The Thirteenth Apostle

by Michel Benoît

  He kept his eyes fixed on the face of his adoptive father, who picked another bundle of parchment off the table.

  “As for Paul, he knows what he’s doing. He knows that people can only put up with their wretched lives thanks to their faith in the resurrection. He says to them: you will rise from the dead, because Jesus rose from the dead first. And if he rose from the dead, it means he’s God – only a god can raise himself from the dead.”

  His face clouded over, and Yokhanan took his hands in his own.

  “I didn’t want to tell you: Eliezer Ben-Akkai, the leader of the Essenes in Jerusalem, is dead. Is he going to take the secret of Jesus’s tomb with him?”

  The old man’s eyes filled with tears. The death of the Essene meant his whole youth had been wiped away.

  “It was Eliezer’s own sons, Adon and Osias, who carried the body. They know – that makes three of us, and that’s quite enough. You have learnt from me how to encounter Jesus from beyond his death. What would you gain from knowing where his final grave lies? His tomb is respected by the desert – it would not be respected by men.”

  Yokhanan quickly rose to his feet and went off for a few minutes. When he came back, he was holding a bundle of virgin parchment in one hand, and in the other pen of buffalo horn and an earthen inkwell. He set them down on the table.

  “So, write, abbu. Write, so that Jesus may remain alive.”

  36

  “I now declare this solemn session open.”

  The Rector of the Society of St Pius V noted with satisfaction that some of his brothers were not leaning against the backs of their chairs: those were the ones who had made good use of the psalm Miserere to measure out their application of the metal discipline.

  The room was still just as empty, with two exceptions: opposite him, at the foot of the bloody crucifix, an ordinary chair had been placed. And, on the bare table, a liqueur glass contained a colourless liquid, which gave off a faint odour of bitter almonds.

  “My brother, please take your place for the proceedings.”

  One of the participants rose, walked round the table and sat on the chair. The veil masking his face was trembling, as if it were an effort for him to breathe.

  “For many long years, your service in our Society has been beyond reproach. But recently you have committed a grave error: you have given away confidential information concerning the current business, one which is of capital importance for our mission.”

  The man raised supplicant hands to those present.

  “The flesh is weak, my brothers, I beg you to forgive me!”

  “That is not the question!” the Rector replied in trenchant tones. “The sin of the flesh is remitted by the sacrament of penance, just as Our Lord remitted the sins of the woman caught in adultery. But by speaking to that girl about our recent anxieties…”

  “She’s no longer in any position to cause us problems!”

  “Indeed. We had to make sure that she would never again be able to cause problems, which is always regrettable and ought to remain the exception.”

  “So… since you have been so kind as to resolve this problem…”

  “You do not understand, my brother.”

  He turned to address the assembly.

  “There is a great deal at stake in this mission. Until the middle of the twentieth century, the Church kept control over the interpretation of the Scriptures. Ever since Pope Paul VI of unhappy memory suppressed the Congregation for the Index in 1967, we no longer control anything. Absolutely anybody can publish absolutely anything, and the Index, which relegated pernicious ideas to the forbidden sections of libraries, has fallen away like a finger attacked by the leprosy of modernism. These days, an ordinary monk, far away in his abbey, can become a grave menace to the church by providing the proof that Christ was just an ordinary man.

  A shudder ran through the assembly.

  “Ever since our Society was created by the sainted Pope Pius V, we have struggled to preserve the public image of Our Saviour and God made man. And we have always succeeded.”

  The brothers all nodded.

  “Times are changing, and they demand extraordinary measures. We need money to isolate the problem, set up sound seminaries, control the media throughout the planet and block certain publications. A lot of money to influence governments when it comes to cultural politics and education, so that the Christian West is not invaded by Islam or by sects. Faith can move mountains, but the lever it uses is money. Money can do everything: when used by pure hands it can save the Church, which is today threatened in its most precious belonging – the dogma of the Incarnation and that of the Trinity.”

  A murmur of approval could be heard running through the room. The Rector gazed intently at the crucifix, under which the accused sat trembling.

  “Well, we get nothing more than a trickle of funds. You will remember the sudden vast fortune of the Templars? Nobody has ever known where it came from. And now the inexhaustible source of that fortune may perhaps be within our reach. If we possessed it, we would have unlimited means to carry out our mission. On one condition…”

  He lowered his gaze to the wretched brother who seemed to melt away on his chair under the violent glare of the two spotlights illuminating the crucifix.

  “That condition is that no indiscretion should compromise our activities. And you have committed that indiscretion, my brother. We have managed to draw out the thorn you thrust into the flesh of Our Lord, but it was a near-run thing. We no longer have any confidence in you, and so your mission is today at an end. I ask the ten apostles present to confirm, by their vote, my sovereign decision.”

  All at the same time, ten hands stretched out towards the crucifix.

  “My brother, our affection goes with you. You know the procedure.”

  The condemned man undid his veil. The Rector had often met him face to face, but the others had never seen anything but his two hands.

  The veil fell to reveal the features of an elderly man. There were dark rings under his eyes, but his gaze was no longer imploring: this last act was part of the mission he had accepted when he became a member of the Society. His devotion towards Christ as God was total and it would not flinch today.

  * * *

  The Rector rose, followed by the ten apostles. They slowly held out their arms until their fingers were touching.

  Facing the bloodstained crucifix, the ten men, their arms held out as if on a cross, gazed at their brother who rose to his feet. He was no longer trembling: when Jesus had stretched out on the wood, he had not trembled.

  The Rector raised his voice and said, in neutral tones:

  “My brother, the three Persons of the Trinity know with what dedication you have served the cause of one of them. They welcome you to their company, in that divine light that you have not ceased to search for throughout your life.”

  Slowly, he picked up the liqueur glass from the table, raised it for a moment like a chalice, and then presented it to the old man.

  With a smile, he took a step forwards, and held out his bony hand to the glass.

  37

  “Welcome to San Girolamo! I am Father John, the hosteller.”

  On emerging from the Rome express, Nil rediscovered his bearings from his days as a student, and unhesitatingly set off for the bus stop where he could catch a bus to the Catacombs of Priscilla. He was so happy to be seeing the city again that he forgot the odd events that had taken place on his journey.

  He got off just before the terminus, at the stop of the sloping Via Salaria. The San Girolamo Abbey, situated in a still green and leafy spot, is an artificial creation of Pope Pius XI, who wanted to bring together Benedictines from all over the world to establish a revised version of the Bible – but in Latin. The Society of St Pius V kept a close eye on each of these monks, until they were obliged to admit that Latin was now spoken only in the Vatican: the modern world condemned their labour. Ever since then, San Girolamo had been living on its memories.

&nb
sp; Nil set down his suitcase at the entry to the dingy yellow cloister, adorned in the middle by a basin over which hung a melancholy clump of bamboos. A faint whiff of pasta and oleander were the only signs that the visitor was in Rome.

  “The Congregation told me yesterday that you would be arriving. At the beginning of the month, we received the same request for your Father Andrei, who stayed here for several days…”

  Father John was as voluble as a Roman from Trastevere. He guided the new arrival to the staircase that led to the upper floors.

  “Give me your case… Phew! It’s heavy! Poor Father Andrei, nobody knows what came over him, but he left one morning without telling anyone. And he packed his bags in a hurry, since he left several of his things in his room. I left them there – it’s the room you’ll be occupying. Nobody’s set foot in there since the sudden departure of your unfortunate colleague. So, you’re here to work on Gregorian manuscripts?”

  Nil had stopped listening to this torrent of words. He would be staying in Father Andrei’s room!

  As soon as Father John had finally left him to himself, he surveyed the room. Unlike the cells in his abbey, it was filled with several articles of furniture. A big wardrobe, two sets of bookshelves, a mattress-and-frame bed, a huge table with a chair, an armchair… The indefinable smell of monasteries hung in the air, an odour of dry dust and wax polish.

  The objects left by Father Andrei had been placed on one of the bookshelves. Shaving equipment, handkerchiefs, a plan of Rome, an appointments diary… Nil smiled at the latter: a monk didn’t have many appointments to note!

  He heaved his suitcase up onto the table. It was almost entirely filled with his precious notes. He was about to arrange them on the bookshelf, but then thought better of it: there was a key in the wardrobe. He placed the papers in there, pushing the negative from Germigny right to the back. Then turned the key in the lock and pocketed it, without conviction.

  Then he stopped: on the table, there was an envelope. Addressed to him.

  Dear Nil,

  You have come to help me with my research. Bienvenue à Rome! To be frank, I don’t really understand why: I never asked them to request that you come! Anyway, I’m delighted to see you. Call round to my office as soon as you can: Secretariat for Relations with the Jews, in the Congregation building. À bientôt!

  Your old friend, Rembert Leeland

  A broad smile lit up his face. Remby! So he was the man he was here to help! He might have guessed as much, but he hadn’t seen his friend from their student days in Rome for over ten years, and the idea that he might be summoned to Rome by him had never so much as crossed his mind. Remby, what a pleasure! This trip would at least allow them to catch up with each other.

  Then he reread the letter: Leeland seemed every bit as surprised as he was himself. I never asked them… It wasn’t Leeland who had asked him to come.

  So who was it?

  38

  The old man in the white alb took the glass proffered to him by the Rector, raised it to his lips and swallowed the colourless liquid in one draught. He grimaced and sat down on his chair.

  It was very quick. In front of the eleven apostles, their arms still extended as on a cross, the man hiccuped, then bent double with a groan. His face turned purple, contracted into a horrible rictus, and he collapsed on the ground. The spasms lasted for about a minute, and then he stiffened for the last time. From his mouth, opened as if to gulp the air, a thick trail of slime trickled down his chin. His wide-open eyes stared at the crucifix above him.

  Slowly, the apostles lowered their arms and sat down. In front of them, on the ground, the white shape was motionless.

  The brother who was furthest from the Rector on his right stood up, a cloth in his hand.

  “Not yet! Our brother must hand on the torch to the man who is to succeed him. Be so kind as to open the door, please.”

  In the half-light, a white shape was standing there, apparently waiting.

  “Come forwards, my brother!”

  The new arrival was dressed in the same alb as those already present, his cowl pulled over his head and the white veil fastened to either side of his face. He took three steps forwards and then stopped, seized by horror.

  “Antonio,” the Rector reflected, “such a charming young man! I feel sorry for him. But he must take up the torch, it’s the rule of apostolic succession.”

  Faced with the spectacle of the old man whose brutal death had convulsed his body, the new brother’s eyes remained wide open and staring. They were curious eyes: the iris was almost perfectly black, and his pupils, dilated by his sense of revulsion, gave him an odd appearance, which was made even odder by a pale matt brow.

  The Rector beckoned him across.

  “My brother, it is you yourself who must cover this apostle’s face, as you are today to succeed him. Look closely at his features: they are those of a man totally dedicated to his mission. When he ceased to be capable of fulfilling that mission, he willingly brought it to an end. Receive his torch from him, so that you may serve as he served, and die as he died, in the joy of his Master.”

  The new arrival turned towards the man who had opened the door to him and was now handing him the cloth. He seized it and kneeled next to the dead man, whose purple face he contemplated for a long time. Then he wiped away the foam that stained his mouth and chin and, lying prostrate, gave to the lips that had turned blue in death a lingering kiss.

  Then he straightened up, spread the cloth on the face that was now slowly swelling, and finally turned to the motionless brothers.

  “Good,” said the Rector warmly. “You have just undergone the final trial, and it has made you the twelfth of the apostles who sat at either side of Our Lord in the upper chamber in Jerusalem.”

  Antonio had been forced to flee his native Andalusia: Opus Dei is very reluctant to allow its members to leave it, and a certain distance seemed wise. In Vienna, the collaborators of Cardinal Catzinger had spotted this taciturn young man with his dark eyes. After several years of observation, his file was sent to the Prefect of the Congregation, who placed it, without further comment, on Calfo’s desk.

  It required another two years of close investigations led by the Society of St Pius V. Two years of tailing him, tapping his phone conversations, keeping his family and friends back in Andalusia under surveillance… When Calfo asked him to come to his apartment in Castel Sant’Angelo for a series of interviews, he definitely knew Antonio better than the Andalusian knew himself. In Vienna, a city of pleasures, they had tempted him in every way: he had resisted. Pleasure and money were of no interest to him – just power and the defence of the Catholic Church.

  The Rector motioned to him. “Andalusian, Moorish blood,” he reflected. “Criticized the methods of Opus Dei. Arabic melancholy, Viennese nihilism, the disenchantment of a southerner: an excellent recruit!”

  He told him: “Take your place among the Twelve, my brother.”

  Facing the bare wall on which the only decoration was the bleeding image of the crucified, the Twelve were once more gathered around their Master in their full complement.

  “You know our mission. You will start contributing to it straight away; you are to keep under close surveillance a monk who has arrived today in San Girolamo. I have just learnt that an outside agent almost interrupted a capital process concerning this monk, in the Rome express. This was a regrettable incident – he had received no orders to this end, and I do not control him directly.”

  The Rector sighed. He had never met this man, but he had a full dossier on him. He remembered its contents. “Unpredictable. A compulsive need to act out his ideas. When it’s not a musical challenge, it’s the excitement of danger. Mossad has withdrawn his licence to kill.”

  “Here are your first instructions,” he said, holding an envelope out to the new brother. “The next ones will reach you when the time is ripe. And remember whom you are serving!”

  He pointed with his right hand to the cross, the ima
ge on which stood out against its mahogany panel. The green jasper of his ring glinted.

  “Lord! Never perhaps since the Templars have you been in such danger. But once your Twelve possess the same weapon as they did, they will use it to protect You!”

  39

  Cardinal Emil Catzinger motioned to his guest to sit down – a tall, slim man with a broad forehead over a pair of rectangular glasses.

  “Please, Monsignor…”

  Behind his glasses, Rembert Leeland’s eyes were sparkling. He had the long face of an Anglo-Saxon, but the fleshy lips of an artist. He gazed interrogatively at His Eminence.

  “You must be wondering why I have asked you here… First tell me this: do relations with our Jewish brothers occupy your whole time?”

  Leeland smiled, which gave his face the expression of a mischievous student.

  “Not really, Your Eminence. Luckily I also have my musicological studies!”

  “Precisamente. That brings me to my point. The Holy Father himself is extremely interested in your research. If you can demonstrate that the origins of Gregorian chant lie in the psalmody of the synagogues of the High Middle Ages, it will be an important element in our rapprochement with Judaism. So we’ve brought in a specialist to help you decipher the ancient texts you are studying… A French monk, an excellent exegete… Father Nil, from St Martin’s Abbey.”

  “I heard as much yesterday. We were students together.”

  The Cardinal smiled.

  “So you know each other then? It will be pleasant to mix business with pleasure – I’m always glad when friends get an opportunity to meet like this. He’s just arrived – see him as often as you like. And listen to him: Father Nil is a fund of knowledge, he has a great deal to say, and you will learn a lot from him. Let him talk about his interests. And then… from time to time, just drop me a report on the tenor of your conversations. In writing – I’ll be the one and only addressee. All right?”