The Omega Scroll (12 page)

Later that night Allegra lay awake in the family bedroom, her sobs hidden by the snores of her parents and brothers. How could she possibly be forgiven for such a momentous sin. She recalled the words of her Lord and Saviour and the truth began to dawn on her; this was a message. A reminder of the evils of sex that had so often been emphasised by the Bishop. The Lord Jesus would never ever have allowed himself to get in such a dreadful position. He had been perfect. Matthew was very clear. He had been celibate for the sake of heaven. ‘Let anyone accept this who can,’ her Lord had commanded.

What had happened between her and Carlo was a mortal sin because she had allowed it to start of her own free will, and she realised what she must do. She would join the local Dominican Order and devote the rest of her miserable life to making amends. Already the pain and the guilt seemed to be easing as she recalled the vision of St Catherine of Siena where the Blessed Virgin Mary had held Catherine’s hand while Christ put a ring on it. It would mean sacrificing all her dreams of exploring a world outside Tricarico, but it seemed a trivial price to pay for the ultimate marriage. She would become a Bride of Christ. The Mother Superior at the Convent of San Domenico had described it as the most mystical union, a gift that came directly from God.

Allegra was brought back to the present with a start by a quiet knock on the door. She opened it to find Father Giovanni balancing a basket of biscuits, coffee, some sweet cakes and chocolate.

‘Essentials for students!’

‘Father,’ she replied awkwardly. ‘Do come in. Forgive the sparseness,’ she said, offering him the only chair.

‘Please! Don’t apologise. Mine is exactly the same. And remember, it’s Giovanni. Have you settled in?’

‘More or less. It all seems a bit daunting.’

‘It always is for the first week or so until you find out where everything is. This is your first time at a university?’

Allegra nodded. ‘It was a real surprise, Father …’

Giovanni raised his eyebrows with a questioning grin.

‘Forgive me, I’m not used to calling priests by their first name.’

‘It’s all part of the program. Did they give you a briefing at your convent?’

‘Not really Fath—Giovanni,’ Allegra said, still struggling with the familiarity. ‘In fact, Mother Superior seemed a little cross about it.’

Giovanni laughed. ‘Sometimes change does not come easily,’ he said, ‘but I think there is method in John Paul I’s idea.’ A dark cloud shadowed Giovanni’s thoughts at the memory of the man he had so admired and respected. ‘We will have to write a brief report for the Vatican at the end of each semester,’ he continued. ‘Our impressions, how we relate to other students, their reactions, that kind of thing, but I dare say if we can open up the dusty corridors of the Curia to what is happening in the real world that will be no bad thing.’

Allegra started to relax, warming to the company of a man who seemed to know so much about everything, yet seemed so down to earth.

‘Have the others arrived?’ she asked.

‘Oh. You haven’t heard? Father O’Connell’s diocese is so desperately short of priests his Bishop won a last minute reprieve and I’m not sure who the other Sister was, but she resigned from her Order last week, so it’s just you and me, I’m afraid. If there’s anything I can do to help you settle in, let me know. I’m in Room 415 down the corridor,’ he said. ‘If you feel like getting out of here at the end of the week, there’s a great little pizzeria that’s within walking distance. On a Friday night they do a terrific wood-fired pizza and wonderful pasta especially for impoverished students like us.’ Giovanni bade her
buonanotte
and Allegra felt a little less alone.

That had been at the start of the academic year. As the year went on, although she was still troubled by some of the faculty teaching at Ca’ Granda, Allegra was more at ease with her new environment. With each passing week, she found herself looking forward to Friday night discussions with Giovanni over pasta.

Allegra hurried back from the little bookshop she’d found in one of the backstreets of Milano, a second-hand copy of John Allegro’s
The Dead Sea Scrolls Revealed
in her bag. She checked her watch and realised she had just enough time to get to Professor Rosselli’s introductory class on the Dead Sea Scrolls without actually running. Still wary of the traffic, she checked it twice and crossed the Corso di Porta Romana that led back to the university. Allegra slipped into the lecture theatre, just as the lecture was beginning.

‘
Buongiorno. Mi chiamo
Professor Antonio Rosselli.’ A small man in his fifties with a weathered and lined face, the Professor wore a coat that was frayed and round black-rimmed glasses that were perched halfway down his large Roman nose. His white hair flopped in disarray, covering his large ears, and his dark eyebrows were bushy and as untidy as his hair.

‘Not one to spend much time with a comb,’ Allegra thought, intrigued by his mischievous smile.

‘Over the next few weeks we will be looking at the Dead Sea Scrolls,’ he began. ‘Over two thousand years ago, a mysterious sect of the Essenes lived in an isolated settlement known as Qumran on the northern shores of the Dead Sea. They were not, as the Vatican and others have suggested, a reclusive, pacifist and celibate bunch of monks, but rather one of the most advanced and enlightened communities of ancient civilisation. Their lifestyle followed that which Pythagoras had ordained for the ancient Greeks. Dressed in Pythagorean white, they rose before dawn to pray, and like Pythagoras, the Essenes were very advanced astronomers, mathematicians and well versed in philosophy.’ Professor Rosselli paused to tamp his pipe. ‘In this balanced society where women were considered the equal of men, work would cease at midday and they would bathe naked together in a ritual cleansing in one of several deep pools they had built in Qumran, before eating a simple communal meal’, he continued. The Professor’s enthusiasm for the ancient community was obvious. ‘The Essenes meticulously recorded every aspect of their lifestyle in an extensive library of scrolls. Part of their philosophy was to make their knowledge accessible to future generations. When the Roman armies advanced on Jerusalem in 68
AD
the Essenes hid their scrolls in the caves above Qumran.’ Professor Rosselli surveyed his class over the top of his glasses. ‘But ever since the discovery of the Dead Sea Scrolls, there have been rumours of one particular scroll that reveals far more than the lifestyle of the mysterious sect of first-century Judaism,’ he said, his voice holding more than a hint of conspiracy. ‘Does anyone know what scroll that might be?’ Professor Rosselli asked.

Giovanni felt a sudden chill. ‘The Omega Scroll,’ he answered.

‘Yes, the Omega Scroll,’ Professor Rosselli said, his eyes gleaming. ‘The modern day equivalent of the Mummy’s Curse. As soon as people find it, mysterious things happen. It is also said to contain a revelation for humanity, a terrifying warning for civilisation. A secret so great that many seem to have been silenced in their search for this elusive archaelogical treasure.’

A revelation for humanity
. Giovanni thought back to what he had witnessed in the Pope’s apartments, and he wondered whether there was any connection between Professor Rosselli and Professor Fiorini who had provided the brief for Pope John Paul I. Giovanni had tried to track the retired Fiorini down without success, and he resolved to speak to Professor Rosselli after the lecture.

‘So how did these scrolls come to light?’ Professor Rosselli, one of the world’s experts on the Middle East had a rare ability to transport his students back through time and space, and Allegra was not the only one to see the heat distorting the hills surrounding the Dead Sea. It was 1947.

The morning sun beat mercilessly on the Bedouin tents clustered in camps on either side of the long dusty road that since before the time of Christ had led from Jerusalem, east towards Jericho and down to where the River Jordan flowed into the Dead Sea. Centuries before, Christian pilgrims had been astounded at the sheer lifelessness of the water, and had given the sea its name. About 30 kilometres from Jerusalem the road forked. Straight ahead the river formed the border with Jordan, and the road led on to Amman. To the right, the road turned and led south towards Qumran where the cliffs stood like sentinels, watching over the ruins. The orange flintstone was caught by the sun, and the heat haze rose from the shimmering surface of the sea. On the other side lay Jordan and the wadis and canyons of the biblical mountains of Moab and Edom.

The young Muhammad Ahmad el-Hamed, nicknamed edh-Dhib or Muhammad the Wolf, cursed his errant goat and scrambled up the side of a cliff. By the time he reached the dusty ledge where he had last spotted his charge, the nimble-footed goat was nowhere to be seen. Edh-Dhib rubbed the back of his hand across his sweaty forehead and wiped it on his dust-encrusted robe. It was more than his life was worth to lose a sizeable chunk of his family’s livelihood and he stayed very still, listening and scanning the desolate cliffs for any sign of life. Then he saw it. From the ground below it would have looked like an indentation in the rock, but up here edh-Dhib could see it was the entrance to a cave.

‘So, my little goat, that’s where you’ve got to. We shall have to get you to come out,’ he murmured to himself. Edh-Dhib picked up a small stone and silently picked his way over the boulders. Stopping, he took careful aim. Even without a slingshot edh-Dhib was deadly accurate, and the stone flew straight through the centre of the entrance. Instead of startling a goat, he heard the sound of shattering pottery echoing out of the cave. Edh-Dhib moved forward, clawing his way up the cliff until he reached the narrow entrance. Squeezing himself through he dropped to the floor to find that he was in a narrow, high-ceilinged cave that was no more than 20 metres at its widest and about 65 metres long. Finding that he could stand up edh-Dibh looked around. There was no goat and no footprints in the fine dust, and no other sign that anyone had been around for a very long time. In fact, it had been nearly two thousand years since anyone had set foot inside the cave. In the gloom at the far end, nestled in the sands of centuries, stood several earthenware jars. The silence was eerie. Like the Egyptian farmer who had found manuscripts in a jar at Nag Hammadi two years before, edh-Dhib wondered what spirits of the past lurked within the cool dark cave and he backed slowly out towards the entrance. Two hours later he finally retrieved the goat.

Later that night he confided in his friend Abu Dabu. His friend was wiser by two whole years and he scoffed at any suggestion of spirits.

‘What if there is gold inside the jars?’ Abu Dabu suggested greedily, his dark eyes reflecting the light of the glowing embers of the fire.

‘Who would it belong to?’ edh-Dhib asked, uncertain as to what they should do.

Abu Dabu didn’t hesitate. ‘Whoever finds it, owns it,’ he said emphatically. ‘There is a Turkish trader in Bethlehem, Ali Ercan. My uncle has dealt with him before and he will know who will give us a good price with no questions asked.’

Early next morning, emboldened by his friend’s wise counsel, edh-Dhib led the way up the treacherous cliffs. He paused just below the entrance to the cave and cupped his hand to his ear, motioning for his friend to listen. The only noise was the wind growling across the face of the cliffs. Abu Dabu pushed past him impatiently, scrambling over the broken rocks and disappearing into the crevice. By the time edh-Dhib had dropped onto the soft, sandy floor, Abu Dabu was already at the far end of the cave.

‘Give me a hand,’ he urged, his voice rising with excitement. Together they wrestled the largest of the jars into the feeble light of the entrance. Abu wrenched off the large earthenware lid and reeled back as a putrid odour filled the cave. Covering his face with his robes he peered into the jar, reached in and took out a long oblong package.

‘It doesn’t look like gold,’ edh-Dhib ventured, not hiding his disappointment.

‘No,’ Abu Dabu muttered, fingering the ancient linen cloth. He tore impatiently at the end until what looked like a roll of old leather appeared. The rest of the jars yielded more rolls that were intact, as well as thousands of fragments that had succumbed to the ravages of time.

‘Whatever they are, edh-Dhib, someone thought it was necessary to hide these scrolls where they would not be found,’ he said, his Bedouin cunning coming to the fore. ‘We’ll hide them in my tent. Tomorrow we’ll take them to Bethlehem.’

Edh-Dhib had been told that sometimes an ancient scroll could be worth a lot of money and he tightened his grip on the hessian bag.

‘What time did you say the trader opened his shop?’ he asked Abu Dabu for the third time.

‘Don’t worry,’ the older boy assured him. ‘He will be here soon.’

As was his habit for the past thirty years, Ali Ercan walked down King David Road towards his antiques shop near Manger Square in Bethlehem. The snows of Christmas had long since receded and Bethlehem, perched on a hill about 8 kilometres south of Jerusalem, was in for another scorching day. The tower of the Church of the Nativity dominated the town and the surrounding Judaean desert as it had done since the days of the Crusaders, but neither the ancient surroundings nor their religious significance to the faithful concerned Ali. As long as the faithful had money to spend, he would be happy. Money for any of the hundreds of olive wood statues of Christ, the Virgin Mary or the Saints, or perhaps copper plates and goblets or brightly coloured Bedouin rugs and cushions. For the more discerning customer, an old and battered safe held some very fine filigreed silver. Ali catered for the discerning but less scrupulous customer as well, especially the ones interested in black market antiquities.

As he approached his shop, instead of tourists, Ali could see that two Bedouin boys were waiting for him and one of them was carrying a tattered hessian sack.

‘What do you want?’ Ali muttered. He fumbled for the large bunch of keys he kept suspended from a belt beneath his robes and wrestled open the rusting security grate.