The Templar Legion by Paul Christopher Read Free Book Online Page B

lid,” said Rafi. For the first time Holliday saw the stone-carved ribbon of writing that ran around the immense stone coffin. He translated as he went along.
    “ ‘ My past is my shield, my’ . . . uh, cruces , ‘cross is my future. Here lies, in the site of their gods, all that remains of the knight Guillaume and the’ . . . servus , what the hell is servus ?”
    “Slave, I think,” said Rafi.
    “ ‘Slave and Great Discoverer, Abdul al-Rahman. Requiescant in pace in aeterno. May they rest in peace for all eternity.”
    “Al-Rahman’s bones are buried in the same coffin?”
    “Either that or the mausoleum was built on the previous site of al-Rahman’s grave.”
    “ ‘ My past is my shield, my cross is my future....’ What’s that supposed to mean?” Holliday asked.
    “I didn’t get it at first either,” said Rafi.
    “Get what?” Holliday said.
    “Press down hard on the cross on his shield,” instructed Rafi.
    Holliday leaned over the stone effigy of the knight and pressed down on the center of the black basalt–inlaid cross in the center of his shield. Nothing happened.
    “A little harder,” said Rafi.
    Holliday did as he was told. There was a grating sound, and then Rafi pulled out a tongue of stone that had eased out from the side of the sarcophagus. It was a stone drawer, released by some mechanism within the massive coffin. Inside the drawer was what appeared to be a book bound in leather. With the delicate touch of an archaeologist, Rafi lifted the volume up and laid it on the stone effigy. Slowly and with extreme care, he slipped a leather thong through the cover, which turned out to be a strap keeping the volume tightly shut.
    He carefully unfolded a series of thick papyrus pages like an accordion, spreading them out over the top of the sarcophagus. Holliday leaned over it. The pages were covered with line after line of text, the letters so small they were barely readable. Interspersed with the text were simple black-and-white ink drawings.
    “It’s Latin and French, side by side,” he said. “What is it?”
    “I call it the Templar Codex,” said Rafi. “From what I can tell Roche-Guillaume translated al-Rahman’s description of finding the mines and the eventual trip back to civilization.” The archaeologist pointed to a tiny illustration. As small as it was it was instantly recognizable—a Viking ship in flames, empty except for a funeral pyre and a body. “At a guess I’d say this relates to the death of our friend Ragnar Skull Splitter.” Rafi paused, clearly moved as he stared down at the seven-hundred-year old manuscript. “As I said, Roche-Guillaume was a historian. He wanted his own and al-Rahman’s stories to survive; and they did.”
    “People would pay millions for this, wouldn’t they?” Peggy said.
    “Easily.” Rafi nodded. “The manuscript is priceless, let alone what it reveals.”
    Holliday looked up from the pages and shook his head. “No, much more than just that. People would kill for this book.”
    “It belongs in a museum; the question is, How do I get it there?” Rafi said.
    “What’s the border situation?”
    “It varies. Kenya, the guards are all stoned on Khat and it could go either way; Eritrea is men with guns. Sudan, sometimes it’s a bunch of goats; sometimes it’s a full-scale military crossing. Somalia—don’t even think about it.”
    “Too risky to smuggle it out, then.”
    “So what do we do?” Peggy asked.
    “I want to at least get a photographic record of it,” said Rafi.
    “That’s easy enough,” said Peggy, lifting the big Nikon. “But what do we do after that?”
    “Put it back where we found it for the time being,” said Rafi. “Show the pictures to some museums, see if I can get one of them to back a proper expedition.”
    “Where’s the nearest border crossing into the Sudan?”
    “Metemma,” said Rafi. “Then Al Qadarif and Khartoum.”
    “Then that’s how we go,” said Holliday. “Photograph the