The Templar's Secret (The Templar Series) (14 page)

Leaning back in his chair,
Caedmon rested his chin on his steepled fingers, pondering the meaning of the very informative history lesson. The Nazrani could rightfully lay claim to being one of the oldest Christian churches in the world. Even more astounding, the Nazrani were the Aramaic-speaking descendents of Essenes who’d sought religious sanctuary in India more than two thousand years ago.

The Sons of Zadok. The Keepers of the Secret.

‘Given everything that you’ve told us, I assume that Gaspar, the author of the stolen gospel
,
was an Essene convert to Christianity,’ Caedmon remarked in passing.

‘Since I’ve never
read the
Evangelium Gaspar
,
I can’t rightly say if that’s true.’ Smiling apologetically, Dr. Paulos shrugged. ‘Like so many legendary personages in the Bible, the myth may not accurately reflect reality.’

Caedmon
sat up straighter in his chair. ‘Gaspar? A legendary figure, you say?’ He wondered if the Nazrani adhered to a different Bible than the King James version that he’d been raised upon.

‘But I thought you already knew.’ The bearded historian glanced first at
Caedmon, then at Edie. ‘Gaspar was one of the Three Wise Men.’

‘
What!?
’ Not only did Edie’s jaw visibly drop, but the tea glass nearly slipped from her fingers. ‘As in “We Three Kings of Orient Are”?’

The old cleric’s eyes twinkled merrily. ‘
None other.’

‘I’ll be honest with you,
Caedmon; I’m having a difficult time wrapping my mind around the idea of one of the Three Wise Men writing a gospel account,’ Edie remarked, reaching for her glass of Kingfisher beer. Although she wasn’t necessarily in the mood for alcohol, Caedmon insisted that they drink bottled beer rather than tap water.

Having returned to Fort Cochin a short while ago, they’d found a café near the
harbor with air conditioning, the sound of which aggressively competed with the Hindu music blaring from the sound system. From where they sat, near the oversized plate-glass window at the front of the café, Edie could see the red-tiled
godown
warehouses where spice merchants plied their trade. Just outside the window, rickshaw
wallahs
, attired in their khaki uniform shirts,
were huddled around a board game while they waited for the next paying customer.

Caedmon
poured himself a glass of beer. ‘While a gospel scribed by a Wise Man is seemingly odd on face value, I suspect Gaspar and his two cronies, Melchior and Balthazar, were actually Jews.’

‘But in the Nativity story, they’re depicted as three
exotic
men from foreign locales.’

‘Which doesn’t preclude their being Jews,’
Caedmon insisted. ‘As you undoubtedly know, the Three Wise Men are only mentioned in one gospel, that being Matthew, with the entire story relayed in a mere twelve verses.’

‘
Making it the most famous short story ever written.’ Never tiring of the tale, Edie needed no coaxing. ‘The Three Wise Men from the East see a star in the night sky foretelling the birth of a king, prompting them to throw a few things in an overnight bag, hop on their camels and journey to Jerusalem. Whereupon they immediately inform King Herod that they’re searching for the newborn King of the Jews. After consulting the ancient prophecies, Herod’s high priests point them in the direction of Bethlehem.’

‘Being a heartless bastard, Herod summarily orders the execution of all baby boys under the age of three to eliminate a rival heir to the throne,’
Caedmon said, continuing the story where she’d left off. ‘Although there’s no mention of it in the Bible, I’m certain that the Three Wise Men were descendents of the Hebrew Zadokite priesthood.’

Just then, the waiter returned to their table with a tray laden with fragrant dishes. Her stomach rumbling, Edie watched as he laid out a sumptuous feast for two. In the mood for some fiery cuisine, she’d ordered the vegetarian
thali
– a potpourri of curried dishes, red-streaked rice and assorted chutneys – served on a large banana leaf. Always adventuresome when it came to ethnic food, she intended to dine like the locals and eat with her fingers. Playing it safe and sticking to a milder repast, Caedmon had ordered a tuna steak cooked in a coconut masala. His meal, unlike hers, included cutlery.

‘In 586 BC when Nebuchadnezzar destroyed the Temple in Jerusalem, he forced the entire Zadokite priesthood, along with a large contingent of upper-class and educated Jews, into Babylonian exile,’
Caedmon continued once the waiter had taken his leave. ‘Many of the Zadokite priests, still retaining their belief in Yahweh, became part of a mysterious sect known as the Magi.’

‘I’m guessing that the Magi were ancient magicians.’ Ravenous, Edie broke off a piece of
porotta
bread. Using the piece of bread in lieu of a fork, she took a bite of lentil
dhal.

‘Not exactly. T
he Magi interpreted dreams, served as court advisors and, as we know from Matthew’s account, plotted the stars in the night sky.’

Having just swallowed
a bite laden with green chilies, Edie hurriedly snatched her beer glass, taking an unladylike gulp. Fire extinguished, she said, ‘Was Gaspar a Wise Man or a Magi then?’

Always the gentleman,
Caedmon refilled her glass. ‘Technically, he belonged to the latter group. Because the Early Christian Church condemned astrology as a demonic pursuit, the Magi were re-branded as the Three Wise Men. A more seemly occupation.’

Using the fingers of her right hand, Edie mixed yogurt and steamed root vegetables into a thick slurry. As she did, she stole a quick glance at
Caedmon, who was observing the proceedings, clearly aghast. She bit back an amused smile. ‘So if the Three Magi were the descendants of the Zadokite priesthood, maybe, like so many Jews in the first century, they’d actually been waiting for the prophesied Messiah. Whaddya think?’

Brows drawing together,
Caedmon surprised her by saying, ‘What I think is that our trip to India has been a colossal waste of time. With the ransom deadline fast approaching, I’d hope that –’ He shook away the thought. His expression having suddenly turned bleak, he finished his beer.

‘The trip hasn’t been a total waste,’ Edie said quietly. ‘We now know who authored the gospel and we’ve verified that Fortes de Pinós did, in fact, take the
Evangelium Gaspar
to Europe.’

‘And in case it’s slipped your notice, neither of those details has brought me any closer to finding the
Evangelium Gaspar
. Christ! I feel like Sisyphus pushing the bloody boulder up the hill.’

Unsure how to leaven
Caedmon’s spirits, Edie peered around the lively restaurant, her gaze drawn to a statue of a portly Indian god with four arms and a sweetly smiling elephant head.
Ganesh.
The Remover of Obstacles.

‘I’ve always wondered why the Hindus put so many arms on their gods,’ she said conversationally, purposefully changing the subject.

‘That damned bastard!’

‘Who? Ganesh?’

Blue eyes narrowing, Caedmon jutted his chin at the window. ‘The Bête Noire with the Chi-Rho brand on his palm. I just caught sight of him standing in the shadows across the street.’

Caedmon
slapped a 500-rupee note on to the table. ‘That should pay for the meal and your taxi to the hotel,’ he said, stuffing his wallet back into his trouser pocket.

‘
Where in God’s name are you going?’ Edie, clearly bewildered, stared at the note.

‘
I mean to have a word with the mustachioed Bête Noire.’

‘
Are you crazy?’ she squawked. ‘He could kill you!’ Fear writ large in her brown eyes, Edie reached across the table and grabbed hold of his wrist. ‘Please, Caedmon . . . just stay put.’

Biting back an acerbic retort, he refrained from telling her that such timidity would only spell Anala’s doom
.
‘I mean to introduce myself as Anala’s father and broker a détente with the kidnappers.’ When Edie refused to relinquish her hold, Caedmon none too gently pried his wrist free. ‘They need to understand that I won’t be able to meet their bloody ransom demand if I’m hampered by someone scurrying in my shadow.’

‘Then I’m coming with you.’

He put a staying hand on Edie’s shoulder, preventing her from rising to her feet. ‘I would have thought you’d had enough hair-raising harum-scarum for one day. You’re to go straight away to the hotel and remain there until I return.’ Orders issued, Caedmon bent down and hurriedly kissed her on the forehead, softening the blow.

Without a backwards glance, he strode towards the café exit.

Emerging on to the busy lane, he slowly, methodically, studied the busy streetscape. Just as he’d feared, the Bête Noire was no longer in sight, having moved to a different location. Undeterred, Caedmon shaded his eyes with his hand and searched for the one person in the chaotic scene who didn’t belong.

Chai wallahs, rickshaw drivers, street
peddlers, beggars, tourists.
They were the very people that one would expect to see on a boisterous Indian street corner. And then he saw him – a male of average height and build with close-cut dark hair and a thick moustache, dressed entirely in black. The odd man out, he stood beneath a weather-worn awning near an outdoor café located on the other side of the street.

Deciding on a
brazen course of action, Caedmon purposefully crossed the thoroughfare. No sooner did he reach the other side of the street than the Bête Noire’s head whiplashed in his direction.

‘
You there!’ Caedmon called out. ‘A word if I may!’

Perhaps fearing
an assault, the Bête Noire spun on his heel and took off running.

Shite!

Giving chase, Caedmon charged through the crowded outdoor café. Accidentally bumping into several tables, he knocked a glass of water into one chap’s lap and sent a plate crashing to the pavement – minor catastrophes that merited a shrill shriek from a few of the female patrons. The burly fellow with the wet lap thrust his right hand into the air, flipping Caedmon the
digitus infamis.

There being no time to apologize, he zigzagged around the clustered tables.

Bloody hell!
Where did the jackal go?

Caedmon
swiveled his head, scanning the hectic environs. Catching sight of a black blur dodging into an alley, he sprinted in that direction. When he reached the corner, a large aluminum disc came soaring through the air, the object whirling towards his head at a dizzying speed. Caedmon reflexively recoiled to one side, the disc hurtling past his ear and crashing into the side of the building with a deafening clatter.

That was when he belatedly realized that he’d nearly been decapitated with the lid from an
aluminum trash can.

Sodding bastard!

Refusing to surrender, Caedmon dashed down the alley, his black-clad foe having already exited at the other end of the dank passageway.

Worried that another airborne missile might fly in his direction, he slowed his speed at the terminus and tentatively peered around the corner. Verifying that the coast was clear, he left the alley and entered an eerily deserted marketplace. A faded, hand-painted sign – written in English – indicated that he’d just entered Fort Cochin’s fabled spice bazaar. A tight cluster of pastel-
colored warehouses flanked either side of the street; all with the same red-tiled roof; all in a similar sad state of dilapidation.

On high alert, he wended his way down the lane, primed and ready for the tough to burst out of the shadows.

Many of the warehouses had already closed for business, their windows and doors shuttered for the night. Many, but not all, Caedmon passing an entryway painted an eye-catching shade of turquoise blue. Glancing inside, he saw bags of spice – cloves, cardamom, ginger, pepper, anise – stacked to the rafters. A stoop-shouldered man hunched over an open newspaper gave Caedmon a disinterested glance. Two wiry blokes loading jute sacks on to the back of a truck ignored him entirely.

He wrinkled his nose, the combined scent from all those spices creating a noxious bouquet.

The brute was here,
somewhere
,
amidst the ginger and anise.

‘
Where in that nest of spicery they shall breed.
’

A few seconds later a small brindled nanny goat scampered out of a doorway, the bell around its neck merrily tinkling.
Got you!

Caedmon
immediately headed in that direction, certain the skittish goat had been frightened by a mustachioed intruder.

Warily he approached the deserted warehouse, the elaborately carved door softly swinging on its hinges.
Caedmon’s adrenalin instantly spiked. Taking several deep breaths, he tried to countermand the hormone’s effect, his heart thumping much too rapidly.

Stiffening his resolve, he stepped through the doorway. A beam of light slanting through an open window hit him full in the face. He moved out of its path, keeping to the shadows as he surveyed the otherwise murky interior. Spartan, it was nothing more than an open space with a wooden table, a set of old-fashioned scales, two handcarts, a forklift and towers of stacked spice sacks. Hearing a tell-tale creak,
Caedmon glanced towards the ceiling.

Someone is
prowling about on the second floor
.

He strode over to the stairwell, certain that his quarry had gone upstairs.

The wooden steps groaned under his weight.
Ready or not, here I come
, he silently grated, unable to muffle his footfall.

At the top of the staircase, he paused. The dimly lit environs were little more than an attic storage space, packing crates full of spice sacks lining one entire side of the gloomy expanse.

He took a few cautious steps.

A creaking floorboard and a sudden rush of air was the only warning
Caedmon had before he saw a flash of metal slashing in his direction.

No time to think, he automatically spun to one side.

But not in time, a steel pole battering into his left shoulder.

The blow sent him careening off-kilter. Crashing into a stack of crates, he smashed several packing boxes on impact. A sack of cloves split open, brown nubbins spilling on to the floor in a noisy rattle.