by Martin Rua
56
The Masks Come Off
Events reconstructed by the police
Piazza San Pietro, January, 2013 – 19:40
As soon as he had left the Nervi Auditorium, Pope James had been approached by a man in the uniform of the Vatican gendarmerie who had handed him a small object.
“Please, Your Holiness, wear this earpiece.”
James had recognized a northern European accent in the man’s Italian. Maybe German. He had taken it and placed it in his ear.
“Why don’t you release the people in the auditorium? I’ll do what you want.”
He had addressed the man in German, to gauge his reaction.
The other had remained impassive and had merely gestured to Piazza San Pietro.
“Gehen Sie zu dem Platz, bitte.”
So he was right. Without another word, he had set off for the centre of Piazza San Pietro with his escort, and stopped in front of the Vatican obelisk.
Now he was there, his eyes proud but at the same time respectful, facing the Basilica which was shrouded in darkness. The man in uniform was at his side. He waited for something to happen, but in the vast square there was only darkness and the earpiece remained silent. He looked around and could see the furtive shadows of snipers on the roof of Bernini’s colonnade, men from the security force that had been set up for the summit. If the pontiff ran any risk, if anyone tried to make an attempt on his life, he would be picked off by one of those snipers, who were among the best in the world. But what would be the consequences for the people in the Nervi Auditorium?
The Pope moved his gaze to the staircase leading to the entry of the Basilica and then, along the facade of the Maderno. He paused to read the engraving under the entablature that, despite the darkness, was visible through the pale moon that night.
IN HONOREM PRINCIPIS APOST PAVLVS V BVRGHESIVS ROMANVS PONT MAX AN MDCXII PONT VII.
In honour of the prince of the apostles Paolo V Borghese Pontifex Maximus Romano. Year 1612. Seventh year of the pontificate.
All his life, first priestly and then pontifical, Pope Sinclair had sought humility and modesty, never showing ambition or flaunting his noble origins. Kneeling in front of the house of God, at the tomb of Peter and the many other successors of the first pope, was a joy for him. But it weighed heavily upon his heart that he was doing it to meet the demands of a murderer.
The minutes passed without anything happening, until, suddenly, a strange hum came from the earpiece, followed immediately by a metallic voice.
“Good evening, Holy Father,” it said, “you were very wise to accept our conditions.”
The Pope didn’t move.
“Very good. Keep looking straight ahead of you, at your church. Soon someone will come out from the Basilica. When he has reached the bottom of the stairs, you, Holy Father, will kneel. If you don’t, the people in the Nervi Auditorium will die like rats in a trap. We can kill them instantly. So, are we in agreement? You may simply nod, Holy Father – a small gesture of assent.”
James hesitated, then bowed his head slightly. It seemed he had no choice but to bow before evil. A few seconds later, a hooded figure clad in a long black habit emerged from the Basilica, followed by a man in a dark suit. At the same time, in the earpieces of the snipers on the colonnade, which a moment before had not been working thanks to the electromagnetic wave, a buzzing voice began to speak.
“If any of you heroes even thinks of firing a shot, your Pope will be killed immediately. In addition to the men you see in the square, we have dozens of guns trained on him.”
The dark figure moved slowly, as though savouring the moment, and when it reached the top of the stairs it found the Pope kneeling at the foot. Its escort walked ahead and moved aside one of the barriers blocking off access to the large flight of stairs. The figure in the habit then began to descend, pausing at each step, seemingly oblivious to the icy cold of the square. His gait had something regal, yet also contemptuous, about it.
Having reached the bottom of the stairs, the figure took a few more steps towards the Pope, then stopped. The two men now faced each other from a distance, one dressed all in white and the other all in black.
The metallic voice sounded again in James’s ear.
“Good. And now, Pope, save the life of your flock. On your knees!”
The Pope looked up at the sky and asked the Lord’s forgiveness for what he was about to do. Immediately all the cameras trained on the square which had followed the slow procession of the guests at the opening concert of the summit and which had been knocked out by the electromagnetic pulse, began working again simultaneously, as did all the other electronic systems which had been down. The image was beamed via satellite to televisions around the world, shocking the whole planet: the head of the Catholic Church knelt before a hooded man.
James was on his knees, looking straight ahead, while the hooded figure began to move towards him. The earpieces of the snipers positioned on the colonnade became functional again, and they instantly received a precise order.
“Nobody shoot!”
Only inches now separated the pontiff from the man in black, who reached out to the face of James and showed him two rings. “Now, Brandon Tyler Sinclair, kiss my rings,” he said, his voice unctuous.
James looked up and saw the coat of arms on the big rings. “But this is—”
The man in black nodded, and James’s eyes alighted upon the small emblem which was visible on the habit. A crude wooden cross, surrounded by the symbols of mercy – olives – and justice – the sword. The coat of arms of the Inquisition. He could not understand.
“What are you playing at? Why are you wearing that robe?”
On one of the rings was the swastika with the sword of the Thule Society, and on the other was the arms of the Borgias, the symbol of the archbishop of La Plata.
“My family was powerful, respected and feared – until history trampled upon it without restraint,” said Caesar Valentin Vorjas. “It is time for the Borgias to return to their rightful place. The new alliance that we have formed is a child of these changing times. Together, Thule and I will do what none of you has yet been able to do: wipe out the infidels and restore the Church to its role of great power. The real role of the Inquisition. After all, it was you who put me in charge of the congregation, was it not?”
James shook his head, distraught.
“Caesar, the symbol that you wear on your finger is allied with evil. It is a harbinger of death and pain. It is not a new alliance, it is an ancient pact with the Devil! The Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith no longer punishes, it puts the lost back upon the path of the righteous.”
“Precisely! And you are one of those who must be put back on that path! I will dominate the world from Peter’s throne, ushering in an era of moral rigour, persecuting the infidels and founding a new church,” hissed Vorjas, his body trembling with fury.
“The black pope—” muttered James, “just as Malachy prophesied.”
The hooded man gave a muffled laugh and moved his hand even closer to James’s face.
“Kiss my rings, Holiness – kiss them now. Or the bomb will instantly kill ten thousand people waiting in the auditorium.”
The Pope lowered his head. “Stop this horror, Caesar, I will do as you wish.”
He sighed, kissed the ring with the arms of the Borgias and the one with the swastika, then slowly pulled back, as though it had cost him great effort.
Vorjas began to laugh loudly, enjoying his moment of triumph.
“You can never implement your plan, Caesar. I will stop you. You have concealed your face to the world behind a mask, but I know who you are.”
Vorjas looked at him with evil eyes from under his hood, and James knew.
“I understand. Humiliating me is not enough for you. You want to kill me… here, live, before the whole world, in front of the tomb of Peter. This is the punishment that as inquisitor you inflict?”
Vorjas nodded.
“You will fall, and with you your crazed ideas of reform and reconciliation. I, however, Cardinal Vorjas, will rise as a defender of the true principles of the Church. At the next conclave after your death, no one will object to my election. And the Thule will be by my side. It will be my shadow army.”
The Pope held Vorjas’s gaze, and, a serious, determined expression on his face, said, “So be it. Kill me, but save the people in the Sala Nervi, I beg you.”
Vorjas cocked his head, as though considering. In reality he was listening to something in the earpiece that he, too, was wearing.
“What? Are you sure? All right, let’s proceed with the Final Solution.”
He returned his gaze to the Pope and clenched his fists.
“A person to whom I was very close has been murdered.”
His voice was full of hatred and pain, and an evil man driven by those two feelings is capable of anything.
“This leaves me no choice. Today, as well as you we will also sacrifice the heads of state of some of the most important countries in the world and all the people in the Sala Nervi. Ten thousand useless lives seems a fair price to pay for what you have done.”
The pope shook his head slowly. “No, Caesar, no! In the name of God, don’t do it!”
“In this moment, Your Holiness, I am God.”
Vorjas touched his right ear and was immediately connected to all the snipers around the square. “Listen to me very carefully. Whatever happens, make sure you do not shoot. If anything happens to me or my men, the Nervi Auditorium will be blown to smithereens, taking with it the people inside and the left aisle of St. Peter’s.”
Then he spread his arms, and the man who was standing behind the Pope put the barrel of his gun at the nape of the pontiff’s neck.
James closed his eyes and gave his soul to his creator.
57
The Alchemical Door
Events reconstructed by Lorenzo Aragona
Piazza Vittorio Emanuele, Rome, January, 2013 – 20:00
The largest square in the city had already begun to empty an hour earlier, but many people were still strolling under the arches which surrounded the gardens.
We reached Piazza Vittorio Emanuele II in two minutes. It appeared before our eyes in the orange light of the street lamps, a cold wind blowing across it. Ferraris parked on the corner of Via Mamiani and we immediately headed towards the park that occupied the centre of the square – the place where centuries before there had been gardens and villas, including that of the Marquis of Palombara.
“The best-known owner of the villa was the Marquis Massimiliano Palombara, an alchemist and esoteric scholar,” I told them as we walked towards one of the park’s entrances. “He was a friend of Queen Christina of Sweden. After she abdicated, she lived in exile here in Rome, and she was a regular guest of the esoteric circle which met in that mysterious house.”
Oscar, who knew the place, however, had listened carefully to my words. “And you think the Door of Ruach Elohim is the Magic Door?”
“Yes, I’m in no doubt. The Door of the Ruach Elohim must be the Magic Door. It is also known as Alchemical Door, and it’s all that remains of Villa Palombara after the devastating demolitions which took place on the Esquiline hill in the late nineteenth century.”
We reached the gate just as a caretaker was about to close up.
“Hang on a minute, where are you lot going? The park’s closed,” the startled man said in irritation.
Ferraris showed his badge.
“Police – it’s an emergency, let us in.”
The man stepped back and watched with curiosity as we walked swiftly towards the corner of the park occupied by the ruins of the so-called Trophies of Marius. The ruins are located opposite the entrance of Villa Palombara, and are reduced to nothing more than a small secondary door embellished with alchemical symbols.
We reached the fence that closes off the door and Roman remains, and helped each other over it. The door, which had been removed from its original position during the architectural renovation work of the nineteenth century, and reconstructed in the gardens of Piazza Vittorio in 1888, was resting against a piece of the old outside wall of St. Eusebius’ church, which stands not far from there. On either side of the door were two monstrous statues of the Egyptian god Bes from the Quirinale Gardens, put there apparently for purely decorative purposes.
“Here we are,” I said, focusing my attention first of all upon the two statues. “Now that I come to think about it, if this doorway really is the gateway through which the Guardian of the Threshold can be trapped, whoever put those two statues here knew what he was about.”
Oscar nodded. “Bes, the guardian and protector of the house.”
I looked back at him and nodded. “The good version of the Guardian of the Threshold.”
“It looks as though you were right, Lorenzo,” said Anna showing me her grandfather’s Codex Baffometi, “look at the symbols in my grandfather’s notes and compare them with those on the door.”
I examined Vladimir Glyz’s notes and drawings and nodded.
“Your grandfather wanted to guide us here. See those two words in Hebrew on the lintel? I remembered that detail and realised that this was the gate the code referred to.”
“Ruach Elohim.”
“The Spirit of God.”
“Then let’s get started.”
We placed the Baphomet near the door, with the keys still inserted in their holes, and opened the Codex again to see how to proceed with the ritual.
Anna’s finger raced along her grandfather’s notes.
“Look at the designs aligned along the edge of the paper.”
I pointed to the idol. “It’s the alchemical symbols present on the door and on the Baphomet, but it looks like they’ve been set down in the wrong order.”
“Indeed. The first sentence says, “Follow my words and you cannot go wrong. The diameter of the sphere, the tau of the circle, the cross of the globe do not help the blind’. And then there are the symbol of the circled cross and another symbol next to it.”
“That must mean that we have to align one of the keys and the corresponding letter of the Chaldean alphabet with a symbol of the gate. Let’s read the inscriptions.”
The door, four simple marble blocks arranged to create a frame, with a circle bearing the symbol of the Star of David on top like a seal, was decorated with engravings reproducing alchemical symbols – the same symbols as those shown on the Baphomet and in Vladimir Glyz’s notes. Each symbol was accompanied by an inscription that explained its function.
“Symbols and inscriptions represent a perfect synthesis of the Great Work,” I said studying the door carefully. “And if you speak the language, the various steps of the Work are simplicity itself. As we alchemists say, ’our art is child’s play’. Here, here’s the inscription mentioned in your grandfather’s notes: DIAMETER SPHERAE THAU CIRCULI CRUX ORBIS NON ORBIS PROSUNT. The symbol is very stylised, but it’s obviously that of Jupiter.”
Anna knelt in front of the Baphomet and after a moment found the symbol.
“There it is – it’s exactly the same.”
I knelt down too and turned the disc with the keys to align it to the symbol of Jupiter, a stylized image of the thunderbolt of the father of the gods. Immediately, it lit up, as did its counterpart on the door.
Oscar and Ferraris and stepped back in astonishment.
“My God—” murmured poor Ferraris, who had been dragged into all this against his will, “and to think that I come past here every day on my way to the office—”
“My dear Ferraris, when you’re dealing with Lorenzo, even the bar where you have your morning coffee will never seem the same again,” replied Oscar.
“Ok, it looks like we’re on the right track – go on, Anna,” I said, nodding.
“’If you have made the earth over your head fly with its feathers you will turn to stone the waters of the rivers…’. Then there is the symbol of th
e Nine and this one, look.”
I looked at the symbols she was indicating and found them on the Baphomet, then quickly scanned the words along the Alchemic Door.
“Here it is: SI FECERIS VOLARE TERRAM SUPER CAPUT TUUM EIUS PENNIS AQUAS TORRENTUM CONVERTES IN PETRAM. The symbol to line up is that of Venus.”
I rotated the disc again to align the key and symbols, and the sign of Venus – in the form of a stylized mirror – lit up, both on the Baphomet and on the door.
While we were exulting over this next step, Oscar’s phone rang.
“Yes? Ah, Volta, it’s you. Yes, it looks like we’re on the right track. What? Oh my God… Ok. Let’s hope it works. Speak to you later.”
Anna and I turned to look at him.
“That bird is causing mischief in Porta Maggiore, not far from here,” said an ashen faced Oscar, “and there’s more. It seems that the Pope has accepted Woland’s conditions. He knelt in St. Peter’s Square in front of a hooded man, and the scene was transmitted live around the world.”
I turned to Anna and, my voice trembling and my throat dry, said, “Let’s complete the ritual. Come on, quickly.”
Anna held my gaze for a moment, her intense blue eyes brimming with anguish, then resumed reading aloud the Codex.
“’He who can burn with water and wash with fire makes the earth heaven, and heaven precious earth.’ This is the symbol.”
She showed me her grandfather’s drawing and I spotted the sign on the Baphomet and the inscription on the door. “QUI SCIT COMBURERE AQUA ET LAVARE IGNE FACIT DE TERRA CAELUM ET DE CAELO TERRAM PRETIOSAM. The symbol is Mars.”
Again I lined up the symbols, and the sign of Mars – the spear and shield – lit up.
Without hesitating, we rapidly carried on with the other three symbols shown and their inscriptions.
AZOT ET IGNIS DEALBANDO LATONAM VENIET SINE VESTE DIANA.
“The symbol is Mercury—”
QUANDO IN TUA DOMO NIGRI CORVI PARTURIENT ALBAS COLUMBAS TUNC VOCABERIS SAPIENS.
“Saturn—”