The Temple Scroll

by D C Macey

  The old man looked at her, hearing but not quite understanding. Helen fished under the collar of her polo shirt and pulled out a gold chain. She could see his face change the instant the chain began to emerge. He understood. By the time the ring was fully in sight, his eyes were filled with tears for the second time that morning.

  Hands shaking, the old man reached out and touched the ring. He leant forward looking carefully, in almost euphoric disbelief. Craning his neck, he kissed it reverentially. Almost absently, Helen noticed he was checking the ring, touching it, letting his finger run over the surface, searching, feeling, finding.

  The old man leant back, looked Helen in the eye again and smiled. Now the contented smile of a life fulfilled. Then forcing himself to take control of his emotions he sat up straight in his chair.

  ‘Now,’ said Helen, gently, ‘your turn, I think.’

  Father Andreas needed no further prompting; defying the years, his gnarled hands moved quickly to produce a gold chain and signet ring from under his shirt collar.

  Helen reached out and touched his ring. ‘Welcome home, my friend.’ She didn’t know what had prompted the words but could see they meant something to Father Andreas.

  She had not heard the door opening behind her nor heard the feet crossing the wooden floor, but was suddenly aware of another person close by. She looked up to see Father Christos hovering a couple of paces off. Clearly, he wanted to support Father Andreas but was unsure of what to do. She waved him in and stepped back, allowing the old man’s hands to gently slide off her own. Christos stood close to the chair and Father Andreas grasped his hand. Helen realised it was no longer despair but new found jubilation that was now fuelling the old man’s responses. As she stepped away towards the door, she heard the old man gasp words towards the young priest.

  ‘They are come. Christos, they are come!’

  She left the room, suddenly keen to check on Sam, eager to share the news.

  When she reached Sam’s room, she found him awake again, sitting on the edge of the bed, half dressed.

  ‘Should you be up?’ she said.

  ‘I’m fine, just need some fresh air.’ He pulled on the shirt that had been washed and ironed whilst he slept. ‘But what are you doing here? You’re meant to be visiting Xavier in Sardinia.’

  ‘I was, until you got yourself into trouble. Somebody had to come and sort you out.’ She knelt down to help with his shoes.

  ‘How did you find me?’

  ‘Oh, we have our ways,’ she said with a laugh. ‘I’ll tell you later. Right now, I need your help. Sam, we’ve found it. The St Athanasius dagger, it’s here.’

  Sam nodded. ‘I’d guessed as much, have you seen it?’

  ‘No, but we will. The old priest, Father Andreas, he’s really cut up. I think, at first he thought you were the one. Then he realised it wasn’t you so thought you were a bad guy, until you stepped in to save his life.’ She gently stroked the staples that traced the wound across Sam’s head.

  ‘And what about you?’ said Sam.

  ‘Oh, we’re good. Father Andreas and I have an understanding. But I’m pretty worried about him. He’s had a lot of stress for someone his age.’ She took Sam’s arm and started to help him up. ‘Come on, let’s go down and see how he is now.’

  ‘I can manage,’ said Sam, shaking her arm off. ‘I’m not an invalid.’

  A moment later, she felt the grip of his hand on her arm and she smiled to herself as they set off together.

  Having taken the lift down a floor, they entered the long room. Father Andreas was composed again and sitting at the head of the big table, Christos sat at his right hand.

  ‘Come, sit with us,’ said Father Andreas. ‘Here, beside me.’

  As they sat down at the table, another priest entered the room, bringing food for Sam and iced water for them all.

  Father Andreas explained that he was dying; was quite matter of fact about it. A man in his nineties was dying anyway, it was just about timing. If he lived even a few more months he would be lucky, and then Christos would take his place. But today, when Sam finished eating, Helen could see the dagger, take a photograph, whatever she wanted.

  ‘Tell me, Andreas,’ she said, ‘I saw you touching my signet ring. What were you feeling for?’

  The old man smiled, produced his ring and held it out for her. ‘See, my ring is set with a ruby as is yours. Identical.’

  Helen nodded acknowledgement, pulling out her own ring. The ruby was dark red in the shaded room, almost black.

  ‘But look, in mine the ruby is set a little to the side. Yours is set in the middle. I believe each of the other ruby rings is offset to a different point on the dial. Together they form a virtual circle around your ruby.’

  ‘Just as the icons in the glass of your church window are arranged around the symbol at the centre,’ said Sam.

  ‘Only the bearer of the ring whose ruby is centred can recall the task. You have the ring,’ said Father Andreas, ‘you have control.’

  Father Andreas had seemed puzzled by Helen’s plan to place everything in the public domain; but he deferred to her. Such a decision must come from the centre.

  ‘What about the dead bodies, how will you handle them?’ said Sam.

  ‘We have a little cemetery for our dead friends, they already rest with God. As for the attackers, well, up here is a wild country. High valleys that nobody ever visits, crags nobody ever climbs. Secret places, unknown, a body can easily vanish here and never be found.’

  There was a moment’s silence as Helen and Sam digested the information.

  ‘Tell me, Andreas, why didn’t you rebuild your church after the earthquake?’ said Helen.

  The old priest was quiet for a moment, looked wistfully at Christos. ‘Perhaps I should have. But we had this place too, have always had this place, and by the grace of God it survived the earthquake. And there was so much to do then, everywhere. So many people needed help. Oh, many of the big buildings were restored and eventually assistance got to lots of others. But it was never enough - the little back streets, isolated farmer’s buildings… Everywhere there were problems. It did not seem right to rebuild the church at once.

  ‘There were so many in need. Gradually, I spent most of our resources helping the people rebuild their lives - what other choice could I have made? The poorest people needed so much help. Now we don’t have the money to rebuild the church. In fact, we struggle to keep this place going. We get plenty of food and help from farmers and people round about, but I’m afraid I have left Father Christos with a financial burden that might not be carried for so long.’

  Helen sympathised. ‘What can we do to help?’

  ‘Nothing. We stand as we have always done. God will support our church, somehow. I just thank Him that the task is completed in my time. Now come, you are here on a mission. I have something you need to see and I should not delay.’ He rolled off in the direction of the bookcase.

  • • •

  Cassiter was satisfied. Followed by four of his own team members he stepped on to the flight from Paris to Athens. He had other members still travelling back from around the world to join him, but he was happy that those already with him would be more than capable of dealing with this issue.

  First, he would find out what had happened to Parsol’s men, and then he would find out what Cameron was doing on the island. Cameron needed watching. He now seemed a far more unpredictable adversary than expected.

  Cassiter had reviewed Cameron’s track record again. As before, the academic stuff had been clear enough. His military record showed the normal things, some active service, and a handful of diplomatic postings, which was hardly surprising as an Intelligence Corps officer with his language skills. Generally, he seemed a good and clever officer but nothing so outstanding. An unremarkable, almost routine career course - three years’ service and then he had plunged back into academe.

  Then something had twitched at the corner of his mind. He had read the repo
rt through again, his sense of disquiet accentuated. He started flipping back and forth between screens. Yes, there it was - or rather, there it wasn’t. There were occasional time gaps between his postings, small but measurable holes in his record. A few days here, a few weeks there but they quickly added up. What had Cameron been up to during those gaps? There should have been no gaps in a service record. There was more to this man than met the eye. And yet, it seemed from Cameron’s own letter of resignation that he had quit the army, unhappy with the service. It didn’t make sense, didn’t add up.

  Still, the easy way to deal with such a problem was to eliminate it. And the easy way was often the best way.

  CHAPTER 29 - SATURDAY 7th SEPTEMBER

  Sam was sitting at the kitchen table in his flat. He’d managed a few hours’ sleep once they got back but he was wishing it had been more. Thanks to Xavier’s plane, the journey home from Kefalonia had been much better than the torturous outward leg, but it had been broken by a stop at Cagliari to drop off Helen’s Sardinian protectors. And this morning, at Helen’s insistence, he had been for a check-up at A&E. Helen had driven, he suspected to make sure he went. After five hours he was back home.

  Seemingly content that he was all in one piece, she had gone off to speak with people about the parish, which seemed to be going rapidly down the plughole - with James Curry gleefully holding the plug aloft.

  In the quiet isolation of home, he could at last push his tiredness aside and focus on the issue at hand. In front of him were a series of printed pictures. He had cut away their backgrounds to leave the shape of daggers. Eight of them. He then set to one side the picture of the parish dagger with its list of Roman numerals engraved on the blade. He believed it simply listed the numerical order that the other daggers should be laid in.

  He organised each of the remaining seven picture shapes in the order determined by the parish dagger’s numerical list. But he was stumped. Couldn’t see any logical pattern on the waving and swirling lines engraved on each blade - yet this had to be how they were assembled.

  His thoughts turned again to the one blade that was missing, the French dagger, and he wondered if that was the key. It was the one that they knew must be in the hands of the bad guys. He was not sure if they would ever be able to get it. Looking at the number list engraved on the blade of the parish dagger, it was clear that the missing French blade’s number was two. It was the top one in the number sequence. Once the blades were all aligned, it would make up one edge of the greater pattern. That meant it was either crucial or peripheral; he needed more information to make that decision. And the information, like everything else to do with this problem, was hidden. Dragging things out into the open was like pulling teeth.

  After a while spent working through possibilities, he put the problem to one side, tried a change of tack. The one icon on the silver scroll he had not resolved was the maze. It was a reproduction of the Mappa Mundi labyrinth symbol that in turn represented Crete. Did it mean Crete was involved or simply that there was a maze or puzzle to solve? He laughed to himself: there were certainly plenty of those.

  The one thing he had ruled out was that the labyrinth icon meant the labyrinth at King Minos’ palace in Crete. That had lain buried for thousands of years until archaeologists uncovered it last century. The Templars could not have known it was there, so couldn’t have used it. The maze symbol meant something else.

  Still stumped, he picked up his printouts of Helen’s Swiss photographs. Another problem to consider, but a change was as good as a rest.

  Flicking through the photographs he tried to form meanings or links but without any luck. He worked back through the stack of pictures again, coming to a halt at the image of the gold framed glass. He still suspected this was significant, somehow. The gold thread wandering its apparently random way across the glass did not make any sense. Why was a ruby set in the glass? That at least made a link to the signet rings, and by association the daggers, but what it was he did not know.

  Twisting the photograph round, he wondered again which way up the item should sit. He tried to visualise it, flat surface down, the crenulations facing up to the sky like the battlements of some miniature castle. Or should the crenulations face down forming an array of little feet for the artefact to stand on?

  The phone rang; he answered it. ‘Sam speaking.’

  ‘Hi Sam, I’m working on a bit with Elaine, trying to get the parish paperwork signed off. There is so much to do and James Curry has not allowed her nearly enough time. He’s being as unreasonable as ever.’

  ‘I see. Anything I can do to help?’

  ‘No, but let’s not bother cooking. I’ll bring something in when I come. What do you fancy? Fish and chips, a kebab maybe? You choose.’

  ‘Let’s go for fish and chips, I don’t think the local kebabs could compare to the one I had in Dimitris’ restaurant.’

  ‘Great, I’ll bring some in with me. See you then. Love you, bye.’ She was gone before Sam could respond or even think about how her call had ended. He smiled. It didn’t sound so bad. In fact, it didn’t sound so bad at all.

  He crossed the kitchen to make himself a coffee, let his mind drift for a moment and found it settled on the wonderful kebabs Dimitris’ served. They would be going there again and next time without all the threats and mystery. He’d make sure Helen tried the kebabs.

  Abruptly his mind stopped idling and ploughed straight into fifth gear. His hand abandoned the kettle, coffee forgotten as thoughts and ideas and images fell into place - no, he thought, slotted into place. He visualised the cook at Dimitris’, the kebabs being wielded theatrically through the air en route to the grill. He pictured that single flowing motion, how it always ended with a flourish as the cook so deftly slotted each kebab into its place in the grid beneath the flaming grill.

  Sam looked at Helen’s picture of the glass plate; he looked closely at the crenulations. Could they be a grid, a grid to hold the daggers? Yes, he thought, yes they just might. He studied the crenulations; they were not cut at right angles to the gold frame. Each crenulation was actually cut at an acute angle, forming almost wedge shaped slots, slots that would trap and hold the daggers in place - fixed beneath the glass. He tried to gauge the breadth of gap between each crenulation, reckoning it would be just about perfect to slot a dagger in. And provided the daggers were slotted into the frame alternately, one from the right, one from the left, the daggers’ quillons would not jam against each other, perfect. He counted, a sense of pleasure rising in him. If these were functional slots, not decoration, then there was exactly the right number to hold eight daggers.

  Sam punched the air in delight. He knew how the daggers were combined and used. Not why, but that would come. He sent Helen a text:

  Don’t make any plans 4 tomorrow. U need 2 go 2 Switzerland.

  Now, thought Sam, we already know the order they are to go in, so why slot all the daggers into the frame? He looked again at the picture. Helen had got it exactly right: crenulations down. There would be no use having it the other way up, the glass would be obscured by the daggers. At least with the daggers beneath the glass they and their engraved patterns could be seen, as could the blue lapis lazuli edging, the gold thread, and the ruby - everything could be seen at once. If they couldn’t all be seen what was their purpose? Sam was certain that every element Henri de Bello had included had a purpose.

  He thought hard about where it got them. Once again, he laid the pictures of the daggers out in order on the table. It didn’t help. In a rudimentary attempt to model the gold framed plate, he went to a cupboard and lifted down a glass trifle dish - rectangular with deep sides. He’d never used it. His mother had given it to him at some point in the forlorn hope that, by association, it would get him creative in the kitchen; at last, today it was coming into its own.

  He rearranged the pictures of the daggers, laying them in the prescribed numerical order, but now with each blade placed to lie point from left to right or right to left al
ternately, as they would be if slotted in the crenulations beneath the gold framed glass. Then he carefully placed the glass dish over the pictures and looked down through the glass at the swirling lines. They now seemed to sit together more comfortably to his eye. Referring back to Helen’s photograph he realised something was still missing, the ruby and the gold thread. In his mind’s eye he tried to superimpose them onto the glass dish, it brought no additional insight. He walked round the table, slid his makeshift assemblage across to let the light from the window strike directly on it.

  And then he saw it, clear as day. Neatly arranged beneath the glass were the engraved dagger images, all brought together and ordered as they should be - an assembly of lines. Now, superimpose a gold thread, let it represent a route amongst the lines, and there right in the middle lies the ruby. The ruby, our X marks the spot. It is a labyrinth. It’s a labyrinth map with a gold thread that marks the route through the labyrinth to the ruby.

  Sam sat for a long time while thinking through the idea. It worked, well it worked better than any other idea they had come up with and all the parts fitted together well. Except, where was the labyrinth?

  Hearing a key in the door, Sam hurried into the hall. He greeted Helen, kissed her and led her into the kitchen while talking slowly and methodically. Helen didn’t get the chance to ask why she was going to Switzerland or to talk about her day, and in any event, within seconds she was only interested in hearing Sam’s thoughts. The fish and chips cooled in their wrappers as she gazed at the pictures of the daggers and the pattern they made when laid together in the correct way and viewed through the base of the glass dish. Then she followed Sam’s direction as she imagined the twisted cable tie he had placed on the glass was the thread of gold, tracing a route amongst the engraved lines of the daggers. And the orange pip he’d placed at its side, a ruby at the end of the rainbow.

  The patterns on the daggers were not a map. Rather, he thought they were sections of a plan, a plan of a maze or labyrinth, and the superimposed gold thread the route through it, guiding the user directly to the orange pip - the ruby.