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The Templar Legacy, The Alexandria Link, The Venetian Betrayal, The
Charlemagne Pursuit, The Paris Vendetta, The Balkan Escape, The
Emperor’s Tomb, The Devil’s Gold, The Jefferson Key, The Admiral’s
Mark, The Tudor Plot, The King’s Deception, and The Lincoln Myth are
works of fiction. Names, places, and incidents either are products of
the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
A Ballantine eBook Edition
The Templar Legacy copyright © 2006 by Steve Berry
The Alexandria Link copyright © 2007 by Steve Berry
The Venetian Betrayal copyright © 2007 by Steve Berry
The Charlemagne Pursuit copyright © 2008 by Steve Berry
The Paris Vendetta copyright © 2009 by Steve Berry
The Balkan Escape copyright © 2010 by Steve Berry
The Emperor’s Tomb copyright © 2010 by Steve Berry
The Devil’s Gold copyright © 2011 by Steve Berry
The Jefferson Key copyright © 2011 by Steve Berry
The Admiral’s Mark copyright © 2012 by Steve Berry
The Tudor Plot copyright © 2013 by Steve Berry
The King’s Deception copyright © 2013 by Steve Berry
The Lincoln Myth copyright © 2014 by Steve Berry
Excerpt from The Patriot Threat copyright © 2015 by Magellan
Billet, Inc.
All rights reserved.
Published in the United States by Ballantine Books, an imprint of
The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House
LLC, a Penguin Random House Company, New York.
Ballantine and the House colophon are registered trademarks of
Random House LLC.
The novels contained in this omnibus were each published
separately by Ballantine Books, an imprint of The Random House
Publishing Group, a division of Random House LLC, a Penguin
Random House Company, New York, in 2006, 2007, 2007, 2008,
2009, 2010, 2010, 2011, 2011, 2012, 2013, 2013, and 2014.
This book contains an excerpt from the forthcoming title The Patriot
Threat by Steve Berry. This excerpt has been set for this edition only
and may not reflect the final content of the forthcoming edition.
eBook ISBN 9780812987850
www.ballantinebooks.com
v3.1_r2
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
The Templar Legacy
The Alexandria Link
The Venetian Betrayal
The Charlemagne Pursuit
The Paris Vendetta
The Balkan Escape short story
The Emperor’s Tomb
The Devil’s Gold short story
The Jefferson Key
The Admiral’s Mark short story
The Tudor Plot novella
The King’s Deception
The Lincoln Myth
Excerpt from The Patriot Threat
The Templar Legacy is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the
products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual
events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2006 by Steve Berry
Maps copyright © 2006 by David Lindroth
All rights reserved.
Published in the United States by Ballantine Books, an imprint of The Random House
Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.
BALLANTINE and colophon are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Berry, Steve
The Templar legacy : a novel / Steve Berry.
p. cm.
1. Templars—Fiction. 2. France, Southern—Fiction. I.
Title.
PS3602.E764T46 2006
813′.6—dc22 2005053566
www.ballantinebooks.com
eISBN: 978-0-345-49377-4
v3.0_r3
Contents
Master - Table of Contents
The Templar Legacy
Title Page
Copyright
Epigraph
Maps
Prologue
Part One
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Part Two
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Chapter Twenty-nine
Chapter Thirty
Part Three
Chapter Thirty-one
Chapter Thirty-two
Chapter Thirty-three
Chapter Thirty-four
Chapter Thirty-five
Chapter Thirty-six
Chapter Thirty-seven
Chapter Thirty-eight
Chapter Thirty-nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-one
Chapter Forty-two
Chapter Forty-three
Chapter Forty-four
Part Four
Chapter Forty-five
Chapter Forty-six
Chapter Forty-seven
Chapter Forty-eight
Chapter Forty-nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-one
Chapter Fifty-two
Chapter Fifty-three
Chapter Fifty-four
Chapter Fifty-five
Chapter Fifty-six
Part Five
Chapter Fifty-seven
Chapter Fifty-eight
Chapter Fifty-nine
Chapter Sixty
Chapter Sixty-one
Chapter Sixty-two
Chapter Sixty-three
Chapter Sixty-four
Chapter Sixty-five
Chapter Sixty-six
Chapter Sixty-seven
Writer’s Note
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Jesus said, “Know what is within your sight, and what is hidden from you will
become clear. For there is nothing hidden that will not be revealed.”
—THE GOSPEL OF THOMAS
“It has served us well, this myth of Christ.”
—POPE LEO X
PROLOGUE
PARIS, FRANCE
JANUARY 1308
Jacques de Molay sought death, but knew salvation would never be
offered. He was the twenty-second master of the Poor Fellow-
Soldiers of Christ and the Temple of Solomon, a religious order that
had existed under God’s charge for two hundred years. But for the
past three months, he, like five thousand of his brothers, had been a
prisoner of Philip IV, king of France.
“You will stand,” Guíllaume Imbert ordered from the doorway.
De Molay remained on the bed.
“You are insolent, even in the face of your own demise,” Imbert
said.
“Arrogance is about all I have left.”
Imbert was an impish man with a face like that of a horse who,
de Molay had noted, seemed as impassible as a statue. He was
France’s grand inquisitor and Philip IV’s personal confessor, which
meant he possessed the king’s ear. Yet de Molay had many times
wondered what, besides pain, brought joy to the Dominican’s soul.
But he knew what irritated him. “I will do nothing you desire.”
“You have already done more than you realize.”
That was true, and de Molay once more rued his weakness.
Imbert’s torture in the days after the October 13 arrests had been
brutal, and many brothers had confessed to wrongdoing. De Molay
cringed at the memory of his own admissions—that those who were
received in the Order denied the Lord Jesus Christ and spat upon a
cross in contempt of Him. De Molay had even broken down and
written a letter calling on the brothers to confess as he’d done, and a
sizable lot had obeyed.
But just a few days ago emissaries from His Holiness, Clement V,
had finally arrived in Paris. Clement was known to be Philip’s
puppet, which was why de Molay had brought gold florins and
twelve pack horses laden with silver with him to France last
summer. If things went awry, that money would have been used to
buy the king’s favor. Yet he’d underestimated Philip. The king
longed not for partial tributes. He wanted all that the Order
possessed. So charges of heresy had been fabricated and thousands
of Templar arrests made in a single day. To the pope’s emissaries de
Molay had reported the torture and publicly recanted his confession,
which he knew would bring reprisals. So he said, “I imagine Philip
is presently concerned that his pope may actually have a backbone.”
“Insulting your captor is not wise,” Imbert said.
“And what would be wise?”
“Doing as we wish.”
“And then how would I answer to my God?”
“Your God is waiting for you, and every other Templar, to
answer.” Imbert spoke in his usual metallic voice, which betrayed
no vestige of emotion.
De Molay no longer wanted to debate. Over the past three
months he’d endured ceaseless questioning and sleep deprivation.
He’d been placed in irons, his feet smeared with fat and held close
to flames, his body stretched on the rack. He’d even been forced to
watch while drunken jailers tortured other Templars, the vast
majority of whom were merely farmers, diplomats, accountants,
craftsmen, navigators, clerks. He was ashamed of what he’d already
been forced to say, and he wasn’t going to volunteer anything
further. He lay back on the stinking bed and hoped his jailer would
go away.
Imbert motioned, and two guards squeezed through the doorway
and yanked de Molay upright.
“Bring him,” Imbert ordered.
De Molay had been arrested at the Paris Temple and held there
since last October. The tall keep with four corner turrets was a
Templar headquarters—a financial center—and did not possess any
torture chamber. Imbert had improvised, converting the chapel into
a place of unimaginable anguish—one that de Molay had visited
often over the past three months.
De Molay was dragged inside the chapel and brought to the
center of the black-and-white-checkered floor. Many a brother had
been welcomed into the Order beneath this star-studded ceiling.
“I am told,” Imbert said, “that this is where the most secret of
your ceremonies were performed.” The Frenchman, dressed in a
black robe, strutted to one side of the long room, near a carved
receptacle de Molay knew well. “I have studied the contents of this
chest. It contains a human skull, two thighbones, and a white burial
shroud. Curious, no?”
He was not about to say anything. Instead, he thought of the
words every postulant had uttered when welcomed into the Order. I
will suffer all that is pleasing to God.
“Many of your brothers have told us how these items were
used.” Imbert shook his head. “So disgusting has your Order
become.”
He’d had enough. “We answer only to our pope, as servants to
the servant of God. He alone judges us.”
“Your pope is subject to my liege lord. He will not save you.”
It was true. The pope’s emissaries had made clear they would
convey de Molay’s recanting of his confession, but they doubted it
would make much difference as to the Templar’s fate.
“Strip him,” Imbert ordered.
The smock he’d worn since the day after his arrest was torn from
his body. He wasn’t necessarily sad to see it go, as the filthy cloth
smelled of feces and urine. But Rule forbid any brother from
showing his body. He knew the Inquisition preferred its victims
naked—without pride—so he told himself not to shrink from
Imbert’s insulting act. His fifty-six-year-old frame still possessed
great stature. Like all brother knights, he’d taken care of himself. He
stood tall, clung to his dignity, and calmly asked, “Why must I be
humiliated?”
“Whatever do you mean?” The question carried an air of
incredulousness.
“This room was a place of worship, yet you strip me and stare at
my nakedness, knowing that the brothers frown on such displays.”
Imbert reached down, hinged open the chest, and removed a
long twill cloth. “Ten charges have been leveled against your
precious Order.”
De Molay knew them all. They ranged from ignoring the
sacraments, to worshiping idols, to profiting from immoral acts, to
condoning homosexuality.
“The one that is of most concern to me,” Imbert said, “is your
requirement that each brother deny that Christ is our Lord and that
he spit and trample on the true cross. One of your brothers has even
told us of how some would piss on an image of our Lord Jesus on
the cross. Is that true?”
“Ask that brother.”
“Unfortunately, he was overmatched by his ordeal.”
De Molay said nothing.
“My king and His Holiness were more disturbed by this one
charge than all others. Surely, as a man born into the Church, you
can see how they would be angered over your denial of Christ as our
Savior?”
“I prefer to speak only to my pope.”
Imbert motioned, and the two guards clamped shackles onto
both of de Molay’s wrists, then stepped back and stretched out his
arms with little regard for his tattered muscles. Imbert produced a
multi-tailed whip from beneath his robe. The ends clinked and de
Molay saw that each was tipped with bone.
Imbert lashed the whip beneath the outstretched arms and onto
de Molay’s bare back. The pain surged through him then receded,
leaving behind a sharpness that did not dull. Before the flesh had
time to recover, another blow came, then another. De Molay did not
want to give Imbert any notion of satisfaction, but the pain
overcame him and he shrieked in agony.
“You will not mock the Inquisition,” Imbert declared.
De Molay gathered his emotions. He was ashamed that he’d
screamed. He stared into the oily eyes of his inquisitor and waited
for what was next.
Imbert stared back. “You deny our Savior, say he was merely a
man and not the son of God? You defile the true cross? Very well.
You will see what it is like to endure the cross.”
The whip came again—to his back, his buttocks, his legs. Blood
splattered as the bone tips ripped skin.
The world drifted away.
Imbert stopped his thrashing. “Crown the master,” he yelled.
De Molay lifted his head and tried to focus. He saw what looked
like a round piece of black iron. Nails were bound to the edges, their
tips angled down and in.
Imbert came close. “See what our Lord endured. The Lord Jesus
Christ whom you and your brothers denied.”
The crown was wedged onto his skull and pounded down tight.
The nails bit into his scalp and blood oozed from the wounds,
soaking the mane of his oily hair.
Imbert tossed the whip aside. “Bring him.”
De Molay was dragged across the chapel to a tall wooden door
that once had led to his private apartment. A stool was produced
and he was balanced on top. One of the guards held him upright
while another stood ready in case he resisted, but he was far too
weak to challenge.
The shackles were removed.
Imbert handed three nails to another guard.
“His right arm to the top,” Imbert ordered, “as we discussed.”
The arm was stretched above his head. The guard came close
and de Molay saw the hammer.
And realized what they intended to do.
Dear God.
He felt a hand clamp his wrist, the point of a nail pressed to his
sweaty flesh. He saw the hammer swing back and heard metal clang
metal.
The nail pierced his wrist and he screamed.
“Did you find veins?” Imbert asked the guard.
“Clear of them.”
“Good. He is not to bleed to death.”
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