by Joseph Nagle
Michael knew that his father would salivate to be standing where Michael now was: Granada, through Moorish conquest and expansion, was once a part of the Middle East and very much the elder’s field.
Unfortunately, Michael did not have a pair of the thin, white cotton gloves used for handling ancient pages of parchment.
Sorry, Dad, it has to be done—there was no time for pedantic concerns. Michael slowly pulled away the rag that covered the parchment; he was careful to not put too much skin to vellum. Underneath the wrapping were old eucalyptus leaves. Peeling them away, he opened the parchment, aware that this was not split calfskin vellum. This was more modern, some kind of leather—but certainly not calfskin. This type was sturdier and less susceptible to aging—in particular, when stored in an underground crypt where the relative humidity was near perfect and the temperature rarely varied.
The document was not handwritten; its words looked as if they had been typed. The ink was red and severely faded.
Michael tried to read the document, frowned, and thought to himself: of course.
Not only did the low light make it difficult to read, but the letters were too faded and in an older form of Italian.
At the top of the vellum, Michael easily made out the first few words:
Revelation 14:9
The rest was more difficult.
York watched intensely. He saw the look on Michael’s face morph; the creases around the corners of his eyes etched deeper in consternation. “What? What is it, what does it say?”
Michael didn’t respond but glanced at his watch—time continued to count down, the one thing that he could count upon.
“Well? What does it say?” York’s impatience was clearly growing as he repeated his question.
“I’m not sure; it starts with a citation to a biblical passage. I need some time, a better place to translate. The words are faded, and there isn’t enough light. My Italian is marginal, kid, but with the right resources, I can translate it. Just not here.”
“But you translated the Latin upstairs! You speak Latin, but not Italian?!”
“Kid, that one was easy. Most of the words were either names or cognates. This is a bit more complicated. There’s a lot here, and I want to get moving. Now, let’s beat feet; we still have our tail to shake.”
Michael turned to leave but nearly fell. York reached out and caught him mid-stagger. “Jesus, Doc, how bad is this going to get?”
Michael straightened himself, ignored York, and continued to move.
York didn’t.
Noticing, Michael stopped and asked, “Well, you coming or what?”
“Doc, I don’t get all of this; I’m confused. What the hell is going on—why are we here? What the hell does a dead queen from the fourteenth century have to do with any of this?”
“Fifteenth and sixteenth century,” Michael corrected.
“Whatever,” fumed York. “Just give me some answers! I’m sick of being kept in the dark!”
York’s fists were balled and his brow furrowed tightly; he looked ready to spring forward.
Michael sized him up.
York was throwing an adult tantrum.
Michael mulled it over for a moment, and then replied, “Fine. Take a seat, kid—” he said, with a little emphasis on the kid part.
“We have all the time we need for a lesson. I’ve only got a little mechanical bug attached to the wall of my femoral artery that, by all appearances, is on a fatal countdown to zero; we also have a dead president, a dead president-to-be, murders for which we are wanted, and your team was killed—no doubt you are a suspect in that! If that’s not enough for you, throw in some terrorists, plans for a nuclear weapon; a few members of some evil, esoteric society hell-bent on making you and me pawns of every fucking plan they come up with to rule the world, and, if we can possibly make this any worse, there is an all-too-handsome lunatic hunting us down, forcing us to find this ancient scrap while holding my life and my wife’s as chattel for bargaining to be discarded if and when necessary—”
Michael voice was rising with each passing sentence, and his arms were flailing a bit dramatically; York was sorry he had said anything.
“—and you, you would like to take a break for a lesson in history!”
Michael paused for a moment; York was about to speak, but Michael held up his hand. York stopped. Michael then reached into his pocket and pulled out the medallion, which he threw roughly at York.
York caught it, but just barely.
“Kid, that little, innocuous piece of metal is worth more than you and I make together in a year. It belonged to a group of powerful men and was always worn by its leader.”
“Men? But we just desecrated a woman’s grave.”
Michael paused for a moment. The kid had a point. So he explained.
“King Philip the Fourth ruled France in the late 1200s and early 1300s. He had his kingdom perpetually at war. But wars cost money, and he was running out. In typical fashion—repeated throughout history—he expelled the Jews and seized their assets. He went after bankers and abbots, too. And then he went after the Catholic clergy, taxing their income.”
York chimed in, “I bet the Vatican loved that.”
“The pope—Pope Boniface VIII—issued a papal bull in the wake of the uproar caused by Philip; it forbade the transference of any church property to France, to the crown. Not to be outdone, Philip responded in kind: he put together an assembly of bishops and nobles. Eventually he forced the arrest of the pope and in his place, Philip put in a French archbishop. That man—the French archbishop—became Pope Clement V. The entire series of events had been one big pissing contest between the church and the king.”
A look of fragmented understanding could be seen on York’s face.
Michael was silent; he was doing what his father used to do when he was a child. During any discourse, his father would often break off mid-sentence, forcing a young Michael to say something. It was his father’s way of making sure that he was listening, that he understood.
He called it golden silence.
“Doc, a few years back, when the ayatollah was assassinated and the attempt on the pope’s life occurred, you had said that the Order was trying to replace those leaders with their own people. Is that what happened with Philip and the archbishop? Were they a part of the Order?”
He understood.
“Close but not precisely, York: the Order came about because of King Philip.”
Michael stopped, not to elicit a response from York, but because a fresh wave of pain sliced up through his thigh. It seemed to reach into his core and, this time, radiated through the small hole in his chest where the needle had been shoved. He nearly doubled over but forced himself not to.
York stood up to help, but Michael waved him off. He sat down, wondering if Michael was going to make it.
His voice struggled a bit, but Michael continued. “The king was drowning in debt; his treasury was severely depleted. He had no money and did the only thing that men in his position do: he robbed, pilfered, and made royal and divine claims to the wealth of those in his kingdom. During this time, a group calling themselves the Knights Templar was a monastic military order, but they were more than just that: they were also bankers to kingdoms, to the wealthy. They had been around for centuries and collected and controlled a tremendous amount of wealth and administered loans. Many powerful people were in debt to them.”
“Including the king?” York asked.
“That’s right, including the king. Philip didn’t want to be beholden to them, and he certainly couldn’t afford to pay his debt. He, instead, went after their wealth, but the Knights answered only to the Pope.”
York spat out, “Clement! The king had himself a pawn in the Vatican!”
Michael didn’t mind the interjection. The kid was right. “He was indeed the king’s pawn. Philip used his leverage with Clement. He forced the pope—his pawn—to disband the Knights, calling them heretical, so he could hav
e their treasury, their wealth. From this, a very large number of men were rounded up and either burned alive, murdered, guillotined, or hung.”
“But,” said York, “let me guess: not all of them were killed.”
Michael smiled slightly and nodded his head in the affirmative. “No, not all of them. Soon after, however, both King Philip and Pope Clement died. Seizing the opportunity, the new pope—John XXII—ordered that the Knights’ assets belonged only to a Christian military order, and not to the king.”
York lifted his head toward Michael and weakly mumbled, “I guess you’re about to tell me that this Christian military order would be the same group of knuckleheads that has put us in the middle of all of this.”
Michael didn’t speak but offered a simple nod in concurrence.
“So, tell me, Doc,” York continued, “where did this Order call home?”
“Portugal,” Michael answered pithily. There was no need to elaborate.
York flipped the medallion between his fingers. The two men sat in silence as York studied its features.
“Doc?”
“Yeah, kid?”
“How did you know that this?” York tossed the medallion back to Michael. “That this medallion was to bring us here, to Queen Isabelle’s coffin? Why not the king’s; how did you know it had to be the queen’s?”
Michael rose from the marble bench. He was a bit unsteady but under control. “The medallion is what every master of the Order of Christ wore; it was handed from one to the next. There is a famous painting of King Manuel the First—he was king of Portugal in the late 1400s and early 1500s—and in the painting, he is wearing this medallion.”
Michael pocketed the medallion and then motioned for York to get up and to follow him. It was time to go. The two men made their way back to the narrow stone staircase.
As they walked, Michael finished his explanation. “The phrase engraved on the medallion—Tanto Monta—means they amount to the same and refers to the time the Ferdinand and Isabelle ruled. They shared their power equally, but the phrase is also a double entendre. It’s how I knew where to go. King Manuel the First married Isabelle’s daughter—the daughter had the same name as her mother.”
York was puzzled for a moment. Michael let it sink in as they crept slowly up the stairs. The light had once again dissipated. Michael was using the small flashlight to guide their way. When they reached the top of the flight, York figured it out.
“They amount to the same—the same name! That’s how you knew to go to Isabelle’s coffin, isn’t it?”
“That’s right, kid. Now keep it down.”
CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT
IT TAKES A THIEF
IN THE MAUSOLEUM
Michael and York were at the top of the stairwell. Michael put his shoulder against the trap door and pushed. Michael braced himself against the wall as he pushed. It opened slowly; a small crack of light split the newly opened space.
Michael peered through the opened door and then crawled through.
Often when faced with imminent, even unseen, danger, the human mind reacts magnificently: motion slows down, senses are heightened, and the human becomes more aware, more capable.
Michael knew the blow was coming.
But it was a matter of timing.
The boot was swinging across its arc much faster than Michael could parry the blow.
The heel of Charney’s boot came crushing across Michael’s temple. Moving just enough to avoid a deadly hit, Michael was thrown sideways, and he splayed atop the marble floor.
It was cold to his touch. The crisp feel of the stone against his skin helped him to keep his focus.
Charney forcibly slammed shut the trap door and bolted it into place, sealing York from Michael. Better to deal with them one at a time, he thought.
From beneath, a confused York was banging his shoulder against the door and screaming for Michael by name.
Charney spun around, but Michael was no longer lying prostrate on the mausoleum floor. He was gone. Instantly, he crouched slightly and scanned the interior of the cavernous mausoleum.
Michael’s attack used every advantage available. Near where he had landed, a small putto sat quietly on the floor.
It was not attached to the ground.
In his hands, the angelic winged boy felt heavy. With a heave followed by a grunt, the carving took flight, finding the middle of Charney’s back.
The History Thief was not thinking of the irony; being attacked by the very thing he would love to steal only filled him with hate.
On his hands and knees, he saw Michael approaching from the side but quickly and nimbly moved out of the way.
Michael pursued.
Fighting is often considered an art form, but in reality, when two men lock in hand-to-hand combat, it is far from it.
Ugly, uncoordinated, and borderline Neanderthal-ish: pugilists tend to resort to the most basic form of combat—they grapple; they scratch; they claw.
Michael landed on Charney; his thumbs went straight for the man’s eyes. Charney responded by squeezing Michael’s throat, but his grip was not firm.
As the men rolled one over one another, a blow to Michael’s ribs expelled the air he had in his lungs.
The two men were a mix of blurred arms and legs as each tried to find leverage.
Then Charney saw it.
It was not intentional, but it showed the weakness in Michael that he needed to see. An errant knee had plunged deep into the inside of Michael’s thigh—the thigh in which the small device had been injected.
Charney felt Michael’s grip weaken.
He smiled and buried another blow into Michael’s thigh.
This time Michael’s grip released; around him, the world spun into a fit of black. It was as if night had suddenly come: white specks of flickering stars appeared.
Michael knew he was losing consciousness and swallowed a large gulp of air, hoping he could fight it from coming fully.
Michael was on his back; Charney was standing victoriously over him.
In the background, the incessant pounding of York’s newly bruised shoulder against the trap door could be heard.
Michael’s eyes fluttered. He watched helplessly as Charney reached into the interior of his jacket pocket and pulled out the vellum. Michael was powerless to react.
The History Thief eyed the ancient piece of paper. He unrolled it and started to read.
Pausing, he looked at Michael. “You know, Dr. Sterling, this would make a nice addition to my collection. But, unfortunately for me, it is not meant to be.”
Charney reached into his own coat and pulled out the silenced Glock; he took aim.
It was at that precise moment that York put three rounds from his pistol into the trap door’s hinge. The door loudly fell down the stairs, freeing York from the crypt. He spilled through the entryway.
Charney was startled by the shots and the thunderous crash of the marble door; he spun around on the balls of his feet. He took aim at his newly acquired target.
York saw the small black hole of the pistol’s barrel and froze. “Who the hell are you?!” York screamed. He had no time to aim his pistol.
“Who I am is of no concern, but I am glad that you could finally join us. I would have come for you in a few moments anyway. Now, if you would be so kind, Monsieur York: toss away the weapon and slide over the USB device and map book that you have in your coat pocket.”
The USB? The map book? thought Michael.
“What the hell are you talking about?” York knew that playing stupid probably wouldn’t work, but it was all that he could muster. “I don’t have any map or USB!”
Charney thrust the pistol forward. “I am not going to repeat myself, monsieur!”
Shit! York dropped his weapon and reached into his jacket, doing as he was told. He patted the pocket that held the book of maps he had used in Afghanistan. He reached into his pocket but extracted only the USB device.
He was stalling.
With his pistol still trained on the young Green Beret, Charney knelt to the floor and retrieved the USB device.
His mission was not yet accomplished. He rose to his feet and smiled at York, “And now the book, if you please. My patience is finite and near its end.”
York didn’t move.
Charney wrapped his second hand around the grip of his weapon and closed one eye, taking better aim at the young soldier.
York stood defiant.
Charney’s patience had ended.
There was only one thing left to do.
Charney pulled the trigger.
York winced.
Fate intervened.
The pistol jammed.
“Mon Dieu!” spat out an angry Charney.
He quickly pulled the barrel back to recharge the weapon. He seemed a bit frantic. A bullet ejected, and a new one was chambered.
He re-aimed, but before he could pull the trigger, he felt a long, brass candelabra smash heavily into his shoulder, sending the pistol to the other side of the room.
Both men straddled Charney; they had the advantage. The pistols were on the floor between them. Michael was on his feet, the candelabra still in his hands. York crept forward.
Charney was holding his shoulder tightly, trying to squeeze away the pain. His eyes darted from left to right, from Michael to York. He smiled devilishly at the two men, at the predicament he was facing.
He had never been so challenged.
He enjoyed it.
The room was still and the moment felt long, but it was really only a fraction of time. Charney seized it.
Michael staggered under the weight of the candelabra and from the torment running through his thigh. His leg felt ready to split open, and it showed.
Charney bolted at Michael, the weaker of the two; it was the logical choice. Michael countered, but could only manage a meager defense.
