Sacred Bones : A Novel

by Michael Byrnes

  I have named Joseph of Arimathea’s book Ephemeris Conlusio. In it are the secrets to our salvation.

  May God forgive me for my deeds.

  His faithful servant,

  Hugues de Payen

  Farouq carefully rolled up the yellowed parchment and returned it to the casket. He removed his glasses and sat back, waiting for Razak’s response.

  Finally Razak spoke up. “Tell me if I’ve got this right. In the twelfth century, the Knights Templar befriended a group of radical Jews—or perhaps Christians—who gave them the Ephemeris Conlusio, which led them to Jesus’s body, buried in a secret room beneath this very platform. Almost nine hundred years ago the Templars secured the crypt and secreted that casket together with the Ephemeris Conlusio beneath the floor. You yourself found the casket during excavations here in 1997.”

  “That is all correct.”

  Razak tried to absorb it. He was tempted to ask Farouq why the Templars would have hidden such extraordinary relics. But he knew the Keeper would only be able to speculate. It was obvious that the Knights Templar had been protecting an ancient secret. Knowing something of the tenuous relationship between the pope and the mercenaries during that time, it was quite possible that this knowledge had been retained as insurance— perhaps even blackmail—against the Church. It certainly helped explain the Templars’ rapid rise to power. But the piety in Hugues de Payen’s letter had suggested something else. Perhaps the Templars had retained noble intentions? After all, they too had once been protectors of this place. “How were you able to convince the Vatican to take action?”

  “Easily. I spoke to Father Patrick Donovan, the Vatican Library’s head curator. He is the one man I knew of who would have been absolutely aware of the Ephemeris Conlusio’s existence and, much more importantly, its implications. I mentioned it by name and he recognized it immediately. A few days later you delivered it to him in Rome. I correctly assumed that he would escalate things fast.”

  “What if he hadn’t recognized its name?”

  Farouq scoffed. “That wouldn’t have really mattered. I would still have persuaded him. The message couldn’t have been ignored.”

  “You took a very big risk doing all of this.”

  Based on that reaction, Farouq thought it best not to inform Razak that he’d further aided the thieves by smuggling explosives into Jerusalem— supplied by his Hezbollah contacts in Lebanon equally eager to topple the state of Israel. A second procurement had also been made at the thieves’ behest—a heavy-duty coring drill that Farouq had been told to purchase abroad in cash. Hezbollah had helped with that too.

  “Probability, Razak, my friend. It’s all about odds on a favorable outcome. In this case the numbers were in our favor, and I acted as I saw fit. I’ve said before that averting discovery of Jesus’s body preserves the teachings of both Islam and Christianity. Very regrettably lives have been sacrificed in the process...although they were only Jews. But if we’d done nothing, there would have been a much higher death toll—both physical and spiritual—of both Muslims and Christians. Only the Jews would have gained at our expense. I think you’ll agree that this outcome’s the best we could have expected.”

  Razak had to concede that there was undeniable, yet twisted, logic to Farouq’s thinking. It had been extremely devious damage control. “And how do you feel having learned of these contradictions to our teachings?”

  Farouq stared at the ceiling. “None of this should mean that we question our faith, Razak. It may mean we need to dig deeper for meaning. Even if those stolen bones truly were Jesus’s remains, I will not waver in my faith. Not over some old bones.”

  Razak recalled Barton saying something about pre-biblical texts viewing resurrection as a spiritual transformation—not a physical one. Though the word “resurrection” had survived for centuries, perhaps its meaning had somehow evolved into a more literal definition.

  “And Solomon’s Temple?”

  The Keeper pursed his lips. “Ancient history. Just like the city of Jebus that King David conquered and renamed Jerusalem one thousand years before Jesus’s time. The Jews shed a lot of innocent blood to lay claim to this so-called ‘Promised Land.’ Yet when the tables were turned, they felt violated. No one truly owns this place except Allah. For now, the Jews have regained control of Israel. But our very presence here, on this site, reminds them that the tide will once again reverse. Ultimately, it is up to Allah to decide who will be victorious.” Farouq circled round the desk and placed a hand on Razak’s shoulder. “Let us go to the mosque and pray.”

  68

  ******

  Rome

  Aldrich moved closer to Charlotte. “Charlie, what if I told you we could wipe away any disease with one injection—a serum so powerful that it can recode damaged DNA?”

  Her mouth opened, but no words came. She stared from the vial, to Evan, and back again. Could it be?

  “When I was at your house last week, I saw the medication in your refrigerator—the Melphalan...with your name on it.”

  A lump settled into her chest and her eyes welled up with tears. “I’ve been meaning to tell you, but—”

  She collapsed in his arms.

  “It’s okay,” he said softly.

  Her tears came stronger now. Then she sat bolt upright. “My pills! I left my pills back at the Vatican. I’m supposed to take them every day!”

  “Don’t worry about that,” he assured her. “You don’t need them. Not anymore.”

  She was momentarily puzzled.

  “Myeloma is one tough cancer,” he explained. “I know this must be tearing you up. And I know it’s probably why you’ve been distant lately. I pushed too hard last week. You’ve got so many other things on your mind right now. It was selfish of me.”

  Sobbing, she nodded. “I...I haven’t told anyone.”

  “I think that from now on, we need to make sure that you start opening up a little more before you emotionally implode,” he said with a smile. “I can take the tough stuff, Charlie. You need to be able to trust me.”

  Nodding, she reached over for the tissue box on the nightstand. “I’ve got to tell my dad, too.” She dabbed the tears away. “But I’m just afraid. He’s already had to deal with losing mom . . .”

  “You’re not going to have to tell him.”

  Evan’s comments were starting to bother her. “What are you talking about?”

  He cradled the precious vial. “If I’m right about this, there will be nothing to talk about. There’ll be no reason to keep popping Melphalan. I’d like you to be the first in my clinical trial.”

  She wiped her eyes. “Come on Evan, it can’t be that easy.”

  “That’s what I thought, too. But I think you’ll agree that when it comes to genetics, I know what I’m talking about. I’m absolutely certain about this.”

  She studied the vial again, this time more seriously. “But why me? There are so many other people more deserving...more sick.”

  “I’m sure there are. And if we’re right, maybe we can think about how to help them. But in order to do that, I need to make sure you’ll be around to help make that happen.”

  “So...if I agree to this, you mean I just shoot this stuff into my body?”

  “Yes.”

  “That DNA was from a male. Will it turn me into a man?”

  They both laughed and it lifted some of the heaviness from the room.

  “I’ve already stripped out the gender-specific stuff,” he assured her. “What you have here is a customized serum that will primarily target your bones, blood cells, and so on. With a perfect genome, we can mix this stuff all sorts of ways.”

  “It’s incredible,” she muttered.

  He looked at the vial, then back at her.

  Time seemed suspended as she contemplated the dismal alternative of staying the course with chemotherapy. No doubt, even if she were to control this incurable thing raging in her bones, those treatments would eliminate any hope of having children. Best-ca
se scenario, she might live another ten or fifteen years. She’d never even make it to fifty. “Well?”

  She smiled, knowing that she could trust him. She recalled the angel of death in St. Peter’s, flipping the hourglass. “Okay.”

  “Great.” He was grinning ear to ear. “But just answer me one question. Who on earth was this guy?”

  Father Donovan had fed her the story that the skeleton was a hoax concocted by Joseph of Arimathea, intended to debunk Jesus as the promised Messiah. Now that theory seemed utterly ridiculous. Only a divine being could exhibit such a remarkable genetic profile.

  She walked over to the window and silently looked out over the lights of the airport. Then she turned to Aldrich, her eyes sad, and she smiled.

  69

  ******

  Vatican City

  St. Peter’s Basilica had closed promptly at seven p.m. and the vast, dimmed interior was empty, except for one figure toting a black bag, striding hastily along the northern transept.

  Father Donovan moved to the front of the towering Baldacchino where a marble balustrade circled around a sunken grotto directly below the papal altar. Pausing to bless himself, he checked to make sure no one was watching, then opened the side gate and slipped through. He pulled the gate closed and crept down a semicircular staircase.

  One level beneath the basilica’s main floor, an elaborate inlaid marble shrine glowed in the warm light of ninety-nine ornate oil lamps, burning perpetually in tribute to the most holy ground in all of Vatican City—the Sepulcrum Sancti Petri Apostoli.

  St. Peter’s tomb.

  Peter was the man who, according to Joseph of Arimathea, he had designated to handle two critical, final tasks to serve the Messiah: transferring the ten ossuaries from Rome to a new crypt beneath Temple Mount in Jerusalem, and delivering his precious manuscript—the foundation for the Christian gospels—to the Jewish zealots who had helped execute Jesus’s ambitious plan to restore the temple.

  Donovan recalled Joseph’s final passage in the Ephemeris Conlusio:

  On this night, the emperor Nero has made a banquet in his palace. I am to be his guest, and so too, my wife and children have been asked to sit with him. With much sadness, I have agreed, though I know his intent, for his heart is filled with evil. Those who celebrate the teachings of Jesus have refused to pay tribute to him. For this, many he has burned alive.

  For my loyal service to Rome, Nero has made known to me that my death and the deaths of my beloved family will be humane. The food we eat tonight will be poisoned.

  Rome is vast and there is no place he will not find us. The only protection we have comes from God. Our fate is his will.

  It has been agreed that our bodies will be given to my brother, Simon Peter, to be buried in my crypt beside Jesus. Once all have been freed from flesh, Peter will journey back to Jerusalem. Beneath the great temple will Jesus be interred, for this I promised to him before his execution. There too will we share in his glory on the Day of Atonement. Then will the temple be cleansed. Then shall God return to its holy Tabernacle.

  These writings I have asked Peter to deliver to our brothers, the Essenes. They will protect this testament to God and his son. They will tell all men that the Day of Judgment will soon be at hand.

  Once Peter had fulfilled his duties to the brotherhood, he had returned to Rome to continue preaching Jesus’s teachings. Shortly thereafter, he was imprisoned by Nero and sentenced to death by being crucified upside down.

  Keep moving , Donovan silently urged himself.

  Directly beneath the Baldacchino’s base, between red marble columns, was a small glass-enclosed niche containing a golden mosaic depicting a haloed Christ. In front of the mosaic was a tiny golden casket—an ossuary.

  Inside this ossuary were the bones of St. Peter himself, extracted from a tomb deeper beneath the Baldacchino that was accidentally discovered during excavations in 1950. The skeleton had been found in a communal grave, but caught the eye of archaeologists overseeing the digs because it belonged to an older man whose feet were missing—as would be expected of someone who had been cut down from an inverted crucifix. Carbon dating had been subsequently performed. The male specimen had lived during the first century.

  From his pocket, Donovan produced the gold key he had removed from a safe in the Vatican’s Secret Archive. He set down the bag, then smoothly inserted the key into a lock on the niche’s frame. The hinges let out a low moan as he eased the door open.

  He stared down at the ossuary that had been fashioned from pure gold, resembling a miniature Ark of the Covenant—no doubt, a purposeful design. Directly above him, the four spiral columns of the Baldacchino had also been purposely fashioned to reflect the designs of Solomon’s Temple.

  Knowing that he had little time, Donovan reached out with both hands and firmly grabbed the box’s cover. Drawing a deep breath, he jostled it, pulling it up and away.

  As expected, St. Peter’s ossuary was empty.

  Following the studies performed on the saint’s bones, the skeleton had been returned to the humble Constantine-era crypt where it was originally found. Few knew that this box was only meant to commemorate the first pope.

  “God have mercy on me,” he reverently whispered, eyeing the mosaic of Christ.

  Reciting the Lord’s Prayer, he began transferring the bones from the leather bag into the ossuary, finishing with the perfect skull and jawbone. Then he replaced the lid.

  As he closed the glass door and turned the lock, he heard noises emanating from above, within the basilica. A door opening. Urgent footsteps. Excited voices.

  Just above the niche was a heavy metal grating that served as a vent for the hollow area beneath the altar. Instinctively, Donovan passed the key through the grate and released it down into the void. He heard the small ting of metal striking rock. Then he remembered the empty syringe in his pocket and got rid of that too.

  Grabbing the bag, he ascended the ramp, staying low as he emerged.

  “Padre Donovan,” a deep voice called out in Italian. “Are you in here?”

  Peering through the balustrade, he could see three figures—two in blue coveralls and black berets, a third in vestments. Swiss Guards and a priest.

  Trapped !

  For a moment, he considered retreating down the ramp, back into the extensive subterranean papal burial crypt adjoining St. Peter’s shrine. Maybe he could hide there for a while among the hundreds of sarcophagi, wait it out, then try to escape Vatican City.

  He wondered how they had found him so quickly. Then he remembered he’d used his keycard to enter the basilica. Each key-swipe logged his location into the Swiss Guard’s security system—a safety precaution that apparently served a second, more sinister purpose. The grim reality of the situation flooded over him: he couldn’t hide because they already knew he was here.

  Trying his best to remain calm, he climbed the rest of the way up the steps and opened the gate. “Yes, I’m over here,” he called out.

  The two guards quickly made their way over to him, with the cleric trailing cautiously behind.

  “Just finishing my prayers,” Donovan offered, confidently. They seemed to buy it.

  “Father Donovan,” the shorter guard’s voice was curt. “We need you to come with us.”

  The curator eyed the guard’s gleaming Beretta with newfound admiration and thought about yesterday, when he and Santelli had dropped by the barracks to retrieve Conte. The Swiss Guard’s gunsmith had half a dozen weapons set out for maintenance. Amidst all the excitement, no one had even noticed Donovan slip the gun and a few clips of ammunition into his pocket.

  Managing a smile, Donovan said, “Is there a problem?”

  “Yes,” the cleric responded, stepping into view.

  Putting on his glasses, Donovan saw it was Father Martin. Had Santelli’s assistant found the body? Was he bringing the guards to arrest him?

  “There’s a major problem,” Martin stated severely. “Shortly after you left Cardinal S
antelli’s office this evening, His Eminence was found dead.”

  Donovan gasped, trying his best to look surprised. His pulse was drumming hard and his palms were moist. “That’s awful.” He prepared himself for what was sure to come next—the cleric’s accusation.

  “It seems that he suffered a heart attack,” Father Martin explained.

  Studying Martin’s face, Donovan swore he detected a lie. He let out a long breath, perceived as shock, but actually of relief.

  “Very unfortunate,” Father Martin said in a quiet tone, casting his eyes to the floor for a moment, as if in vigil. Earlier that evening, he had listened in on Donovan’s discussion with Santelli, using the cardinal’s phone as an intercom. And what he heard had been deeply shocking. He was almost certain that Father Patrick Donovan had exacted revenge on the scheming old man, though he could only wonder how. Didn’t the metal detectors register all weapons? But no matter, he thought. Had he been in Donovan’s position, he would have done the same. Regardless, that bastard Santelli was dead. Not only is the Church better off without him, Father Martin thought, but so am I. “We will need your help in collecting his legal papers from the Archive.” He sighed. “The cardinal’s family will also need to be notified immediately.”