Death of a Pharaoh

  Father Marco felt no need to remain in Valencia. His team would provide constant updates as the truck made its way north. The distance was just under one thousand kilometers and with rest breaks, he expected the trip to take twelve hours. He had enough time. He intended to fly to Santiago with a brief stop in Madrid where the Secretary of the Papal Nuncio, Padre Javier, would be waiting at the airport with a letter of introduction for the Dean of the Cathedral Chapter asking him to provide whatever assistance necessary to him and reiterating the need for absolute secrecy.

  He dispatched a team to pose as pilgrims and Cathedral security to keep a discreet eye on the delivery and the entombment of the coffin. He had no desire to interfere until the Servants of Ma’at departed with the false security that they had accomplished their mission. He would pay anything to be present when they returned later, only to discover that the crypt was empty.

  On his arrival in Santiago that afternoon, a driver sent by the Archbishop met him outside the baggage hall. Word went ahead that he was on a mission sanctioned by the Holy Father himself. They reserved a suite for him in the former pilgrim’s hostel, now a national Parador, on the famous Obreiro Square in front of the imposing façade of the cathedral. As usual, the area was crowded with pilgrims, despite the cool weather, and even more weekend tourists following guides with signs in various languages. The appeal of Santiago was truly universal and it had the same feel as Rome but on a much smaller scale. None of the visitors could even imagine that in less than 48 hours, Santiago would house an attraction far greater than Saint Peter’s, the Papal Mass, the Sistine Chapel and La Pieta by Michelangelo combined.

  Father Marco registered at the hotel, dropped his bag then headed directly to the Office of the Dean to introduce himself. There was a pilgrim’s mass in progress when he entered the Cathedral and the team of six robed men had only just started to swing the extraordinary incense burner that weighed some 80 kilos and reached speeds of 68 kilometers per hour as it soared above the heads of the faithful.

  Father Marco became as transfixed as the rest of the congregation as the gigantic thurible rapidly gained height and velocity with heads moving from left to right as if everyone was watching a celestial tennis match. Large plumes of scented smoke wafted over the crowd and he remembered that originally the incense served to hide the odor of the great unwashed as they arrived after months on the road and few opportunities to bath. The Catholic Church had always been adept at mixing the spiritual with the practical.

  He felt some nostalgia for those weeks he spent doing the Way of Saint James as a young seminarian. They were glorious days filled with companionship, song and prayer. Sadly, he couldn’t even remember the last time he truly enjoyed himself. His sacred responsibilities as Director of Sanctus Verum had aged him prematurely and he missed the innocence of his youth willingly sacrificed on the altar of his zealotry.

  Fortunately his emotional drought was about to end. With the recovery of the body of Jesus, he would have provided one of the greatest services in the history of the Church. Surely, the Pope would make him an Archbishop out of gratitude, perhaps even a Cardinal. The centuries old threat created by the revelation of the report of Rahotep would be eradicated at long last. The physical proof that Christ never rose from the dead would be safely in their hands. The faithful would continue to believe and all would endure, as it should. He only needed to be patient for another three days.

  The Holy Father asked him to notify him in person the moment he confirmed the identity of the body. He possessed a direct number that the Pope answered himself without the call going through his secretary. Father Marco found himself overwhelmed with emotion. It was so out of character. Pilgrims around him also cried with happiness; and relief that they didn’t have to walk anymore. Father Marco’s long journey was also near an end. He wiped away his tears and turned to seek out the Office of the Dean. He had a recovery operation to supervise.

  Chapter Forty

  Motorway near Montblanc, Catalonia, Spain, 16.41 CEST, November 11, 2016

  Zach nudged Ryan to wake him from a nap just in time to see the white stone castle of Montblanc on the left. They were close to their destination. The driver exited the toll highway a few minutes later and almost immediately, they could see the walls of the 12th century Royal Abbey of Saint Mary of Poblet, surrounded by fields of grape vines recently pruned for the winter.

  Ethan explained in Dakar that an order of Cistercian monks ran the monastery first built on land retaken from Moorish invaders. In the early part of the 13th Century, the brothers offered refuge to members of the Cathar sect fleeing murderous Papal persecution in the Languedoc region of France. Many were Servants of Ma’at and dozens of them joined the order establishing a relationship that continued to this day. The Abbot and key members of the congregation were dedicated lifelong members.

  The monastery, lovingly restored, was a UNESCO world heritage site, a coveted spiritual retreat and the tomb of the Kings and Queens of Aragon. These factors aided in their decision to select Poblet as the final resting place of the Pharaoh Jesus. Archeologists working in secret at night enlarged one of the royal tombs in the church to receive the modified coffin in a private ceremony early the next morning.

  As the driver pulled through an arch, Ryan could see Ethan standing in front of an impressive medieval tower beside two monks with their long white robes topped with distinctive black hoods. Several tourists snapped photos of the welcoming committee. The driver pulled between them and the greeting party to ensure that no one captured Ryan’s face.

  “My Lord Pharaoh, may I present Father Josep Grau, the Abbot and Father Enric Martell, the Prior,” Ethan announced.

  Ryan shook hands and followed them into the tower then through another set of doors into a private reception area away from the lenses of curious visitors.

  “My apologies for the lack of ceremony, my Lord but we wanted to avoid what you Americans refer to as a Kodak moment,” the Abbot explained.

  “I understand,” Ryan replied. “This is my friend Zach.”

  Zach shook hands with the monks then Father Enric offered them chairs. “May I interest you in some refreshments or perhaps a glass of our excellent wine?” he inquired.

  “Something cold would be great,” Ryan suggested.

  Zach nodded in agreement.

  “My Lord, we are deeply honored to be able to provide this great service,” the Abbot assured Ryan.

  “We are grateful that my revered predecessor will have such a beautiful place to rest,” Ryan replied then turned to Ethan, “What is the ETA for the hearse?”

  “About one hour. You will have time to see your rooms and change if you like before he arrives.”

  “That would be perfect.”

  “My Lord, please follow me,” the Prior motioned.

  He led the Pharaoh up a staircase to a room located on the third level of the tower. Two small windows provided views of the courtyard where they had arrived and the magnificent bell tower with beautiful carved arches. It was truly a wonderful place and he looked forward to a tour later. This was Ryan’s first time in Europe and the thought of castles and ancient churches excited him. He showered quickly and selected more somber colored clothes. Zach knocked to let him know that it was time to head down. Ethan waited for them at the bottom of the stairs.

  “Unfortunately, Lady Mariam wouldn’t even be allowed past that door,” Ethan pointed out.

  “Good reason not to join the order, but I bet none of them die from stress related diseases either,” Ryan observed.

  “They always have each other,” Zach commented as if he was still in prison.

  “Where are they bringing the body?”

  “Through a private gate in the back,” Ethan responded, “They’ll take us there now.”

  A monk waited to act as their guide. They passed a long hall on the right and he explained that for centuries it was where they made their wine. Now they sold the grapes to a commercial winery that provided t
hem with enough for their own needs. They passed a printing press then several storage buildings before arriving at a gate that was open.

  The members of the order gathered around the Abbot. No one spoke as all eyes focused on the lane outside the walls. It wasn’t every day these devote Christians would receive the body of their Savior. When he announced the decision a weeks ago, each of them swore never to leave these walls for the rest of their natural lives. In the future, they would only accept novices chosen from among members of the Servants of Ma’at to safeguard the extraordinary secret these ancient walls would soon hold. The rules of the congregation had always included a vow of silence in public but now it took on added importance.

  A group of three monks standing on the right were the first to see the black hearse arrive. They didn’t know whether to kneel, make the sign of the cross or prostrate themselves on the ground. Ryan was also at a loss for an appropriate reaction. When the vehicle stopped, the Abbot signaled for him to come forward to lend his shoulder as a pallbearer. It was a deeply moving experience as they slowly carried the coffin along pathways lined with brick and shaded by ancient Cypress trees. The smell of roses filled his nostrils then faded to that of incense and burning wax when they entered the solitude of the church. The late afternoon sun poured through a large circular stained glass window at the far end of the main apse and painted the creamy stone floor with dapples of pastel colors. The effect was marvelous. They left the coffin on a temporary stand in front of the main altar in the shadow of a dramatic wrought iron cross. The setting was as perfect as any of them could have hoped. Truly, it was a tomb fit for the King of Kings.

  The monks placed four tall candles, one at each corner. They would keep a prayer vigil all night. The Abbot made certain everything was in order then invited Ryan and his friends for dinner in the refectory. They crossed through the cloister where a monk indicated they should wash their hands in the spouts of water emanating from an ancient fountain.

  The dining room had one long table and a raised pulpit on one wall that they used for readings during most meals; although the Father Abbot waved the tradition tonight, as well as the rule of silence in deference to his guests. The roast chicken in garlic sauce was simple but delicious. The wine was black like ink and a bit strong for Ryan who was more of a beer man. Zach seemed to like it very much. Ethan was on duty and only drank water. Father Martell, a published historian, offered a fascinating account of the role of the monastery over time including its place in Catalonian nationalism. He also expounded at length on the origins and fate of the Cathar heresy that had generated countless legends related to the Holy Grail. Ryan understood why so many Servants of Ma’at had been attracted to Catharism as the two philosophies shared similar concepts of good and evil.

  After the meal, Ryan and the others excused themselves to have a meeting to review dispatches from Philadelphia and the logistics for the trip to Cairo the next afternoon. Many of his guests were already at the hotel near Saqqara awaiting their arrival. Susan and Alexander had landed a few hours ago. The monks began their day before dawn so it would be an early night for everyone. Ryan wanted to experience their schedule and a friar agreed to knock to wake him at 4.30 am for matins.

  Not a sound from the outside world intruded on the nocturnal calm of Poblet and especially through the thick walls of the tower where Ryan stayed; cloaked in the most absolute blanket of silence and darkness. One so profound that he feared the obscurity might drown him even before the water. It wasn’t enough to keep his nightmare at bay and he soon found himself in a lake devoid of even a sliver of light. A soft noise pulled him back from the depths of his unconscious mind and dropped him into a reality just as black and bathed in sweat.

  “Mi Señor?” someone whispered followed by a light knock on the door. “It is time to get up,” the voice announced.

  “Thank you,” Ryan replied, “I am awake.”

  His caller’s departure was so quiet, he wondered for a moment if he was still waiting outside.

  “Hello!” he tested. There was no answer; even their feet took a vow of silence it seemed.

  He struggled to find a light switch then stumbled to the bathroom sink to throw some water on his face. God it was early. He wouldn’t be surprised if Lord Thoth received a “to be continued” message on his dream file. He deeply admired the devotion of these monks but he was glad he didn’t have to keep these hours every day of his life, year after year, until the end of time. Amen!

  He dressed in the wrinkled shirt he had forgotten to hang the night before then unlatched his door, making an effort not to disturb a peace so thick that it hung in the air like an invisible fog. The flickering of a tall red votive candle illuminated his path to the staircase. Centuries of pious comings and goings had worn the steps smooth. A tenuous light allowed him to avoid a collision with the ancient wooden door leading to the cloister. He pushed forward with his right arm. It was heavier than he remembered. He stepped down into the cloister and was hit with a wave of sweet citrusy jasmine perfume and enveloped in a veil of utter darkness. The door pulled shut behind him and locked, probably to keep tourists out of the private quarters.

  He waited for a moment hoping his eyes would adjust but when they didn’t he reached for the stone wall and began to feel his way forward. He shuddered when he remembered that numerous ossuaries hung along the length of the cloister with the bones of former abbots. Despite the gruesome thought, his confidence grew with each step.

  He sensed the monk’s presence even before he made out the shape of the cowl covering his head.

  “May I guide you?” he asked. He possessed a voice of remarkable richness that Ryan knew he would never forget.

  He assented with a nod, his heart still racing from the fright of the sudden apparition.

  The monk reached for his hand. He expected visions of piety or even an innocent bit of not so pious brotherly love but instead he winced as a blinding light exploded in his skull. He almost fainted from the intensity. He was still recovering when the man spoke again.

  “I have long desired to meet you, my Lord Pharaoh.”

  “Have you been here at Poblet long?” Ryan asked as they strolled along.

  “I too have only just arrived,” he answered.

  “It is a beautiful place.”

  “You chose well, my Lord,” he commented as he turned, his face still hidden by the cowl. “This is the entrance to the church. I will leave you now but we shall meet again soon.”

  Ryan was about to ask why he wasn’t coming in when the church door opened and Ethan peered out.

  “My Lord, they are waiting for you.”

  “I forgot a flashlight but thank goodness someone showed up,” he explained. He turned to thank the monk but no one was there.

  Ethan stepped out to let him through. The Abbot and the rest of the congregation stood in the choir. There were two empty places beside Zach. Ryan walked toward them hoping he looked apologetic enough. The instant he settled in, the Abbot tapped the side of the carved wood with a small metal rod and the service began.

  The monks of Poblet prayed in Gregorian chant and the glorious notes of their supplications bounced off the stone hidden behind pre-dawn shadows that only seemed to enhance the acoustics. Ryan closed his eyes and wrapped himself in a rich liturgical cloak. He knew the sound of their chants would remain with him forever. It finished far too soon and they exited single file with the Abbot in the lead.

  Ryan sat beside Father Josep for the frugal breakfast of bread, butter, orange marmalade and warm milk colored with black coffee.

  “Did you enjoy our service?” the Abbot asked.

  “Inspiring,” was all he could think to say then added, “Sorry I was late.”

  “Not at all,” he assured him. “A few more moments of contemplation are never wasted.”

  “Father, one of your monks very kindly guided me through the darkness of the cloister but didn’t come in for prayers. Do you know who it might have been?”
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  The Abbot appeared confused. “It couldn’t have been a member of the congregation, everyone was in their stall before you arrived and your driver stayed at a guest house outside the walls. Are you certain you saw someone?”

  Ryan was about to answer that he was positive when he recalled the blinding light and changed his mind. “Perhaps it was only my imagination,” he assured the Abbot.

  There was only one other person in the monastery and he was in a coffin back in the church. Ryan felt his respirations accelerate. Surely, he hadn’t taken a walk with Jesus that morning. Yet nothing else made sense. He kept hearing the words, “…we shall meet again soon.”

  The interment would begin promptly at nine. Almost forty minutes remained and Ryan found himself drawn to the empty sanctuary, so different in the light of day. He stood before the coffin and prayed.

  “I know it was you in the cloister,” he began, “but I don’t understand why.”

  He hadn’t really expected a response but he paused anyway just in case.

  “Will we meet when I am called before the Gods?” he asked.

  There was only silence.

  “I feel our destinies are somehow intertwined,” he confessed.

  Ryan heard the side door open. One of the monks entered the church carrying a silver cone on a long handle for snuffing out the old candles and a long box with new ones. He had come to prepare the altar for the funeral mass. He bowed to the coffin then to Ryan. He extinguished the flame closest to where Ryan sat then bent down to extract a replacement. When he turned back, the flame burned brightly again. He shrugged and smothered it one more time. Ryan watched in amazement while he repeated the gesture three times to no avail. The candle would not go out. He took it as a signal.

  “We will talk again, I am certain.”

  This time only a wisp of smoke drifted upward after the monk removed the cone. Ryan whispered, “Thank you!” and went in search of the others.