Everyone came to order.

  “Yes, sir,” murmured Davide.

  “You’re on summer break and you choose to spend it here?”

  Davide shrugged. “Don’t you find it interesting?”

  The police officer glanced over his shoulder as a man climbed into the hole. “I suppose it is. It’s nice that it’s not a fresh body for a change.”

  Salamone’s eyes bulged. “Have you seen many dead people?”

  “Too many, and trust me, it’s not as cool as you think, especially when it’s a kid like one of you guys. Aww shit, here comes trouble.”

  Davide peered over at what the officer was looking at, and the blood drained from his face and his knees became weak at the sight of four boys around his age joining the crowd, all with thick beards and the distinctive black and white Palestinian keffiyeh wrapped around their necks.

  Suddenly his yamaka felt ten times heavier.

  Acton activated a fourth light, redirecting the beam. “How’s that?”

  “That’s good right there,” said Laura as she kneeled over the body. She fished out her phone again, taking photographs of their surroundings then of the corpse itself.

  Acton took a knee. “The clothing’s rather nondescript. If he were carrying something this important, you’d think he’d be in more formal attire.”

  Laura agreed. “Considering the year and the situation in Italy at the time, I would’ve thought they would use the Templar network. They must have had their reasons not to, or perhaps they did and he was in disguise.”

  Acton’s head bobbed. “Definite possibility, though unless we find something specific on the body, I doubt we’ll ever know.”

  Laura gently moved what was left of his cloak aside, revealing the leather folio that the letter had been found inside. Apparently, one of the police officers called to the scene initially had opened the folio in an attempt to identify who the victim could be and had removed the letter. Thankfully, after reading the translation provided by Tommy’s app, he had quickly realized he was dealing with something historical rather than modern and stopped anyone else from touching anything, returning the folio to where he had found it. It meant that what they hoped was inside the folio was not only still there, but untouched for 800 years.

  “Ready?”

  Laura nodded.

  Acton repositioned, holding his phone up, live streaming what was about to happen to the team above and to his class back home, if they had managed to get up early enough. She gently slid the folio out from under the man’s tunic, the flesh long since lost to time, allowing it to slide out smoothly. When he was alive, it was likely tight against his chest, secured by a now broken strap. “Interesting that he kept it hidden under his clothes. He must have known that what he was carrying was important and potentially dangerous. God, I’d love to know who this was.”

  “So would I,” agreed Laura. She handed him the folio and they both rose.

  “We’ve got it!” called Acton, peering up the ladder.

  Father Esposito leaned over. “Excellent. Is it intact?”

  “Yes. It looks like the officer put it right back where he found it. As far as we can tell, there’s no damage. We won’t know for sure until we get it up there.”

  “Then come on, man! We’re all dying of suspense up here!”

  Acton chuckled. “How good a catch are you? I can save us a couple of minutes.”

  Esposito laughed. “Don’t you dare!”

  “Fine. We’ll do it the slow way.”

  Jihad gestured toward the group of Zionists standing across from them. He shoulder-bumped his best friend Haasim. “Do you see what I see?”

  “You mean the Jewish pigs?”

  “Yes. They have the nerve to wear their symbols of hate. I think before we leave, we should grab those little hats of theirs and add them to the collection. We’ll deal with them later. Look.” Jihad jabbed a finger toward where the action was occurring. The man and woman who had gone into the hole were now emerging, something dark and rectangular having been carefully handed up moments ago, taken by those who had remained above. It was obviously what they were here for.

  “So just exactly what is this thing?” asked Haasim.

  “It’s called the Treatise of the Three Impostors. It’s a blasphemous document that claims that Muhammad, peace be upon him, was a fraud and that our faith is a lie.”

  Haasim’s nostrils flared. “Are you kidding me? How dare they!”

  “Who wrote it?” asked Ziad.

  “Some Christian emperor eight hundred years ago. Apparently, the pope at the time got his hands on it.”

  Haasim sniffed hard, his fists clenched. “And now another pope is going to have it and you just know the way these people are. They’re going to make all kinds of copies of it and spread lies about the prophet, peace be upon him, and our religion.”

  Jihad agreed. “We need to get our hands on it and destroy it.”

  Ziad eyed him. “And just how the hell do you propose we do that?”

  Jihad eyed the area. There were only four police officers, but they were fully grown men and armed. If they managed to snatch the document, he would only need a minute or two to destroy it, to tear it into pieces, and he couldn’t see the police shooting him over paper. Then again, once they saw his keffiyeh, they would know he was Muslim, so would likely fire freely. He didn’t want to die, but if he did, fighting for his religion, he was guaranteed entry into Jannah, where he would spend eternity in paradise with 72 virgins as his reward for his sacrifice.

  I wonder why it’s 72.

  It seemed a rather specific number. He would ask his cleric the next time he spoke to him, though if things got out of control today, he could just ask the virgins himself. Tonight. A shiver ran through his entire body, a mixture of fear and excitement. To think he could become a martyr this very day was thrilling. In Italy, he never expected to find the opportunity, which was why he intended to move to Lebanon so he could perhaps join Hezbollah and become a martyr for the cause while taking the lives of as many Zionists as he could.

  He watched as the group of scientists carried what they had found to a large tent nearby where he lost sight of them, any hope of snatching it gone.

  He pulled out his phone and turned to the others. “Reach out to everyone you know. We need reinforcements. And tell them to bring weapons if they’ve got them. Today, we fight for the prophet, peace be upon him, and the truth he shared!”

  The tent was large but crowded, though no one complained. The excitement among the archaeological team was palpable and Acton was pleased to see Tommy and Mai were just as excited. Tommy, an experienced podcaster with a large following, had his phone out, recording the proceedings, quietly commenting on what was happening, his broadcast shared with Acton’s class back home and, hopefully, hundreds if not thousands of others. Unfortunately, since this was science, he would be surprised if even a dozen people were tuned in. A celebrity could get millions of views because they posted an eight-second video of them shaking their ta-tas while chewing a piece of gum, proving with pride they could do two things at once, but the important things in life went unnoticed, uncelebrated.

  Father Esposito spoke in English for the benefit of his guests. He listed off the dimensions for the record then put the measuring tape aside. “I’m now going to open the cover of the folio. It appears to be made of leather. It appears dry though not brittle. Our working theory is that the location was an old root cellar, obviously abandoned at the time, otherwise, our subject would have been found in his own era rather than ours.”

  The leather cover was gently flipped open. Several people leaned in, taking photos and video, and Esposito reached up, adjusting several of the lamps shining down on his workspace. He leaned over and peered inside, the interior of the folio now visible with the cover flap out of the way.

  He stepped back, smiling at the others. “There appears to be something inside.”

  Acton exchanged an excited glance with Laura, hopping up and down on her toes.

  “I’m going to open the case slightly wider, though I’m not going to attempt to remove the contents. I just want to see if I can get a better sense of the condition of what’s inside.” He gently lifted the top of the exposed folio, and as he leaned over, he smiled.

  “It’s unfortunately sticking to the leather, but it definitely appears to be a document of some type, multiple pages folded together.” He stood back, excited. “We definitely have something here, people. And as much as I’d like to extract the document now and confirm what we believe it is, I think you’ll all agree that would be the wrong thing to do. We need to proceed at the proper facilities to preserve the integrity of the find. Agreed?”

  Everyone in the tent agreed, including Acton and Laura. The man was right. Too many things had been destroyed over the years by giving in to the excitement of the moment. Disciplined archaeologists would delay their gratification to make certain they didn’t destroy that which they had discovered.

  Esposito pointed to a case in the corner. “Grab that for me, would you?”

  One of the other Vatican scientists retrieved the case and positioned it on the table. Esposito opened it then carefully placed the folio inside before sealing it shut. He turned to the others. “Now, I know we’re all eager to see exactly what this document is, but we have another find here. Who was our messenger? Why don’t we go see what we can discover?”

  Davide watched as the scientists emerged from the large tent, unable to contain his excitement. “What did you find?” he shouted, and one of the scientists turned, smiling broadly.

  “We found a leather folio on our messenger friend, and inside, we’ve confirmed there are several pages folded together.”

  “Is it the Treatise?”

  “Too early to say. We’ll open it in a lab under proper conditions, otherwise, we could destroy the pages.”

  “They should be destroyed anyway!” shouted someone, and the gathered crowd gasped.

  The man answering the questions turned toward the voice. “And why is that?”

  One of the Muslims wearing the kaffiyeh that Davide had noticed earlier, stepped forward. “It’s a blasphemous document, an insult to Islam, and it should be destroyed!”

  “It’s a piece of history that is a danger to no one.”

  “You call yourselves men of God, yet you do nothing! You will all pay for your sins! That, I promise you!”

  The police officer they had spoken with earlier sauntered over, his demeanor the same as earlier as he attempted to maintain calm. “Everybody just settle down. There’s no need for trouble here. Just let the scientists do their jobs.”

  “It’s a free country! I’m allowed to say what I want!”

  The officer smiled. “That’s not exactly true. You just threatened all these people.”

  “I did no such thing. I merely said they’d pay for their sins.”

  “Oh, I think we all know what you really meant and because you chose your words carefully, it’s the only reason you’re not under arrest. So, if you want to stick around and watch what’s going on, then keep your mouth shut or I will have you removed for disturbing the peace.”

  “You mean you’ll have us removed for being Muslim!”

  “Son, I couldn’t care less what religion you are. Now, are you going to behave or am I having you removed?”

  The teenager sneered at him then turned on his heel, beckoning his friends to follow, and Davide breathed a relieved sigh as they disappeared into the trees, heading back toward the rest stop.

  Salamone stared at him, wide-eyed. “That was intense!”

  Davide agreed. “Tell me about it. You just knew they were going to be troublemakers. Imagine, showing up with those terrorist colors. I can understand wearing them at a protest, but to come to a place like this? It just means you want trouble. Good thing there are only four of them and that the police are here, otherwise, there could be trouble.”

  27 |

  Autonomous Municipality of Sipicciano AD 1239

  “I think you’re taking advantage of me.”

  The stable owner chuckled. “No, my friend, it is you who is taking advantage of me. This is a long-distance horse. He’ll take you three times as far in a day as the one you traded me.”

  Sir Ricardo smiled as he counted out several coins, placing them in the man’s palm. “I suppose then it is a fair trade.”

  “It is. Come back at the top of the hour and I’ll have everything ready for you.”

  Ricardo thanked the man and left. Three days of hard riding had exhausted him and his horse, and no matter how well fed or watered, the overnight hours were simply not enough for the poor creature to fully recover and meet his needs. A fresh horse was necessary. Not to mention the fact he required supplies.

  In his mind, he had broken the journey up into three-day stages. Anything longer would require more supplies, which would weigh down his horse. If he were using Templar resources, he would be doing much the same. Unfortunately, he wasn’t, despite his desperate desire to sleep with a roof over his head rather than a tent. The nights were cold, which taxed him and his horse, yet he had no choice. In the days since he had left Rome, he had seen scores of Templar messengers racing past in groups, far more activity than there normally should be.

  And he was now convinced it must have something to do with him.

  Yet there was still a possibility it didn’t concern him at all. He had planned on traveling the entire route incommunicado with his brothers due to the nature of the mission, though he had never thought his journey would be consumed by concerns that his order might not have his best interests at heart. His orders had been given to him by the Templar Master’s sergeant and had been labeled non contramand. It meant only the Templar Master, in person, could override his orders.

  What concerned him was that Rome was aware of this, and also aware that any orders they might be sending out in an attempt to call him back were meaningless, the entire thing a useless endeavor. Because the Order wasn’t known for wasting its time, he had to assume the messages weren’t meant for him, they were meant for his brothers, and those instructions would be to stop him. And if that were the case, what had changed?

  He pressed his hand against his chest, feeling the document concealed underneath his cloak. If only he knew what it was he carried, it might help him decide what to do. Could his order have discovered what the document was and decided it shouldn’t be delivered? Or could they have discovered his destination, the emperor’s court, and made the decision that they didn’t want to get involved in the feud between the papacy and the Holy Roman Emperor? Yet no matter the reason, due to his orders labeled non contramand, there was nothing that could be done.

  Yet he had to know. And he did have an option. He could return to Rome, meet with Sir Enrico, and find out for himself. Yet it would mean a six day delay in his mission at a minimum, and if it were indeed urgent that this document reach the court on schedule, he would have failed in his mission. Non contramand orders were only issued when there was no doubt of the urgency and necessity of the mission, and when there was concern someone might attempt to interfere. Any order that these messengers might be carrying could be just that—an attempt to interfere. They might not have even come from the Templar Master.

  The monk he had met with had been terrified. Something important was going on here. Something big. If it involved the Church and the Holy Roman Emperor, there could be nothing bigger. No, he had to follow his orders. He had to continue on mission. There was no room for any doubt.

  He continued to walk the streets of the town when he rounded a corner, the flag of the local Templar commandery fluttering in the cold breeze. Several of his brothers were out front closely watching those passing by, and if the goings on weren’t merely a figment of his imagination but were indeed genuine, they were no doubt seeking him. Though they would have no idea what he looked like.

  He glanced down at his garments. Nothing he wore, at first glance, would identify him as a Templar. He frowned. That wasn’t correct. His boots were Templar issue. An experienced knight might notice that.

  Another messenger galloped up, coming to a halt in front of the commandery, one of the knights stepping out and taking the reins as the messenger leaped off the back of his steed and raced inside.

  And Ricardo made a decision.

  Perhaps not a smart one.

  He strode across the street and down an alley, then cut up toward the rear of the commandery. He headed quickly toward the fenced-in rear where the stables were located, his eyes scanning the area. He spotted no one, so quietly opened the gate, slipping inside before closing it behind him. Several stable hands were tending horses, but nobody paid him any mind which wasn’t surprising. After all, this wasn’t the Holy Land, overrun by Saracens.

  He walked toward the rear of the building and positioned himself near a window, partially open, voices carrying.

  “When was this dispatched?”

  “Last night from the Templar Master.”

  The distinctive snap of a wax seal breaking had Ricardo leaning in closer, holding a hand up to his ear. A paper crinkled then there was a curse. “You’re dismissed but hold for a return reply. And get me my sergeant.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Footfalls followed, replaced moments later by heavier ones. “You wanted to see me, Sir Martino?”

  “Close the door.”

  The door shut and Ricardo shifted his position slightly, desperate not to miss a word. The paper crinkled once again as if Sir Martino was shaking it. “An urgent dispatch from Sir Enrico Teutonico himself.”

  “Am I permitted to know what it is about?”

  “Yes. Everyone is to be informed. We are to be on the lookout for one of our own. Sir Ricardo Gabillone needs to be stopped at all costs.”

  “Do we know why?”

  “Who goes there?”

  Ricardo spun to find a squire approaching. He backed away from the window, raising his hands to show he wasn’t armed.

 

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