Then again, maybe not.
Managing his way along the cobbled drive—still slick from the rain—he thought about picking up a few pieces of fruit, something sweet at the market, but he couldn’t muster the appetite. He remembered some cheese in his rooms. It would have to suffice. Stepping through another, more commonplace archway, he hurried across a stone courtyard before arriving at the entrance to his building.
Three flights and a corridor later, he turned his key and stepped into the two rooms that had been his home for the past few years.
Sofa, chairs, desk-cum-table greeted him as he kicked his shoes across the floor, two small windows on the far wall, neither of which—as far as he knew—having ever seen the sun. But there was always hope. He kept a plant atop the waist-high bookshelf between them just on the off chance a ray or two might creep in.
It was his eighth plant in two years.
Only at night did the light venture in, harsh, from somewhere above, enough to cast shadowed bars across the room from the rusted fire escape. Tonight was no exception. The slanted black lines were instantly erased as he flicked on a standing lamp. At the same time, he pulled off his collar—always the most relaxing moment of the day—and, stretching his neck, moved across the linoleum floor to the books. He crouched down and pulled several volumes out, placing them in a pile on the table just behind him. Perfect Light. Time to see how much he had remembered.
He pulled a ball from his glove on the floor and moved to the table. Sitting, he began to toss it back and forth between his hands. Always the best way to concentrate.
The first book was one of the red-bound volumes of the Corpus Scriptorum Ecclesiasticorum Latinorum, which contained Augustine’s anti-Manichaean works. Pearse recalled several references to the prayer appearing during Augustine’s own struggle with his faith. Long before he had decided to “take it and read,” the hero of Confessions had wondered just how high the “true ascent” might actually take him. Those were the questions Pearse now scanned for, that sense of possibility so clearly felt by the young Augustine.
Much of the writing, though, concentrated on the Manichaean “Kingdom of Darkness,” a realm for which Augustine had shown a particular fascination: evil let loose, as arbitrary as it was overwhelming. For a moment, Pearse wondered if perhaps he’d seen it for himself firsthand, the descriptions all too reminiscent of his days in Bosnia. Maybe the Manichaeans deserved more credit than Augustine had given them.
Forty minutes later, he shut the last of the books, no further along than when he had started, every reference too vague, too uncertain in its own understanding of the prayer. For Augustine, “Perfect Light” had remained a mystery. And for a man with perhaps the keenest mind in the long history of the church, such an admission only strengthened the case for its power, the unfathomable as somehow closer to the divine.
Pearse laid the book on the floor—he’d made his way to the sofa after picking up a wedge of cheese between books—and now stretched out his legs. He began to toss the ball in the air, hoping that something would click. But there was no use fighting it. Within a few minutes, his eyes shut, the sofa infamous for its nap-inducing allure.
It was an hour later when the sound of ringing woke him. At first, he thought it was his alarm, convinced for a moment it was morning. When he realized he was on the sofa, he began to orient himself, slowly aware that it was the phone. Trying to focus, he squinted across the room, the light from above verging on the painful; he forced himself up and moved to the table. On the way, he turned off the lights so as to make things easier.
“Hello?” His voice was raspy.
“Ian.” It was Cesare, the sound of traffic in the background. Pearse could barely hear him. “You have to find it, take it.” A sudden intake of breath, coughing.
“Dante? Where are you? What’s going on?”
“Somehow … they came. They knew.” More coughing, the words short of breath. “They will change everything. Everything.”
“Who will change—” The blood drained from his face. “Dante, where are you?”
“It’s still safe…. I didn’t tell them…. Still safe.”
A moment later, the line went dead.
two
Pearse took the steps two at a time, his hand chafing against the banister, Cesare’s words ringing in his ears: Still safe. Reaching the ground floor, he bolted out the door, nearly knocking over an ancient monk—a Jesuit, given his robes—the old man trying to make his way in. No time for apologies. Pearse sped off through the archway.
He had waited a good five minutes for Dante to call back, staring at the phone, convincing himself that it was nothing more than a wiring miscue. It had taken his full concentration not to let go entirely, his mind as yet unwilling to accept the obvious. They will change everything. They.
Once outside the Vatican walls, Pearse glanced longingly at the taxi rank just off of St. Peter’s Square. Not a cab in sight. The emergence of a bus rolling to a stop at the center of Piazza Risorgimento—its route taking it out toward Labicano—was enough, however, to propel him into high gear, his legs slipping along the pavement as he darted in and out of the tourists still making their way toward the basilica.
The last of the passengers was on board when Pearse sprang through the rear door, half the crowd within staring disapprovingly as he steadied himself against a near pole. The door slid shut, people continuing to look at him as the bus pulled out, Pearse only now aware that he had left without his collar. Instinctively, he brought his hand to his neck, smiling as best he could at the staring few.
Twenty-five minutes later, the bus pulled up across from Trajan’s Park; Pearse stepped to the curb. Trying to draw as little attention as possible, he hurried across the intersection before sidling his way along the raised median as cars barreled past him in both directions. Hopping the metal fence that separated the two sides, he slipped through a gap in the traffic and settled into a resolute pace along San Giovanni in Laterano, San Clemente quickly in his sights.
Inside, the empty nave stretched to the altar, cavernous without the afternoon’s chairs, strangely cool in the dank light, illuminated only by one or two overhead lamps. The permanent pews stood beyond the choir, thick black wood on stone, a single figure bent in prayer, another by the candles, eyes closed, peering up. Stillness, save for the sound of Pearse’s own footsteps as he moved across the open expanse toward the stairs he had climbed less than five hours ago; neither of the men seemed to notice him.
At the steps, he suddenly realized he had no light—understandable in all the excitement—but how could he expect to find his way through the tunnels without one? He was about to go back for an offering candle, when he noticed the lantern—his lantern—still on the second step. He took it as a good sign, picked it up, and started down.
Dante’s map was a far cry from clarity. Several times, Pearse found himself at dead ends, forced to retrace his steps, only to realize that an almost imperceptible curve in the drawing had indicated a ninety-degree turn. So be it. At least he was alone, no sound but that of his own breath amid the backdrop of rushing water; there was something comforting in that. By the time he reached the catacombs, he had grown accustomed to the monk’s notation, taking less than five minutes to locate the room, dig through the pile of rocks, and retrieve the metal cylinder. When he reemerged in the church some ten minutes later, he tried his best at nonchalance as he strode across the empty nave, tube in hand. Once again, he went unobserved.
Outside, his shirt clung mercilessly to his back. He wasn’t sure if the perspiration was due to the humidity or to his sudden possession of the scroll; regardless, the rain had returned, more mist than drops—a lifeless air, thick with moisture. The road remained serene, even under the keen gaze of the Colosseum lights some three to four blocks beyond. The glow continued to rise as he neared a fruit stand; he stopped and began to examine the apples, knowing he needed more than just the few pieces of cheese at his apartment to survive. It was an od
d sensation, the realization that appetite could so easily detour the mind.
As he handed two of the larger apples to the woman behind the cart, his appreciation for the last forty minutes also came into slow focus, the first time since Dante’s call that he’d actually had a moment alone to consider what he was doing. The manic reflex that had brought him to San Clemente was losing its edge. He had the tube; the question remained: What now? Any speculation about Ruini, Dante, the abrupt end to the phone conversation—even the cryptic warning—was just that: speculation. The recovery of the scroll changed none of it. And the police, regardless of the presence of Vatican security, would be the first to point that out.
Which left him only one choice—the prayer itself. Dante had known the truth: Somewhere within the scroll lay a clue to piecing together the disparate strands.
Pearse pocketed the change, took the small paper bag with the apples, and checked his watch. Five to ten. Mania might have lost its sway, but urgency remained a constant; he decided to make the call. Probably not too late, he reasoned, for a typical Roman. After all, hadn’t she been the one to admonish him: “Never sit down to dinner before nine-thirty; they’ll spot you as a tourist for certain like that”?
With the sound of her snap in his ears, Pearse moved toward the public phones across from the Colosseum. The first apple was all but core by the time he picked up the receiver.
“Attendere, prego.” The operator retrieved the number in less than a minute. Another thirty seconds, and a phone somewhere in the Trastevere began to ring.
“Pronto.” The voice sounded fully awake.
“Buona sera,” answered Pearse, continuing in Italian. “Professor Angeli?”
“Yes?”
“It’s Ian Pearse, from the Vatican. We spoke about the Ambrose papers a few months ago.”
“Ambrose?” A moment’s hesitation, then: “Ah, Father Pearse.” The voice at once sounded more animated. “Of course. More questions on the old Milanese? Another one of those puzzles you were so good at?”
“Actually, not this time. I hope I’m not calling too late.”
A laugh on the other end. “Yes, now I remember. Father Pearse, the American. Weren’t we supposed to have dinner … something about eating too late for you?” Another laugh.
“I’ve gotten better. At least eight-thirty now.”
“Thank goodness. Although anything before—”
“Nine-thirty. Yes. I remember. I’ll take it, then, that I’m not calling too late.”
“Absolutely not,” she answered. “Now, what is it that I can do for you?”
Pearse did his best to concoct a story both reasonable and vague—few details, with emphasis on the extraordinary find—hoping that the possibility of seeing the prayer would allow curiosity to supersede skepticism.
“And no one has had a chance to do any kind of authentication? I would be the first?” Her response told him he had succeeded.
“As far as I know, yes.”
“I see.” There was a pause on the line. “And how, again, did you say this friend of yours located it?” Without waiting for a response, she continued. “San Clemente is, of course, the ideal place to have found it, but still—”
“Dumb luck,” interjected Pearse, hoping to sidetrack any sustained inquiry. “I suppose he knew it was the sort of thing I was interested in. As soon as I got my hands on it, I wanted to find out as much as I could immediately.”
“No, no, quite understandable.” He could hear the childlike eagerness in her voice, even as the line again fell silent. “‘Perfect Light.’” A certain wistfulness had crept in. “You know, they thought they’d found it at Nag Hammadi in one of the Berlin codices. It was ’46, ’47. Somewhere in there. I think it was Klausner who made the first breakthrough in the early fifties.”
“I haven’t really had a chance to look at it. I’m not all that sure—”
“Do you think you could bring it by tonight?”
He had been hoping for just that response; still, it came as something of a surprise. “I … certainly, if you’re sure it’s not too late.”
“Enough with the ‘too late.’” Another short laugh. “Father, how often do you get the chance to play with a seventeen-hundred-year-old piece of parchment? I imagine you’re as intrigued as I am.”
“Of course.”
“Excellent. Then let me give you the address.”
Forty-five minutes later, he pressed buzzer number 2 at 145 Piazza Santa Cecilia, a four-story building overlooking the courtyard of a fifth-century church and its convent. The narrow square had room enough for a few cars. The only signs of life came from a hole-in-the-wall restaurant—cutlery on plates colliding with the sounds of conversation—just off to the left. He had never been to her home before, their previous meetings always having taken place at the Vatican Library or a nearby café. The setting, however, fit Angeli perfectly.
A barely audible voice, crackling from an intercom, broke through to add to the din.
“Second floor,” the voice said.
“Hello, it’s—”
Before he could finish, a muted buzzing began to emanate from the lock. Pearse was quick to push through the ten-foot oaken door, a single bulb flashing on as he stepped into a corridor in need of several coats of paint. At the end, on his left, a curve of stairs swept upward. The sound of a bolt releasing echoed above, a door being pulled back. Light on the second landing. Halfway up the steps, he saw a familiar face peering down at him, a broad smile hidden within two ample cheeks. The eyes lit up at the sight of him.
“Father Pearse,” she said, stepping back into the apartment as he reached the top, one hand inviting him in, the other at her side, smoke trailing from a cigarette.
“Professor Angeli.” He nodded and stepped inside.
Immediately, she latched the door behind him. “Welcome, welcome,” she said with a smile, then moved past him through the foyer and into a sitting room; he followed.
Inside, a desk sat at the center of the room, stacks of books piled high from one end to the other, a small empty square in the middle, one lone ashtray manning the border. It was clear why the desk was so overburdened. Ceiling-high bookshelves covered every inch of wall, each shelf packed to the gills with everything from ancient tomes to recent mass-market paperbacks. A yellowed sheen crept across the room from the far end, two standing lamps shadowing the few open paths that crisscrossed through the books on the floor, hints of a faded Oriental rug peeking through from below. Most of the weblike channels spun out from the desk, all leading to one long shelf across the back wall. No doubt her current project.
“This is exactly what I imagined,” he said, still near the doorway.
“I think I’ll take that as a compliment,” she replied, and pointed to a chair not too far from one of the paths. Pearse sat. “A bit of a mess. You’ll have to forgive me. An article I’ve been writing for an English journal. You know how the English can be about deadlines.”
No more than five feet tall, with a tangle of gray-black hair, Angeli was at least sixty—though one could never tell with Italian women—and no doubt a bit more cicciotella than she had been twenty years earlier. The weight had done little to discourage a rather beguiling air, an easy wiggle in her walk as she moved to the only other chair that remained free of books. It was also the one closest to a second ashtray. “And it’s Cecilia, please,” she said with a smile as she sat, taking a long drag on the cigarette. “Don’t you remember, ‘Cecilia on Santa Cecilia’?”
A smile. “How could I forget?” he answered. “And I’m Ian from the … Vatic-ian.”
She laughed out loud. “Yes. Yes, you are. Never did quite rhyme, did it?” Another quick puff before laying the cigarette in the ashtray. “And now for the scroll.” Her hand was already extended, no request, simply a sudden jab into the air, fingers outstretched, impatiently waiting. Without a thought, Pearse leaned over and placed the tube in her hand. She sat back and opened the top. “Good, you’ve kep
t it sealed.” Waiting for her to pull the scroll out, he watched as she did something completely unexpected; she sniffed at the opening. Several times. “It has the right oil base,” she said, nodding as she pulled her nose from the tube. “Was it found in a jar?” When he didn’t answer, she clarified. “An amphora? You know, the sort they found at Qumran or Nag Hammadi?”
He shook his head. “All I know is that it was in the tube the first time I saw it.”
She nodded, said nothing, then slid her hand into the opening and pulled out the scroll; the tube found the floor. With tremendous concentration, she began to examine the sheaths wrapped around the parchment. Two pieces of leather string—tied about a third of the way down—hung loose, the only barrier between her agile fingers and the text underneath, but she didn’t seem interested in them at all, or in what lay beyond. Instead, she continued to slide her thumb along the leather skin. It was clear she knew exactly what she was looking for, even if Pearse had no idea what the strange ritual was meant to unearth.
“The texture,” she said, as if aware of his puzzlement, “the moisture of the leather, it’s … something you become very attuned to if you’ve spent time with scrolls like these. If it went directly from jar to tube, you’d still be able to feel a springiness in the sheath.” Her eyes remained transfixed on the leather as she spoke. “Klausner was extraordinary with such things. Managed to place two of the Dead Sea Scrolls at Qumran within a hundred years of their actual dating just by the feel.” She looked over at Pearse, her eyes wide with excitement. “Wonderful fingers.” Then standing, she headed for the desk; he followed immediately behind. He watched as she set the scroll on the empty square, which, no doubt, had been made available since his phone call. It was remarkable how well she knew her field; the scroll fit perfectly.
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