The Last Cato (30 page)

An emotional smile flickered across my lips. If my mother only knew! The pope, praying for her daughter, every day!

“Well, the next question is, what’s next? We still have six tests to pass before reaching the Staurofilakes’ earthly paradise. Should we survive those six tests, our mission is, of course, to recover the True Cross. We must also offer forgiveness to the members of the sect when they are ready to be integrated into the Catholic Church as another religious order. The pope is especially interested in meeting the current Cato, if he exists, so we’ll have to bring him to Rome, voluntarily or by force. Cardinal Sodano told me that since the remaining tests take place in Ravenna, Jerusalem, Athens, Istanbul, Alexandria, and Antioch, the Vatican will loan us one of the Dauphin 365 along with His Holiness’s own Westwind. As far as our diplomatic credentials…”

“Just a moment!” Farag raised his hand like a schoolboy. “What are a Dauphin and a Westwind?”

“I’m sorry,” said the Rock, calm as lake water. “I didn’t realize you don’t know a thing about helicopters and airplanes.”

“Oh no!” I mused, letting my head fall heavily between my shoulders.

“Oh yes, dear
Basileia!
We’re going to keep running against time!”

Fortunately, Glauser-Röist didn’t understand the inappropriate Greek qualifier that Farag had lately regaled me with.

“We have no choice, Professor. This matter must be settled as soon as possible. Christian churches everywhere have been robbed of their
Ligna Crucis.
The few remaining fragments have disappeared, despite being carefully guarded. For your information, three days ago a
Lignam Crucis
was stolen from Saint Michael’s Church in Zweibrucken, Germany.”

“They keep stealing them even though they know we’re pursuing them.”

“They’re not afraid, Doctor. Saint Michael’s Church was guarded by a private security service hired by the dioceses. The church is spending a lot of money to protect the relics. With no luck, as you can see. That’s another reason Cardinal Sodano, with His Holiness’s blessing, gave us one of the Vatican’s helicopters and the pope’s own Alitalia Westwind II.”

Farag and I looked at each other.

“So, here’s the plan: Tomorrow at seven a.m. we will meet at the Vatican heliport. It’s at the far west side of Vatican City, right behind Saint Peter’s—directly across from the Leonine mural. The Dauphin will be waiting for us there, and we’ll set off for Ravenna. Have you figured out the clue for the next test?”

“No,” my voice cracked. “We needed your help.”

“My help? Why?”

“You see, Kaspar, we know the city is Ravenna, we know the sin is envy, we know that the test has narrow doors and tortuous paths. The definitive clue seems to be a name we aren’t at all familiar with:
Agios Konstantinos Akanzon.
Or Saint Constantine of the Thorns.”

“The second circle is the one about hairshirts,” said Glauser-Röist, pensively.

“We already know how things are going to go—or how we think they’ll go. We need to figure out who this Saint Constantine is. Maybe his life can show us what we have to do.”

“Or maybe,” I proposed,
“Agios Konstantinos Akanzon
is a church in Ravenna. That’s what you have to figure out, with that marvelous invention called the Internet.”

“Very well,” replied the Rock, taking off his jacket and hanging it carefully on the back of his chair. “Let’s get to work.”

He turned on the computer, waited a moment to let the system boot up. Next, he connected to the Vatican’s server.

“What was that saint’s name?”

“Agios Konstantinos Akanzon.”

“No, Captain,” I said. “First try Saint Constantine of the Thorns. It’s more logical.”

After a little while, just when Farag and I were tired of standing still, staring at the screen as countless documents whizzed by, Glauser-Röist let out a triumphant shout.

“We’ve got it!” he said, flopping back in his chair and loosening his tie. “Saint Constantine Acanzzo, in the providence of Ravenna. Listen to what this tourist guide says about its green routes.”

“Green routes?” asked Farag.

“Ecotourism, Professor, itineraries for nature lovers—hiking and rock-climbing off the beaten track.”

“Ah!”

“‘Saint Constantine Acanzzo is an ancient Benedictine abbey located north of the Po delta, in Ravenna Province. It’s a monastic complex, built before the tenth century. It includes a highly esteemed Byzantine church, a refectory decorated with splendid frescoes, and a bell tower from the eleventh century.’”

“I’m not surprised the Staurofilakes chose Ravenna as one of the cities for their tests,” I commented. “It was the capital of the Byzantine Empire in the West from the sixth to the eighth century. What I don’t understand is why they considered it the most representative of the sin of envy.”

“During its period of greatest splendor, those two centuries of Exarchate you just mentioned, Ravenna established a real rivalry with Rome.”

“I know Rome’s history,” I glowered at him. “I’m the only Italian here, remember?”

The captain didn’t even look at me. He turned to Farag, ignoring me entirely. “As you know, the Roman Empire in the West fell in the fourth century, and the barbarians then controlled the entire Italian peninsula. When the Byzantines won it back in the sixth century, they handed it over to Ravenna instead of returning it to the Western capital, Rome, because Rome was the pope’s territory and the enmity between Byzantium and the Roman pope had gone on for years.”

“As I recall, the Roman pope was and still is considered the only true successor to Saint Peter,” Farag pointed out in a singsong voice. “If it weren’t for that small detail, the union of all Christians throughout the world might be a bit easier.”

Glauser-Röist studied him in silence, void of expression.

“Since Byzantium left Rome in the dust,” he continued, as if Professor Boswell hadn’t said a word, “the city declined as Ravenna grew richer and stronger. Not content with its glory, it focused all its efforts on overshadowing the past grandeur of its enemy. Besides filling itself with magnificent Byzantine structures that are the pride of the city and all of Italy even today, they added one more humiliation, the worship of Saint Apollinar, patron saint of Ravenna, to Saint Peter’s Basilica itself.”

Farag gave a long, soft whistle. “Yes,” he admitted, astonished. “I have to say envy was the great characteristic of Byzantine Ravenna. That business with Saint Apollinar was a really bad idea. How do you know all that?”

“Do you think there’s no diocese in Ravenna? At this moment, people all over the world are digging up those details for us, especially in the six cities we still have to visit. You can be sure that in those six cities, they are already prepared for our arrival.” He loosened his tie even more. “Stopping the Staurofilakes is a grand-scale undertaking in which we are no longer alone. All Christian churches have a lot at stake in this.”

“Okay, but I don’t see any of them joining us to risk their lives in
Agios Konstantinos Akanzon.”

“Now it’s called Saint Constantine Acanzzo,” I reminded him.

“Exactly, and with all this chitchat we haven’t finished reading about that ancient abbey,” grumbled the captain, turning back to the screen. “The old monastic complex is very run-down, but there is still a small community of Benedictines who run an inn for travelers. It’s situated in the center of the Palu Forest, which it owns and which extends more than five thousand hectares.”

“‘How narrow is the door and how narrow the road that brings life. And how few are they who find it,’”
I recalled.

“Are we going to have to cross that forest?” Boswell asked.

“The forest is the monks’ private property. You need their permission to enter it,” the Rock explained, looking at the screen. “Either way, we’ll get there by helicopter.”

“Now that’s more like it!” I said, amused at the thought of crossing the sky in an eggbeater.

“Well, you’re not going to like what I’m going to say next, Doctor. I need you to pack your bags. We won’t return to Rome until we are in the presence of the current Cato. As of tomorrow evening, Alitalia’s Westwind II will be waiting for us at the Ravenna airport to take us straight to Jerusalem. Those are His Holiness’s orders.”

CHAPTER 5

T
he Vatican heliport was a narrow rhomboid hemmed in on all sides by the sturdy Leonine Wall, which had separated the city from the rest of the world for over eleven centuries. The sun had just risen in a beautifully radiant, light blue cloudless sky.

“We’re going to have first-rate visibility!” shouted the pilot of the Dauphin AS-365-N2 to Captain Glauser-Röist. “It’s a splendid morning.”

The Dauphin’s engines were running and its blades were moving gently. It sounded like a gigantic fan, not at all like in the movies. The pilot, a young, robust, blond guy with a rosy complexion, was decked out in a gray flight suit that was covered with pockets. He had a pleasant, frank smile. He looked us over, probably asking himself who we might be to deserve a ride in his shiny white Dauphin.

I was a bit nervous, since I’d never flown in a helicopter before. Farag was carefully examining everything with the curiosity of a foreign tourist visiting a Chinese pagoda.

The night before, I had packed my bags feeling somewhat uneasy. Ferma, Margherita, and Valeria helped me out. They rushed around the apartment putting everything in the washing machine; ironing, folding, and packing. They cheered me up with jokes and a good meal. I wanted to feel like a heroine off to save the world; instead, I was terrified, and crushed by a weight I couldn’t identify. I felt like these were the last minutes of my life—my last supper. The worst part was definitely going to our chapel. When my sisters prayed for me and the mission I was about to undertake, I couldn’t hold back my tears. I had the feeling I was never coming back to the apartment again. I tried to shake off such useless fears and tell myself to be brave, not to be so cowardly. If I didn’t come back, it would be for a good cause and for the good of the church.

Now here I was, at the heliport, dressed in my freshly washed and ironed pants, about to climb into a helicopter for the first time. I crossed myself when the pilot and the captain said it was time to board. I was surprised at how comfortable and elegant the interior was; there were no hard metal benches or military gear. Farag and I sat down in overstuffed white leather seats in an air-conditioned cabin, with wide windows and in a church-like silence. Our luggage was stowed in the lower part of the helicopter, while Captain Glauser-Röist took the copilot’s seat.

“We’re taking off,” Farag announced, looking out the window.

The helicopter rocked slightly as it lifted off the ground. If it weren’t for the strong vibration of the engines, I wouldn’t have known I was in the air.

Flying in a helicopter was incredible. The sun to our right, we executed some maneuvers that were clearly impossible to perform in a steadier, more conventional airplane. The sky was so dazzling that looking out the window hurt my eyes. Farag reached over and hooked something around my ears.

He said, “Keep them,” and smiled. “You’re such a bookworm, I knew you wouldn’t have any.”

He had put a pair of sunglasses on me so I could look out the window comfortably. I took notice of how the bright sunlight filtered through the windows and reflected off his hair.

The sun climbed higher and higher. Our helicopter flew over the town of Forli, twenty kilometers from Ravenna. Glauser-Röist told us over the loudspeaker we’d be arriving at the Po Delta in fifteen minutes. We’d disembark and the helicopter would fly to the Spreta airport, in Ravenna, to await our instructions.

Those fifteen minutes passed in a sigh. Suddenly the machine tipped forward, and we started a dizzying descent that made my heart race.

“We have descended about five hundred feet,” the captain’s metallic voice announced. “We are flying over the Palu Forest. Notice how dense it is.”

Our faces were glued to the window. We saw a green carpet with no beginning or end, formed by enormous trees. My vague mental image of five thousand hectares was unimaginably off.

“Good thing we don’t have to cross it on foot,” I mused, entranced.

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” replied Farag.

“To the left is the monastery,” said the captain’s voice. “We’ll land in that clearing there, in front of the main entrance.”

Boswell sat beside me, studying the abbey. It must have been a beautiful place for reflection and prayer many centuries before with its unassuming four-story cylindrical bell tower and a cross above its eaves. All that remained was the thick oval wall that enclosed the complex. From our bird’s-eye view, the rest was a pile of broken rocks and a wall here and there that struggled to remain upright. Only when we started our descent, the air from the blades stirring up the woodlands, did we make out some small structures near the abbey’s walls.

The helicopter landed gently. Farag and I opened the cabin door. We didn’t take into account that the propellers were still rotating; their wild force flung us around like hapless plastic bags in a hurricane. Farag grabbed me by the elbow and helped to steady me.

The captain stayed in the cockpit for a few minutes, talking to the pilot, now just a helmet with an impenetrable black visor. The man nodded and gunned the engines as Glauser-Röist, with less effort than we had needed, cut through the whirlwind. The machine rose back into the air, and in seconds, it was just a white speck in the sky. My first flight in a helicopter had been thrilling, something I’d do again first chance I got, but in a split second, it was old news. Farag, the captain, and I found ourselves standing in front of an iron gate at the entrance of the
Agios Konstantinos Akanzon.
With the copter out of earshot, all we heard were the birds singing.

“Well, here we are,” the Rock said, glancing around. “Let’s go find the friendly Staurofilax in charge of this test.”

We didn’t have to look too far. From out of nowhere, two elderly monks in black Benedictine habits appeared on the gravel road that led to the main gate.

“Hello! Good morning!” exclaimed one of them, waving his arm in the air, as the other opened the gate. “Are you seeking shelter?”

“Yes, Father!” I answered.

“Where are your bags?” the older of the two asked, folding his hands over his chest and covering them with his sleeves.

The Rock lifted his backpack to show them. “This is all we need.”

The monks were much older than I had guessed, but they had pleasant, jovial spirits and nice smiles.

“Have you had breakfast?” asked the only one of the two with a small tuft of hair.

“Yes, thank you,” answered Farag.

“Well, let’s go to the inn and get you some rooms.” He looked us over and added, “Three, right? Or is one of these men your husband, young lady?”

I smiled. “No, Father. Neither of them is my husband.”

“Why did you come in a helicopter?” the other nonagenarian asked with childlike curiosity.

“We don’t have much time,” the Rock explained, walking very slowly so his long strides didn’t leave the old men behind.

“Oh! Then you must be very rich. Not just anyone travels in a helicopter.”

Both monks laughed heartily, as if this was the funniest joke in the world. We exchanged furtive, perplexed looks. Either those Staurofilakes were first-rate actors, or we were completely wrong about the place. I studied them for any sign of deception, but their wrinkled faces were so innocent; their frank smiles seemed completely honest. Had we made a mistake?

As we headed toward the inn, the monks told us a succinct history of the monastery. They were very proud of the Byzantine frescoes that decorated the refectory and the well-preserved church, to which they had dedicated their entire lives in a place in the middle of nowhere and visited by just a few hikers. They wanted to know what made us decide to visit Saint Constantine Acanzzo and how long we were going to stay. Of course, they said, we were welcome to share their table; and if their services pleased us, would we mind, since we were so rich, leaving a nice tip for the abbey when we departed. With that they laughed again like happy children.

As we walked and chatted, we came to a small garden where another elderly Benedictine monk was bent over, plunging a shovel into the earth with great effort.

“Father Giuliano, we have visitors!” shouted one of our companions.

Father Giuliano put his hand over his eyes to see us better and grunted.

“Father Giuliano is our abbot. Go over and say hello,” one of our companions urged under his breath. “Most likely he’ll detain you a while with questions, so we’ll wait for you at the inn. When you are finished, follow that path over there and take a right. You can’t miss it.”

The captain was getting impatient and was out of sorts. Clearly he thought we were mistaken, and that this was all just a waste of our time. Those monks bore no resemblance to the image we had of the Staurofilakes. But as we walked over to the garden, I asked myself, what image did we really have of the Staurofilakes?

We’d only seen one we could be sure of—our young Ethiopian man, Abi-Ruj Iyasus. The other two, the sacristan at Saint Lucia and the foulsmelling priest at Santa Maria in Cosmedin, might have been just what they appeared to be.

The monks disappeared down the path while the abbot awaited us, leaning on his shovel, rigid as a king on his throne.

“How long do you plan on staying?” he asked point-blank when we got close to him.

“Not long,” answered the Rock, obviously skeptical of our decision to be there.

“What brings you to Saint Constantine Acanzzo?” he asked. We couldn’t see his face; his head was covered by the wide hood of his habit.

“The flora and fauna,” the captain answered gruffly.

“The countryside, Father, and the peace and quiet,” the professor rushed in to add.

The abbot grabbed his shovel with both hands, turning his back on us, and resumed digging. “Go to the inn. They’re expecting you.”

Confused and surprised by the brief conversation, we set off, single file, through the garden, down the road the others had pointed out. The trail penetrated a shadowy stretch of forest and grew narrower until it was little more than a path.

“What are those tall trees, Kaspar?”

“There’s a bit of everything,” explained the Rock, without looking up at them, as if he’d already examined them. “Oaks, ash, elms, white poplars. But those species don’t usually grow so tall. Maybe the soil is very rich or maybe the monks of Saint Constantine have developed some special fertilizer over the centuries.”

“Impressive!” I exclaimed, raising my eyes to the dense, leafy dome which cast a shadow on the path.

After walking a few minutes in silence, Farag asked, “Didn’t the monks say we should go right at the fork in the road?”

“It can’t be much farther,” I answered.

But it was a long way. Several minutes passed with no sign of a fork in the road.

“I think we’re on the wrong path,” said the Rock, looking at his watch.

“I said that a while ago.”

“Let’s keep walking,” I objected, sure we had gone the way we were told.

After a half an hour, I had to admit my mistake. We were headed into the deepest part of the woods. The road was barely visible and the foliage was very thick. The lack of sunlight due to the dense treetops kept us from determining the direction in which we were going. Luckily, the air was fresh and clean, making the hike somewhat pleasant.

“Let’s go back,” ordered Glauser-Röist, scowling.

Neither Farag nor I argued. We clearly weren’t getting anywhere. The strange thing was, when we doubled back, we had barely gone a kilometer when we found the fork. How had we missed it?

“This is annoying,” bellowed the Rock. “We didn’t pass this junction before.”

“Want my opinion?” asked Farag, smiling. “This is the start of our journey through the second cornice. They must have covered up those trails and then cleared them off so we could find them. One of them leads to the right place.”

That seemed to pacify the captain. “In that case, let’s proceed as if this was just what we were expecting.”

“Which way? Right or left?”

“What if this isn’t the test?” I objected, pursing my lips. “What if we’re just lost and imagining things?”

Their reply was an indifferent silence. They both began to snoop around, kicking and pushing aside the gravel with their shoes. They were like two Boy Scouts, or two hunting dogs looking for fallen prey.

“Here! Over here!” shouted Farag.

He’d found a little Constantine chrismon, tiny as a fingernail, on the trunk of a tree growing next to the road to the left.

“What did I tell you?” he said smugly. “It’s this way!”

“This way” turned out to be a very long path that led to a hedge nearly three meters tall blocking our path. We stopped, as surprised as a Tuareg would be if he came upon a skyscraper in the middle of the Sahara.

“I think we’ve arrived,” murmured the professor.

“Now what do we do?”

“Follow it, I guess. Maybe there’s an opening. Maybe there’s something for us on the other side.”

We skirted it for about twenty minutes, until its perfectly regular shape finally gave way. An entrance some two meters wide invited us to enter. An iron chrismon nailed into the ground left no doubt about what we had to do.