Read Online James Acton 04 - The Templar's Relic by J Robert Kennedy - Free Book Online
Authors: J Robert Kennedy
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himself swept along with the crowd, scampering as he tried to slip his shoes on his feet, and once successful, pumping his fist in the air with the crowd, yelling ‘Allahu Akbar’ with each physical affirmation of his faith.
This wasn’t a stroll, this was a quick march, and their numbers grew as Imams across the city released their faithful with instructions to march. The mosques scattered about the city may have been few in number, but there were dozens of known prayer rooms, and possibly scores of unknown, sending their own handful. Cellphones were on the ears of hundreds, then thousands, as they called their friends and families who weren’t able to attend Friday morning prayers, and urged them to join the march.
And when Rahim reached the gates to Saint Peters Square, there were already thousands there, with thousands more behind him, fists pumping the air. A cordon of Roma Polizia tried to keep them from the gates, but there was no use. Rahim saw a policeman push one of the marchers back. They tripped and hit the ground, hard.
Rahim felt his chest tighten, and the roar of blood filled his ears. He charged, charged at the officer who had pushed a Muslim to the ground, charged at the infidel who would dare lay a hand on one of the Prophet’s followers.
He slammed into the officer, taking him down, then rained blows on him as hard and fast as he could. He felt hands grab at him, pulling him away from the bloodied man. He kicked out, landing a final blow to the head of the infidel, then heard a roar from the crowd, and he was suddenly let go, falling unceremoniously to the ground. He looked and saw the crowd charge. He jumped to his feet, gave the cop one last kick, then shoved his way toward the gates, then through.
He raced across the cobblestone square, his heart pounding in excitement, fear, and fervor.
The Vatican is ours!
Papal Office
Apostolic Palace, Vatican City
“What is it they’re chanting?”
Giasson joined His Holiness at the bulletproof glass of one of the Papal Office’s many windows. He looked at the mass of protesters that had surged into Saint Peter’s Square. They appeared to have stopped at the cordon of classically dressed Swiss Guard, their garish uniforms possibly deterring the crowd from violence. Whatever was holding them back, probably wouldn’t last long.
“We think they’re saying ‘Give us what is ours’, in English, but most of them don’t speak English, so they’re just imitating the sound.”
The elderly Pontiff nodded, stepping away from the window. “So sad. Here is something wonderful that has been discovered, yet they are so filled with hate, they don’t see it.”
“I wouldn’t be surprised if most of them didn’t really know why they’re here. The crowds didn’t show up until after their morning prayers at the local mosques. They were probably told to come here by their Imams.”
The Pontiff dropped into his chair, shaking his head. “This is the problem with that religion. There is nobody at the head of it, nobody controlling their actions. There is no one I can talk to directly to try and defuse the situation.”
“What about the Grand Mufti?”
“I’ve tried, and he has sympathized, but says until the scroll is handed over, he cannot help me.”
“And who did he suggest it be handed over to?”
The Pontiff chuckled. “That is exactly what I asked him, and you know what he said?”
“What?”
“‘Allah will guide you.’”
Giasson’s eyebrows shot up. “What gall!”
“It’s unfortunately what I’ve come to expect. Too often one will say something inappropriate, then the others will deny he speaks for them, but because there is no head of their church, there isn’t much we can do. But”—he raised a finger—“I did think of someone who might be able to help us, and who we have dealt with in the past. As well, he’s in one of the rare parts of the Muslim world that is actually
This wasn’t a stroll, this was a quick march, and their numbers grew as Imams across the city released their faithful with instructions to march. The mosques scattered about the city may have been few in number, but there were dozens of known prayer rooms, and possibly scores of unknown, sending their own handful. Cellphones were on the ears of hundreds, then thousands, as they called their friends and families who weren’t able to attend Friday morning prayers, and urged them to join the march.
And when Rahim reached the gates to Saint Peters Square, there were already thousands there, with thousands more behind him, fists pumping the air. A cordon of Roma Polizia tried to keep them from the gates, but there was no use. Rahim saw a policeman push one of the marchers back. They tripped and hit the ground, hard.
Rahim felt his chest tighten, and the roar of blood filled his ears. He charged, charged at the officer who had pushed a Muslim to the ground, charged at the infidel who would dare lay a hand on one of the Prophet’s followers.
He slammed into the officer, taking him down, then rained blows on him as hard and fast as he could. He felt hands grab at him, pulling him away from the bloodied man. He kicked out, landing a final blow to the head of the infidel, then heard a roar from the crowd, and he was suddenly let go, falling unceremoniously to the ground. He looked and saw the crowd charge. He jumped to his feet, gave the cop one last kick, then shoved his way toward the gates, then through.
He raced across the cobblestone square, his heart pounding in excitement, fear, and fervor.
The Vatican is ours!
Papal Office
Apostolic Palace, Vatican City
“What is it they’re chanting?”
Giasson joined His Holiness at the bulletproof glass of one of the Papal Office’s many windows. He looked at the mass of protesters that had surged into Saint Peter’s Square. They appeared to have stopped at the cordon of classically dressed Swiss Guard, their garish uniforms possibly deterring the crowd from violence. Whatever was holding them back, probably wouldn’t last long.
“We think they’re saying ‘Give us what is ours’, in English, but most of them don’t speak English, so they’re just imitating the sound.”
The elderly Pontiff nodded, stepping away from the window. “So sad. Here is something wonderful that has been discovered, yet they are so filled with hate, they don’t see it.”
“I wouldn’t be surprised if most of them didn’t really know why they’re here. The crowds didn’t show up until after their morning prayers at the local mosques. They were probably told to come here by their Imams.”
The Pontiff dropped into his chair, shaking his head. “This is the problem with that religion. There is nobody at the head of it, nobody controlling their actions. There is no one I can talk to directly to try and defuse the situation.”
“What about the Grand Mufti?”
“I’ve tried, and he has sympathized, but says until the scroll is handed over, he cannot help me.”
“And who did he suggest it be handed over to?”
The Pontiff chuckled. “That is exactly what I asked him, and you know what he said?”
“What?”
“‘Allah will guide you.’”
Giasson’s eyebrows shot up. “What gall!”
“It’s unfortunately what I’ve come to expect. Too often one will say something inappropriate, then the others will deny he speaks for them, but because there is no head of their church, there isn’t much we can do. But”—he raised a finger—“I did think of someone who might be able to help us, and who we have dealt with in the past. As well, he’s in one of the rare parts of the Muslim world that is actually
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