The Templar's Code (29 page)

Rubin derisively snorted. “An utterly outlandish claim.”

“Nullius in verba
.
”
As he spoke, Caedmon tugged at the silver signet that he wore on his right ring finger.

About to take a sip of her martini, Edie, instead, lowered her cocktail glass. “Translation please. The only Latin I know is the pig variety.”

“Take no one’s word,” he obligingly translated. “Or, put another way, seeing is believing.” Caedmon walked over to where their host now held court in his outrageously carved Tudor chair. Hit with a childish impulse, he dropped the signet ring into Rubin’s cocktail glass. “
That
was found buried at the Templar colony in Rhode Island.”

His brows drawn together in an annoyed frown, Rubin fished the bauble out of his cocktail glass. Bringing the ring up to his face, he carefully examined it. A moment later, the frown reworked itself into an awestruck expression. “There’s an inscription that I can’t quite make out.” He peered over the top of his round tortoiseshell glasses as he brought the ring closer to his face.

“Testis sum agnitio,”
Caedmon informed him. “In addition to the signet ring, a number of other artifacts were uncovered at the site, including several gold coins that predate the auto-da-fé.”

At hearing that, Rubin gasped aloud, nearly dropping the ring back into his cocktail glass. “And where are these gold coins and other—”

“Safely secured,” Caedmon interjected. Before leaving the States, he’d taken the precaution of renting a long-term airport locker, not about to risk losing the valuable artifacts to a London pickpocket. “The archaeological evidence strongly suggests that sometime in the early sixteenth century, a massacre took place, the colony completely destroyed by the Knights of Malta. After carefully sifting through the evidence, the two of us”—he pointedly glanced at Edie, indicating that she was very much a full and equal partner in the venture—“came to the conclusion that the Templars had constructed a hidden vault a few miles from the settlement site.”

“My God! Did the two of you actually find this vault?”

“We did. However I must inform you that the archaeologist who provided us with the necessary research was murdered.”

Rubin’s brows noticeably lifted. “Not exactly a disclosure for the weak-kneed. Fortunately, I’m made of sterner stuff. You’ve issued your warning, Peter, pray continue.”

“Very well.” Reaching into his trouser pocket, Caedmon removed a computer memory chip. He handed his full martini glass to Rubin before walking over to the laptop computer on the bed. “I should clarify at the onset that while we did find the Templar vault, it was empty,” he stated, not wanting to raise false hopes. He pulled up the first of the digital photos that Edie had taken inside the Templar sanctuary.

Both Edie and Rubin joined him at the four-poster bed.

Holding a martini glass in each hand, Rubin leaned over the mattress to view the photos. “This is stunning. Truly magnificent. The plot has indeed thickened.” Raising the martini in his right hand, he completely drained it. “These photos are absolutely—” He stopped in midstream. Long moments passed as he intently stared at the digital photo of the Enochian message written by Walter Ralegh. “ ’Tis the handwriting on the wall.’ ”

“Or, in this case, the floor,” Edie quipped. “We deciphered the message to read ‘Ralegh took the Templar relic to swine’s court.’ ”

“And while we can’t be completely certain, we believe the relic in question is some sort of sacred stone.”

Rubin raised the full glass in his left hand and quaffed it down in three swallows. A few moments passed before he muttered, “That bastard Ralegh actually found the Templar vault.”

“We did an Internet search, but couldn’t find any information pertaining to Walter Ralegh sailing to Rhode Island. Leading me to conclude that the Rhode Island voyage was covertly undertaken. Very much a hush-hush operation.”

“Ah! I can help you there,” Rubin said as he deposited his two empty cocktail glasses on the refreshment tray. “In 1584, Ralegh sailed to America to scout for locations suitable for colonization. And you are quite correct; there was an ulterior motive to the voyage. A motive hidden from history. With good reason, given that the true purpose of the expedition was to locate the seventy-seventh meridian.
That’s
what Walter Ralegh was doing in Rhode Island.”

“Okay, I’m sure this is really significant, but I am not following,” Edie confessed, never bashful about asking questions. “What’s the seventy-seventh meridian? And why was searching for it such a big secret?”

“The seventy-seventh meridian is a line of longitude. Longitude, as you know, is an east-west measurement taken from a known starting point referred to as the prime meridian. Mystics have long believed the seventy-seventh meridian sits on top of the world’s most powerful ley line,” Caedmon explained.

“Ley lines are power conduits that resonate with magnetic energy, right?”

Caedmon nodded. “The pyramids in Egypt, Stonehenge in England, the Mayan temples in Central America, and even Rosslyn Chapel in Scotland are all built on top of ley lines.”

“Deemed sacred, the seventy-seventh meridian was referred to by the Knights of the Helmet as ‘God’s line of longitude,’ ” Rubin said, rejoining the conversation.

“And why was Sir Walter Ralegh searching for this sacred meridian?”

He tilted his head in Rubin’s direction, politely deferring to their host.

“If you want to build a utopian society, what better place to do so than on a sacred parcel of land. And the Knights of the Helmet were
keenly
intent on establishing a New Atlantis far from the tyrannical grip of the English monarchy. The well-connected politician Sir Francis Bacon worked tirelessly to secure permission to colonize. The mathematical genius Dr. Dee created detailed nautical charts. And the bold adventurer Sir Walter Ralegh readied his ships. Unfortunately, time and tyranny were against them, the endeavor never getting past the planning stage.”

“In that, their goal was no different from the Knights Templar, who attempted to establish a New Jerusalem far from a brutal regime.” Caedmon turned and walked over to a floor-standing globe situated on the other side of the room. Eyes narrowing, he moved the orb slightly with his finger. “My God, the Templar colony was situated at approximately seventy-two degrees longitude. Just a few degrees off the mark. Given the fact that their only navigational tools were a crude compass and a sheepskin Portolan map, the Templars came remarkably close to finding the seventy-seventh meridian.”

“Unfortunately, the dashing Ralegh’s navigational tools were not up to the task either.” Rubin slyly smiled. “That said, I may be able to provide some insight as to what it was that Ralegh discovered in the Templar vault.”

Caedmon stared at Rubin Woolf.
Had the antiquarian been playing him for a fool?
“I’d say you better come clean,” he warned, losing patience. “And be quick about it.”

“Since you so obligingly showed me yours, I shall now show you mine.” Pronouncement made, Rubin strode to the foyer. When he reached the open doorway, he craned his neck in their direction. “Well, don’t just stand there gawking. I want you two to follow me to the other room. Do leave your cocktail glass. Beverages are not permitted.”

Edie obediently set her cocktail glass on the tray. Hands freed, she grabbed hold of Caedmon’s arm. Leaning in close, she whispered, “What’s this all about?”

“I have no idea,” he replied in an equally hushed voice.

They followed Rubin down the hall to a closed door. Reaching into his pocket, Rubin removed a skeleton key that he fitted into the old-fashioned lock. It took a bit of jiggling for him to get the antiquated lock open.

Chuckling, he said, “Marnie calls this my ‘man cave,’ but I prefer to think of it as my therapy room.” Stepping inside, he switched on the light.

“Therapy, indeed,” Caedmon murmured as he entered the windowless, climate-controlled room that was illuminated with incandescent lights fitted with UV filters. All of which was necessary to protect what appeared to be an incredible collection of rare books, oil paintings, antique maps, and various other ephemera.

“You might want to invest in a better lock,” Edie remarked as she examined an ornately framed painting of a Madonna and child.

“While I’d love to show off some of my more prized possessions, I know that you’re anxious to see the pièce de résistance.” Rubin stepped over to a large map cabinet. With his index finger he counted down five drawers. His movements slow, he opened the drawer and removed a single sheet of yellowed paper encased in a Mylar sleeve.

With reverential care, he carried the protected sheet to the work table in the middle of the room and set it down for them to view.

“My God,” Caedmon whispered, stunned.
How the bloody hell did Rubin come by this?

Edie shrugged, clearly unimpressed. “Am I missing something? I’m no expert, but even I know
that
isn’t the Templar treasure.”

“You are correct.” Rubin inclined his head slightly. “Shall I tell her or do you want the honors?”

Caedmon gestured to the protected sheet of paper on the table. “What Rubin has in his possession is something that, by all accounts,
doesn’t
exist.”

Edie was the first to break the silence.

“It’s the title page for an old book, right?”

“What
do
they teach in American schools?
That
is the frontispiece for Francis Bacon’s opus magnum, the
New Atlantis
,” Rubin huffed.

The instant he glanced away, Edie, exasperated, stuck out her tongue. A juvenile response. No doubt the result of being cooped up in what amounted to a claustrophobic windowless vault.

Caedmon put a staying hand on her shoulder, lessening the sting. “In a printed book, the frontispiece is the illustration opposite the title page. Taken from the Latin word
frontispicium
, meaning façade, it’s a word seldom used in the modern lexicon. Highly ornate engravings, these prints are artistic masterpieces in their own right.”

“A fact that incites avaricious art collectors to take sharp razor blades to priceless antiquarian books.” Rubin’s unkind tone made it clear what he thought of the practice.

Still confused, Edie said to Caedmon, “Why did you say that this particular frontispiece shouldn’t exist? I mean, we’re looking at it so obviously it, um, you know, exists.” Too late, she realized how garbled that sounded. She immediately braced for a Rubin on wry.

Their host tapped a manicured finger against the Mylar-encased print. “ ‘Thy end is truth’s and beauty’s doom and date.’ ”

Still clueless, Edie apologetically shrugged.

“The date, woman! Look at the publishing date!”

She did, but the date 1614 meant absolutely nothing to her. “Sorry, not ringing a single bell.”

“Francis Bacon died in the year 1626,” Rubin informed her. “Among his papers was discovered an unfinished, unpublished manuscript titled
New Atlantis.
Bacon’s longtime secretary, a man by the name of William Rawley, had the unfinished manuscript posthumously published in 1627. With a completely different frontispiece than the one that’s on the table. Publication of the
New Atlantis
, a parable outlining Bacon’s plan for a utopian society, sparked a heated public debate. One that continues to this very day.”

Caedmon picked up the print. His gaze narrowed as he intently examined it. “This 1614 frontispiece implies two things: First, Bacon actually completed the
New Atlantis
manuscript, and second, he intended to publish it in 1614. For whatever reason, Sir Francis had a change of heart. Since there are no known copies of the 1614 frontispiece other than the one before us, we must presume that Bacon had the engraved prints destroyed. Save for the one.” As he spoke, Caedmon pulled a stool out from under the sturdy worktable where they stood. He offered the vacant seat to Edie. “What I want to know, Rubin, is how in God’s name did you come by this?”