The Serpent's Disciple

by Deborah Stevens

  Father Cossa beamed, “Grazie, signore Anthony.

  “The chapel was an indispensable feature of every castle at that time. Mass was said every morning and it was usually located close to the bed chamber or ‘solar,’ as it was called back then, for the convenience of the lord and his family.

  “You will notice the walls are thick and made from stone, allowing the Romans to make use of Greek innovations in architectural ideas such as the post-and-lintel construction and then added the load-bearing arch. If you look above you,” as he pointed up, “it allowed architects to open up wide spaces channeling all the weight of the stone walls and ceiling across the curves of the arch and down into the ground via the blind arcades, pilasters, or columns attached to the wall.

  “Because of the thick walls, windows were small and few. The spaces between the pilasters were perfect for building niches where statues of saints could be placed. As you look around, you will see an example of that in the chapel we now stand in.”

  “Father Cossa,” interrupted Nelli, “It was my understanding we would see the statues of eight saints and I only see six. Is one of them Saint Anthony?”

  “Come my child.” They followed the priest.

  He walked towards the altar and stopped short of it, stretching out both arms, replicating a human version of the cross and at the same time pointing to either side of the transept section to two side altars.

  “Plus two makes eight,” he said grinning.

  “Look,” Mary Ellen said. The rest of them turned to see what she was pointing at. There, above the altar in a niche was the statue of a young monk.

  “Is that Saint Anthony?” asked Nelli, her heart racing in anticipation of locating the box. But before anyone could respond, Mary Ellen walked over to the statue and read something engraved on a stone.

  “There’s a name inscribed beneath it, a Fernando Martins de Bulhoes.”

  “That is correct, signorina,” said Father Cossa walking over to Mary Ellen.

  Standing there silently, he looked up lovingly at the stone image of a young man. “If you wish, I can tell you a tale about the young Fernando,” looking around to see if he should continue.

  Nelli and Anthony tried to be patient but if the box was here they needed to find it, perhaps something the priest would say might give them a clue to its location.

  “Yes, please, Father,” said Anthony.

  “Fernando was from a very rich family of nobility and his parents arranged for Fernando to be educated at the local cathedral school. Against their wishes he entered the religious Order of Canons Regular of Saint Augustine, famous for their dedication to scholarly pursuits and sent the youth to the Abbey of the Holy Cross in Coimbra to study theology and Latin. After his ordination to the priesthood he was placed in charge of hospitality for his abbey.

  “Then in 1219 he came into contact with five Franciscan friars who were on their way to Morocco to preach the Gospel to the Muslims there. Fernando was strongly attracted to the simple, evangelical lifestyle of the friars. But sadly in 1220 news arrived that the five Franciscans had been martyred in Morocco.

  “Seeing their bodies as they were processed back to Assisi, Fernando was inspired by their example and obtained permission to leave the Augustinian Canons and join the new Franciscan Order. Upon his admission to the life of the friars, he took the name Anthony, after the hermit Saint Anthony of the Desert, to whom the Franciscan hermitage was dedicated.”

  “Then this is the statue of Saint Anthony who we were named after,” said Nelli, for the moment forgetting about why they had come.

  Anthony thought he heard a noise at the rear of the chapel. It sounded like something scraped against one of the stone walls but when he looked back the door was closed and the nave was empty. Looking up towards the balcony he didn’t see any movement there.

  Nelli noticed Anthony became distracted by something behind him. As she started to turn to see what he was looking at, without warning, her hand felt as if it was on fire. As she glanced down she saw that the stigmata had turned bright red and droplets of blood were forming on her hand. Quickly making a fist she glanced over at Mary Ellen and Anthony hoping they hadn’t noticed; fortunately Father Cossa and Father Marti had gone up to the altar.

  Mary Ellen leaned in close to Nelli and whispered, “What did you do to your hand?” Then she immediately looked over at Anthony.

  Sensing time was running out Nelli took it as a warning. There had to be something they overlooked. She studied the walls of the niche thinking maybe there was a hidden panel or something that could hold a box. Then she noticed the strange markings all along the arch. At the bottom, beneath Saint Anthony’s feet, was a plaque with more symbols on it. At first she thought it was some kind of decoration but as she examined it more closely she could see some similarities in the symbols.

  “Can anyone read what it says on this plaque?” she asked.

  “It’s not Italian,” said Anthony. “It looks like it could be an early form of Latin. I remember reading about a type of bi-directional text called boustrophedon, mostly seen in ancient manuscripts and other inscriptions. It was a common way of writing in stone in those days. I believe, to decipher the writings you need to know something called the Gortyn code. Instead of reading left-to-right as in modern English, or right-to-left as in Hebrew and Arabic, you read alternate lines in boustrophedon. They must be read in opposite directions.

  “Also, to confuse matters more, individual characters are reversed or mirrored. The last was a technique used by the famous painter Michelangelo. I would need to make a copy of the plaque and try to locate the rules of the Gortyn code to attempt to translate it.”

  Mary Ellen was listening but stared at the statue of Saint Anthony in disbelief.

  “What is it Mary Ellen?” asked Anthony.

  “Look at the cross hanging from Saint Anthony’s neck.” She pointed at the statue. “It’s identical to the one you’re wearing, Nelli!”

  Anthony saw the two priests walking back to where he was standing. He grabbed Mary Ellen’s arm, “Please don’t say another word. Remember our agreement earlier.”

  She looked at him and nodded.

  “I overheard what you were saying, Anthony,” said Father Cossa. “You are correct in your analysis of the writing. I’ve been working on translating this and other manuscripts that were found when they did some repairs in the chapel a year ago. It’s always been an interest of mine to study the development of language in civilizations.”

  “Were you able to translate the words on the plaque?” asked Nelli.

  “Yes, I believe so, although words may not always translate well into another language. The closest I came to an accurate translation is Blessed is the Chosen One, for the Chosen One will deliver the words of the Lord. I believe the Chosen One refers to Saint Anthony.”

  While Nelli was listening to the priest translate the words on the plaque, she spotted it. Lying on the floor at the base of the niche was a religious medal of Saint Anthony. One by one the others noticed Nelli’s attention was focused on something on the floor.

  “How did that get there? It wasn’t there a minute ago,” said a stunned Father Cossa.

  His thoughts turned to the prophecy of Saint Anthony. It spoke of a Chosen One who would deliver the words written down in a book told to him by the Lord. He always took this as a reference to Saint Anthony. Had he been mistaken? Was the Chosen One yet to be revealed? Could that be what the words on the plaque referred to?

  There was something different about Nelli; he felt it when he first laid eyes on the young woman; his eyes fell to the chain hanging from her neck. He’d seen that cross before, but where?

  Remembering that Saint Anthony is known as the patron saint of lost articles, Father Cossa turned to the statue of Saint Anthony to say a prayer; there it was: the cross he had seen before.

  Just as Nelli bent down to pick up the medal, a bullet missed her head by just inches. Grabbing his gun Anthony spun around,
shooting in the direction where the shot came from and yelled for everyone to get down. Off to his right, he could see Mattithyahu and Judah running towards them as another shot rang out from the balcony, but this one found a target. Father Marti collapsed to the floor.

  “Go, go!” yelled Judah to Anthony. “We’ll handle this.”

  Anthony was already moving the two women and the priest towards the altar for protection. As they moved past the dying priest, Father Cossa stopped and knelt down to give last rites to this friend. Father Marti was still conscious but knew he was dying, as a pool of blood slowly grew larger beneath his body.

  Father Cossa leaned in close to his friend, whispering the prayer, Recommendation of the Departing Soul. Anthony, with his back to Father Cossa, trying to protect him, his gun pointed towards the balcony, yelled to Nelli and Mary Ellen, “Go! Get behind the altar! Then Anthony heard, “Into thy hands, Lord, I commend my spirit. O Lord, Jesus Christ, receive my spirit. Holy Mary, pray for me. Mary Mother of grace, Mother of mercy, do thou protect me from the enemy and receive me at the hour of my death.”

  “Please Father we have to move.”

  Mattithyahu was headed up the spiral staircase to the balcony. With Mary Ellen and Nelli safe for the moment behind the altar, Anthony turned to Father Cossa, “I’m sorry about Father Marti, but I must get my sister to a safe place. Is there another way out of here?” Still in shock, Father Cossa just stared at Anthony.

  “Father, please, we can’t risk going back the way we came in. We’d be completely exposed. Is there a back exit?” Grabbing the priest they ran to join the others behind the altar.

  Mary Ellen couldn’t figure out why Anthony had a gun and why would someone want to kill Nelli. She frantically looked for another way out. Peeking out from behind the altar she saw movement at the back of the chapel. She thought she recognized the person. Pulling her head back she grabbed Anthony’s sleeve.

  “Anthony, I’ve seen that woman before,” she said.

  “What woman? What are you talking about?”

  “The one out there in the church, she was one of the people in the tour group we passed back by the tapestry.”

  Taking a look, Anthony caught sight of the last of the woman’s raven hair as she disappeared behind the door.

  Father Cossa regained his composure and was quietly motioning for the three of them to move back a foot or two. He crawled to the middle section of the altar and was feeling around for something. Stopping, he pushed against the wood. A section of the altar swung open revealing a three-foot by three-foot opening. Inside it was pitch black but at the opening you could make out what looked like steps cut out between rock and hard packed earth.

  “It’s called a priest’s hole,” whispered Father Cossa. “It was an escape route for the priest in case the castle was attacked.”

  Climbing inside, he motioned for the next person to follow him.

  “Avanti avanti! Be careful the rock is slippery,” he whispered.

  Mary Ellen and Nelli looked at Anthony.

  “Go, we have no choice. I’ll go last,” said Anthony.

  As he waited for his turn, more shots were heard, and then someone groaned. He prayed it wasn’t Mattithyahu or Judah.

  Nelli was in and Mary Ellen was now crawling backwards into the priest’s hole. Once she was in Anthony quickly followed, pushing the paneled door back into place.

  CHAPTER 72

  As he stood there silently allowing his eyes to adjust to the darkness, Anthony listened for any movement on the other side of the small paneled door. The only thing he heard was his own breathing; they were safe for the moment. The tunnel wasn’t much wider than four feet. At six-foot-four, Anthony barely had room to stand up straight.

  “Father, where does this tunnel lead to?” he asked, keeping his voice low.

  “I was told that at one time this led to an escape exit above ground just outside the walls of the castle,” the priest whispered back.

  Father Cossa’s loss of his friend was almost palpable even in the darkness, but Anthony also heard a renewed sense of conviction in the priest’s voice. Calmly and without any hint of fear, Father Cossa said, “Please follow my voice and watch your step. Pray that those who carved this tunnel through clay and rock centuries ago knew that one day we would need the safety of its walls and built it to pass the test of time. We must have faith in the Lord. He will be our light and guide us to safety. I will not question God’s plan but if it was meant for me to be here with you today, then I will use the knowledge our Lord has graced me with to help you.”

  “I have my cell phone,” said Mary Ellen through the darkness. “The light from it could help.”

  “Yes, my child, that could be very useful,” replied Father Cossa.

  “We all have our cell phones,” added Nelli.

  “See, the Lord has already answered our prayers. I will use each one sparingly to preserve the battery. It should not be far to the exit but it will be slow moving. The ceiling and walls are cut out of stone, so use your hands to guide you and keep your head low, especially you, signore Anthony. We must remember the people at that time were not as tall as you.”

  Nelli knew they couldn’t go back but had to ask, “Father, do you know if there were any artifacts removed from the niche of Saint Anthony and stored anywhere else in the castle?”

  “No, why?”

  “Just wondering.”

  She was comforted knowing the box wasn’t up there for someone else to find but she also realized that she didn’t know where to look next for it. Nelli was able to make out the outline of Father Cossa, a small thing, but it helped to lessen the anxiety she was experiencing. With no air circulation, the tunnel was damp and musty from decaying roots and rodents that had made it their home for centuries.

  Father Cossa used the light from the phone to see what was up ahead, turning it off, he moved forward slowly. Behind him Anthony, Mary Ellen, and Nelli ran their hands along the walls to help them navigate through the tunnel; each one praying the priest was right about it leading to an above ground exit.

  They walked a few feet and stopped, walked a few more feet, stopped again, each time the soft glow from the phone could be seen but this time the light from the phone stayed on.

  “Is there a problem Father?” asked Anthony. He became concerned, if they couldn’t continue they would have to go back.

  “It looks as if a section of the wall has collapsed. I think there is still enough space to get by, but it will be tight.”

  When Father Cossa reached the pile of rocks, he felt a blast of cool air. The light from the phone revealed a hole where there used to be a wall.

  “There’s an opening in the wall that leads into another room,” he said excitedly. “There’s a chamber of some kind.”

  Nelli’s heart began to race. Maybe the box had been hidden in this secret chamber.

  “What do you see Father?” she asked, trying to stay calm.

  “I can’t see much from here. I think I can crawl through and get a better look.”

  He sounded like a little child who had just found a buried treasure. Climbing up on the fallen rocks, he grabbed on to the inside of the opening to get some leverage. That’s when he felt a piece of wood sticking out from the wall. As he wrapped his hand around it for support, it came loose. Losing his balance, he fell forward. Everyone heard him moan as he hit the floor.

  “Are you all right, Father?” yelled Anthony.

  “Si si, I’m fine, I think. It wasn’t that far to the ground thankfully.”

  He had managed to hold on to the phone. Using the light from it he looked to see what had come loose from the wall. It was laying a few feet away from where he fell. Then he realized what it must be and went over to pick it up.

  “I found a torch,” he shouted.

  Mary Ellen had become very quiet, struggling to fight off panic from being underground and in a dark and confined space. When she heard he’d found a torch she was thrilled.


  “Does anyone have a lighter?” she yelled and then remembered she did.

  “I almost forgot! I do! I have a lighter!” At the same time she said it, she realized she would have to admit she had started smoking again. Smoking had been a sore point between her and Anthony.

  “Mary Ellen, you started smoking again didn’t you?” Anthony said, disappointed but also thankful.

  “No, I thought I would just carry a lighter around in case we came across a torch that needed to be lit!” she snapped. Everyone burst out laughing.

  “Okay, for the moment we’re all happy you decided to start up again,” Anthony responded.

  “Here, Father, do you have it?” said Mary Ellen.

  “Yes, my child let there be light.” They heard a click and a burst of flame took the darkness away.

  “What do you see?” all three of them asked at the same time.

  “It’s a burial chamber or catacomb. In ancient times they created these underground cemeteries. There are hundreds of tunnels cut into the tufa, or porous limestone, beneath all of Italy, leading to catacombs containing thousands of burial niches especially around Rome. It looks like we stumbled upon one.”

  One by one they crawled through the opening. As they stood in the middle of the room they were surrounded by niches that each held a burial urn. Anthony, Nelli, and Father Cossa went in different directions to get a closer look and examine some of the urns. Mary Ellen stood in the center of the room holding the torch. Controlling the light gave her some comfort and lessened her anxiety. She thanked God for small blessings.

  “All the urns I’m looking at have writing on them,” said Nelli.

  “It should be the name of the person whose remains are in them,” said Anthony from across the room.

  Nelli believed finding the burial chamber wasn’t just a coincidence. It had been meant for her to discover this room. “The box has to be here,” she silently said to herself.