“You’ve lost some blood, young woman,” Signor Intaglio said, stepping closer. “And I’ve lost some smock. Ho, ho, ho.” The man began a belly laugh that brought a meager grin to Dominique’s lips. “Yes, you’ll be fine. And well taken care of. I shall see to that. My name is Quentin Gray, and unless I’ve miscalculated, you three have prevented my early exodus to heaven. But I believe I’ll get there soon enough, so I forgive your mistake. Ho, ho, ho, ho.”
Quentin Gray was unscathed, but his laughter seemed to reveal his distress.
While the man daubed blood from Dominique’s leg, Jacques studied him.
“Signor Gray is right, Dominique,” Jacques said while he used another piece of cloth to swab her leg. “The cut, I’m glad to say, does not look too serious.”
Dominique squeezed her eyes shut, then looked up at the men kneeling around her. “Get me back to the inn?”
“Yes. Right away.”
“Your perfect pronunciations tell me you’re from France,”
Quentin Gray continued in French. He wiped his bloody hands on his ripped smock. “I live humbly, since I no longer have a vocation. Yet I do have a calling. You must stay with me and share my modest means as long as you care to.”
“I’m not sure that—” Dominique stammered.
“Perturbation,” the man declared. “I’m sure. I insist. After all, madame, you require my medical aid and I have a cask of hydromel at home. Let us make the proper introductions, let me gather today’s work together, then we shall fetch your belongings at the inn and be started before you can say ‘Alameda de São Pedro de Alcantara’.” The man burped another “ho, ho.”
Quite soon, Quentin Gray led them away toward the hill
country.
“You’ll see when we round that last knoll ahead, I live on a hillside where there is less humanity. Then, too, rent is cheaper the higher up Lisbon’s seven hills one travels. Not that I pay rent.” Quentin let out a laugh. “I have no colleagues left in Portugal. I find myself quite alone,” he sighed. “Quite alone. Certainly none of my
English countrymen to share my good fortune with—my good
fortune being the Conde de Tarouca’s palace, the roof over my head.”
In truth, Quentin Gray did reside in a palace. But arriving at the destination, the adventurers saw that the roof looked as if it might collapse any day, as did the crumbling walls.
Quentin snickered. “As you can see, the actual construction was never completed. But the grounds, while not hugely expansive, are more than sufficient for my needs. Credit the good Lord.” Quentin slung his bundle from his shoulder.
“The Lord works in wondrous ways,” Dominique replied as she slipped from Jacques’ shoulder. “We accept your invitation to stay,
Signor Gray.” She clutched Jacques’ arm and gave him a sideways
glance.
He returned it, dubious.
“An adventure,” Dominique said, smiling.
Inside, Quentin examined Dominique while she rested on a
makeshift bed.
“Lie still and gather your strength,” Jacques said. “And allow this gentleman to apply his medicines.”
“We’ll either fashion a litter or some crutches. But that will be tomorrow.”
Within a short while, Quentin Gray stood by an earthen fireplace just outside his palace walls stirring a pot of olla podrida. “Your valet’s pistol shot may have been on its mark. But the assassin might have been saved by the silver plate he wears over his abdomen.”
“Silver plate?” asked Jacques.
“Yes. To prevent a hernia. I fit it to Fernando myself. It was in consequence of a saber cut he‘d received at some previous time.”
With Jacques’ help, Dominique scooted closer to the fireplace. “You know the man who attacked you?”
“Both men, I believe. The man
you
wounded, Monsieur
Casanova, did he have a brand on his hand?”
“I believe he did.”
“Well, that is most probably Jonathan Tillson. You see, in
England,
my home, they brand a manslayer’s hand. Mr. Tillson has that brand.”
“So Tillson is a known criminal?”
“Yes. Certainly a known Catholic.” Quentin threw his head back
and howled a long laugh. He straightened up. “Seldom is the
twilight
breeze this bothersome,” he observed. “Come, let’s take these
dinners
inside. The walls won’t provide much of a windbreak, but they’ll
help.”
Quentin led the group into the abode, set down his lantern amid
a circle of primitive chairs, and invited Jacques and Petrine to
partake in some rappee. Petrine accepted.
Jacques knew the tobacco was far too pungent for his taste, but he also knew it was judicious for him to accept the man’s offer. He wrapped a blanket around Dominique’s shoulders, helped her into a chair, and sat down between her and Petrine. Quentin offered an ember he brought from the cook fire and lit the men’s pipes.
Jacques needed information about the intaglio rubbing. He’d take Quentin into town for the main meal tomorrow. Food and drink. Men spoke freely with the joy of Bacchus in their belly.
“Well,” Quentin began, “one great advantage with having a
scant roof—I’m able to see the emerging stars in the firmament on an evening such as this.”
“Signor Gray,” Dominique said, shuffling her feet, “why were you doing a gravestone rubbing on the wall of the basilica?”
Jacques choked on his pipe.
“Rubbing? On the Basilica de Santa Maria’s wall?” said Quentin, his voice rattling higher. “Hmm. Well, the patera—the pattern of the circles—intrigued me. I wished to copy it, bring it home, and admire its beautiful simplicity. Let it saturate my thinking.”
“Ah,” Jacques feigned, overstating his earnestness by blowing a smoke ring— which a gust of wind promptly dispersed.
Quentin Gray carefully reached into the rock cranny beside him.
“Shall we enjoy the rubbing this evening?” He smiled at the
adventurers
before he carefully unrolled the sheet and held it to the light.
“Familiar?” he asked nonchalantly.
Simultaneously, Jacques and Dominique gave opposite answers. Their eyes met at once.
Petrine began to chuckle. Which drew Dominique into outright laughter.
“To be forthright, sir,” Dominique said after eyeing Jacques
squarely, “the three of us saw that exact intaglio carved in stone in Jerusalem at the Stables of Solomon.”
Jacques kneaded his pipe vigorously while observing Quentin Gray’s face.
Quentin Gray took his time relighting Jacques’ pipe. “Stables of Solomon? Hmm,” he said. “What can that mean?”
Jacques spoke up. “Most frankly, we hoped you could tell us
what an intaglio is doing here.”
“Most frankly, Monsieur Casanova, I don’t know. And I’ve
sought an answer for some time.”
Dominique let out an audible gasp. Jacques, too, stirred with excitement.
Quentin Gray continued. “Yes, I, too, desire to know the
significance of a carved intaglio on the wall of a church.” From his position in the chair, he pulled his legs to his body and wrapped his arms about them. He glanced over both shoulders, then spoke quietly. “Well, I suspect the Lord wishes me to show gratitude: you all did save my
mortal life. So … mesdame et messieurs, what you witnessed
today—it was not the first time I’ve been attacked by Catholic assassins.”
“What?” Dominique cried.
Quentin explained that for a score of years, he had been a
member of the Society of Jesus, the Jesuits.
“And there were attacks on your life?” barked Petrine. “For
what reason?”
“Are you as impatient as I, sir?” laughed Quentin. “Believe me, we work toward the point,” he said as he reached behind him, lifted the lantern, and placed it near his feet. “Holding high office in the Jesuit order—an immensely powerful organization—meant I was privy to many sensitive matters. Yet it was almost pure chance two of my Jesuit brothers and I uncovered what may prove to be the
most nefarious subterfuge in the Church of Rome’s seventeen-
hundred-year history.” Quentin’s face grew intense. “Several years ago, my brethren and I divested ourselves from the Jesuit Society to discover the truth of the matter for ourselves. And because we left the order,
some allege we work against the Church. Perhaps that’s why my
Jesuit brothers were murdered and I myself put on the assassination list.”
Jacques sensed Dominique’s coming grimace.
She believes the
Church to be unsoiled in the ways of the world
. He squeezed her hand gently.
Petrine spoke up. “If you don’t work for the Church,” he said, genuflecting, “then you work for Lucifer?”
“No, Petrine. I serve God. And the truth. I was placed on earth to that purpose. There is—”
Petrine looked directly at his master. “Perhaps I work for
Lucifer.” He grinned slyly.
Jacques glared.
Quentin began again. “Aside from the basilica’s wall, I too have seen the patera—what you call the intaglio—somewhere else.” He reached deep into his garment and pulled out a fine parchment scroll. He hesitated, then extended the scroll toward the lantern. “Here. A group of warrior-monks, religious men, called the Knights Templar produced this.”
Jacques leaned forward; he could hardly believe his eyes. The visible outside corner of the scroll was inscribed with the miniature circles, the
-^—^-
figure, and
1300
. He squelched the surprise in his voice. “Ahh,” he said as he pulled Quentin’s hand and the scroll closer to the lantern. “That strange design on the scroll looks like a sign for the Egyptian adept Ormus.”
“Or perhaps the astrological symbol for Virgo.” Quentin Gray drew the scroll back. “I tend to believe this figure—the two-humped camel as I christened it—is possibly some stylized letter of a long-dead alphabet.” Quentin ran his hand across his stubbly beard. “The Pope did not officially dissolve the Templars until 1312 Anno Domini. This map must have been created by them anytime before then, or more to the point, before 1307—”
“Could the
1300
on the scroll indicate the date, the year it was created?”
“Possibly.”
“Could this all be a hoax?” interjected Dominique.
Jacques held his tongue in anticipation of Quentin’s answer.
“No. As I was about to say, my brother Jesuits had proof positive
that several scrolls were made by the Templars before their
persecution in 1307 by Philippe le Bel. Men do not craft hoaxes when they are about to die.”
“Truly, sir, truly.”
“Philippe the
Fair
?” Petrine asked, scratching his front teeth with his thumbnail and smiling impiously.
“1307,” Jacques said, raking his hand across his stubbly beard.
Jacques locked eyes with Dominique, then gave a look to Petrine
before digging deeply into his clothing, where he found his own
scroll. He handed it to Quentin Gray.
Glancing at the symbols on the outside of the scroll, Quentin rushed his palm to his gaping mouth. “Alike. Indistinguishable,” he
muttered when he held it closer to the light. “This is the third I’ve
seen. The second I knew of disappeared with the murder of my
colleagues. It was for their scroll, I’m sure, that they were murdered. If your scroll contains text—does it have text inside it?”
“Yes.”
“Then it may be authentic. What do you make of the miniature concentric circles?”
Jacques offered a smug smile to Dominique. “If we examine the scroll more shrewdly, we see the miniature circles are not actually concentric. They are drawn so small that they
appear
to be concentric. In reality, they match what the Templars—most probably the Templars—carved into the columns of the Stables of Solomon and on your Basilica de Santa Maria. Such circles indicate Plato’s Theorem. I believe these Templar intaglios imply mathematics as part and
parcel of this riddle, although I don’t know how Plato’s Theorem
may come into play. Specifically, I mean.”
“The theorem, that was the conclusion I came too also,” Quentin said. “Well done!”
Petrine turned to Dominique. “I told you my master was a virtuoso.”
“Yes, you did,” Dominique smiled.
Jacques unrolled his scroll and pointed to the letters in the
vertical column. “S-O-N-B-O-I-S-I-L-A. An anagram for ‘Lisbon’. That is partially what directed us here to this city.”
Quentin nodded.
Shortly, he and Jacques compared the verses of their scrolls.
Identical. Quentin read the first two lines aloud, then shook his head. “
Obscurum per obscurius.
”
“Explaining the obscure by the means of the more obscure,”
translated Jacques.
Quentin continued, his legs still wrapped comfortably to his
chest.
“In truth, there are additional carved intaglios I can show you.
And where—I’m thinking—maybe there’s some physical association I’ve
missed.”
“But do we know for certain that the Templars from Jerusalem brought a treasure?”
“I fully believe the Templars had the capability.”
“The most important question,” Jacques exclaimed. “Do we
know what the Templars brought? What is the treasure?”
“A secret which, if kept, will preserve the Church’s
status in
quo
.”
Dominique shook her head in confusion.
Jacques asked, “Could the treasure, the secret, have to do with the philosopher’s stone?”
“Ha, ho, ho, ho.” Quentin’s gray hair shook with his laughter. “If you believe my Jesuit brothers and I risked our lives to search ninety convents, numerous libraries, countless cemeteries, two universities, a dozen provincial churches, nearly forty parish churches—most of which were Jewish synagogues until their Christian ‘reconversion’ in 1497—to unearth a temporal treasure, even for the fabled
lapis philosophorum
—ho, ho, ho—it seems that, above all else, you treasure the material. While the treasure I seek is monumental. Would I pit myself against the whole of the Church of Rome for anything less?”