Blood Symbols

by Izak Botha

  Simon again checked his watch. It was seven o’clock. The gendarmes would be nearly up the mountain. ‘We’ve really got to get the hell out of here. They’ll be here any time now.’

  Jennifer sulked. At the very least, she needed something to take with her.

  Sensing her reluctance Simon started for the ladder.

  ‘All right,’ he said. ‘I’m truly sick of this now. If you want to deal with the gendarmes, go for it. Play here in the dirt all damn night. I’ve humored your bullshit far too long, Jennifer. I’ve saved your life twice, and both times it would have been unnecessary if you had simply accepted that some things can’t be proved. You are N-E-V-E-R going to find irrefutable proof of God’s existence, but go ahead and get yourself killed looking. I’m not saving you again.’

  Jennifer stared blankly at Simon as he climbed the ladder and disappeared over the top of the crevasse. But she turned back to the remains in the sepulcher. She was desperate. There was no way she would normally dig around in someone’s remains, but this was her last chance to find something—anything—that would give back her faith.

  ‘Please, God,’ she whispered, leaning into the sepulcher.

  There was nothing, as expected, but at least she had tried. Then her eyes adjusted to the almost darkened chamber and she spotted a bone. She lifted it from the soil.

  ‘What’s this?’ Rabin shot forward. ‘Give me that!’

  She set a bone in his outstretched palm.

  He flipped it over so that its most important detail was visible to both.

  ‘Now, this might just prove something,’ he gasped. ‘You might just have made the most important find of the century, perhaps the millennium …’

  The small fragment was singular in its simplicity, just a portion of a human heel bone. What made it special was what also made it painful to look at—a heavily rusted iron spike driven through its center. Only one other example like this existed in the entire world, and that had not been dedicated to Apostle Peter. Rabin pulled out his phone and, activating the flash, held the relic under the light.

  ‘What a specimen,’ Rabin said, studying the relic. ‘It’s almost identical to the two-thousand-year old remains we had unearthed in Jerusalem around fifty years ago. It belonged to a young man named Yehohanan. He was still in his twenties when he had died.’

  Jennifer clenched her jaw and winced as she imagined the pain of having a spike driven through such a tender spot. And yet, she was elated by their find.

  Rabin pivoted the fractured bone from side to side. ‘The victim was crucified upside down,’ he added.

  ‘No Professor. How can you tell that?’

  ‘The shearing on the bone where the spike penetrated. The direction is towards the bottom of the heel. In normal crucifixions, the sheering is towards the ankle. The way this is, could only have occurred if the weight had pulled down. Hung by the feet, the thin part of the heel would be under immense strain to support the rest of the person’s bodyweight.’

  Jennifer’s lips twisted. His graphic account was disturbing. ‘Well,’ she said, ‘we have a sword, some keys, and a heelbone with a spike in it that indicates inverted crucifixion, in a church dedicated to Apostle Peter. Is there anything else we need to find to prove who this is?’

  ‘No, Jennifer,’ Rabin agreed, ‘there really is not much else. We still need to test everything to confirm the dating is correct, but believe it or not, I’m also leaning towards this being Apostle Peter now. The odds of having so many relevant artefacts in one grave are simply too remote for this to be anyone else. All we need to do now is confirm the dating of these pieces and the Apostolic succession is a memory in my book.’

  If Jennifer had learnt anything about Rabin, it was that he was not a man to make unqualified assertions. And, of course, he was right that if any piece they had found did not check out in every way, it would not matter what the three of them believed because no one else would be convinced. This, she realized, was the crux of his doggedness. She had not thought about Peter’s upside-down crucifixion before. Now, the way in which he was crucified, where he was crucified, who killed him and even whether he was crucified were all crucial. The description of Apostle Peter’s crucifixion was mentioned in the Apocrypha, but to establish the story’s veracity meant proving that the pieces of evidence they had just unearthed were unimpeachably genuine.

  What Jennifer found most unsettling about the grave was not that it could topple Catholicism; rather, she was wondering if Saint Paul had invited Apostle Peter to the area so the two could meet on common ground or had he lured the Nazarene there to eliminate him? Getting rid of Peter in Antioch would have been far less conspicuous than Judea. If Paul as Saul had incited the stoning of Stephen Martyr, he would have certainly had the stomach to effect Peter’s demise. That Paul had, at one time, persecuted other Nazarenes surely indicated that he was a psychopath. Maybe he had had a visitation on his way to Damascus, or maybe he lied to infiltrate early Nazarene’s gatherings and destroy Jesus’s followers from within. Considering that the man had behaved as sadistically, her assumption made sense.

  ‘You really have to go now,’ Rabin said, interrupting Jennifer’s daze. ‘What’s left to do will take days, if not months, and if you don’t go now, Simon might leave you. If that happens, all this will have been in vain because the gendarmes will confiscate everything we’ve found if they catch you here. At least if you two leave there’s a chance they will chase you to Adana and not search the dig site.’

  Rabin was right; any further delay would endanger her and Simon as well as the artefacts. The truth they had uncovered would be empty if suppressed and Father John’s death would have been in vain. She had helped find what might well be evidence of an alternate Christian history—one that challenged Catholicism and Pauline theology, but corroborating a broader Christian tradition.

  She helped Rabin pack as many of the artefacts as they could fit into his pockets, then climbed to the shattered sanctuary above and quickly negotiated the rubble. Though the front of the church had partially collapsed, the far-right exit was still passable, and they soon found themselves crossing the courtyard.

  In the parking lot, Simon was sitting in the Range Rover, fractiously strumming his fingers on the steering wheel and scanning the mouth of the path up to the Cave Church. He started the engine and pulled towards them. He braked abruptly and swung the passenger door open.

  When Jennifer handed Rabin the relics, he kissed her on the cheeks and escorted her to the Range Rover.

  Watching him as they drove from the parking lot, the professor looked both avuncular and a little odd with bits of ossuary and bones bulging from his pockets. She leaned out of her window to wave him goodbye. As the professor disappeared, she heard his call the last time.

  ‘Drive safely,’ Rabin’s voice echoed over the roar of the Range Rover. ‘And call me when you get to Adana. Shalom!’

  Chapter 37

  The window in Friar Malone’s guest quarters had no view of the Cave Church of Saint Peter, but Verretti paced in front of it anyway. Waiting for an important call, he had tried sitting at the dining-room table, but he was jittery and could not bear to be still. He and his men must not be discovered operating outside their jurisdiction. The clandestine nature of the operation prevented them from entering a foreign country armed to the teeth; they would not have made it past customs. The problem was, of course, that they could not accomplish their mission without weaponry and specialized transport. His stomach turned, as he realized how ill-advised their hasty departure had been. That was where Their Eminences Santori and Cardoni entered the playing field. The two cardinals had somehow managed to orchestrate a delivery.

  Indeed, Verretti was so nervous as he paced that, though he had been waiting for a call, the shrill ring of his phone startled him. He answered and, after a brief exchange, ordered his men into the court in front of the church. As they waited, a second call came through, this time from Lioni. The adjutant and monk had been re
connoitering the Cave Church for the past half hour. Verretti needed to make sure the suspects were still at the site and had not left while Malone was fetching them at the airport. That would spell disaster. If there was any movement at all, Lioni was to pursue from a safe distance. Under no circumstance was he to engage without the rest of the team in place to facilitate the arrest. There was no room for error, and failing to act discreetly would jeopardize the entire mission; if not, cost them their lives.

  To Verretti’s dismay, the suspects had left and were heading north. As ordered, Lioni and Malone had followed them at a safe distance and, thus far, had managed to remain undetected. Verretti had Lioni’s Smartphone linked to his, and the inspector now logged into the tracking application to view their position.

  Darkness, meanwhile, was descending on Antakya, and the street outside the church was quiet. Across the court an ambulance and response vehicle waited under a tree to avoid streetlights. As Verretti approached, he noticed The Order of Saint John’s logos on the vehicles and it puzzled him. It was the third time he had been the recipient of Hospitaller support that day. The first had been on the Puma helicopter that had transported them from the Vatican to Ciampino Airport. The second had been on the jet, which brought them to Antakya. A thought nagged at him, but he had no time to consider it. His only concern was that things went smoothly until his return to Rome.

  Soon, a man dressed in a bomber jacket with a Saint John’s insignia strolled from the shadows behind the ambulances. He was a sinewy man with epaulettes extending beyond his shoulders. Verretti stretched out his hand in greeting, but the man declined to introduce himself.

  Verretti, decided to call the man Max. He had a sense that Max was not actually a Saint John’s officer. Max’s overdeveloped chest, bony face and slit eyes reminded him of a snake that had just swallowed a rat.

  Max’s eyes scanned the street. Seeing nobody, he waved and a second man in a similar uniform stepped from the shadows.

  The second man opened the back of the ambulance. Beside the stretcher sat two crates. When the man opened the first, Verretti saw six MP5 MOD sub-machine guns, each with pre-attached ACOG scopes and S3 silencers. Extremely accurate and controllable in short bursts of fire, the MP5s would be of great use in midrange combat.

  Verretti turned his attention to the second crate. This contained two-way communication sets, Glock pistols, extra magazines, ammunition and slings with ammunition pouches. The inspector pulled a Glock from its holster. Satisfied, he turned his attention to the medical kit. He had requested drips, syringes, needles and vials of local anesthetic. Max did not disappoint. Finally, Verretti asked about the hi-vis jackets he had ordered—some of the men would wear Saint John’s clothing as disguise. This would come in handy in case of a roadblock.

  ‘I take it someone’s picking you up?’ Verretti asked.

  Max nodded, and Verretti divvied the keys between two of his men. Snapping up two magazines for his Glock, he ordered his men to arm themselves and, hopping into the passenger seat of the rescue vehicle, he told the driver to start the engine. He also attached his Smartphone to the windshield. Determining Lioni’s position was crucial. He had an idea where their suspects were heading, but he could not base his mission on belief. Something could happen to Lioni and Malone, making tracking them impossible. That would be a disaster. When Lioni’s phone flashed on the Google map, he sighed in relief. Now he had their location.

  The rescue vehicle and ambulance circled the block and headed out of Antakya. At a crossroads about three kilometers outside town, Verretti checked Lioni’s position. He was wary of ending up in Syria, and if they were forced to engage with any Muslim extremists, a diplomatic disaster would ensue. Family pride and personal ambition aside, the Vatican’s existence depended on the success of the present mission, although Verretti certainly intended to avoid danger to himself.

  As he directed the driver to turn right, the small, red dot representing Lioni and Malone disappeared momentarily.

  This was going to be a long night.

  Chapter 38

  Surpassing even the glamour of the Rue du Faubourg-Saint-Honoré in Paris and London’s Bond Street, Rome’s Via dei Condotti was the epicenter of Italy’s fashion industry. Lined with three- and four-story buildings, it boasted no fewer than seven palaces. On the street level, gaudy clothes clashed with the dignity of age-old architecture as the jet set clustered to experience the latest creations of Dior, Gucci, Valentino, Hermes, Armani, Cartier, La Perla and Prada—all household names to the sophisticates who frequented the quarter’s shops.

  Further up the street, a Late-Renaissance church, the Santissima Trinità dei Monti, served as a focal point from its position above the early eighteenth-century Spanish steps. In the Piazza di Spagna below, cameras flashed as tourists attempted to memorialize their vacations. Others stood agape, pointing to whichever landmark had caught their attention. At the famous corner eatery Caffé Greco, waiters scurried between tables, anxiously serving mirthful patrons as if they were royalty. Everywhere, as people gathered in the labyrinth of plazas, streets and steps, the electric atmosphere of the Via dei Condotti was palpable.

  The Palazzo Malta—containing the headquarters of the Sovereign Military Order of Malta and the governmental and administrative residences of the order’s Grand Master, Grand Priors and Deputy Grand Priors—was in the center of the Via dei Condotti. Built in the seventeenth century, the three-story, ashlar-block palace with its corbelled cornices boasted extraterritorial status, courtesy of the Italian Government. Two red flags were draped diagonally from the first-floor balcony above the main entrance, one with a white Latin cross—the state flag of the Sovereign Military Order of Malta—the other with a white Maltese cross—the flag of the Grand Master of the Order. Access from the Via dei Condotti was through a narrow archway opening onto a central courtyard. In the cobblestones of the courtyard, which was large enough to receive six vehicles abreast, was set an outsize Maltese cross. Curious passers-by would peer through the archway when it was open. At the far wall, another Maltese cross loomed over a fountain shaped like a lion’s head.

  His Most Eminent Highness, Grand Master Fra’ Pierre Dubois, stood by his office window overlooking the Via dei Condotti.

  ‘Lord Jesus, Thou hast seen fit to enlist me for Thy service amongst the Knights and Dames of Saint John of Jerusalem. I humbly beseech Thee, through the intercession of the most holy Virgin of Philerme, of Saint John the Baptist and the Blessed Gerard and of all the Saints, to keep me faithful to the traditions of our order. Be it mine to practice and defend the Catholic, the Apostolic, the Roman faith against the enemies of religion; be it mine to practice charity towards my neighbors, especially the poor and sick. Give me the strength I need to carry out my resolve, negligent of myself, learning ever from Thy Holy Gospel a spirit of deep and generous Christian devotion, striving ever to promote God’s glory, the world’s peace and all that might benefit the Order of Saint John of Jerusalem. Amen.’

  Fra’ Dubois could not remember when he had last recited the mystical vows of his knighthood. The vows—designed to act as a reminder of one’s pledge to serve humanity—were a centuries-old tradition. His Maltese cross, which he rolled between his fingers when in meditative moods, was a symbol of the spiritual nature of his vows. In honour of God and the Holy Cross, brothers of the order wore it at all times. The four arms symbolized the four cardinal virtues: prudence, justice, temperance and fortitude; the eight points of the cross symbolized the eight beatitudes that Christ had bestowed upon his followers.

  It had taken Dubois over thirty years to become Grand Master. His uncle, a former master himself, had introduced his nephew into the order as a promising aspirant. Like all grand masters before him, Dubois was the offspring of nobility. Born a Frenchman, his family was descended from Sir Adrian Fortescue, a knight of Malta martyred in 1539. The Council Complete of State of the Order of Malta had ordained Dubois eightieth Prince and Grand Master in 2010, allowing him to
achieve the apex of the celebrated order’s rankings. He recalled receiving his seal with pride. It had been a memorable occasion; in his early sixties at the time, he had been young for a grand master.

  At an intersection in the Via del Corso, a limousine turned into the Via dei Condotti. Making its way towards the Palazzo Malta, the black-diamond Mercedes crawled through the throngs of sightseers. Dubois placed his Maltese cross in his pocket and buttoned up his double-breasted jacket. As the limousine stopped before the palace entrance, he crossed the room to his desk. He watched on a monitor as his guards opened the building’s large, wooden doors. After it had advanced to the steel portcullis, an Order of Malta guard used a mirror on an extension pole to inspect the vehicle’s undercarriage for explosives. Another guard spoke with the driver; after a moment, the guard leaned through the driver’s window to identify the passengers in the backseat. Satisfied, he straightened, saluted and ordered the control gate open.

  As the limousine entered the courtyard, Dubois studied a second monitor. A guard marched out from reception to open a door. As the first figure stepped out, the guard knelt to kiss the dignitary’s ring. Dubois recognized the cardinal from his upright bearing and forthright demeanor. The second dignitary emerged, and the guard repeated the ritual. Dubois had known this cardinal since Pope John Paul II had appointed him Cardinalis Patronus to the Order more than fifteen years earlier. His duties of promoting the order’s spiritual interests and acting as a liaison to the Holy See ensured they had met regularly over the past thirty years.

  Above Dubois’ desk hung a framed picture of himself standing beside His Supreme Holiness, Pope Gregory XVIII. As now, Dubois wore a red military jacket embroidered in gold and decorated with tassels, medals and other evidence of the great deal he had accomplished during, at that point, his brief time as Grand Master. Only one citation still eluded him, and it was the most prestigious of all—The Supreme Order of Christ. The papal order of chivalry owes its origins to the Portuguese Order of Christ of the Knights Templar. Traditionally awarded to senior Catholic heads of state, his elevated position amongst God’s elite and his assistance in the current debacle certainly set him on a course to becoming the next recipient, but his position was also something of a double-edged sword. As prince and grand master of the autonomous order, Dubois governed both as sovereign and religious head. And yet, in addition to his title, ‘Most Eminent Highness’, the Holy Roman Catholic Church had also conferred on him the rank of Cardinal, thus binding him to the Holy See.