The Priests' Code

by B. B. Balthis

  Dealing in parchments like this was big business, and I knew that in recent years, the British library had bought an ancient manuscript copy of the Gospel of St John for the massive sum of nine million pounds!

  I stood up and walked out into the courtyard, taking several deep breaths to clear my head before looking at the transcription again. I felt calmer when I went back in and prepared for further objectivity but, as I read it again, it was clear that nothing at all needed to be changed.

  I went through it for a third time, concluding that the transcription was as accurate as I could make it. The translation had been made much simpler by the fact that there was nothing that involved nuance or humour, or that held any complex or multiple meaning, like poetry might do. The dates on these things were often tricky, though, since the Roman calendar wasn’t the same as ours. However, there were several reasonable formulas to use that were readily available on the internet. Once again, there were no complications, since the supposed writer was historically well known, as were his dates and time in power.

  If I were to accept the authenticity of the document then, without doubt, I had just transcribed one of the most momentous moments in history. I went back outside and sat on the stone steps that ran around one edge of the high courtyard wall. I closed my eyes against the bright sun and began to consider what I should do next.

  Only once in my career as a translator had I come even close to an involvement with something like this. That time, I had transcribed a manuscript written about John the Baptist. It spoke of the events that had led to his ultimate execution, and was written as though the writer had been there, to witness it all first-hand. It was certainly an exciting discovery, but after the translation had been sent back to the private owner, I had heard no more about it. In the years that followed I waited for it to hit the historical headlines, but it never did and eventually became a closed chapter of my working life.

  At this moment, there was a loud rapping on the front door of the cottage. The room that I was using was at the back, and I was unseen, both here and out in the garden. Not wanting any interruption, I decided to ignore it. If it was important, they would try another method of contacting me. I heard more rapping, and then after a few minutes, a banging of the letter box. Assuming it must have been the postman, I walked to the door, picking up a piece of paper now lying on the floor.

  Hello Padre. I was passing by so thought I would pop in and take a look at that journal you found. I assume you are busy, so will give you a call later.

  Kind regards, Adrian.

  Innocent enough, I supposed, but I still regretted my slip of telling him about the journal that I had found. I returned to the table where I had been working and looked through the second set of scans. The writing style was very different from the first. It had a slope to the right and was a much smaller and tighter style. It was also much more faded, and the handwriting made it a little more difficult to decipher. I had, however, worked on parchments far more damaged and complex than these were and, for the first time, I began to wonder why they had been sent to me at all. Surely, there were plenty of people in Italy or wherever the owner lived who could have transcribed them without too much trouble?

  I quickly worked my way through the words, crossing out and replacing, then rewriting and reading the whole thing until I was satisfied. This one also took the form of a letter. The contents, though, were even more startling; more so than anything I had ever come across in my entire life. Even when working at the Vatican, with all its wonderful treasures and documents to hand, nothing had come even close to what was now in front of me.

  I was stunned and needed time to think this through further; both to reconcile myself with what I had just read, and to consider the consequences of any possible public exposure. A glance at the clock showed that I was now only half an hour away from meeting Peter at the church. I had missed lunch too, and opened the fridge to take out some ham and cheese bought in Oxford yesterday. I quickly placed them inside two thick slices of bread and put the whole thing in a paper bag, to take with me and eat as I walked to the church.

  I then remembered the documents on the table and, at the same time, the old journal in my bedroom above. I ran upstairs to get it, then picked up the papers that I had been working with this morning, as well as my transcriptions. I looked about me for a safe hiding place. Where would a burglar not look?

  Back in the kitchen, I opened the door of the old Rayburn. I had kept it going all winter, but it was now cold and unused in favour of the gas stove. Putting everything in a plastic bag, I pushed it into the oven, closing the door firmly, reassuring myself that this was as safe a place as I could find in such a short time.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  It was a beautiful day and I began to relax as I walked down the lane to the church, eating my sandwich.

  The bells struck two just as I arrived, but Peter had beaten me to it, and was leaning against the warm, stone wall of the church, his eyes closed. The walls to either side of the main gates were covered in ancient graffiti: initials, dates, and strange symbols, some easy to recognise and others less so. I took a few photos with my phone, particularly of the beautiful, but worn, six-sided flowers in circles, and odd, rune-like scratchings.

  As I walked into the church yard the gate clicked and Peter opened his eyes.

  ‘Hello there. Isn’t this weather glorious? I almost fell asleep then, standing up like a horse. I probably would have slumped to the ground in a minute or two and broken a hip,’ he joked, as we shook hands. ‘Where do you want to start?’

  ‘Shall we go inside first?’ I answered. ‘I’ve done a bit of reading up, and it really is a fascinating old place. Have you seen the graffiti by the front gate? I love the flower symbol, often used by the Knights Templar, amongst others. Many of the churches around here were heavily influenced by them, but then you probably know that.’

  He thought for a few seconds before answering.

  ‘I don’t know an awful lot about it, I’m afraid, although a colleague of mine who is the vicar of a couple of the parishes up the road has a church that is well documented for its Templar patronage. I do like the idea though – fine upstanding Christian men fighting for what they believed in.’

  ‘Well, maybe,’ I answered, ‘although some of their ideas didn’t exactly follow traditional Christian doctrine. They were great financiers and held a complex set of beliefs that I don’t believe have ever been fully documented. Many thought – in fact, still do – that they were the guardians of secrets and discoveries relating to Christ, and held documents that proved that a bloodline from Jesus existed. I find them fascinating and have been gathering information about them for years. I’d love to put it all together into a book one day.’

  ‘Gosh, Benoît, I had no idea you were so interested. I mean, I’ve read the usual thriller and conspiracy books like everyone else, and seen the odd movie or two; the boys insist on that.’

  I was reminded of his three sons, twins in their late teens and an older one in his twenties now. I had met them once or twice at village fetes and other gatherings. If I remembered correctly, his eldest son was studying medicine, and the younger two must surely be about to be leave school, or perhaps they already had? They were all tall and fair like their father, and I could imagine them having their own ideas about things and not holding back in voicing their opinions.

  We walked into the stone porch and Peter pushed open the huge, heavy, old door, its surround beautifully carved in an early Norman style. We stood at the back of the church and looked down the main aisle towards the central tower, and then began to slowly walk down to what appeared to be the heart of the building. He mentioned a few details here and there, including the early Norman arches, which were wonderful. The ancient carvings on them intrigued me, as did the Templar-style crosses refixed and set into the old stone walls. There were several large arrangements of lilies
and the fragrance mingled beautifully with the undefinable smell of an old church.

  * * *

  ‘You’re probably more knowledgeable than I am. Tell me what you know, Benoît, and if I can add to it, I will.’

  ‘Well, I know it’s an early Norman build. There was an older church here before, and possibly a Roman temple before that, but that’s nothing new I suppose. So many old churches were built over the top of pagan sites. These relics are stunning though.’

  We both stood in front of the glass box set into the wall, cleverly lit up from behind. In it was displayed a small, carved head of Jesus, accompanied by a single foot showing the wound of the crucifixion. I was transfixed and thought it to be one of the most beautiful things of its type that I had ever seen. The face was so unusual and I couldn’t help but be deeply moved.

  I turned to Peter. ‘I read in the guidebook that researchers declare this to be either Spanish, brought over from Santiago de Compostela, perhaps after a pilgrimage, or of northern European or Scandinavian origins. I’m torn between the two, since it looks very southern European to me, with the narrow face and long moustache, but the hair looks Scandinavian. Either way, he looks so peaceful, and like he’s having the most blissful sleep ever. It makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.’

  Once again, he thought for a short while before he answered.

  ‘It does indeed. These bits are just wax copies, as I’m sure you know, but the original was found hidden here in the church, about a hundred years ago, most probably to stop it being trashed by Henry VIII’s henchmen. It’s assumed that the rest of it just crumbled to dust. Considering it’s the best part of a thousand years old, it’s amazing any of it survived. So many churches find these things quite by chance when renovating, the people that buried them being long dead. Details of the hiding places were never passed on, or were lost somehow. For instance, I imagine the Black Death would have accounted for a lot of lost information in the Middle Ages.’

  I agreed, and we continued walking around the ancient building, Peter pointing out the things that he thought I might be interested in. In the far-right corner of the chancel was a very ornate piscina carved from a single block of stone. It had a castellated top and was wound around with vine leaves. Under this was what looked like a cave or cavern and, most unusually, a man’s face looked outwards from it. At first glance, one might have thought that it was a green man, a pagan feature and common in older churches. Closer inspection, however, made me doubt this. It was the face of an ordinary man, and even more curious was the notch indented in his chin. Below the cavern was the water bowl itself. I had never seen a piscina that was quite so strange, or indeed as beautiful. I asked him about it.

  ‘It dates from the early fourteenth century, but I don’t know any more than that really. There’s an older one in the nave. There used to be a priest’s room above here, but it’s sealed up now.’

  As he spoke, my mind drifted back to the cottage, where the parchments and the curious journal lay hidden in the Rayburn oven.

  ‘You’ve gone quite white, Ben. Are you OK?’

  ‘Yes, sorry, I’m fine, just daydreaming!’ We walked back to the main entrance, stopping to look at the beautiful old font. Its lead lining was covered with a mass of graffiti and I took lots of photos, including more of the entrance, which also had ancient symbols scratched into the supporting walls. We both patted the magnificent door and, to my delight, I noticed that it too was covered with areas of graffiti.

  Peter spoke. ‘I’ve noticed that before. I even asked the previous incumbent about it, but he knew nothing. It’s odd, isn’t it? It looks like one should be able to read it straight off, but it’s not in any language I can understand. You’re the linguist; can’t you decipher it?’

  I stood back to study it. It looked like a mixture of Latin, Greek, and several other things that I vaguely recognised, but couldn’t quite put my finger on.

  ‘Not a clue, but when I get time I’ll look at it again.’

  We moved outside and walked around the exterior of the church, noting various scratch dials, masons’ marks, and a couple of window arches that looked Saxon in style… until we reached the front of the building again. On the right side of the porch was a massive stone sarcophagus, the lid leaning upright on its front.

  ‘What a curious thing. What happened to the person inside it?’

  ‘No one knows,’ he said. ‘It’s been here for some years, though, and is definitely Roman. I think it was found in a much older burial ground near the village, but you’d have to check on that. This pair are a mystery, as well. No one knows who they are or why they’re here, but it’s believed to be medieval in date. The locals call them “the Lovers” but there’s nothing in the church records about them, even though they do go back that far.’

  He pointed to the other side of the porch where there was a large raised tomb. A gentleman and his lady were lying on top, oddly covered over with a rug or blanket of some sort from their waists down. I had never seen anything like it and moved closer to take a better look. It was very worn and weathered, as one would expect after many hundreds of years outside.

  This type of monument was usually kept inside the church but, even then, I couldn’t recall ever having seen effigies like this, covered with a blanket. I did remember a church in London having a large brass on the wall, of a woman with the lower part of her body covered in a blanket, like she was in bed. A local historian that I had asked told me it might mean she had died in childbirth, but I had never seen one anywhere else, despite the many hundreds of churches of differing faiths that I had been into over the years. I was intrigued and decided to do a little research myself, time allowing.

  ‘Thank you so much for taking the time to show me around your lovely church.’

  ‘Think nothing of it. I’ve enjoyed it immensely and learned a few things too. Do come back with me to the vicarage for a cup of tea… Merry said to ask you, and she’s baked a few scones in the hope that you would come.’

  I liked Merry, Peter’s wife. She was a delightful woman, well versed in her role of support to her country vicar husband, and very attractive as well. Her general demeanour also suited her name to a T, and I could think of nothing better than an hour in her company. To be honest, I wasn’t looking forward to going back to the cottage and facing the problem that was waiting for me there.

  I accepted the invitation and we strolled around the corner to the large Georgian house that was the vicarage. Peter was a keen gardener and there were roses and other brightly coloured flowers everywhere. I knew there was a much more formal garden at the back, often used to host parish events.

  ‘The garden looks fabulous. It must take a huge amount of work. How do you find the time?’

  ‘It does take quite a bit of time, I suppose, but I love it, and Merry is happy to be my helper. I’ve even got the twins interested, and Jack has decided to train in architecture and landscape design at university. Josh is going into medicine like his older brother, so come September we shall be rattling around the place on our own. I can’t say I’m looking forward to it, but I imagine they’ll still be here in the holidays so I must just make do with that, I suppose.’

  At this point, his eyes filled with tears, but he was saved any further embarrassment by the arrival of Merry, who surprisingly gave me a big, scented hug. She led us through to the rear terrace, where a very handsome tea had been laid out, including tiny sandwiches with the crusts cut off. There were also beautiful golden scones, which I knew she sold at the local Women’s Institute stall in town each week, along with fat brown eggs from the hens that were kept at the bottom of the vicarage garden.

  ‘So, Ben,’ she said, gazing at me in her bright, lively way. ‘What do you make of our church? It’s quite a beauty, isn’t it? People come from miles away to see it, especially the relics of Jesus. How do you take your tea? Do he
lp yourself to everything.’

  ‘The church is really impressive,’ I replied. ‘And yes, you’re right, the relics are exquisite. I could hardly tear myself away from them. That face? I’ve never seen such a peaceful look in my life, and as a Catholic priest I’ve seen plenty of crucifixion statues, as you can imagine! The foot too. It’s so delicate, and seems to tell a story all of its own.’

  We discussed the church and its contents in more detail, as well as the graffiti. Merry told me that she too was very interested in such things, and we talked about our nearest cathedral in Gloucester and the amount of graffiti that was there. I mentioned the tombs and we discussed those too. Interestingly, she told me that an archaeologist had spent some time at the church a few years back, but he hadn’t been able to find out very much about them.

  ‘He was an odd man, and I can’t say I took to him really. He certainly didn’t get a tea like this one,’ she laughed. ‘I’ll dig out the report he wrote if you like.’

  Our discussion moved on to non-church-related things. There was no sign of the boys, but some vague thumping music in the background told me that at least one of them was in the house somewhere.

  ‘Thank you both so much for the wonderful tea, and the guided tour. I’ll be off now, but I wonder if you would both like to have dinner with me one evening? I need to look at my diary first though.’

  Agreeing to call them with a few dates, I walked quickly back to the cottage.

  CHAPTER NINE

  It was nearly five thirty when I pushed the heavy old key into the door lock. Oddly, it wouldn’t turn, and as I tried the handle the door swung open with ease. I knew there had been a few break-ins in the area recently, but I was far more concerned about the translations and notebook than any loss of my few and low-value belongings. I stepped warily inside and went straight to the Rayburn oven door. Relieved, I saw that the wrapped package was there, exactly as I had left it.