The Thirteenth Apostle
Page 5
He folded the paper in two, pursing his lips. Nil absentmindedly noted that his fingernails were bitten. Finally the student got up and walked past his teacher without even looking at him.
* * *
While Nil robed himself in his sacerdotal apparel in the sacristy that smelt pleasantly of fresh wax, a man in a cassock slipped into the common room and went over to the pigeonholes reserved for the reverend fathers. After he had glanced all round to ensure there was nobody else in the room, a hand with well-chewed fingernails slipped a piece of paper folded in two into the pigeonhole of the Reverend Father Abbot.
12
If it had not been for the Venetian bracket lamps that shed a warm, diffuse light, the room might have appeared sinister. It was long and narrow, without windows, and the only furniture in it was a table of waxed wood, behind which were aligned thirteen seats, backs to the wall. In the centre was a sort of throne in Neapolitan-Angevin style, covered in scarlet velvet. And, on either side, another six simple chairs, their arms ending in lions’ heads.
The elegant panelling on the entrance door concealed a thick layer of reinforced sheeting.
The table was about five yards away from the wall, which was completely bare. Completely? No. There was a panel of dark wood set into the brickwork. Against the dark mahogany, the livid pallor of a bloody crucifix of Jansenist inspiration stood out, forming an almost obscene stain of colour under the combined glare of two spotlights hidden just above the central throne.
This throne had never been occupied, and it never would be: it reminded the members of the assembly that the presence of the Master of the Society of St Pius V was entirely spiritual, albeit eternal. For four centuries, Jesus Christ, the resurrected God, had sat here in spirit and in truth, flanked by twelve faithful apostles, six on his right hand and six on his left. Just as at the last supper he had shared with his disciples, two thousand years ago, in the upper room in the western part of Jerusalem.
Each of these twelve chairs was occupied by a man wearing a very loose-fitting alb, the cowl flung forward over the head. In front of each face, a simple piece of white linen was fastened by two buttons level with the cheekbones: the lower half of the face was masked, and only two eyes and a strip of forehead could be seen.
Lined up facing the wall as they were, they would all have needed to lean forwards and turn their heads forty-five degrees to see the silhouettes of their companions at table. Such contortions were obviously forbidden, just as it went without saying that they would show their hands as rarely as possible. Their arms were folded on the table, and the openings of their wide sleeves were designed to fit into one another easily, covering the wrists and hands of the participants.
Thus it was that, whenever they spoke, the members of this assembly did not address each other directly, but spoke to the bleeding image placed opposite them. If they could all hear – without turning their heads – what was said, it was because the Master, mute on his cross, gave his consent.
In this room whose very existence is unknown to the common run of mortals, the Society of St Pius V was holding its three thousand six hundred and third meeting since its foundation.
Set at the right of the empty throne, a single participant had placed, flat on the table – which was completely bare – his chubby hands: on his right-hand ring finger, a dark green jasper glittered when he rose; he mechanically smoothed down his alb over his slightly protruding abdomen.
“My brothers, three exterior questions that we have already discussed in this very place need to occupy our minds today, and there is a fourth… one that is painful for all of us.”
A complete silence greeted this declaration: everyone waited to hear what would come next.
“At the request of the Cardinal Prefect of the Congregation, you have been informed of a little problem that has arisen recently in France, in a Benedictine abbey that is under very strict surveillance. You gave me carte blanche to deal with it. Well, I have the pleasure of being able to tell you that the problem has been solved in a satisfactory manner: the monk whose recent remarks were giving us cause for alarm is no longer in any position to harm the Holy Catholic Church.”
One of those present slightly raised his forearms, folded under his sleeves, to signify that he wished to speak.
“You mean that he has been… suppressed?”
“I would not use that term, offensivum auribus nostris. I have to inform you that he inopportunely fell from the Rome express that was taking him back to the Abbey, and that he died instantly. The French authorities have decided it was suicide. I thus commend him to your prayers: suicide, as you know, is a terrible crime against the creator of all life.”
“But… Brother Rector, wasn’t it dangerous to call on the services of a foreign agent to make this… suicide possible? Can we really be sure of his discretion?”
“I met the Palestinian while I was staying in Cairo, several years ago: ever since then, he has proved most reliable. His interests coincide with ours on this occasion, as he perfectly well understood. He obtained help from an old acquaintance of his, an Israeli agent: the men from Hamas and those from Mossad are at each other’s throats, but they know how to lend each other a hand when they have a common cause – and this is the case here, a fact which serves our own plans. Only the result matters: the means employed must be efficacious, rapid and definitive. And I can vouch for the absolute discretion of these two agents. They are being very well remunerated.”
“Indeed: the thousands of dollars you have mentioned to us represent a considerable sum. Is this expense really justified?”
The Rector turned to his questioner, something he very rarely did.
“My brother, this investment is paltry in comparison with the profits that it can generate. These I estimate to be, not in the thousands, but in the millions of dollars. If we achieve our aims, we will at last have the wherewithal to accomplish our mission. Remember the sudden, vast wealth acquired by the Templars – well, we shall be drawing on the same sources as they did. But we will succeed where they failed.”
“And the Germigny slab?”
“I was coming to that. The discovery of the slab would have passed unnoticed if Father Andrei had not been alerted to it because of the geographical proximity of his abbey. He had the unfortunate idea of going to visit the spot straight away, so he was the first to read the inscription. We knew of its existence thanks to the file on the Templars.”
“You have already told us this.”
“On his recent trip to Rome, he reluctantly passed some comments which seemed to prove that he was linking together all the information in his possession. This is extremely dangerous; we never know where it will all end, and our Society was founded by the sainted Pope Pius V to avoid” – and here he bowed, first to the empty throne on his left and then to the crucifix before him – “any sullying or tarnishing of the Master’s memory and image. During the Church’s long history, all those who have tried to do so have been eliminated. Often in time, but sometimes too late – and then there was the most dreadful turmoil, and it caused considerable suffering: think of Origen, Arius or even Nestorius, as well as many others… The team from the Rome express will do whatever is necessary, at my request: the Germigny slab will soon be safe from prying eyes, in this very place.”
All present heaved a sigh of relief.
“But we now have another problem that has risen from the first,” the Rector added.
Several heads automatically turned towards him.
“For some time, the late Father Andrei seems to have been arousing the curiosity of a kind of disciple: one of the monks, a professor in the special theology college of the abbey in question. Oh, it may be nothing more than a false alarm, triggered by a message that the Father Abbot has forwarded to us. A student attending the exegesis course of this professor – a certain Father Nil – has revealed that he had heard him putting forward positions that undermine sound teaching on the Gospel according to St John. Given the
recent circumstances, the Father Abbot decided it was best to warn us straight away.”
Several brothers looked up: the Gospel according to St John was at the very heart of their mission, and everything that might affect it needed to be closely analysed.
“Normally, the orthodoxy of a Catholic exegete concerns the Congregation, and this monk is not the first whom that body will have had to put in his place…”
There was the ghost of a smile under the veils covering the faces of some of those present.
“…but the circumstances here are rather special. The late lamented Father Andrei was a scholar of exceptional ability, and he had an acute and inventive intelligence. He is no longer capable of inflicting any harm, but what did he manage to suggest to his disciple Nil? As the Father Abbot has explained to us, a close friendship – always regrettable in an abbey – bound together these two intellectuals. In other words, might the poison that had seeped into Father Andrei’s mind also have infected Father Nil? We have no means of knowing.”
One of the brothers lifted his folded arms.
“Tell me, Brother Rector… This Father Nil… does he ever happen to take the Rome express too?”
“He might well do so. But a second suicide among the monks of the Abbey is something we can’t envisage. Neither the French Government nor public opinion would be easy to convince, given the closeness of the events. As it happens it is a matter of some urgency, since this monk teaches on a regular basis and seems bent on bringing his students up to date with his… well, with some of the conclusions he has drawn from his research. What are they? We don’t know, but we cannot run any risks: the Cardinal is placing a great deal of hope on the monastic theology college of St Martin, and he wants it to be absolutely beyond reproach.”
“What do you suggest?”
The Rector sat down and withdrew his hands and his ring into the shelter of the sleeves of his alb.
“I do not know yet; it’s all happened so recently. The first thing we need to do is find out what this monk knows, or – if he doesn’t as yet know anything very serious – work out how far he might go. I’ll let you know.”
He paused, and stared intently at the crucifix, whose ivory was stained by a blood which seemed to have dried and clotted over the centuries. The next question was going to be more difficult: he couldn’t beat around the bush. Every brother, after all, expected the Society to apply its statutes.
Even when these required the death of one of their number.
“Each of you knows nothing, or almost nothing, about the brother sitting next to him at this moment. So it falls to me to carry out the terrible task of protecting our Society, should the need arise.”
The Rector of the Society of St Pius V was appointed for life. When he felt close to death, he designated from among the brothers the one who would succeed him – and who, in turn, would be the only one to know the identity of his eleven companions, and to be known by them. Most of the rectors, since 1570, had had the good taste to die before they became incapable. Sometimes, it had been necessary to give a helping hand to those who clung to life more than to their Master: the Eleven kept rigorous tabs on the capabilities of their leader. There was a protocol for such cases – and it was precisely this protocol that was about to be applied, but this time to a brother.
“One of us, I very much regret to say, has recently demonstrated his inability to respect our principal rule, that of complete and utter confidentiality. His venerable age, no doubt, has weakened his reflexes.”
One of those present started to tremble, and the sleeves of his alb slipped down to reveal bony hands with prominent veins.
“Brother, please cover yourself!… Very well: you know the procedure applied to the guilty man. I am giving you due warning, so that this very evening you may begin the time of fasting, prayer and severe penitence that always accompanies the definitive end of a brother’s mission. We must help him to make ready, and keep him company on the path that he is now to take. Total abstinence on the day before our next gathering, and discipline with the metal scourge morning and evening, every day, for as long as it takes to recite the Miserere – or longer if you wish. We will not stint our affection for the brother who has shared our responsibilities for so long, and from whom we will soon need to be parted.”
Calfo did not like having to apply this protocol to one of the Twelve. He gazed intently at the crucifix: ever since he had presided over the gatherings of his Society, the Master had seen and heard many such cases.
“Thank you. We have until the next session to prove to our brother, in secret, the strength of the love we bear him.”
The brothers rose and made their way towards the armourplated door at the far end.
13
Gospels according to Matthew and John
As the sun rose on the Saturday of Passover, its gleam caught the tiles of the impluvium. Sitting on the rim of the basin in the centre, exhausted after two days that had witnessed the total destruction of so many hopes, the Judaean sighed: he would have to go up to the upper room where the Eleven had taken refuge in a panic-stricken flock. Jesus had been delivered to Pilate, crucified at noon the day before… It was a catastrophe beyond their worst imaginings.
He finally made up his mind to move and slowly climbed the steps leading to the first storey, where he pushed open the door through which he had watched Judas exit on Thursday evening. A single small light was burning in the huge room. He made out shadows sitting here and there on the floor. Nobody was speaking. These terrorized Galileans, forced into hiding – so this was all that remained of the Israel of the new age.
A shadow detached itself from the wall and came over to him.
“Well?”
Peter stared arrogantly at him.
“He will never accept that we’ve failed,” he thought to himself. “He will never accept having to be in my debt by taking refuge at my home like this, just as he never accepted my privileged relationship with Jesus.”
“Well, Pilate authorized Jesus’s body to be taken down from the cross yesterday evening. As it was too late to give him the ritual treatment, he was placed provisionally in a nearby tomb, which happens to belong to Joseph of Arimathea, a sympathizer.”
“Who transported the body?”
“Nicodemus carried the head and Joseph the feet. And some women, acting as mourners – the usual ones, we know them well: Mary of Magdala and her friends.”
Peter bit his lower lip and punched the palm of his left hand.
“How shameful! What a… a humiliation! The final homage is always paid to a dead man by the members of his family! Neither Mary, nor his brother James were there… just sympathizers! The Master really died like a dog.”
The Judaean gazed at him ironically.
“Is it the fault of Mary his mother, of James and his three other brothers, or his sisters, that the preparations for your insurrection were carried out in the greatest secrecy? Is it their fault that everything went wrong, in just a few hours, in such a tragic and unexpected way? Is it their fault that Caiaphas lied, that Jesus was taken before Pilate yesterday morning? That he was crucified without further ado, without any trial? Whose fault is it?”
Peter bowed his head. It was he who had teamed up with his old Zealot friends, it was he who had convinced Judas to do the dirty work, it was he who was ultimately responsible for everything. He knew as much, but he could not acknowledge it. Not in front of this man, this usurper, who continued his tirade.
“Where were you when they laid Jesus on the beam of wood, when they hammered the nails into his wrists? Yesterday at midday, I was there, hiding in the crowd. I heard the horrible noise of the hammer blows, I saw the blood and the water flowing from his side when the legionary finished him off with a thrust of his spear. I am the only one here who can testify that Jesus the Nazorean died like a man, without complaining, without uttering a word of reproach to us, even though we had allowed him to fall into this trap. Where were you all?”
He needed to seize back the initiative. He was the leader here. He drew the other man over to the window.
“Come. We need to talk.”
Peter gazed out into the night for a few moments. Everything was dark in Jerusalem. He turned round and broke the heavy silence.
“Two urgent problems. First, Jesus’s body: none of us can accept seeing it being thrown into a common grave, like all those condemned to death. It would be an insult to his memory.”
The Judaean glanced at the indistinct shapes slumped along the walls of the upper room. Obviously, none of them would be able to offer the dead man a decent burial place. Joseph of Arimathea would not accept having Jesus in his family vault for ever. They needed to think of something else.
“There might be a way out… The Essenes always viewed Jesus as one of them – even if he never agreed to join their sect. For a long time I was part of their lay community: I know them well. They will certainly be prepared to place his body in one of their burial grounds in the desert.
“Can you get in touch with them? Right away?”
“Eliezer lives nearby, I’ll take care of it all. And the second problem?”
Peter looked the other man straight in the eye – just then, the moon emerged from behind a cloud and heightened his rugged features. It was the former Zealot who replied, in harsh tones: