Read James Acton 04 - The Templar's Relic for Free Online Page B

Templars in 1308 of any wrongdoing.
    With the top cleared off, Acton knelt down and unrolled his leather tool kit. Selecting a long, thin probe, he carefully inserted it between the lid and the sarcophagus body. It slid in easily. He continued probing several more times, then replaced the tool and stood up.
    “It’s not airtight, so we’re safe to remove the lid.”
    Laura nodded. “I’ll have them start bringing down the equipment.”
    Acton ran his hand along the lid of the sarcophagus containing Sir John. You died as you lived, a hero, saving the life of an innocent. He wondered what the story was, what could have killed this man, in Rome of all places, when he had survived so many battles of the Third Crusade.
     
     

 
     
     
    Rome
    1215 AD
     
    Sir John of Ridefort felt much older than his forty years, what with much of those years spent in battle and the harsh climate of the Holy Land. But his years of fighting were over. He was heading home, to a home he barely remembered, and to a family that may no longer be alive. There had been no communication in almost five years, which had led to this journey.
    He looked over at Raymond, his faithful servant these almost twenty-five years. His weathered face, almost a thick leather, the creases so deep they camouflaged the battle scars littering his visage. Raymond had been his father’s confidante, and had quickly earned the trust and admiration of the son. They had fought at each other’s side through countless battles, and when Sir John had suggested Raymond retire and return home, Raymond had refused. “My place is at your side.”
    Loyalty such as this was rare, even more so when it was mutual. There was a friendship here forged in battle, in prayer, in peace. They knew each other’s secrets, desires, wants, and sins. They were brothers in arms, they were friends until death, and they were Templars.
    “Look.”
    Sir John followed Raymond’s gaze. Saint Peter’s Basilica, built by Emperor Constantine the First, in 326 AD. It was impressive, it was inspiring. To think that Saint Peter himself was buried under its foundation. Sir John wondered what the first Bishop of Rome would have thought of the crusades. Would he have hailed them as the work of God, or decried them as the bloodlust of man disguised with the trappings of Christ’s church.
    Sir John felt the words fill his heart with joy, the ancient Latin he was now able to understand thanks to years of instruction from the faithful Raymond. “And I say also unto thee, That thou art Peter, and upon this rock I will build my church; and the gates of hell shall not prevail against it.”
    Raymond looked at him, a smile creasing the tanned face. “Your Latin remains excellent, I see.”
    Sir John chuckled. “With you drumming it into my head for twenty years, it better be.”
    “Well, someone had to teach you some culture. The heathen child I met at Acre was in desperate need of teaching beyond the sword.”
    Sir John nodded. “What was it you always said? ‘Wisdom wields more power than the sword’?”
    “Correct. But do you believe it?”
    Sir John thought back on the years of battle, and the years of administration involved after a victory. Conquering a city meant running that city, and the Templars had many holdings throughout Christendom. In the past decade, most of his time had been spent pushing parchment rather than a blade, and that had suited his weary bones just fine. He placed his hand on his friend’s shoulder.
    “Absolutely, but”—he held up a finger—“ not for years.”
    “With age comes wisdom.”
    “Then you are the wisest man I know.”
    Raymond frowned. “And apparently little respect.”
    They both roared with laughter, and urged their steeds on.
    Suddenly a shout rang out, then more. Raymond and Sir John spun in their saddles to see what the commotion was, and Sir John gasped. A cart had broken loose and was rolling down the cobble stone road they now occupied. Quickly he