James Acton 04 - The Templar's Relic (7 page)

And he was afraid perhaps she didn’t want to be anything more than friends. They hadn’t even kissed yet. But that hard to get game of hers made her even more intoxicating.

His heart hammered in his chest as he rose. She rushed up to the table, removing a light jacket from her shoulders, and placed it on the back of a chair. Antonio leaned in to give her a hug, but he was greeted with a hand on his shoulder, gently holding him back, and air kisses on either side of his cheek.

She sat down, a large smile on her face. “So, how was your day?”

“Good. Yours?”

“Good? I heard you worked on some ancient artifact today and it’s all secret. Can you tell me?”

He shook his head. “Definitely not.” He leaned in and smiled, touching her frowning cheek with his finger. Her head darted back. He hated when she did that. It was as if he were repulsive. But her smile returned, and it melted his hardening heart immediately. “But I’ll give you a hypothetical situation.”

Now she leaned in. Their heads were only inches apart, both leaning across the tiny table.

“Tell me your story.”

He looked at her hands, clasped in front of her.
God how much I want to hold her hand right now.
He sighed. Inside.

“Let’s just suppose that there was an ancient scroll, a scrap of parchment, found on the body of a Templar Knight from the thirteenth century.”

“Uh huh.”

“And let’s just suppose that that parchment was carbon dated to within sixty-five years of six hundred AD.”

“You mean Common Era?”

He frowned.
Only people who don’t believe in Jesus say Common Era.

He waved his wrist. “Whatever. Now, let’s suppose we were able to rehydrate this parchment, and unroll it. What might we find on it?”

She shrugged her shoulders. “I have no idea.” She reached forward and gripped his hands with hers. He looked down and she immediately let go, blushing. “Sorry.”

His jaw dropped.
Sorry? How could
she
be sorry.
He reached over and squeezed her hands, but let go almost immediately, rather than suffer the pain of having her withdraw. “Never say you’re sorry for holding my hand.”

She blushed again, looking away. “So what was on the scroll,” she whispered.

“The
hypothetical
scroll, you mean.”

She looked back at him with a smile. “Of course.”

“Well, this
hypothetical
scroll had writing on it. Arabic writing.”

Her eyes jumped. “Really? What did it say?”

“Well, one of the Professors said it was a verse from the Koran, but—”

He stopped, remembering the conversation around the implications.

Maybe this
is
a secret that should be kept.

“What? What did it say?” She grabbed his hands, and this time didn’t let go. “Please, tell.”

He didn’t look at her hands this time, lest it scare her off again. He just looked into her eyes, her beautiful, dark eyes.

“It was a passage about killing the pagans, but it was different than what is in the Koran today.”

She sat upright, her back straight, her shoulders square, her hands nowhere near his. “Then it must be fake.” Her voice was cold. Stern. Uncompromising.

“No, it isn’t. It said at the bottom something like, ‘As told to me by the Prophet Mohammad, peace be with him’ or something like that.”

There was no trace of excitement on her face anymore. “You said it was different. How?”

“Apparently it had a few extra words than what is now in the Koran. Something about killing the pagans, but only the pagans. It wasn’t pagans though, it was some other word, I can’t remember.”

“Polytheists,” she whispered.

“Yeah, that’s it!” He frowned. “How’d you know that?”

“Because I’m Muslim you idiot!”

Something scooped out his stomach and cinched his chest. He felt bile begin to fill his mouth as his heart broke.

“I-I didn’t know.”

She glared at him. “How could you not know? Look at how I dress. My name is Fatima! How could you not know?”

“I-I guess it didn’t matter to me what religion you were. I just liked you.” His voice cracked and his chin dropped. “I thought you were pretty.”

Her tone softened slightly, her eyes glistening.

Then she stood up.

“I have to go.”

She grabbed her jacket and left, Antonio staring at the void that had been her, wondering what had just happened.

If only I had kept the damned secret.

Wahhab Residence, Rome, Italy

“Home so early, Dear?”

“Yeah, Mom.” Fatima hung her jacket and pulled off her shoes.

“Your friend from the university wasn’t there?”

“No, she was, but—” Fatima stopped. “Is Dad home?”

“Of course he is. He’s in his study.”

“Thanks.”

Fatima quietly walked down the tile hallway, and knocked gently on the door.

“Enter.”

It was barely a whisper.
He’s praying. Maybe I should come back?
She decided it was too late anyway, and opened the door.

“Hello, Father.”

Her father was kneeling on a cushion, his hands open to Allah, his lips moving silently.

She waited patiently.

After several more minutes, he rose, and turned to face his daughter, opening his arms with a smile. She stepped forward and hugged him, as he kissed her on the top of her head.

“Fatima, my child, what is it you want?”

She wasn’t sure how to start. In fact, she was second guessing whether or not she should say anything.
Does it really matter?
She wasn’t a fundamentalist, she was barely a practicing Muslim.
Oh no! I’ll have to tell him I was with a boy!

And poor Antonio. She shouldn’t have left him like that. She shouldn’t have treated him the way she did. He did nothing wrong. He had exciting news, and he wanted to share it with her.

But how could he be so stupid to not know I’m a Muslim?

But what did that matter? She liked him, but she was taking things at her speed. Far slower than the average Italian girl, there was no doubting that, but he seemed to be okay with that, respecting her boundaries.

He’s such a sweetheart.

“Fatima?”

Fatima shook her head. “Sorry, Father. I really shouldn’t have disturbed you.”

He took her by the arm and directed her into a chair. He sat down beside her. “Tell me what’s troubling you.”

It was his voice. It was so soothing. Whenever he spoke, she just spilled her guts. It got her in trouble countless times when she was a child.

“I was out with a friend.”

“Yes. Your girlfriend from the university, Frieda, wasn’t it?”

She shook her head. “No, it was”—she lowered her voice in shame—“a boy.”

Her father said nothing.

Which was worse.

She looked at him, pleading. “He’s a very nice boy, very respectful, you’d like him father. He’s just a friend. His name is Antonio Esposito. He’s an undergrad. But that’s not what I wanted to talk to you about.”

“Then what?”

“Well, he told me about something that happened today.”

“Yes?”

She quickly told him Antonio’s “hypothetical” story as best she could, and could tell her offense of going out with a boy unaccompanied was slowly being forgotten. When she was finished, her father stood, and began to pace, the fingers of his right hand pulling on his long, graying beard.

At last he stopped and turned to face her. “Are you sure of this?”

She nodded.

“Do you think he’s correct? I mean, you don’t think he is mistaken?”

“I don’t see how.”

He resumed his pacing, his stroking.

And stopped.

“Leave me. I need to make some phone calls.”

She nodded and headed for the door. When her hand clasped the knob, she heard him say, “And tomorrow, we will discuss your dating habits.”

She flushed.

“Yes, Father.”

She quickly left the room, carefully closing the door behind her.

Sometimes I wish he wasn’t an Imam.

Viale della Moschea Mosque,

Rome, Italy

Rahim’s eyes had long glazed over, his mind wandering to the football match from last week. He smiled as he remembered Totti’s last minute goal for the win. It was everything he could do to not scream GOAL!

He prostrated himself, going through the motions of prayer, automatically saying the words he had said every day for as far back as he could remember, but the words unheard as Totti’s victory run played in his mind.

He had been a pretty good striker when he was younger, but with 9/11 fresh on everyone’s mind, a Muslim stood no chance of moving up the ranks, especially with an obvious name like Rahim Islam.

I hate them all. Europeans. Whites. Americans. Christians. Jews. Catholics. Especially those so-called Muslims who preach peace with the infidels.

GOAL!

His thoughts quickly returned to football, this weekend’s upcoming game pushing the hatred from his heart. He’d have to listen to it on his radio, since he’d be working anyway, cleaning the toilets of privileged white infidels.

What was that?

The Imam said something that tweaked, and he began to listen.

“…Roman Catholic Church hasn’t even told us of its existence! We must demand they return what is ours, stolen from us during their unholy crusades, where their infidel armies tried, and
failed
, to conquer us. Today we must take back what is ours. We must march on that bastion of Catholicism, and demand they hand over that which does not belong to them!”

Rahim was puzzled as to what
that
was, but he could hear the murmurs of assent around him grow into a roar, and he felt it in his chest as his heart welled up in fervor.

“Allahu Akbar!” he screamed at the top of his lungs.

There was a chorus of angry yells, joining him in his praise to Allah, as the hundreds gathered jumped to their feet, rushing to the door to retrieve their shoes, and begin the march.

He found himself swept along with the crowd, scampering as he tried to slip his shoes on his feet, and once successful, pumping his fist in the air with the crowd, yelling ‘Allahu Akbar’ with each physical affirmation of his faith.

This wasn’t a stroll, this was a quick march, and their numbers grew as Imams across the city released their faithful with instructions to march. The mosques scattered about the city may have been few in number, but there were dozens of known prayer rooms, and possibly scores of unknown, sending their own handful. Cellphones were on the ears of hundreds, then thousands, as they called their friends and families who weren’t able to attend Friday morning prayers, and urged them to join the march.

And when Rahim reached the gates to Saint Peters Square, there were already thousands there, with thousands more behind him, fists pumping the air. A cordon of Roma Polizia tried to keep them from the gates, but there was no use. Rahim saw a policeman push one of the marchers back. They tripped and hit the ground, hard.

Rahim felt his chest tighten, and the roar of blood filled his ears. He charged, charged at the officer who had pushed a Muslim to the ground, charged at the infidel who would dare lay a hand on one of the Prophet’s followers.

He slammed into the officer, taking him down, then rained blows on him as hard and fast as he could. He felt hands grab at him, pulling him away from the bloodied man. He kicked out, landing a final blow to the head of the infidel, then heard a roar from the crowd, and he was suddenly let go, falling unceremoniously to the ground. He looked and saw the crowd charge. He jumped to his feet, gave the cop one last kick, then shoved his way toward the gates, then through.

He raced across the cobblestone square, his heart pounding in excitement, fear, and fervor.

The Vatican is ours!

Papal Office

Apostolic Palace, Vatican City

“What is it they’re chanting?”

Giasson joined His Holiness at the bulletproof glass of one of the Papal Office’s many windows. He looked at the mass of protesters that had surged into Saint Peter’s Square. They appeared to have stopped at the cordon of classically dressed Swiss Guard, their garish uniforms possibly deterring the crowd from violence. Whatever was holding them back, probably wouldn’t last long.

“We think they’re saying ‘Give us what is ours’, in English, but most of them don’t speak English, so they’re just imitating the sound.”

The elderly Pontiff nodded, stepping away from the window. “So sad. Here is something wonderful that has been discovered, yet they are so filled with hate, they don’t see it.”

“I wouldn’t be surprised if most of them didn’t really know why they’re here. The crowds didn’t show up until after their morning prayers at the local mosques. They were probably told to come here by their Imams.”

The Pontiff dropped into his chair, shaking his head. “This is the problem with that religion. There is nobody at the head of it, nobody controlling their actions. There is no one I can talk to directly to try and defuse the situation.”

“What about the Grand Mufti?”

“I’ve tried, and he has sympathized, but says until the scroll is handed over, he cannot help me.”

“And who did he suggest it be handed over to?”

The Pontiff chuckled. “That is exactly what I asked him, and you know what he said?”

“What?”

“‘Allah will guide you.’”

Giasson’s eyebrows shot up. “What gall!”

“It’s unfortunately what I’ve come to expect. Too often one will say something inappropriate, then the others will deny he speaks for them, but because there is no head of their church, there isn’t much we can do. But”—he raised a finger—“I did think of someone who might be able to help us, and who we have dealt with in the past. As well, he’s in one of the rare parts of the Muslim world that is actually relatively peaceful.”