The Lost Catacomb

by Shifra Hochberg

  She glanced pointedly in the direction of the guards and the bishops, and as she shifted her eyes back towards the Pope, her expression hardened, her eyes reflecting the lit tapers in the room, like orbs of polished ebony. A few crude remarks were heard from among the guards, and the bishops regarded her with mute, but undisguised enmity. Sensing that she would continue to remain stubbornly silent in their presence, the Pope raised his hand to dismiss them, gesturing to Domitius to remain. A clever young woman, the scribe thought to himself. She has outwitted them, at least for now.

  She watched the bishops file reluctantly out of the chamber. Several of them glared menacingly in her direction, but she ignored them, not unlike a slender reed along the margin of a marshy pond, swaying in the breeze, buffeted by unruly winds, yet rooted firmly in the soil. Yea though I walk, she thought to herself, her eyes shifting upwards, towards the heavens, yea though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for You are with me.

  “Yes, I will speak now,” she began, facing the Pope bravely, her voice gathering strength and resonance. “I will speak now, with a full heart and a ready tongue, though it may cost me dearly. Though it may cost my people dearly,” she added under her breath.

  “I could begin, my lord, with an appeal to your emotions, to your heart. And I trust that beneath that formal exterior—robed in wisdom, garbed in judgment and majesty—that you must, in fact, have one. A heart that feels, a heart endowed with compassion for others, a heart that cries out for the downtrodden and destitute.

  “On our Day of Atonement, as members of our faith stand in judgment before the One living God, the God of our ancestors Who has sustained us throughout centuries of persecution, we ask Him to judge us, not based on our merits, which cold logic would dictate are few indeed. Instead, we plead for His divine mercy—to embrace our souls, to warm our hearts, and bring us back to him.

  “But today, at this time and in this place of earthly endeavor, it seems that only logic will do. Proof mathematical, as it were—hard facts, incontrovertible, seasoned with good sense and carefully honed.”

  And as her eyes flashed indignantly, her soft cheeks began to brighten with the warmth of her argument and her red lips moved seductively, caught up, as she was, in the intricate thrall of her own rhetoric. And Benedictus I—Supreme Pontiff, Holy Father, Bishop of Rome, and heir to St. Peter himself—Benedictus I—a mortal man, when all was said and done—Benedictus I knew that he was lost.

  Chapter Four

  There are times in a man’s life, or in that of a woman, when the realization that something is amiss, that something is not quite as it can or should be, shakes him—or her, as we have said—inexplicably, in moments of supreme and quiet contemplation, to the very foundations of the soul. Be he a humble fisherman waiting patiently for his daily catch along the pebbled banks of the Sea of Galilee, or be he a mighty Emperor disillusioned with the false idols of his youth, or be she, perhaps, a modest and upright maiden, gathering sheaves of grain amid the alien fields of another’s homeland—there are events that will change the course of his or her life and determine not only a single destiny, but the fate of nations as well.

  Such was the unexpected impulse to self-evaluation and journey to self-knowledge that Benedictus I had embarked upon, however unconsciously, as the fair Mariamne spoke. At thirty-five, with patrician good looks, a regal bearing, and an intellect sharper than the blade of any imperial soldier’s sword, he had fought hard to win election to the throne of St. Peter, wading his way through the mire of internecine jealousies and intrigues that characterized the papal court and its coterie of corrupt deacons and power-hungry bishops.

  He had listened closely to the arguments presented by Mariamne Rufina, as she defended her people and pleaded for an annulment of his decree—listened closely and carefully enough to sense an intellect equal to his, a brilliant mind that one meets perhaps once in a lifetime, if at all.

  When she was done, his scribe left the great reception hall to rouse the guards, who escorted Mariamne to the outskirts of the palace, where the Jewish delegation had waited for so long, torn between fear and desperate hope. He had given her no answer yet, but told her that a decision would be forthcoming, probably within a matter of weeks.

  Now, as he knelt on the polished limestone floor before the great wooden crucifix in his bedchamber that night, Benedictus prayed for understanding and guidance. A feeling of unease pervaded his soul, making it difficult, if not impossible, for him to consider the escape from disquietude and turmoil that sleep might provide. He called for his scribe—a childhood friend and confidant, whose lifetime loyalty had been requited by a position of trust in the papal court—and asked him to read aloud from the gospels. He hoped that its wisdom would somehow allay the misgivings he felt, that it would somehow restore tranquility to his soul and renewed trust in his ability to deal with a troubling situation he had neither sought nor indeed had ever anticipated.

  By the time his friend had finished reading, Benedictus had come to a decision. “Domitius,” he said, “I want you to send a message to Ostia. My spirit is perturbed; I am restless. I need to speak to the young woman again. I must hear more before I can judge properly what is to be done in the matter of the new Jewish taxes. Will you transcribe this request for her presence at the papal court and have it conveyed to her?”

  “Of course,” Domitius replied. “I’ll see to it at once,” and he left the room.

  Benedictus lay restlessly on his bed, thinking of the passages that Domitius had chosen to read. But as he drifted off, at long last, into the uncertain embrace of a fitful sleep, the remembered words of the gospels gave him no comfort, no solace that could possibly mitigate the dark hour of the soul. Instead, the vibrant countenance of the young Mariamne—her glowing cheeks and her bright eyes—and the strangely seductive spell of her voice haunted his dreams, like a tireless revenant, throughout the long and lonely night.

  Chapter Five

  If Benedictus had supposed that another audience with Mariamne would cure him of the doubts that plagued him, he soon realized that he was mistaken. His need to understand the economic hardships that the Jews of Rome and Ostia faced, the result of a heavy burden of taxes levied solely on them, gradually evolved into a need to understand the very tenets of their faith, to understand why they clung so stubbornly to their beliefs, when conversion to Christianity seemed to be not only the path to salvation, but a practical and rational solution to their oppressed state in society at large.

  Mariamne had been summoned to Rome again on more than one occasion, and instead of being convinced of the error of her beliefs, she had brought Benedictus face to face with the possibility that her religion was not merely the wellspring from which his own derived, but that it might be an even purer form of faith, uncompromising in its view of mankind’s direct and open relationship with the Creator.

  To his horror, the Pope himself had now begun to doubt. He had misgivings not only about the wisdom of the new tax, but had in fact begun to question some of the fundamental doctrines of his own faith. Plagued by these uncertainties, it was not long before he came to a dangerous decision—dangerous because if he failed to convince Mariamne this one time of the supremacy of the Church and its teachings, he knew that he would no longer be able to convince himself either.

  And so, one fine morning shortly thereafter, Benedictus took his gamble. When Mariamne arrived at the court, she was quietly whisked into his private study by Domitius, far from the searching eyes of inquisitive servants and meddling clerics. Seated opposite the Pope, she faced a wall-sized fresco, finely detailed, that depicted a group of Christian martyrs about to be devoured by wild beasts in an arena.

  “I am prepared to show you something astounding,” Benedictus offered. “Something that few have seen, and that none outside these walls know of.

  “What you are about to see will convince you, I am certain, of the special blessing which God has conferred upon the Church. It w
ill prove to you, beyond the shadow of a doubt, that God now favors the Church. It will prove to you that the major symbols of your religion have been transmuted, by His divine will, into mere relics of the past, commemorating the dead rituals of a disempowered nation—dead rituals, I repeat, that will never be reinstated.

  “Domitius, would you kindly bolt the outer door?” he asked. Then turning to the wall behind him, he placed his hand on the open mouth of an exceptionally large lion at the center of the fresco. An audible gasp escaped from Mariamne’s mouth as the wall shifted inward, and Domitius rose from his own seat in shock. “Holy Father, my reverend Benedictus,” he whispered, crossing himself, “what can this mean?”

  “Follow me, both of you,” said the Pope with quiet authority. “You must swear never to reveal, to anyone at all, that which I am about to show you.”

  Chapter Six

  “You have no right to them, you realize. If you keep them, you are no better than a thief . . . You are no better than a thief . . . You are no better than a thief . . .”

  The words rang in his ears over and over again, like a persistent and endless echo. He had not expected a reaction of this sort from the young Jewess. Who was she to tell the Holy Father what to do? Who was she to judge him and all those who had preceded him at his holy task?—for they had likewise been privy to the secret of the Temple treasures.

  Over the centuries, precise knowledge of how the artifacts had come into the possession of the Church had somehow been lost. It was assumed that the Roman slaves who had carried the rich booty to its final resting place behind the walls of papal palace had all been executed, their bodies disposed of near the muddy banks of the Tiber. Benedictus was not sure who else knew of the treasures, apart from himself, Domitius, and Mariamne.

  Like the other pontiffs who had reigned before him, he had discovered the secret of their existence only after his election, when he was given a sealed document to read. The document bore the waxed insignia of the previous pope, and after Benedictus had read it, he had resealed it with the imprint of his own fisherman’s ring and hidden it in a camouflaged recess behind his bed, to be removed and opened by his successor, only after his own demise, as tradition demanded.

  Was he in fact a thief? Was he no better than those who had been crucified by the Romans along with Jesus on that barren hilltop centuries ago? And if the Church continued to keep these stolen goods—for that was what they appeared to be—what kind of claim to moral authority could it possibly have? What kind of claim could it or should it continue to have upon his immortal soul?

  He knew that over the years many Roman nobles had secretly converted to Judaism, rejecting the false gods of the imperial Empire and refusing to adopt the teachings of Christianity. He knew precisely what the laws of Mariamne’s religion demanded of its adherents. And he had once asked, circuitously—indirectly enough, he hoped, to allay any suspicion—about the process of conversion to the faith of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob.

  It was tantalizing to fantasize that he could somehow leave the heavy yoke of the papacy behind him and opt for a simpler life, based on a purer faith, perhaps, than he had known until now. That a different sort of existence might yet be possible, far from the intrigues and power plays of the papal court.

  Would he have the courage to do what was right? Should he restore the treasures to their lawful owners, the Jews? And if he did so, could he possibly get away with it, unscathed? Moreover, if he was admitting to the right of the Jewish people to these looted artifacts, was he not somehow admitting, as well, to the spiritual supremacy of Judaism?

  Whether he wished to acknowledge it fully or not, at the root of all this was the further question of the lovely Mariamne herself. How much of his desire to know more about her religion—indeed how much of his inclination to consider the needs of her people—stemmed, in truth, from the strange and powerful attraction he had felt, from the very beginning, in her presence? Was it her physical beauty or the beauty of her brilliant mind that continued to obsess him? He was a priest, for God’s sake—the Holy Father, spiritual heir to the legacy of Christ and the apostles. He had taken his vows of celibacy and chastity years ago.

  But as part of his continuing fascination with Mariamne and the religion of her forefathers, he had journeyed the previous week to Ostia, to attend Friday night services in the synagogue. Feigning indisposition and fatigue, he had retired to his bedchamber for an uncharacteristic afternoon nap, informing his servants that he was not to be disturbed, that his rest period would likely stretch into the nighttime hours. He had refused the ministrations of all but the faithful Domitius, who had bolted the door to the bedchamber and disappeared with Benedictus through a secret exit from the room, a tunnel originally designed to facilitate the escape of popes in times of war or siege, should that ever prove necessary.

  Disguised as humble travelers, the two had made their way to where Domitius had tethered two horses several hours earlier, on the outskirts of the lush orchards near the papal court. From there it was a three-hour ride to Ostia.

  Hoping to remain unnoticed, Benedictus and Domitius had seated themselves in a shadowy corner of the men’s gallery in the synagogue to observe the service. Thanks to their scholarly experience with Hebrew texts, for both had been educated to read ancient tongues, they followed the prayers with quiet interest. Benedictus had even taken note of the location of the mikva, the ritual bath in whose waters proselytes would immerse to complete the process of conversion to Judaism after they had been circumcised. When the prayer service ended, several congregants approached to ask if he and Domitius needed shelter for the night or wished to join them for the Sabbath meal, but they declined, returning to where their horses waited for the long ride back to Rome.

  Hours later, as they finally reentered the Pope’s bedchamber and quietly sealed the hidden exit, they heard some soft noises outside the door. Perhaps they were the footsteps of one of the servants, come to check if the Pope had risen from his bed. A shadow seemed to move along the narrow space between the lower margin of the door and the tiled floor, slowly, deliberately.

  Unbolting the heavy wooden door, Domitius saw that a supper tray for two had been left on a small table in the hallway. The food was cold. It had probably been left there hours ago. He picked it up and brought it into the room.

  Chapter Seven

  Benedictus walked slowly towards the basilica with a heavy heart, though his face did not betray his emotions. It was time to celebrate the mass, and all would partake in Holy Communion. He would offer the same host and the same wine, as he did each Sunday morning, the ritual as familiar to him as the face that had peered back at him with troubled eyes from the polished mirror as he adjusted the ceremonial miter on his forehead.

  He was apprehensive at the thought of facing the bishops and deacons who had assembled here for mass. What is it? he asked himself. Why am I so unnerved?

  No one had seen him go or return from Ostia. No one had recognized him in the synagogue. How could they? No Jew, in fact, but Mariamne had ever been granted an audience with Pope. Only she had seen his face, and since women did not attend synagogue prayers on Friday evenings, there had been no danger of exposure. He had taken no foolish risks—or at least none that he knew of. And yet he felt, somehow, that his secret was not safe.

  For over the past few days, one at a time and under varying circumstances, he had been approached by several of the bishops, seemingly by accident, wherever he happened to be—twice in the corridors of the papal palace, once at mealtime, and once outside his private chapel. Each had demanded, some more courteously, some less politely, that he decide, once and for all, about the new tax. These were easy revenues to be had, they had insisted. Why should the Church worry about the economic hardships of those who had not only rejected her teachings, but who had murdered their Lord? The Church deserved these extra funds. Truly, the Jews were responsible for their own misery. What was there to discuss or even consider?

  Entering the bas
ilica, he approached the high altar, gazing distractedly at the assembled clerics. He raised the host aloft, and then, turning to a young deacon who was to assist him, he waited for the sacramental wine to be poured into the large silver chalice. He began to chant, “In nòmine Patris,” as he had done so many times before. Now, however, he found himself stumbling—unexpectedly, inexplicably—over the words.

  Benedictus gazed uncertainly, as if hypnotized, into the chalice. Its contents were blood red, like the blood of Christ, he thought dully, a purpled crimson. His reflection wavered on the surface of the wine, his features suffused by the deep scarlet color of the drink. Should he taste it? Should he take communion? He sensed that the others were watching him. His hand trembled, and a few drops splashed onto his white robes, startling him out of his reverie. Is this an omen? he wondered.

  Then an elderly bishop approached, one who had been fiercely opposed even to Benedictus’ initial, seemingly harmless, meeting with Mariamne. He extended his wrinkled hand, as if to steady the chalice that Benedictus held.

  “Perhaps the Holy Father is having a relapse of last Friday’s illness,” he suggested with deliberate emphasis, his eyes narrowing slightly. “Perhaps the Holy Father requires some help in drinking the sacramental wine,” he added, as he raised the chalice and held it to the Pope’s lips.

  What am I doing? Benedictus thought desperately as the wine was forced with violent hands into his mouth. Mariamne, what have I done?

  Chapter Eight