Ixeos: Book One of the Ixeos Trilogy (41 page)

“Good afternoon, Father.”

The voice startled him, and he turned towards it. Standing before him was the man from the chapel, the man who had been attending mass. He had been coming so long now that the priest had stopped wondering about him. And yet here he was, standing in front of him at the wharf, far from St. Anthony’s. His dark eyes were squinting against the bright sun, but he was standing very still and straight, hands clasped in front of him.

“Oh! Good afternoon. I’m sorry, I didn’t see you there.” He tried a smile, but he was feeling very uneasy.

“Father, I believe you knew a friend of mine. Sebastian de Gois?”

The priest thought a moment, “I’m sorry, no. Was he a member of our parish?”

The man stared at the Jesuit. “At the end. He died in your chapel. In your arms, I believe.”

“That was his name? I didn’t know it. Well, now we can properly mark his grave. I’m sorry about your friend.”

At the mention of a grave, the man’s intensity increased. “He was buried? Where?”

“Yes, of course. Ah! I assume you thought he would have been put in a pauper’s grave, since we didn’t know who he was? Luckily he had some coin with him, and he seemed to be a gentleman soldier from the little we spoke. I arranged for him to be buried at the Jeronimo Monastery…”

He trailed off as the man spun around and stalked up the street, away from the wharf. The Jesuit still felt very uneasy, and decided he would return to his cell and vouchsafe his belongings. Sebasian de Gois.
What trouble have you wrought upon me, Mestre de Gois?

When he returned to his small room, he was relieved to see that it was undisturbed. Feeling foolish at his increasing anxiety, he gathered the leather pouch containing the vellum scroll, the translation given to him by Doctor Balsemao, and the small handwritten journal that he had found in the dead man’s pocket, and hurried with them into the chapel. Constantly looking over his shoulder for the man at the wharf, he scuttled to and fro in the small building, trying to find a hiding place both large enough to contain all his secrets, and small enough to be inconspicuous.

Stopping in the middle of the sanctuary, he closed his eyes and breathed a silent prayer. Taking a deep breath, he opened his eyes, and looked around him, pushing aside his fear. There. The small side altar. He knew from having conducted services there that, behind that small altar, on the old stone floor, was a loose paving stone. He had never tried to move or repair it. Hurrying over, he got down on his knees and pushed on rear edge of the rock. It wobbled just a bit. Unable to get any purchase with his shaking fingers, the Jesuit leapt up and rushed into the sacristy. There he grabbed the knife with which he trimmed the candle wicks.

Working quickly, he pried up the loose stone. There was only a very small concavity beneath the stone, probably the result of water in some bygone age. Using his fingers and the knife, Father Eduardo quickly dug out enough earth to fit the pouch securely inside. He placed the papers and the journal in the leather pouch, cinched it, folded the top edge over to discourage dust, and put it carefully in the hole. He replaced the rock, and used his cloak to sweep the dirt that he could not scoop up into the corners. The rest he dumped outside the back door, wiping his hands clean on his cassock. His skin was damp with perspiration despite the cooling winter day, and he leaned against the wall, trying to dismiss his overactive imagination.

The next Sunday, the Jesuit noticed that the dark eyed man wasn’t in the congregation during mass. Feeling relieved, he performed the service with a much lighter heart. After greeting the parishioners and partaking of the Sunday mid-day meal with a local solicitor and his family, he returned to his room with no thoughts other than finishing his book. He opened the door and uttered one word. “
Bosto
.”

His room, with its few possessions and minimally adequate furniture, had been hit by a cyclone. A cyclone with knives. His only other cassock was shredded, the pieces of black wool scattered about the room. His small bed, with the hay stuffed mattress, was ripped down the center and emptied of all but a few scraggles of straw. His rough wool coverlet was in tatters. The wooden bedstead, stool and work table were kindling. The ashes from the fire had been thrown out and onto the rest of the mess, and water from the small clay pitcher had been poured on top, making a sodden, smelly mess. And his book for the monastery, his beautiful book, on which he’d spent countless hours… Each page had been torn into small pieces, and the tooled leather cover slashed and ruined.

The Jesuit stood, frozen. He was a priest, not a man of violence. He had been brought up by quiet parents on a farm near Doctor Balsemoa. He had been fortunate to escape the tentacles of the Inquisition unscathed. He had not yet been born when Portugal regained its independence from Spain, so his country had been at peace during his lifetime. He had early decided on a monastic life. He did not understand the anger expressed in the wholesale destruction of his room, nor the mind behind it. He just knew evil when he saw it, and he turned and ran.

Looking out over the harbor, lit up with the dawn, Eduardo clutched the leather pouch in his inner pocket. He didn’t know what it was about, but he knew that, unless he left Lisbon, the man with the dark eyes would find him, and would make him surrender what Sebastian de Gois had died protecting. He wasn’t sure why, but he wasn’t about to do that. He would protect the letter, yes, and the Church with it. But he would also find the man’s treasure. The Throne of King Solomon.