Saints and Cynics: Uncovering the Mystery of Malta’s Elongated Skulls

By Chris Bonici

A gripping conspiracy thriller that takes archaeologist Tom Kettering on a journey of discovery from his home on the sweltering island of Malta to the dreaming spires of Oxford and the burning sands of the Egyptian desert.
Tom has unearthed a bizarre shaped skull, similar to those previously exhibited in Valletta’s Archaeological museum, until 1985, when suddenly and without explanation, they were removed from public display and never seen again. Tom is determined his skull will not face the same fate and seeks advice from Alessandro Tiepolo, a renowned expert and a Jesuit priest with a private agenda and a mysterious past of his own.
Guided by Tiepolo, Tom delves into Malta’s megalithic past and uncovers a surprising connection with the ancient pharaohs.
The mystery is compounded by startling revelations found in the Ethiopian Book of Enoch and Tom is convinced there is a connection. A connection someone does not want him to make.
Around him people are dying in suspicious circumstances and Tom fears he could be next but why?
Who is behind the plot to silence him before his research is published?
Does Father Alessandro Tiepolo hold the answers?

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse UK
• Release date: Aug 10, 2020
• ISBN: 9781728355177

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Copyright © 2020 Chris Bonici. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 08/06/2020

ISBN: 978-1-7283-5518-4 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-7283-5517-7 (e)

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

CONTENTS

Saints and Cynics

Author’s Note

Saints & Cynics

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Epilogue

Acknowledgements

About the Author

SAINTS AND CYNICS

This book is a work of fiction. A product

of the author’s imagination.

Many of the places described in the work

are real and may be visited and enjoyed by

the reader or are used fictitiously.

The monastery of Saint John the Divine, is a fabrication,

a collage of many wonderful places of interest the

author has visited throughout Europe and beyond.

Any resemblance to actual persons, living or

dead, events or locales is purely coincidental.

AUTHOR’S NOTE

In 1902, construction workers on the Mediterranean island of Malta, stumbled across what appeared to be an ancient, underground, sanctuary complex.

Archaeologists subsequently uncovered one of the most impressive and puzzling megalithic structures in the world, dating back, it is estimated, more than 5000 years.

This incredible site, consisting of three subterranean levels of tombs, chambers and rooms of unknown function are gargantuan in size and proportion. During excavation, chambers packed with over 7000 skeletal remains dating to 2500BC were revealed.

Several of the skeletons had unique characteristics – elongated skulls.

It is known that some of these skulls were placed on public display in the Archaeological Museum of Valletta, along with other skulls discovered across multiple, megalithic sites on Malta.

However, after 1985 all skulls allegedly exhibiting the unique, elongated features were suddenly withdrawn from public view and disappeared without trace. They have never been recovered.

All that remains to authenticate their existence and abnormality are the studies, publications and pictorial evidence of Dr Anton Mifsud and Dr Charles Savona Ventura.

This is the mystery of the Hypogeum of Ħal Saflieni and the elongated skulls of Malta.

SAINTS & CYNICS

Sliem ghalik, Marija, bil-grazzja mimlija,

l-Mulej mieghek.

Imbierka inti fost in-nisa u mbierek il-

frott tal-guf tieghek, Gesu.

Qaddisa Marija Omm Alla,

itlob ghalina midinbin,

Issa u fis-siegha tal-mewt tghana.

Amen.

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Hail Mary, full of grace.

The Lord is with thee.

Blessed art thou amongst women,

and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus.

Holy Mary, Mother of God,

pray for us sinners,

now and at the hour of our death.

Amen.

CHAPTER 1

I will never forget that last day of June.

Even by Maltese standards, the sun was a demon, as the old Bobby Goldsborough song goes; amplified by the multitudinous throngs of eager tourists who invade the islands of Malta and Gozo from early spring to late autumn, earnestly seeking out ancient sights, water sports, night life and keen to part with their hard earned euros.

Tourists mill about in all directions smelling of sun lotion and stale, Cisk lager. Doting parents photograph their offspring for posterity and the family archive, hand-in-hand backpackers pose for selfies with their matching, perfectly suntanned legs. Any day, anywhere, any tourist destination, it’s all the same; but it isn’t, not any more, not for me at any rate. When I first came to Malta, I was fresh from Her Majesty’s armed forces, fit and enthusiastic; full of life, eager for the lure of the easy-going, Mediterranean lifestyle and all its promise. Alessandro Tiepolo was to change all that.

The monastery of St John the Divine nestled into the sloping hillside, like an old man, weary from a life of toil but still too afraid to relinquish his hold on life to the grim reaper. As I bent my back and trudged up the ever steeper incline, sending an assortment of rocks and small stones hurtling downwards towards the eternal, snaking queue of shuffling, sweating tourists waiting for the next boat trip, I began to rehearse in my mind potential first lines of introduction when I eventually came face to face with the highly regarded, Jesuit priest.

‘I have read several of your research papers concerning the origins of the elongated skulls found in Peru, Father, or I was especially impressed with the paper you presented to the Elongated Skulls Symposium – Where are they from? in Los Angeles in February 2018.’

Maybe I should simply throw him my best Hollywood smile, introduce myself and make the usual, casual comments about the origins of my name; Thomas Wolsey Kettering? Explain that my parents were historians obsessed with the infamous Cardinal Wolsey and all things Tudor and how at the ripe old age of forty, I was able to indulge my passion for archaeology, developed while serving in the Middle East with the military but how I now preferred to discover and preserve the past, instead of blowing it to kingdom come? Or should I launch straight into the tantalising topic that was gripping the entire island and its inhabitants like a dose of the plague; especially Malta’s Catholic inhabitants, which come to think of it, comprised ninety percent of the total population?

The view from the top of the hill was spectacular. A bejewelled, azure sea, dotted with boats and water crafts of a dozen, different persuasions, sparkled and shimmered in the late afternoon heat. I wiped sweat from my face, pushed strands of still-dark hair back from my forehead and gazed up at the huge, ornate, black wrought iron gates before me. Wiping a sweaty palm on the backside of my cargo shorts, I took a deep breath and pressed the buzzer, set deep into the sandstone wall.

Silence.

I peered through the gates, eager for my first glimpse of the hidden world beyond. From my limited, one-hundred-and-eighty-degree view, my eyes were drawn into the blue-grey tiled courtyard, which despite the searing heat seemed strangely cool and inviting. Central to the courtyard was a two-tier fountain, atop which was perched a religious figure whose description or identity I could not guess. Water bubbled and splashed around said personage’s marble sandals and I imagined myself leaning against the bowl of the gurgling fountain, lazily stroking the water with my overheated fingers.

I pushed the buzzer again.

Silence. Just the twittering of a few sparrows.

I took in the perimeter of the courtyard with its arches and cloister, wondering who had designed this space of tranquillity and contemplation. The Moors, the Knights Hospitallers, the Grand Masters? Oleanders of pink, white and red completed the scene; their long, heat resistant leaves impervious to the southern Mediterranean climate. From my peripheral vision, I could see an extremely tall man walking towards me, deftly keeping to the shadows as much as his trajectory would allow.

He was dressed head-to-toe in black. Black open necked, short sleeved shirt and black chinos, like an ectomorphic raven. Unlike my stereotypical expectation of those who lived in a monastic setting, he did not walk with a measured pace, hands clasped as if in eternal contemplation but swiftly, purposefully, arms, dare I say it; swinging almost with military precision. I concluded that with his height, baring and gait he would probably have made a good high jumper in another life.

He drew level with me, the lines around his dark brown eyes creasing as he smiled. ‘Good day, Mr Kettering.’

I was startled by the sound of his deep, baritone voice, which sounded unnaturally loud in the silence of the heat-leaden atmosphere.

‘We’ve been expecting you, please come this way. Sorry to keep you waiting in this heat.’

He turned quickly, inclining his head for me to follow him deep into the labyrinthine corridors of the monastery.

I was taken into a small chapel of extraordinary beauty; all the more striking because of its simplicity. Light, airy and uplifting, not the dark oppressive atmosphere one often associates with Mediterranean churches and cathedrals. I quietly slipped into a wooden pew made of light pine, glad to be out of the heat and the noise and bustle of what is modern-day Maltese life.

I began to relax and take in my surroundings and came to the conclusion that the bright and benign atmosphere was in part created by walls constructed from Maltese stone, giving a pleasing appearance as if of cream and brown mottled marble. The effect was completed by an imposing domed ceiling and central cupola; devoid of frescoes depicting every kind of doom and gloom bestowed on mankind and was instead of clean, fresh paintwork of pale pastel hues and white; giving the impression of a giant, Wedgewood bowl.

I glanced at my watch; it was nearly three o’clock. My meeting was supposed to be for two thirty. I sighed and leaned back in the surprisingly comfortable pew and took in the scene directly in front. It was like no other I had ever seen inside a church. No giant crucifix with an emaciated Christ enduring his torment hung suspended from the ceiling or attached to the wall but a scene of understated elegance, beauty and power.

A life-sized sculpture in white marble of the exultant Christ stood atop a plinth overlooking an alter draped in red velvet, his muscular shoulders enfolded in a cloak of white and gold. The depiction of triumph over death and temptation was completed by the backdrop of a vibrant, highly coloured rainbow mosaic in red, green, orange and gold which glinted in the sunlight spilling through the windows high in the cupola. The feeling of peace was almost tangible.

I stood and began to wander aimlessly around the chapel; my eyes drawn to the intricately patterned, tiled floor and its depiction of heraldic shields and ancient family crests. I found myself in front of a small, beautifully tended alter in a side chapel, festooned with fresh, fragrant flowers, in front of which was a semi-circle of flickering, votive candles in little glass jars of white and red.

I was about to turn away when my attention was drawn to a glass panel beneath the alter. I bent to take a closer look and was startled to see it was a jumble of dusty, human bones with an incongruous garland of flowers casually placed on top. A reliquary of some saint or other and resolved to enquire as to the owner’s identity at a later date.

The military style raven-man I later learned, was a Jesuit priest called Father Alfred, appeared at my side. ‘Father Tiepolo will see you now,’ he smiled down at me. ‘Please; this way.’

My first impression of Alessandro Tiepolo was one of power; a quiet, unassuming but all-pervading power, hinting of a life of something more than one spent in pious prayer and supplication. The energy in his study was intense, causing my throat to constrict as I tried to swallow with increasing difficulty. I felt like a school boy summoned to the head teacher’s study.

‘I understand why are you here, Mr Kettering. How do you think I can be of help to you?’ the elderly priest asked, without turning his back from the casement window with its view across the sanctuary courtyard and gardens beyond.

His voice was deep, with a softness and calm that some would find comforting, almost beatific but which I found strangely disconcerting and slightly unsettling.

I cleared my throat as best I could. ‘I understand, Father, you are an expert on Malta’s megalithic structures and ancient Maltese culture and I have read the papers you have written about the cult of the Mother Goddess and have begun my own exploration about the origins of the so-called, elongated skulls found in the Hal Saflieni Hypogeum. Another unusually shaped skull has been unearthed near the village of Manikata due to the recent excavations for the new Gozo tunnel and I would like to benefit from your experience and knowledge of such myths and legends concerning the origins of the Goddess cult and the skulls for my own research purposes.’

Tiepolo turned to face me for the first time, a faint smile playing across his full lips. For a few moments, time stood still as clear, pale green eyes, the colour of peridot bore into mine, as if reaching into my very soul. His wrinkle free forehead was framed by fashionably cut dark curls, with the merest hint of grey despite his obvious advancing years. He was dressed in the same casual, all black style as his colleague, except for the white clerical collar at his throat, giving him a strikingly handsome appearance.

‘They are called dolichocephalic, Mr Kettering.’

‘I beg your pardon, sir,’ I muttered, feeling somewhat deflated after my well-rehearsed introduction.

‘The skulls, they are called dolichocephalic; that’s what elongated skulls are.’

I felt my ego, not to mention my confidence, beginning to deflate like a spent party balloon.

‘Do not make assumptions about what information I may or may not be able to provide you with. Neither take for granted that monasteries and those who reside within them are simply old fossils, relics of the past. Making blasé assumptions is not wise and those who presume are invariably proved wrong.’

‘I wouldn’t dream of offending you and ...’ I spluttered, taken aback by the Jesuit’s directness.

‘You come to me asking about the dolichocephalous skulls; myths, legends and folklore. If you do not know one from the other, how can you discern which path to follow? Surely, as an archaeologist, even an amateur such as yourself, knows the folly of building on sand?’

‘Er, yes, I’ve shifted a few tons in my time,’ I ventured, a little too arrogantly.

‘So,’ Father Tiepolo continued, placing his fingers lightly atop the large, writing desk between us and fixing me with those unsettling, green eyes of his, ‘you speak of a Goddess cult but of which goddess, Mr Kettering?’

I opened and closed my mouth like a fish, gasping for air.

‘The concept of a mother goddess has remained throughout many transformations of religion throughout the ages. Long before the Virgin Mary, Ishtar, the mother goddess of Babylon, was addressed as The Virgin, The Holy Virgin, and The Virgin Mother. Ancient Egypt had the goddess Isis, often depicted with the infant child Horus in her arms and accompanied by her husband, Osiris. A veritable trinity if ever there was one, no? The Roman world revered Isis as The Mother of God, no less. When Christianity came to Egypt, Isis was transformed into Miriam. Even today, on Malta our hospital is called Mater Dei – Mother of God.

‘In the fifth century, the Church of Rome engineered the remnants of the cult of the Greek goddess Artemis into the newly developing cult of Christianity and Artemis was transformed into Mary. A short jump you might think but a jump which has had lasting consequences for her followers. Even the harvest festival of Artemis is now known as the feast of Assumption. A facade, Mr. Kettering; just smoke and mirrors, names change, religions change but essentially things stay just as they were and to think we believe ourselves so enlightened in this, the twenty-first century.’

‘I, I think that the mother goddess culture on Malta and the dolichocephalous skulls may have some areas of commonality that I would like to explore,’ I managed to blurt out.

Tiepolo turned slowly towards the door, a slight tilt of his head commanding me to follow him. ‘Then be patient; allow me to explain and all will become clear. If there is one thing that is learned within these walls, it is patience. You must clear your mind and decide if that of which you seek is part of an ancient religion tainted by myth, a sect evolving from folklore, a cult steeped in the mists of time or indeed, maybe something entirely different and the discovery of this skull near Manikata has fuelled your interest in Malta’s convoluted past. You must decide what you want to achieve, why you want to achieve it and who do you wish to know of your achievement. Then and only then will your logic take you in the right direction.’

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Outside, the air was heavy, stifling and laden with humidity. The sun beat down relentlessly across the expansive courtyard, its bleakness broken by two huge, ancient oleanders, towering above the rest, their pink and white blossoms silhouetted against the cloudless sky.

Tiepolo turned left and began a slow, measured walk beneath the arched colonnades framing the perimeter, towards a secluded area carpeted by surprisingly green grass and bordered by tumbling Mediterranean geraniums in ubiquitous, terracotta pots.

A welcome splash of vibrant colour completed the tranquil oasis with an array of deep red, pink and apricot bougainvillea, their delicate, paper-like flowers shimmering and swaying, reaching out for the faintest zephyr.

He waved at two comfortably padded chairs beside a spectacular table made from volcanic rock, its turquoise surface inlaid with a mosaic of colourful vines, flowers and fruits that sparkled in the late afternoon heat. ‘Sit awhile.’

‘We were talking about cults, myths and legends?’ I prompted.

The priest raised a finger and pursed his lips, signalling for silence. From his pocket, he slowly removed a few peanuts and placed them on the grass beside his chair. ‘It’s the mice, you see,’ he whispered, ‘they hear voices and think it’s time for tea. I always feed them at this time of day. If I’m late, they’ll be waiting and –’

‘Father, can we please talk about the skulls. I have to meet the Sicily ferry at Valletta waterfront and …’ The words froze in my mouth as two tiny mice with huge, black, pin-like eyes edged closer to Tiepolo’s chair. One reached forward and daintily took a peanut, then perching on its haunches, turned the peanut round and round in its tiny paws, munching away like a miniature squirrel.

The peridot eyes bore into mine. ‘There are two of you then?’

‘Pardon?’

‘Two of you, digging into this unholy business.’

My guard went up immediately. I began to wonder just how much this enigmatic man actually knew about not only the skulls but me. ‘What unholy business would that be?’ I asked, trying to sound coy. A mistake I would not make again.

‘Don’t take me for a fool, Mr Kettering or worse some old Alzheimer’s riddled retard who sits in the sun all day, rheumy eyed and mawkishly raking over the past until it’s time to feed the mice. That would be a mistake.’

‘I’m sorry, I meant no offence,’ I gasped.

‘Now; we’ve established that you and an associate,’ the Jesuit smiled, he was enjoying this, ‘will be making discreet enquiries into the legitimacy or otherwise of what the skull you have unearthed near Manikata really is and if this skull bares similarity to the elongated skulls previously discovered in 1902 and displayed in the Archaeological Museum, Valletta until 1985. No?’

‘Er, yes, that’s correct, Father. I understand that the skulls previously on display were excavated from the pre-historic temples at Taxien, Ġgantija and the megalithic temple of Hal Saflieni and that there is little evidence of their existence since being removed from public view and placed in the museum vaults. Rumour has it, they have disappeared permanently or maybe they never existed at all.’

Tiepolo looked up from tossing peanuts to the garden mice and fixed me with that unsettling stare of his. ‘I’m amazed you haven’t already asked me the obvious.’

‘The obvious being; why were the skulls removed from public view?’ I guessed, praying I was right.

‘Precisely. There were allegedly seven thousand skeletons unearthed at the Hal Saflieni subterranean complex at the turn of the twentieth century and examined by Themistocles Zammit, the majority showing artificial deformations of the cranium, resulting in the elongated, dolichocephalous skull. Why all the fuss? It is well documented that such cranial deformations occurred in a variety of ancient cultures around the world and were caused by deliberate bondage and binding of the head during infancy.’

‘I understand what you are saying, Father. Zammit was a professor of chemistry, medical doctor and archaeologist in his own right. A highly respected man, who commanded attention when he revealed artefacts and I am aware that the majority of skulls he examined were indeed, as you say, the result of human intervention regarding the cranial deformations.’

Here goes nothing, I thought.

I took a deep breath. ‘It’s the few, remaining skulls that did not fit this pattern of artificial intervention I am interested in. The eleven remaining skulls that some believe are not of human origin.’

The Jesuit nodded slowly, measuring his words carefully. ‘Don’t waste your time trying to extract information from government departments such as the Ministry of Culture or Heritage Malta who now manages the museum.’

‘I didn’t say anything about a government department or Heritage Malta.’

‘Did you need to? The government department you are interested in was established in 2014 to make covert enquiries into suspected or potential cults or sects which may have subversive leanings. I have no doubt the companion you are shortly to rendezvous with from Sicily will be well briefed.’

We sat in silence, watching the little mice return time and again for the peanuts scattered across the grass.

‘Father, tea is served for you and your guest.’

I turned to see a nun of pleasant countenance, appear at the table with a silver tray loaded with an assortment of confections, pots of jam, scones, tea pot and coffee pot.

Father Tiepolo smiled and nodded towards the nun. ‘Thank you, Sister Agnes. Your efforts are greatly appreciated.’

The nun bowed her head, stifling a girlish smile, as if spoken to by a Hollywood superstar and retreated. The priest raised an eyebrow towards me in anticipation of tea or coffee?

‘Coffee, please; no milk.’ I nodded, peering at the Maltese delicacies on the tray as he poured.

I sipped the refreshing, strong coffee, taking in my surroundings in greater detail, enjoying the quiet tranquillity that only a sanctuary environment can provide. The mice had retreated and were nowhere to be seen and I leaned towards the plate of inviting, homemade scones and raised the lid on a little silver pot of fruit preserve.

‘Have you ever tasted prickly pear conserve before, Mr Kettering?’

‘Why, no,’ I replied, eagerly peering into the pot.

‘The prickly pear, fruit of the cactus, in the Maltese language is called Bajtar tax-xewk or Indian fig and it was first used by the Knights of Saint John for its moisturising properties and against stomach aches, bone pain, inflammations, and insect stings. Local farmers used it as a very effective boundary around their fields and plants. You can still them today in and around any open land, growing to huge proportions. On Malta we have three varieties, yellow, red and white ones. Its flesh is sweet and moist with a flavour similar to melon or strawberries and figs, depending on which type you choose.’

I dropped a little of the preserve onto my scone. ‘Is it possible to pick the prickly pears growing wild?’

‘Oh, yes,’ Tiepolo replied with a twinkle in his eye, ‘but personally, I hate the things. I remember walking home from school as a boy and clambering up a huge specimen to pick its fruit. Bad move. They were covered in long, nasty spines that dug into my hands and foolishly, I tried to peel and taste the fruit; resulting in a very uncomfortable experience, with their very fine, hair-like spines swelling my lips for a week.

‘I think I was trying to impress my school friend at the time. Not the impression I had intended, I can assure you; just don’t tell the nuns, they insist the medicinal properties of the prickly pear are good for me.’

I replaced my coffee cup on the silver tray and casually looked around, not knowing how to press my point about finding out more about the skulls removed from the museum. I didn’t need to.

‘Don’t be in such a hurry to discover everything at once,’