The Brotherhood Of The Holy Shroud (39 page)

"Get Sofia," Marco said.

"Why?" Pietro asked.

"Because we're going to brainstorm. We're on to something here. Sofia told me not long ago that the past might be the key to all this. Ana Jimenez thought the same thing."

Pietro slapped his hand on the bar. "For God's sake, Marco, let's not go crazy here."

"What exactly makes you think I'm going crazy?"

"I've seen it coming. These women are running wild with this crap. Give me a break. How many cities are standing on top of older ones? Here in Italy there's a story under every rock, and we don't go chasing through history every time there's a murder or a fire. I know this case is special for you, Marco, but I'm sorry-I think you've gone overboard, bringing us all here, spending all this time, when we've got plenty to do in Rome. There are people here with Turkish backgrounds who can be traced back to a city named Urfa-so what? How many Italians from a single town went off to Frankfurt during the hard times to work in the factories there? I doubt that every time an Italian commits a crime in Germany the German police start digging into the life of Julius Caesar and his legions. All I'm saying is that we can't get carried away by these random coincidences. There's a lot of esoteric shit floating around about the shroud-we need to stick to good police work and not go running after bogeymen, with half-assed historians playing at being cops."

Minerva and Antonino both began to bluster outraged replies. Marco held up his hand to forestall further debate. He weighed his words carefully. Putting aside the cheap shot at Sofia-for she was the target of
that,
he had no doubt-there was logic in what Pietro said, a lot of logic, so much that Marco realized he might be right. But the Art Crimes chief was an old dog; he'd spent his life sniffing out obscure trails, and his instinct told him that he should stay on this one, however "esoteric" it might appear to be.

'All right, Pietro. You've said what you have to say. And you may be right. But since we've got nothing to lose, we're going to explore every possibility. Minerva, call Sofia, please. I expect she's still awake. What else do we know about Urfa?"

Antonino gave him a complete file on Urfa, or Edessa. He'd figured his boss would ask for it.

"Pietro, I want you and Giuseppe to go talk to this porter tomorrow. Tell him that the investigation is still open and that you want to talk to him in case he might have remembered some detail since you last talked." Marco stared hard at the still-simmering cop.

"He'll get nervous. He was practically in tears when we questioned him the first time," Giuseppe recalled.

"Right. He's a weak link. That's good. We'll also ask for warrants to tap the phones of any of these nice people from Urfa who have any relation at all to the Bajerais. Those are the only warrants we have a chance of getting. And let's start looking into any churches we can find in Urfa itself."

Minerva returned with Sofia. The two women glared at Pietro and sat down. When the bar closed at around three, Marco and his team were still talking.

Sofia had ranged widely through the history of the shroud, stopping at a number of intriguing intersections. She, Antonino, and Minerva agreed that they had to follow the trail to Urfa, and Giuseppe kept his skepticism in check. Pietro, for his part, made it clear that he thought they were all wasting their time.

But by whatever means they got there, they all went up to bed convinced they were close to a solution.

The old man's eyes fluttered open. His private phone was ringing, rousing him from a deep sleep; he'd gone to bed barely two hours earlier. The duke had been in excellent humor and hadn't let them leave until past midnight. The dinner was splendid and the conversation amusing, as befit gentlemen of their age and position when they found themselves without the company of women.

He got up and, pulling on a soft cashmere robe, went into his study. He locked the door and sat down at his desk, where he pushed a hidden button, activating the scrambler.

The information he received disturbed him: The Art Crimes Department was getting close to the community, to Addaio.

Addaio had failed in his plan to eliminate Mendib, who would soon be free to lead Valoni straight to the pastor and his secrets-and too many of their own secrets.

But it wasn't just that. Now Valoni's team had given free rein to their imaginations, and Dr. Galloni was constructing a hypothesis that was very close to the truth, though she herself couldn't yet suspect that. As for the Spanish reporter, she had a speculative sort of mind and the imagination of a novelist, which in this case were dangerous weapons. Dangerous for
them.

The sun was coming up by the time he left his study. He returned to his bedroom and began to prepare to leave for the meeting he had just called together in Paris. It was going to be a long day. Everyone would be there, although he was concerned about the suddenness with which they would all be moving. It could draw attention.

A.D. 1314

Dusk was fast becoming night as Jacques de Molay, Grand Master of the Order of Knights Templar, sat and read by candlelight the report sent from Vienne by Pierre Berard, informing him of the details of the council meeting.

De Molay's eyes were bloodshot, his noble face creased with lines and shadowed by fatigue. Long sleepless nights had left their mark.

These were evil times for the Temple.

Before Villeneuve du Temple, the immense fortified site of the Templar city, rose the majestic royal palace from which King Philippe IV of France was preparing his great coup against the order. The kingdom's treasury was depleted, and Philippe le Beau owed the Temple a great deal of money-so much money that people said he would have to live ten lives to repay it all.

But Philippe had no intention of paying his debts. His plan, in fact, was quite different: He wished to inherit the order's assets, even if he had to share part of the treasure with the Church. He had approached the Order of Hospitallers for aid, promising them lands and villas if they would support him in his sordid campaign against the Templars. And around Pope Clement were influential clerics whom Philippe paid to conspire against the Temple.

Since he had bought the false testimony of Esquieu de Floryan, Philippe had been inexorably tightening the noose about the Templars' necks, and each day that passed, the moment approached when he would be able to deliver the coup de grace.

The king secretly envied Jacques de Molay for his courage and integrity, for possessing in full measure the nobility and virtues that he himself lacked. His discomfort in the Grand Master's presence was evident, and he could not bear to stand before the unwavering mirror of the Templar's eyes. He would not stop until he saw him burned at the stake.

Earlier that evening, as on so many others, Jacques de Molay had gone into the chapel to pray for the knights already immolated by order of the king. More were dying each day, denounced as heretics by their sovereign and by their Church. He prayed, too, to be delivered from the tyranny of King Philippe.

For a long while, since Clement had appointed Philippe custodian of the Templars' assets, in Poitiers, he had maintained a tight rein on the order. Now the Grand Master tensely awaited the decision of the Council of Vienne. Philippe had gone in person in order to exert pressure on Clement and the ecclesiastical tribunal. He was not content to administer a treasure that did not belong to him; he wanted it for himself, and the Council of Vienne presented itself as the perfect vehicle by which to deliver the mortal blow to the Temple.

When he had finished reading the report, Jacques de Molay rubbed his eyes and then reached for a sheet of parchment. For the better part of an hour his pen scratched across the paper. The moment he finished he sent for two of his most loyal knights, Beltran de Santillana and Geofrroy de Charney.

Beltran de Santillana, born in a sunny house in the mountains of Cantabria in Spain, was a man of silence and meditation. He had entered the order not long after turning eighteen, but even before being initiated as a brother he had already fought in the Holy Land. There he met de Molay and saved his life, covering the Templar with his body as the blade of a Saracen warrior was about to find de Molay's throat. A long scar on Santillana's chest, near his heart, bore witness to that long-ago act of bravery and self-sacrifice.

Geoffroy de Charney, precept of the order in Normandy, was an austere, stern knight whose family had given other sons to the order, renowned knights such as his uncle Francois de Charney, may he rest in peace, who had died of melancholy years ago on a visit to the family estate.

Jacques de Molay trusted Geofrroy de Charney as he would trust himself They had fought together in Egypt and before the fortress of Tortosa, and he knew de Charney's courage and piety, as he knew that of Beltran de Santillana. It was for that reason he had chosen these two knights to carry out the most delicate of missions.

In his report, the Templar knight Pierre Berard had confirmed the worst. Clement was about to accede to Philippe's demands. The order's days were numbered-the death sentence abolishing it was soon to be issued from Vienne. Swift arrangements had to be made for saving the last, most fiercely protected treasures of the Temple.

Distant sounds of revelry from the streets of Paris broke the silence of the night.

De Charney and de Santillana quietly entered the Grand Master's study. Jacques de Molay serenely bade his knights take seats. There were many details to be discussed, and there was no need for preamble as the Grand Master began to outline his instructions. They all knew what they faced.

"Beltran, you must leave for Portugal at once. Our brother Pierre Berard has informed me that within days the pope will condemn the Temple. It is too soon to know what will happen to our brothers in other countries, but in France our cause is lost. I had thought of sending you to Scotland, for Robert Bruce, the Scottish king, has been excommunicated and is thus beyond Clement's reach. But I trust in good King Dinis of Portugal, from whom I have received assurances of protection for the order. Philippe has taken much from us. But neither gold nor land concern me, only one great treasure, the Temple's crowning jewel-the shroud of Christ. For years, the Christian kings have suspected that it lies in our possession, and they have longed to recover it. The rumors of its magical power to make the man who owns it indestructible have only grown with time. Still, I believe that good King Louis was sincere in his pleas to be allowed to pray before the true image of Christ.

"Events have affirmed the wisdom of our holding the knowledge of our order's policy to maintain our possession of the shroud in strictest secrecy. That secret must now be preserved and defended with more valor and devotion than ever before. Philippe intends, I am certain, to enter the temple and search every nook and corner. He has confided to his advisers that if he finds the Holy Shroud it will redouble his power and extend his supremacy as a Christian king over all the world. He is blinded by ambition, and we have already tasted bitterly of the evil that lies in his soul.

"Now, in our last hours in France, we must save this precious relic as your good uncle de Charney saved it once before. You, Beltran, will carry the shroud from France to our chapter house in Castro Marim, across the Guadiana. There, you will deliver it to the superior in Portugal, our brother Jose Sa Beiro. You shall take with you a letter in which I have given instructions for the manner of its protection.

"Only you, Sa Beiro, de Charney, and I will know where the shroud is, and Sa Beiro, at the hour of his death, will pass the secret on to his successor. You will remain in Portugal, Beltran, to guard the relic. If it becomes necessary, I shall endeavor to send you new instructions. During your journey you will pass through the territories of several Templar chapters in Spain. You shall take a document in which I give instructions to those superiors and priors on how to proceed if death comes, as I fear it will, to the Temple and to its knights. Others already ride across the Christian kingdoms with similar documents for our besieged brothers."

"When shall I depart, master?" the Spanish knight asked the man for whom he would gladly give his life again.

'As soon as you are ready."

Geofrroy de Charney could not hide his disappointment when he asked the Grand Master the question that was burning inside him:

"What, sire, is my mission, then?"

"Geoflroy, you shall go to Lirey with the cloth in which your uncle wrapped the holy shroud, and there you shall guard it. I think it best that this cloth remain in France, but in a safe place. For all these years I have wondered about the miracle that occurred on that piece of linen, for miracle it most surely was. Your uncle wept with emotion when he spoke to me of the moment he unfolded the cloth in the presence of the master at Marseilles, and I have come to believe that unto us was delivered the means by which to protect the Holy Shroud of Jesus for all time. Though the first was that in which the body of our Lord was laid, both pieces of cloth are sacred.

'All depends now upon the nobility of the de Charneys, your family, and I know that your brother and your aged father will protect and guard this cloth until the Temple reclaims it.

"Two times Francois de Charney crossed the desert through infidel lands to bring the shroud to the Temple. We face a desperate juncture once more. And once again the Temple requires the service of your valiant Christian family."

The three men remained a few seconds in silence, betraying no emotion yet moved to the core of their beings. That same night, the two Templars would each set out bearing precious cargo on journeys that began on separate roads, toward a destination only God could know For Jacques de Molay was right: God had worked a miracle upon the cloth that had enfolded the Holy Shroud during the long, perilous journey of Francois de Charney so many years ago-a cloth of soft linen, of the same texture and color as that in which Joseph of Arimathea had laid the body of the Christ to rest.