Blood Symbols

by Izak Botha

  ‘If you don’t mind, though, Your Eminence, I’m here to see the Vatican’s copy.’

  Ignoring her sarcasm, he continued, ‘There are four hundred and fifty numbered copies in the world. It should not be too difficult for you to get hold of one.’

  As if the Vatican’s codex was an original. Damn it! They were all copies, even the Vaticanus. ‘Where can I find one?’ she asked, her voice composed.

  ‘The Loewen Learning Resource Centre in Providence has one. Viewing can be arranged with them.’

  Jennifer did not know how long she could keep this up. For the sake of not antagonizing the cardinal further, though, she decided to hear him out. ‘Who did the reproduction, Your Eminence?’

  Cardoni sat up, his chin thrust forward: ‘The Istituto Poligrafico e Zecca dello.’

  ‘The Vatican’s official publisher—in other words, the Vatican does its own reproductions?’

  His eyes narrowed so his pupils were barely visible. ‘Every detail, no matter how minute, can be seen in the facsimiles. Even the pages have the same weight and texture as the original parchment.’

  ‘Your Eminence, I realize that, but we need to run ultraviolet and X-ray fluorescence studies.’ She just made that up, but she had to try. ‘They are specially developed techniques that do not require samples from the examined items and therefore wouldn’t damage the Vaticanus. As you must know, such methods can extract details the naked eye cannot see. As you said yourself, the tests can reveal alterations made over the centuries. The B copies cannot provide that kind of information.’

  ‘The Vaticanus is our holiest treasure. We do not allow outsiders like you to film it. And we certainly do not grant tests. We simply do not allow scrutiny like that.’

  Outsiders? Your holiest treasure? The audacity of the man! He was merely a custodian of a fourth-century reproduction. He did not own its contents. All Christians did. He might as well lay claim to the English language. In any case, the extent to which the Vaticanus differed from original manuscripts was crucial, especially considering its status as the Word of God.

  ‘As guardian of God’s written word,’ she continued, ‘is it not essential to have original manuscripts?’ She had no idea how to put that politely.

  ‘Miss Jaine, our scriptures are a true reflection of God’s inspired word. The men who wrote them were guided by the Holy Spirit, without a doubt.’

  The old fool. Nobody knew who wrote them. It might as well be aliens from Mars. Will the Vatican ever answer these questions honestly?

  ‘Your Eminence,’ she said finally, ‘please be straightforward with me. Do you have any original manuscripts of the Gospels, Acts or the Epistles?’

  It was time to end the interview. No priest in high office would tolerate this. ‘Even if we did, Miss Jaine, I cannot show them to you.’

  Authentic scriptures were a double-edged sword. Revealing them could expose later texts to unethical changes. Without them, it was impossible to say whether the Vaticanus described actual events. Either way, the Church’s doctrine was flawed. Unless Cardoni presented original manuscripts, no one had a clue if what was written, was true or false.

  ‘Do you have anything authentic?’ she asked.

  ‘God works through faith, child,’ Cardoni said. ‘Faith conquers all.’

  ‘Faith that there is a God and faith that there is life after death. Faith that we will one day meet our Maker and faith that He will judge us fairly for the good we have done, or forgiven us for the times we have erred. I’m sorry, but faith that the Vaticanus represents the truth is a different question. For that, you, and therefore the Roman Catholic Church as a source for anyone’s creed, must stand up to scrutiny.’

  Cardoni thanked God he had taken his medication this morning. His blood pressure had just shot to a critical level. When the telephone rang in the background, he rose gratefully from his chair.

  And yet, defeat did not come easily to his interlocutor. ‘The Bible is common knowledge,’ Jennifer said, getting up with him. ‘It belongs to every believer. Secrets are only for those who have something to hide. All I’m asking for is the truth. For the sake of all God-fearing people, I need to see the original scriptures. If it does not exist, so be it. But if it does, you should be open enough to admit it.’

  Cardoni’s face hardened to a mask. He had completely underestimated her. ‘The Holy Church prides herself on honesty and integrity. We do not deceive the faithful.’

  ‘That’s not the ...’ Jennifer rested her hands on her tummy. She had to contain the viper in her gut. But she would not retreat. She had lived with this frustration for years. This was her opportunity to let it all out. She needed answers, and she was not leaving without them.

  Bishop Albani arrived from the reception area on cue. He stood next to Cardoni, breathing heavily. ‘Your Eminence, forgive me for interrupting. You have a call waiting for you.’

  The Secret Archives’ prefect could not have come at a more opportune time. Cardoni excused himself, hiding his smile as he strode towards the door.

  Jennifer followed, and when Albani tried to stop her, she quickly brushed him aside. She might as well go down fighting; if her little car was headed towards a cliff without brakes she might as well punch the gas. ‘Since you claim to be the bearers of God’s power and authority, at least you should have proof, yes? Something that bears witness to the fact, or perhaps something that can verify your claims to truth.’

  Cardoni stopped. He swung around. Facing her like a bull about to charge, he said, ‘You have no idea what you are getting yourself into here, Miss Jaine. Scores have tried to do the same. Nobody, I repeat nobody, has ever succeeded. Do you for one second think you are better than those who came before you? We control the souls of men. We ensure every man, woman and child’s salvation through sacrament and faith. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have far more important issues to deal with right now.’ Then, turning to Albani, ‘Call the gendarmerie to escort Miss Jaine to the gate.’ And, denying her another word, he walked off.

  Jennifer watched as Cardoni left through the ‘Staff Only’ exit. She tried to follow again, but this time Albani took hold of her shoulders. If it were not for her determination to get her life back on track, she would have yielded, but she could not. Another blunder like her failed PhD would break her. She tried to pull loose, but Albani held her tightly. Tears ran down her cheeks. She brushed them away, but the sobs kept coming.

  At long last, she understood their strategy: if all else fails, fall back on rhetoric and deception. It had worked for centuries. She had quit her studies for exactly this reason. She would have no further part of it, not only as a journalist, but also as a person who had dedicated her life to Christ. She had the right to know the facts about the religion she had held so dear. For Christianity to work for her, she needed to have her faith authenticated. She would question until satisfied, even if it took a lifetime.

  Chapter 3

  Cardinal Leonardo Santori sank to his knees and hunched over Father John Yilmaz. Cradling the Father in his arms, the limp body resting in his lap, he stared at the young man’s face. The priest’s death could not have come at a worse time. With years of negative publicity haunting the Vatican, the Holy See could ill afford another scandal, not now, and especially not here, in the secret vault beneath his Penitentiary office.

  Santori remembered the first time he had met Father Yilmaz. It was more than a year ago in his private library upstairs. Santori had been working late, preparing for a tribunal the next day. His receptionist, Father Franco, had introduced Yilmaz as the new filing clerk. The Governatorato had transferred the previous clerk to one of the Roman congregations, and Yilmaz was embarking on his first assignment, collecting books belonging to the main libraries.

  Santori watched the young priest stack books on a trolley. Statuesque and sophisticated, Yilmaz went about his task effortlessly. His burnt-umber hair, bronze complexion and prominent nose looked out-of-place in such a monastic atmosphere. That, togeth
er with his Islamic-sounding surname, made Santori wonder. When Yilmaz walked over to collect the books at the foot of the desk, Santori stopped him.

  ‘Those are mine,’ he said, his hand pressed on the nearest pile.

  Still Yilmaz began to stoop. ‘Your Eminence, may I file them for you?’

  ‘No, no, I’ll have Father Franco do it in the morning.’

  Undeterred, Yilmaz stacked the first pile on his arm and stood. ‘Where do they go?’ he asked.

  ‘The mezzanine,’ Santori yielded. ‘Use the stairs in the corner there.’

  Yilmaz wasted no time. He glided up the spiral staircase and, studying the different sections as he moved along the wrap-around mezzanine, swiftly filed the volumes away. When he had finished, he leaned over the wrought-iron balustrade.

  ‘May I look around?’

  Santori nodded. His library contained books rarely found on Christian shelves. In addition to the law journals and religious literature used in his own work, collections of history, philosophy and science populated the walls. He looked on, bemused, as Yilmaz homed in on a controversial section. Musing over some of the titles, the young priest at last selected a book and, returning downstairs, settled into one of the desks.

  ‘Are esotericism and occultism the same?’ Yilmaz asked, skimming the first several pages.

  ‘Pretty much,’ Santori responded. ‘Both are pseudo-sciences.’

  ‘I didn’t know these books even existed. …’

  ‘The Church rejects both. Anybody involved in esoteric practices commits a grievous sin.’ And laying his pen in the spine of the book, Santori eventually asked, ‘Where are you from?’

  ‘Turkey,’ Yilmaz responded. Then, tilting his head sideways as he read: ‘Saint Paul’s neighborhood.’

  Unusual indeed, Santori thought. Fascinated, he asked a question pertinent to any man of the cloth, ‘Tarsus?’

  Yilmaz looked over his shoulder. ‘Antakya actually.’

  ‘Ah, Antioch, where our Holy Mother Church originated.’

  Yilmaz did not challenge his superior’s remark because, as someone who originated from biblical Antioch, he completely understood the cardinal’s statement. With all evangelical accounts of Jesus and his disciples situated in and around Jerusalem, most people mistakenly believed that Christianity had sprung from Judea.

  ‘You must have read these, Your Eminence, no?’

  ‘Most, not all. Some I inherited from my predecessors.’

  ‘I wish I could. I would like to attain the wisdom of Solomon.’

  When Yilmaz smiled, his lips curved towards two rows of dimples, and tiny wrinkles along his cheekbones framed his jubilant eyes. Santori liked that. ‘Then you’re on the right track,’ the cardinal said enthusiastically. ‘Wisdom is applied faith.’

  ‘And faith is “the substance of things hoped for and the evidence of things not seen”, yes.’ Then, lowering his eyes again, he continued reading.

  Santori leaned back in his armchair. Hebrews 11:1. The priest knew his Bible. He would have to take care that Holy Scripture supported his own doctrinal pronouncements. He waited for Yilmaz to look up again before asking, ‘How old are you?’

  ‘Twenty-eight.’

  The young man’s charm and alertness attracted Santori like a moth to a flame. Yilmaz reminded him of himself at that age. He sighed. God, if only he could have his youth back. He would give anything to do it all over again. Not that he did not have a good life; dedicating one’s life to God had its rewards. And yet, years of tribulation had sapped his vigor. He could have handled so many things so differently. If only ...

  *****

  Rousing himself from his reverie, Santori lowered the young priest to the floor. Yilmaz no longer bore his contagious smile and his eyes had lost their light. Stroking Yilmaz’s face, Santori closed the young man’s eyes. Then, he lifted his pectoral cross above his head and raised his hand to administer the last rite to this talented priest, taken at the start of such a promising career. At that moment, though, the sound of fabric swishing past a wall stopped him in mid-prayer. Not daring to breathe, he listened. Then, he heard it again. He seized the dagger from the floor and sprang up. Peering through the shadows on the far side of the room, he could dimly see the shape of a man.

  ‘Who’s there?’

  An ominous figure appeared as if from the grave. Tall and powerful, the intruder approached. Santori tried to catch sight of the man’s face, but the light from the office above cast a shadow across it.

  ‘Who are you?’ Santori demanded.

  The intruder paused briefly, staring at the cardinal, then swung around and headed for the staircase. A few strides and he had reached the centric landing a quarter of the way up. A few more and he had made it to the second landing midway and to the left.

  Still clutching the dagger, Santori followed in pursuit. He cared nothing for the vigorous appearance of the man and he did not consider the possibility that he might be armed. He simply had to stop him. At the second landing, he turned and looked up, but with the light now shining in his eyes, he could only just make out the train of a cassock disappearing into his office.

  ‘Come back! Stop!’

  Santori dashed up the steps, but his chest burned and heaved. Age was his handicap and his elaborate robes hampered him. He had just made it to the top when he heard someone banging on his office door loud enough for him to feel the vibration.

  Santori had to catch his breath.

  ‘Maggiore!’ a voice called out.

  It was Father Franco, Santori’s assistant. He always arrived at around eight.

  Santori did not respond. With his assistant stationed at the front exit, the fugitive had to be hiding in his Penitentiary suite. He scanned the room. Where had he gone? He rushed around the hearth and into his office. At his desk, he turned to face the room. The office entrance was just to the left, the conference table on the far side, two visitors’ chairs stood before him with a lounge arranged behind them. Beyond that was the hearth separating his office from his private library. Nothing seemed disturbed, but the lavishness of the furnishings made hiding easy. He examined the curtains on the wall to his right but saw nothing to suggest a human form behind them. Only his library remained.

  The banging on the entrance doors started again. ‘Eminence, are you all right?’

  God! Father Franco was carrying on like a lunatic. On arrival, he must have knocked but found no answer. Santori had assigned him to his office eight years ago when he had overstepped the mark at his parish in Novara. Then thirty-five, Franco had been involved with a man the Church had excommunicated for making advances towards young boys. To ensure that Franco refrained from sinning again, Santori had had him transferred to the Vatican. That way he could ensure the priest did not revert to his wicked ways. Franco’s penance and good work ethic had soon persuaded Santori to assign the younger priest to his own office. Franco had led a life of celibacy ever since.

  Now preparing to open the door for Franco, Santori heard hinges creak in the library behind him. It could only be the door behind the spiral staircase. He had organized its construction recently as a shortcut to the main library. Gripping the dagger even more firmly, he sprinted between the sofas, back towards the hearth.

  ‘Sua Eminenza!’ Franco called again from reception.

  Santori did not stop. As he passed the hearth, he heard the muffled sound of a door shutting. His chest tightened. It could only mean the intruder had escaped. Moving as quickly as he could, he slipped behind the spiral staircase. He tried to open the door, but his hand slipped on the handle. Blood dripped from his fingers onto the floor. He wiped his hand on his vestments, but they were also soaked. After rubbing his hand on the wall, he again tried the handle. This time it turned. Pulling the door open, he raced down the arched passage. Reaching the small courtyard, he had to stop, his breath coming in brief gasps. He could not carry on like this.

  Returning to his suite, Santori rested his forehead against the wall behind
the spiral staircase. The telephone in the library rang. Good God, Father Franco would not let up! Santori could see the chubby priest’s cheeks jiggling with panic as he called security.

  Santori wondered what he should do. Whether he gave chase, their secret would be exposed. But pursuing the intruder would prevent him from taking control. Choosing the lesser of two evils, he closed the door, but before entering the vault, he carefully scanned the mezzanine; he had to make sure no one was lurking up there. In his frenzied pursuit of the intruder, he had failed to consider there might be more than one. Then, with a jolt, he recalled that the mysterious priest had been carrying a rucksack. Dear Lord, he could not let him get away.

  As the telephone’s insistent ringing ceased, Santori made his way back to the vault. He needed to know if the fugitive had the silver casket with him. With all his heart Santori prayed he did not. Scurrying down the steps again, he searched the area where the candlesticks and crucifix lay in spilt blood, but could see nothing. He circled the altar. Maybe it had fallen off the back. No, still nothing. Darting back to the front of the altar, he stepped over the broken body. Perhaps the young priest had fallen on it as he collapsed. He rolled the corpse onto its stomach.

  ‘Oh God, it is gone!’

  Santori sank to his knees. Fear flooded his being, and his breathing came in short pants.

  ‘Your Eminence,’ Franco called out. ‘What’s happening in there?’

  Santori dropped the dagger. He could not let his secretary wait any longer. Nor could he afford to have Vatican security on his doorstep. Only high-ranking cardinals knew of the vault and its profane artefact.

  ‘Just a minute,’ he called out.

  Rising from the floor, he tramped up the stairs again.

  ‘Your Eminence, I heard you shouting.’ Franco sounded calmer now that he had had a response.

  Santori shoved the marble lintel above the fireplace. Slowly, the hearth floated back. As it drew level with the library shelf behind the vault entrance, it dropped into place. He withdrew a pike from a circle-cross slot beside the hearth and slipped it into its stand against the opposite wall.