The Fifth Gospel

by Ian Caldwell

  “What’s wrong?”

  He cocked an ear. Distantly there was the faintest sound.

  But he shook his head and said, “Air current. Carry on.”

  I wondered how he could be so focused on his small list of verses—or even on the Shroud—when an entire gospel lay before us. I would’ve stayed here a month, a year, until I had taught myself enough Syriac to read both columns together, every word.

  Yet the muscles of Ugo’s face were strained. All trace of jovial good humor had left. “Read, Father,” he said. “Please.”

  There were eight verses on the list. I knew them by heart. Each of the four gospels—Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John—says that Jesus’ dead body was wrapped in linen after the crucifixion. Two of the gospels—Luke and John—also say that disciples returned after the Resurrection and saw the linen lying by itself in the empty tomb. But the Diatessaron, by merging the gospels into a single story, distilled all these references to only two moments: the burial and the reopening of the tomb.

  “Ugo, there’s a problem,” I said, finding the first of the quotations. “There’s too much rot here. I can’t make out some of the words.”

  Hazy black stains spotted the page, rendering words illegible. I had read about manuscripts destroyed by fungus but had never seen one firsthand.

  Ugo collected himself. Then as calmly as he could, he said, “Very well, scrape it off.”

  I blinked at him. “I can’t. That would damage the page.”

  Ugo reached over. “Then show me the word, and I’ll do it.”

  I moved the book away from him.

  His temper flashed. “Father, you know how important that one word is.”

  “What word?”

  He shut his eyes and collected himself. “Three of the gospels say Jesus was buried in a linen cloth. Singular. But John says cloths. Plural.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  He looked incredulous. “Singular means we have a burial shroud. Plural means we have something else. If John was right, then all of this has been a grand mistake, hasn’t it? The man who wrote the Diatessaron had to choose. And if he really saw the Shroud in Edessa, then he would’ve chosen cloth, singular.”

  This newfound intensity repelled me. “You told me we were here to prove the Shroud was in Edessa when the Diatessaron was written.”

  He shook his list of Bible verses in the air. “Eight Shroud references. Eight. Four from Mark, Matthew, and Luke. Four from John.” He pointed to the manuscript. “The fellow who wrote this book—”

  “Tatian.”

  “—had to break the tie. He couldn’t use both words, so which did he choose? The battle begins here, Father. So let’s have it.”

  Yet no matter how I squinted, the rot was impenetrable. “I’ll check the other reference,” I suggested. “The empty tomb.”

  But there, too, the word was hidden by black splotches.

  Ugo removed a plastic kit from his breast pocket. “I brought swabs and solvent. We’ll begin with saliva. The enzymes may be enough.”

  I placed a hand on his arm. “Stop. No.”

  “Father, I didn’t bring you—”

  “Please, tell the Cardinal Librarian what you’ve found. The restorers will do this the right way. We don’t have to risk damaging it.”

  He became incensed. “The Cardinal Librarian? You said I could trust you! You gave me your word!”

  “Ugo, damage these pages and you’ll have nothing. Neither will anyone else. Forever.”

  “I didn’t come here to be lectured. Father Simon told me you had experience with—”

  I lifted the manuscript up in the air.

  “Stop!” he cried. “You’ll set off the alarm!”

  When the book was level with my eyes, I said, “Move the flashlight at an angle. Maybe I can see the indentations of the pen strokes.”

  He stared at me, then patted his pockets and produced a small magnifying glass. “Yes. Okay, good. Use this.”

  One hundred years ago, a lost book of Archimedes had turned up in a Greek Orthodox convent, hidden in plain sight. A medieval monk had erased the treatise by scraping the ink off the parchment and had written a liturgical text on the blank pages instead. But under the right light, from the right angle, it was still possible to see the old indentations, the tracks of that ancient pen.

  “Stop,” I said. “Keep the beam just like that.”

  “What do you see?”

  I blinked and looked again.

  “What is it?” he repeated.

  “Ugo . . .”

  “Speak! Please!”

  “This isn’t rot.”

  “Then what is it?”

  I squinted. “These are brushstrokes.”

  “What?”

  “These stains are paint. Someone already found this book. It’s been censored.”

  * * *

  THE BLOTS WERE everywhere. Swallowing up words, phrases, entire verses. The text beneath was impossible to read.

  In shock, Ugo murmured, “You’re saying someone got to this book before we did?”

  “Not anytime recently. This paint looks very old.”

  I scanned the text, trying to understand what I was seeing.

  And Joseph took down Jesus’ body. and wrapped it in the clean linen a new tomb hewn in the rock where no one had ever been laid. It was the day of Preparation, and the Sabbath was beginning, so they laid him in it and rolled a great stone against the door of the tomb, and departed.

  “Who did it?” Ugo asked.

  I closed my eyes. I knew these gospel verses by rote. Fusing together the testimony of all four gospels would yield:

  And Joseph took down Jesus’ body. Nicodemus, who had at first come to him by night, came bringing a mixture of myrrh and aloes, about a hundred pounds’ weight. They took the body of Jesus, and wrapped it in the clean linen cloth/cloths. Now in the place where he was crucified there was a garden, and in the garden a new tomb hewn in the rock where no one had ever been laid. It was the Jewish day of Preparation, and the Sabbath was beginning, so as the tomb was close at hand, they laid him in it and rolled a great stone against the door of the tomb, and departed.

  The censored parts were about the burial spices, the shroud, the man named Nicodemus, and—strangest of all—the word Jewish. The only unknown was whether the word for the burial linen would be singular or plural: three of the four gospels use the Greek word sindon, meaning “cloth” or “shroud”; the other uses othonia, meaning “cloths,” plural.

  I could think of just one thing that connected these censored words.

  To be sure of it, I checked the rest of the column.

  “Ugo,” I whispered, “do you have any idea how old this manuscript is?”

  “Fourth or fifth century, I estimate,” he said.

  I shook my head. “I think it’s older than that.”

  A nervous smile crossed his face. “How much older?”

  I tried to contain the trembling in my hands. “Nicodemus is mentioned only in the gospel of John. So are the burial spices. So is the word Jewish in this final sentence. Everything this censor cut out was from the gospel of John.”

  “What does that tell us?”

  “There was a group of Christians called the Alogi. They wanted John’s gospel rejected. I think they censored this manuscript.”

  “Is that a good thing or a bad thing?”

  “The Alogi existed in the late one hundreds AD. This manuscript is probably the oldest complete gospel manuscript in the world.”

  He looked despondent. “So the word they censored must be cloths. That’s the word John uses.” Then he registered what I’d said. “Sorry, repeat that?”

  “I said, this is probably the oldest—”

  Only then, when he interrupted me, did I understand the depth of
his obsession.

  “No. Before that. You said these people wanted to reject the gospel of John. Why?”

  “Because the Alogi knew the gospel of John wasn’t like the other gospels. It’s more theological. Less historical.”

  “What do you mean, less historical?”

  “It’s complicated, but Ugo—”

  “John says cloths, but the other three gospels all say cloth. Are you telling me John can’t be trusted?”

  “Ugo, we have to tell the Cardinal Librarian about this book. It can’t stay hidden down here.”

  “Answer me! If John is unreliable, then the whole gospel testimony about the Shroud would change. Correct?”

  I hesitated. “It might, but it’s not as simple as that. There are rules. Reading the gospels takes training.”

  “Fine. Then teach me the rules.”

  I raised a hand, trying to slow him down. “Tell me this manuscript is going to be safe.”

  He sighed. “Father, of course it’s going to be safe. But I found this book. I need it. And I can’t lose it to neurotic, overprotective librarians. You know they’ll just—”

  Suddenly he stopped. He cocked his head toward the steel door and stared at it in alarm.

  “What is it?” I whispered.

  But he was too rigid to speak. Only his eyes moved. They glanced at his watch, then peered down the far end of the aisle.

  Finally I made out a faint mechanical whirr. A motor turning at a lower note than the drone of the distant ventilator.

  The elevator.

  “Did I set off the alarm?” I asked.

  But he only stared at his watch as if it must be deceiving him.

  “How do we get out?” I asked. “Is there another exit?”

  “Don’t move.”

  I peered through the open spaces between shelves. A moment later, my eyes caught it. Movement near the door.

  Ugo stepped backward.

  Where are you going? I mouthed.

  Silently he refilled the duffel bag and lifted it onto his shoulder, eyes never leaving the main door.

  An instant later, a voice rose in the vault.

  “Doctor Nogara, please come out.”

  Ugo’s hand gripped the duffel bag. He knelt and pointed at the scanner on the wall, reminding me not to move. Then he himself began to slink away.

  “I mean you no harm,” the voice said. “I was sent here by the Secretariat of State. I need to know what you’re doing here.”

  The sound of it was drawing closer. Ugo raised three fingers in the air, but I couldn’t understand the signal. Closing the manuscript, I prepared to slide it back on the shelf.

  “We know you’ve been working in Turkey,” the voice went on, only a few stacks away. “We know you’ve been helped by Father Andreou. I’ve followed him to Esenboğa Airport several times. He’s supposed to work for us, so we have a right to know where he goes.”

  Ugo’s eyes were wide with fear. He gestured wildly for me not to replace the book on the shelf. He lifted his hand in the air again but this time raised only two fingers.

  Now I could see the man’s silhouette. It passed across the mouth of the aisle with the shadowy sweep of a cassock.

  I stepped toward the steel door, but Ugo waved me off. He glanced at his watch and extended a single finger in the air.

  My fears got the better of me. Without waiting, I placed the Diatessaron on its shelf and made for the door.

  As soon as Ugo saw me move, he turned back and darted toward the Diatessaron. “The book!” he rasped. “The book! ”

  The sound echoed through the vault. The silhouette turned. At that moment, the timer on Ugo’s watch went off. Instantaneously, the lights on the timer went out. The vault went black.

  “Run! ” Ugo shouted into the pitch.

  I sloped through the darkness, moving toward the sliver of emergency light beneath the steel door. Behind me, something lurched into motion. I could hear a tattoo of footfalls, then a piercing mechanical scream.

  The alarm.

  “Go! ” Ugo shouted. “I have it! ”

  I swung into the hallway and ran for the elevator. As I frantically pressed the button, Ugo appeared, carrying the Diatessaron.

  “Hurry!” Ugo cried. “He’s coming!”

  The doors opened, and we rushed inside. In the moments before they shut again, I stared out, frozen with surprise, waiting for a glimpse of the man’s face.

  But the vault remained silent. He never came.

  As the elevator car rose, Ugo cradled the book in his hands and closed his eyes.

  “Who was that?” I asked.

  “I don’t know.”

  “We need to tell my uncle.”

  But at the top of the elevator shaft, the gendarmes were waiting. Ugo and I were taken into custody. An hour later, Don Diego arrived to free us.

  “You found what down there?” Uncle Lucio demanded when we returned to his palace.

  Ugo’s answer, in retrospect, probably saved his skin.

  “Eminence,” he said, placing the manuscript on Lucio’s desk, “I’ve discovered the fifth gospel. And I’m going to use it to authenticate the Shroud of Turin.”

  Never had I seen my uncle forget his anger so quickly. “Tell me more,” he said.

  Only later would we piece together the second surprise of that night: that the gendarmes never found the other man in that crypt.

  “Who was he?” I asked Ugo later.

  “I wish I knew,” he said. “I never saw his face.”

  “His voice, though. Did it sound familiar to you?”

  Ugo frowned. “Odd. Now that you mention it, I had meant to ask you the same thing.”

  CHAPTER 9

  ON THE ELEVATOR ride down from Lucio’s penthouse, I can’t stop thinking of the priest in the library vault. I wonder why my uncle can’t finish Ugo’s exhibit without help from Simon. I wonder why Ugo wanted to keep the finale a secret. There must be something he didn’t want anyone finding out.

  Peter tugs at my cassock. “When is Simon coming back?” he bleats.

  “I don’t know. He has to help Prozio Lucio right now. And we have to check in to the Casa.”

  “Why?”

  I lower myself to his level. “Peter, we can’t go home.”

  “Because the police are there?”

  “Things are just going to be different for a few days. Okay?”

  Different. He knows this word. A slinky synonym for worse.

  * * *

  CASA SANTA MARTA is the only hotel on Vatican soil. It’s where the Holy Father puts up his official visitors and where bishops stay during their required visits to see him every five years. It’s also a home base for Secretariat priests in their comings and goings. Simon would be staying here if he had no family in town.

  The building is almost Amish in its plainness, with six rows of identical windows, inside of which are a hundred-odd rooms slightly bigger than monastic cells. On one side, the view from the windows is of the Vatican gas station. On the other side, guests can stare at the towering border wall that runs only an arm’s length from the hotel. All of John Paul’s building projects are this way. The only luxuries that interest a pope who was forced to shovel limestone in Nazi-occupied Poland are four walls and a roof.

  The apologetic nun at the front desk says they can’t give us our hotel room yet because the special part of the hotel reserved for us is still being cleaned. She seems not to have heard that keeping religious minorities in their own ghettoes went out of style while John Paul was shoveling limestone. We just want the first available room, I explain. But her response, after sizing up my cassock and beard, is, “Father, your Italian is very good!” I pull Peter out the front doors before I can say something I’ll regret.

  “Where are we going now?” he asks.
“Can we get something to eat?”

  I never fed him a proper breakfast. If he ate at all, it was whatever Sofia gave him back at Leo’s apartment.

  “Soon,” I tell him. “But there’s something important we need to do first.”

  * * *

  IT’S BEEN WEEKS since I came to Ugo’s apartment. When we stand dumbly in front of the lintel, Peter stares at me, wondering why we don’t knock. He can’t see what I see. There are pry marks on the door.

  Someone tried to break in. But Ugo kept two padlocks on this entrance. Unlike the door at our apartment, this one refused to give in.

  I unlock it with the keys Ugo gave me so that I could watch over the place while he was in Turkey. Peter bursts inside, and I race after him, but there’s no one here. The place looks just the way it did when I last saw it.

  “Doctor Nogara?” Peter calls out in a singsong tone.

  “He isn’t here,” I say. “We’re just looking for something that belongs to him.”

  There will be time to explain later. I ask him to stay here, in the living room, until I return. I don’t know what emotions I’m about to feel.

  The modest space where Ugo Nogara slept is beyond a wall of oriental screens. The makeshift room is heavy with the kind of sadness that seems peculiar to this country. Priests are encouraged not to accumulate property, so even the most urbane cleric usually lives in a featureless room with borrowed furniture. For Roman priests, it’s even worse. Photographs on walls have no wives or children to populate them. Floors are not littered with bath toys and fist-size shoes. Closets seem underfed with no colorful jackets and miniature umbrellas making their doors bulge open. Instead, Roman priests keep newspaper clippings and postcards of the landmarks they visit and the pilgrimages they make during their mandated weeks of vacation. It shouldn’t have been this way with Ugo. He was a layman. But you would never know it, to see this room.

  Bottles of Grappa Julia have piled up in the trash can. There isn’t even a veneer of private joy in the pictures on the walls, just monuments in Edessa with no trace of Ugo standing in the foreground. The only sign that a vibrant, living force once slept here is the wreckage of books on his desktop, where the chair isn’t even tucked in. It’s as if, engrossed in his work, he stepped away to answer the door and could be back any minute. Beneath the desk I make out the canted edges of Ugo’s iron safe. But before I kneel to open it, I close my eyes and feel the tidal pull of a familiar emotion. My father left behind a life like this, warm with unfinished business.