Then the cardinal asked the same of Geoffroy DeCharnay.
Suddenly possessed, DeCharnay bared his teeth and yelled: “I too renounce all charges brought against me! For God as my witness, these lies serve only a contemptuous pope and an equally villainous king. The only just man who stands here today is Jacques DeMolay. I have followed him into battle and I will follow him to God.”
The cardinal was fuming. “You shall have your wish!”
Jacques DeMolay and Geoffroy DeCharnay were then taken to a boat for the short journey to the neighboring Ile des Javiaux, the site where dozens of Templars had already been burned alive.
The sun melted into the distance and darkness crept over Paris.
As the two prisoners were escorted to the two stakes, both already blackened by charred flesh, DeMolay turned to his Templar brother. The years of torture and imprisonment had rendered DeCharnay to a shadow of the robust warrior he had known in the Holy Land, but the man’s expression was surprisingly resolute. “Remember what we leave behind in Jerusalem,” DeMolay told him. “Your service and sacrifice will be justly rewarded by Him. And His day of justice is soon to come, Geoffroy. You have done the most noble deed a man can do. You have served God. Leave this broken body behind and don’t look back. Tonight, your soul will be free.”
“Bless you, Jacques.” DeCharnay said. “It has been my honor to serve with you.”
As the French soldiers forced DeMolay against the post, he turned to them. “I am no threat to you now,” he insisted. “Unbind my hands so that I may pray in my final moments.”
Reluctantly, the guards cut the ropes from the old man’s wrists, but used heavy chains to bind his body to the stake. The wood heaped around DeMolay was still green. By express order of King Philip, his death was to be prolonged by slow fire.
Looking over his shoulder, DeMolay gave his last thanks to DeCharnay, shackled to the post behind him. As the pyre was ignited, Notre Dame’s bells began to toll.
The heat crawled up the old man’s feet and legs. Then the tongues of flame began to slowly broil his lower body. When the fire intensified, his flesh roasted into red blisters, blackening his feet. As the inferno grew, DeMolay screamed out in agony, the flames licking their way higher up his legs. He could barely register DeCharnay’s screams. Weaving his hands together, he threw them to heaven and yelled: “May evil find those who have wrongly condemned us! May God avenge us and cast these men into Hell!”
As his body was consumed Jacques DeMolay felt his spirit lifting.
The Templar Grand Master was swallowed by the inferno, his mortal remains a brilliant torch against the night sky.
47
FRIDAY
******
Rome
Opening the front door of his quaint townhouse overlooking Villa Borghese’s manicured park, a robed and barefoot Giovanni Bersei retrieved the morning’s delivery of Il Messaggero from the front step. The sun was barely glowing a deep blue over the neighboring rooftops, and the light posts lining the empty street were still casting a warm glow. This was his favorite time of the day.
Turning to go back inside, he paused to glance over at the iron railing that still hung loosely from its mount on his home’s stucco facade. Carmela had been after him for three weeks to fix it. Today would be the day the job would get done, he vowed. Closing the door, he went directly to the kitchen.
The coffee pot, dutifully set on a timer, was already full. He poured himself a cup and sat for a long moment to enjoy the silence. Cupping the heavy porcelain mug in his hands, he sipped the black coffee slowly, savoring the deep, rich flavor. What was it about a great cup of coffee? He swore there was no better elixir.
Last night, he hadn’t slept well at all, his mind endlessly churning over the ossuary, the skeleton, and the shocking symbol that accompanied the relics. The mere possibility that he had touched the physical remains of Jesus Christ had left him feeling ashamed and vulnerable, searching for an explanation. Bersei was a practicing Catholic—a believer in the most powerful story ever told. He went to church each Sunday and prayed often. And later this morning, he was going to be asked by the Vatican to explain his findings. How could anyone explain what he had witnessed over the past days?
Scratching the gray stubble on his chin, he put on his reading glasses and began scanning the newspaper’s front page. A headline on the bottom of the front page read: Muslims and Jews Enraged Over Rumored Theft at Temple Mount. He ignored it, flipping directly to the funnies. Then, almost as an afterthought, he turned back to the front page.
Though articles sensationalizing the tenuous political problems in the Holy Land were regular media fodder, these past few days he noticed that it had dominated the headlines even more than usual. Perhaps all the labtalk concerning ancient Judea, Pontius Pilate, and crucifixion made him consider this one more closely. The piece’s accompanying photo showed Israeli soldiers and police trying to hold back violent protestors just outside the famous Wailing Wall—the Temple Mount’s western wall.
He read the report.
Following Friday’s violence at Jerusalem’s Temple Mount, Islamic officials are pressuring the Israeli government to release details concerning the mysterious explosion that inflicted serious damage to the site. Resident Jews are demanding answers as to why thirteen Israeli Defense Force soldiers were killed during a firefight that erupted shortly after the explosion. Thus far, authorities have only confirmed that an Israeli military helicopter had been used to transport the alleged attackers from the site....
“That’s not good,” he muttered.
. . . Many have criticized Israeli officials for ignoring rumors that the incident involved religious artifacts stolen from the site.
“Religious artifacts?”
“What, love?” Carmela emerged from the doorway, donning a powder blue robe over her silk pajamas. She bent to kiss him on the head before making her way to the cupboard for a mug, her fuzzy pink slippers scuffing along the tile floor.
“Probably nothing. Just reading about all this turmoil in Israel.”
“They’ll never get along,” she said, pouring coffee into her favorite mug, shaped like an animated elephant head with a curved snout as its handle. “They all just want to kill one another.”
“Seems so,” he agreed. Seeing her without makeup and her hair tousled, he smiled to himself. So many years together.
He directed his attention back to the newspaper. The article went on to say that efforts toward a more
