Hashashin friends.”
“Let’s not play games, Patrick. Not today.”
The Archivist seemed lost in his own thoughts.
The Master waited. “Patrick? Do you know? What is it?”
“Know? Of course I know. At least I know more than anyone else knows.” He sprang up with surprising agility and darted to the door. He looked back at the Master. “Well, are you coming or not? I thought you wanted to learn about the treaty.”
He led them down the corridor to an unmarked door, pressed his palm against the scanner, and scampered down two flights of stairs. The old fraud, thought the Master, he’s infirm when it suits him, and can dance on a high wire when he wants. Something to remember.
An armed guard behind a bulletproof glass admitted them, and they passed through a second door leading to a large room with aisle after aisle of shelves and cabinets. “The Templar Archives,” said the Archivist. “One day, maybe this can all be moved upstairs, but not yet. Hmmph, it would be nice to let the world know what really started the French Revolution, what Henry VIII and the Pope were actually doing, who shot Kennedy. But not yet, not yet.”
The Archivist tapped a keyboard and ran his finger down the screen. Then he slowly moved down an aisle, lightly dragging his fingers across the books, and pulled a large, leather-bound volume from a shelf.
He took a seat and paged through the volume. “Yes, yes… this is it… hmmm…”
The Master waited, then asked, “Well? What is it?”
“First off, understand we don’t have the treaty. Don’t even have a copy of it. Nobody does.”
The Archivist turned his chair sideways to the table, crossed his ankles, settled back in the chair, and folded his hands in his lap. “Simply put, the treaty is the stuff of legends, and mostly forgotten legends. But don’t forget legend is usually born in fact. I haven’t heard mention of it for fifty years. We have some Templar documents from the early Fifteenth Century that refer to it, but they don’t tell us much. One of my predecessors as Chief Archivist, Hugo Deboge,” he tapped the volume on the table, “he wrote about it in 1540 when he tried to gather all the information he could into a short history. I’m sure he did quite a fine and complete job. Unfortunately, we don’t have his complete work, and the manuscripts he references have disappeared into history’s dustbin.”
The Archivist bent over the book again. “And we don’t know why he was interested, either. Something had to prompt him… hmmm… but there’s no hint here.”
He lifted his glasses onto his forehead. “So, the treaty. Now mind you, what I’m telling you isn’t based on anything close to verifiable history. It’s a mix of conjecture, legend, hearsay, and probably a heavy dose of crap, but it’s all we know, or all anyone knows.”
The Master just nodded.
“Ok. Just before the Third Crusade, let’s say about 1190, which was a horrible disaster for the Europeans, and well after our Order had been founded in 1122, the Pope got the big three kings of Europe to sign onto an eternal campaign to wipe out every vestige of Islam. Not just secure Jerusalem, keep pilgrims alive, and plant the Pope’s flag, but go way beyond that. Way, way beyond. Think about it. We have the Pope and the kings signing a document that pledged them to rid the world of the Islamic menace and ensure Christian dominance forever.
“And it wasn’t just for the Third Crusade. No, not at all. It committed them and all their descendants to the task. All of Europe, and all of Christendom forever. Let’s say they were taking the long view of history. Get rid of Islam. Get rid of Muslims. Kill ‘em all. Rend ‘em limb from limb. Accept the gentle Lord Jesus Christ as universal love, or die! Heathen scum! Infidels! All good, peace loving Christians, of course.”
The Master raised his cane. “And they wrote it all down? Isn’t that a bit strange for the times? After all,
“Let’s not play games, Patrick. Not today.”
The Archivist seemed lost in his own thoughts.
The Master waited. “Patrick? Do you know? What is it?”
“Know? Of course I know. At least I know more than anyone else knows.” He sprang up with surprising agility and darted to the door. He looked back at the Master. “Well, are you coming or not? I thought you wanted to learn about the treaty.”
He led them down the corridor to an unmarked door, pressed his palm against the scanner, and scampered down two flights of stairs. The old fraud, thought the Master, he’s infirm when it suits him, and can dance on a high wire when he wants. Something to remember.
An armed guard behind a bulletproof glass admitted them, and they passed through a second door leading to a large room with aisle after aisle of shelves and cabinets. “The Templar Archives,” said the Archivist. “One day, maybe this can all be moved upstairs, but not yet. Hmmph, it would be nice to let the world know what really started the French Revolution, what Henry VIII and the Pope were actually doing, who shot Kennedy. But not yet, not yet.”
The Archivist tapped a keyboard and ran his finger down the screen. Then he slowly moved down an aisle, lightly dragging his fingers across the books, and pulled a large, leather-bound volume from a shelf.
He took a seat and paged through the volume. “Yes, yes… this is it… hmmm…”
The Master waited, then asked, “Well? What is it?”
“First off, understand we don’t have the treaty. Don’t even have a copy of it. Nobody does.”
The Archivist turned his chair sideways to the table, crossed his ankles, settled back in the chair, and folded his hands in his lap. “Simply put, the treaty is the stuff of legends, and mostly forgotten legends. But don’t forget legend is usually born in fact. I haven’t heard mention of it for fifty years. We have some Templar documents from the early Fifteenth Century that refer to it, but they don’t tell us much. One of my predecessors as Chief Archivist, Hugo Deboge,” he tapped the volume on the table, “he wrote about it in 1540 when he tried to gather all the information he could into a short history. I’m sure he did quite a fine and complete job. Unfortunately, we don’t have his complete work, and the manuscripts he references have disappeared into history’s dustbin.”
The Archivist bent over the book again. “And we don’t know why he was interested, either. Something had to prompt him… hmmm… but there’s no hint here.”
He lifted his glasses onto his forehead. “So, the treaty. Now mind you, what I’m telling you isn’t based on anything close to verifiable history. It’s a mix of conjecture, legend, hearsay, and probably a heavy dose of crap, but it’s all we know, or all anyone knows.”
The Master just nodded.
“Ok. Just before the Third Crusade, let’s say about 1190, which was a horrible disaster for the Europeans, and well after our Order had been founded in 1122, the Pope got the big three kings of Europe to sign onto an eternal campaign to wipe out every vestige of Islam. Not just secure Jerusalem, keep pilgrims alive, and plant the Pope’s flag, but go way beyond that. Way, way beyond. Think about it. We have the Pope and the kings signing a document that pledged them to rid the world of the Islamic menace and ensure Christian dominance forever.
“And it wasn’t just for the Third Crusade. No, not at all. It committed them and all their descendants to the task. All of Europe, and all of Christendom forever. Let’s say they were taking the long view of history. Get rid of Islam. Get rid of Muslims. Kill ‘em all. Rend ‘em limb from limb. Accept the gentle Lord Jesus Christ as universal love, or die! Heathen scum! Infidels! All good, peace loving Christians, of course.”
The Master raised his cane. “And they wrote it all down? Isn’t that a bit strange for the times? After all,
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