The Testament
The Testament
Eric Van Lustbader
The new international thriller from the New York Times bestselling author of The Bourne Legacy
Braverman Shaw—“Bravo” to his friends—always knew his father had secrets. But not until Dexter Shaw dies in a mysterious explosion does Bravo discover the enormity of his father's hidden life as a high-ranking member of the Order of Gnostic Observatines, a sect founded by followers of St. Francis of Assisi and believed to have been wiped out centuries ago. For more than eight hundred years, the Order has preserved an ancient cache of documents, including a long-lost Testament attributed to Christ that could shake Christianity to its foundations. Dexter Shaw was the latest Keeper of the Testament—and Bravo is his chosen successor.
Before Dexter died, he hid the cache where only Bravo could find it. Now Bravo, an accomplished medieval scholar and cryptanalyst, must follow the esoteric clues his father left behind. His companion in this quest is Jenny Logan, a driven young woman with secrets of her own. Jenny is a Guardian, assigned by the Order to protect Bravo, or so she claims. Bravo soon learns that he can trust no one where the Testament is concerned, perhaps not even Jenny . . .
Another secret society, the Knights of St. Clement, originally founded and sponsored by the Papacy, has been after the Order's precious cache since the time of the Crusades. The Knights, agents and assassins, will stop at nothing to obtain the treasure. Bravo has become both a target and a pawn in an ongoing war far larger and more deadly than any he could have imagined.
Eric Van Lustbader
The Testament
AUTHOR'S NOTE
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously.
For Victoria
and My Poonies
INSPIRATION COMES IN MANY GUISES. MY THANKS TO:
Dorothy Dunnett's Niccolo series for introducing me to the history of Trebizond
The city of Venice
The Dictionary of Medieval Terms and Phrases by Christopher Core`don and Ann Williams and Keith
PROLOGUE
AUGUST, 1442- SUMELA MONASTERY, TREBIZOND
On a blazingly hot late afternoon in high summer, three Franciscan Gnostic Observatine monks foraged in the midst of their daily perimeter patrol. They were grateful for the dappled shade and the heavy emerald light as they stepped carefully through the dense woods surrounding the Sumela Monastery, where they currently hid. The monastery was an altogether fitting place for their forced and rather desperate retreat-it had been founded during the reign of Theodosius I by the Greek Orthodox, with whom the Order had a special bond.
Though the men wore the plain, undyed muslin robes of their ascetic order, they patrolled heavily armed with swords, daggers and longbows. They were Guardians, trained in weaponry and hand-to-hand combat as well as the words of Christ and St. Francis. It was their sacred duty to guard the other members of the Order, especially those of the inner circle who ruled the Order, the Haute Cour.
The brutal sun, on its slow journey to the horizon, had by this time heated even the normally cool mountain air, so that the Guardians' robes were shot through with sweat stains, spreading from their armpits and down the center of their broad, muscular backs. They moved in the same way they said their prayers three times a day-the way they held themselves, the wariness of eye and foot as they quartered the western wedge of tangled land under their jurisdiction, could only be described as ritualistic.
Nearing the seventh and final hour of their shift, their muscles ached, their vertebrae cracking now and again as they bent to examine some track or spoor to make certain that it was made by an animal and not by their fellow man. Their training demanded they be careful, as did the history of the Order, for so long under threat from the Pope and his strong mailed fist, the Knights of St. Clement of the Holy Blood. Since the time of the first crusade, which had been launched in 1095, the Knights had made the island of Rhodes their base. Danger arose in the Order's having secreted itself so close to the Holy Land, where its enemies teemed, but they well knew the wisdom in hiding in plain sight. Over the year and a half that the Order had been at Sumela, no Knight of St. Clement had ventured to the monastery, which was not and never had been in their domain. It belonged to the Emperor Justinian, and then to the Comnenos, the emperor-dynasty of Trebizond, on the southwestern shore of the Black Sea, with Anatolia and the highly lucrative camel route to Isfahan and Tabriz at its back, an eight-day journey by ship from Byzantium.
At the edge of a clearing, the three Guardians paused to take water and a bite of unleavened bread. Yet even in this moment of relative ease, their iron discipline forbade any talk, and their eyes in faces lined with tension were never at rest. As they chewed and swallowed, they scanned the glade into which the lowering hulk of the sun spilled ruddy light. Hands at their foreheads, they squinted into the glare.
Birds twittered and swooped, insects droned sullenly, butterflies and bees crisscrossed the glade. The air sat exhausted and sweating, beaten down by the sun glare. The Guardians' attention momentarily shifted as a brief rustling came from the underbrush perhaps fifty yards distant. They waited, immobile and staring, their hearts pounding as the sweat formed in the hollows of their necks and crept down their spines. The rustling came again, closer this time, and one of them went into a crouch, put fletched shaft to bowstring, pulling it back taut, the forged iron arrowhead aimed and ready.
A small form appeared, and the archer grinned in relief. Only a small mammal foraging through the underbrush. Another of the Guardians laughed under his breath, raised his hand to his companion's tautly arced bow, as if to lower it.
He never got the chance. A brief evil humming made itself heard above the drowsing chitter of the insects as a crossbow bolt flashed through the air. The Guardian, impaled through the chest, flew into shadow, his arms flung wide. His archer compatriot, crouched still, drew back his bow, frantically trying to draw a bead on the hidden enemy, but before he could loose his arrow, another bolt flew out of the sun's glare and pierced his neck. Flung onto his back by the force of the arrow, he lost his grip on the bowstring, and his arrow shot skyward in a crazy arc.
Fra Martin, spattered with his brothers' blood, dove for cover, drew his broadsword and gathered his wits about him.
His brothers were dead, both killed in a matter of seconds by a hidden assassin. But from the way they fell, he knew where the archer had secreted himself.
He now had a crucial decision to make. He could either circle his way forward, keeping to the shadows while he skirted the glare of the forest glade, engage the Knights and avenge the murders of his brothers, or he could discreetly withdraw, making all haste back to the monastery to warn the Magister Regens and to gain reinforcements with which to hunt the enemy. The sun glare within which the archer had so cleverly cloaked himself mitigated against immediate engagement.
However, if the archer was, indeed, a Knight of St. Clement, he had surely identified his prey as members of the Gnostic Observatine Order. If he escaped and returned to Rhodes with news of the Order's whereabouts, a veritable army would be sent against the monks. Then they would be facing an all-out assault, against which they surely could not stand. No, there was no time to seek reinforcements from within the monastery-he had to find the enemy now, identify him and kill him before he could inform the Knights of the Order's hiding place.
Fra Martin knew the forest well, remembered that just beyond the glade a sheer drop-off into the deep ravine, guarded on either side by naked cliffs and jagged boulders, snaked its way back to the treasure-laden city of Trebizond on the southern coast of the Black Sea. Picking his way to the left, he described a rough semicircle. All the while, he kept the glade in view, through which ripples of wind caused a succession of rustlings. Muscles bunched, ready with his sword, he kept moving crabwise to his left, always keeping the sun-dazzle of the glade in the periphery of his vision.
A swift sat on a branch above and just ahead of him, its head cocked as it warily eyed him. All at once, it took off in a flutter, and with a prickle at the nape of his neck, he whirled to his left. As he did so, he flipped his sword to his left hand, swept it around in a flat, vicious arc. As forged steel bit into bone and flesh, he heard the scream even before he identified his foe as a Knight of St. Clement. The Knight staggered under his blow, began to bring his own sword down toward Fra Martin's head in a skull-cleaving blow. Fra Martin, slipping inside the other's guard, stayed his opponent's arm with one hand while he drove his own sword hilt-deep into the Knight. The Knight watched him malevolently out of bloodshot eyes. Then his lips curled back from bared teeth and a laugh spilled out from deep inside him just before the death-rattle overtook him.
Fra Martin kicked the corpse aside. The imminent danger dealt with, he moved with greater confidence along the edge of the ridge. He could not discount the possibility that there might be other Knights stalking through the forest. No matter, he would become the stalker now. All his senses rose to their most heightened level.
Quite soon he came to an area that had eroded in the last rainstorm. A large tree had been uprooted and others partially so, leaving great clots of red earth exposed like wounds. This afforded him a hitherto impossible view into the deep ravine, the only way to and from Sumela.
The sight below turned his blood cold. Lines of the Knights of St. Clement marched in concert, heading toward the monastery, the last bastion of his Order. He had made a
fatal mistake. The Knight who had attacked him and his compatriots had not been alone but was an advance raider sent to destroy the Order's sentinels. He had to assume that other such assassins had been dispatched to deal with the other Guardians on patrol. There could be no doubt, the Knights had launched a full-scale attack.
As he turned, on his way back to the monastery, a crossbow bolt sliced through the flesh of his arm. He staggered sideways, his booted right foot sliding on the bare earth, and he went over the edge.
He slammed into a tangle of tree roots jutting out from the side of the earthfall and almost had his breath taken away. Still, he had the presence of mind to reach out and grab on. Panting, he swung in midair, dizzy and nauseated, a thousand-meter drop yawning at his feet. Far below him, the line of Knights continued their march. Blood leaked from his wound, and pain lanced through his arm all the way up into his shoulder. He tried to pull himself up, succeeded only in tearing open the wound. It was only a matter of time before his blood, running more freely now, would drip down, giving him away to the enemy below.
He began to pray, gathering himself into the essential core of his being. But though his soul spoke to God, at some point he could not help but notice that the huge uprooted tree above him rolled as if of its own accord, slowly at first, then more quickly, until it shot out and down, amid cries of dismay and pain, onto the marching enemy.
Dumbfounded, he swallowed thickly as he watched the chaos spreading through the ranks of Knights.
"It's a divine intervention," he whispered.
"In a way."
He looked up, sweat and the red silt of Sumela in his eyes, for the source of the voice. He was at first certain that St. Francis himself had come to his aid. Then the striking face resolved itself.
"Fra Leoni," Fra Martin whispered. "Thank God."
Fra Leoni was well named, for he had a leonine face atop a mass of curling hair black as pitch. From this unruly surround the startling blue of his eyes broke like sun through storm clouds. "Hurry, while they are still in disarray. There's no time to lose." Fra Leoni's powerful hand, covered in flakes of moss and tree bark, grasped him, tugging him up.
Sumela Monastery appeared to be carved out of the bedrock on which it sat, a jagged tooth in the Karadaglar, the Black Mountains that lay between Trebizond and Armenia.
"The Venetian fleet has been turned back by Sultan Murat II and his Ottoman navy," Fra Prospero said as he addressed the somber-faced priests ranged around the dark wooden trestle table in the refectory of the monastery. "Any day now Trebizond will come under attack. No matter how well situated, this time the Golden City will fall, and afterward, the Ottoman filth will be breaking down Sumela's door."
"We have a more immediate disaster staring us in the face."
The priests of the Order of Gnostic Observatines turned as one to face the bloody-robed figure who filled the doorway. Above their tonsured heads, the vaulted ceiling arched like the heavily muscled shoulders of a giant warrior.
Fra Prospero, Magister Regens of the Order, lifted a hand, palm up, in the traditional gesture of welcome, but his large black eyes held a different message. He did not like being interrupted, let alone being contradicted. "Enter, Fra Leoni, and pray enlighten us." The Magister Regens bared his teeth. "What could be more of a disaster than the heathen Turk overrunning our toehold island, the bastion of Christ on the shore of the Levant?"
Fra Leoni reached into the darkness of the hallway, bringing in the wounded Fra Martin. Two of the priests rose and rushed over to take him to the infirmary.
"What is this?" Fra Prospero said. "What has happened?"
"We are under attack," Fra Leoni told them. "The Knights of St. Clement have found us. They landed in secret at Sinope five nights ago. Their main force is but an hour away."
At this remark, a meaningful glance passed between Fra Leoni and the Magister Regens, but neither of them said what was on their minds.
Instead, Fra Prospero sighed. "Indeed, our worst fears have been realized. This Pope's thirst for temporal power led him to create the Knights of St. Clement-his own private army, used to crush those who went against the will of the Holy See. Three weeks ago, the Knights received by courier a communique' from the Pope, charging them to destroy our Order." He was a massive man, with a round, florid face like a sunflower and the clever black eyes of an inquisitor. He was possessed of a deep, rich baritone that reached with uncommon ease to the farthest corner of the refectory. "Our teachings have already put us at odds with the Pope. But now a Vatican council has judged what we preach as heretical blasphemy and has condemned us as dangerous to the rule of the Pope. We have been marked for eradication-and who better to perform this task than the Pope's so-called soldiers of Christ, the Knights of St. Clement of the Holy Blood?"
The priests looked at each other with fear and consternation plainly visible on their faces.
Fra Sento's narrow brow furrowed. "Why weren't we informed sooner of this despicable edict?"
"What good would it have done," the Magister Regens said, "save sow the seeds of panic?"
Fra Sento stood, leaning forward, body tense, clenched fists on the table. "We could release the Testament to the world," he said, "and so reveal the falseness of this power-mad Pope."
At the mention of the Testament an awful blanket of silence swept down upon them. Deepening shadows crawling through the west-facing windows slowly smothered the fire of the sunset.
Sizing up the situation in an instant, Fra Leoni took a step into the room and before Fra Sento's contagion had a chance to spread, said, "Haven't we put this question to its death yet? Who but Church and clergy and a handful of scholars can even read? The Church's power and influence is far too vast for our discovery to be readily believed, let alone accepted as gospel. No, we'd be reviled, cast out, stoned to death by the faithful, like as not-and the Testament itself would fall into the hands of our enemies within the Church, who would destroy it rather than know its truth. Besides, it is neither our duty nor our desire to topple the very institution to which we have pledged our minds, bodies and souls."
Fra Sento, scowling still, crossed his arms over his chest. He knew Fra Leoni was right, but he couldn't see past his burgeoning fear to acknowledge it.
The Magister Regens now rose. "Well said, Fra Leoni, thank you. The enemy is almost upon us. We must now turn to the practical matter of our defense. The fact is, we have been practicing for this every day since our arrival at Sumela. Do you believe that we could be better prepared for the inevitable?" His piercing gaze on Fra Sento, he said, "Would anyone here gainsay my decision?"
Fra Sento looked down at his lap and, slowly, his arms unwound. With another covert glance at Fra Prospero, Fra Leoni respectfully took his place at the table.
"We all suspected the Pope would find a way to rule against us," Fra Kent said. He was a jowly priest, tallest of them all, with a quick wit and a helping hand for others. "Now, the hour of our greatest trial is upon us, and it is more imperative than ever that we act as one mind, one strong heart."
The Magister Regens nodded ever so slightly as he looked around the table with his sternest expression. "I trust I can count on each and every one of you to perform your duties and defend the principles of our Order."
There came an explosion of assent from every priest in the room, Fra Sento's voice joining Fra Kent's and the others'. Then the Magister Regens spread his arms wide and, as they stood as one, addressed his charges formally:
"There is courage in all our hearts, faith fires our souls. We, who have been charged by St. Francis to be his everlasting voice on earth, to carry out his will for generations to come, now gather our strong arms. Though the storm clouds of war gather, though our enemy has sought us out, now we gird ourselves for the battle. Man the battlements south and east, the staircases and the courtyards that have come to be our home. Rain down upon our enemies the retribution for their unwarranted aggression. It is a red day, an evil day, a day of sorrow and of pain! Blood will flow and lives will be lost! Both heaven and hell will receive its share of souls before its end!"