The Sword of Moses

by Dominic Selwood

  Ferguson’s eyes never left the screen. “That’s a seriously neat trick.”

  Cyrus smiled. “It was recently modelled by a Roman university archaeology project. I’ve got access to lots of this kind of stuff. Three-dimensional architectural reconstructions are all the rage these days.”

  Ferguson continued peering at the screen.

  “This is the Basilica di San Clemente,” Cyrus announced. “Built in the twelfth century, containing the tomb and relics of Saint Clement of Rome and Saint Ignatius of Antioch.” He swiped the space on the screen underneath the image, and another layer of building appeared beneath it. “And here, under the basilica, is a fourth-century church which houses the tomb of Saint Cyril.”

  “So they built one church directly on top of another?” Ferguson asked, fascinated. “That takes a lot of skill.”

  “And a strong motive,” Ava chipped in.

  Cyrus nodded. “Not only that.” He swiped underneath the image again, and a third layer appeared—much smaller this time. “And here, underneath both churches, is the second-century mithraeum.”

  Ferguson peered closely as Cyrus rotated the image so he could see it from all sides. “It looks like a small cave,” he concluded.

  “Yes,” Ava confirmed. “Mithras was allegedly born out of a rock in a cave—so many of the Mithraic temples were cut out of the rock and made to resemble caves.”

  Ferguson gazed at the screen, then at Ava. “But I still don’t get it,” he said. “Why are we looking at this mithraeum?”

  “It was you talking about consecration crosses that made me think of a physical building,” Ava conceded.

  “But why a mithraeum?” he continued. “What’s the connection?”

  “That was you, again,” Ava acknowledged. “When you said bloody beef, it reminded me of the ritual ceremony at the heart of Mithras worship.”

  Cyrus’s eyes lit up. “The taurobolium.”

  Ava nodded.

  “Oh, you’re going to love this,” he said to Ferguson as he wiped the architectural plan off the screen, and pulled up a picture of the inside of a mithraeum. “I’ve just finished CGI modelling it for a satellite television programme. Do you want to see it?”

  “Definitely!” Ava replied, dropping down in one of the cinema chairs. Ferguson did likewise.

  “Just watch this,” Cyrus announced, also sitting as the animated graphics began to unfold.

  A young man wearing nothing but a dark loincloth walked apprehensively into a decorated mithraeum. A simply vested priest directed him to a pit dug into the ground, where he lay down, before the priest laid a grille over him and stepped away.

  “Is that it?” asked Ferguson. “Some kind of ritual burial?”

  “Just watch,” Cyrus whispered, as the priest led in a muscular bull decked in gold jewelry and garlands of green shrubs. Other worshippers followed, and some sort of ritual began.

  Ava was watching Ferguson’s face, and could see his apprehension as the priest pulled a long glinting ceremonial knife from inside his robes. As the members of the congregation restrained the bull, the priest stepped forward, raised the knife, and plunged the blade deep into the bull’s neck, drawing it sharply across the animal’s throat. As the bull crumpled to its knees, its dark blood gushed onto the bars of the grille, drenching the man in the pit below with the hot gore.

  “And that,” said Cyrus, “is the taurobolium. Not to be confused with the tauroctony.” He swiped his hand across the screen, and brought up the first image he had shown them at the very beginning—with Mithras holding a knife to the throat of a bull with vegetation growing from its tail. “The tauroctony was a sacred scene—the commonest one to survive in carvings of Mithras, in which Mithras himself, representing the sun, slays the bull, which represents the moon. Again, it’s another dying and rising image, showing the conquering power of the sun—hence the vegetation growing from the dying bull’s tail. That’s why Mithraism was also called the religion of Sol Invictus—the unconquered sun.”

  “So what was the point of the taurobolium?” Ferguson asked. “Why did they drench the believer in blood?”

  “Purification,” Ava replied. “Believers were washed clean and purified by the blood. The cult of Magna Mater, the Great Mother, also performed the same ritual. And other religions had a criobolium, which used a ram instead of a bull. And there are, quite plainly, parallels with Christian beliefs, which promise that Christ’s followers are washed clean in the blood of the sacrificed lamb. Again, another idea Christianity borrowed from the older mysteries.”

  Ferguson turned to Ava, growing excitement in his expression. “So the mithraeum in Rome is the ‘HOME OF THE HOLY BLOODY BULL’?”

  “Exactly,” Ava stood up and nodded for Cyrus to enlarge the architectural plans of the basilica again. “The whole puzzle fits perfectly. ‘THE HOLY CHURCH OF ROME / CLEMENT III’ means the third level down in the Basilica di San Clemente in Rome. ‘HOME OF THE HOLY BLOODY BULL’ confirms it means the subterranean mithraeum. And so does ‘UNDER THE PROTECTION OF THE STARS’, which references the astrological themes of Mithraism.”

  Ferguson looked at Ava with a spreading grin. “That’s brilliant.”

  Cyrus gazed at both of them, an expression of bewilderment on his face. “What on earth are you both on about?”

  Ava had forgotten Cyrus has no idea about the medal. “It would take too long to tell you now,” she said, heading for the stairs. “We need to go.”

  Reaching the door, she stopped. “Please, Cyrus, promise me you’ll close up for a few weeks and take a holiday. You mustn’t be around when he calls or comes visiting.”

  “Understood loud and clear,” he answered, flicking off the multitouch screen. “Stay longer next time, Ava. Better still,” he managed a smile, “commission me for an exhibit at your museum.”

  At the top of the stairs, Ava pulled open the front door and turned back. “I might just do that. Thanks again, Cyrus. Now go and start packing.” She gave him a wave as he closed the door behind her.

  Ferguson followed her onto the pavement. “So does that mean what I think it means?” he asked.

  Ava looked at him, her eyes sparkling. “I’ll bet money on it,” she replied hurriedly. “Whichever pope it was who wanted to hide the Menorah, he put it in the Basilica di San Clemente, three levels down in the mithraeum.”

  Ava’s expression turned grim. “But if Malchus is ahead of us and already has the Menorah, then God help us all. We have to beat him to it. Heaven only knows what personal apocalypse he’s planning. We need to get to the Menorah before he does.”

  Ferguson nodded. “Count me in.”

  “So we’re agreed.” Ava replied, “Then it’s time to see whether De Molay and Saxby can help organize a little Roman adventure.”

  Ava picked up her phone and scrolled through the address book, stopping when she got to Saxby’s number to punch the dial button.

  He answered after one ring, and listened carefully while Ava told him exactly what she needed.

  ——————— ◆ ———————

  65

  The Burlington Arcade

  Piccadilly

  London SW1

  England

  The United Kingdom

  Malchus strode into the Burlington Arcade, flanked by two of his men.

  For nearly two hundred years, the elegant boutiques lining either side of its red-carpeted passageway had discretely sold luxury goods to royalty, the aristocracy, and London’s more affluent shoppers.

  Malchus had no time for its history, cachet, or elaborate glassed roof—although he quickly noted the arcade’s beadle in his gold-trimmed frock coat and top hat. The cheery guard looked paunchy and out of shape—more use in enforcing the arcade’s ban on whistling and singing than providing any effective physical security.

  That suited Malchus fine.

  It was almost closing time, and there were relatively few people about.

  He made his way down the
exclusive alleyway of shiny wood and glass oriel-fronted shops, past old-fashioned jewellers, silversmiths, antiquarians, and clothes-makers.

  He knew precisely which shop he was looking for, and halted abruptly outside it.

  Glancing up at the hand-painted sign, Courcy’s Oriental, he pushed open its dark polished door, and headed inside.

  The small shop was crammed with glass cases of pottery, ceramics, and other artefacts. The main space was dominated by an oriental suit of armour, complete with silk and velvet undergarments, while the wall behind it was hung with icons of Arabic-looking saints from the Eastern Church.

  The room was low-lit, with a simple warm glow coming from two Persian vase lamps at either end of a table running behind the main counter. The vases were acting as bookends, sheltering between them an impressive collection of leather-bound volumes in a variety of eastern languages.

  At the sound of the door opening, a man appeared from the back of the shop. He was heavy-set, in his late fifties, with a grey beard to match his thinning hair.

  On seeing Malchus and his companions, his welcoming smile faded quickly.

  “I had hoped never to see you again.” He growled at Malchus with naked hostility. His accent gave him away as the product of an expensive English education.

  “I shan’t be troubling you for long,” Malchus said as he approached the counter. “And there’s no point calling security,” he was speaking quietly. “I know where you live.”

  The shopkeeper’s face turned a shade paler.

  Malchus placed a stiff-backed brown envelope onto the counter, and slid a sheaf of glossy photos out of it, fanning them onto the glass countertop.

  Courcy dropped a pair of black tortoiseshell half-moon glasses from his forehead onto his nose, and peered closely at the images, leafing through them slowly.

  When he had finished, he looked up at Malchus. “I presume you have the original manuscript?”

  Malchus nodded.

  It was safely tucked away. Requiescat in pace, Alex Hibbit.

  “Hebrew and Aramaic,” Courcy informed Malchus. “Judging by the handwriting, thirteenth-century—although the inclusion of Aramaic suggests the content is almost certainly very much older. Palestinian school, maybe?”

  He pushed the glasses back up onto his forehead. “I’m not sure I can help with this. If it’s hot, there aren’t going to be many buyers. It’s too identifiable.”

  “Shut up,” Malchus glared at the shopkeeper. “It’s not for sale. I want you to translate it precisely for me, word for word.”

  One of Malchus’s men picked up a small terracotta figurine from a shelf. It was simply made—a crude blob with a head: only recognizable as a woman by the large breasts she was cradling in her arms.

  “Please, put that down.” Courcy’s voice was strained.

  “Ashtoreth?” the man smirked, reading the label. “Expensive is she?”

  “More than you could afford.” Courcy looked nervous. “So please, put it back.”

  “Who was she then? This expensive lady?” The man’s tone was mocking.

  “The mother goddess of the Middle East. Worshipped by almost everyone.”

  The man kept his eyes on the shopkeeper as he held the statuette out in front of him at arm’s length, before slowly opening his hand wide, dropping it. The figurine landed hard on the tiled floor, instantly smashing into shards and dust.

  Courcy’s knuckles whitened as he pressed his hands onto the countertop.

  “Come now, Mr Courcy.” Malchus intervened. “Aren’t all classical antiques made in Chinese sweat shops these days?” There was no humour in his voice.

  “Not all of them,” Courcy spoke through gritted teeth. “When do you need the translation?”

  “I’ll come by to collect it tomorrow evening.” Malchus turned on his heel and made for the door. He paused at the shelf of figurines, and picked up another one, taller and more graceful. It was also terracotta—a slim naked woman wearing an elaborate headdress, bending slightly to remove a sandal. “Aphrodite,” Malchus said, without reading the label. “Truly charming.”

  “Dear God, put it down, please.” Courcy’s voice was pleading. “That one really is genuine. I’ll have the translation done by tomorrow. I give you my word.”

  Malchus paused, staring at the shopkeeper, challenging him. Slowly, he placed the Aphrodite figurine back onto the shelf. “Very well. Make sure you do. My friends here can be quite clumsy when they’re upset.” He indicated for the men to follow him, before turning back to Courcy. “I’m relying, as always, on your discretion.” His look left no ambiguity.

  With that, he pulled open the shop door, and disappeared into the arcade.

  ——————— ◆ ———————

  66

  The Bunker

  Thamesmead

  London SE2

  England

  The United Kingdom

  Uri checked his watch.

  He had thrown away his Luminox and replaced it with a Prada—much more Danny Motson. The quartermaster back in Tel Aviv would give him grief over the additional paperwork. But no doubt the old soldier would eventually come to see the trendy accessory as a useful addition to his cavernous warehouse of operational props.

  It was 8:40 p.m. He was twenty minutes early—exactly as he had planned.

  Walking casually, blending in with the other pedestrians, he easily found the Khyber Pass Curry House. Peering through its net-curtained windows, the heavy chairs and deep damask fabrics looked like they came from the same catalogue as the furnishings in the dozens of similar restaurants he had noticed dotted around London’s suburbs.

  He still did not quite understand why English people insisted on calling Pakistani restaurants ‘Indian’ more than sixty years after Lord Mountbatten oversaw the partition of the country. But there was a lot he still did not get about the English. Including why they partitioned so many countries in the first place.

  Weaving his way across the bus lanes and slow-moving traffic to the other side of the busy street, he wandered a further twenty yards down, before taking up an observation position inside a run-down off-licence. Feigning interest in a range of gaudily packaged discount beers, he kept his eye on the battered grey metal door next to the restaurant.

  It was still light, enabling him to see clearly the succession of visitors who presented themselves at the door before pressing a small grey bell on the metal jamb beside it. A square grille at eye height slid back for them to identify themselves, then the door was opened just wide enough to let them through.

  He could not see anything behind the door beyond a dark corridor.

  Unsurprisingly, the visitors were all men. They looked on average a little older than the crowd who had been at The Lord Nelson the night he had met Otto.

  So this was a more senior gathering.

  Uri’s watch now showed 9:05 p.m. He would not start to get concerned about Otto until 9:45 p.m. In his experience, transport was notoriously unpredictable in all the world’s big cities.

  The selection of budget beers lining the cramped shelves in the off-licence was quite impressive. He had not heard of most of them. He doubted many people had.

  Catching sight of someone who looked a little like Otto a few hundred yards away on the other side of the street, he moved to the window and peered around a pyramid display of promotional cans.

  “Are you buying?” The stubbly man behind the counter was plainly annoyed at Uri’s lengthy indecision. Uri realized he had been the only customer in the shop for the last twenty minutes.

  “Not today.” Uri left the shop, now sure the man on the other side of the street was Otto. He headed back towards the restaurant, leaving the shop-owner grunting with frustration at the lost opportunity for an argument.

  Uri timed it so he arrived in front of the metal door at the same time as Otto.

  “Alright?” Otto nodded at Uri, as he pressed the bell.

  The grille slid across, and was imme
diately followed by the sound of a heavy bolt being drawn back on the other side of the door. The bouncer had recognized Otto instantly, Uri noted. There had been no need for any form of identification.

  Once inside, Otto appeared to know his way. He showed Uri into a dark corridor—dimly illuminated by three low-power bulbs hanging from a high ceiling, each shrouded by a cracked industrial lampshade.

  At the end of the bare corridor, Otto led him through a fire-door into a hot dingy hallway which ended in a decrepit flight of stairs going up, and a dirty goods elevator going down.

  Stepping towards the elevator, Otto dragged aside the diamond-latticed iron grille gates and motioned for Uri to enter the doorless elevator. Once inside with the gates closed, he punched the grubby green button on the control panel—a metal box hanging off the wall on a thick stalk of wires, and the elevator began to judder downwards.

  As the cage hit the bottom and Otto again pulled the gates aside, they emerged into another gloomy hallway.

  Otto led him past two scuffed grey doors, and made for an identical one at the far end. As he pushed it open and ushered Uri through, Uri was temporarily disorientated by the sight that greeted him.

  He had been expecting a neon strip-lit basement converted into some kind of meeting room or clubhouse—perhaps with a small snooker table and maybe a fridge full of beer.

  Instead, what he walked into took him totally by surprise.

  It was a large room—three or four times bigger than he had been imagining. The walls were whitewashed brick, with no windows or doors. The sense of unexpected size was magnified by the double-height ceiling.

  It was a cavernous space.

  He took in all the relevant details in an instant.

  Only one way in and one way out.

  He tried hard to imagine what the room had once been. It was hard to tell—perhaps a workshop?

  The plain walls were sparsely hung with cheap framed photographs from the 1920s and 1930s. They depicted scenes of glamorous women in double-breasted suits or silk dresses and furs drinking from champagne coupes; men with razor-sharp partings and black evening dress smoking unfiltered cigarettes; jazz musicians perspiring over small drum kits and upright basses; and policemen with surly expressions wielding wooden truncheons beside Black Mariahs with white-walled tyres.