The Last Templar Read online

  Praise for

  The Last Templar

  “Short, quick scenes and cinematic action sequences…keep things moving at an absorbingly brisk pace.”

  —San Francisco Chronicle

  “Da Vinci–style thriller flourishes.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “One of the most gripping opening scenes among recent thrillers…. Khoury is a screenwriter, and his story is nothing if not cinematic, as it skips across three continents and climaxes with a storm at sea of biblical proportions. A nice twist at the end spins the Christian history everyone’s been chasing.”

  —Booklist

  “Khoury proffers a unique Templar secret and a subsequent Vatican cover-up that, if revealed, would change Christendom forever. For those fatigued by the recent spate of Mary Magdalene/Holy Grail books, this novel will come as a welcome relief.”

  —Library Journal

  “[The Last Templar] unfolds like a seamless film reel across the imagination. Any reader encountering The Last Templar will want 1) a film version, and 2) more novels from Khoury, not necessarily in that order.”

  —Bookreporter.com

  THE LAST TEMPLAR

  RAYMOND KHOURY

  SIGNET

  Published by New American Library, a division of

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street,

  New York, New York 10014, USA

  Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto,

  Ontario M4P 2Y3, Canada (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.)

  Penguin Books Ltd., 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  Penguin Ireland, 25 St. Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2,

  Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd.)

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  Australia (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty. Ltd.)

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  New Delhi - 110 017, India

  Penguin Group (NZ), cnr Airborne and Rosedale Roads, Albany,

  Auckland 1310, New Zealand (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd.)

  Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty.) Ltd., 24 Sturdee Avenue,

  Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa

  Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices:

  80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  Published by Signet, an imprint of New American Library, a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc. Previously published in a Dutton edition.

  ISBN: 1-101-15855-7

  Copyright © Raymond Khoury, 2005

  All rights reserved

  REGISTERED TRADEMARK-MARCA REGISTRADA

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  PUBLISHER’S NOTE

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party Web sites or their content.

  The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

  Version_2

  For my parents

  For my girls:

  Suellen, Mia, and Gracie

  And

  For my buddy

  Adam B. Wachtel

  (1959–2005)

  You would have gotten such a kick out of this. I’m grateful that Victoria and Elizabeth shared you with us.

  We’re going to miss you.

  A lot.

  It has served us well, this myth of Christ.

  —POPE LEO X, 16TH CENTURY

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Chapter 65

  Chapter 66

  Chapter 67

  Chapter 68

  Chapter 69

  Chapter 70

  Chapter 71

  Chapter 72

  Chapter 73

  Chapter 74

  Chapter 75

  Chapter 76

  Chapter 77

  Chapter 78

  Chapter 79

  Chapter 80

  Chapter 81

  Chapter 82

  Chapter 83

  Chapter 84

  Chapter 85

  Chapter 86

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Prologue

  ACRE, LATIN KINGDOM OF JERUSALEM, 1291

  The Holy Land is lost.

  That single thought kept assaulting Martin of Carmaux, its brutal finality more terrifying than the hordes of fighters swarming through the breach in the wall.

  He fought to block the thought, to push it away.

  Now was not the time to lament. He had work to do.

  Men to kill.

  His broadsword held high, he charged through the clouds of choking smoke and dust and plunged into the seething ranks of the enemy. They were everywhere, their scimitars and axes ripping into flesh, their warrior howls piercing the haunting, rhythmic beat of the kettle drummers outside the fortress walls.

  With all of his strength, he brought down his sword, splitting one man’s skull clear to the eyes, his blade springing free as he lunged at his next opponent. Flicking a quick glance to his right, he spotted Aimard of Villiers driving his sword into the chest of another attacker before moving on to his next opponent. Dazed by the wails
of pain and the screams of rage around him, Martin felt someone clutch at his left hand and swiftly clubbed the offender away with the pommel of his sword before bringing down its blade, feeling it cut through muscle and bone. From the corner of his eye, he sensed something menacingly close to his right and instinctively swung his sword at it, slicing through the upper arm of another one of the invaders before slashing open his cheek and severing his tongue in one blow.

  It had been hours since he or any of his brothers had known any respite. The Muslim onslaught had not only been ceaseless; it had also been far worse than anticipated. Arrows and projectiles of blazing pitch had rained down incessantly on the city for days, starting more fires than could be tackled at once, while the Sultan’s men had dug holes beneath the great walls into which they had packed brushwood that was also set alight. In several places, these makeshift furnaces had cracked the walls that were now crumbling under a barrage of catapulted rocks. The Templars and the Hospitallers had managed, by sheer force of will, to repulse the assault on Saint Anthony’s Gate before setting it on fire and retreating. The Accursed Tower, however, had lived up to its name, allowing the rampaging Saracens into the city and sealing its fate.

  Gargling shrieks of agony receded into the confused uproar as Martin yanked his sword back and looked around desperately for any sign of hope, but there was no doubt in his mind. The Holy Land was indeed lost. With mounting dread, he realized that they would all be dead before the night was over. They were facing the largest army ever seen, and, despite the fury and the passion coursing through his veins, his efforts and those of his brothers were surely doomed to failure.

  It wasn’t long before his superiors realized it too. His heart sank as he heard the fateful horn calling on the surviving Knights of the Temple to abandon the city’s defenses. His eyes, darting left and right in a confused frenzy, again found those of Aimard of Villiers. He saw in them the same agony, the same shame that was burning through him. Side by side, they fought their way through the scrambling mob and managed to make their way back to the relative safety of the Templar compound.

  Martin followed the older knight as he stormed through the throngs of terrified civilians who had taken refuge behind the bourg’s massive walls. The sight that greeted them in the great hall shocked him even more than the carnage he had witnessed outside. Lying on a rough refectory table was William of Beaujeu, the grand master of the Knights of the Temple. Peter of Sevrey, the marshal, stood at his side, along with two monks. The woeful looks on their faces left little room for doubt. As the two knights reached his side, Beaujeu’s eyes opened and he raised his head slightly, the movement causing an involuntary groan of pain. Martin stared at him in stunned disbelief. The old man’s skin was drained of all color, his eyes bloodshot. Martin’s eyes raced down Beaujeu’s body, struggling to make sense of the sight, and he spotted the feathered bolt sticking out of the side of his rib cage. The grand master held its shaft in the curve of his hand. With his other, he beckoned Aimard, who approached him, knelt by his side, and cupped his hand with both of his own.

  “It is time,” the old man managed, his voice pained and weak, but clear. “Go now. And may God be with you.”

  The words drifted past Martin’s ears. His attention was elsewhere, focused on something he’d noticed as soon as Beaujeu had opened his mouth. It was his tongue, which had turned black. Rage and hate swelled in Martin’s throat as he recognized the effects of the poisoned bolt. This leader of men, the towering figure who had dominated every aspect of the young knight’s life for as long as he could remember, was as good as dead.

  He noticed Beaujeu lifting his gaze to Sevrey and nodding almost imperceptibly. The marshal moved to the foot of the table and lifted a velvet cover to reveal a small, ornate chest. It was not more than three hands wide. Martin had never seen it before. He watched in rapt silence as Aimard rose to his feet and gazed solemnly at the chest, then looked back at Beaujeu. The old man held his gaze before closing his eyes again, his breathing taking on an ominous rasp. Aimard went up to Sevrey and hugged him, then lifted the small chest and, without so much as a backward glance, headed out. As he passed Martin, he simply said, “Come.”

  Martin hesitated and glanced at Beaujeu and at the marshal, who nodded his head in confirmation. He hurried quickly after Aimard and soon realized that they weren’t heading toward the enemy.

  They were heading for the fortress’s moorings.

  “Where are we going?” he called out.

  Aimard didn’t break his step. “The Falcon Temple awaits us. Hurry.”

  Martin stopped in his tracks, his mind reeling in confusion. We’re leaving?

  He had known Aimard of Villiers since the death of his own father, a knight himself, fifteen years earlier, when Martin was barely five years old. Ever since, Aimard had been his guardian, his mentor. His hero. They had fought many battles together and it was fitting, Martin believed, that they would stand side by side and die together when the end came. But not this. This was insane. This was…desertion.

  Aimard stopped too, but only to grasp Martin’s shoulder and push him into motion. “Make haste,” he ordered.

  “No,” Martin yelled, flicking Aimard’s hand off him.

  “Yes,” the older knight insisted tersely.

  Martin felt nausea rising in his throat; his face clouded as he struggled for words. “I will not desert our brothers,” he stammered. “Not now—not ever!”

  Aimard heaved a ponderous sigh and glanced back at the besieged city. Blazing projectiles were arcing into the night sky and hurtling down into it from all sides. Still clutching the small chest, he turned and took a menacing step forward so that their faces were now inches apart, and Martin saw that his friend’s eyes were wet with unshed tears. “Do you think I want to abandon them?” he hissed, his voice slicing the air. “Abandon our master—in his final hour? You know me better than that.”

  Martin’s mind seethed with turmoil. “Then…why?”

  “What we have to do is far more important than killing a few more of those rabid dogs,” Aimard replied somberly. “It’s crucial to the survival of our Order. It’s crucial if we are to make sure everything we’ve worked for doesn’t die here as well. We have to go. Now.”

  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 the 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 the 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 them.

  Chapter 1

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