Thief on the Cross: Templar Secrets in America (Templars in America Series Book 2) Read online

  Thief on the Cross

  Templar Secrets in America

  Copyright © 2011 by David S. Brody

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, scanning or by any other information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the author: [email protected]

  Eyes That See Publishing

  Westford, Massachusetts

  ISBN 978-0-9820732-6-1

  1st edition

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Except as otherwise noted in the Author’s Note, any resemblance to actual events or people, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Printed in USA

  Praise for David S. Brody’s Books

  “Brody does a terrific job of wrapping his research in a fast-paced thrill ride that will feel far more like an action film than an academic paper.”

  —PUBLISHERS WEEKLY (Cabal of the Westford Knight)

  “Strongly recommended for all collections.”

  —LIBRARY JOURNAL (The Wrong Abraham)

  “Will keep you up even after you’ve put it down.”

  —Hallie Ephron, BOSTON GLOBE (Blood of the Tribe)

  “A riveting, fascinating read.”

  —MIDWEST BOOK REVIEW (The Wrong Abraham)

  “Best of the Coming Season.”

  —BOSTON MAGAZINE (Unlawful Deeds)

  “A compelling suspense story and a searing murder mystery.”

  —THE BOSTON PHOENIX (Blood of the Tribe)

  “A comparison to The Da Vinci Code and National Treasure is inevitable…. The story rips the reader into a fast-paced adventure.”

  —FRESH FICTION (Cabal of the Westford Knight)

  “An excellent historical conspiracy thriller. It builds on its most famous predecessor, The Da Vinci Code, and takes it one step farther—and across the Atlantic.”

  —MYSTERY BOOK NEWS (Cabal of the Westford Knight)

  “The action and danger are non-stop, leaving you breathless. It is one hell of a read.”

  —ABOUT.COM Book Reviews Unlawful Deeds)

  “The year is early, but this book will be hard to beat; it’s already on my ‘Best of 2009’ list.”

  —BARYON REVIEW (Cabal of the Westford Knight)

  “Five Stars.”

  —Harriet Klausner, AMAZON (The Wrong Abraham)

  “An enormously fun read, exceedingly hard to put down.”

  —The BOOKBROWSER (Unlawful Deeds)

  “A feast.”

  —ARTS AROUND BOSTON (Unlawful Deeds)

  About the Author

  David S. Brody is a Boston Globe bestselling fiction writer recently named Boston’s “Best Local Author” by the Boston Phoenix newspaper. He serves as a Director of the Westford Historic Society and is a former Director of the New England Antiquities Research Association (NEARA). A graduate of Tufts University and Georgetown Law School, he is an avid researcher in the subject of pre-Columbian exploration of America. In his spare time he coaches his two daughters’ youth sports teams, skis, and plays on adult ice hockey and softball teams.

  For more information, please visit:

  DavidBrodyBooks.com

  Also by the Author

  Unlawful Deeds

  Blood of the Tribe

  The Wrong Abraham

  Cabal of the Westford Knight: Templars at the Newport Tower

  Preface

  This novel is a continuation of the themes I first explored in Cabal of the Westford Knight. Specifically, did ancient explorers visit the shores of North America, and if so, why? Readers of Cabal will recognize its protagonists, Cameron and Amanda, as well as the Knights Templar themes. However, The Thief on the Cross is not a sequel to Cabal and readers who have not read Cabal should feel free to jump right in.

  As in Cabal, the artifacts and art work pictured in this story are real. Readers may want to first visit the Author’s Note at the end of this book for a more detailed discussion of the issue of artifact authenticity.

  The research for this story has taken me to areas where, quite frankly, I never thought I’d go. A few years ago I knew very little about John the Baptist, the Book of Mormon, Leonardo da Vinci, the Mandan Indians, Burrows Cave and the divinity of Jesus Christ. Somehow these seemingly unrelated subjects weaved themselves together (along with the Templars) to produce this story. I hope readers find these subjects, and their possible connections to each other, as compelling as I do.

  I recognize that, compelling or not, the themes explored in this story are controversial and may be offensive to readers with strong religious beliefs. I simply followed the path down which my research took me. I apologize in advance to readers who may be offended by this story.

  --David S. Brody

  Warning

  This book contains themes that may be offensive to readers with strong Christian or other religious beliefs.

  PROLOGUE

  [Paris, December 25, 1309]

  Gaul de Teus was not yet dead, but no longer alive. He had been holding on for months, his hatred for his French captors and their Vatican lackeys keeping his heart beating long after any spark of life burned in his soul. He forced open his eyes, a slit of sunlight barely visible in his underground cell. Finally the day had arrived.

  “Tell them I will confess on Christmas morning,” he had told his guards. He knew it likely King Philippe and the king’s sickly pawn, Pope Clement V, would attend and view the confession as part of their holiday festivities. Neither would want to miss a good torture. Over the past two-plus years many of his brother Templars had died at the hands of their inquisitors. Others had withdrawn their confessions just before death. He would instead provide a confession his captors would wish they had never heard.

  The guards came for him mid-morning, dragging him from his underground stone chamber, his feet too blistered and his kneecaps too shattered to support his weight. The cat-sized rats peered at him as he shuffled along, sniffing at the decay that hung over him, furious to see him leaving their lair. Only yesterday, or perhaps the day before, the guards had covered his face with rancid cheese, tied him down and allowed the rats to feast; he had clamped closed his mouth and eyes but most of the skin on his face and inside his nose had been gnawed away, replaced by a puss-filled, scabby paste of putrid flesh. The pain he had suffered was unimaginable. But the indignation fueled the loathing which kept him alive.

  Outside, he gulped at the fresh winter air, almost reigniting the flame of life within him. He closed his mouth. None of that. Now was not the time to think about living.

  They led him into a courtyard, the sunlight assaulting his eyes. A raised platform had been constructed along one wall, a dozen ornate chairs set side by side as a viewing station. A pile of coals, orange and angry, glowed in the center. A stockade stood near the flames. Later in the day that same flame would likely be used to roast the Yule boar for the evening feast. Apparently King Philippe viewed the roasting of his Templar prisoner as a mere appetizer. But it was the corrupt king and his spineless pope who would burn in hell.

  The stockade stood eight feet tall. The guards stripped de Teus to his loincloth, hoisted him up and clamped his neck and wrists between the horizontal wooden bars. They wheeled the structure closer to the flames and spun it so he faced the viewing platform. “Tell his majesty the prisoner is in position,” one of the
guards called. The warmth of the coals below him actually felt good after months in the dungeon.

  Squinting, he scanned the rooftops above the courtyard wall. A bearded man in a hood raised himself slightly above the parapet wall and nodded. Thanks to the Blessed Mother. His message had been received. He might at least avoid the final torture.

  He watched King Philippe lead his retinue onto the viewing platform, the structure set tight against the courtyard wall to shelter the royal party from a would-be assassin’s arrow. Philippe took the center chair, set throne-like on blocks above the others. A permanent scowl dominated the king’s pale, sharp-featured visage. De Teus knew the face well; as the Templar treasurer he had overseen loans to the king totaling millions of francs. No doubt Philippe took extra joy in besting his former banker. To his right sat Pope Clement, a balding, meek man who avoided de Teus’ glare and instead examined his cuticles and coughed into a bejeweled handkerchief. Clement had fled Rome and moved the papal court to Avignon, subjugating him to the whims of the French king. Philippe smirked at de Teus. “Your face disgusts me. Perhaps you should stop picking at your scabs.”

  De Teus mustered what little saliva he could in his mouth, lifted his head and spat at the leering monarch.

  Philippe laughed and sipped from his goblet, his guests taking their cue and doing the same. He motioned to the guards, who splashed grease into the fire and slopped animal fat onto de Teus’ legs using an oversized basting brush. The flames leapt at his ankles; he lifted his knees reflexively. “You spit at me now. Just as you and your fellow Templars spit on the cross and disparage our Lord Jesus Christ,” Philippe said. It was a common charge against the Order, and not entirely untrue. It brought the eyes of Pope Clement off his fingernails. Philippe leaned forward. “I have been told you have something you’d like to tell us, de Teus?”

  De Teus had rehearsed his words for weeks. There was no sense in delaying further. He raised his chin and filled his lungs. “I confess to this, and this alone: I worship the God in heaven. Upon my death my soul will reside in his kingdom.” He shifted his eyes between Philippe and the Pope. “It is you who are the sinners. It is you who blaspheme the true God. It is you who profane the Lord by claiming divinity for the Thief on the Cross.”

  The Pope’s eyes widened in fear; the royal party gasped. “The Thief on the Cross?” the Pope wheezed, turning to the French king. “What is this heresy?”

  Philippe jumped to his feet and shouted to the guards. “Silence him! Make him stop!”

  De Teus nodded to his brother Knight crouched on the roof beyond. A crossbow arrow sailed through the air, piercing de Teus’ heart. He smiled as he took his final breath. “We know the truth. We have the bones,” he exhaled, revealing the Vatican’s most-guarded secret.

  CHAPTER 1

  [November, Modern Times]

  Cameron Thorne leaned over the lectern and paused. A few seconds of well-timed silence drew attention more effectively than a raised voice. Not that the crowd of breakfasting Freemasons had been inattentive so far—they seemed fascinated by his description of artifacts evidencing exploration of America by the Knights Templar during medieval times. But Cam wanted to end strong.

  The clanking of silverware in the crowded Holiday Inn function room ebbed. Cam smiled, reflecting on life’s strange journey. Two years ago he toiled in a large Boston law firm, a thirty-something attorney trying to do something meaningful in a profession that so often rewarded the meaningless. Now he was part of a group of researchers helping to change the way Americans viewed their history. And having the time of his life. “As the Native Americans say, Christopher Columbus was the last person to discover America. And we have the ancient artifacts and sites to prove it.”

  He spoke staccato-like, counting off on the fingers of his left hand. “The Kensington Rune Stone. The Newport Tower. The Bat Creek Stone. The Spirit Pond Rune Stones. The Westford Knight.” He held up five fingers. “That’s five. I could give you 20 more. These artifacts are real, and their authenticity has been scientifically established. They didn’t appear here by magic.”

  The eyes of his mostly-male audience locked on his. “The bottom line is that the archeologists and historians need to offer an explanation for these artifacts that’s a bit more academically rigorous than putting their fingers in their ears and yelling ‘Hoax!’ every time they see one. Because that’s not going to cut it any more.”

  Here it was, in a nutshell. “So, we say to these so-called experts: You are entitled to your own opinions.” He slapped the podium with an open palm. “But you are not entitled to your own facts.”

  A stooped, gray-haired man in a light blue golf shirt pushed his chair back from a table in the back of the function room even before the applause had subsided. “Mr. Thorne, will you accept a question?” His tone was light, almost playful—as if the man were a law professor challenging a prized student.

  Cam smiled. “Of course.”

  “I attended Harvard in the 1970s and had the pleasure of taking a couple of history classes with Samuel Eliot Morison. He used to say that anyone who believed in European exploration of America before Columbus was a fool.”

  Cam scanned the room. “For those of you who don’t know, in the early 1970s Morison wrote The European Discovery of America—it’s considered the definitive book on European exploration of America. He won the Pulitzer Prize for it; there’s even a statue of him in Boston on Commonwealth Avenue.” Cam chuckled. “So I guess if someone is going to call me a fool, I should be happy it’s him.”

  Cam faced the stooped questioner. “I’m actually glad you brought this up. In Morison’s mind hiking to America from Asia makes perfect sense, but taking a boat from Europe is incomprehensible.” Cam shrugged. “And since he was so prominent, nobody dared cross him.”

  Cam sipped his water. “So I went back to look at his writings. Specifically, I was curious how he dealt with the L’Anse aux Meadows settlement in Newfoundland. The Icelandic Sagas describe Leif Ericson and his crew traveling from Greenland to a land called Vinland a number of times in the 11th century. Morison was convinced the Newfoundland settlement is the ancient Vinland and that the Vikings sailed no further south than that. I think he’s wrong. There are plenty of artifacts that show Vinland is on Cape Cod. Morison calls these artifacts fakes, which makes this discussion illustrative of the whole debate.”

  Cam had been talking for an hour; his audience needed to get to work. He rushed to make his point. “So let’s look at the evidence. First, the Sagas talk about Leif and his party spending a snowless winter in Vinland, during which the cattle grazed daily. Second, the Sagas describe Leif’s men harvesting grapes and making wine, hence the ‘Vinland’ name.” Cam spread his hands. “But they don’t have snowless winters or grapevines in northern Newfoundland. So how did Morison reconcile all this?”

  Cam let the question fester for a second. “Had Morison discovered some kind of aberrant climate pattern in the early 11th century? Or perhaps the translation of the Sagas into English was in error?” Cam shook his head. “No. I’m paraphrasing, but this is essentially what he concluded: ‘We know that Leif Ericson’s father, Eric the Red, was stretching the truth when he coined the name ‘Greenland’—Greenland is barren and not at all green. Leif himself must have been lying when he described the snowless winter and grape vines of Vinland. Like father like son!’” Cam spread his hands again. “And so, that’s it. Morison basically throws a B.S. argument in our faces and calls us fools if we say it smells funny.” He shook his head. “And for 40 years nobody’s been willing to call him out on it.” He glanced at the blue golf shirt. “Well, 40 years is long enough.”

  The man in the blue golf shirt smiled and offered a smart salute before turning and shuffling out of the room.

  A small girl, perhaps eight years old, tugged lightly on Amanda Spencer’s sleeve. A pair of cobalt blue eyes framed by chestnut skin and braided, jet-black pigtails peered up at her. “Excuse me,” the child said in a firm voice
. “My mother is in the bathroom and she needs help. I think she fainted.” Her lower lip trembled slightly.

  Amanda knelt. She and her fiancé Cameron had just entered the soaring, glass-enclosed atrium of the Native American history museum at the Foxwoods casino in southern Connecticut. The terrified girl knew she was not supposed to talk to strangers, but the museum had just opened on a quiet Monday morning and there was nobody else to ask for help. “Of course, honey. What’s your name?”

  “Astarte,” she said, enunciating each of the three syllables.

  “That’s a pretty name. My name is Amanda.”

  The girl studied her for a second, shifting her weight from foot to foot. “You talk funny. Like Mary Poppins. And you’re pretty just like she is.”

  The comment struck Amanda as odd given the girl’s mom was in peril, but it had been years since she spent time with eight-year-olds. “Well, thank you. I talk like her because I’m from a city called London, just like Mary Poppins.” She took the girl’s hand. “Now let’s go check on your mum.”

  “I’ll call 9-1-1,” Cam interjected.

  “Good idea.” She kissed him quickly as he dialed. “Be right back.”

  Astarte pushed open the door and led Amanda into a well-lit, modern restroom with a bank of sinks along the right wall and stalls along the left. “Where’s your mum, honey?” Amanda raised her voice over the noise of an electronic hand dryer.

  “Over here.” As the girl pulled her deeper into the room, a door to a nearby stall swung open and a large woman with hands jammed into her sweatshirt crossed behind Amanda toward the sinks. Astarte stopped short and turned, looking up. Amanda bent down to her; something in her face had changed—instead of fear, Amanda saw remorse in the girl’s eyes.