In less than a hundred years, the Templars became one of the wealthiest and most influential bodies in Europe, second only to the Papacy itself, owning huge tracts of land in England, Scotland, France, Spain, Portugal, Germany, and Austria. And with such an extensive network of territories and castles, they soon established themselves as the world's first international bankers, arranging credit facilities for bankrupt royals across Europe, safeguarding the pilgrims' funds, and effectively inventing the concept of the traveler's check. Money in those days was just gold or silver, which was simply worth what it weighed. Instead of taking it with them and risking getting robbed, the pilgrims could deposit their money at a Templar house or castle anywhere in Europe, where they would be given a coded note for it. Once they reached their destination, they would go to the local Templar house, present the note, which would be decoded using their tightly guarded encryption practices, and draw that amount of money there.
***
Tess looked at Reilly to make sure he was still with her. "What started off as a small team of nine well-intentioned noblemen dedicated to defending the Holy Land from the Saracens quickly became the most powerful and most secretive organization of its time, rivaling the Vatican in terms of wealth and influence."
"Then it all went wrong for them, didn't it?" Reilly asked.
"Yes. In a big way. The Muslim armies finally recaptured the Holy Land in the thirteenth century and sent the Crusaders packing, this time for good. There were no further Crusades. The Templars were the last to leave, after their defeat at Acre in 1291. When they got back to Europe, their whole raison d'etre was gone. There were no pilgrims to escort, no Holy Land to defend. They had no home, no enemy, and no cause. And they didn't have too many friends either. All that power and wealth had gone to their heads, the poor soldiers of Christ weren't so poor anymore and had grown arrogant and greedy. And many royals, the king of France in particular, owed them a lot of money."
"And they came crashing down to earth."
"Crashed and burned," Tess nodded. "Literally." Tess took a sip from her coffee and told Reilly how a whisper campaign had started about the Templars, no doubt facilitated by the ritualistic secrecy with which the Order had conducted its initiation rites over the years. Soon, a shocking and outrageous litany of heresy charges was leveled at them.
"What happened then?"
"Friday the thirteenth," Tess answered wryly. "The original version."
Chapter 20
Paris, France—March 1314
Slowly, Jacques de Molay's consciousness returned. How long had it been this time ? An hour ?
Two? The grand master knew it couldn't possibly have been any longer than that. A few hours of unconsciousness would be a luxury that they would never allow.
As the mists receded from his mind, he felt the usual stirrings of pain, and, as usual, he banished them. The mind was a strange and powerful thing, and, after all these years of imprisonment and torture, he had learned to use it like a weapon. A defensive weapon, but a weapon nevertheless, one with which he could counter at least some of what his enemies tried to accomplish.
They could break his body, and they had, but his spirit and his mind, though damaged, were still his own.
As were his beliefs.
Opening his eyes, he saw that nothing had changed, although there was a curious difference he didn't recognize at first. The walls of the cellar were still covered with a green slime that leaked onto the roughly cobbled floor, a floor that was almost level from the accumulation of dust, dried blood, and excrement on it. How much of the filth had come from his own body? A lot of it, he feared. After all, he had been here for . . .
he concentrated his mind. Six years? Seven? Ample time in which to wreck his body.
Bones had been broken, allowed to reset crudely, then broken again. Joints had been wrenched apart, tendons severed. He knew that he couldn't do anything meaningful with his hands and arms, nor could he walk. But they couldn't stop the movement of his mind. That was free to roam, to leave these dark, miserable dungeons beneath the streets of Paris and travel . . . anywhere.
So, where would he go today? To the rolling farmlands of central France? To the foothills of the Alps? To the seashore, or beyond, back to his beloved Outremer?
I wonder, he thought, and not for the first time, if I'm insane? Probably, he decided. To suffer everything the torturers who ruled this underground hellhole had inflicted on him, there was no way he could have retained his sanity.
He concentrated a little harder on the time he had spent here. Now he had it. It was six and a half years since the night that the king's men had overrun the Paris Temple.
His Paris Temple.
It was on a Friday, he remembered. October 13, 1307. He'd been asleep, as had most of his fellow knights, when dozens of seneschals had stormed the preceptory at first light. The Knights Templar should have been better prepared. For months, he'd known that the venal king and his lackeys were trying to find a way to overturn the power of the Templars. That morning, they had finally summoned up the courage and the excuse. They had also found the stomach for a fight, and, although the knights didn't surrender easily, the king's men had surprise and numbers on their side and it wasn't long before the knights were overpowered.
They had stood back helplessly and watched as the Temple was ransacked. All the grand master could do was hope that the king and his henchmen would fail to grasp the significance of the loot that they carried away, or be so consumed by greed for the gold and jewels they couldn't find that they would fail to notice those seemingly worthless objects that were, in fact, of immeasurable value. Then silence had fallen until slowly and with surprising courtesy, de Molay and his fellow knights were herded into wagons to be carried to their fate.
Now, as de Molay remembered that silence, he realized that this was what was different about today.
It was quiet.
Usually, the dungeon was a noisy place: chains clattering, racks and wheels creaking, braziers hissing, along with the endless screams of the torturers' victims.
Not today, though.
Then the grand master heard a sound. Footsteps, approaching. At first, he thought it was Gaspard 47
Chaix, the chief of the torturers, but that ogre's footsteps were unlike these; his were heavy and menacing. It wasn't anyone of his crew of shambling animals either. No, there were many men coming, moving quickly along the tunnel and then they were in the chamber where de Molay hung in chains. Through swollen, bloodshot eyes, he saw half a dozen brightly dressed men standing before him. And at their center, of all people, was the king himself.
Slender and imposing, King Philip IV stood a full head taller than the group of fawning sycophants clustered around him. In spite of his parlous state, de Molay was as always struck by the outward appearance of the ruler of France. How could a man of such physical grace be so thoroughly evil?
With youthful features belying his forty-six years, Philip the Fair was light skinned and had long blond hair. He looked the very picture of a nobleman, yet for almost a decade, driven by an insatiable greed for wealth and power matched only by his vulgar profligacy, he had wreaked calculated death and destruction, inflicting torment upon all those who stood in his way or even merely displeased him.
The Knights Templar had done more than merely displease him.
De Molay heard more footsteps coming along the tunnel. Hesitant, nervous steps heralded the arrival in the chamber of a slight figure dressed in a cowled gray robe. The man's foot slipped and he stumbled awkwardly on the uneven floor. The cowl fell away and de Molay recognized the pope.