by Lynn Sholes
“Impressive collection,” Cotten said, gazing around.
His shelves were lined with artifacts: pottery shards, drawings, maps, ancient tools, a few brown bones. More shelves filled with books—some old and worn, some new—covered one wall. There were numerous photos of him at archaeological digs; a few in the desert and others in forested mountains. And in a silver frame on the desk was a picture of John alongside other men of the cloth in the company of the pope.
Cotten lifted the photo. “You met the pope?”
“I was in Rome helping a forensic team in relic authentication. Cardinal Antonio Ianucci—he’s the Vatican Curator and Director of Art and Antiquities—stopped by to chat and check on our progress. During a break, he gave us a tour of the three Vatican restoration departments—tapestries, paintings, sculptures. As we entered one of the halls, Ianucci said he had a surprise for us. About a half dozen clergy were coming out of a door at the end of the hall. In the middle of the group was the Holy Father. We were stunned. When they got close, they stopped. He blessed us, a camera flashed, then Ianucci ushered us back to our work area. If you consider that meeting him, then I did.”
“Still, it must have been exciting.”
“It was.”
Cotten went to the couch and sat silently, twirling a silver bracelet around her wrist. “I guess you’re waiting patiently for me to get to the point so you’ll know why I rushed here at this ungodly hour.”
John pulled up a chair and sat opposite her. “You sounded rattled on the phone. You mentioned a break-in.”
“Well, sort of. They got in, but I don’t know how. Still, I’m sure somebody was there. I’d been out, and when I came home and looked around, it occurred to me that lots of my things had been moved, shifted, examined.
“Did you call the police?”
Cotten cleared her throat and tossed her hair. “No, I didn’t report it. Although I’m positive of what happened, there’s no way I can prove it—the police would never have believed me. Nothing was stolen.”
John leaned forward and laced his fingers together between his knees.
Before he could speak, Cotten said, “I think whoever broke in was looking for this.” She opened the leather bag and removed the box. She held it for a moment, almost unwilling to let it go.
“May I?” he asked, reaching out.
“Sorry,” she said, realizing she had not offered it to him.
After rolling it over and studying each side and surface, John asked, “Where did you get it?”
It took several minutes for her to explain how it came into her possession, how she had smuggled it through Customs, how she couldn’t open it, and how she had hidden it in her kitchen stove.
“That’s quite a story,” John said. He rubbed his forehead as if deep in thought. “And I’m sorry to hear Archer is dead. Despite his quirkiness, he was a brilliant man. I liked him.”
“Do you have any idea what this thing is?” Cotten looked over at the box in John’s lap.
“I think so,” he said, examining it again. “I believe it’s a medieval puzzle cube. They were very popular among rich Europeans during the Middle Ages. I’ve only seen a few before—I think I have a book here someplace that has a chapter explaining how to open them.”
“What do you think is inside?”
He shook it gently. “Usually, they held a prize or a toy, maybe jewelry or game pieces. I’ve heard some contained additional puzzle cubes—a box within a box. They were mostly to entertain aristocrats. There were several designs and each type opened in a totally different manner.”
Her eyes widened. “Dr. Archer regarded it as something special. He told me two things before he died. The first was a series of numbers and a name—twenty-six, twenty-seven, twenty-eight, Matthew. Then Archer said something about me being the only one who could stop the sun, the dawn.”
“That would be quite a trick, wouldn’t it?” John smiled. “From what you say, I suppose Archer wasn’t thinking clearly. Scrambled thoughts. Delusional.”
Cotten balked. No, Archer hadn’t been delusional. He knew precisely the words to get her attention. Geh el crip. You are the only one. She didn’t want to have to get into that or John might really think her out of her mind.
“But the numbers,” Cotten said. “I looked them up in the Bible. It’s from the Gospel of St. Matthew.”
“And He took the Cup . . .” John turned the cube in his hands. “Those words are repeated around the world everyday at Mass. They’re the words Jesus used at the Last Supper when He established the sacrament of the Eucharist.”
“From what you’ve told me, Archer was convinced he knew the location of the Cup from the Last Supper. Do you think that’s what could be in the box? I mean there must be something of value inside. I don’t think someone would be willing to murder for an empty box. And then track me down . . .”
“Are you sure the two events are connected?”
“You think I’m delusional, too?”
“On the contrary.” His voice rang sincere, not patronizing. “I didn’t mean to sound like I don’t believe you. You’ve had a lot of traumatic things happen. Your reactions are perfectly understandable. By linking the events you are trying to make sense of it.”
There were a few moments of silence. John had been kind enough, she thought, but he didn’t seem to detect the same significance she did. And he certainly wasn’t suspicious that anything as valuable as the Holy Grail rested inside the box. Maybe the break-in and the box weren’t related at all. But there was the tape. . . .
“There’s one more thing. I think I accidentally left a videotape in the crypt. My face is all over the footage, and the fact that I work for SNN.”
“Or you might just as easily have lost it somewhere else. You said you had emptied one of your bags earlier while you were alone in the desert.”
“I hope you’re right, but I have a sickening feeling I left it in the chamber.”
“So someone could have gotten the tape, realized you had been there, and found out where you live.”
“Yes.” She felt better. He understood she had probable cause for her anxiety. If John could open the box . . . “You mentioned a reference book?”
“It’s here somewhere.” He rose and went to the bookcases. His eyes moved up one shelf and down the other, finally coming to rest on a tattered cloth-bound book. “This should have something.” He pulled down the volume, placed it on the coffee table, and sat beside her.
Cotten saw Myths and Magic of the Middle Ages on the cover.
The pages crackled as John leafed through it.
“‘Puzzle Cubes and Prize Boxes,’” Cotten said, reading the chapter title. Beneath was a page of text, and as John flipped through the next several pages, she saw drawings and diagrams showing the workings of different box styles.
He studied the diagrams, going back through them repeatedly. Finally, he said, “This one looks right.” He took the box and rotated it. Gripping the top and bottom, he pulled in opposite directions. Nothing.
“What do you think?” Cotten asked.
John looked at the diagram again. “I need to figure out which surface is actually the top. Once I do that, it says here that it should open easily.”
He shifted the cube a quarter turn and pulled again. Still nothing. It took six rotations and additional reading before a faint click sounded. The top separated, exposing a fine, thin seam.
“I think we’ve done it,” John said.
At the end of the first crusade Jerusalem had been retaken by the Christians. The Prieuré de Sion, a group of monks whose objective was to return the thrones of Europe to the descendants of the Merovingian bloodline, a bloodline they believed was established through a union between Jesus and Mary Magdalene, created a military arm of warrior monks to protect Jerusalem and those who traveled there.
From a simple quest, the new organization grew, made up of the elite and powerful of Europe having positions of authority in politics, religion, and economics. Free from taxes and accountable only to the pope, over the centuries, it became one of the world’s wealthiest and most influential organizations. It was called the Knights of the Temple of Jerusalem or the Knights Templar.
croix patée
John set the box on the table before carefully sliding the top sideways. It opened and swung down revealing a tiny set of hinges on the inside that kept the top attached.
Cotten saw that the inside was filled with a white linen-like cloth wrapped around an object. “Look at that,” she said, pointing at the corner of the material’s top fold. Woven into one corner was a cross and a five-petal rose, and on the opposite corner were embroidered two knights riding the same horse—the words Sigillvm Militvm Xpisti stitched in a circle around them. Although slightly faded with age, the cross was still red, the rose pink, and the words golden.
“One second,” John said. From a drawer in a rolltop desk he withdrew a pair of white cotton gloves. Slipping them on, he cautiously removed the contents of the box and unwrapped the cloth.
Cotten bit on her bottom lip when the material fell away revealing a chalice. It was about six inches tall and four inches in diameter at the rim of the bowl. The surface was a dull gray metal. A simple line of tiny pewter-colored beads ran around the base, while a necklace of miniature grapevines curled around the throat.
“It’s in remarkable shape,” he said, “if it’s really two thousand years old.” His gloved finger rubbed a small imperfection on the back side of the Cup. “Other than this little nick, I’d guess it has been well cared for.” John turned the chalice around. “IHS,” he said as he touched the engraving on the side.
“Is it the Grail?” she asked.
“I don’t know.” He gently pressed into a thick, dark substance coating the inside. “Probably beeswax.”
“It’s so . . . plain,” she said. “I guess I expected something a little flashier.”
“You’ve seen too many Indiana Jones movies.”
“You’re awfully calm to be holding what could be the Holy Grail.”
“I’ve been burned in the past by a few clever fakes of other artifacts.”
“Well, this is my first, so bear with me while I get excited.” She grinned, and he returned a smile. Cotten pointed at the engraving. “What’s IHS?”
“It’s the emblem—like a monogram—for Jesus’ name. The early Christians used the three letters during Roman times to identify each other. It’s also the first three letters of His name in Greek. And in Latin, some say it stands for In Hoc Signo Vinces, or In This Sign You Shall Conquer. My guess is the engraving was added much later, perhaps while it was in Antioch.”
“So you believe Archer was right?”
John held the relic up so the light shone on it from different angles. “I wish I could say for sure. I’ll admit that Archer’s theory seems to ring true.” He ran his fingers over the needlework on the cloth.
“Are the words significant? And the cross, the rose—the knights? What do they mean?”
The red cross had four equal arms that flared at the ends. “Croix Patée,” he said. Then he touched the golden threads forming the words Sigillvm Militvm Xpisti. “Seal of the Army of Christ. The dog rose was their symbol—rosa carina. It stood for the virgin and the virgin birth, chosen because the dog rose doesn’t need to be cross-pollinated to produce its fruit, the rose hip.”
“Talk to me,” Cotten said. “What does it mean?”
“Near the end of the Seventh Crusade a group of religious zealots, known as the Knights Templar, was formed. They wore the Cross Patée—the Templar’s Cross—emblazoned on their white habits, and their seal was two knights riding the same horse, a symbol of their vow of poverty. Their mission was to protect the treasures of the great temple of Jerusalem. It is suspected that in reality, they plundered the wealth of the temple and hid it away. Instead of being impoverished, they became exceedingly wealthy as well as powerful, answering only to the Church. Some of the Templars claimed to be of divine lineage, descendants of a proposed union between Jesus and Mary Magdalene. They also proclaimed themselves as Guardians of the Grail.”
John held up the chalice. “If this is truly the Cup from the Last Supper, it would be the most prized relic in the Church—in all of Christendom.”
“Why the wax?” Cotten asked.
“I would assume to protect the inside from being touched or contaminated. If it held the blood of Christ, it would be considered quite sacred.”
As Cotten stared at the Cup, Archer’s dying words still spooked her. “What about the message that I’m the only one who can stop the sun, the dawn? How would that tie in?”
He shook his head. “No idea.”
She shifted. “It really bothers me, John. If I’m the only one to do whatever Archer was talking about, then I’m the only one they’re looking for.”
“Who?”
“Whoever broke into my apartment. I’ve got a bad feeling about the whole thing. You weren’t there when the Arab pulled the gun and tried to kill Archer. He wasn’t just stealing some old trinket box. He was driven—I saw it in his eyes. It was creepy. Archer believed he had the Grail, and whoever tried to kill him was convinced of it, too. Even you said if it’s genuine, it would be the most valuable relic in the world. It’s a logical conclusion that whoever searched my apartment was looking for it.”
“Maybe you’re right.”
Cotten put both hands to her mouth and spoke into them as if guarding the words so they didn’t escape her lips too quickly. “I could have been hiding the biggest religious story of the century underneath the lid of my stove.”
“Are you Catholic?” John asked.
“No.” Her expression turned from wonderment to puzzlement.
“Christian?”
Her fingers intertwined in her lap. “I’m not sure I know how to answer that.”
“Embarrassed to tell me because I’m a priest?”
“No, I really don’t know how to answer. I used to go to church, believe in religion, God, all that.”
John looked at her as if trying to read her thoughts.
“I was born in Kentucky, an only child—my twin sister died at birth. My father was a farmer; we were poor. When I was six there was a terrible drought, and we lost everything. The bank foreclosed, and my father committed suicide. Mama always said she thought there was something more, something else troubling my father. He’d been despondent for quite a while, even before the drought, but nobody knew why. He wrote a note blaming God for ruining our lives. At the time, I agreed with him. Before the drought, we were a churchgoing family.
“After my father died, my mother and I moved to a small house, and she went to work in a textile mill—we barely got by for years.”
“Well then, you do believe. In order to blame God, you have to believe He exists.”
“That’s how I felt back then. When I got older, I realized the saying on the bumper sticker is right—shit happens. It was just a frigging drought.” She wiggled her fingers in the air. “Nothing supernatural, no divine hand descending from the heavens to smite the Stone family. My father needed to blame something, someone. He hung it on God. I let go of that a long time ago—never went back to church.”
“I’m sorry about your father and what happened to your family.”
“Why did you ask me about my religion?”
“I just wondered what this,” he motioned to the Cup, “means to you.”
“Actually, a great deal—but probably not what you think. If this is the real thing, it means the biggest story of my career. It could be my ticket to a senior correspondent’s position at the network.”
He stared at her in silence.
“We all look at thing
s differently, John. Like my father and I—he blamed God; I blamed a lack of one. This relic could be your salvation. And it could be mine, too. But in a different way.” Cotten leaned back her head, eyes closed, then looked at him again. “I’m sorry, but you and I just don’t have the same beliefs.”
He held up his hand. “That’s not a problem. Hey, my closest friend is a Jewish rabbi. We grew up together. He’s one of those friends you don’t see much, but know you can count on. But talk about differing views. We’re the real odd couple. You can imagine some of the discussions we’ve had over the years.”
“Look,” she said, “besides the career move, the sooner I write this story, the sooner I can stop looking over my shoulder. Once I tell the world about the Grail, the focus will be on it, not me. I’ll be just another byline.” She moved to the edge of the couch, aware that he watched her. “So how do we prove it’s the real deal?”
“Well, the metalwork is fairly easy to match to a known style and time period. The wood and the hinge of the box can also be dated and matched to others like it—so can the cloth. And the beeswax can be pinned down with radiocarbon dating.”
“What’s next?”
“I’d like to take it to Rome. The dating technology at the Vatican is some of the best in the world.”
“Why the Vatican? I mean I realize that’s your thing, but what about right here in our own backyard? Doesn’t Brown, or NYU, or Columbia have an archaeology department?”
“Sure. But the Vatican has been in the authentication business for centuries. Who would you rather interview for your report—Professor John Doe of a local university or Cardinal Ianucci, the curator of the largest collection of religious relics and artifacts in the world?”
“Okay, you’ve made your point.” Cotten smiled shyly. “Do my aspirations to snag the big story make me greedy?”
“That’s what reporters do,” he said. “Reporting your story with St. Peter’s Basilica in the background would be impressive.”
