The Templar's Secret (The Templar Series)

by C. M. Palov

  Caedmon sat up straighter in his chair. ‘Gaspar? A legendary figure, you say?’ He wondered if the Nazrani adhered to a different Bible than the King James version that he’d been raised upon.

  ‘But I thought you already knew.’ The bearded historian glanced first at Caedmon, then at Edie. ‘Gaspar was one of the Three Wise Men.’

  ‘What!?’ Not only did Edie’s jaw visibly drop, but the tea glass nearly slipped from her fingers. ‘As in “We Three Kings of Orient Are”?’

  The old cleric’s eyes twinkled merrily. ‘None other.’

  20

  ‘I’ll be honest with you, Caedmon; I’m having a difficult time wrapping my mind around the idea of one of the Three Wise Men writing a gospel account,’ Edie remarked, reaching for her glass of Kingfisher beer. Although she wasn’t necessarily in the mood for alcohol, Caedmon insisted that they drink bottled beer rather than tap water.

  Having returned to Fort Cochin a short while ago, they’d found a café near the harbor with air conditioning, the sound of which aggressively competed with the Hindu music blaring from the sound system. From where they sat, near the oversized plate-glass window at the front of the café, Edie could see the red-tiled godown warehouses where spice merchants plied their trade. Just outside the window, rickshaw wallahs, attired in their khaki uniform shirts, were huddled around a board game while they waited for the next paying customer.

  Caedmon poured himself a glass of beer. ‘While a gospel scribed by a Wise Man is seemingly odd on face value, I suspect Gaspar and his two cronies, Melchior and Balthazar, were actually Jews.’

  ‘But in the Nativity story, they’re depicted as three exotic men from foreign locales.’

  ‘Which doesn’t preclude their being Jews,’ Caedmon insisted. ‘As you undoubtedly know, the Three Wise Men are only mentioned in one gospel, that being Matthew, with the entire story relayed in a mere twelve verses.’

  ‘Making it the most famous short story ever written.’ Never tiring of the tale, Edie needed no coaxing. ‘The Three Wise Men from the East see a star in the night sky foretelling the birth of a king, prompting them to throw a few things in an overnight bag, hop on their camels and journey to Jerusalem. Whereupon they immediately inform King Herod that they’re searching for the newborn King of the Jews. After consulting the ancient prophecies, Herod’s high priests point them in the direction of Bethlehem.’

  ‘Being a heartless bastard, Herod summarily orders the execution of all baby boys under the age of three to eliminate a rival heir to the throne,’ Caedmon said, continuing the story where she’d left off. ‘Although there’s no mention of it in the Bible, I’m certain that the Three Wise Men were descendents of the Hebrew Zadokite priesthood.’

  Just then, the waiter returned to their table with a tray laden with fragrant dishes. Her stomach rumbling, Edie watched as he laid out a sumptuous feast for two. In the mood for some fiery cuisine, she’d ordered the vegetarian thali – a potpourri of curried dishes, red-streaked rice and assorted chutneys – served on a large banana leaf. Always adventuresome when it came to ethnic food, she intended to dine like the locals and eat with her fingers. Playing it safe and sticking to a milder repast, Caedmon had ordered a tuna steak cooked in a coconut masala. His meal, unlike hers, included cutlery.

  ‘In 586 BC when Nebuchadnezzar destroyed the Temple in Jerusalem, he forced the entire Zadokite priesthood, along with a large contingent of upper-class and educated Jews, into Babylonian exile,’ Caedmon continued once the waiter had taken his leave. ‘Many of the Zadokite priests, still retaining their belief in Yahweh, became part of a mysterious sect known as the Magi.’

  ‘I’m guessing that the Magi were ancient magicians.’ Ravenous, Edie broke off a piece of porotta bread. Using the piece of bread in lieu of a fork, she took a bite of lentil dhal.

  ‘Not exactly. The Magi interpreted dreams, served as court advisors and, as we know from Matthew’s account, plotted the stars in the night sky.’

  Having just swallowed a bite laden with green chilies, Edie hurriedly snatched her beer glass, taking an unladylike gulp. Fire extinguished, she said, ‘Was Gaspar a Wise Man or a Magi then?’

  Always the gentleman, Caedmon refilled her glass. ‘Technically, he belonged to the latter group. Because the Early Christian Church condemned astrology as a demonic pursuit, the Magi were re-branded as the Three Wise Men. A more seemly occupation.’

  Using the fingers of her right hand, Edie mixed yogurt and steamed root vegetables into a thick slurry. As she did, she stole a quick glance at Caedmon, who was observing the proceedings, clearly aghast. She bit back an amused smile. ‘So if the Three Magi were the descendants of the Zadokite priesthood, maybe, like so many Jews in the first century, they’d actually been waiting for the prophesied Messiah. Whaddya think?’

  Brows drawing together, Caedmon surprised her by saying, ‘What I think is that our trip to India has been a colossal waste of time. With the ransom deadline fast approaching, I’d hope that –’ He shook away the thought. His expression having suddenly turned bleak, he finished his beer.

  ‘The trip hasn’t been a total waste,’ Edie said quietly. ‘We now know who authored the gospel and we’ve verified that Fortes de Pinós did, in fact, take the Evangelium Gaspar to Europe.’

  ‘And in case it’s slipped your notice, neither of those details has brought me any closer to finding the Evangelium Gaspar. Christ! I feel like Sisyphus pushing the bloody boulder up the hill.’

  Unsure how to leaven Caedmon’s spirits, Edie peered around the lively restaurant, her gaze drawn to a statue of a portly Indian god with four arms and a sweetly smiling elephant head. Ganesh. The Remover of Obstacles.

  ‘I’ve always wondered why the Hindus put so many arms on their gods,’ she said conversationally, purposefully changing the subject.

  ‘That damned bastard!’

  ‘Who? Ganesh?’

  Blue eyes narrowing, Caedmon jutted his chin at the window. ‘The Bête Noire with the Chi-Rho brand on his palm. I just caught sight of him standing in the shadows across the street.’

  21

  Caedmon slapped a 500-rupee note on to the table. ‘That should pay for the meal and your taxi to the hotel,’ he said, stuffing his wallet back into his trouser pocket.

  ‘Where in God’s name are you going?’ Edie, clearly bewildered, stared at the note.

  ‘I mean to have a word with the mustachioed Bête Noire.’

  ‘Are you crazy?’ she squawked. ‘He could kill you!’ Fear writ large in her brown eyes, Edie reached across the table and grabbed hold of his wrist. ‘Please, Caedmon . . . just stay put.’

  Biting back an acerbic retort, he refrained from telling her that such timidity would only spell Anala’s doom. ‘I mean to introduce myself as Anala’s father and broker a détente with the kidnappers.’ When Edie refused to relinquish her hold, Caedmon none too gently pried his wrist free. ‘They need to understand that I won’t be able to meet their bloody ransom demand if I’m hampered by someone scurrying in my shadow.’

  ‘Then I’m coming with you.’

  He put a staying hand on Edie’s shoulder, preventing her from rising to her feet. ‘I would have thought you’d had enough hair-raising harum-scarum for one day. You’re to go straight away to the hotel and remain there until I return.’ Orders issued, Caedmon bent down and hurriedly kissed her on the forehead, softening the blow.

  Without a backwards glance, he strode towards the café exit.

  Emerging on to the busy lane, he slowly, methodically, studied the busy streetscape. Just as he’d feared, the Bête Noire was no longer in sight, having moved to a different location. Undeterred, Caedmon shaded his eyes with his hand and searched for the one person in the chaotic scene who didn’t belong.

  Chai wallahs, rickshaw drivers, street peddlers, beggars, tourists. They were the very people that one would expect to see on a boisterous Indian street corner. And then he saw him – a male of average height and build with close-cut
dark hair and a thick moustache, dressed entirely in black. The odd man out, he stood beneath a weather-worn awning near an outdoor café located on the other side of the street.

  Deciding on a brazen course of action, Caedmon purposefully crossed the thoroughfare. No sooner did he reach the other side of the street than the Bête Noire’s head whiplashed in his direction.

  ‘You there!’ Caedmon called out. ‘A word if I may!’

  Perhaps fearing an assault, the Bête Noire spun on his heel and took off running.

  Shite!

  Giving chase, Caedmon charged through the crowded outdoor café. Accidentally bumping into several tables, he knocked a glass of water into one chap’s lap and sent a plate crashing to the pavement – minor catastrophes that merited a shrill shriek from a few of the female patrons. The burly fellow with the wet lap thrust his right hand into the air, flipping Caedmon the digitus infamis.

  There being no time to apologize, he zigzagged around the clustered tables.

  Bloody hell! Where did the jackal go?

  Caedmon swiveled his head, scanning the hectic environs. Catching sight of a black blur dodging into an alley, he sprinted in that direction. When he reached the corner, a large aluminum disc came soaring through the air, the object whirling towards his head at a dizzying speed. Caedmon reflexively recoiled to one side, the disc hurtling past his ear and crashing into the side of the building with a deafening clatter.

  That was when he belatedly realized that he’d nearly been decapitated with the lid from an aluminum trash can.

  Sodding bastard!

  Refusing to surrender, Caedmon dashed down the alley, his black-clad foe having already exited at the other end of the dank passageway.

  Worried that another airborne missile might fly in his direction, he slowed his speed at the terminus and tentatively peered around the corner. Verifying that the coast was clear, he left the alley and entered an eerily deserted marketplace. A faded, hand-painted sign – written in English – indicated that he’d just entered Fort Cochin’s fabled spice bazaar. A tight cluster of pastel-colored warehouses flanked either side of the street; all with the same red-tiled roof; all in a similar sad state of dilapidation.

  On high alert, he wended his way down the lane, primed and ready for the tough to burst out of the shadows.

  Many of the warehouses had already closed for business, their windows and doors shuttered for the night. Many, but not all, Caedmon passing an entryway painted an eye-catching shade of turquoise blue. Glancing inside, he saw bags of spice – cloves, cardamom, ginger, pepper, anise – stacked to the rafters. A stoop-shouldered man hunched over an open newspaper gave Caedmon a disinterested glance. Two wiry blokes loading jute sacks on to the back of a truck ignored him entirely.

  He wrinkled his nose, the combined scent from all those spices creating a noxious bouquet.

  The brute was here, somewhere, amidst the ginger and anise.

  ‘Where in that nest of spicery they shall breed.’

  A few seconds later a small brindled nanny goat scampered out of a doorway, the bell around its neck merrily tinkling. Got you!

  Caedmon immediately headed in that direction, certain the skittish goat had been frightened by a mustachioed intruder.

  Warily he approached the deserted warehouse, the elaborately carved door softly swinging on its hinges. Caedmon’s adrenalin instantly spiked. Taking several deep breaths, he tried to countermand the hormone’s effect, his heart thumping much too rapidly.

  Stiffening his resolve, he stepped through the doorway. A beam of light slanting through an open window hit him full in the face. He moved out of its path, keeping to the shadows as he surveyed the otherwise murky interior. Spartan, it was nothing more than an open space with a wooden table, a set of old-fashioned scales, two handcarts, a forklift and towers of stacked spice sacks. Hearing a tell-tale creak, Caedmon glanced towards the ceiling.

  Someone is prowling about on the second floor.

  He strode over to the stairwell, certain that his quarry had gone upstairs.

  The wooden steps groaned under his weight. Ready or not, here I come, he silently grated, unable to muffle his footfall.

  At the top of the staircase, he paused. The dimly lit environs were little more than an attic storage space, packing crates full of spice sacks lining one entire side of the gloomy expanse.

  He took a few cautious steps.

  A creaking floorboard and a sudden rush of air was the only warning Caedmon had before he saw a flash of metal slashing in his direction.

  No time to think, he automatically spun to one side.

  But not in time, a steel pole battering into his left shoulder.

  The blow sent him careening off-kilter. Crashing into a stack of crates, he smashed several packing boxes on impact. A sack of cloves split open, brown nubbins spilling on to the floor in a noisy rattle.

  Heaving in pain, he staggered to his feet. Bruised all the way to the marrow, I’ll warrant. Still determined to speak to his adversary, Caedmon turned towards the other man, who stood at the ready, capably grasping a five-foot-long pole. Hoping that actions spoke louder than words, Caedmon held out both hands, palms upward. The age-old gesture that he meant no harm. That he wanted to call a temporary truce.

  ‘We need to talk. Please,’ he implored. ‘I have vital information to convey to you.’

  Sneering, the Bête Noire hissed, ‘After I crack open your skull, you can tell it to the devil, English!’ Holding the five-foot-pole in a two-handed grip, the brute swung high.

  Caedmon ducked low, the pole slicing through the air above his head and missing its intended target by a scant inch. Too damned close for comfort.

  Still bent over, Caedmon charged his opponent, ramming his head into the other man’s lower belly. Plowing forward, he didn’t stop until he’d hammered his foe’s backside against the wall. Wood splintered and cracked. Pinned in place, the Bête Noire slammed the metal pole against Caedmon’s upper back, knocking the wind out of him.

  Gasping for breath, Caedmon managed to hook first his right hand, then his left, on to the pole. For several seconds they violently grappled for control of the weapon.

  I need to end this. Now!

  Caedmon pushed with all his might, thrusting the horizontal pole into the other man’s torso. A low grunt ensued. Then a harsh groan. That being his cue, Caedmon straightened his spine and viciously ripped the pole from the other man’s grasp.

  Furious, he hurled the pole across the warehouse, embedding the rod into a sack of spice. As he took the Bête Noire’s measure, their eyes made contact. There was no mistaking the rabid hatred in the other man’s narrowed gaze.

  Bull-like, the mustachioed brute snorted through flared nostrils. ‘Tú eres un cabrón!’

  ‘Yes, I’m a right fucking bastard,’ Caedmon retorted impatiently, not in the mood for any macho posturing. ‘Be that as it may, I can assure you that what I have to say is crucially important.’ He swiped at a wet ribbon of blood that coursed down the side of his face from an open gash on his temple.

  The Bête Noire glanced at the pole protruding from the burlap bag. ‘You should have held on to that, English.’ Admonition issued, he grabbed his crotch and sneered . . . just before he sprinted towards the stairs.

  God Almighty!

  His energy dissipating, Caedmon staggered after the fleeing man, refusing to call retreat. Hands braced on either side of the stairwell, he pounded down the flight of rickety steps, determined to catch his opponent.

  ‘Wait! I have a message for Irenaeus!’ he shouted in desperation as he neared the bottom of the stairs. ‘It’s imperative that you –’

  Just then, the sole of his leather shoe punched through a weakened stair tread. Unable to stop his downward momentum, Caedmon was propelled forward. One foot stuck in the shattered tread, the other one slid out from under him.

  Collapsing on the floor in a contorted sprawl, he screamed in agony.

  ‘Christ! I’ve broken my
ankle!’

  22

  ‘Caedmon is chasing down a lead and, well, I’m not exactly sure when he’ll be returning to the hotel,’ Edie hedged, shading the truth so that she wouldn’t unduly worry Gita Patel.

  Recalling the fierce look on Caedmon’s face before he’d charged out of the café, Edie’s own fear mushroomed anew. The mustachioed ‘Bête Noire’, as Caedmon referred to him, had obviously followed them back to Fort Cochin.

  ‘That’s why I’m here,’ Gita said, clearly excited about something. Unsnapping her leather messenger bag, she removed her laptop computer. ‘I’ve also been chasing down a lead. Quite by accident, I discovered additional information about the Knight Templar, Fortes de Pinós.’ Prying the computer open, she hit the ON switch.

  Encouraged by the other woman’s enthusiasm, Edie scooted her chair a few inches closer to the laptop.

  Having run into each other several minutes ago in the lobby, the two of them were now seated at a small table on the veranda of the Old Lighthouse Hotel, a white stucco remnant from the British colonial period. The outdoor lounge, shaded by spatula-leafed peepal trees, was surrounded by the hotel’s magnificent grounds. Just beyond the lush ferns and flowering plants, the hotel’s private beach was visible, the Arabian Sea sparkling in the late-day sun.

  ‘I just need to boot-up and log on to the Internet,’ Gita said, sliding a pair of sunglasses on to the top of her head; her hair, dark and shiny as a crow’s wing, was pulled into a no-nonsense bun.

  Attired in a traditional unbleached Keralean sari with woven bands shot through with golden thread and a red bindi dot between her brows, Gita was certainly different-looking to when Edie first met her in Paris, the change from west to east startling. The only thing that hadn’t changed were the swollen hazel eyes rimmed with dark circles. Too many tears and not enough sleep, Edie thought.