Solomon's Throne
Table of Contents
SOLOMON’S THRONE
Jennings Wright
Copyright © 2012 by Jennings Wright. All rights reserved.
ISBN 13: 978-0-9857840-1-0
First Kindle Edition: July 2012
Cover and Interior:
Streetlight Graphics
Author Photo:
Blue Barn Photography
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. If you are reading this eBook and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Amazon.com and purchase your own copy. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
DEDICATION
To my family,
Chuck, Ryan and Zeke,
my best gifts.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
A
huge thank you to my
husband, who puts up with me and all my projects and loves me anyway. To my family and friends, who have supported me and cheered me on during this whole process (even when they were feeling skeptical). I wouldn’t have written this book without Chris Baty and his wonderful, crazy idea called NaNoWriMo. Thanks to all my beta readers and Facebook cheerleaders, whose encouragement was amazing. And a special thanks to my daughter Ryan, who is my sounding board and editor, and tells it like it is.
CHAPTER ONE
Lisbon, Portugal
September 1683
“F
orgive me, Father, for I
have sinned.”
The Jesuit had heard it a thousand times before, so many times, in fact, that he had a hard time focusing on the penitent in the booth. It hadn’t been the normal day or time for confession, but he had seen the old man stagger into the chapel, and had assumed he was drunk. The city had built up around the old stone church, and the ale house across the way often spilled out its patrons onto the sacred grounds. The Jesuit didn’t mind. What better place to sleep it off than the safety of St. Anthony’s. The streets of Lisbon, especially so near the wharf, could be rough even when one had his faculties fully intact.
He watched the man as he went about his daily tasks of sweeping and checking the many candles, and saw with relief that he had collapsed with his back against the chancel wall, long legs sprawled out in front of him, chin to chest. His knobbled hand clutched the hilt of a long dagger, and his face—what could be seen around the wild spray of whiskers and wiry gray hair—was scarred.
Soldier,
thought the Jesuit. He had seen many in his day, and heard many of their confessions. Many terrible things had been done in the name of God, and the men suffered long after their missions were complete.
Returning from the ash heap outside the rear door, the Jesuit saw that the man was gone. Surprised that he was able to get himself up, he put it out of his mind and continued trimming the tapers. In the silence a
thud
suddenly rang out. Looking around, he realized that he could see the man’s boots under the curtain of the confessional. He hurried over, and took his place behind the screen.
“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned,” came the gravely voice. “It has been thirty years since my last confession. I have killed many men. I have lied…” He broke off, coughing. “I’m sorry Father. I have lied to protect a secret, and I am now the last one to know it. But I made an oath that the knowledge would not be lost, and now time has run away with me.”
The Jesuit heard the man shift position in the small booth, and then saw a leather pouch pushed under the dividing wall to his side of the confessional.
“Father, I am entrusting this to you. There are men who would kill you for it. They have chased me and… and caused me great hurt. But they have never beaten me! I have never told my secret, until now. Now, you must carry it. You must protect it. This letter… This letter would change the world. We can’t let that happen…We can’t…”
The man fell into a fit of coughing, and, peering through the screen between them, the Jesuit realized that blood was spewing from his mouth and cascading down his chin.
“My son! Let me help you!” The Jesuit made to open his curtain to go to the man’s aid, when the soldier rose up and roughly wiped his chin with his sleeve.
“No! Father, listen to me! I am dying. I make my final confession to you, and ask my God to forgive me. But you must listen! You must keep this letter from them, at all costs. And you must find the Throne of Solomon. I have led them away—oh Father, I have led them a merry chase!” The man laughed weakly. “But you must find it, and protect it. No one else knows… I am the last.” The man slumped back, and the urgency drained away as he began to fight for breath.
“I am the last. It is in Goa. They will find it if you don’t go… Father, you must go.”
Frantically the Jesuit tore back the curtains and knelt down next to the man. His skin was gray, and his lips were turning blue. Blood ran freely down his chin and onto his tattered green cloak, turning it black in a widening stain. The man gripped the Jesuit’s hand fiercely, and spat out one final word, “Run!”
The Jesuit performed last rites on the man, and then asked a novitiate to help him carry the body to their living quarters. The man had definitely been a soldier. His body had more scars than healthy skin, but he had been tall and strong, even in old age. The cause of the blood became apparent as the novitiate stripped the body: he had a ragged stab wound in his chest. There was no smell of ale or wine about the man, and although his clothing was old and worn, it was of good quality. He had a leather purse full of silver cruzados. His dagger was of fine make and design, and he had an ornate silver eating knife in an inner pocket. In another pocket was a small leather-bound book, full of scribbled drawings and strange phrases.
“Father Eduardo…” The novitiate nervously interrupted the Jesuit’s perusal of the body.
“Yes, Paulo, I’m sorry. It’s not every day we have a man die in confession, now is it?”
“No Father. What would you like me to do now? Do we know who he was, or if he has any family in Lisbon?”
The Jesuit thought for a moment. “He said he was alone. That he was ‘the last.’ I think we shall bury him in the cemetery at Jeronimos Monastery, and add his remaining effects to our fund for the poor. He was a soldier… We shall give him a soldier’s burial.”
Astonished, Paulo nevertheless nodded his head in obedience. There were kings buried at the monastery. Vasco da Gama was buried there. Who was an unknown soldier compared to these men?
“Please wash the body carefully, and have Liza clean the poor man’s clothes. We will redress him in those, and bury him with his weapons. I will go to the monastery now to arrange the burial, but I will conduct the mass here.” Once again the novitiate nodded, and turned to his task.
Father Eduardo Borges Santos, the Jesuit, rushed back to the empty chapel and picked up the leather pouch the man had left on the floor of the confessional. Hiding it within his robes, he left the building.
CHAPTER TWO
Port of Lisbon
March 1684
T
he Jesuit huddled behind the
foremast of the merchant ship Sao Miguel, avoiding both the wind and the strange men he seemed to see everywhere in Lisbon since the death of the mysterious soldier the year before. He was wrapped up in a rough wool cassock, with a cape pulled closely around his head and ears. He had been told that the wind would die down by evening, which was several hours away. In exchange for being allowed on board a day early, he had been barred from the shared quarters he would occupy during the voyage. The captain had intimated that the crew would feel uncomfortable spending their last night at home in the company of a Jesuit, although was careful not to spell out the implied debauchery that would take place.
He had found a crate, which smelled strongly of chicken dung, and had stowed his belongings under it. He planned to sleep next to the crate, out of the cold as much as possible, rising with the dawn and the tide to see the ship leave his beloved city. He looked out over the tiled rooftops of the Seven Hills and tried to make sense out of the last few months. How was it possible that one man, a stranger, had so dismantled his life?
When the soldier died in his chapel, the Jesuit had felt that he was an important man, a warrior of the faith, who had led a hard but honorable life. He had done his best with the funeral mass and burial, although he had had to…embellish his knowledge of the man to get permission for his burial at the monastery. He had repented of his dishonesty, but he had never actually felt badly about it. He had always acted on his impulses about people, believing them to be special knowledge from God, and felt that, in most cases, his small embellishments to the strictest truth were justified.
After the burial, the Jesuit had taken leather pouch out of his small chest of personal belongings. It was the first time that he had looked at it since the grisly death, and his mind ran over the words of the intriguing man once again.
Run, Father!
Surely he was in the delusion of imminent death, suffering from his grievous wounds. Father Eduardo was a man of God… he didn’t need to run from anyone.
Carefully opening the ancient leather, which was smooth and soft from much use, the Jesuit pulled out a roll of parchment wrapped in a soft kerchief of fine weave. The scroll was vellum, apparently excellent quality as it had no cracks or tears. It was obviously very old, and the writing was still sharp and clear. The priest couldn’t read the text, but he recognized the language as Greek. He sat for awhile on his small bed, looking at the letter and pondering. Finally he wrapped it up in the soft cloth, and swung on his cloak.
“But can you translate it?” The Jesuit was sitting on a hard chair in the bright autumn sunshine, overlooking the Tagus River. His host was peering closely at the parchment, squinting and mumbling as he turned it to catch more of the sunlight.
“Patience, Eduardo, patience. Don’t they teach you that in your Society of Jesus?” Doctor Balsemao didn’t look up from the scroll. “Where did you say you got this? It is most remarkable!”
“The man who died during confession gave it to me. He said he was ‘the last’ and that he had vowed to pass it on so that the secret wouldn’t be lost. It’s probably nothing but the ramblings of a very sick man,
Doutor
. But he was very earnest, and it does seem that we should take a dying man’s declarations very seriously, does it not?”
“It is not ramblings, my friend. It will take me some time to write it out properly, but it appears to be quite an old letter of some kind. And I think… yes, I do think that it is signed ‘I, Paul’ and some other words that I believe mean ‘and Achalichus, who wrote this letter.’” Looking up, Balsemao saw the shocked look on the young priest’s face. “Now, Eduardo, let us not jump to conclusions. Greek is a troubling language, and I may be wrong. Or it may be an accounting of the shop of Paul the baker. Give me some time…” He bent over the parchment once again, a deep crease showing between his brows. “Yes, some time. Come back in two weeks, and I will let you know what I can decipher.”