Within an hour, Silas and Celeste had driven from the airport to Chartres Cathedral, causing not a small amount of déjà vu.
Also known as the Cathedral of Our Lady of Chartres, the majestic Gothic Catholic cathedral was mostly constructed between 1194 and 1220. Around the same time the location from their last ill-fated mission was built, the Notre Dame Cathedral. Similar to Notre Dame, the sacred structure’s floor plan is cruciform in style, forming a Latin cross with a long nave crossed by a transept.
The gloomy, overcast sky set the tone for their arrival. As did the flying buttresses, sad-looking stone darkened by the passage of time, and the entrance through the western facade. Dominated by two spires soaring upward toward the heavens and centered by the dual-rose, stained glass window of The Last Judgment and central portal of The End Times, Silas and Celeste were invited to contemplate their eternal destiny as they entered through the bulky, walnut doors.
Out of habit, Silas crossed himself. As a former Catholic-turned-Protestant, some of his former practices still came naturally on impulse and were part of his spirituality. One of those being his practice of sacred rituals, like crossing and the divine prayer hours. The other being an appreciation for sacred architecture—soaring ceilings, enchanting stained glass, flying buttresses and all. That’s where Protestants missed the mark.
Inside was as he expected, mirroring what he experienced at Notre Dame earlier in the year, yet more magnificent. Thanks to a multibillion-dollar renovation almost a decade ago, the interior creamy-white masonry, with trompe l’oeil marbling and gilded detailing; the 176 stained glass windows lining the nave depicting various apostles, saints, and stories from Scripture; and the high-vaulted ceiling all joined hands in creating a space that beckoned its parishioners to taste and see that the Lord is good through the beauty of the fruits of his co-creators’ labor.
The two walked far into the nave, their footfalls echoing off the ancient stone. They craned their heads in wonder toward the impressive vaulting and stained glass above feeling closer to the divine than before they entered. They stopped at the back row of wooden chairs, where there would have been benches originally.
Silas sighed as he took in the sight, smiling slightly as he glanced from stained glass to stained glass, the apprehension of his heart being slowly softened.
“So where should we begin?” Celeste asked interrupting his contemplation.
“Why don’t we split up? Seems we would cover more ground that way trying to find our needle in the cathedral haystack.”
She put her hands on her hips and searched the nave. “And what are we looking for? There is still no sense about it.”
Silas sighed heavily in agreement. "Hard to say. Could be a stained glass window or a mosaic or a relief. Anything that's even remotely connected with the Ark. Pryce is no dummy. There must be something that drew his attention here."
A sound pierced the sacred silence. A few visitors near them in the back sitting in quiet contemplation turned toward him in poorly veiled irritation.
Silas’s phone.
He quickly silenced it, then brought it out. The display read: Sebastian.
He furrowed his brow, then showed it to Celeste, who matched his confusion and shrugged.
“I better answer this,” he whispered.
“I’ll go have a look at the place. Text me if you find anything useful.”
He gave her a thumbs up as he swiped his phone to life.
“Sebastian. Hey, brother. Long time no chat.”
“You got that right!”
Silas smiled and sighed. Sebastian was the only family he had left, their mother having died at their birth and father during 9/11. Grandparents had passed, and both parents were only children. He was never calling Seba enough. And his brother reminded him of it often. But since his betrayal during the summer, he hadn’t had the stomach for it anyway.
“What’s up?” Trying to regain some fraternal ground he added: “How are you feeling? Keeping at your physical therapy?”
“I’m getting along. The physical therapy post-shooting has done wonders. Feel back to my tip-top shape.”
Earlier in the year, Silas had convinced his brother to join him on a mission to prove that Jesus had risen from the dead, as the Gospel accounts had recorded and the Church had insisted for almost 2,000 years. Initially, Sebastian balked. But after Silas played the family card, he had no choice: going back to the death of their father, if either one of them needed the other, they could call on each other to help, no matter what. Silas was desperate, so he brought him to the Church of the Holy Sepulcher to use him for a machine he had devised as a professor of physics.
Only it didn’t end so well for his brother.
Regret replayed his gut like a fiddle, the string of guilt playing its familiar, sad tune. “Sorry again about all that," he said softly. "I never meant for you to get hurt.”
“Oh stop the dramatics. I’m over it. I only wish you weren’t so absent.”
Silas said nothing, pacing around the narthex. He needed to get to work. What was this about?
“So…where are you?” Sebastian asked.
Silas paused mid-pace, confused by the question. "Where am I? What do you mean?"
Sebastian huffed. “Can I not see what my brother is up to without twenty questions?”
He sighed. He didn’t want a fight. He quickly said, “Chartres Cathedral.”
“France again? My, my, my. I got into the wrong line of work. Princeton must pay a boatload more than George Washington University. And for religious professors, no less.”
His nose flared at the slight emphasis he put on “religious.” It sounded like he was making air quotes, as if Silas wasn’t a true-blue professor because he wasn’t STEM-approved.
Silas let it go. “Not with the university.”
“Then the Order of…what the hell was it, again?”
“Thaddeus. The Order of Thaddeus.”
“Yes, right. And that Navy SEALs for Jesus outfit, with that cheeky brunette in tight, black leather. Now, what was her name, her name, her name…”
Silas’s neck was growing warmer by the second. He had started pacing again. “Celeste,” he said through gritted teeth.
“Ahh, right. Celeste Bourne. Named after that godawful Ludlum character. And the director of S-E-P-I-O.”
“Was there a point to this conversation?” he exclaimed, annoyed and impatient.
“Goodness, Silas. We don’t talk for months after I nearly died saving your ass,” Sebastian scoffed, “and you can’t even take my phone call?”
Silas ran his hand over his crew-cut hair and took a breath. The impulse to strangle the guy with one of his trademark bow ties was growing by the nanosecond. “I did take the phone call. Now I’m confused what we’re talking about, and I have to get on with something.”
“Oh yeah? What could possibly have drawn you to the Chartres that you have to scurry off to?”
It almost slipped, but he thought better of it. Silas closed his mouth. Then said, “Can’t say. And I have to go.”
“Can’t? Or won’t?”
Something about his tone unsettled Silas. Why was he trying to get after his reason for being at Chartres? He left it alone. Probably his brother being his typical, neurotic self. “I really need to go. I’ll call you soon, alright?”
There was silence.
Silas checked his connection. It was fine. “Sebastian? Alright?”
“Fine,” he said quickly. “Talk later.”
He rolled his eyes and ended the call, then quickly stowed the phone in his pants pocket.
What a weird conversation.
Silas decided to start at the beginning, so he walked out of the narthex entrance and back outside to the west-facade portico reliefs. He started with the left entrance examining the carvings, but found nothing. Then he moved on to the center one, where he had just exited. Still nothing. He shuffled to the left and searched more of the relief carvings depicting various saints and religious scenes, coming up equally empty. He headed back inside.
His phone buzzed gently in his pocket. Not again.
He pulled it out. It was Celeste. She had texted, “Any luck?”
He texted back, “No. Stuck on the phone with my bro. Weird convo. Checked west facade. Empty. You?”
He walked back through the nave along the southern wall.
Another gentle buzz. "Nope. Nothing in the nave. High altar empty too. Checking small chapels. Why don't u check N/S porches?"
Good idea. He made his way to the South Porch, imbibing the ancient space's numinous atmosphere. He passed the labyrinth, which had helped metaphorically guide the spiritual journeys of countless souls. The soaring walls, built by architects with purpose and precision reminded Silas of God's own handiwork with creation. He smiled at the graceful beauty bestowed by a loving God to the world through his own careful planning, in the way those craftsmen bestowed their own measure of magnificence to him at that moment.
And to the group of college students on independent study. He waded through the crowd of maps and cameras and parkas, then exited through the South Porch, thinking about his own students. He wondered how they were getting along, the burden of his absence and his pedagogical responsibility weighing on him more than he realized.
However, his responsibilities to the Church weighed heavier. The lingering feeling that maybe there was a place for him at the Order returned. Perhaps even at SEPIO by taking more kinetic actions to safeguard the deposit of the Christian faith’s memory.
A soft drizzle had overtaken the late afternoon, making the ancient stonework slick and dark. A few tables across the street outside a brasserie sat empty, but the scent of their wares was drifting up toward the cathedral, the earthly meeting and mingling with the heavenly.
Before turning to face the southern facade, the restaurant’s baby-blue signage caught his attention.
La Reine de Saba.
Silas furrowed his brow. That sounded oddly like Sheba.
He started toward the cathedral, but glanced back, wondering about the name. He checked his watch. It was already dinner time. But Celeste would kill him if he ate without her. He turned back toward the brasserie, his stomach grumbling in protest, begging its master to succumb to the frying meat and potatoes.
All part of the investigative process, right?
He carefully made his way down the slick stairs and jogged over to the little bar, shoving through the glass door, the humid scent of food hitting him hard. The place was still humming with activity, a line forming to the right of the cashier five patrons deep. He took his place in line and stood looking at the menu, then prepared to order. The line moved quickly, and within a few minutes, he was ordering a ham sandwich with potatoes and a beer.
“Your name,” Silas said nodding toward the entrance. “It’s an interesting one.”
“Is it?” the man wearing a saggy face and even saggier apron grunted, his silvery comb-over flapping in sync with his response.
“Why was it chosen?”
Saggy Face pointed over to the South Porch. “Because of the statue. Over there. The one of Queen Sheba.”
Silas caught his breath and grinned. He could hardly believe it and laughed out loud in shock at the revelation. “Perfect.”
“Hey! You not pay!”
He ignored the man and his meal and ran out of the shop, saying a silent prayer of thanks to God for his providential direction. He quickly ascended the stairs, nearly slipping half-way up. He decided to take his near-death experience as a good sign and stood still in the middle of the stairs, looking from entrance to entrance, right to center to left. But the rain-soaked stone obscured his vision.
The guide.
He took it out and flipped to the diagram of the cathedral, which mapped each porch and labeled each relief. He traced his finger down the page, droplets of water keeping pace.
There it was. The guidebook read:
The inner archivolt of the outer arch has twenty-eight statuettes of kings and queens of the Old Testament: we recognize David with his harp, Solomon with a scepter, and the Queen of Sheba holding a flower in her left hand. At the top, the four major prophets, bearded, talk with the four minor prophets who are cleanly shaven.
Interestingly, the entire south porch had been built during the first quarter of the thirteenth century. The same time period when Kebra Nagast had been written concerning the Queen and Solomon, and their son.
He shuffled toward the location, keeping a finger in the book. There she was, the Queen of Sheba. He looked around, half expecting a Nous operative to jump out through the door, ready to take note of the figure and make sure Silas didn’t make it out alive knowing the fact.
But nothing happened.
He smiled at the thought, then looked at the relief of the queen. Nothing special about it. No markings or insignias. No phrasing or letters. Nothing that would seem to remotely connect it with the Ark. He spent several more minutes examining the statue and the surrounding reliefs for any sign of any connection with the fabled, sacred Jewish relic.
Nothing.
He glanced back at the guidebook, wondering what went wrong. He read further, then he saw something unusual.
There was another statue of the queen, a second one at the North Porch.
Apparently, it, too, had been built during the same time Kebra Nagast had been written. The entrance featured extensive portrayals of Old Testament men and women and themes.
An image caught his attention in the book diagramming the porch. An inscription beneath one of the sculpture pieces in one of the bays. There was a larger grouping of words etched into the stonework, but the angle of the picture accentuated two of them, isolating them in his attention field.
ARCHA CEDERIS.
From his Latin training, he knew the first word without even thinking about it.
Ark.