The Last Templar - Страница 2

Martin opened his mouth to protest, but Aimard's expression was fiercely unequivocal. Martin bowed his head in curt, if unwilling, acquiescence and followed.

The only vessel remaining in the port was the Falcon Temple, the other galleys having sailed away before the Saracen assault had cut off the city's main harbor a week earlier. Already low in the water, it was being loaded by slaves, sergeant-brothers, and knights. Question after question tumbled through Martin's brain but he had no time to ask any of them. As they approached the dock, he could see the shipmaster, an old sailor he knew only as Hugh and who, he also knew, was held in high regard by the grand master. The burly man was watching the feverish activity from the deck of his ship. Martin scanned the ship from the aftcastle at the stern, past its high mast and to the stem from which sprang the figurehead, a remarkably lifelike carving of a fierce bird of prey.

Without breaking step, Aimard's voice bellowed out to the ship's master. "Are the water and provisions loaded?"

"They are."

"Then abandon the rest and set sail at once."

Within minutes, the gangplank was pulled in, the mooring ropes cast off, and the Falcon Temple was pulled away from the dockside by oarsmen in the ship's longboat. Before long, the overseer had called out and the banks of galley slaves had dipped their oars into the dark water. Martin watched as the rowers scrambled up onto the deck then hauled the longboat up and made it secure. To the rhythmic beat of a deep gong and the grunts of over a hundred and fifty chained rowers, the ship gathered speed and cleared the great wall of the Templar compound.

As the galley moved into open water, arrows rained down on it while the sea around it erupted with huge, sizzling explosions of white foam as the Sultan's crossbows and catapults were trained on the escaping galley. It was soon beyond their range, and Martin stood up, glancing back at die receding landscape. Hordes of warriors lined the city's ramparts, howling and jeering at the ship like caged animals. Behind them, an inferno raged, resounding with the shouts and screams of men, women, and children, all against the incessant rolling thunder of the drums of war.

Slowly, the ship gathered speed, aided by the offshore wind, its banks of oars rising and falling like wings skimming the darkening waters. On die distant horizon, the sky had turned black and threatening.

It was over.

His hands still shaking and his heart leaden, Martin of Carmaux slowly and reluctantly turned his back on the land of his birth and stared ahead at the storm that awaited diem.

Chapter 1

At first, no one noticed the four horsemen as they emerged out of the darkness of Central Park.

Instead, all eyes were focused four blocks south where, under a barrage of flashbulbs and television lights, a steady stream of limos decanted elegantly attired celebrities and lesser mortals onto the curb outside the Metropolitan Museum of Art.

It was one of those mammoth events that no other city could pull off quite as well as New York, least of all when the hosting venue happened to be the Met. Spectacularly lit up and with searchlight beams swirling across the black April sky above it, the sprawling building was like an irresistible beacon in the heart of the city, beckoning its guests through the austere columns of its neoclassical facade, over which floated a banner that read:

TREASURES OF THE VATICAN

There had been talk of postponing the event, or even canceling it altogether. Yet again, recent intelligence reports had prompted the government to raise the national terror alert level to orange.

Across the country, state and local authorities had stepped up security measures, and although New York City had been at orange since 9/11, additional precautions were taken. National Guard troops were posted at subways and bridges, while police officers were working twelve-hour shifts.

The exhibition, given its subject matter, was deemed to be particularly at risk. Despite all this, strong wills had prevailed and the museum's board had voted to stick to its plans. The show would go on as planned, further testimony to the city's unbreakable spirit.

***

A young woman with impeccable hair and brightly enameled teeth stood with her back to the museum, taking her third shot at getting her intro right. Having failed at studiously knowledgeable and blase, the reporter was going for earnest this time as she stared into the lens.

"I can't remember the last time the Met hosted such a star-studded party, certainly nothing since the Mayan show and that's going back a few years," she announced as a chubby, middle-aged man stepped out of a limo with a tall, angular woman in a blue evening dress a size too tight and a generation too young for her. "And there's the mayor and his lovely wife," the reporter gushed, "our very own royal family and fashionably late, of course."

Going on in earnest, she adopted a more serious look and added, "Many of the artifacts on display here tonight have never been seen by the public before, anywhere. They've been locked away in the vaults of the Vatican for hundreds of years and—"

Just then, a sudden surge of whistles and cheers from the crowd distracted her. Her voice trailing off, she glanced away from the camera, her eyes drifting toward the growing commotion.

And that was when she saw the horsemen.

The horses were superb specimens: imperious grays and chestnuts, with flowing black tails and manes. But it was their riders that had roused the crowd.

The four men, riding abreast, were all dressed in identical medieval armor. They had visored helmets, chain-mail vests, flanged plate leggings over black jerkins and quilted hose. They looked as though they had just beamed in through a time-travel portal. Further dramatizing the effect, long scabbarded broadswords hung from their waists. Most striking of all, they wore long white mantles over their armor, each bearing a splayed, blood-red cross.

The horses were now moving at a gentle trot.

The crowd went wild with excitement as the knights advanced slowly, staring ahead, oblivious to the hoopla around them.

"Well, what do we have here? It looks like the Met and the Vatican have pulled out all the stops tonight, and aren't they magnificent," the reporter enthused, settling now for plain old showbiz.

"Just listen to that crowd!"

The horses reached the curb outside the museum, and then they did something curious.

They didn't stop there.

Instead, they turned slowly until they were facing the museum.

Without missing a step, the riders gently coaxed their mounts up and onto the sidewalk. Continuing the advance slowly, the four knights guided the horses onto the paved piazza.

Side by side, they ceremoniously climbed up the cascading steps, heading unerringly for the museum's entrance.

Chapter 2

"Mom, I've really gotta go," Kim pleaded.

Tess Chaykin looked at her daughter with an annoyed frown on her face. The three of them—Tess, her mother Eileen, and Kim—had only just walked into the museum. Tess had hoped to take a quick look around the crowded exhibits before the speeches, the schmoozing, and the rest of the unavoidable formalities took over. But that would now have to wait. Kim was doing what every nine-year-old inevitably did in these occasions, which was to hold off until the least convenient time had arrived before announcing her desperate need for a restroom.

"Kim, honestly." The grand hall was teeming with people. Navigating through them to escort her daughter to the ladies' room wasn't a prospect Tess relished right now.

Tess's mother, who wasn't doing much to hide the small pleasure she was finding in this, stepped in.

"I'll take her. You go on ahead." Then, with a knowing grin, she added, "Much as I enjoy watching you get your payback."

Tess flashed her a grimace, then looked at her daughter and smiled, shaking her head. The little face and its glinting green eyes never failed to charm its way out of any situation.

"I'll meet you in the main hall." She raised a stern finger at Kim. "Stay close to Nana. I don't want to lose you in this circus."

Kim groaned and rolled her eyes. Tess watched them disappear into the melee before turning and heading in.

***

The huge foyer of the museum, the Great Hall, was already crowded with gray-haired men and vertiginously glamorous women. Black ties and evening gowns were de rigueur and, as she looked around, Tess felt self-conscious. She fretted that she stood out as much for her understated elegance as for her discomfort at being perceived as part of the "in" crowd all around her, a crowd she firmly had no interest in.

What Tess didn't realize was that what people noticed about her had nothing to do with her being understated in the precise, seamed black dress that floated a few inches above her knees, nor with her discomfort at attending platitude-intensive events like this one. People just noticed her, period.

They always had. And who could blame them. The seductive mass of curls framing the warm green eyes that radiated intelligence usually triggered it. The healthy, thirty-six-year-old frame that moved in relaxed, fluid strides confirmed it, and the fact that she was totally oblivious to her charms sealed it. It was too bad she'd always fallen for the wrong guys. She'd even ended up marrying the last of that contemptible bunch, a mistake she had recently undone.

She advanced into the main room, the buzz of conversation echoing off the walls around her in a dull roar that made individual words impossible to determine. Acoustics, it seemed, had not been a prime consideration of the museum's design. She could hear traces of chamber music and tracked it to an all-female string quartet tucked away in a corner, sawing away energetically but almost inaudibly at their instruments. Nodding furtively at the smiling faces in the crowd, she made her way past Lila Wallace's ever-present displays of fresh flowers and the niche where Andrea della Robbia's sublime blue-and-white glazed terra-cotta Madonna and Child stood gracefully watching over the throng. Tonight though, they had company, as this was only one of many depictions of Jesus Christ and the Virgin Mary that now adorned the museum.