The Last Cato (35 page)

“They walk. That’s it.”

“That’s it? Don’t they nail them to anything or fall down a cliff?…”

“No, Doctor, nothing happens. They walk through the cornice and meet the souls of the wrathful, traveling around the circle completely enveloped by smoke. They talk and then ascend to the next circle after the angel wipes a new
P
off Dante’s forehead.”

“That’s it?”

“That’s it. Right, Professor?”

Farag nodded. “But there are some strange things,” he added in his slight Arab accent. “For example, this circle is the shortest in
Purgatory.
It only lasts a canto and a half. Canto XVI, as the captain said, lasts just a few pages, and a short fragment of the XVIIth.” He sighed and crossed his legs. “Here’s the second strange part: Uncharacteristically, Dante doesn’t end the circle at the end of the canto. The cornice of the wrathful begins in Canto XVI, as the captain said; but how far does it go, Kaspar?”

“To verse seventy-nine of Canto XVII. Seven and nine again.”

“And in verse seventy-nine, literally in the middle of nowhere, starts the fourth circle of Purgatory, the circle of the slothful. The fourth cornice doesn’t start at the beginning of the following canto either. For some reason, Dante fuses the end of one circle to the beginning of the next in the same canto, something he hasn’t done before.”

“Does that mean something?”

“Who knows, Ottavia. But don’t worry; I’m sure you’ll find out on your own.”

“Thanks a lot.”

“You’re welcome,
Basileia.”

We landed at Ben Gurion International Airport in Tel Aviv at around noon. An El Al vehicle took us to the nearest heliport, where we boarded an Israeli military helicopter that flew us to Jerusalem in just twenty-five minutes. The minute we landed, an official car with black-tinted windows rushed us to the apostolic delegation.

From what little I saw along the way, Jerusalem disappointed me. It was like any other city, with wide streets, traffic, and tall buildings. Barely distinguishable in the distance, some Muslim minarets pointed to the sky. The populace included Orthodox Jews with black hats and curly sideburns, as well as dozens of Arabs dressed in kaffiyeh
*
and
akal.
†
Farag saw the disappointment in my face and tried to console me.

“Don’t worry,
Basileia.
This is modern Jerusalem. You’ll like the old city better.”

I didn’t see any sign, as I’d hoped, of God’s presence on earth. I had dreamed of visiting Jerusalem someday, and I was sure that the moment I set foot in such a special place, I would feel God’s unmistakable presence. But he was not there, at least not right then. The only thing that really got my attention was the mishmash of Eastern and Western architecture and the street signs in Hebrew, Arabic, and English. The large number of Israeli soldiers, armed to the teeth, strolling down the streets, also sparked my curiosity, reminding me that Jerusalem was a city endemically at war. The Staurofilakes had returned for the adjudication of a sin. Jerusalem was filled with wrath, blood, resentment, and death. Surely Jesus could have chosen another city to die in, and Muhammad, another city from which to ascend to heaven.

My biggest surprise, however, came at the apostolic delegation, a building no different from its neighboring buildings, except for its immense size. Several priests of all ages and nationalities received us at the door, headed by the apostolic nuncio, Monsignor Pietro Sambi. He led us through several offices to an elegant, modern meeting room where, along with other dignitaries, was my brother Pierantonio!

“Little Ottavia!” he exclaimed the minute I came through the door behind the captain and Monsignor Lewis.

My brother rushed over and we hugged long and hard. This caused an amused outcry from the rest of the assistants.

“How are you?” he asked, at last pulling away from me and looking me over from head to toe. “Aside from being dirty and injured, I mean.”

“Tired,” I replied, on the verge of tears, “very tired, Pierantonio. But very happy to see you.”

As always, my brother was a magnificent, imposing presence, in spite of his simple Franciscan habit. I rarely saw him dressed that way; at home, he wore secular clothes.

“You’ve become quite a celebrity, little sister! Look at all the important people here to meet you.”

Glauser-Röist and Farag were being introduced to the gathering by Monsignor Sambi, so my brother did the honors for me: the archbishop of Baghdad and vice president of the Conference of Latin Bishops, Paul Dahdah; the patriarch of Jerusalem and president of the Assembly of Ordinary Catholics in the Holy Land, His Beatitude Michel Sabbah; the archbishop of Haifa, the Greco-melkita Boutros Mouallem, vice president of the Assembly of Ordinary Catholics; the Orthodox patriarch of Jerusalem, Diodoros I; the Armenian Orthodox patriarch, Torkom; the Greco-melkita exarches, Georges El-Murr. A true pleiad of the most important patriarchs and bishops in the Holy Land. After each introduction, my discomfort increased. Was our mission no longer a secret? Didn’t Cardinal Sodano tell His Eminence that we had to keep complete silence about what we were doing and what was happening?

Farag greeted Pierantonio warmly, whereas I noticed Glauser-Röist stayed a discreet distance away. I no longer doubted that some deep antagonism must exist between my brother and the Rock. During the small talk that ensued, I also saw that many of those present approached the Rock with a certain fear and some even with visible scorn. I promised myself I’d solve that mystery before I left Jerusalem.

The meeting was long and boring. One after another, the patriarchs and bishops of the Holy Land expressed their great concern over the thefts of
Ligna Crucis.
They told us that the smaller Christian churches were the first to suffer thefts by the Staurofilakes. Often, it was just a tiny sliver or a little sawdust in a reliquary. What began as an obscure accident on some out-of-the-way mountain in Greece had turned into an international incident of outlandish proportions. Everyone was extremely worried about the effect the thefts could have on public opinion if the scandal popped up in the media. I wondered how long it could be kept silent when so many important people were already involved. In the end, the sole purpose of that meeting was for the curious patriarchs, bishops, and delegates to get to know us. Neither Farag nor the captain nor I had anything to gain. At best, we found out we could count on the help of all those churches for anything we might need. So I took advantage of that.

“With all due respect,” I said in English, using the same formulaic courtesy they used, “do any of you know anyone who guards keys here in Jerusalem?”

They all looked at each other, disconcerted.

“I’m sorry, Sister Salina,” Monsignor Sambi answered. “I don’t believe we completely understood your question.”

“We must locate,” Glauser-Röist interrupted, “someone in this city who has keys. Whatever it is he opens, nobody can close, and vice versa.”

They looked at each other, clearly showing that they didn’t have a clue about what we meant.

“Ottavia!” My brother scolded me good-naturedly, ignoring the Rock. “Do you know how many important keys there are in the Holy Land? Every church, basilica, mosque, and synagogue has its own historical collection of keys! What you’re saying makes no sense in Jerusalem. I’m sorry, but it’s just ridiculous.”

“Try to take this seriously, Pierantonio!” For a moment, I forgot where we were. I forgot I was addressing the respectable guardian of the Holy Land in the middle of an ecumenical assembly of prelates, some of whom were equal to the pope in esteem. I just saw my older brother with a sarcastic attitude about a matter that three times had nearly cost me my life. “It is very important to locate ‘he who has the keys,’ do you understand? Whether there are a lot or a few isn’t the issue. There’s somebody in this city who has the keys we need.”

“Very well, Sister Salina,” Pierantonio replied. I froze when I saw, for the first time, a look of respect and comprehension on his great princely face. Could it be that, for once, “little Ottavia” was more important than the guardian? Oh, dear, that was great news! For once I had the upper hand over my brother?

“Well…” Monsignor Sambi didn’t know how to end that unusual family squabble at such a distinguished meeting. “I think we must take note of what Captain Glauser-Röist and Sister Salina are telling us and begin our search for that bearer of the keys, as you say.”

There was a general consensus, and the conclave dissolved amicably for lunch, which was served in the luxurious dining room. They told me it was where the pope had lunched on several occasions during his recent trip to the Holy Land. I could not help an ironic smile when I remembered how we had gone for three days without a shower and realized that we probably smelled pretty bad.

When I went to my room, I discovered that a couple of Hungarian nuns had already unpacked my bags and had neatly arranged my things in the closet, the bathroom, and desk. They shouldn’t have gone to so much trouble, I thought. The next day, probably at daybreak (or some other inopportune time), we would be flying to Athens for more bruises, wounds, and tattoos. Thinking about the tattoos, I went to the bathroom, took off my clothes above my waist and carefully removed the two bandages covering the inner part of my forearms. The marks were still swollen, the one from Rome much less than the one from Ravenna, just a few hours old. Like it or not, those two beautiful crosses would be with me for the rest of my life. Both had green lines deeply grooved into my skin, as if they’d been injected with some extract of plants and grass. I decided it wasn’t a good idea to worry, so I took a long, glorious shower. Once I’d dried off, I doctored myself with what I found in a medicine cabinet and bandaged my forearms. Fortunately, if I wore long sleeves, it was impossible to notice the assault on my body.

In the middle of the afternoon, after we’d rested for barely an hour, Pierantonio offered to take us to old Jerusalem for a brief sightseeing trip. The nuncio was pretty worried about our safety, for just days before, the worst skirmishes since the end of the Intifada had taken place between Palestinians and Israelis. We were so engrossed in our own problems that we hadn’t even heard the news. In the fighting, at least a dozen people had been killed and more than four hundred wounded. The Israeli government was forced to return three districts of Jerusalem—Abu Dis, Azaria, and Sauajra—to the Palestinian Authority with the hope of reopening negotiations and ending the revolt in the independent territories. The mood was tense, and everyone feared new attacks in the city; Because of this as well as because of Pierantonio’s position, the nuncio insisted we drive one of the delegation’s more lowkey vehicles to get to the old city. He also provided us with one of the best guides: Father Murphy Clark, from the Biblical School of Jerusalem. A big barrel of a man, with a lovely, trimmed white beard, he was one of the world’s foremost specialists on biblical archaeology. We parked the car near the Wailing Wall, and from there, went on a trip back through two thousand years of history.

I wanted to see it all and didn’t have enough eyes to take it all in at once: the vast beauty of those stone streets, the T-shirt and souvenir shops, the strange populace dressed in the fashion of the city’s three cultures. But most exciting was crossing the Via Dolorosa, the road Jesus took to Golgotha, a cross on his shoulders and a crown of thorns stuck on his head. There are no words to describe what I felt at that moment. Pierantonio, who could read me like a book, lagged behind me, while the captain, Father Clark, and Farag led the way. It was clear my brother wasn’t exactly thinking about praying the Via Crucis with me. He really wanted to draw out as much information as he could about our mission.

“Let’s see, Pierantonio,” I protested, “don’t you know it all already? Why don’t you stop asking me so many questions?”

“Because you won’t tell me a thing. I have to pry it out of you!”

“What do you want to get out me? There’s nothing more!”

“Tell me about the tests.”

I sighed and looked to heaven for help. “They’re not exactly tests, Pierantonio. We are crossing a type of purgatory and we must purify our souls so we’ll be worthy of entering the Staurofilakes’ earthly paradise. That’s our only goal. Once we locate the True Cross, we’ll call the police and they’ll take over.”

“But what about Dante? My God, it’s incredible! Come on, please tell me more!”

I stopped short, in the midst of a parade of North Americans praying the stations of the Via Crucis, and turned toward him. “I’ll make a deal with you. You tell me about Glauser-Röist and I’ll tell you the story in detail.”

My brother’s face was transformed. I would swear I saw a flash of hatred cross his holy eyes. He shook his head.

“In Palermo you told me Glauser-Röist was the most dangerous man in the Vatican. If memory serves me, you asked what I was doing working with somebody feared by heaven and earth, that he was the black hand of the church.”

Pierantonio started walking again, leaving me behind. “If you want me to tell you the story of Dante Alighieri and the Staurofilakes,” I baited him when I got to his side, “you’ll have to tell me everything you know about Glauser-Röist. Remember, you yourself taught me how to get information by even ignoring my own conscience, if necessary, to do so.”

My brother stopped in the middle of the Via Dolorosa. “You want to know about Captain Kaspar Linus Glauser-Röist?” he asked, giving off sparks of anger. “Your dear colleague is in charge of making all of the church’s important members’ dirty laundry disappear. For about thirteen years, Glauser-Röist has dedicated himself to destroying anything that might taint the Vatican’s image. When I say destroy, I mean destroy: He threatens and extorts, and it wouldn’t surprise me if he has gone as far as murdering someone to carry out his duty. Nobody escapes the long arm of Glauser-Röist: journalists, bankers, cardinals, politicians, writers. If you have some secret in your life, Ottavia, you’d better not let Glauser-Röist know it. He might use it against you someday, in cold blood, without one bit of pity.”