The Franciscan

By James Rollo

THE DISCOVERY

Father Giovanni Moretti, a prominent historian of the Franciscan brotherhood finds his devout routine changed overnight when he accidentally discovers a secret chamber containing an early period Cassock. Stuffed inside the lining of the old robe is a faded hieroglyphic and coded manuscript that will shake his beliefs and remove him from the civilized glory of Rome to the remote and savage frontier of the Wild West.

THE JOURNEY

With the decoded map entrusted to memory, the Franciscan sets out across the ocean blue on a two-fold mission that will take him on a journey fraught with danger and intrigue. He is not alone however; the sinister figure of Antoine Verdi, swindler and master of disguise stalks his every move.

THE FRONTIER ADVENTURE

It is a time when Pioneers pushed west to the Territory of Arizona and California, lured by gold fever and the prospect of untold riches and land for the taking – Indian land that is. In this historically accurate account, Father Moretti will survive deadly Indian uprisings and the Civil War during his search for the lost Opata mine. After experiencing success and bitter disappointment a surprise turn of events will see the saintly sleuth return to the civilized world where he’ll try and turn the tables on the master of disguise himself. Or die trying…

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ashbury Creek Media
• Release date: Nov 14, 2016
• ISBN: 9781540138361

Book preview

The Franciscan

James Rollo

Published by Ashbury Creek Media, 2016.

Table of Contents

Copyright

Dedication

Prologue

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

13

14

15

16

17

18

19

20

21

22

23

24

25

26

27

28

29

30

31

32

33

34

35

36

Epilogue

Acknowledgements

About the Author

Also by James Rollo

Sons of Thunder

The Franciscan

Copyright © 2016 by James Rollo

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system without permission in writing from the author.

This book is a work of fiction. Some of the names, characters, places and incidents are in fact real and historical fact, however, the writer has taken the liberty of his imagination to blend both into this fictional narrative.

Published by Ashbury Creek Media

Ontario, Canada

Book Design by Adam Geen

www.adamgeen.com

Church Image from Bigstock

www.bigstockphoto.com

Dedicated to my beloved wife Margaret

and my four sons,

Tony, Brian, Stuart and Gord.

PROLOGUE

The stranger rode into the Tohono O’odham village, his dark flowing robe and wide brimmed hat drawing a curious crowd. It was Father Kino’s first sojourn in his commission to bring Christianity to the heathens.

It took many sacrificial years for the Jesuits’ to establish a foothold in the Sierra Estrellas. Led by Father Kino, they were successful in building a number of missions along the Santa Cruz Valley, introducing their papal doctrine and the raising of cattle amongst the primitive Pima tribe.

The Pimas strange new found faith was continually challenged by their instilled loyalty to the ways of their ancestral forefathers. For centuries these tribes had preserved their rituals and an unshakeable belief in the transmigration of their souls when the great earth spirit Shaman summoned them to the happy hunting ground. They were not about to abandon the early teachings of those learned ones who had gone before them.

The Jesuit’s primary mission took a sabbatical when silver was discovered. With the help of their new converts, they opened up and successfully worked several mines. Unknown to their Christian benefactors, the confused converts had an ulterior motive in helping to remove the precious metal.

At night, when work had ceased for the day and the cloaked supervision were safely ensconced inside the mission, they had contrived over a period of time to form a hidden chamber deep inside the most profitable mine. Here, they stashed their own reserves, using the precious ore to erect a sacrificial altar to the Gods. During the day they worked the mine, apparently adhering to their new found faith and at night when God’s servants had retired for the evening, they would perform their pagan rites in that secret place.

Azul, the Pima chief, not wanting to incur the wrath of his new God, sent his warriors out to search for a golden haired Goddess. They took the first one they saw, a flaxen hair beauty riding the stage to Tucson. Convinced she was a manifestation of the white man’s Virgin Mary, he had designs to marry her and produce a powerful savior that would unite his people and the pale-face nation in a common bond of peace and harmony.

The frightened Goddess rejected the advances of the mighty warrior and refused to marry him. The king, fearing the wrath of the great white God decided to offer her up as a sacrifice to the Sun god Tonatiuh, thus ensuring the Sun would not be stilled but would be encouraged to continue its movement toward a new day.

In the safety of the hidden chamber they tied her to the heathen altar and showing no remorse cut out her heart while she was still alive. The king held up the quivering blood drenched organ, inciting his pagan followers as they swayed to the rhythmic beat of the drums. Their hypnotic gyrations and loud incantations reverberated in the still night air, echoing within the quiet confines of the sacred mission.

Alerted by the abnormally late refrain, a few curious men of the cloth decided to explore the source. Wild exhortations led them to the mine where they discovered the macabre scene. Appalled by the natives backsliding to their pagan ways and the violation of spiritual teaching, the apostolic Fathers ordered the closing of the mine. With great haste, the unknown sacrificial victim and the bloodstained altar were unceremoniously entombed. God forbid that such an atrocity committed within their jurisdiction should reach the ears of a higher authority. This intrusion was an affront to Azul who quickly became disenchanted with the holy order. His immediate response was to order all Pimas to abandon their spiritual mentors and return to their simple pagan ways. Deprived of the only available labor; the priests’ abandonment the mines to the elements.

Unknown to those present on that fateful night, Father Eusabio, a new arrival to the mission’s call was smitten by greed and a desire to recover the hidden cache. He had a vision that one day he’d return to unearth the goodness of God’s bounty. Surreptitiously, he drew a detailed map of the mine’s location, hoping he might solidify his retirement sometime down that distant road, he stashed the scroll amongst his many writings.

In time, the Jesuits were expelled from the region by their Spanish royal benefactor and replaced by the gray robes of the Franciscan order. The wayward priest would not realize his dream; the persecution that followed saw many of his holy order killed by the vengeful Pimas. Others, escorted by the Spanish authority succumbed during a death walk through stifling heat to Mexico. Those who survived were shuffled aboard a ship bound for Cadiz and house imprisonment in Spain. Father Eusabio was one of them, secreted in a sealed pocket of his cassock lay the precious parchment and the secret to untold riches.

Ahead of him lay an oceanic expanse and an uncertain future, at that moment a feeling of doubt began to swell within. It was now conceivable to him that he might not return and his secret would remain with him forever.

The passing of time and a twist of fate would prove him wrong.

1

Giovanni Moretti hurried along the Corso Vittorio before turning into the Piazza del Gesu. He had delivered important papers to the Vatican and was eager to return to the confines of Il Gesu before the ominous heavy clouds let loose their drizzly darts.

The baroque facade of the church loomed large and inviting as he entered through the large open nave, opening the second gate, he passed along the candlelit ornate balustrade before disappearing through an arched opening.

The interior splendor of his surroundings was a constant reminder of man’s ingenuity. Inlaid marble revetments supported frescoed vaults and an enriched cupola reflected its heavenly light down on the nave and high altar, illuminating the white sculptured figures of past saints. The painted ceilings by Bacacia were an ever present inspiration.

But he was not here to languish in the beauty of this captivating baroque décor. A scholar in Jesuit and Franciscan antiquity, his immediate assignment was the study of old scrolls and their application to present day philosophy.

He continued along the arched hall and stopped outside a solid oak door supported by huge wrought iron hinges. Turning the heavy metal ring handle, he passed through and descended the narrow winding stone stairway to the archive room below.

Father Ignatius, head of the Il Gesu diocese, a tall lean figure attributed no doubt to his daily regimen of exercise, stroked his disheveled growth pondering a letter he’d just received from his old friend Juan Benitez, requesting help with restoration work and the establishment of an orderly record to the chaotic conglomeration of archaic documents. It was an enormous task and would require one with the knowledge of historical Christendom much beyond that of the Jesuit Order. Juan Benitez, a Franciscan priest, had been ordered to the western frontier after the Jesuits had been removed by their Spanish benefactors.

Father Ignatius first met Juan Benitez at the funeral of Pius VI in Valence, although the occasion was one of sadness, they cherished the opportunity of private conversation, sharing past experiences and their aspirations for the future. He vaguely remembered Juan mentioning the possibility of acquiring assistance at that time, but in the enormity of such a solemn occasion it had long slipped his mind. They crossed paths again eight years ago when they attended an update seminar in Vatican City. Their friendship waxed strong and after the devout Franciscan returned to the Americas, they continued to correspond regularly.

He took a fresh sheet of paper from an open shelf on his secretaire, dipped his feathered quill in the dark fluid and began his belated reply. Without much deliberation he knew there was only one person he could send.

Giovanni Moretti scanned the countless parchments. Where to start? He mused. The enormous book style cabinet covered most of the white washed wall, the task seemed endless.

The documents had been crammed into each shelf with no thought given to their chronological or subject relevance. Two months later, after painstakingly sifting and sorting, the challenging task was almost over. Only one more row required his astute attendance, shakily he balanced himself on a chair to reach an assortment of dust-laden scrolls almost out of reach on the top shelf. As he reached to remove the documents, the chair tilted, causing him to grab hold of the cabinet top. At that moment, the papers shot out to meet him revealing what had been a hidden recess. He must have activated some sort of mechanism controlling the sliding panel. Laying the documents to one side, he reached inside the darkened opening and felt something soft. His excitement mounting, he retrieved what looked like an early period black colored cassock along with its cincture.

Sweeping the clutter from his desk, he laid out the fragile garment, exhilarated by his discovery he carefully examined it for some clue to its previous owner. He found none. He was intrigued and puzzled that someone had gone to such lengths to secrete what appeared to be an ordinary priestly garb. He could tell from its appearance that it was early Jesuit and had barely endured the ravages of time. Carefully folding his precious find, his hand sensed a slight bulge in the lining. He trembled with excitement as the frayed stitching parted without effort. A faded parchment long hidden from view lay exposed before him.

Barely able to contain an adrenalin surge, he feasted upon its faded ink revelation. The upper part of the parchment displayed a hastily drawn map, its hieroglyphic form depicting a mountain range beside a flowing river. In close proximity to what looked like a mission, were a number of triangular shapes which he interpreted as a possible settlement. An X marked a spot approximately equidistant between the settlement and the mission. Below the sketch was undoubtedly some form of code.

907-26-4/38-27-1/1030-59-11/675-79-11/618-11-12/817-1-2/302-14-7/9-10-5

23-17-8/859-29-4/853-54-2/447-27-2/ 142-4-1/9-34-7

455-39-5/878-5-1//123-5-2/1025-60-5/77-8-5/1-10-4/1-32-3

127-1-2/49241-1/3-10-2/64-49-1/1089-63-2

Moretti pondered its meaning; could this possibly be the location of a buried treasure. Perhaps its numerical form was a reminder to its owner or even more likely, a precaution should it fall into the wrong hands. His heart skipped a beat as he continued reading; below the riddle was an indiscernible scrawl and below that the name Eusabio. Now he had something to work on.

Furtively searching past records of the Jesuit Order, he discovered that Father Eusabio had been sequestered to the Americas, dutifully serving at the Tumacacori mission in the Spanish protectorate before the persecution. Returning to Spain, he endured torment and humiliation at the hands of his former benefactor before fleeing to the sanctuary of Rome. Records show that he died in 1769 and was buried in his home town of Campobasso. Moretti was still confused, if Father Eusabio’s intention was to take his secret to the grave, why didn’t he just destroy the map along with the cassock?

The discovery of the Jesuit garment was not an enigma; the Franciscan order had acquired the premises during that dark period of Jesuit persecution. A few Jesuit reminders had been unearthed over the years but none as rare and exciting as this.

The door suddenly opened and in walked Antonio Rossi, a young novitiate. Excusing himself for disturbing the learned Father, he simply said, Father Ignatius would like to see you right away. Having delivered the message, he turned to leave. Carefully folding the delicate parchment, Moretti slipped it into the deep pocket of his frock before scooping up the delicate fabric and following the student out the door.

Come in, answered Father Ignatius in response to a rap on the door. Moretti coyly entered the inner sanctum and uncomfortably occupied the solitary chair facing his eminence. A summons to the hierarchy always caused him concern, his usual thought was, what have I done now?

You wanted to see me? was his immediate response.

Yes, indeed Giovanni, pausing for a moment to gather his thoughts, he carried on. I’ve received a request from Father Benitez for help. They’re still in the process of restoration and his archives have been somewhat neglected. The only capable person I could think of was you. Seeing you’ve almost completed your assignment I’ve taken the liberty and sent notification to Father Benitez that you will only be too pleased to help him in this worthwhile effort. I hope I’m not too presumptuous?

Not at all Father, replied Moretti. What else could he say; the decision had been made before he entered the study.

Splendid, I’ll arrange your passage immediately.

Passage? queried the puzzled historian. Where is Father Benitez’s diocese?

Oh! I forgot to mention it. He’s spreading the good news to the heathens in the western frontier; you’ll find him at the San Xavier del Bac Mission in the Territory of New Mexico.

Moretti could hardly believe what he was hearing; this surely must be the hand of providence. Father Ignatius noticed the stunned look on his subordinate’s face.

Are you alright? he inquired.

The astute ecclesiastic assured him everything was fine. A slight tummy upset, was all he could think of to say.

That settles it then. I’ll let you know when arrangements are finalized. Rising to shake the junior priest’s hand, he noticed the faded garment.

Collecting cassocks now are we?

In light of what had just transpired; Moretti had completely forgotten about his own discovery. He immediately enlightened his eminence on his recent find whose immediate reaction was one of intrigue. Relieving him of the dark disheveled garb, he promised Moretti that he would research its origin while he busied himself in that far off region to the West. A feeling of guilt pricked his conscience as he left without informing him of the treasure map nestled in his pocket, a feeling that quickly vanished during his jovial walk back to the scene of his discovery, totally unaware that his revelation had not gone unobserved.

Fabio Canelli, the mission’s caretaker and general handyman, a man not actively engaged in the catholic faith, quietly removed a small framed painting from the wall of his tool room which was conveniently located next door to the archive center. Looking through one of his many peepholes he had strategically placed throughout the hallowed halls, he watched in silence, copying the faded parchment as Father Moretti unknowingly revealed all. When he was done, he replaced the art work, taking a moment to scrutinize his handiwork he sensed the knowledgeable priest could be on to something.

Canelli was a man of few scruples, not averse to lining his own pocket should the occasion arise. Born into an impoverished family in Rome’s ghetto, he became resentful of the upper crust. Determined not be trodden under, he managed to gain his present position through the guile of an uncle of ill-repute who was quite adept in the falsification of documents. He was fortunate his prospective employee did not pursue its authenticity.

During off duty periods, he’d scurry round his numerous observation niches, hoping his private espionage encounters would offer an opportunity for financial gain. Blackmail was a powerful tool and one he was not hesitant to use should the occasion present itself. He was not sure if Father Moretti’s situation warranted such action, perhaps a waiting game might prove more profitable.

In the coming days, Moretti unwittingly bared his soul to his silent listener. In the quietness of his solitude, Giovanni was not shy about talking to himself, his audible prayers adding much to Canelli’s dossier.

Having completed his work for the day, Canelli left Il Gesu through a side door, turning up his collar against a stiffening breeze, he turned west on Pizza del Gesu in the direction of Strada Papale. A few brave souls braved the blustery air as he continued his brisk pace toward Corso Vittorio Emanuele. Fifteen minutes later he arrived at the modest lodging of his infamous uncle, knocking on the door and alerting its occupant to his arrival, he quickly disappeared inside.

Vito Mori poured him a generous glass of vino and motioned him to the table and an empty rattan chair. A visit from his neurotic nephew was a rare event, when he did his information was usually profitable. Mori was enjoying the wine and the moment.

What have you brought me this time? prodded the feisty felon. If its silver candlesticks, you can take them right back. I’ve more stashed away than the Vatican has on display.

Before he could say anymore, Fabio interrupted. It’s silver alright, a whole pile of it. Removing a folder from a cloth bag, he slid the dossier across the table. Feast your eyes on that, he added.

Mori’s eyes lit up as he scrutinized the paper, below the crudely drawn map a series of numbers seemed to form the basis of a numerical code, a look of puzzlement spread across his chiseled features.

Mori took another look at the paper before tossing back to his nephew. It’s not authentic; the paper’s new and the ink is hardly dry. Where’d you get it?

You’re absolutely right, it’s my copy. Father Moretti has the original; peepholes do have their uses don’t you agree?

Ignoring his nephew’s voyeuristic endorsement, Mori grabbed the paper and once more ran his niggardly eyes over the crude map.

"What do these numbers