Blood Symbols

by Izak Botha

  Just then, she made up her mind: ‘I’ll come. But my life is on your head.’

  Giorgio smiled, relieved. They were only meters away from customs.

  *****

  Giorgio’s apparent rapport with the customs officials smoothed them straight through the checkpoint. He explained in Italian why ‘the woman’ had no luggage. Jennifer did not understand everything he said, though her background in Latin did enable her to pick up the gist of it. She decided she would smack him for wryly telling the officers she had left her suitcase at a certain apartment at the Palazzo Grazioli. Then, she decided she would beat him senseless for saying she had lost it while attending an especially wild ‘bunga-bunga party’—a phrase he was careful to enunciate slowly while using air quotes and giving a meaningful wink—and which she had been too ashamed to retrieve once she had sobered up. Nor did she appreciate how the official chuckled and attempted to look down her blouse as he stamped her passport, but in any case, they were through.

  Giorgio drove down an alleyway and turned between two hangars at the end. Standing near the boom were three guards, and he rolled down his window. ‘Is my plane ready?’ he asked.

  ‘It’s all warmed up, Mr. Castignani,’ the guard said. ‘I see you have another guest today. Will she be flying with you?’

  ‘Yes, it seems Miss Jennifer will be gracing us with her company.’ Giorgio slipped the guard a tip. ‘Can you keep an eye out? The paparazzi have been tailing us all morning.’

  The guard slid the notes under his clipboard. ‘Don’t worry, Mr. Castignani. We’ll take care of it. Have a good flight.’

  The boom dropped behind them and Jennifer realized she had now embarked on the greatest challenge of her life. Her archives inquiry had become a journalistic investigation. Giorgio parked the car to one side of the hangar and she leapt out. A reckless feeling gripped her, propelling her forwards. She needed to read that letter and find out why her new companions were headed to Antioch. The adventure of it all was exhilarating.

  Flanked by Simon on her right and Giorgio on her left, they hurried towards the Bombardier Challenger 605.

  The pilot was waiting. After a brief introduction, Giorgio hung his jacket in a locker by the entrance. He waited while Simon placed the casket in an overhead compartment, before calling up the smartly dressed Martina from the back, suggesting they order some drinks.

  Jennifer sat in the first seat: a plush, reclining swivel chair that looked like it had been taken from Air Force One. Her heart raced as the pilot raised the stairs and closed the hatch. There was no turning back now.

  Simon turned her seat to face the console behind her and sat opposite her. She looked up nervously as Martina checked the buckle on her seatbelt. Minutes later, the jet’s twin engines hummed as they powered towards the airstrip. As they took off, blood rushed to her face. Of course, she had not taken off facing backwards before. She had never flown first-class, let alone on a private plane.

  *****

  Now in the co-pilot’s seat, Giorgio set a south-easterly course. When they reached twenty-three-thousand feet, he stepped from the cockpit with a phone in his hand. He handed the receiver to Simon and showed him to the couch at the rear of the fuselage before asking the pilot to transfer the call.

  While Simon was preoccupied, Giorgio poured himself a Mai Tai. Convinced his guest might be hungry, he had Martina stack Ritz crackers in a tin marked, ‘Almas’. He also had her pile on salmon, olives and an assortment of cheeses. He waited for her to place the snacks on the console, before seating himself opposite Jennifer.

  Noticing her drinking water, he said, ‘How about a glass of bubbly. I have champagne if you want.’

  Jennifer took another sip of her water. ‘I’m fine, thank you.’

  He pushed the snacks to her side. ‘Here, have something to eat. It will get your sugar levels up, and I’m guessing you haven’t eaten in quite a while.’

  Giorgio had a pleasant demeanor. He told her how nervous he had been waiting in the Maserati for them. He had checked his watch, then his phone, then his watch again. At one point, not having heard from Simon, he had known something had gone wrong. He had even thought of leaving. It was nearly nine o’clock before he had had a call from Simon saying he would be late, if he made it at all.

  As she listened, Simon caught her eye, but as if to shield himself from her, he turned his head abruptly. She could swear she had seen tears gleaming in the corners of his eyes. She shifted her gaze back to Giorgio. ‘Something’s wrong with Simon,’ she said.

  Giorgio took a cracker from the tray, bit into it and gestured for her to do the same. ‘Don’t worry about him right now. He’ll be all right.’

  The way Giorgio was diverting her attention from Simon confirmed her suspicions that he was hiding something. ‘But he’s emotional,’ she insisted.

  Giorgio held the tray towards her. ‘Don’t worry, Jennifer. He just needs some time to himself.’

  Chapter 27

  Simon reclined on the sofa. It was half past twelve and he had already been awake more than eight hours. Feeling drained, he covered his face with his hands. He pressed his fingertips down onto his eyes. Soon, kaleidoscopes of color and light flashed in his brain. When the pain became unbearable, he released the pressure. He dropped his arms to his sides. Keeping his eyes closed, he inhaled and exhaled deeply and rhythmically. It did not take long for him to slip into a meditative state, and his thoughts became pictures. He saw himself walking down the winding streets of Antakya’s Uzun Carsi two months earlier. It had rained the previous night, causing the slick paving stones to glisten with subtle tones of grey. On the surrounding mountains lay a thin layer of snow like a silk mantle. The chill in the air had forced him quickly towards the undercover arcade of the bazaar. He remembered pulling his laboratory overcoat closed over his grey V-neck sweater. Having come straight from the archaeology site above the Cave Church of Saint Peter, he was still dressed in his laboratory jacket.

  Father John Yilmaz was by Simon’s side, matching his strides. John had flown to Antakya specially to see him. He wore a black suit jacket over a black cassock with a white clerical collar. He was also clutching a black leather-bound Bible. At the time, Simon had wondered if he would ever get used to seeing John dressed that way. He had not seen the priest since his ordination.

  John loved Uzun Carsi. In continuous operation since ancient times, the colorful semi-enclosed bazaar was still a major landmark in the region. Everywhere, shoppers and merchants he had known as a boy greeted him. He had spent most of his teen years working part-time jobs for several of the shop owners. With hundreds of stores and kiosks lining its serpentine length, he had easily earned enough pocket money to buy a motorcycle. John brought a smile to the faces of many he passed. Everyone had something to say about his priestly garb. As if nobody took it seriously, many asked when he would open his own store.

  Simon lingered for an hour while John worked his way past the shop fronts. Towards the end of the bazaar, they glided down a stone-paved alleyway with a vaulted gothic roof. Here, humble restaurateurs sautéed chickpeas and spinach side-by-side, jostling each other as they and their staff prepared ingredients. Between the brightly painted but crumbling walls, milk crates and vegetable boxes served as décor and furniture.

  John stopped at his favorite café. It had a single display counter separating the kitchen from five tables. He chose the table farthest back, beside the display counter, then waited until Simon took his seat, before sitting down himself.

  The owner, a former Turkish shot put champion, ambled over to take their orders. He had his white apron stretched tightly around his bulging waistline. Towering at nearly seven feet, the man had to dip his head as he passed beneath the brass chandelier in the center of the dining area. Then, with his chin pressed to his chest, his elbows hoisted slightly behind him and his hands flat on his belly, he stared warmly at John. In guttural tones, he joked how his wife had once threatened to become Catholic. Sensing his quip h
ad not met its mark, he apologized for causing any displeasure and rattled off the day’s specials.

  Simon and John had both frequented the café in the past and therefore knew exactly what they felt like eating. Simon ordered an Adana kebab, while John chose the assorted meze with a carafe of house red.

  John had not expected such a kindly reception. After his ordination, he had broken all ties with the city of his birth, thinking perhaps he would be an outcast amongst Antakya’s predominantly Muslim residents. He thought his absence was due to the desire to avoid a general ridicule of his faith and vocation, but the criticism that cut most deeply was Simon’s. As John’s fiercest critic, Simon had bitterly disapproved of John’s rejection of his ancestral religion, and for his part, John had not appreciated it. Harsh words had passed between them. John had stormed off, his final words fiercely cursing Simon’s condemnation.

  Simon now watched as John placed his Bible on the table before him. Eight years had passed since they had spoken. During that time, Simon had called John umpteen times, but their conflict remained unresolved. Wanting to avoid the role of antagonist, Simon waited for John to start the conversation.

  ‘I did it for salvation, Simon,’ John said. ‘You know that, don’t you? I’ve had a fascination with death for as long as I can remember. Life just seems so damn futile. What happens when we die? I can’t begin to tell you how many times I’ve asked God that question. Nobody seems to know. You’re a scientist, and even you don’t have the answers. I couldn’t accept that. I needed to know. I attended sermons up the road from here and I believed them. I believed they could help cleanse me, save my soul. That’s why I gave it all up. It was my dream.’ He sat motionless for a moment, before he concluded: ‘Maybe I made a mistake.’

  Simon frowned. ‘What happened over there, John?’

  John did not answer immediately, but sat with lips pressed tightly together. As Simon started to speak again, John lifted his hand towards him: ‘Bear with me, please. I must get this off my chest.

  ‘I collected books at the Penitentiary the other day. Our Maggiore wasn’t there, so I slipped into his personal library. He has an amazing collection of rare books you can’t find anywhere else—not even in the Vatican’s main library. Anyway, I was up on the mezzanine when his office door opened. I heard voices. It was the Maggiore and His Eminence Cardinal Cardoni. They spoke softly. I could hardly make out what they were saying. When I heard them approaching the library, I lay on the floor. I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t have permission to be there. I hardly breathed. Fortunately, it was late and therefore dark. Then I heard something else: two clicks, the sound of metal tapping on metal—and then other, louder noises like something had fallen. Finally, I heard a rolling like metal wheels scraping against tracks, and the two cardinals were gone. I lifted my head and searched for them from my vantage point on the gallery above, but they had disappeared. I had no idea where they’d gone. I thought they might be right beneath me—under the mezzanine—so I didn’t move. I must have waited ten minutes when, suddenly, they reappeared as if from nowhere. That’s when I heard Eminence Cardoni say something that worries me; something about a letter that could get them into trouble and that they should destroy it. It wasn’t clear what he meant by us and we, the two of them or the entire Church, but the Maggiore disagreed. As far as he was concerned, their secret was safe, and nobody would ever find out. And that’s when he said something that shocked me even more. He said it was a “travesty” that he had striven his whole life to become pontiff, only to discover it had no meaning.’

  The owner of the café returned with the wine. Filling their glasses, he stood back while they sampled it. Once they nodded their approval, he placed the carafe on the table.

  John waited until the owner had returned to the kitchen before beginning again: ‘Only one thing legitimizes His Holiness, Simon, and that is the Apostolic succession.’ Agitated now, he combed his fingers through his cropped hair. ‘That begs the question then of what legitimizes the Apostolic succession?’

  Simon did not answer. He assumed an explanation was imminent.

  ‘Actually, it’s three things,’ John stated emphatically. ‘Three things are absolute requisites for our Holy Father to claim the Apostolic succession: the Jews rejecting Christ as their Messiah, Saint Peter founding Christianity in Antioch and his ministry’s base in Rome. Those are the essentials of our faith, and if any of these is missing the pope has no bishopric power; in fact, there is no Church. It’s that simple.’

  John slumped.

  ‘That’s the problem, Simon,’ he said, swiveling his glass with his index and middle fingers. ‘Jesus appointed only Jews as His disciples, and they, in turn, reserved fellowship for other followers of the Levitical laws. The Catholic sacred tradition says Saint Peter received full authority and power under Heaven from Jesus and that, on appointing the second pope, Linus, he passed that authority to the gentile Church of Rome. But it turns out this isn’t true!’

  John pulled his Bible closer.

  ‘Our scriptures offer enough circumstantial evidence that Peter did not convert gentiles in Antioch and that he was never in Rome. Meanwhile, Saint Paul’s account states that “God shall judge the secrets of men by Jesus Christ according to his gospel.”’ He opened the Bible to Galatians 2 and rested his index finger beneath verses seven and eight. ‘Here Paul insists the “gospel of circumcision” was Peter’s responsibility, while the “gospel of the uncircumcised gentiles” was committed to himself.’ Then, he quickly flipped to Timothy. ‘And here Paul declares that he was the preacher, apostle and teacher of the gentiles. So, based on his own testimony, Paul alone preached to the Roman gentiles, and he also convinced the Romans that he was the only chosen apostle. His letter to them reveals how he “longed to see them so he could impart the gift of the spirit to them and establish a church there.”’ Turning to Romans fifteen, John now read verse twenty: ‘“I have strived not to preach the Gospel where Christ was named before, lest I should build upon another man’s foundation.”’ Finally, frantically turning the pages again, this time to the Book of Acts, John recited parts of the twenty-eighth chapter from memory: ‘Acts denounces Peter’s presence in Rome. Paul had to stand trial before Caesar. When he arrived, the entire Christian community went to meet him. The brethren of Rome heard of Paul and his entourage and came to meet them, yet Paul failed to mention Peter. These verses strongly suggest that our portrayal of history is incorrect, Simon. Not even the claim that Peter is buried beneath our basilica would suffice. Unless physical evidence exists to corroborate our claim—and I don’t mean a few bone fragments which could belong to anyone—we must assume Peter was never in Rome.’

  The owner arrived with their food and again awaited their approval before returning to the kitchen.

  John bit into his meze and sat thoughtfully chewing for some time before reiterating his point: ‘The implications if Saint Peter never went to Rome are huge. Not only is the Church’s claim to the Apostolic succession false, placing all of Christendom under scrutiny, but even more crucial, it begs the question of Peter’s actual location. If he wasn’t in Rome, then where was he? I’ve been mulling over these specific Bible verses for years, but they are continuously dismissed through sophistry. This letter of the cardinals’, on the other hand, I believe it holds the answer. In fact, I’m sure it does.’

  Simon watched John eat. The lines framing his teal eyes harbored a great deal of pain. ‘Just leave it, John,’ he said. ‘If you don’t trust them, just walk away.’

  John shook his head. ‘I can’t. This is just too important. I’ve got to know what they’re hiding down there. I need to know. I won’t forgive myself if I don’t at least try to find out.’

  ‘It’s not worth getting into trouble over. Just come back here. Hell, you’re already here, so you might as well stay.’

  ‘It’s not that difficult to get in, Simon. I know how their system works. Even the Penitentiary isn’t a problem. It’s where
they disappeared to that’s got me stumped.’

  Simon pushed his plate aside. John’s idea of breaking into the Vatican Penitentiary had upset him so much he had lost his appetite. ‘I think you should reconsider. Why can’t you just walk away?’

  ‘I can’t get it out of my head. I need to see it for myself. We all need to find our own truth, Simon. This is mine.’

  ‘We all need to find our truth, John, sure, but this isn’t exactly going on Hajj or walking the Via Dolorosa.’

  ‘So what? Why is this any different?’

  ‘Because, John, most people seek their truths meditating while burning incense, whacking wind chimes or, heck, paying thousands to attend special enlightenment retreats where they scorch their feet walking over hot coals. But most—I’d say ninety-nine-point-nine percent of human beings—don’t seek God through theft and espionage. Not when it’s just a matter of religion, anyhow.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘Exactly what it sounds like. Grow up, John. There are no fucking answers. Religion is faith-based, meaning exactly that—you take it on faith or you don’t. There are no facts, no tell-all interviews with God. You’re searching for answers that don’t exist.’

  John sprang up. ‘You don’t give a shit, do you? Why can’t you just stand by me for once?’

  ‘John, sit down.’

  ‘No, Simon. You’re being ridiculous now. I’m a priest for God’s sake! It’s my duty to have faith—my job. Millions of people have faith in the priesthood itself, and that might be wrong. But how can I walk away from that?’

  ‘Come on, John. Let’s talk this through.’ When John drew money from his pocket to pay for his lunch, Simon pushed his hand away. ‘Don’t be silly, I’ll pay. You’re my guest.’