by D B Nielsen
‘Oh, my God!’ I exclaimed then, realising that I’d blasphemed in front of a holy man, quickly said, ‘Sorry! Mi dispiace! It’s just I can’t quite believe ... I don’t know what to think...’
The Librarian Cardinal smiled wearily at me. ‘Child, I understand. Do not fret about it.’ Then, turning to St. John, he continued, ‘That is why, my son, we wished to know whether this Apostate could use the power now in his hands to gain entry to the Garden.’
‘The power is there, but the felon might be afraid to use it. If what we’ve heard is true, then this gold is infused with the power of the Creator,’ St. John said, philosophically, ‘Oh yes, the Bible tells of the Ark of the Covenant levelling mountains and razing entire cities. Moses promised that whenever the Covenant Box was brought forth into battle, “May your enemies be scattered and your foes flee before you” and a brilliant jet of pure white light, lightning and flame would emanate from the Mercy Seat at the top of the Ark to pierce deep into the ranks of the retreating enemy, wreaking devastation and terror. So, if the astrolabe isn’t used properly, the power will destroy him.’
I realised now that the only ones who could have known – could have done this – were the Grigori. The horrifying reality of it crashed in on me, making me shiver in dread.
St. John crossed now to the shattered glass display case and looked inside at the evidence of our loss – a loss of such magnitude I wondered how we would ever recover in our quest to see the Seed to its origin safely.
‘It seems that the thief has left a souvenir,’ St. John murmured, ‘a calling card. Was this exactly the way you found it?’
The Librarian Cardinal and I crossed to where St. John stood in front of the smashed case with its interior velvet lining littered with shards of glass. Amongst the debris there was a familiar item.
I sucked in a deep breath as the Librarian Cardinal replied to St. John’s question, ‘Si, si. Nothing was touched. Everything is exactly as it was. We merely moved the display case from the other floor to this room so that the visitors to the Vatican Secret Archives would not see it. But we have been instructed to seal the Archives until further notice.’
I looked in horror at the glittering piece lying in the middle of the hollow depression in the velvet where the astrolabe and its accompanying text should have been. It was marked by a swallow. A game piece of rare value. A game piece deliberately left for us to find.
‘The Swiss Guards are investigating the matter but, I fear, it is hopeless. They will not find anything of use to them. The thief is not of this world, I believe.’ The Librarian Cardinal was still talking to St. John but I was only half attending to what he said. ‘And now you know why we asked for you to come here. It was imperative. You were summoned.’
I nodded in understanding. ‘By the Pope, yes?’
The Librarian Cardinal looked surprised but shook his head. ‘Of course, you were summoned by the Church but that was not who I was referring to.’
St. John smiled without humour and, turning to face me, said, ‘The Librarian Cardinal means we were summoned by Heaven, Sage.’
And now I knew. We were to provide their miracle.
I was about to protest when I caught sight of St. John’s face – while it looked particularly grim, he did not wear an expression of defeat. It alone gave me hope.
I moved slightly away from the Librarian Cardinal in order to speak to St. John somewhat privately.
‘The astrolabe and the Almanach Perpetuum are now in the wrong hands. How can we hope to catch up when they have a means to navigate the way to the artefact’s origin?’
I had kept my voice low and deliberately referred to the Seed as merely an artefact but the Librarian Cardinal, despite nearing ninety had sharp hearing, and was under no illusion of what I was talking about.
‘The Seed must be returned to its origin but, even if the thief has both the astrolabe and the Almanach Perpetuum, all is not lost. As St. John has pointed out, the Grigori won’t rush into an act whereby the power of the astrolabe may eviscerate them, but will think carefully before they use it.’
‘In my opinion, the Grigori will still go after the Scroll,’ St. John claimed, ‘But it’s that hesitation that gives us the little bit of time we need.’
‘Only the Seed will allow the Keeper to gain access to the Garden of Eden. It is the key,’ agreed the elderly man.
‘But it is only one part of the map that will guide us there,’ St. John murmured. Turning to face me, the gold of his irises was more pronounced as he said, ‘We need to find the other half before the Grigori do.’
I stood suddenly resolute. ‘We will. We’ll find the other half of the map and we’ll get to the Gardens first. Even if they have the astrolabe and the Almanach Perpetuum it won’t do them any good, as you said. They’d be stupid or desperate to use it.’
St. John raised an eyebrow at my tone. ‘Don’t underestimate desperate men, Sage.’
‘Trust me, we’ll find it first,’ I said, feeling more confident than I’d ever been, ‘I’m the Wise One.’
His lips twisted in amusement and even the Librarian Cardinal gave a delighted laugh.
‘And what, O Wise One, makes you so confident?’ St. John asked, playfully tapping the tip of my nose with his finger.
I shrugged, not really understanding my feeling of certainty either. Instead, I replied playfully, ‘Feminine intuition. Besides, look at the painting above you. It’s Jacob wrestling the Angel and, as the Bible story goes, the Angel was overcome. And remember the fresco in the Meridian Hall? We’re the Chosen. It’s like what I said earlier from Hamlet; there is a divinity that shapes our ends – there’s no escaping that.’
The Librarian Cardinal came forward and took my hands in his own. ‘Now I understand why you have been chosen as the Wise One.’
I looked over the Librarian Cardinal’s shoulder and caught sight of the expression in St. John’s eyes. Their molten glow made me blush.
‘And now, my child,’ the Librarian Cardinal briefly patted my hand in a fatherly gesture before releasing it. ‘Perhaps we should have some luncheon? It would be my pleasure to invite you both to share in our midday meal.’
St. John smiled and, crossing to take my arm to follow the Librarian Cardinal from the Torre dei Venti and the Vatican Secret Archives, said, ‘By all means. Let us go and break some bread together.’
LITTLE SEEDS
CHAPTER SEVEN
The Librarian Cardinal had graciously arranged transport for us back to Paris after luncheon with an escort to facilitate our speedy journey. Another enclosed golf cart was idling nearby waiting for us while we said our goodbyes to him; its driver, the Swiss Guard of earlier who had warned us to wait for him outside the Vatican Secret Archives. His expression was dour and I wondered if this was habitual or because we’d defied his instructions by being invited to dine with his superiors. In any event, it didn’t matter – we were all at the mercy of fate or God’s providence.
The Librarian Cardinal embraced first me and then St. John, murmuring, ‘God bless and keep you safe.’
St. John rested his hand on the Librarian Cardinal’s shoulder and said something in what sounded like music, too low and much too fast for me to catch. When St. John turned away to gracefully swing himself into the buggy the expression on the face of the Librarian Cardinal was beatific. I couldn’t imagine what St. John might have said to him that could cause such illumination.
‘What did you say to him?’ I hissed under my breath as St. John settled in next to me.
St. John turned his enigmatic jade gaze my way. ‘I gave him the blessing of the angelic host.’
I turned surprised eyes upon him but his expression betrayed nothing but a deep fatigue and I realised he hadn’t slept in over twenty-four hours.
‘You can do that?’ I whispered in awe.
He merely nodded, somewhat dismissively, as the Librarian Cardinal once again called his attention.
‘Remember,’ the Librarian Cardinal
said in a low voice, ‘the Vatican has invoked its Omerta.’
St. John merely nodded as the Swiss Guard closed the door and swung into the driver’s seat, bringing the idling golf cart to life. I barely had time to catch the Librarian Cardinal giving us a final blessing by making the sign of the cross as we retreated from him. And then we were moving swiftly in the opposite direction from where we entered the Vatican that morning.
‘What’s an Omerta?’ I asked St. John, curiously.
‘It’s the Vatican’s Code of Silence,’ he replied gravely, ‘The Vatican has closed its Archives to ensure that this matter is handled discretely; without a media frenzy. The last thing we want is the further complication of journalists poking their noses where they aren’t wanted.’
I nodded, realising that this made sense. It would be much harder to see the Seed safely back to its origin if there were investigative reporters following our every move. Such a quest needed privacy as there were forces at work that even I barely comprehended and yet I’d been privileged to see what others did not or could not.
We were driven to the north-west corner of Vatican City, as far from St. Peter’s Basilica as possible in such a small country. As I looked around I noticed that we were approaching the Vatican’s helipad. On its tarmac, there gleamed a white helicopter with the coat-of-arms of the Holy See emblazoned on its side – two crossed keys in gold and silver, interlaced in the rings gules, beneath a triple crown representing the three powers of the Pontiff.
I was halfway out of my seat trying to get a better view before I realised St. John’s shoulders shaking with silent laughter beside me.
‘There’s no need to gawk, Sage,’ he said, his lips curled up in amusement, ‘we’re about to take a ride in it.’
I managed to contain my excitement – but only just. We were going to fly in the Pope’s helicopter!
The Vatican owned a helicopter used for transporting the Pope to meetings, to the airport, or to his summer Palace in Gandolfo. The pilot was already there, beside the chopper, waiting for us on the tarmac. He too wore the uniform of the Swiss Guard with a pair of aviator glasses but he appeared younger than the others we’d met today, not much older than myself at perhaps twenty or twenty-one-years-old.
The helicopter’s rotors churned slowly in neutral while I alighted from the buggy.
‘Watch yourself,’ St. John warned as he took my hand and crossed the tarmac, forcing me to duck low as we approached the chopper.
Even with the spinning rotors on neutral, the cold winter air whipped around me causing little flurries, so that my overcoat flapped in the wind, tangling round my legs. It was dreadful that St. John could be so graceful when I was always having such difficulty demonstrating decorum. Like a seasoned professional, St. John barely stooped as he passed under the rotors and vaulted into the helicopter. I, on the other hand, was a little less athletic and needed both St. John’s help to pull me up while the Swiss Guard stood behind me to lift me from the waist.
Whatever happened to the Pontifical helicopter stairs? Or were they only for the Pope’s exclusive use? I thought ruefully, untangling and smoothing down my overcoat as I sat down beside St. John.
As the Swiss Guard fired up the engines, I called out to him, ‘Where are you taking us?’
The pilot looked back over his shoulder at me and I found myself staring into a pair of aviator glasses, reflecting my own face. ‘I’ve been ordered to take you to Rome airport where your jet is waiting. The pilots are clearing the flight plan with the air controllers as we speak. Make sure you buckle up – it’s going to be a rough ride.’
I did as the Swiss Guard instructed then turned to look out from the chopper as we took off from the Vatican’s helipad, my stomach lurching in response just as the pilot said it would.
Vatican City was beneath us in seconds and, once again, I was struck by its fortress-like appearance. But the beauty of the Basilica was perhaps even better appreciated up close from an aerial view. Its marble façade reflected the early afternoon sunlight and spilled over onto the open granite piazza sprawling before it. It was perhaps the only open space I could see in the whole of Rome.
As we then passed over Rome, I might have been gazing at an indecipherable script – the ancient roadways were scrawled across the land in no discernible pattern from the air. What was once the centre of an empire where all roads led to Rome in straight lines from the neighbouring towns had become a convoluted labyrinth of ancient ruins, roadways, the Tiber River and the Seven Hills.
The only site I could identify with any certainty was the Colosseum looking like the ancient stadium it once was; an iconic emblem of imperial Rome. It was amazing to think that the hypogeum was connected by underground tunnels, elevators and pulleys which could raise and lower scenery, props and caged animals, and even the ability via the aqueduct to flood the amphitheatre for mock-naval battles.
I sighed wistfully, disappointed that I didn’t get the chance to see Rome’s famous sites except from the air.
‘You’ll be coming back again,’ St. John said, his voice easily heard above the muted whooping sound made by the helicopter’s rotors in the nearly soundproof cabin.
I could only hope that he was right.
The helicopter banked hard to the left before the airport came into view. But we were nowhere near Rome’s Fiumicino Terminal with its commercial planes. Instead, when the Vatican’s helicopter touched down, it was at a private landing strip some distance away. Stationed outside the hangar in the diluted sunlight of an Italian winter gleamed a private Learjet 45XR with its stairs ready for us to mount. Behind it, under the hangar’s shelter, was the Alitalia plane bearing the Vatican’s coat-of-arms for the Pope’s personal use.
The Swiss Guard exited to open the sliding door and St. John leapt down effortlessly then waited for me to descend. As soon as I was out of the craft, the helicopter pilot turned and headed back to the chopper’s cockpit, waiting only long enough for us to clear the tarmac before we heard the rotors whirring and saw the helicopter rearing up, banking to the right and slowly disappearing from our view.
‘Dr Rivers? Signorina Woods? This way, please.’ An immaculately groomed flight attendant greeted us, leading the way to the plane’s set of stairs and stepping aside for us to embark the aircraft.
I entered the plane’s cabin in anticipation of the flight which would be the first time I’d ever flown in such luxury. The interior was fitted with enough room to carry eight passengers seated facing each other in the cognac coloured leather executive club armchairs. The decadent fittings in whorled wood and the beige coloured carpets were complemented by the silver tea service laden with a plate of Italian pastries awaiting us.
‘Would you prefer an alcoholic beverage, juice or soft drink?’ the stewardess murmured and, when we declined, she withdrew discretely for us to get comfortable.
St. John leaned back in his seat and, closing his eyes, gave the impression that he intended to rest for the entire flight. But I was too buoyed up to settle and, though I intended to try to curb my curiosity at least until after we’d arrived back in Paris and St. John had time to rest, he must have picked up on my barely suppressed excitement and almost animal nervousness as he addressed me from behind closed lids.
‘What is it, Sage? You’re like a skittish colt. Tell me what’s going on in that head of yours.’
Bursting forth in a tumult of somewhat convoluted speech, I asked, ‘The three Magi were also called Wise Men. Were they? Wise Men or Wise Ones, I mean, like me?’
‘Yes, Sage,’ he said, never even cracking open an eyelid, ‘Most theologians and Biblical scholars understand that the Magi were the Wise Men referred to by the ancient Mesopotamians. Remember the lecture I gave at the Sorbonne? It is believed that they were Zoroastrian astrologers and mathematicians from ancient Babylon, Assyria or Persia – the ones who recorded the celestial bodies and their movements. As such, they were able to observe or perhaps even predict the rising of the Star of Bet
hlehem. Certainly, it might have been interpreted as an omen or meant some portentous event like the coming of a king or the birth of the Christ child. Do you remember much of the Bible stories about the birth of Christ?’
‘Pretty well, yeah,’ I replied, unable to resist a sweet ricotta-filled cannoli.
‘Well, then you’ll know that in Jerusalem the Star of Bethlehem wasn’t particularly noted until the Magi came to King Herod and brought it and the Christ child to his attention.’ St. John continued, still with his eyes closed, ‘According to the Gospel of Matthew, the Magi were said to be “some men who studied the stars from the East” and approached King Herod because they believed that the newborn king heralded by the Star of Bethlehem must be royalty. King Herod was actually shocked by this revelation and asked his advisors where this Messiah could be born and they quoted a prophecy by Micah which pointed to Bethlehem.’
St. John paused, barely cracking open an eyelid as the flight attendant returned to collect the tea tray and stow away the table for take-off. Then, taking up the tale again, said, ‘But though Herod sent the Magi to find the Christ child, he tried to exploit them as spies. Only after they journeyed towards Bethlehem and the Star appeared to them again allowing them to find the Christ child did they also have a vision which warned them to return to their country by another road and not to go back to Herod. This is the only account of the Magi in the Bible stories. After that we can only gather information about the Magi from documents recorded by travellers and historians, like Marco Polo, and some scattered artworks.’
‘What artworks?’ I asked, as the engines of the plane began to roar in readiness for flight.
‘A painting in the Cemetery of Saint Peter and Saint Marcellinus shows only two of the Magi; a painting in the Lateran Museum shows three Magi; a painting in the Crypt of Domitilla shows four Magi; and a vase currently residing in the Kircher Museum depicts eight Magi. You can read about it in Marucchi’s Eléments d’Archéologie Chrétienne published in 1899,’ St. John explained as the plane began to taxi down the runway.
