Authors: Galen Watson
Tags: #FICTION/Suspense, #FIC022060, #FICTION/Historical, #FICTION/Thriller, #FIC014000, #FICTION/Mystery and Detective/Historical, #FIC030000, #FIC031000
Ahmad grew old in Father’s service, but in the winter of his life, he delivered his sons one at a time as a sort of internship to assist Father and me. They, too, were my friends and teachers and students. When they advanced in years, their sons were sent to serve me, and Prince Ahmad’s great-grandsons attend me still, although I tell them they owe no obligation. Yet they insist on obeying the will of Allah and their illustrious great-grandfather, who is revered as the holiest of men from their tribe. They protect me and guard the secret books jealously.
So what about me? In my youth, I felt the zeal to transform the world as did Mother and Father. However, lack of wisdom made me ambitious, and I thought the path to change could only be achieved from a position of power. Thus was I prey to the subtle and seductive call. When I served as
primicerius
of the
scrinium
, the scribes believed me to be an uncompromising taskmaster. Once I cuffed the ear of a young novice and he protested, saying, “I simply made a small revision, just a word for clarification.”
I lost my temper and told him, “A single change by one lowly scribe, and only to clarify. Multiply it by a hundred scribes or a thousand or ten thousand, day after day for a millennium, and the scriptures no longer resemble our Lord’s words. Fie on the forgers, innocent or otherwise. How can we ever know what was truly said or done?” Yet I was the one rebuked by the cardinal and after too many such complaints by my charges, I was relieved of my post. Then I realized that a position of power in the palace that ruled Christendom was not my calling.
So I left Rome to be a simple parish priest in the city of Ostia until the day I was named Bishop. It surely must have been Father’s doing for, in truth, I had achieved nothing noteworthy. Nevertheless, I did my best for the Diocese and the priests in my charge and endeavored to be kind and compassionate.
When I reached middle age, I began to write Mother’s story and recalled the hundreds of tales told by Father and Rabbi Avraham and Prince Ahmad and Elchanan the tanner and many, many others who knew her. All have I assembled here.
Before father’s death, he revealed the location of the crypt under the mausoleum of the Popes beneath Saint Peter’s Basilica, where Mother’s precious heresies were concealed. I went there secretly to read and study and try to understand. Upon my death, I instructed Ahmad’s grandsons to finish what needs finishing and seal the ancient scrolls and books and Mother’s story in the empty tomb beneath the Basilica. I required their solemn vow on the name of their Prophet to guard the hidden place and the secret of her heresies to the end of their days. After the day these things have been done by those who call themselves the
Children of the Book
, I shall count Ahmad’s sin, if it were ever such, expiated, wiped clean a thousand times over.
I wrote this history on the finest parchment in the Empire, manufactured by the grandsons of the venerable Elchanan HaKodesh in the Trastevere. If you’ve discovered it and read these words, then my days are over and you have exhumed Mother’s treasures and her own story penned by my hand. I, Johannes Avraham Baraldus Ahmad, for that is the name Father gave me, authored this account so my beloved parents would not be forever forgotten, their memories scattered in the overlooked places of time. My fondest desire is that one day far from now, they will be known for who they were and what they tried to accomplish, yet failed. Moreover, I want you to know how they loved one another.
One last thing, for I am sure you must wonder. Avraham HaKodesh, Rosh Yeshiva of Rome, taught me the hidden writing, invisible lemon juice on parchment and held over a flame to make the words appear. He told me he showed Mother the trickery so she could write Father secretly when he languished in exile. Avraham revealed that the same might be done with ink erased with the foul, smelly concoction. Finally, he said that after she had written many letters in this manner, she had an epiphany: her precious heresies could be hidden in plain sight, underneath the Psalms. Her first experiment was her own Psalter, the one Father bequeathed to me. I carried on her work, cutting ancient scrolls into pages and covering them with the commonest of prayers. In this way, I saved hundreds of scriptures, but not all. The rest are here.
Who can ever be absolutely certain of a thing? Popes and emperors say they are, and bishops and kings and cardinals, and even the lowliest priests and laymen are confident in their God and their Lord and, most importantly, their salvation. Yet I have lived four score and five years and am at the end of my tired days. If I learned anything in this curiously long life, it’s that ardent believers hide within the safety of their absolutes, for much more courage is needed to abandon their cozy security for the questioning of one’s own beliefs.
Now, I can’t be absolutely certain; nevertheless, I’m quite confident that I am and forever shall be the only man to have had a father and a mother who were both priests and both cardinals and both librarians and both Popes of the Holy and Universal Church.
Johannes Avraham Baraldus Ahmad, Bishop of Ostia
Johanna and Anasthasius’ son, Johannes, now a feeble old man, put down his reed pen and got up from his desk. He padded on tired, unsteady legs to fetch the kettle of hot water from the kitchen. He poured the boiling liquid into a plain silver bowl on the table.
Steam rose from the vessel as the Bishop of Ostia seated himself. He leaned forward and peered into the cooling water. The cloud thinned as he gazed at the smooth surface. He strained to look beneath, to the glimmering bottom. Black letters appeared in the bowl, swirling faster and faster like a dark cone, leading his eyes downward to the depth of its inky point. Bishop Johannes cleared his mind and projected his thoughts into the twirling image.
All that can be done has been done. We shall see if it’s enough. To you, I entrust Mother’s treasures either for yourself or one who will do with them as she would have
.
The Children of the Book
46
The Shrine
I wish you’d stay on,” Father Romano said to Pascal in front of the security checkpoint at Rome’s Fumicino airport. “You’re the best one to translate the Aramaic.”
“I hate to leave, but work is piling up at home. Besides, you need Isabelle more than me. The scrolls have to be photographed and digitized and put in her confounded computer. I don’t want anything to do with that. Anyway, the Grand Inquisitor agreed to let you send me the photographs so I can translate in the comfort of my dusty den at home.”
“I can’t believe you got him to give his permission. Still, I’ll miss you and I’m sure you meant to say the Defender of the Faith.”
“Did I hear my name used in vain?” Cardinal Keller approached the trio, who stared at him, speechless. “You three seem to be joined at the hip. Some sort of conspiracy?”
Pascal eyed the cardinal. “How did you know we were here? Do you have spies in the airport?”
Keller glared at the retired linguist. “I told you before that I have the largest network of spies in the world, you heretic.”
Pascal chided back, “Prussian tyrant.”
Isabelle was stunned by the exchange. “Do you know each other?”
“Did I neglect to tell you,
chérie
? We’re old friends. We were roommates at the university.”
“You two were cooped up in a room together, arguing religion?”
Cardinal Keller smiled at his lifelong friend. “Until the wee hours of the morning. It was a spiritual experience.”
“You mean to say our ranting at one another kept us out of the bars.” Pascal chortled and Keller let out a loud guffaw, making them all laugh. A boarding announcement over the public address system cut short their mirth. “I need to go.” Pascal exhaled a long sigh. Isabelle planted pecks on her father’s cheeks, and Romano extended his hand. But Pascal pulled the priest close and kissed him as well. “Take care of my little girl.”
“I promise.” Romano meant it sincerely.
Then Pascal took the Grand Inquisitor by the arm and led him a few steps away so he could whisper in his ear. “I don’t know how to thank you. I asked a big favor, and you came through in spades.”
“Nonsense, old friend. You were simply part of a grander plan, one foreseen by some of the greatest mystics of the Holy Church. But from now on, you can call me the Super Grand Inquisitor.”
The two men stared into each other’s eyes for a moment, hugged, and patted one another on the back. Then Pascal disappeared through the door, into the transparent plastic tube conveyer leading to the boarding gates.
The taxi driver maneuvered his car around the streets of Rome as Romano pointed out which turns to take. Isabelle was lost in her private thoughts, then turned to the priest. “How do you think the Psalters got from the tomb under Saint Peter’s to the Library and Secret Archives?”
“I’ve been wondering, too. Popes have been excavating the grotto since the Middle Ages. In the 1940s, a German priest removed relics he found in a tomb down there. Those relics weren’t rediscovered until his death in the sixties. I’m convinced that much more was unearthed from the Popes’ mausoleum than just ancient bones, and where else would books go than in a Library?”
“Do you think whoever brought them out realized the Psalters were Giovanni’s handiwork?”
“Giovanni’s Psalters seem to lead lives of their own and have been trying to get out for a very long time.”
Isabelle nodded. “It’s such a tragedy that the magnificent chapel dome had to be destroyed for them to be found.”
“There’s an interesting irony, though. Pagan temples and Christian churches which weren’t the official version of Christianity were obliterated to build Saint Peter’s, and a non-Christian returned the favor. But the basilica will rise again, maybe this time with non-denominational bricks.”
They drove on in silence until Romano said, “Did you know, in the Middle Ages, a marble seat called the
sedia stercoraria
was used to crown the Popes?”
Isabelle didn’t understand where the priest was going so she answered simply, “No.”
“It’s an unusual piece of furniture with a hole in the center like a toilet. The Pope sat on it before being confirmed and lifted his robes while cardinals peered from behind and declared, ‘He has testicles and they dangle nicely’.” Romano blushed.
“You can’t be serious.”
“The chair is tucked away in the Vatican Museum and accounts of the ceremony are stored in the Archives.”
“Do you think the ritual became part of the Pope’s confirmation because of Johanna?”
“That’s the legend.” Glancing out of the taxi’s window a few blocks from the Colosseum, Romano told the driver to pull over.
“Why are we stopping?” Isabelle asked.
“I want to show you something.”
They got out of the taxi and Romano took Isabelle’s hand. He led her down a narrow street, past the ancient church of
San Clemente
, a short block to the unremarkable corner of
via dei Santissimi Quattro
and
via Querceti
. “What am I supposed to be looking at?” Isabelle asked, spotting only a trattoria on one side and the wall surrounding the church of the
Quattro Coronati
on the other.
“Do you see the little shrine with the metal grate?”
“Yes. The plaque says it’s dedicated to the Virgin Mary,” Isabelle said.
“It does now. This street was once called the
vicus papissa
, the street of the woman pope, until it was razed by Pope Pius V to make the new road. Nothing remains of the original narrow lane except perhaps this small shrine which is over a thousand years old.”
“Are you saying this is where Pope Johanna was killed?”
“So goes the tale, and that she’s buried at this exact spot. Of course, they’re only fables.”
“How can you say such a thing after all we’ve been through?”
“Your own countryman, Napoleon, had an opinion about fables: ‘What is history, but a fable agreed upon?’”
They crossed the street and peered into the shrine, trying to make out the ancient, weather-stained fresco. The metal cross-hatch grate had been bent by tourists who wanted a better look at the painting. Michael gazed at the shadowy, faded figure of a woman who just might be Johanna Anglicus.
Isabelle leaned over and spoke softly in Romano’s ear. “You don’t have to fear us, Michael.”
The priest contemplated the painted face of the mother and child and answered without turning his head, “That’s what Father Mackey said. He also said something quite unbiblical:
There are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in your philosophy
. I’m beginning to understand.” He took Isabelle’s hand in his own, lacing his fingers through hers. Isabelle rested her head on his shoulder, closed her eyes, and breathed a satisfied sigh.
The taxi stopped in front of the seventeenth-century apartment building in Paris’ Marais district. Pascal retrieved his wallet and pulled out a couple of bills. He handed them to the driver. “Keep the change.”
“No, monsieur. You’re far too generous.”
“I feel like tipping someone, and you’re the only one here.” Pascal smiled and shut the car door. He rolled his small suitcase through the cold drizzle into the building’s entry.
The kettle whistled and he turned off the gas flame on the 1950s burner. But instead of pouring water into the teapot, he walked, kettle in hand, to his study. A little copper bowl rested on a tripod on his desk, and he filled the vessel to the rim. The metal changed colors as the liquid splashed on it. Vapor rose in a thin cloud, drifting and disappearing. The surface was smooth and opaque like a deep, dark, bottomless pool.
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