The Templar's Secret (The Templar Series) (13 page)

Revving his engine one last time, their adversary suddenly zoomed towards them.
Animal handlers hollered. An elephant roared. All three sounds were near deafening.

‘Is he out of his freaking –’

‘Yes!’ Caedmon interjected, that being the short reply. Having no time to brief the troops, he grabbed Edie’s hand and charged towards the throng of festival-goers in the square.

Glancing behind him,
Caedmon glimpsed the motorcyclist as he zipped around a parked lorry, forcing a wrangler to leap out of harm’s way. The maneuver caused several pugnacious pachyderms to indignantly bellow.

Christ!

Just ahead of them, a large group of spectators, realizing they were at the forefront of a potentially dangerous scene, surged forward into the milling crowd, inciting a frantic chain reaction. A ferocious jangle of sight and sound.

Caedmon
veered to the right, the two of them dashing past a drum and trumpet troupe, the music reaching a riotous crescendo even as the festival-goers charged hither and yon. Over the noise of the crowd, he heard a distinctive motorized rumble.

‘Where to now?’ Edie asked as they shouldered their way into the wild crush.
Red-faced, her chest heaved with each ragged pant.

Good question.

Caedmon hurriedly surveyed the environs: to one side of the open square was an ornate Hindu temple; to the other, a line of buildings, the rooftops brimming with festival spectators.

Perfect.

He and Edie charged past a small circle of men twirling sequined parasols in the air. Caedmon tuned it all out – the clanging cymbals, the thunderous shouts, the colorful costumes – his attention fully focused on the line of buildings on the square’s perimeter.

Breathless, they reached the edge of the square, their passage blocked by a line of cars parked bumper to bumper. Letting go of Edie’s hand, he leaped on to the
hood of the nearest vehicle. He then spun on his heel and, with an outstretched arm, hauled Edie on to the car. Her white dress flared behind her hips like a ship’s sail.

Together, they jumped to the pavement.

As if on cue, the motorcyclist thundered forth from the frenzied midst. Heedless of the turmoil he’d left in his wake, he braked to a halt, the long line of parked automobiles an obstacle he couldn’t roar through or whiz around. The perfect barricade.

At least until the relentless bastard disembarked and continued to follow them on foot.

‘Keep moving,’ Caedmon ordered gruffly.

Edie pointed to a narrow opening tucked between two buildings. ‘I see an alley!’

‘Right.’

A few seconds later, they cannonballed through the opening. At the other end of the dimly lit passage,
Caedmon saw scores of people with shopping bags looped on their arms.

It was an open-air marketplace.

Emerging from the alleyway, he steered Edie into a gaggle of sari-clad women. ‘Run as fast as you can!’ he ordered.

Edie obeyed without argument. Grabbing hold of her skirt, she dashed hurriedly through the crowded market.

As they raced past a table laden with Hindu icons, a merchant, clearly mistaking them for customers, rushed forward. ‘For you, good price!’ he importuned.

‘No, thank you!’
Caedmon told him. ‘We’re not interested!’

Refusing to take ‘No’ for an answer, the merchant followed them for several feet. ‘Special sale for you!’

‘
Illa! Illa!
’ Caedmon said forcefully. Hearing the Malayalam word for ‘No’, the merchant finally retreated.

Seconds later, they left the marketplace, making their exodus at a busy intersection. Assaulted by honking horns, darting motorbikes and blasts of foul-smelling diesel fuel,
Caedmon feared they’d reached the proverbial end of the road, not a taxi in sight.

Edie peered over her shoulder. ‘He’s about
fifty yards back!’

Just then, a dusty red
bus, lumbering at a more sedate speed than the other vehicles on the road, rolled past.

‘Hurry!’ Rushing after the
bus, Caedmon leaped up and grabbed the metal railing attached to the back end of the conveyance, hauling himself onboard. He then extended an arm towards Edie.

The
ir fingers grazed.

Then pulled apart
.

Edie
ran faster, inciting the bevy of Indian men riding on top of the bus to yell raucous encouragements.

Worried that she wouldn’t be able to leap aboard,
Caedmon was about to jump off when Edie jettisoned forward. Snatching hold of her wrist, he pulled her on to the narrow steel platform.

As the
bus picked up speed, he stared at their pursuer who now stood on the corner glaring at them.

Still panting, Edie clung to the railing. ‘We left him in the dust.
Mission accomplished,’ she said breathlessly.

At least for the time being.

Mar Thoma Seminary, Kottayam

‘Please accept our apologies for being a few minutes late,’ Caedmon said to the heavily bearded priest. ‘We met with an unexpected delay.’

Having cordially welcomed them to the seminary
, the Reverend Doctor Geevarghese Mar Paulos waved away the apology. Attired in a white cassock that perfectly matched his chest-length white beard, the elderly historian was also bedecked in a peaked navy-blue cap with red trim and adorned with the crux quadrata. Other than the color – which Caedmon assumed was a concession to the heat – the clerical outfit bore a striking resemblance to that worn by Eastern Orthodox priests.

‘
Shall we adjourn to the library? It’s much cooler there.’

Exhausted by their footrace through Kottayam,
Caedmon smiled gratefully. ‘By all means.’

As they strolled under
a covered arcade, he peered at Edie who’d donned a long gray scarf, which she’d wrapped around her shoulders and upper arms. The earlier incident had sobered her considerably. Indeed, the episode had been a grim reminder that the men who kidnapped Anala were not bound by laws. Or scruples. Or ethics. And while they had managed to elude the mustachioed Bête Noire, he was still out there,
somewhere
,
roaming the streets of Kottayam.

Glancing about,
Caedmon appreciated the fact that the seminary compound was a tranquil oasis. Certainly, it was a marked contrast to the frenetic energy outside the walled enclosure, the grounds exuding an air of spiritual seclusion accentuated by the strains of liturgical music echoing softly across the cloister.

‘The Mar Thoma Seminary choir is
practicing for an upcoming concert,’ Dr. Paulos informed them, gesturing to a nearby building.

‘
I’m curious about the name “Mar Thoma”. What exactly does it mean?’ As she spoke, Edie adjusted her scarf, ensuring that she was modestly covered.

‘
Mar Thoma is Aramaic for Saint Thomas. We are also known as the Nazrani,’ the older cleric replied as he ushered them into the library, a high-ceilinged enclave with wooden tables and chairs uniformly placed amidst numerous bookcases. Tall windows, shaded with intricately carved
jali
screens, cast exotic filigree shadows on to the floor.

Dr
. Paulos motioned them to a table. ‘As I understand it, Mr. Aisquith, you’re writing a book about early Christianity.’

Suffering a momentary twinge of guilt,
Caedmon nodded, that being the fabrication he’d used to garner the appointment with the eminent church historian. As he held out a chair for Edie, he shoved guilt to the wayside, embellishing on the lie. ‘I’m particularly interested in the Apostle Thomas and his missionary work in India.’

‘
The story is simple enough,’ Dr. Paulos began, taking a seat across from them. ‘Thomas arrived in Muziris in the year 52 AD whereupon he immediately founded seven churches and converted hundreds, if not thousands, of people.’

A young man with a neatly trimmed beard, presumably a seminarian, carried a tray into the library. Smiling shyly, he set three glasses of fragrant chai tea on to the table, taking his leave without a word.

Caedmon accepted the proffered spiced tea, the mingled scents of cardamom, cinnamon and ginger perfuming the air. ‘I presume that the Apostle Thomas was converting Brahmin Indians to Christianity.’

Shaking his head, the bearded cleric said, ‘On the contrary.
Thomas came to India to preach to the resident Jewish population.’

‘
Jews? In India? I had no idea.’

‘Most westerners are unaware that a l
arge contingent of Zadokite Jews immigrated to the Malabar Coast in the second century BC in the wake of the Maccabean Uprising,’ Dr. Paulos informed them. ‘Although those early emigrant Jews referred to themselves as the “Sons of Zadok”, they are nowadays better known as the Essenes.’

Hearing that,
Caedmon and Edie immediately glanced at one another. Earlier in the day, the Essenes had popped up in a discussion about the Knights Templar and Château Pèlerin, the knights having discovered an enclave of Essene descendants at nearby Mount Carmel.

‘Eventually, Thomas’s
Essene converts came to be known as the Nazrani.’ As he spoke, Dr. Paulos smoothed a withered hand over his beard.

‘Is the
word “Nazrani” of Malayalam derivation?’ Edie asked politely, wading into the conversation.

Again, the older man shook his head. ‘The word “Nazrani”
derives from two Hebrew root words:
nazir
,
meaning ‘consecrated’, and
notsrim
,
meaning “The Keepers of the Secret”.’

How very intriguing
,
Caedmon thought. He had speculated that the Templars may have discovered something at Mount Carmel that had led them to the Nazrani in India. He was now convinced of it.

‘
This might be off base, but is there a connection between the words Nazrani and Nazareth?’ Edie inquired of their host. ‘I’m thinking specifically of Jesus of Nazareth.’ Her remark was not only germane, but spot-on, the two words remarkably similar.

The old cleric’s lips twitched
as though he were amused by the question. ‘Surely you know that “Jesus of Nazareth” is a fictional persona?’

Edie’s eyes opened wide, her shock plainly evident.
‘I beg your pardon?’

‘
According to biblical archaeologists, the town of “Nazareth” didn’t exist prior to the third century of the common era,’ Dr. Paulos explained in a more serious tone. ‘“Jesus of Nazareth” is a third-century mistranslation from the original Greek. “Jesus the Nazorean”
is the correct translation.’

The mystery deepening,
Caedmon wondered if ‘Nazorean’ wasn’t a linguistic fusion of ‘Nazrani’ and ‘Essene’
.
While tempted to ask, being short on time, he got right to the gist. ‘In the course of my research, I’ve come across several references to a long-lost gospel known as the
Evangelium Gaspar.
’

Setting his tea glass on the table, the white-bearded cleric folded his hands over his chest. ‘I see.’

‘Furthermore, it’s my understanding that a Knights Templar by the name of Fortes de Pinós was granted custody of the gospel in the early fourteenth century.’

‘You are ill-informed.’ Gaze narrowing, Dr
. Paulos shot Caedmon a penetrating stare.
‘
The Nazrani bishops did not give Fortes de Pinós the
Evangelium Gaspar.
’

‘They didn’t?’
Shite.
Caedmon gulped reflexively, on the verge of losing his tea. His search for the long-lost gospel was premised on the assumption that the Knights Templar had acquired the ancient text.

‘Taking advantage of his Nazrani hosts, that unscrupulous knight
stole
the
Evangelium Gaspar
from the sanctuary in Palayoor,’ Dr. Paulos continued. ‘That, incidentally, is the site of the very first church founded by St. Thomas. Making the Templar’s crime all the more reprehensible.’

Caedmon
’s shoulders slumped with relief.

‘
Would you happen to know in what language the
Evangelium Gaspar
was scribed?’ he next inquired, hoping to glean a few more details about the mysterious gospel.

‘It
was written in Aramaic, the liturgical language used by the Nazrani until the twentieth century.’

Aramaic.
The language spoken by Jesus and the original apostles.

Assuming a bland expression,
Caedmon glanced at the nearby bookcases. ‘Does your collection include a copy of the
Evangelium Gaspar
that I could peruse?’

The older man’s brows drew together; the makings of a disapproving scowl. ‘In the year 1542, a group of Jesuit priests arrived in Malabar. Their mission, simply put, was to coerce the Nazrani to adopt Roman Catholic orthodoxy. To that end, they initiated what has come to be known as the Goan Inquisition. Accusing the Nazrani of heresy, the Jesuits pilfered our churches and burned our sacred Aramaic texts, including all of our copies of the
Evangelium Gaspar.
’ Dr. Paulos’s scowl finally relaxed, replaced by a more placid expression. ‘By God’s grace, we managed to shake off the Roman yoke in the middle of the seventeenth century.’