The Thirteenth Apostle

by Michel Benoît

  The Templars were transfixed, and listened to him in a deathly silence. One of them stood up and said in a hoarse voice:

  “Brothers, all of here have lived for several years in contact with our Muslim enemies. Everyone knows that their Koran rejects the divinity of Jesus, in terms exactly similar to this apostolic letter, and that this is the main reason for their fierce hostility to Christians. We need to bring this letter to the knowledge of Christendom, so that Jesus’s true identity can finally be revealed: this will for ever put an end to the pitiless war that sets Muhammad’s successors against Peter’s successor. Only then will the two groups be able to live peacefully together, proclaiming as one that Jesus, the son of Joseph, was not a god but an exceptional man and an inspired guide!

  Robert de Craon weighed the terms of his reply with care: never, he told the assembled brothers, never would the Church renounce its founding dogma, the source of its universal power. He had another plan; it was adopted after lengthy deliberation.

  * * *

  In the following decades, the wealth of the Templars grew amazingly. It was enough for the Grand Master to meet a prince or a bishop, and donations in land and precious metal would immediately come flowing in. This was because the successors of Robert de Craon had an unassailable argument at their disposal.

  “Give us the means to fulfil our mission,” they said, “or we will publish an apostolic document in our possession that will destroy you by totally undermining the Christianity from which you derive your power and all your wealth.”

  The kings and even the popes themselves paid up, and opulent Templar commanderies sprung up everywhere. A century later, the Templars were acting as bankers for the whole of Europe: the letter of the thirteenth apostle had become the sluice gate of a river of gold, flowing into the coffers of the Knights.

  But the source of such wealth, the object of every covetous desire, was at the mercy of a theft: that fragile piece of fabric needed to be put somewhere safe. The physical person of the Grand Master, the continuer of the thirteenth apostle, one who like him held his ground against the Christianity founded by Peter, had become untouchable. One of them remembered the way prisoners from the East concealed their money by placing it in a metal tube that they slipped into their entrails and thus kept on their bodies, safe from every theft. He had a golden case made, placed in it the copy of the epistle, carefully rolled up, inserted it in himself, and from then on carried it around within his very body, that was now doubly sacred.

  So that nobody would suspect the secret attached to the epistle, all trace of it, even the smallest, had to be effaced. The seneschal of the commandery of Patay heard of an inscription that had been carved in the church of Germigny, which was at that time on land belonging to him. A scholarly monk claimed that this inscription contained a hidden meaning that lurked in the remarkable way the text of the Symbolon of Nicaea had been transcribed. He said he was capable of deciphering this code.

  The seneschal summoned the monk and shut himself away with him in the church of Germigny. When he came out, his face was grave, and he immediately had the monk taken under escort to his commandery at Patay.

  The scholarly monk died there the next day. The slab was immediately covered with a layer of coating, and its mysterious inscription vanished from people’s eyes as well as from their memory.

  The ritual of admission to the Order of the Templars now included a curious gesture, which novices accomplished religiously: during the mass and before receiving their great white mantle, each of them had to kneel before the Grand Master and kiss first the bottom of his back, and then his belly.

  Without knowing it, the new brother was in this way venerating the letter of the thirteenth apostle, that was pursued by the hatred of the Church whose existence it imperilled. Now it was contained in the entrails of the Grand Master, who would extract it from its precious case only to obtain, by threat, even more land and even more gold.

  The treasure of the Templars lay in the cellars of several commanderies. But the source of this treasure, its inexhaustible source, was transmitted by each Grand Master to his successor, who protected it with the rampart of his own body.

  * * *

  On the stake, Jacques de Molay lifted his head. They had inflicted the torture of water and fire on him, and had put him on the rack, but they had not searched his entrails. With a mere contraction he could feel in the most intimate part of himself the presence of the gold case: the epistle would disappear with him, the sole weapon of the Templars against the kings and prelates of a Church that had become unworthy of Jesus. In an astonishingly strong voice, he replied to Guillaume de Nogaret:

  “It was under torture that some of our brothers confessed to the horror of which you accuse me. In the face of heaven and earth I now swear that everything you have just said about the crimes and the impiety of the Templars is pure slander. And we deserve death for not having managed to resist the suffering inflicted by the Inquisitors.”

  With a smile of triumph, Nogaret turned to the King. Standing in his royal loggia that looked out over the Seine, Philippe raised his hand: at that very moment the executioner lowered his arm, plunging the lighted torch into the faggots of the stake.

  The sparks flew into the air, right up to the towers of Notre-Dame. Jacques de Molay still had the strength to cry:

  “Pope Clement, King Philippe! Before one year is up, I summons you to appear before the tribunal of God to receive your just punishment! Be accursed, you and those who will come after you!”

  The stake collapsed in on itself, in an explosion of sparks. The heat was so great that it reached the banks of the Seine.

  At the end of the day, the priest from Notre-Dame came to pray on the smoking remnants of the pyre. The archers had deserted the spot; he was alone and he kneeled down. Then he jumped in amazement: in front of him, amidst the hot ashes, an object was gleaming in the light from the setting sun. With the help of a branch, he pulled it towards him: it was a nugget of gold, gold melted by the heat of the brazier, gleaming and tear-shaped.

  It was all that remained of the case that had contained the letter of the thirteenth apostle; all that remained of the last Grand Master of the Temple; all that remained of the real treasure of the Templars.

  Like many other people, the priest knew that the Templars were innocent, that their terrible death was in fact a martyrdom: devoutly, he pressed his lips to the golden teardrop, which seemed to him to be still burning even though it was only tepid. It was the relic of a saint, the equal of all those who have given their lives for Jesus’s memory. He entrusted it to the envoy of Pope Clement, who died within the year.

  After many perilous adventures, the teardrop later fell into the hands of a Rector of the Society of St Pius V – who managed to discover its meaning, since not all the Templars had perished at the start of the fourteenth century. Nothing is more difficult to suppress than memory.

  He kept this indirect testimony to the rebellion of the thirteenth apostle against the dominant Church as a precious addition to the Society’s treasures.

  67

  The entrance hall was in fact the living room of a vast patrician residence. Just a skip and a jump from the buzz of the city centre, the Via Giulia offered to Rome the charm of its arcades covered with wisteria, and several old palaces transformed into hotels that were at once familiar, luxurious and convivial.

  “Could you please tell Signor Barjona that I would like to see him?”

  The receptionist, dressed with distinction in black, gazed at this early visitor. A middle-aged man, greying hair, non-descript clothes – an admirer, a foreign journalist? He pursed his lips.

  “The maestro came back very late last night, we never disturb him before…”

  As naturally as possible, the visitor pulled from his pocket a twenty-dollar bill and handed it to the receptionist.

  “He’ll be delighted to see me, and if that were not the case I would make it up to you by the same amount again. Tell him
that his old friend from the club is waiting for him: he’ll understand.”

  “What the hell’s the idea, Ari, dragging me out of bed at this time, on the day before a concert? And to begin with, what are you doing in Rome? You ought to be enjoying your retirement in Jaffa in peace and quiet and leave me alone. I’m not under your command any more!”

  “True, but nobody ever leaves Mossad, Lev, and you are under their command, still. Come on, relax! I was just passing through Europe, and I’m taking advantage of the opportunity to see you, that’s all. How’s your Roman tour going?”

  “It’s going well. But this evening I’m starting with Rachmaninov’s Third – it’s a terrifying monument, and I need to concentrate. So do you still have relatives in Europe?”

  “A Jew always has relatives somewhere. Your family, well, they’re really the service I trained you up in when you were still a teenager. And they’re worried about you in Jerusalem. Whatever led you to follow that French monk onto the Rome express after reserving his entire compartment? Who’d given you orders to do so? Did you want to do the previous operation all over again, but alone this time? Did I ever tell you to go solo in an operation?”

  Lev pulled a face and lowered his eyes.

  “I didn’t have time to warn Jerusalem, it all went so quickly…”

  Ari clenched his fists and interrupted him.

  “Don’t lie, not to me. You know perfectly well that, ever since your accident, you haven’t been the same. You’ve been flirting with death for years now. There are times when you allow yourself to get overwhelmed by a hankering for danger – it has a perfume that arouses you like a drug. Then you don’t think any more – just imagine what would have happened if Father Nil in turn had had an accident?”

  “It would have been a real headache for the people in the Vatican. I hate them with all my soul, Ari: they were the ones who allowed the Nazis who had exterminated my family to escape to Argentina.”

  Ari looked at him with tenderness.

  “It’s no longer the time for hatred, but for justice. And it’s inconceivable, unacceptable, that you should take political decisions at such a level without getting permission. You’ve shown you’re no longer able to control yourself: we need to protect you against yourself. From now on, you are absolutely forbidden to carry out any operations in the field. The little Lev who used to play with his life as if it were a musical score has grown up. You’re a celebrity now: carry on with the mission we’ve entrusted you with, keep tabs on Mukhtar Al-Quraysh, and concentrate on the French monk. No more direct action as far as you’re concerned.”

  68

  Nil was filled with excitement as he went into the Academy of Santa Cecilia. The last time he’d been to a concert was in Paris, just before he entered the monastery. That had been quite a while ago.

  The auditorium is small and almost intimate in size. It was now humming with gossip and, in the middle of the gala costumes, the scarlet cassocks of several cardinals could be seen. Leeland held the two invitation cards to the usher, who led them to the twentieth row, slightly to the left.

  “From here your view won’t be interrupted by the lid of the piano, Monsignor; you’ll be able to watch the soloist.”

  They sat in silence. Ever since his arrival in Rome, Nil had sensed that something had snapped between himself and Leeland: the complete and absolute trust that had enabled them to remain so close to one another in spite of their physical distance and the years of separation had broken down. It seemed to him that he had lost his last and only friend.

  The orchestra was already in its place. Suddenly the lights in the hall dimmed, and the conductor made his entrance, followed by the pianist. Thunderous applause broke out, and the American leant towards Nil.

  “Lev Barjona has already given several recitals here, the audience know and admire him.”

  The conductor bowed, but Lev Barjona went straight over to the piano and sat down, without looking at the audience. From his seat, Nil could see only the right side of his profile, crowned by a mane of blond hair. When the conductor climbed onto the podium, the pianist raised his eyes and smiled at him. Then he nodded, and the vibrant hum of the violins was heard, the steady beat of a deep pulse announcing the entry of the piano. As soon as this repetitive, obsessive cadence reached him, the pianist’s face became set like that of a robot.

  Nil suddenly had a flashback: he had already seen that expression somewhere. But Lev’s hands were now on the piano, and the first-movement theme rose up like the nostalgic reminder of a lost world, that of the happiness that had been lost since the October Revolution. Nil closed his eyes. Rachmaninov’s music swept him away in a sled, across frozen wastes of snow, then along the road to exile, to the gates of death and abandonment.

  By the end of the second movement, the audience was enraptured. Leeland again leant across to Nil.

  “The third movement is one of the most difficult pieces in the whole repertoire.”

  Lev Barjona was dazzling, but hardly acknowledged the audience, which had risen to its feet as one, before walking off into the wings. Flushed with pleasure, Leeland was clapping like mad. Then, suddenly, he stopped.

  “I know Lev, he won’t return to the stage, he never gives an encore. Come on, let’s see if we can say hello to him.”

  They pushed their way through the crowd that was stamping with enthusiasm and crying, “Bravo! Bravo! Encore!”

  In the box reserved for the Vatican, Cardinal Catzinger was applauding with detachment. He had received a note labelled molto confidenziale from the Secretary of State, warning him about the Israeli pianist. “He may be a dodgy character, perhaps, but what a virtuoso!”

  Suddenly he froze: he had just spotted, down among the audience, Leeland’s elegant silhouette, followed by the grey head of Nil. They were heading towards the left of the stage, making for the wings – the artists’ dressing rooms.

  * * *

  “Rembert! Shalom, what a pleasure to see you!”

  Surrounded by pretty women, Lev Barjona embraced Leeland and then turned to Nil.

  “And this must be your friend… Pleased to meet you. Do you like Rachmaninov?”

  Nil, transfixed, did not return his greeting. The Israeli was now standing in the full light, and for the first time he could see his face clearly: there was a scar running from his left ear right into his mane of hair.

  The man from the train!

  Lev was completely at ease and pretended that he had not noticed his stupefaction. He leant towards Leeland and whispered, with a smile: “You’ve come at just the right time, I was trying to get away from this bevy of female admirers. After each concert, I need a few hours to come back down to earth, a little oasis of calm and silence.”

  He turned to Nil.

  “It would be a great pleasure for me if you would have dinner with me. We could go to a discreet trattoria – and with two monks, silence is absolutely guaranteed: you’ll be the ideal dinner companions to help me emerge from the world of Rachmaninov. Wait for me at the artists’ exit, I’ll get away from these bothersome women, get changed and meet you there.”

  Lev Barjona’s smile and charm were irresistible, and he obviously knew it: he didn’t wait for a reply, and headed off into the wings, leaving Nil rooted to the spot in amazement.

  The man from the train! What had he been doing alone with Nil in a crowded Rome express, and what had he been about to do when the ticket collector had suddenly come into their compartment?

  He was going to have dinner with him, face to face…

  Part Three

  69

  Late that evening, the phone rang in the apartment at Castel Sant’Angelo: Alessandro Calfo jumped. He had just convinced Sonia (she was starting to put up with his demands less and less readily), and was putting the final touch to a complicated scenario which needed to run flawlessly.

  At a time like this, it could only be the Cardinal.

  It was indeed. He had only just got back to the Vatican
– the Academy of Santa Cecilia is very near. From the tone of his voice, Calfo immediately realized that something was wrong.

  “Monsignor, did you know about this?”

  “About what, Your Eminence?”

  “I’ve just this minute got back from a concert by the Israeli, Lev Barjona. A few days ago, our services alerted me about this man, and to my amazement I learnt that the Society of St Pius V had… how shall I put it… used his hidden talents. Who has authorized you to bring in foreign agents to act in the name of the Vatican?”

  “Your Eminence, Lev Barjona has never been a Vatican agent! First and foremost, he’s an eminent pianist, and the reason I accepted his collaboration was that he’s a son of Abraham like us, and he understands a great many things. But I’ve never actually set eyes on him.”

  “Well I have, just now, at Santa Cecilia. And guess who there was in the audience?”

  Calfo sighed.

  “Your two monks,” continued Catzinger, “the American and the Frenchman.”

  “Your Eminence… what harm is there in going to listen to some nice music?”

  “For one thing, a monk has no place going to a theatre. And above all, I spotted them heading for the wings at the end of the concert. They will doubtless have met Lev Barjona.”

  “I very much hope,” thought Calfo, “that they have indeed met him.”

  “Your Eminence,” he said aloud, “a long time ago in Jerusalem, Leeland made the acquaintance of Barjona, who was a pupil of Arthur Rubinstein. He shares a passion for music with him. It does not seem at all odd that…”

  Catzinger interrupted him.

  “May I remind you that Leeland works at the Vatican, and that it was me who authorized you to use him as a bait for Father Nil? It is highly dangerous to let them meet such a diabolical person as that Lev Barjona. You know just as well as I do that he’s not just a talented musician. My patience is exhausted: during the week leading up to Christmas I have to celebrate mass every morning in my titulum of Santa Maria in Cosmedin, starting from tomorrow. Make sure Leeland is available to meet me tomorrow, in the early afternoon. I’ll see him in my office and remind him of his responsibilities. As for you, don’t forget that you are in the service of the Church, which rules out your taking certain… initiatives.”