A grainy image smiled back at him. “Clever boy. I’ll get on to it as soon their lines open in the morning.”
“Thanks, Em.” He raised his eyebrows. “Meanwhile, I’ll go find religion.”
“Heresy,” she corrected.
He smiled back at her image. “Same coin, flip side.”
“Oh, Jack, do me a favour?” MaryBeth said, catching his attention before he closed the connection.
“Yeah?”
“Tell that waiter he’s cute.”
Jack turned around to see the waiter who had served him the Coke peering over his shoulder. He was as amazed as the old ladies. The man blushed, both in embarrassment at being caught and at the fact that, as he spoke good English, he had been able to understand every word MaryBeth had just said. Jack smiled and closed the connection as he finished the Coke. Time to go.
“Monastère Saint Jerome?” He asked, his attempt at an accent deplorable. “Close by?”
The waiter nodded his understanding. “Si, signore,” he offered, pointing up the steepest of the cobbled streets which presumably led to the very apex of the town. “It is up that street to the very top. Straight in front, you cannot possibly miss it.”
The steepest street in the steepest town on earth, Jack thought. He left a large enough tip for the waiter to know that his interested intrusion had caused no offence and headed off in the direction indicated. Every step was another turn on the valve which controlled his already sweating pores.
Though it had been obscured by the other buildings from the lower part of the town, the Monastère Saint Jerome, announced only by a hand painted sign, actually sat so high as to overlook all the other rooftops. Jack figured that, in more ways than one, this was about as close to God as he had ever been.
The large metal gates at the base of the courtyard were closed, but not locked. He was about to push them open when he noticed a small bell attached to a length of rope at the right hand side and decided to take the polite approach. He tugged it gently, the high-pitched ringing echoing down through the town. Though he could not see their faces, it caused many of Montecastrilli’s inhabitants to look toward it. With the exception of the traders who visited on Tuesdays and Saturdays, nobody ever rang the bell at the monastery.
When the echo stopped, Jack looked around and waited. His mouth was unnaturally dry, but not from the heat. He felt strangely pensive, as though his daughter herself might appear in response to the calling, a smile etched into her face and a child cradled in her arms. He missed her so much; more so since he knew that she would never be coming back. He saw her everywhere and sometimes had to remind himself that no matter what he did he would never see her again. Even if he won this particular battle, his victory would never amount to anything more than finding a lost piece of a jigsaw that had once belonged to her.
The monastery, though not old enough to be medieval still possessed ornate carvings in a similar style around the circumference of its rough stone walls. The windows, none of which were glazed, were arched and the larger ones were supported by pillars of a different, almost white stone. The majority of the building was two storeys high, the pale walls topped with deep terracotta which curved around the window tops, but it possessed a much larger tower at the rear. It seemed that this had probably once held another much larger bell but had probably been as empty as it was now for a good many years. In the centre of the main roof, accessed by a stone staircase which followed the side of the building, was a large gold-coloured crucifix which glinted in the light like the beacon of hope it had once been.
A minute passed and he pulled the rope again.
A man wearing a rough brown one-piece garment, a few shades lighter than those usually associated with monks, appeared through an archway about thirty feet from the gate. He was in his mid to late fifties with silver hair thinning across the chamois tan that adorned his forehead. He brought with him an expression of pronounced scepticism.
“Niente di turistico,” he shouted. He waved his arm dismissively, indicating that the monastery was not open to tourists.
“Frederico Mandionetti?” Jack shouted back. “I wish to speak with him.”
The man approached, looking puzzled. “Inglese?” he offered and Jack replied that he was American. “Is he expecting you?” he asked in surprisingly fluent English. The tone of his question indicated that it was purely rhetorical. Brother Frederico was not expecting anyone.
Jack shook his head. “No, he isn’t, but I have travelled a long way specifically to speak with him. I think he may be able to help me.”
The man narrowed his eyes. “In what way?”
“To be honest, I don’t know,” Jack replied, his tone deliberately pensive. “But I really would like to speak with him.”
The man looked around and beyond Jack suspiciously, thinking as he did. Eventually it seemed he arrived at the conclusion that the stranger presented no threat and began to open the gate. It creaked like fingernails on a blackboard as Jack stepped inside.
“My name is Brother Peter. You are aware that Brother Frederico speaks no English?” he said, closing the gate behind them and walking back toward the archway. Jack shook his head. Brother Peter smiled ruefully and raised a concessionary eyebrow. “I could translate for you if you like?”
“Yes... thankyou,” Jack said, hurrying to keep pace. He could tell in an instant that Brother Peter’s offer had been genuine, but that it had also offered him guaranteed attendance what he hoped would be an intriguing situation. “So, are you English?” The man’s grasp of the language was too good.
“Irish,” he replied. “Just outside Belfast.”
“So what made you come here?” Jack asked. It was stupid small-talk and he realised it as soon as the words were out.
The man gestured at the landscape around him without slowing down. “If you need to ask me that then you obviously do not appreciate the beauty of what God can create. If I am to be of use to you, however, I would like to know a little more about what exactly it is that brings you here...?”
Still hurrying to keep pace, Jack pulled the leather computer bag from his shoulder and reached into the side pocket, retrieving the four postcards which he had collected from Dave before leaving. He handed them over. “These.”
Brother Peter stopped and looked at each of the cards in turn.
“Da Vinci and Cocteau? Eresia,” he said, nodding with a slight scowl. “Heresy.” His expression seemed to indicate that whether or not he himself approved, Jack had indeed come to the right place. He started walking again.
They stepped into a corridor whose only light entered intermittently through the equally spaced arches which overlooked the Umbrian countryside. Jack was alternately caught in the glare of the sun as it streamed through and thrust into darkness in the voids between. Eventually they arrived at a piazza to the rear of the monastery. It offered a sweeping view across numerous olive groves stretching neatly below.
They had taken only a few steps before Brother Peter indicated that Jack should wait and headed down five stone steps built into a low wall. He approached an old man with rippling mahogany skin and half-moon tortoiseshell spectacles. The man was sitting on a carved stone seat, quietly reading an aged blue leather bible which rested on a similarly fashioned table in front of him. As the older man was wearing the same pale brown habit as his younger counterpart, Jack presumed that this was the man he was so eager to meet - Brother Frederico.
They spoke in Italian, the older man eyeing Jack suspiciously from below. Eventually he closed his bible, smiled and nodded. Brother Peter indicated that Jack could approach and, with his arm extended in greeting, Brother Frederico’s face illuminated as though they were old friends. He rose to his feet with a dexterity that belied his years and they shook hands.
The older man voiced numerous Italian greetings and offered him the opposing seat. An awkward silence fell as Brother Peter excused himself for a moment, entered the monastery through another archway and returned a
few moments later with a wooden tray bearing a jug of water and three glasses.
“We have no ice,” he apologised, noticing that Jack was still sweating heavily. “No electricity, you see, but we keep the water in our cellar and it is quite cool there.”
Placing the tray on the table, he poured the liquid and distributed the glasses. “Now then, Brother Frederico is, as you can probably tell, pleased to have such a rare visitor, not least because you share his..” he paused, searching for the tactful word, “... interests. So tell me, what is it I can ask him for you?”
After devouring half his glass without swallowing, Jack placed it on the table. “That’s just it,” he said. “I don’t really share his interests because I’m not one hundred percent sure what his interests are. I would be very keen to learn what links these pictures might have to each other, though.”
“I see,” Brother Peter said, his suspicions aroused again. He explained the situation to Brother Frederico who gestured for Jack to hand over the cards. When he had looked at them for a few seconds each he laid them on the table, repeating his compatriot’s initial reaction:
“Eresia!” He slammed his hand defiantly onto the table as if forming a pre-strike. He obviously believed that Jack, like many before him, would instantly dismiss his claims.
Jack requested that Brother Peter ask Frederico to explain and the older man began to gesticulate wildly, a translation being delivered on the fly.
“He says that you must not misunderstand him because he truly believes in all the ideals of the Christ,” Brother Peter explained, “But that he believes in God above all, and his faith in Our Lord Christ has been tempted. He has suffered his own period in the wilderness when he wondered if the man known as Jesus really was our promised Messiah. There are those through history who believe it was another, a giver of eternal life. But like the Christ he was deceived and sold to his enemies.”
Jack looked at his translator like a dog who suspected that his owner might be holding a biscuit. It meant nothing to him, and yet something about what had been said brought memories of his meeting in the church. When he had been describing the nature of the Grail, Simon had said ‘there are others who believe it to be the true body of the Christ’. Sceptically, he asked Brother Peter, “Why do you refer to the Christ, instead of just Christ.”
Brother Peter smiled. “I don’t, Brother Frederico does. The Christ was a much broader term in Gospel times. It is only later that it became synonymous with Jesus alone. It derives from the Greek ‘Christos’, meaning ‘King’.” Jack was either interested or feigning it well, so he continued. “You see, in Jesus’ day there were many leaders at any given time, one for each of the priestly tribes. The line of Zadok was the primary priestly heritage, followed by the lines of Abiathar and Levi. The Old Testament had always promised that ‘The Messiah’, however, would be of the line of David, one of the lower ranking tribes. This Messiah would be the chosen one; the one who would ascend to rule the new Kingdom of Israel. Thus, whilst the Davids held no priestly role, they were designated ‘Kings’ and therefore ‘Christos’. Jesus was initially offered this title in exactly the same way as Joseph, his father, and Heli-Jacob, his father before him had been. It was by no means exclusive.”
He looked at Brother Frederico ruefully, “However, I believe that my colleague uses it now a little more scornfully. He has been heavily criticised for his views in the past.”
Peter looked embarrassed and dropped his voice to little more than a whisper. “Which is why he is here. I guess we’re the only ones prepared to tolerate his blasphemy.”
“So… if he thinks Jesus wasn’t Christ, then who exactly does he think was?” Jack asked. He thought he knew what he meant.
“Messiah, not Christ,” Brother Peter corrected. “Jesus’ Davidian lineage meant that he was correctly designated as a Christ, Brother Frederico just does not believe he was the promised Messiah, that’s all.”
That’s all, as though such a belief was the most natural thing for a Roman Catholic monk to suggest.
“Baptiste,” Brother Frederico interrupted, nodding confidently. “Baptiste.”
It surprised Jack that he knew exactly what the man was insinuating. He remembered that the back of one of the postcards; the one detailing ‘The Virgin of the Rocks’, had posed the question ‘why should a supposedly sinless Jesus require baptism at all?’ So now, perhaps, purely because John the Baptist had been the one to baptise Jesus, Frederico was deducing that he must have been the Messiah. He felt that he was finally getting somewhere.
“So, can he explain the paintings to me?”
Brother Peter posed the question, although he knew that there was no need. Having listened to the old man’s ramblings a great many times already, he already knew that Frederico would be more than happy to share his views to those with ears. Peter also knew just how long those views would take to translate.
“Oh yes,” he replied with a weary sigh. “He can definitely explain the paintings to you.”
sermon on the mount
Matthew 5:1
To have described Brother Frederico as ‘advanced in years’, would have been to perform a great disservice on the whole concept of understatement in general, yet still he held the ability to speak with great vigour. His wide-eyed appassionata would have left a lasting impression on the after-dinner circuit. Throughout his yet-to-be translated descriptions his words were thrown forth with the conviction of a man selling elixirs at a travelling show. His grizzled hands pointed intermittently toward the postcards, to the skies and to Jack himself, demonstrating salient points as Brother Peter did his level best to keep up.
“He says that these are the important ones,” Peter said, “The different versions of ‘The Virgin on the Rocks’. In this one, the first and ultimately rejected one, the two children are identical. The blue-robed Virgin has her arm protectively around one child, whilst the other is grouped alongside the Archangel Uriel. But it is the child with Uriel who is blessing the child with Mary. Mary’s child seems to be kneeling in subservience. Is this the Messiah, Frederico asks? Historians explain it away by saying that Leonardo chose to pose the young John the Baptist with Mary, but Frederico asks why would he do that?”
“Stupido,” Brother Frederico offered with a shrug.
“He says they are stupid,” Brother Peter offered, but Jack’s smile indicated that he had already figured that one out.
Frederico pointed excitedly to the first card, nearly knocking over his still full glass and Peter continued. “So, if Jesus really is with Uriel, why then is Mary looking at the other child. And why is Uriel making such a hostile gesture over Jesus’ head? Uriel, meanwhile, is pointing to Jesus but looking resolutely away. Frederico thinks this makes no sense. See, look here...”
Jack followed Frederico’s gnarled finger to the place he was indicating on the card, just above the head of the child with Uriel, the child that historians were claiming was Jesus.
“That is definitely the Baptist, he says. Jesus the Christ is with Mary, where he belongs. But look at the hands, and look at the gap...?”
Jack looked at the picture and could see in an instant what Frederico was implying. Mary’s hand was held above the child that the monk claimed was indeed the Baptist, palm down as though it were resting on something invisible. It was the same gesture priests made when resting a hand on the head of a follower. Uriel’s hand, however, was below it and pointing right to left. The gap created between the hands was the same size as would be required had Leonardo wanted to paint another head in between. In this instance, Uriel’s finger would have been at neck level.
Mary was resting her hand on an invisible head and Uriel was not only pointing at John the Baptist, but also making the same single-fingered sign people the world over used to denote decapitation. John the Baptist had been decapitated in later life and here was Uriel making a gesture to symbolise cutting an imaginary neck.
“That is how he knows that the child on the right
is truly the Baptist,” Brother Peter continued, “because Leonardo has labelled him for us. So even now, who is really blessing who? This painting was supposed to aid the myth, and yet instead it repels it further. In the second version of the paintings, Leonardo has bowed to pressure and altered the figures, labelling the other child - unconvincingly Frederico believes - as the Baptist.”
“So what does this mean?” Jack asked, leaning away from the table and sipping at his water. The corresponding translation was quickly delivered to the elder monk.
Frederico started rambling again and Peter took a deep breath.
“That Jesus was no Messiah, he says.” His head was shaking disdainfully as he spoke. “Leonardo was a great man and this shows that he himself did not believe it. He is depicting The Christ as subservient to The Baptist. Not only that, but every time Leonardo painted John the Baptist as an adult he gave him the same pose, a pose that is now synonymous with him. He always shows him pointing to the heavens in a ‘be warned’ gesture and here, look, he has not only painted himself into ‘The Last Supper‘ - looking away from the Christ - but has also added a figure behind Jesus’ shoulder making the same sign. There is no doubt about the significance, he says, because even historians refer to this as ‘The John the Baptist Gesture’. This man is reminding Jesus of the true Messiah, the man his friends had betrayed.”
Jack looked at the card. He had no idea if what the old man was saying about the implications of the gesture was true, but it was definitely there. A bearded disciple, almost obscured by one of the others, was holding his finger aloft in the painting, undoubtedly warning Jesus of something. Only Leonardo himself would have known exactly what form that warning was designed to represent.
Codex Page 19