Nice method of cross-checking, thought Maria. Of course if they really wanted independent verification, they would have kept her out of the room while Murphy spoke. Obviously there wasn’t an over-abundance of Perry Mason fans in this group or they would have been aware of the protocol for calling a witness.
“Before I begin...how is Bishop Aquila?” Maria asked, her voice nervous.
From the corner Bishop Aquila had sighed and called out: “Never mind my child. Tell them what happened.”
But Malachi kindly saw fit to intervene. “Doctor? How is our friend?”
The physician had snapped his penlight off and looked up. “My initial diagnosis is the optic nerves have been...burned...destroyed, Your Eminence. We must get His Grace to a hospital immediately. I will call ahead for a specialist, but I do not hold much hope. I’m sorry, Flavius.”
Horrified, Marie wanted to go to the man but the cardinal had stopped her with a glance. “We are almost through. Your story, Maria...please.”
Hardly a breath was drawn as Maria described the foggy street where their Saab had been parked and the events that transpired. When she finished, there was more silence for a moment and then a deep sigh from Cardinal Malachi.
“The child...that’s the familiar again,” he commented to the others.
“She was mentioned in the 1880 case,” Monsignor Rautenberg agreed.
“...And the 1905 case in Katmandu...and in 1973 in Vietnam,” Bishop Castilloux echoed. “Not to mention Vermont. The child of hell...The Little Witch.”
Malachi nodded. “And something else worked; Sister Maria gave enough warning in New York for us to save our man. Pity our Crusaders weren’t on site. Another lost opportunity.”
There was murmured assent from the others.
“One thing does give me pause,” Malachi continued. “Those very expensive auxiliary lighting we had installed on the aircraft to represent a Crucifix...?”
“They weren’t on, Mustavias,” Bishop Aquila called from the corner. “The pilot did not follow procedures for night flight.”
“You set Captain Bowden right, did you?”
“Damned straight,” the bishop answered.
Despite everything, they had all laughed.
For Maria, however, she was now convinced that something wicked was indeed loosed upon the earth and she was suddenly frightened of the future.
The water started to go cold in her shower. Darn! she thought angrily and began to scrub doubly hard at the shampoo covering her hair as her thoughts returned to the detective. To take her mind off him she began humming a refrain from the Broadway musical South Pacific. It turned out to be the melody from the song: I’m gonna wash that man right outta my hair! She shook her head in disbelief and annoyance with herself. What’s this, she wondered – irony or omen?
~ 6 ~
Cardinal Malachi sipped his morning coffee in his cluttered office and pondered his strategy for that afternoon. His imminent meeting with Sister Maria and Clay Montague would determine if the detective was willing to team up with Maria to help attract this ancient horror.
Though reports said Montague did not fully remember his jungle experience, Malachi still felt that recent events, as well as exposing Adramelech’s role in the murder of his deputy and his wife, would encourage him to cooperate. If he agreed, he and Sister Maria would stay in close touch with the Crusaders and sound the alarm if they were lucky. Or “unlucky” depending on how you viewed it, he thought wryly.
Malachi took a deep breath and tried to assuage his guilt. Making Montague the figurative Judas Goat was not something he relished, however, this was an unprecedented opportunity to entice the demon to present itself – and then kill it. Maria had already proven her abilities to sense evil. That would give them some protection.
He sighed and went to take another sip of coffee.
His thoughts shifted to Sister Maria. It was Monsignor Rautenberg who questioned the wisdom of their novice staying at the Holiday Inn. What if someone recognized her from newspaper photos and asked why the “psychic nun” was in Rome? Malachi agreed that he had a point. Despite discovery being unlikely, why take a chance? He had cancelled the Inn reservation and decided he’d have to rouse a friend.
A quick call to Sister Angelina of the Secular Order of Discalced Carmelites and she provided sleeping quarters for Maria. He had chosen the Carmelites because their lives were largely contemplative, consisting of prayer, penance, and hard work. A low profile was exactly what was needed in Maria’s case and, at two o’clock in the morning Sister Angelina had welcomed her young sister to their humble surroundings a mere six blocks from the Vatican.
So, after being up for many hours and flying one third the way round the world, Maria would have found herself ushered into a cloistered convent housed in a small (and rather drafty) early European maison. However, by that time, he reasoned, she would have been happy to have any place where she could lay her weary body down.
She was a very special young woman as far as Malachi was concerned, one of those genuine people who seemed born to a life of kindness, service and selflessness. There was also a certain innocence about her that made him feel like a heel. After all, Montague was an ex-soldier and police officer; he was used to risk. But how, in good conscience, could he ask this relative innocent to tie herself to their “bait?”
He grimaced at his empty coffee cup and wondered for the umpteenth time why he had chosen this time to give up smoking. Though he allowed himself the occasional cigar, he desperately needed a good dose of nicotine. To distract himself, he decided to check his iPhone for messages. It failed to initiate and he shook it, grumbling aloud to himself. Had he forgotten to charge it again?
~ 7 ~
Clay awoke but lay unmoving, staring at the water-stained plaster ceiling through half-opened eyes. He was in another strange place and he’d be damned if he’d move until he figured out exactly where he was.
Slowly the memories returned: the aircraft flight, the limo with the dead driver, the macabre events surrounding whatever it was that exploded out of the back of the limo and, finally, his utter exhaustion leading to one of the deepest sleeps he’d ever had. No doubt that had been augmented by whatever drugs were still in his system.
Abruptly he threw off his covers and stood up. The room was in semi-darkness except for a brilliant shaft of sunlight streaming through the small window high overhead. He stared at the dust particles illuminated in the relatively brilliant ray for a moment, and then took in the sparse room. He was feeling more like a prisoner with every passing moment.
Clothed only in his shorts, he padded silently to the door and tried the knob to confirm that it was indeed locked. It opened easily. Surprised, he cautiously stuck his head out and found himself staring at a plain carpeted corridor vanishing at either end down sets of stairs. He could make out further alcoves along the corridor where other doors were inset making him suppose he was in a dormitory of some sort.
When Clay looked for the clothes he’d shucked the night before, the black shirt, pants and clerical collar had vanished. He opened the doors to an armoire in the corner. Inside, he found two pairs of gabardine slacks, two pairs of medium weight cotton khaki pants, a choice of cotton shirts in various colors, socks, underwear, light sweaters, a heavy canvas Lands End jacket, two pairs of loafers, a pair of sturdy boots, two sports jackets that matched the slacks, and two suits. A brown leather suitcase rested in the corner of the wooden wardrobe. On checking, he noted they were all his approximate size so he selected a combination of Gap Khaki trousers, a blue Hugo Boss shirt, a navy sweater and a pair of striped boxers. He picked navy socks and wine-colored loafers and took them into the bathroom where there was an assortment of toiletries.
He shaved, showered, dressed and was brushing his teeth when there was a sharp rap at his door. It was followed by the creak of door hinges and the sound of a familiar voice.
“Mr. Montague?” Father Murphy called. “Are you up yet, lad?”
“Hang on,” Clay said, his voice sounding hollow as it reverberated in the tiled bathroom. He finished his toiletry and came out to greet Father Murphy who was looking as fresh and rested as if he’d just come off a two-week vacation.
“Good morning,” the priest said, with unbridled enthusiasm as Clay appeared. “It’s almost noon. Care for a mug of coffee and a bit of breakfast before we start our day?”
“You can have whatever you’d like,” Clay said. “I’m getting out of here.”
“I hardly think so, Mr. Montague. At least until you’ve heard what we have to say.”
“Who is ‘we’...” Clay asked. “And, I repeat to you what I told Father Langevin. Kidnapping is against the law...or has that little detail slipped your mind?”
“Mr. Montague, since we left New York, your office has been cleaned up and restored, a message tells prospective clients you are on assignment and we have provided for rent, utility and other payments. Your car has been returned to your condo parking and the super has been notified you’ll be away for some weeks.”
“And, what if I go to the police,” Clay asked.
The priest looked at the detective and gave him an easy grin. “The power of the Vatican is more than most people know in this city my friend; even if you go to the Polizia Municipali, they will merely send you wherever we ask them to, including back here. You have no money, no credit cards, no identity papers or passport...not even your own clothes...virtually nothing other than what we provide. Do you think a good Catholic police constable will take your word that the most Holy Roman Catholic Church drugged and kidnapped you from New York and spirited you away on a Roman Holiday? You’ll wind up in a white coat at one of our less distinguished hospitals, drugged to the gills, playing crazy eights and drooling in your shoe. Or, you can have breakfast...with me. And then a meeting with Cardinal Malachi who will explain everything.”
Clay stared at the smiling priest feeling his temper beginning to rise.
Father Murphy clapped his hands together as he gave Clay an appreciative look. “So...what do you say?” His smile was somewhat infectious, a complete turnaround from the grim priest of the night before. “I can answer some questions,” he continued, by way of incentive.
As they drove, Father Murphy glanced approvingly at his watch. “Good! This restaurant only opens at noon but I know the owner, Giulio, and he’ll be pleased to rustle us up some Eggs Florentine,” he said. “It’s in the Camp de’Fiori area and is a favorite of the Vatican Monsignors and the prelates. Clay barely heard him. He found himself constantly jamming his foot down on an imaginary brake pedal as they raced through the streets of Rome paying little heed to others.
The priest deftly dodged hundreds of fearless, jay-walking pedestrians, and crisscrossing swarms of motor scooters and small automobiles piloted by equally insane drivers competing for space and distance on the broad avenue.
“Look out...watch it...!” Clay said, as an enterprising motorist in a mini car pulled a u-turn in front of them and, amid a crescendo of protesting horns, headed across the traffic as he darted for a side street he’d missed. “These people are nuts...how do you drive here?”
“You get used to it,” Murphy answered with a chuckle as he squared off against an aggressive scooter and won. The rider in the helmet gave him a one-fingered salute and then, seeing Murphy’s white collar, blessed himself and shouted an apology. Murphy chuckled quietly and granted absolution with a wave.
They parked on a small side street named Via Monserrato. After locking the auto, they walked for about 75 yards past ancient looking buildings bathed in the noonday sun, reached the Church of Monserrato, turned left onto Via Barchetta and found their destination – Da Giulio. The warm autumn sun felt good on Clay’s face. He noticed that Murphy carried a large envelope by his side as they walked.
“Too bad it isn’t dinner time,” the priest said as they entered. “They do mainly home made dishes here and their gnocchi with truffle is the best in Rome.” He continued to rattle on about the quality of the food as a waiter seated them in the bright yellow room with white vaults curving from the walls to the ceiling. “You are eating in a 16th Century palazzo, my good man.”
With Clay’s agreement he ordered them both Eggs Florentine and coffee. He added an order of sweet rolls and settled back to watch Clay as the waiter departed. Neither man said anything for a full two minutes until finally Murphy sighed and broke the silence. “So...what’s new?”
In spite of himself, Clay laughed. “You mean other than being shot, shanghaied and smuggled half way round the world?”
Murphy grinned. “Aye. Other than that?”
“Incidentally, am I free to leave, Father?”
“You’re not a prisoner, Mr. Montague.”
“Clay is fine. You’ve gone to a lot of trouble to get me out of New York. Why?”
“Without our intervention your life expectancy was measured in minutes.”
“Really? From who? That little girl on the street?”
“You’ve made it plain enough that you don’t really want to know. And for now I’m not allowed to tell you very much. You will meet Cardinal Malachi in about two hours and everything will be made clear. I’d just like to show you some photographs – to wet your whistle, as it were. For now...patience is a virtue.”
“So is honesty.”
“Idealists would think so, wouldn’t they?” Murphy grinned. He was enjoying himself.
The coffee arrived. They both drank it black and in silence. As they waited for the eggs, Father Murphy carefully laid the brown manila envelope on the table and removed four large photographs from it. He slid them across the table to Clay.
Clay picked up the first photo and stared at an 8 X 10 of a magnificent golden Crucifix inset into a metal-looking gold box with a religious image of Christ’s Crucifixion embossed in relief on the box; it was guarded by two small, sculpted, angel figures with lances crossed.
Father Murphy watched Clay’s face and finally reached across and pointed at an indistinct, slender, twisted blackened piece seeming to rest inside a crystal portion of the vertical bar of the Crucifix just under a golden circle which connected the vertical post with the horizontal crossbeam. “Very nice,” Clay said, not exactly sure of what he was looking at.
“Three fragments of the True Cross of Christ brought back from the Holy Land by Empress Helena,” Murphy explained patiently. “That’s what the tourists see.”
“From the actual cross?”
“Without doubt.”
He examined the second photograph that showed what looked like a decaying piece of wood mounted under glass in an oval gold frame supported by an intricately carved stand. There appeared to be a few letters of some sort of text carved into the wood. “And this is...?” asked Clay.
“The Titulus Crucis,” Father Murphy said, reverence in his tone.
“Sorry, that puts me no further ahead, Father.”
“The Titulus is one part of the proclamation that was nailed onto Christ’s cross when he was crucified. It identified him as Jesus of Nazareth, King of the Jews. It was also found by Empress Helena, mother of Emperor Constantine in the mid-AD 320s when, as a 70-year-old woman, she made a pilgrimage to the Holy Land and reputedly excavated it, the true cross and a series of nails from the site of His Crucifixion. The walnut proclamation was cut up into three pieces. One given to Constantine, one stayed in Jerusalem and one was sent to Rome. This piece came into the possession of Gerardus Cardinalis S. Crucis, that is Gerardo Caccianemici, Archbishop of Bologna and titular cardinal of Santa Croce, who ruled as Pope Lucius II from 1144 to 1145. It seems that his choice of a special box for the Titulus and the markings from his cardinal’s seal indicate it must have taken place before 1144 and his proclamation as pope.”
“How can you be sure it’s real after 2,000 plus years?”
“Many reasons. One, for example, is that we know that the Roman Prefect, Pontius Pilate, signed and sealed Christ’s deat
h warrant in Latin,” said Murphy. “If we look at the Latin that is on the Titulus, we see that it says Jesus the Nazarinus rather than Jesus the Nazarenus...it spells the translation of Nazareth with an I rather than an E. In paintings of the crucifixion, or anywhere the INRI is spelled out, the spelling is always Jesus the Nazarenus. Follow me so far?”
Clay nodded.
“Now Nazarenus is later Latin, Vulgate Latin, which is correct for the 4th and 5th centuries. Of course, a Roman bureaucrat like Pilate would have known that the correct Latin spelling is Nazarinus with an I as shown on the Titulus. It predates any Latin version of John’s Gospel and therefore can’t be a later forgery. It must belong to the period of Pilate who would only write and accept classic Latin.”
Clay looked up, impressed in spite of himself. “So the church believes it’s real?”
“Gospel,” Murphy said with a smile. “Cardinal Crucis decided to secret it away and it remained a hidden treasure for the next three hundred years. It was found during restoration work on the mosaic of Santa Croce in 1492 when part of the ceiling was taken away. You see, the reason for it being hidden in that particular spot might very well have been the artwork in the mosaic itself in St. Helena’s chapel. This artistry was sponsored by Emperor Valentinian III who ruled from 425 to 455. It showed scenes from Helena’s voyage to the Holy Land and, in particular, her discovery of the True Cross. Since the Cardinal and his authorities had decided not to display their portion, the worthiest, symbolically most meaningful – and also the safest – place to hide it from attacking Visigoths was behind the mosaic which showed the moment of its discovery. When a layer of damaged stucco was taken off on February 1st in 1492, they saw a brick with an inscription reading TITVLVS CRVCIS. When they removed the brick, they discover a niche and a lead box with a description of its contents. Inside was the Titulus. It’s been displayed to the public on and off since it’s discovery back then. Right now anyone can see it in the Chapel of the Passion Relics at Santa Croce church in Gerusalemme. I’d take you there if we had time. Unfortunately time is something we have precious little of at the moment.”
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