Sports Car?
"Framuratore," said Sparke, "what's that, an Italian sports car?"
"No," said Tilly. "It's an unfair question, I suppose, but I like to ask you questions I know you can't answer. Fra Muratore was an Italian priest from the eleventh century. Not very famous at all and more or less unheard of outside his own region in Tuscany."
"So why would I have heard of him?"
"You really don't read the papers, do you? When you were looking for the Vault you told me that your assumption was that the Knights might have used Loch Lomond as a fast route from the Scottish lowlands into the Highlands and that you thought they could have used some of the islands on the loch as a base."
"Yes," said Sparke cautiously.
"Well, we’ve had a first look and found some of the grave stones you mentioned. They might, or might not, be Templar, but one thing we did find is a rough carving on one of the rocks on the island with the name of Fra Muratore. The carvings are too faint to read perfectly, but we’re quite confident. There is a great new gizmo out that can amplify old carvings, but it’s too expensive for us to buy on this year’s budget."
"OK, so how is this inscription important?"
"At first, we thought it wasn't important at all. People in the Middle Ages were terrible for carving graffiti on things, so we thought no more about it. Then, one evening when I was particularly bored, I did a bit of research. Turns out that the name Fra Muratore shows up in a number of sites. In fact we have found similar carvings in locations across Europe and the Middle East."
Tilly flipped open her laptop and found an image of a flat piece of rock with some faint lines carved onto its surface. She clicked her mouse and several more images flashed onto the screen. Even an amateur like Sparke could see the similarity between them.
"OK, so the Fra Muratore fan club went on tour and chopped their name into any stone they could find. I don't see where this is going."
"I know you don't. Fun, isn't it? The Fra Muratore name is probably not important in itself, but the thing that might interest you is that the sites where the graffiti appears may have some Templar connections."
"Is there any connection between the Fra and the Templars? Was he like their patron saint or something?"
"No connection," said Tilly. "I checked every database and archive I could find on the Templars and there is no significant connection between the Order and this wee holy man. The Templars were not massively active in Italy and, as far as we can tell, Muratore never left his little patch of Tuscany."
"Sounds like you have a nice little mystery to keep yourself distracted for a while."
"A bit more than that. Since your discovery of the Vault, we are putting a lot of effort and a bit of cash into investigating the whole area. The Government is building a museum and visitor center at the site of the Vault and anything connected with it is getting a lot of focus. I think they plan to ask you to open the museum."
"They already asked me, but I am busy that day."
"You really are determined to stay out of the whole thing, aren't you?"
"Very," said Sparke. "The first time I became involved with the Templars I ended up being hounded by the bloody media for months and the second time I got myself fired from a job I really quite liked. Even someone as dim as me learns a lesson, eventually."
"The first time you took an interest in the Order you made one of the world's most important archaeological discoveries..."
"...accidentally," said Sparke.
"...and also earned yourself fourteen million pounds of a finder's reward."
"Which means that I have the freedom to do whatever I want and not have to do anything that I don't want."
"Then you don't want to come to Tuscany?"
"When you say 'come to Tuscany’, what exactly do you mean?"
"Just that," said Tilly. "The National History Museum of Scotland has approved a field trip budget for me to go to Tuscany to explore the links between Scotland and medieval Italy."
"How long will you be gone?”
"Two weeks."
"You mean the Government will pay you to faff around in Tuscany for two weeks?"
"What a lark, eh?"
"You actually think you might find anything?" said Sparke.
"Doesn't even matter. It's the fact that I am going on the trip that counts. All part of our great 'Templar Vault' story for the new visitor center. Take a few nice snaps for their website, attract lots of Italian tourists, it's a win/win situation for everyone."
"Especially you."
"Especially me, since I get to spend two weeks drinking Chianti and wandering around Tuscany on the Government's dime."
"And maybe even get back on television," said Sparke.
"You're such a snob,” said Tilly casually. “Nothing wrong with popularizing history through the mass media, you know."
"That's what it's called is it?"
"Yes it is actually," said Tilly, a little more sharply than she intended. Sparke could never understand why anyone would want to put themselves into the public spotlight, but he knew that having a media profile was increasingly important to academics.
"When do you leave?" he asked, trying to recover the pleasant tone of their conversation.
"Next week. Ever been to Tuscany?"
"Three days in a hotel in Florence for a Crisis Management conference a few years ago, does that count?"
"Nope. Anyway, I am not going to Florence, as far as I can tell."
"Not Florence? Where are you going?"
"You'll never have heard of it. I certainly hadn’t until I started my Fra Muratore research. It's a wee town just north of Siena. Called Radda."
"Sounds like a bit of a skive from what I can tell. Is that the only thing you have to go on?"
"That, and the wreck."
"I suppose the wreck is this Carloway Cob thing you mentioned?"
"Cog, the Carloway Cog. A cog is a type of medieval cargo ship, mainly from the Baltic Sea. They found a wreck of one of them about twenty years ago in a cove on the Isle of Lewis. It made quite a stir at the time. Never seen a ship like that off the coast of Scotland before."
"And the connection is?" Sparke had become used to Tilly's habit of holding back information until she had seen a sufficient level of interest from whomever she was talking to.
"The ship itself was pretty well gone except for the hull and a few metal objects that had survived in the sand. There was a small collection of coins, mainly from the Papal States in the late thirteenth century and some Templar coins from the Kingdom of Acre. There was also what seems to have been a medal, possibly a pilgrim's token. As far as we can tell it bears the image of Fra Muratore."
The Grand Master
The Grand Master of the Order of Knights Templar stared at the map drawn on the wall, ignoring the two men who stood in his office. Guillaume de Beaujeu had been a warrior his whole life and fought for one thing, the Christian possession of the Holy Land.
The map told him nothing he did not already know and he could have drawn every line of it freehand. Its image lived with him, and he had not had a dream for a decade that did revolve around these cities and coastlines.
After some minutes, Salvatore turned to look at the man who had brought him here from Genoa. The man was unusual amongst the brothers in that he was known simply by a nom de guerre. Everyone called him ‘the Mason’, partly because of his great learning in the skills of building and engineering and partly because he left his true name behind when the Order became his family.
The Mason, seeing the glance from Salvatore, jerked his head sharply back towards the Grand Master. They were here at his pleasure and would wait until he was ready to address them.
“I am no longer afraid for the County of Tripoli,” said the Grand Master without turning. “It is past all fear or concern to us, and we must consider it lost. They will do nothing to prepare themselves against Qalawun’s Saracen army.” After a final look at the map, he turned and look
ed at the two men who stood before him.
“This is the man?” he asked.
“Yes, sir,” said the Mason.
“You are sure of him?”
“Yes.”
Beaujeu turned his eyes towards Salvatore. Despite himself, Salvatore found it hard to meet the other man’s gaze. There was an air of power and despair about him that was too far from the ordinary for Salvatore to understand.
“You have not been the easiest of Brothers for our Order to love,” said Beaujeu.
“I have caused my Brothers a great deal of pain and trouble, sir,” admitted Salvatore.
“And now is the time to fully redeem yourself?”
“I will do all I can.”
“Your brother, Father Massimo, is known to us. Do you communicate with him often?”
“We are not close, sir,” said Salvatore. “It has been years since we spoke. I have no desire to seek his company.” At this, the Grand Master nodded. Salvatore’s brother was no friend to the Templars, and in the high politics of the Church, friendship counted heavily.
“Has our good servant here,” Beaujeu said, gesturing towards the Mason, “explained the nature of the task to you?”
“No, sir, only that it is extremely difficult and that I may not survive it.”
The Grand Master glanced at the Mason, then turned back to Salvatore. “Tripoli will fall, and when it falls there will be nothing left here in the Holy Land except this city. Acre will be our last bastion and Qalawun will not rest until we are driven from it.” He started to turn back towards the map, but checked himself. “The problem is not only that we will lose Tripoli. There is another matter, a problem of our own making, one that should have been addressed long ago. We have been negligent towards our greatest duties.” Again the Grand Master lapsed into silence as he pondered past failings and future disasters that were beyond his ability to control.
“Shortly before Jerusalem fell to Saladin, more than one hundred years ago, we removed some items, some particular things which were in our care, to a place of greater safety. At the time, the road was too dangerous and the ships we sent could not reach our harbors. Pirates were everywhere on the sea, devouring those who fled the Saracens. The ships which our Brothers took, went instead to Tripoli, and now the object they left there must be removed.”
Salvatore could see the pain in the face of the Grand Master as he spoke. Beaujeu walked over to the small window in his bare office and looked out at the sprawl of Acre below him. The sight of the everyday throng of people and ships seemed to distract him for a moment.
He turned his back on the city and looked again at Salvatore. “The thing you must recover was hidden in haste. It is secure, but once the Saracens take the city it may not remain so for long. There is an absolute requirement for you to remember your pledge of loyalty and secrecy in this task and to remember, above all, that the only duty you have is to the Order. Any other duty you may feel must be ruthlessly put aside. Kneel.”
Salvatore knelt before the Grand Master.
“You are forgiven all sins you have committed on this earth and absolved of any sin for any act which you commit in your pursuit of this undertaking.”
Salvatore raised his head and stared directly into the eyes of his Grand Master. Beaujeu looked at him.
“It may be necessary for you to forgo one of your pledges to the Order,” he said. “Our Brother Mason feels that you may need to dispense with your habit on occasion so as to avoid alerting people to your identity. Is there some token you carry which can be a constant reminder of your duty?”
As a Templar, pledged to poverty, Salvatore owned virtually no personal possessions. All that he carried were an old dagger given to him as a child by his father and a small medal bearing the image of Fra Muratore, the ancient patron of his home church. He pulled the small silver medal from the neck of his tunic and held it out to the Grand Master who clasped it in his two hands.
“So long as you bear this emblem you carry our blessings and the honor of our Order with you. Brother Salvatore, you are young, and you have a peculiar combination of gifts. The Mason has selected you as the only man he trusts with this task. We have absolute trust in his judgment. You must not fail in this.” With that, the Grand Master turned and walked slowly over to the map again absorbed by its fatal logic.
With a flick of his head, the Mason indicated that the meeting was over and, bowing, led Salvatore out of the office to a smaller room a dozen paces along the dark stone passageway. Once inside, he closed the door behind them.
“You can walk away now and no shame will fall on you,” he said.
“Thank you, but nothing has changed my mind.”
“Before you say that, there is one more thing to be aware of. In this task you must close every door behind you as you go.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean that there must be no trail, no footsteps to follow,” he paused for a moment, “no wagging tongues to talk about what they think they have seen.”
“There is only one way to stop tongues wagging,” said Salvatore.
The Mason looked directly into Salvatore’s eyes. “Understand this, no one must be allowed to live who may be able to help our enemies to find out what you have done. Only the Grand Master and I know about what you are being asked to do. If you take on this task you must close every door behind you, no matter what.”
Radda
"Sometimes," said Tilly, "work is more fun than fun." She squinted in the bright Italian sun as she and Sparke clambered out of the tiny rental car and looked across from the car park at the town of Radda.
"Just to make sure I understand this right," said Sparke, "your detailed academic research plan is to wander round a bit and take some photos of old buildings?"
Tilly furrowed her brow for a moment.
"Pretty good summary. Also we have an appointment with the University of Florence. There is a history faculty there, and they have a good Art History Department, so they will be able to give us the right introductions if we want to chat with some other people."
Sparke looked at Radda. To him it appeared thoroughly medieval. The walls had been broken in many places by houses over the years, but the original defenses were still clear to see and the narrow road that led into the town was lined by the stone of medieval fortifications.
The land fell steeply away from the town on all sides leaving it on a narrow hilltop. The countryside was a picture postcard of Tuscan landscape and, for a moment, Sparke could see why people went on vacation. Just looking at this land was relaxing.
"Let's check in, then start some serious wandering about," said Tilly.
The Hotel Palazzo Leopoldo was a cool oasis within the tight, narrow town streets. Slender columns held up an arched ceiling and the place had an air of elegance that would have been impossible for a modern building to imitate.
Once they had checked in, Tilly turned to Sparke. "How about an hour or so of in-depth, rigorous academic research, then the pool, then dinner, then lots and lots of wine?"
"Sounds like a plan I can live with. See you back down here in fifteen minutes?"
"Make it ten, there is a pool lounger out there with my name on it."
Sparke dumped his bags in the room, and had to tear himself away from the view from his window. He had travelled so much that he had almost lived in hotels for the past decade and had a routine when he walked into a room that had become instinct. He almost laughed when he realized that he had not even touched his bag when the room telephone rang.
"You're holding up the whole expedition," said Tilly from reception. "Get a move on."
The tiny streets were occupied by families and couples meandering through the town with an air of bemused satisfaction that they had found themselves in such a beautiful place. The layout of the town followed the shape of the land it sat on, and every street was angled up towards the medieval tower that stood on its summit.
"We need to check in with the locals," sai
d Tilly, walking towards the office of the Commune.
"Do you need permission to take photos? This is a holiday destination."
"Peter, we need permission for everything," said Tilly. "We will want to publish any photographs so my department will need a letter of approval from somebody in authority."
"Couldn't you have got that before we came?"
"We sent about a dozen emails, but never heard back," said Tilly pushing the door of the office open.
"Hello," Tilly said to the middle-aged man who sat at the window of a glass screen. "Do you speak English?"
"Yes."
"My name is Professor Matilida Pink and this is my associate, Peter Sparke. We are doing some historical research for the National Museum of Scotland and may want to take some photographs for publication. Is there anyone who can tell us what the process for that might be?"
The man looked at Tilly with clear displeasure. It was already 11.30 and lunch was fast approaching. Without a word to Tilly and Sparke he picked up the phone, dialed a number and spoke for several minutes in rapid Italian. Once he finished, he fell silent listening to an equally long answer. Apparently this answer was not adequate and he had to spend another several minutes talking. Another lengthy pause ensued. He ended the call with a curt "Grazi" and turned his gaze back to Tilly.
"There is a form," he said, disappearing into a back office. The form was in Italian and stretched for six pages. Tilly picked up the form and gave the man a dazzling smile.
"Thank you, we will fill this in and bring it back."
The man nodded, glanced up at the clock, now showing ten minutes past twelve, and shut the window.
"You can read enough Italian to fill that in?” said Sparke.
"Not a word. I'll scan it and send it off to our crack legal team. I'm not allowed to sign anything until they see it anyway."
The Templar Thief: Peter Sparke book 4 Page 2
