“The Xaviers have pretty fabulous wealth now,” Gideon said.
“Yes, but by all accounts they’ve earned it. Father Eduardo may have been a poor Jesuit, but Joao Xavier had a mind for business. He started out in the spice trade, of course, and was able to purchase an entire shipload of merchandise to transport back to Lisbon with him when he returned. He came back and made a huge profit, and invested more in shipping. He didn’t travel again himself, but he built up clientele, hired a manager, and expanded into wood products from Africa, silks from Asia, ivory, gemstones…Whatever he could sell.”
“Slaves?” Gideon asked.
“No, it doesn’t appear he ever sold slaves. I’m sure Mr. Xavier is glad about that, anyway.” Rei reworked her unruly hair into a messy bun. “So the bottom line is, he had enough money to get started, but he did pretty well for himself after that. And had smart kids, apparently. So the question is, what did he find, and did he leave a way for anyone else to find it?”
“That’s definitely the question… I think we have to assume that Brother Petros’ order, or at least his abbot, is aware that there is more to this than the letter. I guess I can understand single minded obsession, but it’s hard to believe that a secret order has been hunting for this letter, which, for all intents and purposes, had disappeared and posed no threat. Not for eight hundred years… That just doesn’t make sense to me. These guys are like a cult, separated from their families and friends, single mindedly focused on this quest of theirs. The letter… it just doesn’t feel like enough to motivate the people paying the bills.” Gideon had a headache from all the possible permutations.
“Yeah, I agree. Someone knows there’s a treasure. Someone has known all these years, since the Templars stole the letter. One of them must have said something to someone, or maybe bragged about it. Or maybe they just knew enough about the Templars to know there was probably treasure hidden somewhere. Who knows—people are always looking for the Templars’ hidden treasure. But if we’ve managed to figured it out, they certainly have by no… We just have to beat them to it.” Rei grinned.
Gideon smiled back at her. “They don’t have you, the puzzle solver extraordinaire. And even better, they don’t know we have a copy of everything.”
“I think the latter is better for us than my puzzle solving prowess… So I’d better get on it!” She went back to the laptop, scrolling through the pages of the journal once again.
“Gid! I’ve got something!” Rei was yelling from the suite’s living room to the bedroom. It was 2:00 am.
Gideon came out of the dark room in his boxers, hair spiked and eyes screwed up against the light. He staggered to the sofa. “What?”
Rei was hyper, a combination of copious amounts of coffee and the thrill of discovery. “OK, so I realized I had to start backwards. Father Eduardo found the treasure in Goa somewhere, but then he left Goa and came back to Lisbon. It looks like his route was exactly the same on the return as it had been going, only in reverse. The only place he writes about extensively is Cape Town, and he says he stopped there on both trips. See here?” She pointed to the journal page on the screen, “He says, ‘The Cape of Good Hope has, indeed, given me hope that, beginning, our sons shall be blessed.’ The beginning… It must be where the first clue is.”
Still looking sleepy, Gideon nodded. “I’m with you so far.”
“Right. Now, the Templars would have traveled an overland route to India—no one sailed around the tip until Vasco da Gama in the fifteen hundreds. But Father Eduardo was going by sea, and he knew his sons would go by sea because of the business he’d started. So we can assume that he left clues along the spice route, in the places he stopped on the ships. He wanted someone to find the treasure—he’d had to leave it in Goa for whatever reason, but he wouldn’t have wanted it lost. Especially if it had some kind of religious significance. And I think he was still being watched, if not chased.”
“Why? Wouldn’t he have lost them with all that travel and changing his name and all?”
“Well, there are numerous mentions in the second half of the journal about seeing strange men, men who reminded him of the first one that had chased him from Portugal. He seems to elude them at times, but they always seem to be able to find him again, so they had some kind of funding that allowed them to travel, and to send spies, and communicate. Everything was much slower then, of course, but business was being conducted all over the Portuguese Empire and there were many ships and overland convoys traveling these routes all the time.”
“Hang on a sec…” Gideon went over to the small coffee pot and got coffee brewing. “We know he was writing the clues for his future children, who he would have assumed would live in Portugal, so the clues would follow the shipping route that existed in his day. Africa, the Arabian Peninsula, and on to the capital in Goa, right?”
Rei nodded. She pointed to a map of the world displayed on her computer screen, and slid her pen from Portugal, down the west coast of Africa, to the very tip. She opened another window, and a satellite view of southernmost Africa appeared. She tapped her pen against the lowest point of land in the image. “There. Cape Town. Whatever he left, if it’s still in existence, is there. Somewhere.”
Excited, Gideon leaned over her and zoomed in on the Cape. “So where is it?”
Rei sighed. “I have no idea.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
Malta
AD 96
The family had been in mourning for two weeks. The body had been washed, treated with herbs, wrapped in yards of white cloth, and laid in the tomb carved from the sandy rock. Achalichus’ brother had put all of the dead man’s belongings into a basket, and laid it aside for his children. There wasn’t much, as Achalichus had been chased out of his homeland by the Romans, who were persecuting the followers of the new religion, most often called simply ‘The Way.’
Eliyas sat on a simple wooden stool, and looked out onto the beach where his sons and grandsons were making a fishing boat. Shipbuilding, fishing, carpentry… These were good respectable professions for a Jew to follow. Following that Pharisee, Paul, around, being a scribe. Well, that was crazy. Achalichus had never been able to return to Israel, and had spent the remainder of his long life here on Malta, praying and teaching and converting people to his Jesus, until he lost even his memory and sat staring out to sea. Eliyas shook his head.
Ah, but he was a good man, even if misguided. Perhaps God had welcomed him, perhaps not. It was not for Eliyas to say. He had missed his brother for many years, long before his physical body had died. He could feel nothing now but relief for his poor soul, which had been trapped for so long. He didn’t know if all the controversial talk about bodies rising from the dead was true. He didn’t spare much time for such thoughts. But he knew that his brother was free now, and that made him glad.
He had sent a letter to his eldest nephew with the news of his father’s death. Residing in Sicilia, Antonius should arrive soon on a ship to reclaim his father’s possessions. He had not seen Antonius since he was a boy, and now the man was a father, a fisherman, a husband. He was a follower of that Jesus, who some said was the Messiah, too. Bah… How can a Messiah die? He shook his head again. Ridiculous.
Three days later Antonius arrived at his uncle’s home. He was welcomed with open arms by all of his family who resided in Malta, and spent a week being feasted and catching up with all of the births and deaths, triumphs and tragedies. Finally his uncle seemed to remember why he had come, and presented him with a large basket.
“These belonged to your father, to my brother. It is all he had, in the end. He gave up everything when he decided to travel with that Paul fellow, and he never seemed to have the heart to start again when Paul died and the Romans destroyed the Temple.”
Antonius took the basket gratefully. He hadn’t seen his father in many years, since before he had fallen ill. He remembered a man of joy, a hearty man with stories to tell and whose whole hearted belief in Yeshua had converted his children an
d much of their village. He had nothing of his father’s, and was very thankful that his uncle had preserved these few possessions for him.
Much of the basket contained threadbare clothing, along with one pair of sandals. There were the tools of his trade as a scribe, the quill and wood pens wrapped carefully in a soft leather pouch, and tied with a leather strap. Several scrolls were nestled in a wooden box. Antonius removed them and started to read.
The first was a letter Achalichus had started to write to his wife, Antonius’ mother, who was in Israel, still in their village. While he was writing the letter, it appeared that he received word that she had died, and the letter changed from a missive about his journeys with Paul to a sad and bittersweet goodbye to his beloved. He had not seen her in four years, but he still held love in his heart, and it brought tears to Antonius’ eyes to read the heartfelt goodbye. Neither Antonius nor Achalichus knew if she had accepted Yeshua as the Messiah… and that familiar ache returned as he read the letter.
The second was an inventory of sorts, listing what supplies had been purchased, and for what cost, for one of the missionary journeys. He didn’t see a reason his father had saved this scroll, other than as a reminder of those heady days of joys and persecution with Paul and Barnabas and Timothy. He smiled to think of them, traveling and making converts wherever they went. It must have been an amazing time.
He wondered at the third letter, as it was dictated by Paul himself, to the Church in Jerusalem. Apparently it had never been delivered, a victim of the persecutions no doubt. Written in Paul’s clear voice, it was merely a congratulations on the appointment of Peter as their bishop. It was unfortunate that the letter had not arrived to encourage the people, as they were always sorely in need.
He rolled the scroll back up and opened the last one in the box, which was a sad reminder of the mental deterioration his father had undergone. It was written in the handwriting of a child, random words and symbols, with no meaning whatsoever.
Keeping the other three scrolls in the box, Antonius threw the last one in the fire. That was not how he wanted to remember his father, and not how he wanted his children to know him. He packed the basket back up, hefted it to his shoulder, and went out to the courtyard to join his cousins as they worked on their boat. He set it near the door, and put his cloak on it. Soon he would go home to Sicilia, but for now, he would enjoy his family.
Rome
AD 264
Camillus burst into the bishop’s apartments, sweating and out of breath. He had walked as swiftly as he was able through the market crowd, fearing the dreadful temper of the man who was second only to the new Pope. In fact, the mood of Bishop Iraneaus had been made considerably worse by the election of Dionysius as the Bishop of Rome three months before. A man of power and grasping aspiration, Iraneaus had coveted the appointment for himself. After, that is, Emperor Valerian had been executed and the new emperor, Gallienus, had issued his “edict of tolerance.” Increasing Rome’s treasury was probably the motive for such permissiveness rather than religious generosity, but it had ended the persecution nonetheless.
“You are late,” Iraneaus said, looking at the priest down his patrician nose. Camillus bowed and nodded his apology.
“Yes, your grace. I apologize.” He kept his eyes focused on a cracked marble tile at his feet. A full minute passed, and the young man could feel the bishop’s eyes on him.
“And have you no reason for this?” Iraneaus finally asked impatiently.
“It was a personal matter, sir. My brother had need of me, and his home is some distance from the city. It will not happen again.”
“Indeed,” Iraneaus said as he raised a goblet of wine to his lips. He tidied his already obsessively neat writing desk, putting a quill and parchment to the side. “We have much to do today, and now less time to accomplish it. Dionysius has thus far been unable to unite the bishops, and the Church remains in disarray, as you know.” Camillus nodded his head at this oft-heard complaint. “Had I been elected, of course, I would have imposed much stricter discipline on the churches, and a great deal of the money that has been given by our patrons would have made its way here, to Rome. As it stands now, however, Dionysius has perpetuated his dictum of austerity, and is losing ground to the growing Church in the East. This is not acceptable.” He slammed his fist down. Camillus did not start. He was used to such outbursts. “Power must remain here, in Rome, as God Himself intended. We must send a letter to those bishops who chose to elect Dionysius and inform them of his folly. He will be made to step down.”
Camillus merely stood, hands clasped in front of him, his mind racing back to the visit with his brother.
Anthony lived on a small estate outside of Rome. He had survived persecution by keeping his faith largely to himself, a sore point between the brothers. However, when Camillus received the letter of invitation, he had welcomed removing himself from the teeming city, and left in the mid-afternoon so as to arrive for supper. When they had finished an excellent—and, to Camillus, decadent—meal of hen with fresh baked bread and ripe grapes, Anthony sat back and wiped his knife on his trousers. He looked at his younger brother, the priest, and smiled gravely.
“Things have changed for your Church now, brother,” he said.
“Indeed, but for the better, it appears,” Camillus said. “Dionysius is trying to reignite enthusiasm for the Church now that the Emperor has granted us all clemency. He is a man unused to power, but he is respected by most.”
“I suspect that he is not respected by those bishops who have used their position to gain wealth, to have children, even estates…?” Anthony ended on a question. Camillus looked embarrassed, knowing he was speaking of Iraneaus, among others.
“No, he is not popular with some,” he agreed.
“And those who are wealthy are now powerful, and have garnered powerful friends.” Anthony stated flatly. “You might find yourself on the losing side, my brother.”
Camillus nodded unhappily. “I fear so, but I am not free to go where I choose.”
“If you could help Dionysius, you could.”
“What help could I be to him? I am a priest, that is all.”
Anthony studied him for a long moment, then rose to his feet. He gestured for his brother to remain at the table, and left the room. Returning with a stout wooden box, he placed it in front of Camillus. “Open it,” he said.
Obediently, the priest opened the box, and looked at the scroll nestled on a swath of fine cloth. He looked askance at his brother, who nodded. Camillus removed the scroll and carefully opened it. He knit his brows in concentration as he worked out the Greek. “Meu Deus…” he breathed, looking again at Anthony. “Where did this come from?”
“It has been in the family. The scribe was our ancestor, and when he died, his belongings were given to his son, in Sicilia. No one thought it important then, and indeed, it wasn’t. But now… As the Church tries to regain its strength and power, it would be quite a blow, would it not?”
“It would destroy us,” Camillus agreed.
“What would happen if you took that letter to Dionysius, and gave it to him to use against those bishops like Iraneaus who would seek to unseat him?”
Camillus looked confused. “I don’t understand,” he said.
“That letter would destroy the Church of Rome. Without the Church of Rome, those bishops who have no family wealth of their own would be left with no money, no power. They are doing things they have no right to do, they are a disgrace. And they are greedy. Dionysius, however, is truly a man of faith. He wants to spread our religion around the world as Christ commanded, through the Church. But I believe he would follow the Great Commission should the Church cease to exist. If Dionysius made this letter known to those who oppose him, and if he threatens to make the letter public should they continue to oppose him… Well, those men know that he serves God first, and the Church second. It is why they oppose him so strongly. I think they will have to support him, albeit through gritted teeth
.”
Camillus pondered. His brother was ten years older, and had amassed wealth against all odds by buying and selling goods brought to Rome from the far reaches of the Empire. He had friends in the upper echelons of Roman society, and consequently a much better understanding of politics than the young priest had. And if there was one thing that Camillus had learned during his time under the thumb of Bishop Iraneus, it was that the Church was rife with politics.
“If it doesn’t work, you have lost nothing,” Anthony said. “But I believe it will. I believe this letter has come down to us from Paul himself for just such a time.”
Camillus nodded, and rolled up the scroll. “I will seek a meeting with Dionysius when I return. We can but try.” Anthony smiled, satisfied, and poured them both more of the rich red wine that had been made from his own vineyard.
It took five weeks for Camillus to attain an audience with the Bishop of Rome, and he spent the entire night prior to the designated time praying in his rooms. Dionysius received him graciously, one man of the cloth to the other, and the younger man relaxed at once. After the opening pleasantries, he came straight to the point, and handed the scroll to the bishop. With raised eyebrows, Dionysius opened the letter and read. When he was finished he looked up in dismay.
“And what do you propose to do with this letter, young man? Have you come to threaten me?” He sounded disappointed more than angry, and Camillus put his hands up defensively.
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