The Templar's Code

CHAPTER 59

In 1765, I returned to London a loyal supporter of the king. I leave ten years later an embittered traitor to the Crown. Continually I did urge harmonious accord between parent and child, my efforts for naught. May Providence prove me wrong, but I fear the relationship is now strained beyond repair. My actions this night will further weaken the fragile bond. As fate would have it, the object that has long held my fascination is at the heart of the severance. I speak, of course, of the Emerald Tablet.

Unlike my first youthful sojourn, I arrived in London a Freemason grand master and Royal Society fellow. Soon after my arrival, a fellow Mason, his tongue loosened with drink, let slip that Sir Francis Dashwood had been entrusted with the Brothers’ most sacred relic. The man’s name was familiar enough to me, Dashwood a known confidant of the king. Having caught the scent, I immediately set about to make Dashwood’s acquaintance. As those in the upper echelons will attest, Dashwood is a charming fellow, possessed of a courtier’s manners and the morals of a whore. Indeed, he lived his life ad libitum, always at pleasure’s beck and call. Furthermore, he surrounded himself with a handpicked circle, a privileged gathering of freethinkers, libertines, and artists, all members of the aristocratic class who held to the shared belief that they were exempt from the rules that bound the lower castes.

I secured an invitation to join Dashwood and his compatriots for an evening’s revel. Laughter the most expedient means to gain a man’s confidence, I liberally peppered my speech with bawdy jests and risqué witticisms. Over the years, I had perfected the art of playing the fool, the jester often the wisest man at court, privy to all manner of intrigue. To my surprise, I discovered that Dashwood and his inner circle, Freemasons all, spent a goodly amount of time plotting the course of king and empire. Their political discourse exposed a surprising undercurrent, the king’s confidant not as enamored of the royal personage as he did profess in public. In truth, Dashwood held a low opinion of the monarch and expressed disdain for the monarchy in general. With the conceit of the high born, Dashwood claimed that society would be better served if educated men of high rank served as overseers for a new world order. Having read the New Atlantis, I recognized the scheme. Dashwood and his associates had taken upon themselves the role played by the scholars who resided at Solomon’s House. Dashwood ardently maintained that society’s salvation is entirely dependent upon men of noble birth, the “anointed ones” who will implement Bacon’s utopian vision. Because of their superior intellect, they would decide each man’s lot in life, be he yeoman or tinsmith or printer. And as the most exalted members of society, Dashwood and his inner circle would also be the guardians of the sacred teachings. The common man, dumb as dirt, must content himself with plowing the field and printing the page while the intellectual elites busied themselves creating a new religion that would merge the three people of the Book. In Dashwood’s utopia, Christians, Hebrews, and Muslims would all worship the Light, as man did in the days when the pharaohs ruled, occultism woven into the very warp and woof of their Masonic scheme. Privately, I took issue with all of this. Indeed, a benevolent tyrant is still a tyrant.

As the months passed, I proved myself an amiable companion, Dashwood confiding all manner of secrets to me. Indeed, he once boasted that he could ride ten whores in a single night. While I applauded his stamina, I questioned the veracity of the claim. To validate the allegation, Dashwood invited me to join his “monks” on their next unholy pilgrimage. My curiosity piqued, I readily accepted the invitation.

Several nights later, our pilgrimage illuminated by a ponderous full moon, we traveled by gondola up the Thames to a ruined abbey in the vicinity of West Wycombe, known to the locals as Medmenham Abbey. Our arrival was announced with the somber toll of the cloister bell. As we disembarked, a manservant handed each monk a brown cowl to don. Properly attired, we made our way in single-file procession. One of our party, a deep baritone, took up a popish chant. We entered a subterranean sanctuary beneath the abbey and were ushered to the chapter room. The sanctuary contained a stone altar and a painted mural of Harpocrates, finger to lips, cautioning the assembled adherents to silence. We were soon greeted by a timorous nun attired in a Capuchin habit and a stern-faced priest in a dark cassock. To my utter astonishment, the priest raised his robe, shoved the nun onto the altar, and proceeded to roger her in full view of the friars. Clearly enjoying themselves, the pair sang bestial hosannas. The priest brayed like a he-ass; the nun cooed like David’s turtledove. My host turned to me and said slyly, “Nothing quite as inspiring as a holy man performing his officium divinum.” “His sacred duty made all the more pleasurable by having such a delectable vessel beneath him,” I replied, beginning to suspect that sacrilegious amusements were commonplace at Medmenham. Indeed, a horde of nuns soon entered the sanctuary, their appearance setting off a blazing feu de joie. Had there ever been a more impious gathering? Later I was informed that the “pilgrimage” had been my initiation into the club’s inner circle. A sinner circle, God help me.

In the ensuing months, I was a frequent guest at the abbey and can attest that costumed amusements and bawdy entertainments were routinely performed in the subterranean sanctuary, the monks’ motto being “Do you what you will.” Where you will and when you will, no space too public for a monk to slake his lust with an obliging nun.

One evening I arrived at the abbey keenly disappointed that the gay gaggle of whores was absent. Indeed, the gathered company seemed strangely solemn. I was informed that the monks had decided to bestow upon me a high honor; I was to participate in a sacred ritual. A metal case had been placed upon the stone altar. My heart beat a rapid tattoo against my breast. Dashwood, attired in Egyptian garb, opened the case and revealed a green tablet of unaccountable beauty. I stood transfixed. After a half century, I finally laid my eyes upon the Emerald Tablet. The high priest then mixed several powdered substances, heating them over a flame. Soon a noxious smoke filled the room. A few moments later, I was given a draft of a vile-tasting potion that caused my bowels to painfully cramp. Libations administered, Dashwood next attempted to penetrate the supernatural realm and rouse a demon to do his bidding. Any man with a passing knowledge of biblical text knows that governance over the devil is a risky venture. And a potentially dangerous pursuit. Intoning an ungodly chant, Dashwood held the Emerald Tablet aloft and displayed the relic’s ornate emblem, proclaiming that the secret of creation was contained within its arcane symbolism and that a man had only to decipher the symbols to commune directly with the heavenly sphere. As I am an avowed Deist, my mind did balk at this assertion.

Francis Dashwood, by his own admission, is a libertine bar none. But, as with all of the men in his inner circle, he was first and foremost an adherent to the hidden stream of knowledge. Not only did he practice alchemy, but he studied the Conjecture Cabalistica, and embraced the dark arts, particularly those that evoked the mysticism of ancient Egypt. In truth, Dashwood’s inner circle was a superstitious coven of sun-worshipping Atenists and bewigged magi.

Appalled and fascinated by their rituals, I feared the beautiful relic might indeed possess some mysterious power. Unlike my Brothers at the Philadelphia Lodge, Dashwood and his Masonic coven are a determined group of well-connected aristocrats with an ambitious bill of sale. Moreover they contend that the relic was the true power behind the British Empire. They prefix this claim by declaring that no sooner did Ralegh secure the relic than England’s global ascendancy began. Not unlike the ascendancy of the Hebrew tribes in the Old Testament. Thoth’s stone the beating heart of each empire’s rise. I decided then and there that delenda est Carthago. Carthage must be destroyed. And to ensure that the phoenix cannot open its beak, let alone rise from the ashes, their most sacred relic must be seized. The felicity and well-being of the colonies depends upon it. My plan was simple but brazen. I would appropriate the relic at the monks’ next gathering, a wild bacchanal the perfect diversion.

Several weeks later, an opportunity presented itself, a buxom nun in a state of dishabille my unwitting accomplice. Attired in cowl and robe, I ushered the nun to the monk’s cell where I knew the relic to be safeguarded by an armed grenadier. Assuming an intoxicated demeanor, made all the more believable by an unsteady weaving to and fro, I approached the guard. Grinning like a jackanapes, I informed the fellow that I was too far along in my cups to enjoy a good gallop and would he like to ride the flanking mare in my stead. “Indeed, I would be happy to oblige the request,” he assured me, making haste to unbutton his breeches, perhaps fearful that I might retract the offer if he did not thrum the good sister in swift order. Flourishing his weapon, he paid me no mind. Suspecting his stamina would prove of short duration, I hurriedly made my way to the adjoining room. The holy of holies. There I did find the relic housed in a metal case set inside a stone niche. I snatched the prize and, securing it beneath my voluminous garment, escaped to London in a waiting carriage.

That was four hours ago. I am soon to depart Craven Street in yet another carriage, this one headed to Portsmouth, where I will board a packet ship bound for the colonies. This night I have crossed the Rubicon, the bridge in flames behind me. As for the sacred relic, I propose to take Thoth’s stone to the City nearest the Centre to that place where men strive to improve the common stock of Knowledge so that all may prosper in mind as well as spirit.

Though tempted to delve into the relic’s supernatural mystery, I shall refrain. Enlightened man, empowered with intellect and reason, need not fall victim to the counterfeit claims of medieval occultism. I do believe that Francis Bacon was a gifted man who straddled two universes, one foot firmly planted in the enlightened world and the other firmly planted in the medieval age, a man of science with occult inclinations. But a man cannot be so divided, his very nature torn asunder. He must commit to one or the other. An enlightened man, a man burnished in the fire of science, knows that the mind is the most powerful weapon of all. God did not intend for man to take his sustenance from the meager larder of alchemy and magic, false sciences the both of them. Rather the Creator, the Supreme Deity, desired that man eat from the Tree of Knowledge.

To safeguard the relic, I intend to create a Triad of like-minded men who will ensure that Thoth’s stone is hidden away. As I am not entirely oblivious to the relic’s import, I shall propose to my fellow Triad members that we leave signposts lest a future age, unencumbered by the superstitions of this age, would find some scholastic merit in archiving the relic. If that day should come to pass, I suspect it will be long centuries from now. Since the dawn of time, man has been burdened with a superstitious nature that is not likely to dissipate in the near decades. In this, as with a good many things, there is a fine line between the sacred and the profane. Yea, for every Francis Bacon there are ten Francis Dashwoods who would leap at the chance to exploit the relic’s supposed power.

Given that these are dangerous times, I further propose that each member of the Triad select his successor. Should a Triad member meet an untimely end, another shall assume his responsibilities. In this way, the Triad can germinate itself indefinitely. My task is now made clear. I must find the catheti to my hypotenuse. Men of good moral character but not given to public piety. Men possessed of intellect but not lacking in compassion. And, most important, I seek honorable men who will not be seduced by the relic’s potential power. Alas, there are no men in my current circle who I feel sufficiently capable of discharging this monumental duty. However, in two months’ time, the Second Continental Congress will convene in Philadelphia, and I will have the pick of the bushel.

The looming storm clouds portend a crisis that must be met. The Creator bequeathed to Adam’s progeny the gift of reason so he may safely navigate through this dark night. If, long years from now, my actions come to light, posterity may harshly judge me. But it is to safeguard posterity that I now steer my course, knowing that I have done all that I can do, certain in the conviction that Rebellion to Tyrants is obedience to God. Thus I do God’s will.