by Izak Botha
Jennifer’s immediate intuition was that it referred to the siege of Jerusalem, but Pontius Pilate had been recalled to Rome long before that. ‘It could be Jesus’s followers—the Nazarenes.’
‘Even if this were Pilate, as you suggest, he is not known to have persecuted Jesus’s followers.’
‘But Paul did when he was Saul. And since Pilate did not execute his own orders, one could ask who did. What if Saul was the recipient?’
Rabin had to admit that was a plausible explanation for the Vatican’s behavior, depending on the rest of the letter. But it was not borne out by what they had read.
Jennifer sat still. Without names or real evidence, they had very little, if anything, to go by. Yet, she was not giving up. Even if her ideas were speculative, she had to carry on. Too much was at stake.
‘Saul’s persecution of the Nazarenes is an article of faith.’ she said. ‘Nobody questions it. The idea of a Jew from Turkey persecuting other Jews in Judea is odd though, don’t you think? And yet, that’s exactly what Paul in the Epistles says he was doing, so it’s illogical to assume a man from Tarsus was acting on behalf of Judea’s disenfranchised Jewish population. As with the Jerusalem Sanhedrin, he too would have had to bring those he accused before Pilate. Or if Saul openly killed Jews, he must have been acting under Pilate’s personal direction. What’s more, by Paul’s own admission, Christ said to him, “Saul, Saul, why are you persecuting me?” We have always assumed the transcendent Christ was referring to his followers. If the letter is addressed to Saul, it would be logical to suggest that Jesus personally confronted Saul before His crucifixion. …’
‘Jesus didn’t militarize,’ Rabin stated in defense. Despite her enthusiasm, he was not allowing Jennifer to draw him into her speculation. ‘Calling the incidents leading up to the Passion a “revolt” would be an overstatement. Pilate would not have broken a sweat over the Jesus movement, so the Gospel story about his acceding to Jewish demands could be nonsense. The Church could maintain whatever it wants, but this anti-Semitic notion from the Gospels has been rejected by the clear majority of serious academics, making a letter that implicates a Roman Prefect nothing at all; it certainly would not make the Vatican want to hunt you down over it.
‘Most scholars today agree that it was the unrest Jesus was stirring up over taxation that got him killed. You of all should know this. First, he ridiculed Levi of Capernaum, convincing him to quit his post, and later, he influenced a Jericho tax collector, Zacchaeus, to resign. That would have been enough for Pilate to have Jesus killed, but to top it all, there is the incident with the moneychangers in the temple. As governor, Pilate’s primary responsibility was to ensure taxes were collected and sent to Rome, and under no circumstance was he to allow anyone preventing such taxes from being obtained. Just encouraging someone not to contribute was a capital offence. So, to stop Jesus’s activities and to prevent similar incidents from occurring, Pilate was compelled to make an example of a man he would otherwise have considered a harmless preacher.
‘That’s the general academic consensus, and it’s borne out by everything we know from Josephus and the archaeology. In the end, exactly what you’d expect to happen is probably what did happen: Pilate had Jesus crucified on Mount Golgotha near Jerusalem for interfering with the collection of taxes. Even the sign on the cross, “King of the Jews,” indicates nothing more than that Jesus was killed for political sedition. Perhaps—and I suppose this is a stretch—it implies that Pilate yielded to a Jewish demand, but it just as likely indicates he was deflecting blame for an execution he was compelled to carry out during the week of Passover. His reply to the protesting high priest regarding the plaque, “King of the Jews”, says as much: “What I have written stays written.” The priests had no power to execute in first-century Judea, and Pilate had no mandate to concede to anyone’s demands but the emperor’s.’
The professor’s knowledge of scripture was impressive; not that Jennifer expected any less. She liked how meticulously he made the point. The clarity of his argument demonstrated his grasp of the subject. Neither was he alone in his thinking. Considering how Pilatus had shifted blame by implicating the Jewish priests, his campaign to crucify Jesus had been successful. Perhaps the letter indicated a third motive for Jesus’s death, though, something eluding, and something that no one has ever thought of. Even if they abandoned all assumptions, there had to be a reason the Church so badly wanted to recover the letter.
‘Assuming you’re right, Professor, how does it affect the Church?’
Rabin had already refocused his attention on the letter and was not listening. Then something caught his eye. Having gone over the last sentence again, he translated it aloud: ‘To avert creating another martyr, they must “corrupt”, or “defile”—it can read either way—the faith.’
A chill rippled down Jennifer’s spine. ‘Professor, you’re not serious.’
Rabin sat back, his brow twisted into deep folds. Even he could not believe what he had just read. His gaze shifted to Jennifer. ‘The letter instructs the recipient to appropriate the Nazarene faith.’
She shot forward to see if the text said that; she needed to be sure the professor was not toying with her. It did indeed.
Finally, Jennifer understood the Vatican’s desperation to get the letter back. The Nazarene link was the smoking gun, for not only did it connect the letter with the Apostles’ persecutions, but it incriminated the Vatican’s esteemed Saint Paul as well. Her mind raced. She had to make sense of it.
‘Another martyr must refer to Apostle Peter, surely,’ she said, her eyes glistening. ‘There is no way he could have reached Rome safely with a contract on his head in Judea already. Given the letter is true and it refers to Peter, Paul’s ministry to the gentiles was a complete apostasy—an abandonment of the faith if you will—perpetrated to corrupt a church the Romans had already unsuccessfully attempted to destroy by force. In other words, if the letter describes Peter’s demise, and Paul is required to pose as Peter—to establish a Roman Church—and in so doing undermine the true Church, the entire Apostolic succession is nonsense.’
Rabin stared at her, a hint of a smile creeping across his lips. Mention of the Nazarenes made all the difference. Even he had to admit her hypothesis, though not without its limits, made sense. Yet, as much as he agreed in principle, without hard evidence to back it up, the letter meant little, if anything.
Jennifer gloomily turned her attention to the letter. The idea of Pilate and Saul persecuting the Jews and corrupting their faith was out of sync with Catholic doctrine. The credo of the Apostolic succession hinged on a Jewish rejection of the Messiah. The pope assumed the mantle of God’s viceroy on Earth based on a scorned Christ and a Roman Peter. Only if the high priests had spurned God’s Son and, in so doing, forfeited God’s terrestrial seat in Jerusalem, would the Vatican’s claim hold.
Jennifer’s umbilical connection with Christianity aligned her with the gentile clique, which might have illicitly appropriated God’s power and authority from the Jews. The consequences were far-reaching. She felt as if she should justify herself to the professor. She was about to apologize on behalf of Christendom when she saw Simon approaching. His clean-shaven jaw and wavy, wet, slicked-back hair indicated that he had just showered. His white-cotton shirt flapped like a flag as he walked, revealing his muscular frame beneath, and his tight-fitting jeans revealed his glutes and hamstrings, which rippled like a pacing lion’s. He stopped in front of her, and she felt a little light-headed.
‘I’m sorry to break this up,’ Simon said, ‘but we have to go.’
Jennifer felt sick in her soul. Her attachment to Christianity had caused her to believe strange things over the years. She saw that now. ‘I can’t, Simon,’ she said, suppressing tears. ‘We’ve only translated a few lines.’
‘Goddammit, Jennifer! The gendarmes are an hour from landing.’
‘They still have to get through customs, right? That could take another hour.’
&
nbsp; Simon glanced down at Rabin. ‘You have to help me here, Uri.’
Rabin got up. ‘You two can discuss this in the car, Jennifer,’ he said, replacing the letter in the casket.
The idea of leaving devastated her. When Simon pulled impatiently on her chair, she refused to budge. ‘I’m not leaving.’
Rabin closed the lid carefully, then removed his gloves. ‘Simon is right, Jennifer,’ he said, taking the casket and making his way to his office. ‘In any case, without evidence the letter means very little, if anything. To be honest, I can’t see any falling like manna from Heaven any time soon either. So, come, I’ll walk you back to the car. And, in the meantime, I’m locking this in my safe.’
*****
Jennifer descended Mount Starius like a peevish child. These setbacks had to end. She had had enough bad luck to last her a lifetime. Her interview with Cardinal Librarian Cardoni that morning had been fruitless, and now, she had stumbled on something revolutionary. If Rome had sanctioned Paul’s persecutions and later his Church, it changed everything. It meant that Rome had engineered the founding of their brand of Christianity, and if so, the long-standing impression that the Jerusalem Sanhedrin was responsible for Jesus’s death made sense. It had to, for on this charge rested the veracity of the Christian faith. If the Jewish priests had not purged Jesus, papal authority was a lie and the Jews remained the chosen people.
And yet this was all speculation. What they needed was evidence. She recalled Cardinal Cardoni saying Q originating in Antioch. Then she reminded herself of Acts of the Apostles recording the Antiochene gentiles were the first converts to be labelled Christians. When she looked up at the retaining wall beside her, adrenaline surged through her veins. Thirty feet above her lay the Cave Church of Saint Peter, traditionally the place where Peter had first preached to the gentiles. That made it, for non-Jews anyway, the root of Christianity. And what if it was all linked: the letter, Q and the Cave Church?
Simon unlocked the Range Rover and opened her door, but she ignored him and continued up the road. He stared after her, door in hand.
‘Where are you going now?’
‘The Cave Church.’
‘Jennifer!’ he shouted. ‘For fuck’s sake, Jennifer, get back here!’
‘I’ll be quick,’ she called out.
‘It’s closed for renovations! The cave is falling apart—it’s locked!’
‘I’ll climb over the gate.’
‘What gate? There’s a whole building blocking the way—and a pile of rubble is jamming the entrance!’
Chapter 33
Schreider sat hunched at his desk, his elbows pressed into the arms of his chair, his chin slumped on a pair of clenched fists. His dressing down at the Penitentiary had angered him, but it had not compared with the fury he had felt when Verretti had pulled a gun on him. The incident was entirely his fault, of course. He should not have lost his cool. His misjudgment would certainly cost him. Verretti getting the better of him spelt the end of his career. His perfect record was ruined.
The colonel’s eyes shifted to the wind-up alarm clock on his desk. It was already half past four. In little more than a half an hour, most of the staff would be leaving for the day. Not being able to take statements from those who had heard or seen something irked him. It made no sense. Every aspect of the crime should be receiving equal consideration. His blood boiled again at the thought that Verretti would fail to take care of the important details. What kind of an investigation did that meatball think this was? All the man cared about was his damned ego. Mounting an internationally unsanctioned pursuit obviously appeared far more impressive than properly investigating the minutiae.
After reviewing the morning’s events, Schreider’s thoughts focused on the murder in the Penitentiary vault. Something about the priest’s wounds still bothered him. His mind clouded over, and he forced himself upright. He should not be carrying on like this. He had to get it together. He activated the intercom and called for Weber.
Weber entered minutes later, beret in hand. ‘Where are we going?’
‘The morgue,’ Schreider said, holstering his pistol.
‘Did they call?’
Schreider could not say why he needed to go there. He just felt the urge to inspect Father Yilmaz’s corpse. With the pursuit coming so quickly after the murder and the Maggiore removing the Father’s remains from the vault before anyone had had a chance to examine it closely, made it likely they had missed something.
Marching down the Via del Belvedere, Schreider hoped the coroner had not left already, but he would break in if necessary. The cardinals had behaved strangely in the vault, and someone needed to find out why. In less than an hour Verretti would be in Antakya. He dreaded what would happen once the inspector apprehended the suspects. If the gendarmerie’s treatment of the bomber was any indication, the two fugitives would be turned to bratwurst. ‘Not again and not while I’m Oberst,’ Schreider decided. He would do whatever it took to stop Verretti from getting creative with the law again.
Weber appeared stressed. He had never seen his commander act so out-of-character. ‘You have to let me on board, Oberst,’ he said, matching his commander’s stride. ‘I can’t help you if you don’t tell me what’s going on.’
Schreider longed to tell the captain about the secret letter, but he had pledged absolute secrecy. On the other hand, with the Church withholding important information, he now felt relieved of his sworn responsibilities. As he turned left at the Belvedere fire station, he saw the coroner locking up, and he began to run.
‘Doctor!’ he called out from the arch entrance by the fire station.
The coroner, a rickety man nearing retirement, did not hear Schreider and carried on walking to the center of the courtyard where he had parked. He was removing his white jacket and placing it in the boot of his Alfa Romeo as the two Swiss guards approached him.
‘Ah, Colonel Schreider,’ the old man said. ‘Actually, I wanted to talk to you about something.’
‘I really need to see that body, doctor.’
Anticipating Schreider’s purpose, the coroner had already retrieved his jacket from the boot of his car and was putting it back on. ‘Yes, that’s what I wanted to talk to you about. I was going to call you in the morning, but I suppose now’s as good a time as any—besides, my wife’s making trippa tonight and I could use an excuse to work late. Anyhow, there’s something I wanted to show you.’
The old man moved more quickly than Schreider expected. In a moment, the three were inside the morgue, making their way past the stainless-steel dissection tables. Several tables from the door, the coroner stopped at a three-tiered cold chamber. He drew out the middle tray to reveal the body bag.
‘I need to see the wounds,’ Schreider said.
‘I’m glad you said that, Colonel,’ the coroner responded, unzipping the bag down to Yilmaz’s torso.
When Weber spotted the gaping wound in Father Yilmaz’s throat, his diaphragm contracted. Unlike Schreider, he had not had experience of death on the battlefield.
‘I find deep breaths help, Captain,’ the coroner said as he slid on a pair of latex gloves. ‘There’s a reason so many coroners are mouth breathers.’
Weber could not believe the coroner could joke at a time like this. The thought of gulping death was sending him into convulsion. Luckily, he had not eaten since lunch, or his food would already be puddles on the floor.
The coroner found Weber’s weak stomach irritating. After all, the captain was a grown man, young and a member of the Swiss Guard. ‘What a bucaiolo,’ the old man thought, but gave Weber time to compose himself. Once the captain had his gag reflex under control, he continued. As he slipped a finger into the slit below Yilmaz’s right nipple, the captain grew queasy again, but this time the old man did not stop.
‘As you see, there is a puncture wound on the right side of the chest. There is also bruising to the chest here and the neck here. Last but not the least, we have the coup de grace, as the French
say, the six-inch laceration across the throat.’
Schreider himself was now becoming a little unnerved—especially as the coroner was nonchalantly poking his finger into every wound—and he did not have time for a lengthy analysis. ‘You said you wanted to see me about something?’
‘Yes, Colonel, the location of the wounds speaks volumes. Based on the lacerations, bruising and blood drainage, there’s a pretty clear sequence to them.’
The coroner picked a stainless-steel probe from his workstation. Careful not to damage muscle tissue further, he inserted the probe into Yilmaz’s puncture wound and slipped the probe deep into the dead priest’s chest until it thumped against a rib. Leaving the probe projecting from Yilmaz’s chest, the old man again turned towards Schreider and began gesticulating as he explained.
To demonstrate how the killer had inflicted the wounds, the coroner asked the two officers to stand toe to toe. Schreider was to play the killer, and Weber, the victim. The coroner handed the colonel a surgical knife, directing him to hold it in his right hand. The old man then made sure the pair were the right distance apart before asking Schreider to mimic inflicting the wounds he had seen on the priest.
Weber cringed. ‘Can we reverse roles?’
‘No, no, captain. You are the right height, so I need the two of you as you are.’
‘I’ll be careful,’ Schreider chuckled.
Frowning, Weber dropped his hands to his side.
Schreider flicked the knife around in his hand. With the blade now protruding from the back of his fist and in line with his forearm, he thrust foreword as if to slice Weber’s throat. His second thrust swung towards the captain’s chest, stopping just short of his ribs.
‘Exactly as I thought,’ the coroner mused. ‘Good. You stabbed him just where the killer stabbed our priest.’
‘Obviously,’ Schreider responded. ‘That’s what you told me to do.’