The superior led them through a series of tight, twisting lanes, dodging in and out of the late afternoon sun. “The remoteness of the monastery’s location preserved it from Arab and Muslim influence, and it developed into a flourishing center of spiritual and cultural life, particularly between the twelfth and fifteenth centuries when the monastery became a haven of scholarship, art, and translation. But in 1483 it was attacked by marauding bedouins . . . the buildings destroyed, the monks killed or expelled, and the library ravaged. The attackers used the books and parchments they looted from the library to fuel their cooking fires. So much was lost.
“That’s when they rebuilt the wall—forty feet high and six feet thick—and, at that time, there was no gate. The only way to gain entry was over there”—he pointed—“in that building against the wall. There’s a hand-cranked hoist in there. Anything that needed entry to the monastery—people, food, whatever—was lifted up by the hoist. The monastery now covers fifteen acres in which are seven churches and chapels, the various offices and workshops, the communal facilities, and the low two-story buildings containing the monks’ cells. And this . . .” Father Walid stopped suddenly and waved at an ornately carved wooden door. “The library, which you’ve come to see. My presence is required in the kitchen, but, go in, the door is open and you’ll find an old man in there who has been a faithful volunteer to our library for years. If you need to find anything, he is the man to help you. But, Dr. Johnson,” he said, casting a glance at Rizzo and his Jay-Z sunglasses, 50 Cent tee shirt, and baggy jeans, “I will rely on your reputation and experience to protect and preserve any documents or books you investigate.”
Brother Walid turned and walked away, down a light-dappled alley. Johnson didn’t see him leave. He was looking at the space above the wooden door to the library. The space where a cartouche—encapsulating the budding shepherd’s staff and the scorpion—was carved into the cream-colored stone.
Dark and quiet, dust particles dancing in the few shafts of sunlight that interrupted the shadows, the monastery’s library was stunning—both in its size and in the quality of its contents.
A long center aisle stretched the length of the room, about one hundred yards. On the right a series of rough-hewn refectory tables fronted packed bookcases along the wall, also the length of the room and reaching to the ten-foot ceiling. On the left was an irregular series of map stands, scribe tables, and another room-length series of bookcases.
Doc wandered down the side aisle, next to the bookcases, and marveled at some of the richness he observed. Clearly . . . the monks of St. Anthony’s Monastery toiled at more than their irrigated garden. Doc eased a leather-bound volume from one of the shelves. Rendered by hand onto vellum sheets with an artist’s grace was a copy of Saint Augustine’s legendary Confessions, written in Latin on the left-hand page and in Greek on the right. Doc turned over the sumptuously decorated pages to the end of the book. Inside the back cover was the scribe’s signature and the date—Father Gregorious, MCCXCIII.
“Hey, Doc . . . give me a boost, will ya?” Rizzo was behind Johnson, on the far side of the room, scanning the bookcases against the far wall. As he turned to see what Rizzo was calling for, Johnson came face-to-face with a vision of the desert, clothed like a man. Startled, Doc stepped back. And bumped into the bookcase.
“A beautiful book,” the desert man spoke. He seemed as ancient as the sands, his skin dried into brittle, leathery cracks by the sun. He wore a plain kaftan. Only his eyes—one yellow, one brown—crackled with an intense fire that stunned Johnson to silence. “Is it what you desire . . . or do you seek another?”
The old man bent from the waist and inclined his head, the closest he could come to a ceremonial bow. “Salaam alaikum.” He touched his fingers to his brow, then to his chest. “Perhaps I can be of some assistance?”
As Johnson regained his composure, a response on his lips, Rizzo bounded into the space between the two men.
“Hey, Omar, you know your way around here, right? Well, I’m looking for Lawrence of Arabia, and I can’t find him anywhere.”
A shadow passed over the old man’s face—or covered Doc’s eyes. Johnson’s skin felt like the inside of an oyster—hot and slimy. In a fraction of a second, the shadow was gone and the old man was smiling down at Sammy Rizzo. But Doc knew something evil had passed.
“Yes, I can help you find your way. But, first, I must assist the good doctor in his important quest.” The old man turned to Johnson and spread his arms wide. “Tell me . . . what is it you seek?”
Rizzo slept on top of one of the refectory tables, the dozen or so books he’d collected from the library in stacks at his feet—one opened, resting on his chest. What little light invaded the small windows high in the walls had disappeared along with Doc Johnson’s stamina and patience. Led by the old man, Johnson endured a dizzying and frustrating search through the ancient records spanning the monastery library. A search without any indication that they were closer to information about the mezuzah’s elusive history.
“I regret, as your friend noticed, that the monks here have apparently employed no system for the collection,” the old man said. “It is only through years offering my services here that I began to find things I was looking for. Perhaps, again, if I knew more of what you are seeking . . . that would help. I do not know where to take you next. You are interested in the monastery’s history in the early part of the reign of Saladin the Great, what you call the twelfth century. I have shown you what I know. Without more information . . .”
He lifted his arm and waved it toward the length of the library, as if saying, Take a guess. Johnson would leave here empty-handed unless he revealed more information to his guide. Father Walid, in a short visit to inquire after their progress, treated the old, nameless man with respect. Doc wasn’t sure. But he had no other option, besides wandering aimlessly and picking books at random. Doc took the chance.
“We are in possession of a mezuzah—a brass scroll holder—and the scroll it carried. The scroll is a separate story. It is information, history, about the mezuzah that we seek. The outside of the mezuzah is etched with designs. Upon examination, the etchings and the designs were applied to the outside of the mezuzah at different times by different tools. We know that the mezuzah spent several hundred years in a library in the town of Suez. And one of those sets of symbols contains the mark of Saint Anthony’s cross along with a budding shepherd’s staff and a scorpion—the two symbols carved above the entry door to this library. So, we believe it is very likely that the mezuzah and its scroll spent some of its history in this library.”
Doc weighed and measured his words. He hadn’t given too much away, not yet.
“And why do you pursue the history of this mezuzah? There are many scroll holders here, many quite old, many more mezuzahs in the lands of the Zionists. What is it about this mezuzah that has brought you to this desolate corner of the world? It must be very important. If I knew, perhaps it would help uncover its history here.”
Two thoughts held Doc’s mouth in check. This man was very smart—under the well-worn trappings of a desert nomad simmered a quick, calculating mind—and he was a wise old Muslim, living in the shadow of St. Anthony’s Monastery. A wise Muslim man who probably knew a great deal more than he was revealing. Johnson relished a chess game, a contest of intellect, but not tonight. Each thrust and parry with the old man increased his wariness. Still—he needed to give something if he hoped to find any reference to Abiathar’s scroll and the mezuzah that carried it into this wasteland.
“The scroll we found contained a message, in an ancient code, that led to the discovery of . . . well . . . a Jewish temple hidden under the Temple Mount in Jerusalem.”
“Al-Haram al-Sharif,” the old man countered. “Yes, I have heard of this discovery. And the destruction it caused.”
Doc bristled. “I believe an earthquake caused the destruction.”
Bowing slightly from the waist, the old man nodded. “Yes . . .
but all is destroyed, is that not true?”
Running a hand through his hair, Johnson stalled for time, trying to reign in his rampaging emotions and come up with an appropriate response.
“This mezuzah,” said the old man, breaking the silence, “came from Jerusalem at the time of the European invasion?”
“Yes.”
“Then I know where we may look.”
The old man turned quickly and moved away, down the main aisle and toward the wall on the left. The lower shelves of two bookcases were protected by leaded glass doors. He went to the doors, pulled them open, and—after a momentary search—drew out two leather-bound books. One was large, its leather well oiled, a metal hasp holding the sides together. The cover of the smaller one was dry and cracked and appeared to be seldom used. As the old man turned with the prize in his hands, a cool breeze rushed in from the suddenly open library door.
“Are you still here?” bellowed a monk as round as he was tall. “Out! It’s time to lock up . . . well past time.”
“Lock who up? I’m innocent, I haven’t done anything,” said Rizzo, rolling over and dangling his legs from the side of the table as he rubbed his knuckles in his eyes.
The old man held the book out in front of him. “Forgive our imposition, Brother. But I was just about to show this book to our guests.”
“Take it with you,” said the round monk with a wave of his hand. “He can return it tomorrow. Father Walid trusts him. But out. It’s time to close. Midnight Praise is at four-thirty and the bells for first liturgy ring at six. Morning arrives quite early in the desert.”
Johnson gathered his notes into a battered leather briefcase. The old man had his arms wrapped around the two books in a respectful embrace. As they passed Rizzo, Sammy hopped onto the seat of a chair, then to the floor, falling in beside Johnson.
“Is it time for breakfast?”
24
THURSDAY, AUGUST 20
Dayr al Qiddis Oasis, Egypt
With the notes from the previous afternoon’s research in his left hand, Doc once again scanned the thick, cracked pages of the illuminated manuscript on his room’s table.
“So was it this Temple Guard who first brought the mezuzah to the monastery?”
His body ached. The last time he slept was in the airport hotel in Suez. He didn’t want to count the hours. Throughout the night, Johnson toiled over the larger of the two ancient books—a rambling collection of observances and essays recording various events at the monastery—coaxing clues, fighting for information from its aged secrets while the old man offered slices of the monastery’s history, as if he were unfolding his knowledge, chapter by chapter. Rizzo had long since abandoned their efforts in his need for sleep. But Doc was compelled to continue, to seek the truth of the mezuzah’s history, to search for the clues he hoped were left behind. Sunrise could not be far off, but the old man in the opposite chair showed no sign of weariness. In fact, his mismatched eyes still burned with an intensity that continued to unnerve Johnson and communicated a thinly veiled animosity. As the old man lowered his chin and leaned closer to the table, his stare pierced Johnson’s academic veneer.
“You have some knowledge, but much ignorance,” said the old man, his words like a gloved slap to the cheek—a challenge to the duel.
Johnson laughed in spite of his weariness and unease. “I am certainly grateful for your assistance this afternoon and tonight, but I don’t believe you know me well enough to call me ignorant.”
The two candles on the hand-hewn table sputtered and flickered, offering no heat and only minimal light inside the small, spartan monk’s cell. From the corners, shadows crept closer to the table.
“Western intellectuals . . . do your universities teach arrogance along with ignorance?”
Johnson placed his right hand on the table and closed the distance between himself and the old man. “Perhaps you mistake confidence for arrogance, but either way, I did not accept your invitation to investigate this book, to have you share some of the history of this monastery, in order to be insulted.”
The old man did not look away, did not waver. But he slightly inclined his head toward Doc, momentarily diffusing the tension that simmered above the table. “Forgive me, good doctor,” he said with slippery sincerity. “There was no offense intended.”
Yellow and brown, the old man’s eyes glowed with a fierce, consuming magnetism, at odds with his bent, frail body. “Perhaps I may still assist you? There is still much that you do not know—but should.” Those eyes, a fanatic’s eyes, disarmed Richard Johnson.
Hungrier for the story than he was unnerved by the Arab’s attitude and intensity, Johnson nodded his head in the old man’s direction. “Perhaps much that you should have told me this afternoon, I think. Please . . . enlighten me.”
“More than nine hundred years ago, some pilgrims came to this monastery. They were part of the great European invasion—Crusaders, you call them—those who captured Jerusalem and slaughtered its people. These men were also part of a lay order, the Brotherhood of Saint Anthony. But it is not the pilgrims, or their pilgrimage, that is important to you. Rather, it is what they brought with them—a scroll holder . . . with a message.”
“I knew it!”
“Yes, my good doctor, the same mezuzah and scroll which came into your possession.”
A coil of dread began to wrap itself around Johnson’s heart, like a boa constrictor determined to squeeze the life out of his spirit. “How did you know that?”
“There is much that I know about you, Dr. Johnson . . . and I know much of what you seek to know.”
Another thrust. This one Johnson declined to parry.
“The mezuzah, and scroll it contained, was a great mystery to the Coptic monks who occupied this monastery. They knew it was composed in the ancient Egyptian language of Demotic. But none of them could determine what the message meant. For two hundred years its meaning eluded them. Then a man came and joined the monks of the monastery. A man who loved books, and puzzles. A Coptic . . . and a cryptographer. It took this man five years, poring over the scroll while the other brothers tended the flocks and gardens, before he broke the code and revealed the message.”
Johnson was startled. “You know . . . they knew?”
“You are not the only one to solve this puzzle. The monks of St. Anthony’s Monastery knew for seven hundred years that there was a Jewish temple hidden under the sacred mount in Jerusalem.”
“But . . . why not reveal the secret?”
“Ah, what were they to do? The Umayyad caliphs controlled the land—Egypt, Judea, and Jerusalem. The blessed Haram al-Sharif, the Dome of the Rock, and the Al-Aqsa Mosque were erected six hundred years earlier by the caliph Abd al-Malik. And Jerusalem was over five hundred kilometers distant, through deadly deserts rippling not only with heat, but with ruthless bedouin bandits. Even if these men were released to leave the monastery, it would be a two-month journey. So, instead, they hid the mezuzah and its scroll in a small crypt carved into the foundation of the library building.
“Ultimately, the few brother monks who knew of the mezuzah formed a group of guardians; the Temple Guardians they called themselves. They swore on their faith in the cross of the Nazarene to protect the scroll, its mezuzah, and its message—to keep it a secret until the right moment, the right time to reveal the existence of this hidden temple.”
A chill slipped into the room like a thief, stealing the heat. Johnson shivered and crossed his arms in front of his chest for warmth.
“Over the course of time, this monastery has often been attacked by nomadic bands of raiders. Even after the massive walls were erected, this isolated outpost of Christian heresy remained an inviting target for hungry or greedy bandits. So the monks of the Temple Guardians evolved into a military sect of warrior monks, determined in their defense of the scroll, men who pledged their first allegiance to what became known as the Temple Guard, rather than to the Monastery of St. Anthony. For a time, they succeeded.
And the mezuzah remained safe, and secret.”
Johnson’s distrust of the man’s motives increased at the same pace as his interest in the man’s story. Why is he sharing so much with me? Distrust prevailed when another man, dressed in the same kaffiyeh and kaftan as the old man, slipped silently through the door and took up a sentry’s post in the shadows of the cell.
“Excuse me! And who are you?” Johnson asked the dark, silent shape.
“Forgive me,” purred the old man, the disdain of the powerful dripping from his words. “My servant. He is concerned about my health and welfare at this late hour.”
It’s my health and welfare that concerns me.
“May I continue?” said the old man, gathering up the folds of his kaftan as he shifted his ancient bones in the chair opposite Johnson. “It is very hard to keep a secret for hundreds of years, passing it down from generation to generation, particularly in a closed community such as this. Eventually, knowledge of the mezuzah and the scroll—most importantly, of its message—came to a man of the desert. A man, I am proud to say, whose bloodline still runs in mine after countless generations.
“No wall could deter that man and his Muslim brothers from rescuing the scroll. Its message was a threat to the Haram al-Sharif. Our holy shrines to the prophet Muhammad were at risk if knowledge of the hidden temple was ever revealed to the world. So these sons of Allah also vowed themselves to a warrior brotherhood—servants of the defiled cross.”
The old man reached inside the neck of his kaftan and withdrew a Coptic cross with a lightning bolt slashing through on the diagonal.
The Brotherhood Conspiracy Page 24
