The Templar's Code

by C. M. Palov

  As the months passed, I proved myself an amiable companion, Dashwood confiding all manner of secrets to me. Indeed, he once boasted that he could ride ten whores in a single night. While I applauded his stamina, I questioned the veracity of the claim. To validate the allegation, Dashwood invited me to join his “monks” on their next unholy pilgrimage. My curiosity piqued, I readily accepted the invitation.

  Several nights later, our pilgrimage illuminated by a ponderous full moon, we traveled by gondola up the Thames to a ruined abbey in the vicinity of West Wycombe, known to the locals as Medmenham Abbey. Our arrival was announced with the somber toll of the cloister bell. As we disembarked, a manservant handed each monk a brown cowl to don. Properly attired, we made our way in single-file procession. One of our party, a deep baritone, took up a popish chant. We entered a subterranean sanctuary beneath the abbey and were ushered to the chapter room. The sanctuary contained a stone altar and a painted mural of Harpocrates, finger to lips, cautioning the assembled adherents to silence. We were soon greeted by a timorous nun attired in a Capuchin habit and a stern-faced priest in a dark cassock. To my utter astonishment, the priest raised his robe, shoved the nun onto the altar, and proceeded to roger her in full view of the friars. Clearly enjoying themselves, the pair sang bestial hosannas. The priest brayed like a he-ass; the nun cooed like David’s turtledove. My host turned to me and said slyly, “Nothing quite as inspiring as a holy man performing his officium divinum.” “His sacred duty made all the more pleasurable by having such a delectable vessel beneath him,” I replied, beginning to suspect that sacrilegious amusements were commonplace at Medmenham. Indeed, a horde of nuns soon entered the sanctuary, their appearance setting off a blazing feu de joie. Had there ever been a more impious gathering? Later I was informed that the “pilgrimage” had been my initiation into the club’s inner circle. A sinner circle, God help me.

  In the ensuing months, I was a frequent guest at the abbey and can attest that costumed amusements and bawdy entertainments were routinely performed in the subterranean sanctuary, the monks’ motto being “Do you what you will.” Where you will and when you will, no space too public for a monk to slake his lust with an obliging nun.

  One evening I arrived at the abbey keenly disappointed that the gay gaggle of whores was absent. Indeed, the gathered company seemed strangely solemn. I was informed that the monks had decided to bestow upon me a high honor; I was to participate in a sacred ritual. A metal case had been placed upon the stone altar. My heart beat a rapid tattoo against my breast. Dashwood, attired in Egyptian garb, opened the case and revealed a green tablet of unaccountable beauty. I stood transfixed. After a half century, I finally laid my eyes upon the Emerald Tablet. The high priest then mixed several powdered substances, heating them over a flame. Soon a noxious smoke filled the room. A few moments later, I was given a draft of a vile-tasting potion that caused my bowels to painfully cramp. Libations administered, Dashwood next attempted to penetrate the supernatural realm and rouse a demon to do his bidding. Any man with a passing knowledge of biblical text knows that governance over the devil is a risky venture. And a potentially dangerous pursuit. Intoning an ungodly chant, Dashwood held the Emerald Tablet aloft and displayed the relic’s ornate emblem, proclaiming that the secret of creation was contained within its arcane symbolism and that a man had only to decipher the symbols to commune directly with the heavenly sphere. As I am an avowed Deist, my mind did balk at this assertion.

  Francis Dashwood, by his own admission, is a libertine bar none. But, as with all of the men in his inner circle, he was first and foremost an adherent to the hidden stream of knowledge. Not only did he practice alchemy, but he studied the Conjecture Cabalistica, and embraced the dark arts, particularly those that evoked the mysticism of ancient Egypt. In truth, Dashwood’s inner circle was a superstitious coven of sun-worshipping Atenists and bewigged magi.

  Appalled and fascinated by their rituals, I feared the beautiful relic might indeed possess some mysterious power. Unlike my Brothers at the Philadelphia Lodge, Dashwood and his Masonic coven are a determined group of well-connected aristocrats with an ambitious bill of sale. Moreover they contend that the relic was the true power behind the British Empire. They prefix this claim by declaring that no sooner did Ralegh secure the relic than England’s global ascendancy began. Not unlike the ascendancy of the Hebrew tribes in the Old Testament. Thoth’s stone the beating heart of each empire’s rise. I decided then and there that delenda est Carthago. Carthage must be destroyed. And to ensure that the phoenix cannot open its beak, let alone rise from the ashes, their most sacred relic must be seized. The felicity and well-being of the colonies depends upon it. My plan was simple but brazen. I would appropriate the relic at the monks’ next gathering, a wild bacchanal the perfect diversion.

  Several weeks later, an opportunity presented itself, a buxom nun in a state of dishabille my unwitting accomplice. Attired in cowl and robe, I ushered the nun to the monk’s cell where I knew the relic to be safeguarded by an armed grenadier. Assuming an intoxicated demeanor, made all the more believable by an unsteady weaving to and fro, I approached the guard. Grinning like a jackanapes, I informed the fellow that I was too far along in my cups to enjoy a good gallop and would he like to ride the flanking mare in my stead. “Indeed, I would be happy to oblige the request,” he assured me, making haste to unbutton his breeches, perhaps fearful that I might retract the offer if he did not thrum the good sister in swift order. Flourishing his weapon, he paid me no mind. Suspecting his stamina would prove of short duration, I hurriedly made my way to the adjoining room. The holy of holies. There I did find the relic housed in a metal case set inside a stone niche. I snatched the prize and, securing it beneath my voluminous garment, escaped to London in a waiting carriage.

  That was four hours ago. I am soon to depart Craven Street in yet another carriage, this one headed to Portsmouth, where I will board a packet ship bound for the colonies. This night I have crossed the Rubicon, the bridge in flames behind me. As for the sacred relic, I propose to take Thoth’s stone to the City nearest the Centre to that place where men strive to improve the common stock of Knowledge so that all may prosper in mind as well as spirit.

  Though tempted to delve into the relic’s supernatural mystery, I shall refrain. Enlightened man, empowered with intellect and reason, need not fall victim to the counterfeit claims of medieval occultism. I do believe that Francis Bacon was a gifted man who straddled two universes, one foot firmly planted in the enlightened world and the other firmly planted in the medieval age, a man of science with occult inclinations. But a man cannot be so divided, his very nature torn asunder. He must commit to one or the other. An enlightened man, a man burnished in the fire of science, knows that the mind is the most powerful weapon of all. God did not intend for man to take his sustenance from the meager larder of alchemy and magic, false sciences the both of them. Rather the Creator, the Supreme Deity, desired that man eat from the Tree of Knowledge.

  To safeguard the relic, I intend to create a Triad of like-minded men who will ensure that Thoth’s stone is hidden away. As I am not entirely oblivious to the relic’s import, I shall propose to my fellow Triad members that we leave signposts lest a future age, unencumbered by the superstitions of this age, would find some scholastic merit in archiving the relic. If that day should come to pass, I suspect it will be long centuries from now. Since the dawn of time, man has been burdened with a superstitious nature that is not likely to dissipate in the near decades. In this, as with a good many things, there is a fine line between the sacred and the profane. Yea, for every Francis Bacon there are ten Francis Dashwoods who would leap at the chance to exploit the relic’s supposed power.

  Given that these are dangerous times, I further propose that each member of the Triad select his successor. Should a Triad member meet an untimely end, another shall assume his responsibilities. In this way, the Triad can germinate itself indefinitely. My task is now made clear. I must find the c
atheti to my hypotenuse. Men of good moral character but not given to public piety. Men possessed of intellect but not lacking in compassion. And, most important, I seek honorable men who will not be seduced by the relic’s potential power. Alas, there are no men in my current circle who I feel sufficiently capable of discharging this monumental duty. However, in two months’ time, the Second Continental Congress will convene in Philadelphia, and I will have the pick of the bushel.

  The looming storm clouds portend a crisis that must be met. The Creator bequeathed to Adam’s progeny the gift of reason so he may safely navigate through this dark night. If, long years from now, my actions come to light, posterity may harshly judge me. But it is to safeguard posterity that I now steer my course, knowing that I have done all that I can do, certain in the conviction that Rebellion to Tyrants is obedience to God. Thus I do God’s will.

  CHAPTER 60

  “ ‘Morning has broken,’ ” Mercurius murmured, luxuriating in the sun’s rays shining through the bedroom window.

  As he stretched the kinks out of his seventy-two-year-old back, he slid his bare feet into a pair of ornately beaded Moroccan slippers. The Ali Baba slippers, his amoretto liked to tease. The frivolous footwear was a colorful reminder of the deprivations suffered during the war years. Those years when he had no shoes, climbed garden walls to pilfer oranges, and wore mended clothing.

  He snatched his silk robe from the hook on the back of the door and slipped his bare arms into the sleeves, tying the garment at his waist.

  Before retiring last evening, he’d listened to the recordings that his amoretto had made, distressed to learn how much Aisquith and his two cohorts had pieced together. Not only did they know about the three streams of hidden knowledge—alchemy, Kabbalah, and magic—they knew the Emerald Tablet contained a pictograph in which the secret of creation had been encoded.

  He took a small measure of comfort in the fact that even if they uncovered the relic, without the encryption key they could not access the sacred power. Not even the brilliant Sir Francis Bacon had been able to decipher the encryption. Long millennia ago, Thoth had devised an ingeniously complex code.

  Entering his study, Mercurius walked over to the built-in bookcase and rolled the floor-to-ceiling ladder several feet to one side. Hit with a twinge of arthritis in his right hip, he gingerly climbed the rungs. It took a moment to locate a slender volume: New Atlantis.

  One could not help but admire the utopian thinkers who attempted to fashion a better world. One without war. Without hunger. Without misery. But every utopian colony ever founded had collapsed, besieged, the dark energy from the outside world too great a force to withstand. The inhabitants beaten down and demoralized because they dared to remake the world anew. While their aspirations were commendable, there was a flaw in the very concept of an earthly utopia. Simply put, it was impossible to remake or rehabilitate this dark planet.

  For ours was a cursed world.

  Which is not to say that a better world doesn’t exist. It did, on a plane of existence where the Light permeates every thought and every action of every man. Contained within each living creature, there was a divine spark. The soul. Our individual piece of eternity. Imprisoned within a physical body, from the very moment of conception, our souls long to be reunited with the Light. To return to the Lost Heaven.

  Mercurius glanced down at his own withered body. How could anyone possibly accept the ridiculous notion that this belching, farting, perspiring vessel was made in God’s image? Physical existence was proof positive that this dark world was a failed experiment created by a malevolent demiurge.

  To be free of this dark world, a soul must wrench itself from the physical prison of the body. Once liberated, the soul could return to the Lost Heaven and dwell in a state of luminous grace. That being the only true utopia.

  He idly flipped through the pages of the slender volume that he held in his hands, the New Atlantis less than fifty pages in length. He stopped on page thirteen, a sentence in the text capturing his attention: “Thou hast vouchsafed of thy grace, to those of our order to know thy works of creation, and true secrets of them.”

  In the New Atlantis, the scholars of Solomon’s House posses the secret of creation. Moreover, the esteemed scholars know that there’s a link between creation and the hidden stream of knowledge. While the brilliant Sir Francis was correct in postulating that the hidden stream of knowledge was the key, he was unaware that there were four streams of hidden knowledge. Not three. And that the fourth stream was the key to unlock the mystery of the Emerald Tablet.

  As fate would have it, Mercurius had the key.

  CHAPTER 61

  Finished reading The Book of Moses, Edie released a gusty breath. “Whew! Those monks of Medmenham were very bad boys.”

  “A nom de plume for London’s notorious Hell-Fire Club,” Caedmon informed her. “Rakes, lechers, and pornographers, the lot of them.”

  “Talk about the secret life of Benjamin Franklin. Although we’re still very much in the dark as to the relic’s whereabouts.”

  “According to his confession, Franklin whisked the Emerald Tablet off to the colonies.” He banged the table with a balled fist. “Damn the man!”

  “Being a Freemason, Benjamin Franklin knew all about Francis Bacon’s scheme to use the Emerald Tablet to create a utopian society. A hundred and fifty years after Bacon’s death, the plot was still very much on the front burner.” Edie lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. As though suddenly aware that they were discussing a centuries-old mystery in the middle of an Internet café. “Franklin knew that the English aristocracy had plans to create a benevolent tyranny run by intellectual elites. Moreover, they intended to use the Emerald Tablet to achieve their despotic ends. Deny it all you want, but that is the beating heart of Bacon’s New Atlantis.”

  Caedmon placed his right hand over his heart and gazed heavenward. “Thank God for Dr. Franklin! The great American hero who fought the evil English elites with a kite in one hand and the Emerald Tablet in the other.”

  “Make mock if you will, but Benjamin Franklin believed that ‘rebellion to tyrants is obedience to God.’ ”

  Well aware that Americans tended to be a tetchy lot when it came to their civil liberties, Sic Semper Tyrannis and all that, he altered course. “Given that Franklin was an avowed Deist, I’m not the least bit surprised that he’s so disdainful of the occult rituals observed at Medmenham Abbey.”

  Edie snapped two sugar packets to and fro before tearing them open and pouring the contents into a cup of coffee, her third of the day. “I seem to recall that quite a few of the American Founding Fathers were Deists. Wasn’t it a religious movement that came about in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries?”

  “The Deists were spawned during the Enlightenment,” he verified with a nod. “Nominally Christian, the Deists were convinced that God not only created the universe, but at the same time he devised the laws of nature. Indeed, one can only know God through reason and observation of the natural world. Not through miracles or prophecy or otherworldly voices emanating from the Ark of the Covenant.”

  About to raise her coffee cup to her lips, Edie lowered it to the table instead. “Makes perfect sense that a dyed-in-the-wool Deist like Benjamin Franklin would be horrified by the notion of using the Emerald Tablet to tap into the mind of God in order to create the perfect society. Given everything he’d heard and witnessed, he suspected the relic contained the so-called Genesis code. And it scared the hell out of him.”

  “Franklin came of age during the Enlightenment, and like his Deist brethren, he was convinced that God graced mankind with intellect,” Caedmon said, giving voice to a deep-held belief of his as well. “By employing our God-given intellect, we can create and fashion a world based upon the tenants of reason and natural law. A whole different type of creation altogether.”

  “Yeah, the safe kind. As in no Big Bang.” Edie pointedly glanced at the yellow sheets of paper. “Last night, Rubin ment
ioned that Thoth brought the Emerald Tablet to Egypt from Atlantis. Do you think the Emerald Tablet had something to do with the destruction of Atlantis?”

  “Mmmm . . . an interesting question. The few references to Atlantis in the ancient records claim that the entire continent was obliterated from the earth. That said, it is possible that the Genesis code contained within the Emerald Tablet triggered the catastrophe.”

  “It would only take one exploding atom to do the trick.” Edie shuddered. “Franklin was afraid of what would happen if the Freemasons found the encryption key and decoded the pictograph.”