” said Acton. “So in other words, leave it to me, I’ll take care of them. But in this verse”—he pointed at the printout—“it’s instructing the reader to attack the polytheists.”

“And
only
the polytheists. The version of the Koran that exists today, and has existed essentially unchanged since the first compilation, doesn’t have those four critical words. If they were there, then there could be no misinterpretation of this verse.”

Acton rubbed his chin, lowering his voice. “You realize that there are millions of fanatics who would kill to make sure this never sees the light of day?”

Laura nodded. “That’s exactly what I was thinking.”

Acton turned to the scientists in the room. “Nobody, and I mean
nobody
, tell
anybody
about what you’ve seen here today. We need to keep this quiet, and arrange to get it into the proper hands. If this gets out, this university will become a prime target.”

Acton looked through the glass at the scroll, and felt goose bumps spread across his skin.

We need to get this out of Europe. Fast.

La Taverna dei Fori Imperiali Restaurant

Rome, Italy

Antonio Esposito was itching to tell somebody his secret, but he knew he couldn’t. But then, who was this American professor to tell him what to do?
The arrogance of the man!
This wasn’t Professor Acton’s secret to keep. This was an Italian secret, and it was up to Italians whether or not it should be kept. Hell, it was up to Italians to decide whether or not it was even a secret.

He downed his glass of wine and poured another.

Where is she?

He grabbed a roll and tore off a piece, swirling it on a small plate of oil and balsamic vinegar.

“Tony!”

He looked up and smiled. There she was. Gorgeous. Angelic. Sexy. There was something about wearing clothes that hid almost everything that just sent the imagination wild. He had only met her three weeks ago, and this was only their third real ‘date’, the rest lunches or coffee breaks at the university.