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“Open it.”
Pollux found a knife in his pocket and worked the wax at one end of the glass cylinder, freeing the end cap and allowing the first exposure of fresh air to rush across the parchments. He then reached inside and slowly extracted the three rolls, laying them gently on the altar.
Kastor reached for one and slowly unrolled it. The parchment crackled, but the fibers held strong. The Pie Postulatio Voluntatis. The Most Pious Request. The papal bull from 1113 that recognized the Hospitallers’ independence and sovereignty. He’d seen the other original housed in the Vatican archives.
Pollux unraveled a second parchment.
The Ad Providam. From 1312, when Pope Clement V handed over all of the Templars’ property to the Hospitallers. He’d seen that other original, too.
They both stared at the final parchment, which was a little longer than the others, and thicker.
“It has to be,” he said.
“It’s two sheets rolled together,” Pollux said, lifting the parchment and unrolling.
Faded black ink in tight lines, with narrow margins, filled the top sheet, which measured about forty-five centimeters long and a little less than that wide.
“It’s Latin,” Pollux said.
He’d already noticed. Latin had been Constantine’s main language, so much that he’d required Greek translators in order to communicate with many parts of his empire. This document being drafted in Latin was a good sign toward authenticity, as were the parchment and ink, which would surely survive scientific scrutiny and be dated to the 4th century. But it was the signatures at the bottom of the second sheet that would prove the point. He counted the names, signed one after the other.
Seventy-three.
Some he recognized from historical reading.
Eustathius of Antioch. Paphnutius of Thebes. Potamon of Heraclea. Paul of Neocaesarea. Nicholas of Myra. Macarius of Jerusalem. Aristaces of Armenia. Leontius of Caesarea. Jacob of Nisibis. Hypatius of Gangra. Protogenes of Sardica. Melitius of Sebastopolis. Achillius of Larissa. Spyridon of Trimythous. John, bishop of Persia and India. Marcus of Calabria. Caecilian of Carthage. Hosius of Córdoba. Nicasius from Gaul. Domnus from the province of the Danube.
Then there was Eusebius of Caesarea, the purported first church historian, who provided the only written account of what happened at Nicaea.
But the mark at the bottom cinched the deal.
Five rows. Five words.
The letters in the Latin alphabet.
A palindrome.
The sign of Constantine.
“The emperor and the bishops all signed it,” he said. “It’s exactly as it should be.”
“Yes, it is, brother.”
And at the top of the first sheet were the two most important words.
Constitutum Constantini.
CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE
Pollux stared at the parchments.
Everything pointed to their authenticity. Including where they’d been found. Here, inside the sacred chapel, at the end of a trail created by the Secreti.
“There’s no time right now to study this,” he said. “We can deal with that between now and this afternoon. I’ll photograph and translate it myself and have an English and Italian version provided to you before you head into the Sistine Chapel.” He allowed the parchment to recede back into a roll. “You’ll take the original in with you.”
“It’ll be good to have it,” Kastor said. “Cardinals have a natural affinity for the past. But the flash drive. That’s what will win the day.”
“It is that good?”
Kastor nodded. “Even better.”
They’d planned so carefully. Years in the making, it all started when the pope fired Kastor from his post as prefect of the Apostolic Signatura. Where Kastor had seen that as a rebuke, a setback, possibly even the end, Pollux had realized the possibilities and insisted that Kastor seek out the position of patron of the Sovereign Military Order of Malta. Kastor, being Kastor, had thought the idea insane.
Until he explained.
Kastor never had been able to see the grand picture. Time had been a friend Pollux had willingly embraced, but never surrendered to, always being able to restrain his impatience. Kastor was a different story.
The elimination of the grand master had been a necessity. No way they could have enjoyed any freedom of movement with that man in charge. Too many of the order’s officers were loyal to him.
Better to just eliminate the problem.
In any other situation a bullet would have solved things with haste. But killing the leader of 13,000 knights, 25,000 employees, and 80,000 volunteers would have drawn far too much attention. Shame had seemed a better weapon. Especially once the careless distribution of condoms had been discovered. It happened in Myanmar. Thousands were handed out by one of the knights’ charitable arms. How it happened no one knew, since the church banned the use of contraception in any form. The program was stopped but Kastor, as patron, the pope’s emissary to the Hospitallers, conducted an investigation and laid the blame at the top, forcing the grand master to resign.
Then out of nowhere the pope died.
Like a godsend.
In the chaos it had been easy to secure Pollux’s temporary appointment as lieutenant ad interim. Many of the order’s officers had been wanting to appease Kastor, fearing his growing influence. It helped that the late pope had stayed out of the fight and allowed Kastor to handle things, perhaps hoping for another misstep, but things had played out perfectly. Added to the charade was their supposed sibling rivalry and personal dislike, which comforted those knights who had supported the disgraced grand master. After that, Pollux’s unassuming mask had misled everyone, Cotton Malone and Stephanie Nelle the latest to fall for his performance. “He was there only temporarily.” “Until a new pope was chosen.” “He had no interest in being grand master.”
All true.
Only the Entity had seen through things.
“Spagna never told me about having that level of incriminating information,” Pollux said.
“You sent me here,” Kastor said. “I came and met that man Chatterjee at the Madliena Tower, exactly as you told me to do. He took me straight to Spagna, who was anxious to make a deal. You knew nothing of that?”
He shook his head. “Spagna was only supposed to make a deal with you to find the Trinity. That was what he and I agreed upon. I told him you knew things that no one else did.”
Which was true.
But when he’d spoken to Kastor earlier by phone and told him about what had happened at Como and in Rome, he learned for the first time about the flash drive. Something Spagna had held close. His men were already on the way to that clockmaker’s shop, so he’d told them to flush the targets out on the water where Chatterjee could be eliminated. But he’d specifically told them not to take the drive. He knew Kastor, being the thief that he was, would do that for them and bring it straight to him.
Which was exactly what had happened.
“It’s time for you to head to Rome,” he said.
“And the Americans?”
He shrugged. “Malone seemed perfectly satisfied. I dealt directly with him and his superior. They were of great assistance, and now they’re done. Nothing draws them back our way. It’s just you and me now.”
Exactly the way he wanted it. Ending up here, alone and underground, in a controlled environment was another fortuitous occurrence. This was the perfect place to end one part and begin another.
But first—
“Did you bring an overnight bag?”
Kastor nodded. “It’s at the rectory in Mdina. I’ll pick it up on the way to the airport. I have a private plane waiting to take me back to Rome. A favor from a friend.”
Good to know.
He glanced at his watch. 5:40 A.M.
Less than five hours left to get back to Italy.
“My aide has prepared my belongings,” Kastor said. “Clothes, toiletries, papers, everything needed for the conc
lave. He texted me earlier to say it’s all at the Domus Sanctae Marthae, in my room. I’ll go straight there from the airport.”
“I’ll head to the Palazzo di Malta and deal with the Secreti. They’ve caused enough trouble. I’ll also translate the parchments.”
“We need the Secreti gone.”
