De Molay glared at the inquisitor. “A man will say anything under torture.”
“I am told that you and the members of your order mocked the sufferings of Our Lord Jesus Christ. Maybe if you suffered like him you would repent of your blasphemy and tell us what we want to know.”
The inquisitor motioned to one of the jailers. “Bring some spikes and make a crown of thorns.”
The inquisitor turned and looked at his prisoner. “While you are being crowned, de Molay, I will give you something to think about. If you will not tell us where the parchment is to save yourself, perhaps you will tell us to save the members of your order. Templars have been arrested all over France.”
“Rot in Hell, priest.”
The inquisitor smiled at de Molay. “You may be sure there will be more Templar arrests. How they are treated depends on you.” De Molay struggled to break free from his bonds but they held.
“Jailer, you know what to do. Push the spikes in deep.” The inquisitor turned and left the room.
CHAPTER XVII
A JURNEY T RME
“Your Holiness, we have tortured de Molay for three days.” The inquisitor squirmed as he addressed the pope and the king of France. “He will not tell us anything. He insists that the manuscript is in a place where you will never find it. De Molay is a brave man; he will not succumb to our torture.”
King Philip rose from his seat in anger. “My good inquisitor, if you cannot break the man, then you must kill him. There is really no alternative. Pope Clement and I have a vested interest in de Molay's guilt. If you need a reason to kill the grand master, I have told you before; condemn him as a heretic.”
The pope signaled the inquisitor to leave the room. When the door closed behind him, Clement looked incredulously at Philip.
“Your Majesty, you cannot be serious — kill de Molay as a heretic?”
“Yes, I am deadly serious.”
“Not for one moment do I think de Molay is a heretic, and I do not think you do either.”
“De Molay is using this manuscript against both of us.”
“He is using the manuscript to save his order, not to spread heresy. He is acting as any grand master would.”
“Bertrand de Got, remember your Bible.” Philip was wont to use the pope's baptismal name when he was about to lecture him on some matter. “Jesus of Nazareth was put to death as a heretic.”
“Yes, the Jewish priests accused him of blasphemy.”
“But Pilate's reason for crucifying him was quite different. Jesus had caused the Romans a political problem by claiming to be ‘king of the Jews.”’
“What are you saying, Philip?”
“The parallel to de Molay should be obvious. We will accuse him of heresy but kill him because he threatens the papacy and the throne of France. A charge of heresy is simpler than trying to explain such complex issues.”
“I will not join you in this, Majesty.”
Philip smiled coldly at the pope. “You forget yourself, Bertrand de Got.” Philip's tone of voice became coldly matter of fact. “You sit on the Throne of Saint Peter because of me. Your predecessor Boniface no longer sits on the Throne of Peter — also because of me. I will not tolerate opposition on how we deal with de Molay. He poses a threat and the threat must be ended. If you stand in my way, you will be removed from your throne.”
The king left the room. Pope Clement realized that he was powerless to save de Molay's life. Even worse, he realized he was afraid to try.
When Gerard left Avignon, he rode north to the village of Divanche. He found lodging in a barn owned by a confrater of the order. On his third night there, news came that Clement had ordered the Templars arrested. Rumors also spread that the grand master had been turned over to the inquisitors.
Gerard knew that he must leave the area immediately. Philip's soldiers would soon be scouring the countryside looking for the parchment. He took out the letter de Molay had given him and read it. “Gerard, the Hebrew manuscript is in your safe keeping. Hide it well. Someday the world may come to learn whether there is a divine bloodline.”
As he was putting the letter back into his saddlebag, word came that the confrater's only son, a Templar initiate, had been killed in the fighting at the commaraderie in Villaneuve. Disconsolate, the confrater fell on the ground and sobbed.
Pitying the man, Gerard helped him to his feet. “God will punish Clement. He usurps the Throne of Peter. I have proof.”
The confrater grasped Gerard's arm. “What proof is there? Let me see it.”
“I cannot show it to you. I have given my vow to the grand master of the order not to reveal it to anyone.”
“But if it would avenge my son's death....” The confrater struggled with Gerard as the Templar tried to mount his horse.
“Stop, old man.”
Gerard's horse reared up and his hoof struck the man in the head. The confrater fell against a rock and lay unconscious on the ground, blood pouring from the back of his head. Several farmhands came running as Gerard mounted his horse and rode quickly away.
Gerard de Montelambert took many months to travel from Avignon to Rome. With the arrests of his fellow Templars in France, he proceeded cautiously. He shaved off his Templar beard and substituted a plain cloak for his white Templar mantle. To avoid detection, Gerard stayed off the main routes to the French-Italian border. Late snows and severe spring flooding in northern Italy further delayed his progress. When he finally arrived in Rome, Gerard took lodging at an inn near the old papal library.
Although the papal household had been moved to Avignon, most of the Church's records had been left behind in Rome. Gerard knew that the founder of the Order of the Temple, Hugh des Payens, had stored the major portion of early Templar documents in the papal library. Gerard remembered the lesson he had learned from his Uncle Edouard. “If a man wishes to hide, he should not hide in the forest; people will look for him there. He should hide instead in the open, preferably in the town square next to the parish church. People forget to look in the most obvious places.” Gerard was about to put Edouard's lesson to the test for a second time. He entered the library and asked an old librarian where the records of the Knights Templar were kept.
“No one has asked to see those records in many months — not since the Templars were suppressed by the pope. People are afraid that they will be accused of heresy by just looking at them. Why do you want to see them?”
“I look for a record of my birth. All my mother would tell me was that I was born on a Templar commanderie in Provence.”
“I hope your mother did not take up with a Templar. There were many such relationships. Good luck in your search.”
Gerard was escorted to a small room far in the rear of the library. After the librarian had left, Gerard took out the parchment from a shoulder bag and looked at it one last time. What would the future hold for it, he wondered. Making the sign of the Cross, he opened an old oaken chest that was inscribed with the Templar motto — Non Nobis, Domine, Non Nobis Sed Tuo Nomini Da Gloriam. The chest was piled high with accountings from several Templar commanderies in Aquitaine. Gerard put the parchment in the middle of the pile. Edouard would be proud of him. He had hidden it in a particularly obvious place — among Templar documents in a chest inscribed with the Templar motto in the main library of the Catholic Church. Gerard rang a small bell to summon back the librarian.
“Thank you for your help. I am finished.”
“Did you find the date of your birth?”
“No.”
“These Templars were strange ones — rich and powerful. I don't think they deserved their fate, however. What do you think?”
“All of this is too much for a simple man like me.”
As Gerard left the papal library, he thought again of the motto of his order inscribed on the wooden chest: Non Nobis, Domine, Non Nobis Sed Tuo Nomini Da Gloriam.
Gerard de Montelambert left Rome that day and vanished into the Italian countryside.
“An amazing tale, Jean!”
Calvaux smiled. “There's actually a sequel that I haven't told you.”
“Tell me, please. It's fascinating.”
“They say that ten years after Gerard disappeared, there was an outbreak of plague in Cours-des-Trois. Gerard's father had died many years before but his mother still lived in the manor house. Although she was old and feeble, the Marquise walked through the town every day bringing food and blankets to those who were dying. It was not long, however, before the Lord saw fit to bring her to himself. On the Wednesday before Pentecost, the Marquise contracted the disease. The red boils soon covered her body. The night before she died, the parish priest was walking through the square, when he noticed something strange. The cross that had stood in the square from the day Gerard had left on crusade was gone. The curé could see a faint glimmer of light coming from inside the church. When he opened the door of the church, he saw that the cross had been put back on the altar. Out of the corner of his eye, the curé saw the shadow of a man leave the church by the side door.
The next morning, the curé ran to the manor house. He went into the room where the Marquise lay dying. “My Lady, there has been a miracle. The cross has been returned to its place on the altar.”
The Marquise smiled. “Gerard, my son, has come home.” These were her last words.”
The two cardinals sat in silence. Although he could see that Barbo had been deeply engrossed in the Montelambert legend, Calvaux did not understand why. Finally Barbo spoke.
“So this parchment exists somewhere?”
Calvaux shrugged his shoulders. “It may or may not. It's a legend.”
“But if it did exist and were proven accurate, think of the impact it would have on millions of the faithful who were raised to believe Jesus never had relations with a woman.”
“I've had many years to consider this possibility. My faith in Jesus depends on his Resurrection, not on whether he was married or single.”
Barbo's cell phone rang.
“Excuse me Jean. I must take this call. It's from the camerlengo's office. But I'd like to talk to you more about the parchment Gerard discovered.”
“That he allegedly discovered, Francesco. If the parchment exists, one thing is certain — no one has seen it for almost eight hundred years.”
CHAPTER XVIII
ABDICATIN
THE OLD MAN was preoccupied as the taxicab stopped in front of number 35 Via Mascherino. Somehow he sensed that this morning's invitation was not purely social. He paid the driver and slowly maneuvered himself out of the taxicab. As he closed the door, the man realized that he had left his purse in the backseat of the cab.
The driver saw what had happened and jumped out of the taxi to help. “Let me get it for you, Eminence.”
The old cardinal smiled at the driver. “Thank you. I'm usually less forgetful.”
Agostino Cardinal Marini rang the doorbell to the secretary of state's apartment. A young priest came down to the lobby and escorted him upstairs.
Cardinal Barbo greeted his guest warmly. “It's good to see you, Agostino. Please sit. I thought you might like some breakfast. My cook has prepared scrambled eggs and cereal. The orange marmalade is from England—try it on the toast.”
Cardinal Marini was kind and affable with a disarming smile. A simple man from Genoa, Marini eschewed wearing cardinatial dress. It was rumored that, when Pope Benedict appointed him to the Sacred College, Marini told the Holy Father that, unless he was specifically ordered to do so, he would not walk about the Vatican looking like some Prussian field marshal. Because of his unpretentiousness, Pope Benedict chose Marini to be the camerlengo of the Church — the prelate given the responsibility of administering the Holy See during the Sede Vacante, the period during which the papal throne is vacant.
Marini poured himself a second cup of espresso. “Thank you, Francesco. As enjoyable as breakfast with an old friend is, I sense this morning's invitation is not purely social.”
Barbo hesitated. “It is not.”
Cardinal Marini looked ominously at Barbo. “Call it a premonition but is there a problem with the pontiff's health?”
“Yes, Agostino. The Holy Father has Alzheimer's disease. The symptoms have progressed far enough that he is no longer able to manage papal affairs. He wishes to abdicate for the good of the Church.”
Marini's cup clattered to his saucer. “Pope Benedict! Abdicate! You can't be serious.”
“I'm very serious.” Barbo removed a medical file from a desk drawer. “Read it if you want, Agostino. The doctors agree that the Holy Father is no longer competent to administer the Church. He still has lucid moments but they are becoming less and less frequent.”
“There must be drugs....” Marini groped for words.
“There are, but the pope's condition doesn't respond to them.”
Marini slowly regained his composure. “There have been rumors about Benedict's health but no mention of abdication.”
“It is the Holy Father's decision. No one else can make it.” Barbo paused and looked at his old friend and colleague. “Once the pope resigns, Agostino, the Church will become your responsibility. The intrigue over Benedict's successor will start at once. Diefenbacher will be out rallying his supporters.”
Marini's eyes grew somber at the sound of Diefenbacher's name. “Yes, I know about his ambitions. He has wide support among our European and North American colleagues. The Africans may also support him because of his record on civil rights.”
Barbo nodded. “He's been a strong opponent of apartheid.”
Marini glowered. “Diefenbacher should remain Archbishop of Durban. He will not get my vote.”
“Why are you so opposed to him, Agostino?”
“He's a whitened sepulcher. He would destroy the papacy with his ideas. The notion of giving doctrinal autonomy to local bishops is absurd.” Marini's face darkened. “But enough about Diefenbacher! How can I help you, Francesco? Pope Benedict has been like a father to you. It must be difficult.”
“Yes. I must help him through this without a loss of dignity. He was always a dynamic and vigorous man.” Barbo handed Marini a picture of Pope Benedict hiking in the mountains, followed by three Vatican aides visibly straining to keep up. “This is the way he should be remembered, not as a confused and drooling old man.”
“Francesco, my office draws up the formal papers when a pope dies. I will adapt them to fit an abdication. Is the Holy Father aware enough to sign them?”
Barbo nodded. “Doctor Hendricks thinks so but to be on the safe side he suggests the signing be kept private. The cameras and crowds of reporters would most likely confuse the Holy Father. You will have to make the formal announcement, Agostino.”
Marini thought for a moment. “The Sacred College will have to be notified before the public announcement. When will the Holy Father sign the documents?”
“Can you have them prepared by Holy Thursday morning?”
“Of course, but we should delay the abdication until after Holy Week. It will overshadow the Easter liturgy.”
“What alternative do we have, Agostino? If the Holy Father cannot carry the cross through the Coliseum on Good Friday—or worse, fails to appear for Mass in St. Peter's on Easter.”
“You're right. The documents will be ready late Wednesday. When on Thursday will they be signed?”
“At 8:30 in the morning.”
“I will call a meeting of the Sacred College at 10:30, after Holy Thursday Mass.”
“Call the meeting in the Holy Father's name. If you call it as camerlengo, rumors about the pope's health will start to fly. We don't want that.”
“Francesco, calling the Sacred College together on such short notice during Holy Week will start the rumors flying in any case. It's unavoidable.”
“Not necessarily.” Barbo replied. “Our Middle East nuncios are in Rome for consultations over the crisis in the Church of the Holy Sepulchre. No one will be suspicious if the pope calls a meet
ing. It will look like it has something to do with the Middle East.”
As the full significance of what was happening dawned on Marini, his face tensed. “After the meeting of the Sacred College, I will make the formal announcement on Vatican Radio.”
As Marini was about to leave, he turned to Barbo. “Francesco, I have worked here in the Vatican for just over fifty years. For me, the Vatican is not only the home of the Church; it is my own home. In a very real sense, the pope is not only my priest and bishop; he is also my employer and landlord.”
“The pope as landlord!” Barbo smiled. “I've never thought of it like that before.”
Marino pointed in the direction of St. Peter's. “Pope Bendict knows the name of every Swiss Guard, every secretary and postal worker on the Vatican staff. I once caught him debating with a gardener over how best to prune rose bushes.”
“Benedict cares deeply for people, Agostino.” Barbo held back for a moment. “He used to tell me, ‘God is in all of us. Whether I talk to a king or to a grocer, I am talking to God. That is the meaning of Mystical Body.’”
“Yes, a person's humanity is what makes one godlike. I will cast my vote in the conclave for the person who will make the best landlord. He will also make the best pope.”
A red leather binder lay open on the gilded table in the pope's bedroom. Cardinal Marini scanned the documents one last time. “Francesco, I think we should begin.”
Barbo nodded. Sister Consuela helped Benedict to the table and sat him comfortably in his chair. The pope was dressed in his white cassock and zucchetto. Sister Consuela had draped over his shoulders the wool pallium, symbolizing his universal authority in the Catholic Church.
Cardinal Marini touched the pontiff on the shoulder. “Your Holiness, these documents in front of you state that by your own volition, you are abdicating the Throne of Saint Peter — that henceforth you will no longer be the Vicar of Jesus Christ, the Supreme Pontiff of the Roman Catholic Church, the Primate of Italy, or the Bishop of Rome. Do you understand the step you are about to take?”
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