The Thirteenth Apostle

by Michel Benoît

  And when you fail, the Judaean thought grimly – and you will fail, you’re up against Roman troops – Jesus at least will still be alive. What happens then will be quite different from what you’re dreaming of. Israel needs a prophet, not a gang leader.

  They took a few steps in silence across the rocky crest that looked down over the Vale of Gehenna.

  Suddenly Peter looked up.

  “You’re right: he’ll be in the way if we start any violent action – he won’t approve of it. But how can we ensure he gets arrested at just the right time? Things can change from one hour to the next!”

  “I’ve thought of that. You know that Judas is completely devoted to him. You’re a former Zealot like him, so you can explain things to Judas. He’ll need to bring along the Temple guard at the precise time and place where they’ll be sure to find him, separated from the crowd that’s always protecting him. For example, just after the supper at my house, on Thursday night, in the Garden of Olives.”

  “Will Judas agree to that? And how will he make contact with the Jewish authorities? He’s just an ordinary Galilean – how can he get into the High Priest’s palace? How’s he going to negotiate with the man he dreams of eliminating? Why on earth do you think he went over to the Zealots? I know those people: this is what they negotiate with!”

  He slapped the sica rubbing against his left thigh.

  “You can tell him it’s for the good of the cause, to protect the Master. You’ll find the right words: he’ll listen to you. And I’ll take him to Caiaphas. I’m allowed to enter and leave the palace at will: they’ll let Judas in, if he’s with me. Caiaphas will fall for it – the priests are so scared of Jesus!”

  “Fine… So if you say you can bring him to Caiaphas, if you think he can pretend to betray Jesus while in fact protecting him… It’s risky, but what isn’t risky right now?”

  As they passed back through the gate into the City, the Judaean gave a friendly wave to the guards. In a few days, many of these men would be dead or wounded, and the Romans would easily suppress the revolt. As for the gang of Twelve, the Land of Israel would soon be rid of them once and for all.

  And Jesus’s mission, his real mission, could then begin.

  7

  Nil had spent the whole morning – from the time the gendarme had brought him back to the Abbey – slumped on his stool. He had not opened the notes and papers relating to his ongoing research into the circumstances of the death of Jesus. A monk’s cell never contains a chair on which he might rest his back and daydream. And yet this is just what Nil was doing, mulling over his memories. The Abbey was silent, as if shrouded in cotton wool: all the classes in the theological college had been suspended until Father Andrei’s funeral. There was still an hour to go before the conventual mass.

  Andrei… the only one to whom he could ever talk about his research. The only one who seemed able to understand his conclusions, and sometimes even to reach them before he did himself.

  “You should never fear the truth, Nil: it was to find the truth, to know, that you entered this abbey. But the truth will turn you into a solitary, and it might even destroy you: never forget that it was truth that led Jesus to his death, and others after him. I have come near the truth in the manuscripts I have been decrypting for forty years. Since few people can follow me in my speciality, and as I never talk about my conclusions, people trust me. And it was in the Gospels themselves that you discovered… certain things. Beware: if these things have long been kept hidden away in the oubliettes of the Church, it’s because it’s dangerous to talk about them openly…”

  “St John’s Gospel is on the syllabus in the theological college this year. I can’t avoid the question: who was its author? What role did the mysterious beloved disciple play in the plot, and in that crucial period following the death of Jesus?”

  Andrei, the son of Russian émigrés who had converted to Catholicism, had an amazing gift for languages, and this had led to his being put in charge of the three libraries of the Abbey, a sensitive position that only a trustworthy man could fill. Whenever he smiled, he looked like an old starets.

  “Ah, my friend… Ever since the start, this question has been evaded. And you’re starting to understand why, aren’t you? So do the same as all those who came before you: don’t say everything that you know. Your students in the theological college wouldn’t be able to take it… and in that case, I’d fear for your safety!”

  Andrei had been right. For the past thirty years, the Catholic Church had been undergoing an unprecedented crisis. Lay people were deserting it, joining sects or becoming Buddhists, and the Christian world was suffering from a profound malaise. You could no longer find any reliable teachers able to impart sound doctrine in the seminaries, which in any case were now emptying.

  So Rome had decided to bring together the hard core of the remaining seminarists in a monastic school, a theological college of the kind found in the Middle Ages. There was a score of them, entrusted to the care of the Abbey and to the instruction of its scholars. Had the monks chosen to flee this corrupt world? Then they would provide the young men in the theological college with what they would most need for their survival: a breastplate of truth.

  Father Nil was entrusted with the task of teaching exegesis – that is, explaining the Gospels. What did it matter if he wasn’t really a specialist in ancient languages? He would work with Father Andrei, who could read Coptic, Syriac and many other dead languages fluently.

  These two solitaries became collaborators and ended up as friends: what monastic life made difficult, the love of ancient texts enabled.

  This only friend Nil had now lost in tragic circumstances. And this death filled him with anguish.

  At the same moment, a hand was nervously dialling an international number beginning with 390, the main (and highly confidential) line of the Vatican State. It bore a ring adorned with a very simple opal: the Archbishop of Paris felt it was his duty to set an example of modesty.

  “Pronto?”

  In the shade of Michelangelo’s dome, it was a hand with immaculately manicured fingernails that lifted the receiver. Its episcopal ring was topped by a curious green jasper: an asymmetric lozenge shape, in a chiselled silver mount on which it looked like a small lid. It was a jewel of great value.

  “Hello, Monsignor, it’s the Archbishop of Paris here… Ah, you were just about to phone me?… Yes, a most regrettable business, it really is – but… you’ve already heard?…”

  (How can that be possible? The accident only happened last night…)

  “Complete discretion? That will be difficult, the inquiry is in the hands of the Paris police – it seems it’s a criminal affair… The Cardinal? Of course, I quite understand… Suicide, is that right? Yes… though it’s painful for me to say so: suicide is a sin against which divine mercy has always been powerless. As you say… shall we let God decide?”

  The Archbishop moved the receiver away from his ear just long enough to smile. In the Vatican, they rather enjoy telling God what to do.

  “Hello? Yes, I can hear you… Now’s the time to do a bit of networking? Of course, we’re on excellent terms with the Ministry of the Interior. Fine… Well, I’ll look after it. You can reassure the Cardinal: it will be reported as a suicide, and the file will be closed. Arrivederci, Monsignore!”

  He always took care not to squander his credit with the Government. How could the death of a monk, an inoffensive scholar, justify a request for the inquiry to be taken no further? The Archbishop of Paris heaved a sigh. You couldn’t quarrel with an order given by Mgr Calfo, especially when he was passing it onto you at the explicit request of the Cardinal Prefect.

  He phoned the switchboard.

  “Could you put me through to the Minister of the Interior? Thank you, I’ll hold…”

  8

  Gospels according to Matthew and John

  Thursday night was drawing to an end, and it was almost daybreak on Friday morning. The Judaean came over to the
flames and held out his hands towards their welcoming warmth. Because of the cold, the guards had lit a fire in the courtyard of Caiaphas’s palace, and they respectfully allowed him to come over to it: a wealthy local landowner, an acquaintance of the High Priest… He turned round: Peter was skulking in a corner, no doubt terrified to be there, at the very heart of a power that he was planning to overthrow in a few hours’ time. If he behaved like a conspirator caught in the act, the Galilean would start to arouse suspicions.

  He beckoned him over to the fire. The fisherman hesitated, then diffidently slipped into the circle of servants enjoying the warmth.

  Everything had gone exceptionally well. Two days previously, he had dragged Judas along with him – Judas, who was completely amazed to find himself for the first time in the district where the Jewish dignitaries lived. The interview with Caiaphas had got off to a good start – the High Priest seemed delighted to be presented with an opportunity to hustle Jesus away into the shadows, without any bother, nice and quietly. Then Judas had stiffened: perhaps he suddenly understood whom exactly he was talking to, and realized he was actually going to hand his Master over to the Jewish authorities.

  “And how am I to know that, once Jesus is in your hands, you won’t put him to death?”

  The High Priest solemnly raised his right hand.

  “Galilean, I swear before the Eternal: Jesus the Nazorean will be judged fairly by our Law, which does not sentence a wandering preacher to death. His life will not be in any danger. To reassure you, I will give you a token of my promise: the Eternal is henceforth witness between you and me.”

  With a smile, he handed over to Judas thirty pieces of gold.

  Without a word, Judas pocketed the gold. The High Priest had just made a solemn commitment: Jesus would be arrested, but there would be a trial. That would take time, and in three days Caiaphas would no longer be the most powerful leader in the country. He would no longer be anything at all.

  * * *

  But what on earth were they doing up there? Why wasn’t Jesus already in the shadows of a dungeon in the cellars? In the shadows – safe and secure?

  The Judaean had seen several members of the Sanhedrin grumbling as they climbed the steps up to the first storey of the palace, where Jesus had been taken on his arrival.

  Since then, no further news had found its way down to the courtyard. He didn’t like the way events were turning out: to hide his jumpiness, he headed out to the exit and walked a few steps down the street.

  He bumped into a shadow flattened against the wall.

  “Judas… what are you doing here?”

  The man was trembling like the leaf of a fig tree in the wind of Galilee.

  “I… I came to see. I’m really worried about the Master! Can anyone trust a promise made by a man like Caiaphas?”

  “Look, just calm down: everything’s going just as it should. Don’t stay here, you risk getting arrested by the first patrol to come along. Go to my place; in my upper room you’ll be safe.”

  He headed to the palace gate. Turning round, he saw Judas standing there motionless. He wasn’t going to leave.

  The cocks were starting to crow. Suddenly the door of the room opened and the light of the torches lit up the veranda. Caiaphas came out and glanced down into the courtyard: quickly, the Judaean moved away from the light of the fire – this was no time to be noticed. Later, when the uprising had failed, he would go to see the High Priest and demand that the Master be set free.

  Then Jesus appeared, coming down the stairs. He was being held at the elbows by two guards, and his arms were tightly bound behind him.

  Why? There was no need to tie him up just to take him down into the cellars!

  The group passed on the other side of the fire, and he heard Caiaphas’s shrill voice:

  “Take him to Pilate, and don’t hang about!”

  An icy chill broke out on his forehead.

  To Pilate! If he was being taken to the Roman procurator, there was only one single explanation: Caiaphas had broken his sworn promise.

  Judas had not left his observation post. At first he just saw the light of a torch, dazzling him: he shrank back into a doorway and held his breath. A patrol?

  It wasn’t a patrol. In the midst of a group of Temple guards, he spotted a man who staggered as he walked, his arms shackled behind his back. The officer at the head of the group barked out an order as he strode past Judas, who was still hidden in the shadows.

  “Get a move on! To Pilate’s palace!”

  With a sense of horror, Judas clearly made out the face of the man being roughly pushed along: it was Jesus.

  The Master was very pale, and his features were drawn. He passed by the door without seeing anything – his gaze seemed focused within. Stricken with dismay, Judas stared at the Master’s wrists: they were very tightly bound, there were bloodstains on the rope, and his twisted, knotted hands were completely blue.

  This nightmare vision faded: the armed group had just turned right, heading for the Antonia fortress, where Pilate resided whenever he was in Jerusalem.

  Every Jew knew the Law: in Israel, blasphemy brought a death sentence. You were immediately taken out and stoned to death. If they had not stoned Jesus in the courtyard, it must have been because he had refused to declare himself equal with God, which would have been the supreme blasphemy. So the leaders of the Jewish nation were seeking a sentence based on political grounds – and given that the Romans were jumpy throughout the feast of the Passover, they would no doubt get it.

  Judas staggered out of the city. Jesus would not be given a proper trial, Caiaphas had broken his promise and decided on his death. And so that he would die – since they had not been able to convict him of blasphemy – he was being handed over to the Romans.

  And the Romans were never short of crosses…

  He arrived in front of the imposing mass of the Temple. In the depths of his pocket the thirty pieces of gold were still clinking – the derisory token of an agreement concluded between himself and the High Priest, an agreement that had just been broken, a promise that had been scorned. Caiaphas had duped him.

  He would go and confront him inside the Temple, remind him of his promise. And if he persisted in his treachery, Judas would appeal to the Eternal, whom Caiaphas had called on as a witness.

  “Priests of the Temple, the hour of God’s judgement on you is at hand!”

  9

  Nil gave a start: the first bell for mass was ringing, he would soon need to go down into the sacristy to get ready. One last time, he reread the scrap of paper he had wrested a few hours earlier from the grip of Andrei’s fingers stiffened in death:

  Tell Nil: Coptic manuscript (Apoc.)

  Apostle’s letter

  M M M.

  Stone slab in G.

  Find the link between them. Now.

  Warding off any thought of his inquiry into the role played by Judas in the death of Jesus, he came down to earth with a bump. What did these words mean? They were a scribbled reminder, of course. Andrei wanted to tell him about a Coptic manuscript: the one from Rome, or another? Several hundred photocopies were filed away in the drawers of his office: which of them was it? He had written Apoc. in brackets: a Coptic manuscript about the apocalypse? This was not much to go on: there are dozens of apocalypses, Jewish as well as Christian. And though Nil was able to read Coptic, he felt unable to translate a difficult text correctly.

  The second line awoke in him the memory of one of his conversations with the librarian. Was it the apostolic letter that Andrei had obliquely mentioned one day, dropping a fleeting hint, a mere conjecture, as he called it, a hypothesis for which he had no proof? He had refused to tell him any more about it.

  What did the triple letter M underneath mean?

  Only the last but one line was clear to Nil. Yes, he needed to go back and photograph the stone slab in Germigny again, as he had promised his friend he would just before he left.

  As for the last line, fi
nd the link between them, this was something they had often discussed: for Andrei, it was the main part of his work as a historian. But why now, and why was this word underlined?

  He tried to focus his thoughts. On the one hand there was his research on the Gospels, which Andrei had often asked him about. Then the time the librarian had been called in for questioning in connection with the Coptic manuscript. And finally, the discovery at Germigny that had deeply disturbed him. All of this suddenly seemed to have assumed such significance for his friend that he urgently wanted to discuss it with Nil as soon as he returned.

  Had Andrei discovered something in Rome? Something they might have referred to during their many private conversations? Or had he, in Rome, finally ended up talking about the things he should have kept secret?

  The gendarme had used the word “crime”. But what could have been the motive? Andrei had no possessions, and lived reclusively in his library, far from the gaze of all others. Of all others, that is, except the Vatican. And yet Nil could not accept the idea of a murder carried out at the behest of Rome. The last time the Pope had deliberately had his own priests assassinated was in Paraguay, in 1760. The political situation of the time had made that collective murder of innocent people expedient: things were different in those days. At the end of the twentieth century, the Pope would not get rid of an inoffensive scholar!

  “Rome no longer sheds blood. The Vatican committing a crime? Impossible.”

  He remembered the frequent warnings uttered by his friend. The disquiet that had been dwelling in him for some time made his stomach tighten.

  He glanced at his watch: four minutes to go before mass; if he didn’t go down to the sacristy right now, he’d be late. He opened his desk drawer and pushed the note to the back, under a pile of letters. His fingers ran over the snapshot taken a month earlier in the church of Germigny. Andrei’s last wishes…