The Babylon Rite Read Free

audience, ‘is thought, in turn, to be a model for the church in which you stand today!’
    He let the notion hang in the air like the fading vibrations of a tolling bell, then trotted through the rest of the story: the Templars’ rise and supremacy; the twenty thousand knightly members at the very peak of the Order’s strength; the great, Europe-wide power and wealth of the ‘world’s first multinational’. And then, of course, the dramatic downfall, after two proud centuries, when the French king, coveting the Templars’ money, and envying their lands and status, crushed them with a wave of violent arrests and ferocious torture, beginning on one fateful night.
    The guide flashed a florid smile: ‘What was the date of that medieval Götterdämmerung, that Kristallnacht of kingly revenge? Friday the 13th, 1307. Yes,
Friday the 13th!
’
    Adam repressed a laugh. The guide was a walking store of clichés. But entertaining, nonetheless. If he’d been here for the fun of it, he’d have been happy to sit here and listen some more. But he had just seen something pretty interesting.
    ‘Jason …’ He nudged his friend, who was trying to get a decent shot of the Prentice Pillar.
    ‘What?’
    ‘Isn’t that Archibald McLintock?’
    ‘What?’
    ‘The old guy, sitting in the pew by the Master Pillar. It’s Archibald McLintock.’
    ‘And he is?’
    ‘Maybe the most famous writer on the Knights Templar alive. Wrote a good book about Rosslyn too. Proper sceptic. You never heard of him?’
    ‘Dude, you do the research, you’re the hack. I have to worry about lenses.’
    ‘Very true. You lazy bastard. OK, I suggest we go and interview him. He might give me some good quotes, we could get a picture too.’
    Advancing on the older man, Adam extended a hand. ‘Adam Blackwood. The
Guardian
? We’ve actually met before.’
    Archibald McLintock had sandy-grey hair and a demeanour of quiet, satisfied knowledge. Remaining seated, he accepted Adam’s handshake with a vague, distracted grasp.
    An odd silence intervened. Adam wondered how to begin; but at last the Scotsman said, ‘Afraid I don’t recall our meeting. So sorry.’ His expression melted into a distant smile. ‘Ah. Wait. Yes, yes. You interviewed me, about the Crusades? The Spear of Destiny?’
    ‘Yes. That’s right, a few years back. It was just a light-hearted article.’
    ‘Good good. And now you are writing about the Chapel of Rosslyn?’
    ‘Well, yes,’ Adam shrugged, mildly embarrassed. ‘We’re kind of doing another fun piece about all the … y’know … all the Dan Brown and Freemasons stuff. Templars hiding in the crypt. How Rosslyn has become so famous for its myths.’
    ‘And you want another quote from me?’
    ‘Do you mind?’ Adam flushed, painfully aware he was disturbing a serious academic with all this fatuous, astrological absurdity. ‘It’s just that you famously debunked all this rubbish. Didn’t you? What was that thing you said? “The Chapel of Rosslyn bears no more resemblance to the Temple of Solomon than my local farmer’s cowshed is modelled on the stately pleasure dome of Xanadu.”’
    Another long silence. The tourists whispered and bustled. Adam waited for McLintock to answer. But he just smiled. And then he said, very quietly. ‘Did I write that?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘Hm! A little piquant. But why not? Yes, I’ll give you a quote.’ Abruptly, Archibald McLintock stood up and Adam recalled with a start that the old man might be ageing but he was notably tall. Fully an inch taller than Adam, who was six foot two.
    ‘Here’s your quote, young man.
I was wrong.
’
    ‘Sorry?’ Adam was distracted: making sure his digicorder was switched on. ‘Wrong about … what?’
    The historian smiled. ‘Remember what Umberto Eco said about the Templars?’
    Adam struggled to recall. ‘Ah yes! “When a man talks about the Templars you know he is going mad,” You mean that one?’
    ‘No. Mr Blackwood. The
other
quote. “The