The Swagger Sword

by David S. Brody

  “Are they all soda breads?”

  “Aye, of course. Baked them myself.” She pointed. “I recommend the spotted dog.”

  Amanda thought she had heard wrong, but then noticed the raisins in the brown bread. She also noticed the cross shape lightly carved into the top of the loaf.

  The baker read her thoughts. “Is tradition to cut a cross into the bread, to let the devil out.”

  Amanda smiled. “I’ll take two loaves, thanks. And, as you said, please hold the devil.”

  The woman winked and leaned forward. “Speaking of which, I see you’re with Mrs. Fulcani. Are you boarding at her farm?”

  “Yes.”

  The woman crossed herself. “Careful of that one. She’s a local lass, but not well-liked around here. She’s too good for us now that she married herself a foreigner.”

  “How so?”

  The vendor explained how Kaitlyn went to Dublin every Sunday, to Saint Patrick’s, for mass. “As if our little church is not good enough for her.” She arched an eye. “Or maybe her sins are too weighty. I hear the bishop himself takes her confession.”

  What could Kaitlyn possibly have to confess to? Amanda didn’t like to gossip, but the words poured out of her mouth before she could stop them. “She seems unhappy.”

  “Aye. Cursed, I think.” The baker reached for a glass shaker on the counter and tossed salt over her shoulder.

  The conversation continued. They had to go back and forth a few times because of the woman’s accent, but apparently Kaitlyn’s parents died when she was a teenager. She was supposed to join a convent, until Roberto arrived. “Next thing you know, they’re getting married.” She sniffed. “And not even with child. Never seen such a long-faced bride.” The baker leaned forward and whispered, “The sister has the mark of the devil, you know.”

  “You mean her eyes?”

  “One blue, one brown.” She crossed herself again. “Sharing a house with her, I suppose I’d have the bishop hear my confession too.”

  Enough of this superstition. Amanda paid for the bread. “Thank you.”

  The vendor patted Amanda’s hand as she took the loaves. “Like I said, be careful around that one.”

  Cam leaned back, riding shotgun again while Amanda drove the rental car. Astarte sat behind him. They had eaten a big breakfast at the Milano Farm and thanked their hosts, Emmy stooping to engulf Astarte in an awkward but heartfelt hug. “Will you be my Facebook friend?” she asked shyly.

  “Of course.” Astarte flashed a big smile. “You’ll be my first friend from outside America. What’s your Facebook name?”

  Emmy looked to the ground and chewed her lip. “You could probably guess. It’s 2173Emmy.”

  Astarte took her hand and squeezed. “Perfect. I won’t forget that.” She arched an eyebrow toward Cam and Amanda. “Ever.”

  With the memory of a cloaked, hooded, sad-faced Emmy standing in the driveway waving goodbye still fresh in their minds, they headed west. “How long before we get to Galway?” Astarte asked. Not as sunny as yesterday, it remained temperate, already pushing fifty degrees. And no traffic to speak of, though it should have been midweek morning rush hour.

  Cam glanced at his guide book. His arm boasted a yellow and purple welt, and it throbbed at times, but he seemed to have escaped serious injury. “It’s less than three hours, but I thought we could go leisurely and make stops along the way.”

  Amanda teased him. “That’s very generous of you. I know you’re dying to get to Galway.”

  He was. The west coast of Ireland, of which Galway was the major city, seemed tied to almost every journey, both real and legendary, across the Atlantic. Many people were familiar with the legend of Brendan the Navigator, the monk purported to have crossed the Atlantic in an animal-skin boat in the sixth century. Cam and Amanda had studied many stone structures in New England—most particularly chambers that looked remarkably like burial mounds such as Newgrange, but on a smaller scale—which could have been built by Brendan or other Celtic visitors. But fewer people knew of the writings of Plutarch. Cam wondered if Amanda did.

  “I’ve heard of Plutarch, I think. Roman, right?”

  “Yes. He wrote about ancient voyages to the New World. He lived around 100 AD.” Cam pulled his Kindle out of his pack. “Barry Fell gives a good summary of Plutarch’s writings in Saga America.” Fell was a Harvard professor whose 1976 book about ancient Celts voyaging to America, America BC, had been a bestseller.

  “Okay, I’m listening.”

  “This is Fell quoting Plutarch,” Cam read: “Sail westward from Britain and you will pass three Island groups on a northwest bearing, where the sun sets in mid-summer. These are equidistant from one another, and also from an island called Ogygia, which lies in the arms of the ocean five days’ sailing from Britain.”

  Amanda, who prided herself on her knowledge of the geography of the British Isles, jumped in. “So the three island groups are the Orkneys, Shetlands and Faeroes. And Ogygia is Iceland.”

  “Right. The description fits, and Iceland is about five days sail from Britain, assuming an ancient ship would sail around 100 miles per day.” He read more. “If you continue to sail westward for another 5000 stades, you will reach the northern coast of a continent that rims the great ocean.”

  “Ten stades is about one mile,” Amanda said. “So another 500 miles.”

  “Yes.”

  “That puts us in southern Greenland.”

  “Agreed. Plutarch continued: Then if you sail along this coast in a southward direction, you will pass a frozen sea.”

  “That’s the southern part of the Davis Strait, between Labrador and Greenland. It’s an impassable mass of floating ice in the winter.”

  “With you so far,” Cam said. “Now things get a little confusing. Plutarch says you cross the frozen sea and come to a land where Greeks have settled and intermarried with the native barbarians. And he says this land is the same latitude as the Caspian Sea. The Caspian is roughly at between forty and forty-five degrees.”

  “So you’re essentially talking the coast of New England.”

  “Right.”

  Astarte said, “But what about the Greeks?”

  Cam smiled. “Fell figured it out. Plutarch says that the original source describing the journey is a Carthaginian sailor, and that the journey began in Carthage.” He explained to Astarte that Carthage was one of the key Phoenicians trading ports, along the coast of northern Africa. “Most of the Phoenician ports were Greek-speaking, since Greek was the most popular language back then. So when Plutarch says Greeks, it’s likely he is really talking about Greek-speaking Phoenicians. Carthaginians, from Carthage.”

  Amanda nodded. “This is big, Cam. This supports the theory that America’s Stonehenge was built by the Phoenicians. I mean, Plutarch puts the Phoenicians in New England almost a thousand years before Christ.”

  They were getting off-topic, but it was a long drive, perfect for ferreting around in dusty corners of history.

  “You know the counter-argument,” Cam replied. “If the Phoenicians were in America, why is there no archeological evidence?”

  Amanda slapped the steering wheel. “That argument is such a crock. First of all, when’s the last time anyone did a dig? No matter how much evidence we show them, we can’t get any of the university eggheads to get off their backsides. Last I checked, you can only find something in the ground by digging. And second, we’re talking almost three thousand years ago. This isn’t the desert—bones and wood decay. And third, who says there’s no evidence? Go to America’s Stonehenge. It’s full of evidence—alignments, carvings, structures. And when we do find something, like a Roman coin, the so-called experts explain it away as an intrusion.” She exhaled. “Remember that archeologist who said a seagull probably carried that Roman coin across the Atlantic and dropped it on the beach? Screw them. I’m sick of listening to fools.”

  Cam grinned. “Glad you’re feeling better.” It was the most worked up he’d
seen her in months. And anger was definitely preferable to disinterest.

  “I mean, at what point do people take their heads out of their … out of the sand?”

  Astarte grinned. “You were going to say out of their asses, right?”

  Amanda laughed. “No. I was not.”

  “Yes, you were.”

  “Don’t argue with me, Astarte, or I’ll make you walk to Galway.”

  Cam smiled. It was nice to have the feisty Amanda back. “You make a good point. In law school they taught us that, once we build the theory of our case, when new evidence comes in, it better fit that theory. If not, we need to rethink things. The theory has to account for all of the evidence, not just most of it. What’s happening with our research is that pretty much every new piece of evidence we find fits right in. Like this Plutarch stuff. We’re here in Ireland, thousands of miles away from both America and the Phoenician home-world, and we find evidence to help prove the ancient Phoenicians came to America, just like we thought.” He smiled. “In my experience, that only happens when you’re on the right track.”

  Cam, Amanda and Astarte arrived in Galway late Wednesday afternoon and checked into the Meyrick Hotel, a 19th century Victorian landmark overlooking Eyre Square in the city center. Cam, figuring it was only for a few nights, had splurged for the executive suite on the fifth floor, with 12-foot ceilings, crystal chandeliers, and panoramic views of the city. According to the desk clerk, both John Wayne and Bing Crosby had slept in their room, though presumably neither was researching cross-Atlantic historical voyages.

  Cam stepped back and watched Amanda take in the opulent furnishings. “Cam, this must be costing us a fortune.”

  “It’s not. It’s off-season, and the dollar’s strong.”

  She flopped onto the four-poster bed. “Then let’s never leave.”

  After cleaning up, they crossed Eyre Square to wander the city center, a labyrinth of narrow streets—most closed to vehicle traffic—crammed with shops, restaurants and pubs, with some structures dating back to medieval times. Cam said, “The reason I brought up Plutarch back in the car is because of Columbus. Columbus was trying to figure out how to cross the Atlantic, and what was on the other side, so he was studying the ancient writings, including Plutarch. Columbus came to Galway in the 1470s. From here he sailed to Iceland, and maybe beyond, following Plutarch’s directions. I think that’s why, later on, in 1492, he took a more southern route—he knew the northern route led to land that was not Asia.”

  Amanda bit her lip. “Didn’t Columbus’ sails have Templar crosses?”

  “Nobody’s ever been able to figure out why. But I think there may be some clues here in Galway.”

  They stopped for Amanda to take a picture sitting on the lap of a statue of Irish playwright Oscar Wilde. She kissed his bronze cheek, Cam pleased to see her fun-loving self reappearing. “You know what Wilde famously wrote?” she asked. “He wrote: ‘Many people discovered America before Columbus, but most of them had the good sense to keep quiet about it.’ Spot on, I’d venture to say.”

  Cam nodded. “Like I said, there seems to be a history here, especially on the west coast, of travelers crossing the Atlantic.”

  Astarte dragged Amanda into a souvenir shop while Cam, after making plans to meet them back at the hotel, continued toward the waterfront. He wanted to see the church in which Columbus supposedly prayed while visiting Galway in 1477. Cam didn’t expect to learn much, but it struck him as odd that the explorer, not known for being particularly religious until much later in life, had been remembered by historians as spending time in prayer.

  “Heading to St. Nicholas Church?”

  Cam instinctively recoiled, quickly recovering and turning to see Brian loping along at his side. For a big guy who always seemed to lurch through life like a bear crashing through the forest, he had a rare ability to appear out of the blue, even with his signature green pants. “Yes, as a matter of fact. How did you know?”

  “I beat you to it. Not much to see.” Brian turned away. “I thought you were going to call me when you got here.”

  “What is this, middle school?” Cam shook his head. “We just arrived an hour ago.”

  “Well, an hour is a good chunk of the time I got left, you know?”

  Cam sighed. Fair point. “How you feeling?”

  “Shitty. I’m exhausted but I can’t sleep because my guts feel like they’re being eaten away by a million fire ants.”

  Cam glanced sideways at his childhood friend. Cancer sucked, and pancreatic cancer was one of the most deadly kinds. Cam’s grandfather had died of it, spending his last few weeks living in their home when Cam was in high school. Brian looked as bad as he apparently felt, his skin alternating blotches of dull yellow and purplish pink, as if his face had served as a punching bag. And it didn’t help that he hadn’t shaved; random long gray whiskers protruded from his face like weeds on an unkempt lawn. Brian’s face spoke volumes: If they were going to discover this treasure, it would have to be soon. “So did you find anything at the church?” Cam asked.

  “Like I said, no. Columbus was here, he prayed, he left.” Brian shrugged. “But you’re better at this history shit than I am.”

  They angled off the main thoroughfare and stopped in front of a dark stone church. “Here it is,” Brian said. “St. Nicholas.”

  Cam stopped twenty feet away to study the structure. After years of studying churches, he had developed a keen eye. “Look.” He pointed above an archway to the right of the main entrance, oddly located at the side of the church rather than its end. “A skull and crossbones.”

  Brian grunted. “Like the pirates have on their flags? What’s it called, a Jolly Roger?”

  “The pirates stole it from the Templars. The Templars flew it on the flags of their ships. Then, when they got outlawed in 1307, some of them turned to piracy.”

  “So where’d the Templars get it from?”

  “Most people think it was a reminder of their mortality, to keep them humble.” Cam paused. “I also read it was because they never left a fallen comrade on the battle field and always brought at least his head and thigh bones back for burial. And it could be because they worshiped a skull, called Baphomet, which some people think is the head of John the Baptist. But nobody knows for sure.”

  Brian stared up at it. “Well, it seems strange to see it on a church.”

  Cam motioned toward the archway. “Looks like at one time this was the entrance. Then when they put an addition on they must have moved it. Let’s go in. I wonder what’s on the other side of that arch.”

  Cam paid the admission fee for both of them, too curious about the mysterious church to bother calling Brian on it. They wandered up the nave of the church toward the closed-off archway. “Hey, look at that tomb,” Brian called. He pointed to a jail cell-sized alcove tucked into a wall where the nave transitioned into the chancel of the church. A stone tomb rested on the floor in the center of the alcove. “I think the skull-and-crossbones are on the other side of that wall.”

  Cam glanced at the informational sheet he had been given when paying the admission. The back of his neck tingled as he read. “It says here that’s a Crusader’s Tomb. The inscription is in French. The cross is stylized so that its arms form fleurs-de-lis, those three-sided lily flowers. It dates back to 1320.” 1320? Really? Just after the Templars fell. He snapped a picture.

  Cam read further from the sheet. “Apparently this section of the church is the original structure.” He pointed to the left wall of the alcove, only a few feet from the Crusader’s Tomb. “In fact, that wall is angled slightly off, different than the main nave of the church.”

  “Then was this originally a Templar church?”

  “Just this section. Probably built in 1320. That would be just after they were outlawed. Lots of them left France and fled to the other parts of Europe.”

  “Well, that explains the French writing.”

  Cam’s mind turned to Columbus and his Templar ti
es. Not only did Columbus’ sails bear Templar crosses, but his father-in-law was himself an explorer and member of the Knights of Christ, the Portuguese branch of the Templars. Furthermore, Columbus lived on the island of Madeira for a number of years along with the grandson of Scottish Prince Henry Sinclair. They both married into the Perestrello family. Cam explained this all to Brian. “Sinclair came from a long line of Templars himself. He’s the guy who came to Westford in 1399 and carved the Westford Knight. Many historians think that Columbus got Sinclair’s maps from Sinclair’s grandson. And that he got other Templar maps and charts from his father-in-law as part of the dowry.”

  Brian took two steps away from the Crusader’s Tomb, examined the floor, and said, “Maybe there are other clues.”

  “Let’s look around.”

  Brian kicked at the floor. “Cam, listen to me. Don’t look around. Look down.”

  He was standing on a stone slab, set into the floor, one of perhaps a dozen grave slabs built into the floor in this section of the church. This slab, however, was decorated with Templar crosses. Excitedly, Cam dropped to a knee and ran his fingers along one of them. “No doubt, these are Templar.” He glanced around, tried to imagine how this section of the church—the original, Templar section of 1320—would have looked before the massive additions. And also tried to imagine Christopher Columbus, kneeling and examining the crosses just as he was doing now.

  Brian had wandered off. As Cam stood he noticed the six massive columns, three on each side of the nave, supporting the arcades above. He blinked. Five of them were circular and plain. But the sixth, closest to the Crusader’s Tomb and not far from the Templar crosses, was markedly different. The pillar had been divided into four quadrants, each quadrant grooved out so that, viewed in cross-section, the column formed a Templar cross. Cam smiled and shook his head. “Look at that.” He studied the pillar, then had a thought. He glanced at his information sheet to get his bearings: The Templar pillar was at the southeast corner of the six-column arrangement, closest to Jerusalem. It was exactly the type of architectural symbolism the Templars would have employed. In fact, it was similar in concept to the Apprentice Pillar that Prince Henry Sinclair’s grandson, William, built into Roslyn Chapel in the 1450s—in the southeast corner of the chapel, in fact.