Nightbringer (3 page)

"Just what, exactly, was the Order of the Knights Templar?"

Haider's eyes narrowed at the wall. "In layman's terms the Knights were a very select group of highly skilled soldiers who served only God. They did not answer to the authority of any country or even the Church. Yet they fought valiantly in a hundred wars, defending the weak, the oppressed, those tyrannized by cruel lords and kings. They were supposedly the bravest warriors, refusing surrender even when they were utterly doomed. They were not dependent on any kingdom for the means to fight their campaigns. In fact, their private treasury was enormous, which is the reputed reason for their demise."

"Really?"

Gina's love for history quickly overtook her skepticism.

The professor shared his knowledge with the humblest tone. "Yes, according to the most reliable accounts, the pope at that time envied their wealth and influence, so he ordered they be executed for witchcraft and personally assumed control of their treasury."

"I've read about the Knights before, Professor. But I think there was more involved than just money. Tell me. How did the Knights become so rich?"

"Well, that occurred over a period of hundreds of years, of course. But they basically accumulated their immense wealth during the Crusades by collecting donations from grateful monarchs and taxes from those they conquered. In fact—and I hesitate to add this, since it seems most impractical—some say the Knights were never actually destroyed. Indeed, it is rumored in some secretive quarters that their heirs maintain a vigil over the relics to this very day."

"Why were the Knights so secretive?"

The professor paused, as if he'd never considered the question. Or because he had considered the question so completely that he was surprised someone even asked it. "Well, it was, of course, rumored that the Knights practiced ancient Hebrew rituals—intricate spells to forbid demons from interfering in our world. And, allegedly, they did not wish the world to possess such knowledge because it was so terribly dangerous."
He shrugged. "Who knows? But something that is not legend is their military prowess. The Knights were, without question, a great and well-organized martial force and are said to secretly influence the destiny of nations even today."

Gina was quiet, then, "You know, I don't doubt much anymore, but that sounds pretty fantastic." She carefully considered the wall. "Do you believe any of it?"

With a slight frown indicating humble uncertainty, the professor remarked, "Yes, I suppose I do believe that the Knights endured—simply because that is where logic leads."

"Logic? Why's that?"

"Well, it doesn't seem logical that an army as powerful as the Knights Templar could be destroyed so easily. In fact, if defeat in battle seemed inevitable, I would certainly not engage the enemy without first securing a number of my men within the nobility of a half-dozen countries. There would be no center of power—no target that could crush the empire. Then, even if they lost the war, they would continue in secret and, for certain, the accumulated wealth would have been hidden far too well for discovery. Of course, they would have sacrificed a measure just for credibility. But the lion's share would be dispersed to numerous strongholds—unknown even to other knights—so that no single act of betrayal would be crippling."

Gina blinked. "You don't have to be a criminal to have a criminal mind," she said.

She searched and saw Josh sitting before a table, his chin supported on his hands. He was staring at a strange device with three rows of solid silver balls suspended on what looked like strands of fishing line connected to parallel sticks mounted on an iron bracket. She didn't know what it was.

"Excuse me, Professor
," she said and moved toward Josh.

He nodded politely and strolled across the room as their Spanish driver, Miguel, paused beside Josh. Though still a dozen feet apart, Gina caught the words.

"No one knows what it is," Miguel commented dryly. "They think it was some kind of Roman game. But anyone who knew how to play it has been dead for a thousand years." He smiled. "Maybe you'll be the first to figure it out!"

Josh flicked the steel balls. They clacked for a moment before falling still, and Gina saw that the balls were suspended too closely to maintain momentum. "So nobody knows what it is?" she asked mildly.

Miguel shook his head. "No, ma'am. It is a mystery, as many things within the abbey are a mystery."

"Yes, I've sensed that."

Monsignor DeMarco's dignified aura shadowed them as he approached. Gina turned and smiled politely as the middle-aged priest gazed over Josh. Then the monsignor reached out and lifted one of the sticks. He placed it in a notch, suspending the middle row of silver balls above the rest. He pointed to a row of strings.

"Push this one, young man."

Josh gazed up a moment, doubtful, and then gently pushed the middle row. The movements were instantly free and rhythmic and seemed as though they could continue all day. Not perpetual motion, but the closest thing Gina had ever seen. "That's remarkable, Monsignor. Miguel said that no one has ever figured it out."

"I
saw one many years ago." The monsignor smiled. "It's a Roman metronome. It was used for singing—so everyone could sing together." His countenance grew somber. "There must have been at least a few happy times for that poor, spiritless empire."

"I thought Rome was the most powerful empire of the ancient world."

"Perhaps in scope," the monsignor commented, "But when Rome finally spread their power to northern England their forces became too thinly spread and were consequently decimated by the Celts. But the empire was in decline, anyway, by that time. The power of the senate and the power of the militia had been displaced by the power of wealth and private armies. There was no one worth calling Caesar. Even centurions warred among themselves—those who worshiped the Christian God and those who remained loyal to the host of gods stolen from Greece."

Gina knew history well enough to follow.

"Actually," he added offhand, "Rome had no philosophy or mythology at all—not to speak of. They simply stole what they worshipped—shamelessly, I might add—from the Greeks; a rather remarkable action for such a proud nation. But as to your first comment; the most powerful nation of ancient times was not Rome at all.

“Really,” stated Gina.

"Indeed,” the professor nodded. “The most powerful nation—the most powerful army, the most powerful people in intellectual depth and scope of influence was unquestionably Israel when David ruled."

Gina's mouth had opene
d slightly as the monsignor finished. She realized she was gaping. "Israel?"

The monsignor laughed loudly, eyes gleaming. "Oh, dear! I suppose you, too, have been duped by those who say Israel was a leper colony led by vagabond prophets who hid in holes in the
ground? A nation lorded over by an ignorant shepherd boy who never did anything worth remembering? A poor fool who managed to take the throne of Israel as both priest and king?"

Gina was already persuaded but the monsignor continued with a smile. "Yes, poor Israel
, who defeated the Moabites, the Amalekites, the Egyptians and every other nation that existed during its time."

He stood back, staring frankly. "Answer me something, Ms.
Crosswell. If David had wished to conquer the entire ancient world, who could have stopped him?"

Gina blinked. "Egypt?"

"Egypt sued David for peace when David was not even planning to invade," the monsignor pronounced more seriously. "Yes, a royal envoy delivered a thousand gold shields to David, begging him not to invade Egypt—a thousand gold shields to a man who cared more about playing with his children than storming their borders. And so, who else was there—mighty Askelon with its unconquerable walls three hundred feet in height? Yes, indeed, mighty Askelon, which archeologists have concluded was one of the most powerful city-nations of the ancient world?" He shook his head sadly. "Alas, Askelon, too, fell to David when he threatened to drive them into the sea if they ever raised the sword against a single Hebrew. And so no sword was raised—not while David lived. He allowed them to exist only as long as they remained within their boundaries and survived by their sea trade with Egypt,"

With a quiet nod the monsignor turned to gaze across the vast display of relics. "And yet
..."

"And yet?"

The monsignor's brow hardened as he gazed over the chamber. Or perhaps, Gina sensed, somehow, those within the chamber. The old priest's voice was abruptly strange.

"And yet there was, perhaps, one even greater than
David...."

Gina laughed. "I find that hard to believe, Monsignor. Who would that be?"

"Well," he began, "it is only legend, so I give it little merit." He blinked, and then sighed. "Actually, I give it no merit whatsoever. I should not have mentioned it."

"Oh, come on. I have a curious nature. Who was it? And legend is always more interesting than fact."

"Well, this legend is certainly more interesting than any fact that I can recall."

"And
... sooo?"

The monsignor caved. "Well, my dear, there is a legend, as you probably know, that
some of the people that Jesus physically resurrected from death cannot die again in this world by natural means. They must be killed by force—from bullets, swords, fire, or water." He waved vaguely. "Whatever. But according to legend they do not age, nor are they susceptible to sickness or disease."

"Ah, the legend of The Wandering Jew. Yeah,
I’ve heard it."

"Of course you have, Ms.
Crosswell," he conceded. "And that is all it is—a story told by superstitious people. And believe me; no one is more superstitious than a Gregorian monk."

"Call me Gina, please," she said.

With a deferential bow, the monsignor clasped his hands behind his back. "Of course—Gina. In any case—as I said— some legends are too incredible to accept, but some are truly worthy of consideration. Yet I have always been fascinated by the way so many legends seem to come together in this abbey.” He nodded slowly. “"Indeed, there are many things to amaze within Saint Gregory's. Perhaps you will allow me to explain some of its history another day."

Changed the subject smoothly enough
...

Gina nodded.

"I'd consider it an honor, Monsignor DeMarco."

"Then it's a date."

They laughed as Father Stephen appeared in the main entrance of the Great Hall. Gina saw a banquet table behind him in what was apparently the dining hall. The Father Abbot raised his hands as he had done when they arrived.

"Friends, dinner awaits."

Gina took a single step before she realized Josh was not moving and turned back. "Josh? Time to eat, little man."

Josh still didn't move. His voice came from the very small center of him. "I don't like this place, Mom."

Brow hardening, Gina stared. Then she walked slowly forward and draped an arm over his shoulders.

"What's wrong, baby?"

"This place is scary."

Gina smiled gently. "Honey, this is just an old place with lots of
cool skeletons and statues and stuff! Just like we saw in Germany! Remember that big church with all those bones that you thought was so cool?"

Josh's gaze roamed the walls.
His voice was small; "Places like this have monsters."

"Monsters!" Gina laughed
and then seemed to realize it was a serious moment. She leaned forward and Josh turned his face to her, eye to eye. "Baby, you're nine years old now. You know there's no such things as monsters."

Josh didn't raise his face.

"Yeah ... there's no such things as monsters."

* * *

Chapter Four

Father Stephen turned to the hulking figure that stood unmoving in the doorway that led from a corridor buried deep beneath the abbey to the catacombs and ancient ruins.

"How long will you
tempt a dark and terrible fate?" Melanchthon said like a judge pronouncing doom. "How long will you tempt the Lord with your acquiescence to the demands of Rome?"

"It is my duty to obey Rome
." Father Stephen's frown was resolute and conditioned. "You have no authority to question my actions as long as the archbishops ordain them."

"The archbishops are not here!" Melanchthon retorted. "If they spent even a single night in this tomb do you think they would so rashly endorse these tours? Only a madman would sanction the presence of innocent people in this place of the damned."

Stephen sighed and lifted his hands to heaven. "And so, once again, we are damned?"

"Yes."

The father abbot faintly shook his head and glanced away before looking back. "Brother, your
warnings
have never been proven to be of any merit. I understand your cause of concern. There may perhaps be secrets buried here that no one should learn but—"

"Or disturb."

"Yes, of course – or disturb. But we do not know that as a fact. In truth, despite your tireless searching you have never discovered anything meriting even an open letter to Rome." His mouth tightened at Melanchthon's grave countenance. "Do you not think you should at least discover some type of evidence of danger before you sentence us all to death?"

"What I have sensed is evidence enough."

"Yes, of course, again with this strange figure stalking the darkened corridors of this abbey—the monstrous shape that has never been seen by any but yourself. A shape that leaves no trace, that eats nothing and drinks nothing. A shape that disappears like a ghost." He stared. "My friend, I do not doubt that you have sensed something but I have found no evidence to conclude that there is something strange here. And so I see no legitimate cause to disobey Rome. In fact, these tours are the best means of destroying these superstitious stories that have plagued us for years so I do not see the harm."

"If men could see the harm in their actions they would not die unfortunate deaths." Melanchthon's gaze was somber. "The halls of this place have seen much death."

"Death from what?"

Melanchthon frowned. "I do not know."

With a sigh Father Stephen's face nodded. "Then I have no choice but to obey. And I abjure you to assist me—to accommodate our guests in a manner worthy of your great dignity, as I know you certainly will. For I also know that, despite your vague misgivings, you mean no harm." He waited. "So, will you join me, Brother?"

Melanchthon's countenance was that of a displeased Moses. Finally he bowed his head. "I will join you," he said at last, "because neither of us will leave this place alive."

***

Table conversation ranged widely from the fascinating to the unbelievable and Gina suppressed a smile as she saw Josh following every sentence, especially those of Monsignor DeMarco who had won Josh's complete allegiance when he helped him with the
metronome.

The monsignor and Professor Haider were obviously scholars of the first order. To amuse the children they had spoken in French, German, and Italian and Josh and Rachel were, indeed, fascinated. Then Father DeMarco switched languages again
– to English.

"So your discipline is anthropology, Professor?"

"Yes, Monsignor."

The monsignor nodded, then glanced at Josh. "
Quod exspectavi aim sum adsecutus
."

The professor laughed. "
Inplerisque non civitatibus.
"

"Spanish!" Josh said. "I can speak Spanish!"

Rachel paused. "Josh, you can't."

"Yes I can!" Josh leaned lovingly into her and mooned
a kiss. "
Hablo Espanol me amor-a
?"

Rachel rolled her eyes. "No, goofball, and neither do you."

The professor and monsignor laughed. Laughing also, Gina turned to Father Stephen, who occupied a chair at the head of the table. The Father Abbot had remained silent for most of the dinner, and even the small comments he offered had been concise. But Gina wanted to know more about the monastery. She told herself that it had nothing to do with the strange uneasiness that Josh had inspired in her.

"I think it's wonderful what you're doing with the abbey, Father," Gina said to soften the strange tension. "I mean, opening it so people can stay overnight and understand your
cloistered way of life. It's a rich experience. Especially for the children."

"Yes," the senior priest replied with a smile. "Saint Gregory's is rich in history. In fact, I believe we have more documents and artifacts from the period of Christ than any other."

At that, the professor took a more serious tone. "I have also heard legends of a great religious relic buried deep within these walls, Father."

"A relic?" Gina asked.

"
The
relic," said the professor.

Father Stephen paused for a sip of wine, then, "Legend is so much more exciting than reality, I'm afraid."

"And far more terrible," boomed a voice at once prophetic and angry—a voice that instantly commanded everyone's attention.

Gina turned to see an old but statuesque monk standing at the entrance. White-haired with impenetrable black eyes, he appeared centuries and centuries old, but it was impossible to determine his age. His fingers were slightly curled, as if from centuries of hammering. Then he entered the room with balanced, ponderous strides undiminished by
weakness or age.

"Allow me to introduce myself," he
intoned. "I am Brother Melanchthon, chief historian and theologian of Saint Gregory's. I shall explain anything you desire and give breath and spirit to empires long claimed by dust."

Only Josh didn't seem intimidated. "Tell me about Rome!"

"At your service, boy." Melanchthon walked along a wall and lifted his hand. "The greatest majesty of ancient Rome is before you. Relics of wars against the Franks and Lombards— the Byzantines and Magyars and Patzinaks who fought in small bands with bow, javelin, and scimitar. Here," he motioned, "are the Saracens, the most dangerous of all the enemies of Rome."

"Why?" Josh asked.

Melanchthon turned. "Because, boy, the Saracens were experts at hit and run—at quick attacks where they would destroy a single platoon and then fade into the mountains." He nodded, confirming it all to himself. "Yes, the Saracens crippled mighty legions one piece at a time before the Roman generals Phillipus Arabs and Iunius Aureolis discovered their single weakness and learned to take advantage of it."

Josh was rapt. "What was
their single weakness?"

"The weakness of the Saracens was that they must retreat. They did not command enough men for a forthright war
and so they were continually forced to withdraw. What Aureolis discovered was that, instead of chasing them—a futile exercise— he could simply close all passes from the region where they'd attacked. Then his soldiers would simply advance and close the net centimeter by centimeter, allowing not even a caterpillar to crawl through the line until the enemy was discovered and destroyed."

"Wow."

"Yes," Melanchthon said seriously. "Wow."

Professor Haider shook his head. "I had thought myself to be well
schooled in history, Brother Melanchthon. But you seem to have a firsthand knowledge of the ancient world."

"Thank you," Melanchthon replied steadily as he walked to the statue of the Roman centurion. "I have spent many years in the abbey learning
and finally understanding what it contains."

He raised a hand to the statue of a Roman centurion.

The centurion's armor and red cape were in pristine condition. The ivory hilt of the short sword that hung at his waist was polished white. His breastplate had a lion emblazoned in gold within a silver circle. The steel gauntlets, certainly reproductions, were intricately woven from threads of leather sewn into a wool-lined leather sheath.

"Ah," Melanchthon whispered,
“and as to fantastic legend—here is a man who became a legend even while he lived. And as some say … never died."

Gina noticed the professor's minute nod. He was obviously familiar with this legend; she wasn't. "I suppose there's a reason for this
legend?"

"Yes," Melanchthon said quietly. "Tis the armor of Gaius Cassius Longinus—the centurion who crucified the Son of God."

There was palpable shock in the room, and Melanchthon continued. "Yes, it was Cassius who nailed the Prince of All the Earth to the crucifix. Then, realizing what he had done, Cassius stared upon the cross and said, 'Surely this was the Son of God ...'"

Melanchthon circled the table, drawing visions with his hands and far-staring eyes. "And then Annas, aged advisor of the Sanhedrin, and Cai
aphas, the high priest, dispatched thirty temple guards to Golgotha—the Hill of the Skull— to break the bones of the one called Messiah. For Caiaphas remembered the prophecy of the psalmist: 'He keepeth all his bones: not one of them is broken.' And if the temple guards could only break a single bone, Jesus could not be the Messiah. But word of their intention spread to the very foot of the cross, and Cassius was prepared."

"Cassius
?" Gina said before she could prevent herself. "The centurion who crucified him?"

"Yes," Melanchthon intoned, more serious. "Sword in hand, the centurion challenged the temple guards at the foot of the cross. They said they had come to break the legs of the one called Messiah
. But Cassius would not let them pass. They said they were under strict orders from the Sanhedrin and would complete their mission by force, if necessary. But still, Cassius still would not let them pass.

"Enraged, the temple guards threatened to kill the centurion. Then Cassius mounted his horse and charged upon Golgotha, stabbing at them with his spear, refusing to let them reach the body of Jesus. For he knew Jesus was the Son of God and he would allow no one to break His bones. And when the pitch of battle demanded death Cassius shouted that there was no reason to break the bones of the Messiah because He was already dead. And so he thrust his spear into the side of Jesus, and water and blood were released."

No one in the room had moved in a while.

"Caiaphas' ruse was revealed," Melanchthon added quietly, seemingly oblivious to the stillness. "For his guards had said that they only wanted to prove Jesus was dead. But the centurion had already proven that Jesus was dead, so there was no reason to break His legs
unless what they truly wanted to do was desecrate the body of one who might well have been the genuine Messiah."

Melanchthon passed the chair of Father Stephen and approached Gina. His ominous tone continued, and Gina felt tiny hairs rise on the back of her neck.

"So ... the centurion who killed Christ protected Christ, in the end. And it was rumored among those of the early Church that Cassius was then chosen by God to wander the earth until Jesus returned, protecting all the children of God."

Gina released a long withheld breath. "I don't understand. What's the legend? I mean
; what does any of that have to do with this abbey?"

Melanchthon paused, hands heavy at his sides. "The legend, madam, is that hidden somewhere within these walls
is the spear of Gaius Cassius Longinus—the very spear that pierced the side of the Son of God. And it is said that one day Cassius will return to claim his spear and fight within these walls the greatest battle he has fought in two thousand years. His greatest battle against his greatest foe—a battle that will decide the destiny of the Earth."

"But what
..." Josh asked tentatively, "...what if Cassius doesn't win?"

Melanchthon's face bent.

"Then, boy, God's warrior will die. And the earth shall suffer a dark night of horror so great that no flesh will survive, but for the return of the Son of Man, who is the Son of God."

* * *