The Parchment

by McLaughlin, Gerald T.

  “Is that Philip's spy?”

  Etienne smiled. “I would like to think instead that it is the Holy Ghost watching over us.”

  When they reached the outskirts of Dupais, the abbot and Etienne got out of the cart. There would be less suspicion if they walked into the village. The postulant kissed the abbot's hand and drove the cart back to the monastery.

  Late in the afternoon, the barge docked at the village. The captain of the barge greeted Etienne with a skeptical look.

  “I see you have changed professions overnight — from monk to farmhand. I hope you still have a good vintage to pay for your return passage?”

  “Yes, from the abbot of Valmagne's own stock.”

  The captain smiled in anticipation. “Good, we will drink well tonight.”

  The shadows along the river were already lengthening as the barge left Dupais. Etienne and the abbot found a comfortable spot on the deck for the overnight journey. After the captain steered the barge into the center channel, he joined the others to claim his share of the abbot's wine. After several cups, Etienne and Ricard were lulled to sleep by the comforting rhythm of the oars.

  At about two in the morning, Etienne heard a voice from the water hail the captain. “We wish to board.”

  Etienne knew it had to be a French skiff patrolling the river. He pulled out his dagger.

  The captain called back. “You are welcome to search the barge. We carry Flemish wool to Avignon.”

  Etienne woke the abbot. “French soldiers are coming aboard. Take this dagger and use it if you have to.”

  Ricard shook his head vehemently. “I am a priest. I will not use it.”

  “Take the knife, Your Grace. Worry about your religious scruples later.”

  Etienne turned to the captain. “When the soldiers board, I will offer them some wine. If they ask, I am your cousin. I go to Avignon for the women.”

  “And your friend?” asked the captain.

  “Tell them I am a mute. You took pity on me and gave me passage to Avignon.”

  Three French soldiers stepped onto the barge. They looked quickly around the deck and then returned to the captain.

  “We are looking for a French knight, Etienne de Saone. He is wanted for questioning. Who is this man?” The leader of the boarding party pointed at Etienne.

  “My cousin. He goes to spend the night in a brothel as usual. I am amazed he has not caught the pox.”

  “And this one?” the French officer pointed to Ricard. “He looks a little too well bred to be a farmer.”

  “He does not speak. The people in Dupais say he has not uttered a word since his wife died ten years ago.”

  The officer in charge laughed. “A few more like him and the streets of Avignon will be less noisy.”

  Etienne appeared with a jug of wine.

  “Ah, look at what my cousin has brought us. In honor of King Philip, share some refreshment with us. It is cold on the river tonight.”

  Etienne poured wine into earthenware cups and handed them to the soldiers.

  The leader of the French patrol savored the taste of the wine. “You are right. It is cold on the river tonight. Wine warms the blood and fortifies the soul.”

  After several cups, the soldiers left the barge and returned to their skiff.

  As dawn began to break, Abbot Ricard awoke and prayed silently. The sun edged over the horizon, and the towers of Avignon appeared in the far distance.

  “The center of Christendom!” Abbot Ricard murmured sarcastically. “But not the city chosen by St. Peter and not the city that has seen 1300 years of popes.”

  Etienne worried about the forthrightness of his companion. “My Lord, you must keep such thoughts to yourself. French soldiers patrol everywhere in Avignon.”

  “Do not worry, my friend. An abbot spends most of his day in silence. I know how to be careful.”

  Etienne looked down river. “The barge will reach Avignon by noon. Before we go to the Palais des Papes, we must stop at an inn.”

  “No, Etienne, we can eat later. Your uncle is waiting for us.”

  “It is a dangerous time in Avignon, Your Grace. We go to the inn not to eat but to listen.”

  The abbot put a hand on de Saone's shoulder. “But the French soldiers are looking for you.”

  Etienne drew his sword. “I will be careful. After all, I am a French soldier myself. I know their habits.”

  When they reached Avignon, the captain of the barge walked over to Etienne and gave him a farewell thump on the back.

  “Goodbye, Etienne de Saone. Your disguise did not fool me. But for your sake, I hope it fools Philip's soldiers.”

  Etienne and Ricard stopped at a small tavern near the road up to the Palais des Papes. They learned that Philip had effectively sealed off Avignon and vowed to keep it that way until the cardinals elected a new French pope. They also learned that Philip had decided to remain on the outskirts of Avignon until the election had taken place. He was leaving nothing to chance.

  When Etienne and the abbot left the inn, a French soldier followed them into the street. The soldier stared hard at Etienne with a puzzled look.

  “Etienne de Saone?” the soldier asked.

  “You are mistaken, soldier. I am a farmer from Dupais.”

  The soldier continued to follow the two men.

  “You do not have the demeanor of one who tills the soil. You are Etienne de Saone — I am sure of it. Come with me peaceably; you are wanted for questioning.”

  “Leave me alone, soldier. I am not this Etienne de Saone.”

  The soldier drew a knife and held it to Etienne's throat. “I said ‘Come with me!”’

  The soldier suddenly gasped for breath. A dagger protruded from his belly. At first, Etienne thought it was the soldier's own weapon until he saw blood on Ricard's hands.

  Etienne was incredulous. “Abbot, you killed that soldier with the knife I gave you on the barge!”

  “He threatened your life. I stabbed him to save you, not to kill the soldier. It is permitted for a monk to act in such a way.”

  Etienne dragged the soldier's body into the alleyway and concealed it behind several empty wine barrels. “It will look like a random killing. Dozens occur in Avignon every month. We must go quickly.”

  “Wait!” The abbot knelt on the ground and drew the sign of the cross on the soldier's forehead.

  “Requiescat in pace.” Whispering the age-old farewell to the dead, the abbot pulled a discarded gunnysack over the soldier's face.

  A cold mistral wind blew through Avignon as Ricard and Etienne climbed the hill to the Palais des Papes. When they reached the gate to the palace, French soldiers stopped them.

  “What business do you have in the Palace?” The soldier's voice was brusque.

  Ricard answered. “Cardinal de Saone ordered us to bring his gold pectoral cross.”

  “Let me see it,” one of the soldiers demanded.

  Ricard took the gold cross from under his cloak and handed it to the soldier. The soldier weighed the cross in his hand. “The cardinal must trust the two of you very much if he allows you to carry something as valuable as this. Pass on.”

  Ricard and Etienne found Cardinal de Saone's apartment, and when they were certain that they had not been followed, Ricard knocked softly on the door. Père Beneton opened it slowly as if he feared what might be on the other side. “Ah, thank God it is you, Abbot Ricard. A hundred times, his Eminence has asked when you are coming. He has not slept in two nights.”

  Père Beneton led Ricard and Etienne to the cardinal's study.

  Although he was wrapped in a fur-lined robe, the camerlengo was shivering. The fingers that grasped the edge of the heavy robe appeared gray in the afternoon light.

  “Ricard, thank God you are here. You must hear my sins before it is too late.”

  “Of course, Your Eminence. Etienne, please leave us alone for a while.”

  When they were alone, the Abbot knelt and kissed the cardinal's ring. The camer
lengo's hand felt cold and clammy.

  “Your Eminence, are you ill?”

  Cardinal de Saone looked at Ricard. “Yes, in my heart.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The nightmares ... the Templar taunted Clement with the parchment. He was at Clement's bedside, to take his soul.”

  The camerlengo grabbed Abbot Ricard's arm and pulled him close, as though he feared someone would overhear. “De Molay cursed me, too. He said he would come for my soul within the year. At night, I have heard him breathing in my room, waiting for the time.”

  “What does de Molay have to do with all of this? And what is this ‘parchment’ he has? I do not understand.”

  “The parchment is blasphemous. It says that Jesus and the Magdalene were husband and wife and bore two children. The Templars hid it from us.” As he spoke, de Saone grew increasingly agitated. His body trembled.

  “Ricard, terrible things have happened these last months. I thought it was for the good of the Church. But God is angry. He will not forgive the torture and the killing of innocent men.”

  “Your Eminence, this is not true.” The abbot spoke in a reassuring voice. “God did not forbid all killing. It is his law that one can kill in self-defense.”

  “Ricard, please grant me forgiveness for my sins. These cardinal's robes will not shield me from God's vengeance.”

  “God forgives the sodomite and the blasphemer. He will forgive you too as long as you sincerely repent.”

  “But so many innocent Templars have died.”

  “Forgiveness requires that we experience the full sinfulness of our acts. If we do that, God will forgive us.”

  “But will God's forgiveness protect me from de Molay's curse?”

  Ricard paused for a moment. “To do that, you must forgive yourself also. Only then will de Molay's curse be gone.”

  “But there has been so much blood.”

  Barbo put down the diary. He wondered about de Saone; was he a large or thin man, tall or short? A small piece of parchment fell from the book. Barbo could see that it appeared to be written by Abbot Ricard.

  “Two days ago the body of Cardinal de Saone was found floating in the Rhône River near Saint-Bénézet Bridge. I fear that he died from remorse for what he had done to the Templars. And this morning there is news that King Philip has been killed in a hunting accident. The people say that Jacques de Molay has finally been avenged.”

  Barbo stood up from his desk and walked to the window. It was one of those magical late afternoons in Rome, when the mere use of one's eyes brings serenity and peace. In the distance, Barbo could see Trinita dei Monti standing regally above the Spanish Steps. Off to the east was the elaborate monument to Vittorio Emmanuele II, dubbed the wedding cake because of its decoration and brilliant white color. When he was a young seminarian, Barbo remembered taking his family to experience the grand scale of the memorial. For weeks his mother could speak of nothing else. Immediately below him was the magnificence of St. Peter's. Bernini's columns encircled the square like a mother's arms embracing the crowds of the faithful who walked within them. Standing guard over the square like a benevolent sentry was the massive stone facade of the basilica.

  Almost by happenstance, Barbo saw the large statue of the Risen Christ behind the Jesuit Mother House on the Borgo Santo Spirito. In five days it would be Easter Sunday. As a child, Barbo had always looked forward to Easter more than any other day in the year. Easter meant big family dinners and colorful new clothes — and uova di Pasqua, the traditional chocolate eggs his mother made. After dinner, the family would go out into the street and light Roman candles and sparklers. As he grew older, the cardinal continued to indulge his “secular pleasure” at Easter time. Every Holy Saturday night, he would join the tens of thousands of Romans and watch the fuochi d'artificio display over Castel Sant'Angelo.

  To a priest, however, Easter was much more than new clothes and family dinners. It was the day when Jesus triumphed over death — the central belief of all Christianity. The Easter gospels had always puzzled Barbo. Three of the evangelists report that, after he rose from the dead, Jesus appeared first to the Magdalene and then to Peter, John, and the other Apostles. And now the discovery of this Hebrew manuscript. If Jesus and the Magdalene were man and wife, it would explain why he appeared first to her.

  The exhaust backfire of a tourist bus ricocheted through St. Peter's Square like a gunshot, scattering flocks of pigeons in all directions. The loud noise startled Barbo. He heard the phone ring in his office. He hoped it was something Alessandri could handle.

  Alessandri picked up the phone.

  “Excuse me, Your Eminence. There's a Pietro Visconti on the line. He insists on talking to you.”

  Barbo had avoided telephoning Visconti since the night of their meeting in Trastevere. Like a small child, he had hoped that the ghost in the closet would simply go away. But now he knew what he had to do: Above all else, he had to protect the Church. Barbo knew the Church is not a club for smug American and European Catholics who attend services on Christmas and Easter. For them, women priests, priestly celibacy, and the power of local bishops are hot-button issues. More and more, however, the power in the Church is shifting to the poor and the working classes in Africa, Latin America, and Asia. The Catholics there believe in relics and miracles and do not care about the ordination of women so long as the Blessed Virgin remains a part of their lives. The knowledge that Jesus had sexual relations with the Magdalene would shatter their faith in the Church. There is a natural momentum to such things. If people begin to question their belief in Jesus' celibacy, they might also begin to question their belief in the Virgin Birth and, ultimately, in the Resurrection itself. Although he had suffered guilt and remorse, de Saone had made the same decision that now Barbo would have to make — to suppress the parchment and protect the Church.

  The secretary of state took the phone from Alessandri. “Pietro?”

  “Ah, Eminenza, thank you for taking my call. Have you had time to consider what we talked about in Trastevere?”

  “Yes, Visconti. I will accept your offer. There are issues that will have to be worked out—particularly access to accounts.” The secretary of state tried not to be too specific; he did not trust telephones when discussing such sensitive matters.

  Barbo could hear the satisfaction in Visconti's voice. “Even when friends agree, there are always the details of implementation.” Visconti paused for a moment. “Eminenza, I'm glad you accepted. I didn't want to help Diefenbacher's papal ambitions. Our friends in South Africa say he is not a man to be trusted.”

  “There is one condition, Visconti.”

  “What is that?”

  “The parchment must be authenticated by someone from the Vatican Library.”

  “As you wish. The parchment has already been subjected to carbon dating and pollen tests that confirm its authenticity. But you need not accept my word on that. Send your expert tomorrow morning at eight o'clock.”

  “Where?”

  “The manuscript will be in Professor Baldini's office at the University of Rome. He will arrange for the tests.”

  CHAPTER XXII

  TRUST IN THE LRD

  MARTIN FELLOWS, CURATOR of Hebrew Manuscripts at the Vatican Library, walked into Cardinal Barbo's outer office.

  Alessandri looked at the list of Barbo's scheduled appointments.

  “Martin, there is no room in his schedule for today. How about tomorrow?”

  “His Eminence left a voice-mail message. He wanted to see me as soon as possible.”

  “Let me speak to him.” Alessandri buzzed the cardinal's inner office. “Martin Fellows is here to see you, Your Eminence. He's not on your calendar.”

  Barbo sounded impatient. “Show him in, Alessandri.”

  Fellows was something of an anomaly on the Vatican Library staff. He was a renowned authority on Hebrew manuscripts, but he was not a Catholic. In fact, as a born-again Christian and an avowed Freemason, he had pronouncedl
y anti-Catholic views on many subjects. What redeemed Fellows in most people's eyes, however, was his close friendship with Cardinal Barbo. Given Barbo's interest in the Knights Templar, the two men — cardinal and Freemason— spent many nights discussing medieval history and poring over ancient texts from the Vatican Library collections. It was a relationship that both men valued.

  Barbo motioned Fellows to take a seat. “Martin, I need your expertise. It's a matter of some urgency.”

  “Of course, Francesco.” Few nonclerics dared address the secretary of state by his first name.

  “Two American professors claim they have found a first-century Hebrew manuscript containing census records.”

  Fellows laughed. “You can find these census lists in almost any manuscript library in the world.”

  Barbo stood up. “But this one's different.”

  “How?”

  Cardinal Barbo hesitated for a moment. “Because it lists Jesus and the Magdalene as man and wife.”

  “Sounds like a forgery to me. Let me look at it. If I have to, I'll do a carbon dating.”

  “Do you know Professor Baldini?”

  “At the University of Rome? Yes, of course.”

  “The manuscript will be at Baldini's office tomorrow morning at eight o'clock.”

  “Okay—if I have to carbon date it, I should have preliminary readings by about nine o'clock at night. Final results will take much longer.”

  After Fellows left, Barbo quickly finished reading some diplomatic cables and buzzed Alessandri on the intercom.

  “Enrico, have a Vatican limousine meet me downstairs in fifteen minutes. I am due at the Pontifical University for a reception of the Latin-American cardinals.”

  The Pontifical University of St. Thomas is located in the heart of Rome at the bottom of Via Nazionale. Nicknamed the “Angelicum,” the university is normally a half-hour ride from the Vatican. But not this evening. A snarled traffic jam near Ponte Sant'Angelo caused Cardinal Barbo to be twenty minutes late for the reception. As he walked into the room, he was surprised to see Cardinal Cal-vaux at the far end of the room. At least Barbo would not be the only guest from outside Latin America.