The Parchment (12 page)

“Take your book and read it to this God of yours.”

Titus saw several gold vessels on the altar. He spurred his horse up the altar steps. Unsure of its footing, the horse defecated on the floor. Titus reached out with his hand and took the gold menorah from the altar.

The sight of their commander riding his horse out of the Jew's holiest place electrified the legionnaires. They began rhythmically striking their swords against their shields as a sign of their approval.

“I kept my promise to these dogs,” Titus shouted. “I did not set foot in their holy place. And my horse left a gift for their god. I took this branched candlestick as a fair exchange.”

The thunder of swords striking shields grew deafening. The story of Titus's desecration of the Jewish Temple would be retold around Roman campfires for many years to come.

When the last pockets of Jewish resistance had been eradicated, Titus sent word for his commanders to meet him at the foot of the Temple Mount.

“Tribune, have you found the eagles?”

“No, Imperator. The Jews must have hidden them outside the” city.

Titus' eyes flashed with anger. “Spare me your speculation, Tribune. Find the eagles. Hack the limbs off some of these Jews. They will tell you where they have hidden them.”

“We have captured one of the Sicarii. He will know where the standards of the legion are hidden.”

“Bring him here.”

Ben Hochba was pushed to the ground in front of Titus.

“If you want me to spare your people, Jew, tell me where you have hidden the eagles of the Twelfth Legion?”

“You have the eagles already, heathen.”

Titus smiled contemptuously at ben Hochba. “If I do, where are they?”

“In the menorah you stole from the Temple. I told your favorite commander Varro all about it. Ask him.”

Enraged at the mention of Varro's name, Titus jumped off his horse and stabbed ben Hochba through the heart.

“Cut this Jew into pieces and feed him to the dogs. How many prisoners have we taken, Tribune?”

“Thousands, Imperator.”

“Kill them all.”

The Tribune looked at Titus. “Even the women and children?”

“Yes, and when you have done that, flatten Jerusalem. Leave it a pile of rubble.”

“As you command, Majesty.”

“I want even the desert rats to avoid this place.”

Titus Flavius Sabinus wheeled his horse about and galloped back to the Roman encampment.

After crawling on hands and knees for several hours, Yohannen felt a hot breeze blowing on his face. He knew he was coming to the end of the tunnel. Several cubits ahead of him, he saw a glimmer of
light. Pushing aside some underbrush, Yohannen observed a stony field in front him. The stones were hot from the blistering Judean sun. In the distance, he could see Roman patrols rounding up the Jews trying to escape from the city. With Roman soldiers on all sides, Yohannen realized it would be foolhardy to search for the Jaffa road in broad daylight.

As darkness fell, Roman soldiers still scoured the countryside looking for escaping Jews. Several patrols passed dangerously close to the tunnel entrance. Yohannen realized he had little choice but to stay hidden in the passageway during the night. By morning, however, Yohannen knew he had to risk capture in order to find water. His lips had become cracked from the intense heat and lack of moisture. The rabbi remembered there was a small well two leagues west along the Jaffa road. Barring no encounters with Roman patrols, Yohannen estimated he could reach the well by midday.

When the old rabbi emerged from the tunnel, the punishing heat of the desert made him lightheaded. For a moment, he sat down on the ground, afraid of losing consciousness. A bloated horse lay on the ground near him. The smell of carrion was overpowering. When he tried to stand, the rabbi twisted his ankle and fell back on the ground. Exhausted, he crawled toward some bushes by the side of the road. They would at least provide him shade. But before he could reach them, the rabbi lapsed into unconsciousness.

The next thing Yohannen heard was a voice saying “Old man, drink some water.” Yohannen slowly opened his eyes. A stranger was standing over him holding a small cup. “You are weak, old man. You must get out of the sun.”

The rabbi tried to push the man away.

“Don't worry! I'm not one of Titus's soldiers. I will not harm you.”

When the rabbi realized the man was not a Roman, he took a drink from the cup. The man picked Yohannen up and carried him to a small pool of shade by the side of the road.

“My name is Evardus — a merchant from Gaul. I follow the way of Christ.”

The rabbi tried to speak but the words would not come. He gestured for the merchant to come closer. Evardus bent down and put his ear near the old man's lips.

“The sacred vessels and records of my people are in a cave — buried in a cave.”

“Where, old man?”

“There's a copper scroll — it is under the Holy of Holies.” The rabbi's voice was no more than a faint whisper. “You must find it.”

“Where under the Holy of Holies?”

“You must find it, you must — the scroll — it's in the ‘stone of life.’”

“‘In the stone of life.’ What do you mean?”

The rabbi looked desperately at Evardus. He choked and gasped for air. “You are the only one who knows. Tell the Chief Rabbi in Jaffa and....”

Yohannen said no more. The merchant gently laid the old man's head back on the road. Rabbi Yohannen was dead.

After burying the old rabbi near the place where he died, Evardus continued on his journey to the port of Jaffa. About an hour later, a company of Roman cavalry came thundering down the Jaffa Road behind him. As they came closer, Evardus knew it would be better to dismount from his horse and show no sign of nervousness. When the Roman soldiers rode up to him, a centurion signaled them to stop. The officer climbed off his horse and unsheathed his sword.

“Who are you?”

“Evardus. A wine merchant.”

“You are not a Jew?” The point of the Roman's sword touched Evardus' throat.

“I am a Roman citizen from Gaul.”

Not convinced that Evardus was telling the truth, the centurion continued to point his sword at Evardus's throat. “Why were you in Jerusalem?”

“I was not in Jerusalem. For the last week, I have been with Titus's quaestors selling wine to your army. I travel to Jaffa where my ship is moored.”

“You have a ship in Jaffa?”

Evardus nodded his head. “Yes, I sail to Sicily tomorrow.”

The centurian growled, “Why to Sicily?”

“I will buy more wine in Syracuse.”

The Roman roared with laughter. “Syracuse is full of thieves. They flourish there like rats. I should know—I was born there.”

“You are wrong, Centurion. These thieves live in Syracuse only during the day—at night they sleep in Gaul.”

Amused by Evardus's quick wit, the centurion sheathed his sword. “Thieves do business with thieves. That will always be the way of the world.”

Remounting his horse, the centurion motioned Evardus to follow behind the troop.

“Ride to Jaffa with us. If you have a ship in the harbor as you say, my soldiers will sample your wines and you will go free. But if you have lied to us, my sword will quickly find its way to your heart.”

Evardus climbed on his horse and followed the Roman cavalry as they rode west along the road to Jaffa.

The Roman centurion belched as he drank the last casket of Evardus's wine. He staggered up and urinated over the side of the vessel.

“Wine merchant, I wish you could make more wine from this sea water. Some Jew claimed he could.”

“Yes, his name was Jesus. They call his followers Christians.”

“Ah! Now I remember. Nero used them as entertainment in the Coliseum. Jews, Christians — Palestine seems to breed strange beliefs.”

Dusk was settling as Evardus walked along the narrow street looking for the house of the physician Timothy. A man appeared out of the shadows and greeted him.

“Pax tibi
, my friend.”

Evardus recognized the Christian greeting. He responded.
“Do-minus resurrexit.”

The man did not answer. For a minute Evardus thought he might have given the wrong response. “Who are you looking for?”

“The physician Timothy.”

The man motioned for Evardus to follow him. “Come with me. We must be careful tonight.”

“Why?” asked Evardus.

“Bartholomew, one of Jesus' Twelve, is with us.”

When Evardus entered the house, Timothy's wife came over to greet him. She pointed to a tall man standing in the middle of the atrium. “Bartholomew is distributing the Eucharist.” The Apostle offered bread to each person in the room. A woman followed Bartholomew carrying a cup of wine. When they reached Evardus, the wine merchant took a small piece of the unleavened bread and drank from the cup.

The Eucharist over, Timothy's wife brought Evardus to meet Bartholomew.

The Apostle's eyes were riveting. “I understand you have recently come from Jerusalem.”

“Yes. Titus has destroyed the temple and massacred Jews by the thousands.”

“The Emperor Nero martyred Peter and Paul. Now Titus has desecrated the Temple where Jesus preached. These are difficult days for those of us who follow the Master.”

“Bartholomew, on the Jaffa road I found an old rabbi lying on the ground. He told me that a copper scroll had been buried under the Temple. He asked if I would carry word of the scroll to the Chief Rabbi of Jaffa.”

Timothy's wife stared at Evardus with a rueful look. “The Chief Rabbi was crucified by the Romans two weeks ago. His body was left to rot on the cross as a reminder of the price of rebellion.”

“Evardus, Roman spies are everywhere.” Bartholomew put an avuncular hand on Evardus's shoulder. “Delivering a message to the Jews will endanger Timothy and the rest of your brothers and
sisters here in Jaffa. If you are seen with the Jews, they will take you for one of them. The Romans do not understand that we follow Jesus, not Moses. Forget this copper scroll. Return to Gaul and spread the gospel of Our Lord and Savior.”

Evardus took Bartholomew's admonition to heart. He left Jaffa and sailed to Sicily as planned. When he returned to his farm in Gaul, Evardus transcribed all he had seen and heard about the destruction of the Jewish temple and about Rabbi Yohannen and the copper scroll.

Nine years later Titus's father, the Emperor Vespasian, died from mysterious causes. The Praetorian Guard immediately proclaimed Titus as the new emperor. Fearing reprisals, the senate quickly approved the choice.

After two years, however, Titus, too, succumbed to a mysterious illness. Rumors of poisoning spread throughout Rome. Some claimed that a Jewish slave girl had brought him wine just minutes before he died. Those less partial to rumors believed that Titus had died from wounds received in the gladiatorial arena. One senator, however, voiced publicly what most would say only privately. Titus, the senator said, had died from too much fighting, too much drinking, and too much licentiousness.

Under pressure from the Roman legions, the senate ordered a magnificent arch built in the Forum in Titus's honor. Years later when he visited Rome, Evardus marveled at the friezes over the entrance to the arch. They showed Titus triumphantly carrying the Jewish menorah through the streets of Rome and laying it before the feet of Vespasian.

Barbo motioned the waiter to bring another espresso. “A fascinating story, Jean.”

“Yes, it is.”

“But how does Gerard de Montelambert fit into all of this?”

Calvaux looked at Barbo. “During the Crusades, Gerard went to Jerusalem and found Yohannen's scroll.”

Cardinal Barbo's cell phone suddenly rang. “I apologize, Jean.” He walked out to the street in front of the pasticceria. “Yes, Enrico, what is it?”

“There's a Detective Cameri from the Rome police here in your office. He won't tell me why he wants to see you.”

“I'll be there shortly.” Barbo clicked off the cell phone and went back inside the pasticceria.

“Jean, I must go back to my office.”

“When there's time, you'll find Gerard's story as absorbing as Evardus's — perhaps more so because of your interest in the Templars. Gerard became a member of the order and was an eyewitness to their suppression by Pope Clement V.”

“Walk back with me to my office. Do you know when the Templars were founded?”

“Wasn't it in 1118?”

“That's the official date but there's more to it than that. I'll give you a precis of the first chapter of my dissertation.”

“Please do.”

“The history of the Templars actually begins in Clermont Ferrand in November of 1095.”

A SPEECH IN CLERM
NT FERRAND

T
HE FOREST PATH
opened into a green valley with vineyards stretching out as far as the eye could see. The cold rain could not dampen the child's excitement. Seven-year-old Hugh des Payens scurried among the wagons and carts, playing hide-and-seek with his village friends. His mother had told him they were going to Clermont Ferrand to see the pope.

Hugh learned who the pope was from his older brother. The pope, his brother told him, was a very holy man. More important, he was also a magician. He always dressed in white and wore a conical-shaped hat on his head. With his wand, the pope could cure blindness and grow back a missing arm or leg. Hugh knew that his brother had to be right—it explained why there were so many old and sick people in the crowd. It also explained why several children were carrying sick pets in their arms.