The Heretic Scroll

by Will Adams

  ‘All this because Alberts looked a bit shell-shocked?’

  ‘You weren’t there, Lucia. You didn’t see him. He was stricken, as if everything he’d always believed had just been ripped from him and…’ She paused and frowned as she glimpsed something else, something beyond, though the implications were too huge to grasp at once. ‘What else do we know about Marcion?’ she asked rhetorically, thinking it through out loud. ‘We know that he set up a school of Christianity in Rome, the city at the heart not just of the Empire but of the new religion too. We also know that he used his family’s fleet of ships to track down and make copies of all the Christian texts they could find, not just in Italy but around the Mediterranean as well. Those texts formed the curriculum for his school and then became his canon. So how is it possible that there’s no Gospel of Mark in it, if Mark truly had been written in Rome, and had been in circulation for sixty years already? And where are Matthew, Luke and John? Surely the simplest explanation is that they didn’t yet exist. In the second quarter of the second century, Marcion’s gospel was all there was. And we know what it consisted of too, thanks to Tertullian. It was effectively St Luke stripped of the Nativity, the Resurrection and its references to Jewish scripture. If you start from there, everything suddenly gets flipped on its head. Marcion’s gospel is no longer a curious aside. It’s where the story of the synoptic gospels starts.’

  ‘I don’t—’

  ‘Think about it. Think what was happening in Judea at this exact time. The Romans had just annihilated Simon Bar Kokhba and his rebels. The Jewish people were being exiled from their homeland. A temple to Jupiter was being built upon their sacred mount. Think what that must have been like. Defeated, lost, landless, desperate for an explanation to salve the blow. And there was Christianity, ready and waiting. Founded by a Galilean Jew, shaped by Jewish scholars in line with Judaic scripture and principles. And it allowed them to believe they’d been right all along. Crucifixion wasn’t defeat. It was victory. Exile wasn’t punishment; it was a test. So there was a kind of merger to be had, one to suit both sides. Yet Marcion threatened it with his categorical rejection of Judaism and its sacred texts. So he had to be countered. It was too late by then to suppress his canon. It had caught fire already and was too widespread to ignore. So they doctored it instead. They tweaked his authentic letters of St Paul to fit better with their vision and made up others out of whole cloth. Then they went to work on his gospel too. Mark was the first attempt. Essentially it was the Gospel of Marcion rewritten with a very earthy Jesus, to counter claims that he hadn’t been human at all, but rather a spirit in human form. But that wasn’t enough, so Luke and Matthew took the gospels of Marcion and Mark respectively, then added nativities and resurrections and all those references to Jewish scriptures to make Jesus seem like their fulfilment rather than their repudiation. Then they did their very best to write Marcion and his gospel out of history altogether, leaving only the other three. And there you have it: the synoptic problem solved!’

  ‘That’s a mighty tall tower to build on such a small base,’ observed Lucia.

  ‘I’m not saying it’s true,’ countered Carmen. ‘I’m saying it’s what Alberts came to fear. He worked for the Holy Inquisition, remember. For an institution whose stated purpose is the defence of Catholic scripture. That’s why they sent him down here. Not to decipher your scroll but rather to protect the Church from it. Because it threatened to reveal that their sacred texts weren’t authentic records of Christ and St Paul but rather the mischievous hijacking of the new faith by people who corrupted the true canon assembled by Marcion, then vilified him as a child rapist in order to…’ She broke off at a distant noise. Not a man shouting so much as the faded echo of it, already gone before she was properly aware of it. She held up a finger. There it was again. And this time she even recognised his voice.

  ‘Cesco,’ she said.

  III

  It was a short but terrifying drive down to Herculaneum’s small port for Valentina and her two passengers. The already vile weather was turned hellish by a first pattering of volcanic fallout, small stones pinging their bodywork like sporadic gunfire. Then they reached it to find a scene of almost apocalyptic chaos, the roads almost completely blocked by cars abandoned with their doors and boots left wide open by occupants who’d lost their nerve at the eruption. She could see them now, hurrying towards the ferry’s boarding ramp as a few deckhands urged them on, while others prepared for departure. And there was no way on earth they could make it there in time, not with Mario and Isabella to think of.

  She turned left instead of right, therefore, down to the town’s marina, separated from the port only by a grass strip and a tall wire fence. But its gates were closed and padlocked. ‘Hold tight,’ she said. She put her foot down and smashed into them, shattering the padlock and ripping the gates from their hinges. But almost at once there came a hideous clanking and the Renault began to lose power. She looked for a place to cross over into the port, but the fence went all the way to the sea. She wrenched the steering wheel round and drove straight at it, using the last of her momentum to knock it flat.

  ‘Out!’ she shouted at Isabella, even as she herself unstrapped Mario from his belt.

  The last stragglers were being hustled aboard the ferry by deckhands in readiness to cast off. It was too far away. They’d never make it. Then she saw a supermarket trolley abandoned beside a sky-blue tarpaulin. She grabbed it and hoisted Isabella aboard, ignoring her indignant protests. She gave her Mario to hold, then set off pushing it across the concourse, building up a head of steam as she went, despite the trolley’s front left wheel hiccuping and steering her unwillingly towards the sea, forcing her to slow down every few paces to correct course.

  Her breath began coming fast. Her legs were sacks of rice. The ferry’s horn gave a long, decisive blare. Deckhands threw off the mooring ropes. Her yell was drowned out by the rain and the ferry’s throbbing engines. But finally a crewman saw them and shouted to his mates. They beckoned her onwards. Forty metres. Thirty. Her legs were dying beneath her. She had nothing left. The ferry began to pull slowly away, its boarding ramp scraping concrete for a moment or two before it started to lift, turning itself back into the stern gate. Two deckhands lay prone upon it, shouting encouragement and urging her on. Ten metres now, five, her legs completely gone. She stumbled and went sprawling, giving the trolley a final push as she did so, aiming at the point midway between the two men, that they might grab an occupant each. But its treacherous wheel hiccuped at the wrong moment, twisting it to the left. One of the men reached down as it ran out of momentum. Isabella somehow found the strength to lift Mario up to him, timing it to perfection for the man to grab him by his arm and toss him almost disdainfully over his shoulder so that he rolled to safety down the ramp behind him. Then he reached back down to grab Isabella by her fingertips even as the shopping cart twirled slowly to a halt beneath him.

  Valentina had by now regained her feet. Without the trolley to push, she found the strength to stagger onwards. The second deckhand reached down for her. She jumped and grabbed his hand, clinging desperately on as the ramp lifted higher, taking her with it, swinging her like a clapper against the rising bow doors, grabbing onto—

  A yelp to her left. The other deckhand had lost his tenuous grip on Isabella. She fell backward onto the dock wall, smacking her head on the concrete so hard that it cut short her shriek, leaving her lying there unconscious. Valentina cried out and made to jump back down, but her own deckhand wasn’t having it. He hauled her over and in and they went tumbling together down the other side, crashing into the floor below, winded by their landing; and she glimpsed through the closing gap that they were already a startling distance from the dock and moving briskly further away, leaving Isabella unconscious and alone. And then there was nothing she could do for her any more.

  There was nothing she could do.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  I

  ‘Cesco?’ frowned Lucia.
‘What the hell’s he doing here?’

  ‘Looking for us, I’d imagine.’ Carmen rolled the scroll back up, replaced it on its shelf, made her way back briskly through to the first chamber, arriving just as Cesco did, so that she got to witness his astonishment at their discovery. But then he saw her and his astonishment turned to relief. ‘Thank Christ,’ he said. ‘But why are you still here? Didn’t you feel it?’

  ‘Feel what?’

  ‘The eruption.’

  ‘Eruption?’ She looked at him in horror. ‘We thought it was just another tremor.’

  ‘The whole fucking top’s gone. It’s raining Vesuvius out there. The water’s rising fast too. We need to get out now or Romeo will drive off without…’ He stopped as he saw Lucia. Almost unconsciously, he drew Carmen behind him.

  ‘So you know, then,’ said Lucia flatly. ‘And Romeo? Does he know too?’

  ‘This isn’t the time,’ said Cesco. ‘We need to get out.’

  ‘Does he know?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘He knows.’

  She nodded twice. ‘Go, then,’ she told them. ‘Leave.’

  ‘Don’t be crazy,’ said Carmen. ‘Didn’t you hear? Vesuvius has blown.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’ She looked back and forth between them, bewildered. ‘What the hell’s going on?’

  ‘Not now,’ said Cesco, drawing her with him to the steps. ‘I’ll explain later.’

  ‘No,’ said Carmen. ‘Not without Lucia.’

  ‘It’s okay,’ said Lucia.

  ‘But we can still all—’

  ‘I killed Taddeo, Carmen,’ Lucia told her. ‘It was me. I killed him because he murdered Raff. And because he raped me and countless others too. So I went to his house last night. I made him confess. Then I stabbed him through his heart. I’d do it again, too, without a qualm. No doubt many people will think me justified. But they’ll convict me anyway. And rightly so. They’ll put me in prison and take away my scrolls. Without them, without Raff, there’s nothing left for me out there. But in here…’ She gestured at the alcoves. ‘In here, I still have these to live for. They’re my children, my responsibility. Maybe I won’t be able to save them from what’s coming. But maybe I will. And I won’t risk losing them. I just won’t.’ She stepped forward to hand Cesco her backpack. ‘Now get out, both of you. While you still can.’

  ‘We’ll be back,’ promised Cesco. ‘One way or the other.’

  ‘Good,’ she said. ‘Thank you. Now go.’

  They hurried down the spiral steps through the vault and back out into the passage. Carmen kept glancing around, for Lucia was close behind, making her wonder whether she’d changed her mind. But the moment she and Cesco had clambered out over the lower wall, Lucia set about rebuilding it with the fallen blocks to create a first line of defence. Carmen bade her farewell but she didn’t even notice. Then she saw to her shock how far up the passage the water had already reached, and she didn’t hold back any more. They splashed and waded their way as far as they could through the uncomfortably hot shallows. Then Cesco clamped his torch between his teeth and set off in a gentle crawl, glancing back every few strokes to make sure she was keeping pace. The ceiling grew ever lower, forcing them into breaststroke until they ran out of headroom altogether. He trod water while she drew alongside. They were still a frightening distance from safety, and with an underwater obstacle course to negotiate.

  ‘Do you know how long you can hold your breath?’ he asked.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Have you ever packed your lungs before?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Okay. We’ll do it together. We’ll start with two deep, slow breaths. Hold them for a couple of seconds each, then let out them again. Our third breath will be as deep as we can make it. This one we’ll hold. But you’ll find you can actually take at least a couple more mouthfuls of air and kind of force yourself to swallow them. We’ll take two each of those, then go for it at once. I’ll set the pace, steady rather than fast. Exertion won’t get you any further. It’ll just kill you quicker.’

  ‘Nice.’

  ‘I’ll hold my torch behind to give you something to follow. But it’ll be murky in there. I won’t be able to see you. So, even if you lose me, keep going straight ahead. Got it?’

  Carmen gave a shiver. ‘Enough talking. Start counting.’

  He nodded and led her through it, counting down their last two gulps on his fingers. He checked that she was ready, then turned and vanished underwater, smooth as an eel. She followed after. The water was, at least, relatively clear, and not too toxic on her eyes. She could see his torch easily, keeping the steady pace he’d promised. The air trapped in her backpack dragged her upwards, however, dragging along the underside of the ceiling, making her kick her heels against it. She swam lower but it was an effort. She felt an uncomfortable knot in her chest, as though a stone had lodged in her windpipe. She needed another breath already; no way was she going to make it. Better to turn back, to see this nightmare through with Lucia. But, to her surprise and relief, the knot somehow untied itself and she relaxed a little. Then she passed the point where turning back was even possible.

  The water grew dirty, the torchlight dimmer. Her backpack scraped ceiling again, tugging her back until she lost sight of Cesco’s torch altogether. She looked this way and that in search of it, and before she knew it, she’d lost her bearings. Panic welled inside her. She had to fight to suppress it. She felt for and found a wall. She followed it along, ignoring the whispering voice that told her she’d got turned round and was going the wrong way. Her lungs were aching for real now. Each heartbeat banged like a drum in her temple. Every moment was a struggle to keep her mouth clamped. She took off her backpack, blew some air out her nose, then undid its zip just far enough to breathe in from its stash. But most of the air simply bubbled away and her pack filled up with water. She only had a few seconds left. No time for steadiness now. Only exertion could save her. She kicked hard, reached out her hand. Her fingers touched marble. A statue. She propelled herself forward, feeling for more statues. The need for air was like nothing she’d ever felt before, like a vice clamping on her head. She felt the colossus and then the horse. She thrust herself forward at where the opening should be, only for the strap of her backpack to snag on the Sabine woman’s outstretched arm, tugging her so sharply to a halt that it jolted the air from her lungs and she couldn’t help herself any longer. She opened her mouth to breathe the water in.

  II

  Romeo Izzo’s watch was particularly precious to him. A Panerai Luminor Due, it had been his wife’s last gift to him, chosen very consciously during her dying days as something for him to remember her by. So it wasn’t just the time he saw whenever he consulted it. It was memories both glad and wrenching. And parental duty too. ‘Figlio di puttana,’ he muttered, stamping his feet as the floodwater advanced remorselessly up the passage, pushing him ever further back. ‘Come on, come on. What’s taking you so long?’

  The ten minutes had already passed. Now it was twelve. He retreated all the way up the stone staircase, then stood there uncertainly before coming a little way back down. Still no sign of them. He stamped his feet some more and then ventured all the way to the portico, where rainwater was streaming through multiple splits and holes in the corrugated plastic roofing. Lucia’s Ka was almost completely underwater. Even his own Fiat was in danger. Heavier rocks had started falling too. One smacked into the escarpment wall even as he stood there, exploding into fragments that showered its roof and bonnet, denting it like hammered pewter. Yet still he couldn’t bring himself to leave.

  He returned to the stairs, down to the passage. The water had already covered the bottom step and was still rising. Eighteen minutes had now passed. Twenty. Enough! Something terrible had clearly happened. His heart grieved but he owed it to Mario not to stay any longer. He owed it to him to survive.

  He gave the passage one last lingering look. No one appeared. He made the sign
of the cross, then hardened his heart and hurried back though the portico out into the tempest. The lake was so deep that he had to swim across it. The water was already lapping at his tyres. He pulled the driver’s door gratefully closed behind him. The ignition coughed but didn’t start. He gave it a moment and then tried again, pumping the accelerator hard. Thankfully it caught.

  He’d parked facing downhill. The track was too narrow for him to turn. He reversed up to the first hairpin, taking his rear wheels as close to the edge as he dared, wrenching the steering wheel round in a harrowing five-point turn. Then, despite the terrible weight of shame, he set off up the track towards the gates.

  III

  It changes everything, knowing you’re about to die. The trivial is blown away. What remains is substance. Now that it was upon her, Carmen felt not fear but rather regret. Regret that her mother would have to face her condition alone, and now with a bereavement to cope with too. Regret for Cesco too. Airy, glib and poorly timed his proposal might have been, but she could hardly doubt his sincerity when he’d said they were in it together. He’d just risked his life to prove it. And what were visa problems, when all was said and done? What were visa problems compared to this? And now she’d never even get to tell him.

  A glint of torchlight ahead. She saw his face. He reached out to grab her arm and drag her by it through the opening and along the pipe into the passage beyond. She had no strength of her own. All she could do was watch. The passage was underwater. He hauled her to the stone staircase, then hoisted her upon his shoulder. They breached the surface and found air. Instantly, her body took over. She convulsed violently, coughing and spluttering out the water inside her until there was none left. Her ribcage ached as though she’d been pummelled by lead piping. She was more drained than she’d ever been. All she wanted was to lie down. But he wouldn’t let her. He carried her all the way up the staircase, then set her on her feet, his arm round her waist.