Blood Symbols

by Izak Botha

  Malone nodded. ‘The site is a five-minute drive from my presbytery,’ he said, huffing. ‘I hope they’re still there. I had to come back down the mountain to fetch you and your men, so I don’t know.’ He slid open the door of his Caravelle. ‘You’ll have to squeeze in. I didn’t expect so many guests.’

  Verretti instructed Lioni to load their backpacks on the roof rack and get in. Once the last man had taken a seat the inspector signaled for Lioni to take the wheel. ‘My man will drive, Friar.’

  Malone handed his keys to the adjutant and wedged himself in the back, between two of the men.

  Verretti then slammed the door closed and took his place in the passenger seat.

  Lioni adjusted the rear-view mirror. ‘Where to, Friar?’ he asked.

  *****

  Lioni stopped in the courtyard of Malone’s church just as the sun was about to set behind Habib Neccar.

  Stepping from the Caravelle and onto the sandstone paving, Verretti waited for his men to offload their luggage. During the flight, he had pored over the operation’s intelligence file. Apart from details on transport and arms, it had described the church. Built in the eighteenth century, but rebuilt after a major earthquake in 1872, the building featured a Roman-vaulted entrance flanked by four pointed rib vaults. It was reminiscent of Islamic architecture, such that, combined, these ribs spanned the entire width of the church’s facade. Windows on the enclosed second floor overlooked the quiet church court where Verretti stood. To the far right, a staircase led to a four-story bell tower. The interior conformed to late sixth-century principles with its aisles flanking a central nave. The small Catholic cross that stood atop its slanting, terracotta roof, was the only other indication that it was a Christian building.

  ‘I have prepared the guest quarters for you,’ Malone said, smoothing the creases in his robe and adjusting the knotted rope around his waist.

  Verretti approached the side entrance beside the church, Malone straining to keep up. On reaching the presbytery, the monk had managed to pass Verretti and lead the group across a tree-filled courtyard at the far end of which he unlocked the guesthouse. After showing the men around, he offered them drinks.

  Before Verretti could decline, his phone rang, and after a brief conversation, he ordered Lioni to return to the van.

  ‘My captain will need your help, Friar,’ he ordered. ‘Please go with him.’

  Malone protested, but Verretti closed the door on him. He did not have the time to explain himself. He sat down at the head of the dining table. With their transport and arms about to arrive, he needed to go over his plan. His mission was complicated, and success would bring him great prestige. His quest to become the sole commander of the entire Vatican’s security would be realized if he pulled it off, but if he did not, it would spell the end of his career.

  Chapter 36

  Simon stood at the edge of the terrace. Cautiously, to avoid detection, he peered through the balustrade into the streets below. His eyes scanned the road leading to the site. Fearing it would distress Rabin, he had said nothing about Friar Malone’s presence at the airport.

  The professor joined Simon. Having sensed his colleague’s uneasiness, he had followed him. ‘Are you expecting someone?’ he asked, concerned.

  The old saw of ‘keeping one’s enemies close’ sprang into Simon’s mind. Being apprised of Malone’s whereabouts would have been preferable to guessing. He had no doubt the monk was an informant, and their escape would have been challenging enough without Jennifer’s tantrums. ‘I saw Malone at the airport, in the bookstore,’ Simon said after a moment. ‘When I glanced in his direction, he ducked into the shop’s back office.’

  Rabin had met Malone before. ‘It could be a coincidence, Simon. Maybe your eyes were playing tricks on you.’

  Simon shook his head. ‘Not this time,’ he said, standing back. Then, turning to rejoin Jennifer, he stopped short. ‘Now where the hell is she?’

  ‘I …’ Rabin turned. ‘She was just here.’

  Simon ran back to the cave where he had left Jennifer two minutes before. Standing on the portico, he scanned the Cave Church’s courtyard. ‘Now where the Hell did she go?’

  ‘I’m in here,’ she called from behind him.

  Simon spun around. Her voice had echoed from within the building. As he entered, he saw her standing behind the altar at the back of the cave. Apart from the stone structure and a chair on a two-tiered pulpit, the cave was devoid of furnishings. ‘Don’t do this,’ he demanded, pausing between the two supporting stone columns just inside the entrance.

  The amber of a setting sun shining light from the doors and windows overhead cast a halo around Simon’s frame, making him look celestial. ‘You were busy, so I thought I’d have a quick look inside.’

  Rabin stopped beside Simon. ‘You need to get going if you’re going to catch a flight from Adana.’

  Jennifer knew she ought to go, but her heart bid her to stay. She had so much still to learn. She was trying to find closure somehow—closure for the death of her faith but also for the deaths of her mother and her career. Christianity had been with her from birth. Her entire religious life hinged on the precepts that had been preached on this very spot; where the Apostle Peter had purportedly accepted Paul’s ministry to the gentiles. She sighed. Neither the fifth-century fresco above her head nor the twentieth-century marble statue in the niche behind her were proof of this, however, she knew that.

  ‘We’ll be here for months at this rate,’ Rabin said. ‘It’s a complicated site. If it were easy, we wouldn’t still be digging up top. Why don’t you come back later?’

  That was the problem—she could not. Even if they evaded the gendarmes, her finances would never allow her to globe trot again.

  ‘In all likelihood,’ Rabin said, ‘there’s nothing more here.’

  She hated to admit it, but perhaps the professor was right. She had to let go. Peter had not preached in Antioch. If he had, scripture would have said so. Despondent, she hunched forward, resting her hands on the altar and staring aimlessly at its dusty surface. That was when, she had another revelation.

  ‘Don’t altars sit atop relics?’ she asked.

  The words had hardly left her mouth when the altar shifted slightly beneath her hands.

  Her head shot up. ‘Did you feel that?’

  Simon had been an Antiochene all his life and knew exactly what it meant. Turkey lay over two Anatolian fault lines. In the last decade, there had been four massive earthquakes. Tens of thousands of lives had been lost, and hundreds of thousands of homes, destroyed. In fact, the closure of the Cave Church had resulted from tremors like these. As he felt a second tremble buckle the ground beneath his feet, he finally lost patience with Jennifer.

  ‘Now we’ve really got to get out of here!’ he yelled.

  The ground under Jennifer shook, moving the altar. As if on ice, it slid sideways and back. Her feet parted. She looked down. The stone blocks between her feet had separated from each other and the opening snaked beneath the altar. A roar filled the cave, and she looked up. To her horror, the floor between Simon and Rabin first shot upwards, then back down, crumbling as the earth sucked away. Her heart seemed ready to explode from the sudden surge of adrenaline.

  Simon plunged to his side of the cave, landing against the wall.

  Rabin also sprang away, landing on his belly in front of the archway at his side.

  Simon’s eyes locked on Jennifer, who stood spread-eagle over the chasm, her arms raised as she tried to maintain her balance.

  ‘Don’t move!’ he shouted.

  Jumping to his feet, it took only three strides to land on the podium. Using the weight of the stone altar to propel himself, he leapt forward, catching Jennifer around the waist as he dove past. He landed on his back with her on top of him, just as slate peeled from the ceiling. He rolled over her, in time to take the falling debris striking his shoulder blades. The altar disappeared behind them and he sprang to his feet. He hauled Je
nnifer to hers as the altar toppled into the opening.

  Simon pulled her back. ‘We’ve got to get out of here!’

  The professor had waited in the vestibule to make sure Simon and Jennifer were safe, but as he turned to lead them, the mortar in the columns’ stone blocks started crushing. He stuck out his arm to stop them. The imminent collapse of the triple-barrel vaulted roof and facade left them with no choice. They would have to turn back.

  ‘The catacombs!’ he yelled, turning.

  Jennifer’s heart felt it would explode in her throat. ‘Is it safe?’ she whined.

  ‘Safer than being here, yes!’

  Simon spun around and drew Jennifer towards the tunnel in the back corner of the cave. He had only managed a few steps when her weight pulled him back. He lunged towards the tunnel, but she nearly ripped his arm out of joint. Glancing back, he saw she had slipped down the chasm.

  ‘Oh, my God!’ she called out.

  ‘Uri!’ Simon cried. ‘I need your help.’

  Rabin saw Simon struggling to maintain his hold on the paving stone and moved in to grab hold of his legs.

  Jennifer reached out with her other hand, but instead of getting hold of the paving stones, she slipped further down.

  ‘Hold on!’ Simon screamed. He braced his free arm around a floor stone and tried to pull her up, but both their palms were sweating, and he started losing traction.

  Jennifer tried to pull herself up, but it was like being stuck in quicksand—the more she fought, the more she inched down the chasm. Realizing that further struggling was futile, she stopped. It was no use trying, she decided. As with her mother, her time had now come. Soon they would be together again. Dangling by her fingertips, she stared up at Simon. Their eyes met, and she felt calm.

  ‘I’m ready,’ she said softly. ‘Don’t worry, Simon, I’ll be safe.’

  When his grip slackened, her last thought turned into a wish. She wished she had had time to know him better. Then, their fingers parted.

  ‘No!’ Simon cried. He felt sick. Losing her was unthinkable; not after they had come so far together.

  Suddenly the ground beneath Simon gave in, and he also tumbled into the chasm, head first.

  The professor threw himself on his stomach, peering over the precipice, but he was too late—Jennifer and Simon were both gone, submerged in a haze of whirling dust.

  The rumble was dissipating and the ground beneath Rabin stabilized. As the tremors ceased, the stillness echoed the silence inside him. He could not imagine losing two young people; not like this. He loved Simon and in the short time he had known Jennifer, had had the utmost respect for her. The world could not lose people like them. Not with so much to offer. People like them were a rarity. He could not imagine meeting more than a handful in his lifetime. He refused to give them up for dead. He must know for certain.

  Light filtered through the church’s broken façade, illuminating the space below. That was when he saw Jennifer; five meters or more beneath him, dusting herself, she looked as shocked as he felt. Simon stood by her side, checking if she was hurt.

  ‘Jennifer, are you all right?’ Rabin called out.

  ‘I think I’m okay,’ she said, examining herself in disbelief.

  ‘And you Simon?’

  ‘Apart from a few scrapes, I’m fine.’

  Rabin was still lying on his stomach. Indeed, Jennifer was just fine and was now adjusting her skirt. Looking up at him, she smiled broadly. For a moment, the professor was struck dumb. Even caked with earth and dust, she looked angelic.

  ‘Yup,’ Jennifer said, ‘totally all right, every part of me.’

  ‘Don’t move. I’m coming down!’

  Rabin examined the chasm’s wall for a secure surface. Inching closer to the edge, he searched for a foothold.

  ‘No, stay there’, Simon warned. ‘We’re going to need help getting back up.’

  Rabin rose. ‘Stay where you are. There’s a ladder at the box office.’ Picking his way over fallen rubble he set off towards the exit. ‘Don’t do anything stupid. I’ll be back in a minute ...’

  As Simon checked the chasm wall for stability, Jennifer called him. Ignoring her, he searched for a flat surface to place the ladder.

  ‘Simon …’

  When he turned, she was standing with her back to him.

  ‘Are you hurt?’ he asked.

  ‘I think I saw something.’

  He moved in behind her. Just past her was a man-sized recess. It must be a long-buried sepulcher torn open by the earthquake. He edged past her. Inside the chamber lay a sandstone ossuary, the front of which had been crushed by the impact of falling debris.

  Jennifer’s curiosity overtook her squeamishness. Joining Simon, she watched as he brushed the sand from a pearly, convex object.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘A skull.’

  Her hair stood on end. ‘Don’t joke.’

  ‘I do this for a living, Jennifer. It’s definitely a skull.’

  Rabin returned from the ablution block carrying an aluminum ladder. He extended the parts and locked them into place. As he lowered it into the chasm, he urged Simon and Jennifer to climb up.

  ‘We have to hurry, Simon,’ he said, stomping the ladder down for a secure footing.

  ‘Uri, you should come down here,’ said Simon.

  ‘No Simon. You know there will be aftershocks.’

  ‘Come down first. We can leave as soon as you’ve seen this.’

  Rabin hesitated. The last thing he needed was for the walls to cave in on them, burying them alive. But realizing his colleague would not insist if it were not important he gave in, and avoiding the displacement of loose rocks, he made his way down. After carefully looking Jennifer up and down, he approached the chamber. It was certainly a grave, and considering its location, it was undoubtedly important. He saw the broken ossuary and his heart nearly failed him. Without an intact inscription, identifying the bones would be a major challenge.

  When a metallic object in the rubble caught Jennifer’s eye, she reached out for it, but Rabin stopped her.

  ‘It looks like a set of keys,’ she said.

  ‘And a sword,’ said Simon.

  ‘Is that common?’

  ‘Not at all.’

  Rabin pulled his phone from his pants pocket to call the workers at the dig site. They would need help recovering the remains. On finding there was no reception, he lifted the keys from the sand, dusted them and put them in his shirt pocket.

  Simon could not believe his eyes. They never moved artefacts without meticulously recording and photographing their exact locations; never mind professional ethics, the Turkish authorities were fanatical about protocol.

  ‘I know what you’re thinking,’ Rabin said, ‘and I hate doing it this way too, but we really have no choice. The earthquake changes everything. If another tremor strikes, it will destroy everything anyhow.’

  Jennifer could not have cared less about protocol. She just needed to know who they had found.

  ‘The symbols of the Apostle Peter are a set of keys and a sword,’ she said. ‘The keys unlock Heaven’s gates, and he used his sword to cut off a Roman soldier’s ear during Christ’s arrest.’

  Rabin had expected something illogical from her, but now she was just being dumb. ‘It proves nothing,’ he said. ‘Crusader knights also had keys and swords.’

  ‘They didn’t bury their dead in ossuaries though.’

  ‘She has a point, Uri,’ Simon broke in.

  Rabin was astonished by their naivety. ‘Both of you should know better,’ he said irritably. ‘Peter’s keys were symbolic. These keys are real.’

  Jennifer frowned. ‘Are you saying that if these were Peter’s remains there’d be no keys?’

  ‘Who knows, but don’t you think it’s a bit convenient that there’s a set of keys and a sword in a grave beneath this particular church? For one thing, unless there’s a literal gate to Heaven, the whole idea that Peter carried actual keys is absurd.
I could perhaps accept Apostle Peter having a sword, but that doesn’t mean thousands of other people with swords weren’t in this cave. So, we should get a specialist in ancient weaponry to examine this and confirm it’s of the correct period first. Moreover, even if the keys and sword are both genuine, or the bones have all the right genetic markers for a first-century Judean, carbon dated to the right period too—say we can establish all of this—that in no way rules out the possibility that crusaders found the grave a thousand years ago. Everything has to check out—the sword, ossuary and keys.’

  The professor’s corrections were annoying, but he was right. As a Christian, she had learned to accept the Bible on faith, but in archaeology, every theory had to stand up to rigorous scrutiny that left no room for doubt. Evidence, evidence and more evidence; that was what science depended on. Sheer coincidence would never be sufficient proof.

  ‘Then we should find out where the keys fit,’ she said after a moment. ‘If the keys weren’t meant to open Heaven’s gates, they must fit real locks somewhere, and whatever’s behind those locks, is worth investigating.’

  ‘Jennifer,’ Rabin said, frustrated by her persistence. ‘We can determine the age of the bones with carbon dating and have the keys and sword dated by their design and metal compositions. That will show us whether they date from antiquity and indicate the general area where they were made. We can also genetically test the bones to see if they have the same markers as the remains found in first-century graves in Israel; in fact, we can even test them to see if they match remains found in Galilee. But to unequivocally prove they’re Apostle Peter’s bones, we’d need something distinctive, like an ID or a passport with a photo of his face or something, and good luck finding that.’

  Jennifer had no time or patience for lengthy processes. She wanted her faith proved empirically without all the rigmarole. An inscription would certainly help, but the front of the ossuary lay cropped off and shattered, and even if it were not, it would also have to be dated to prove its age. Perhaps it could be reassembled if all the pieces were collected, but that would take time, and she knew the likelihood of finding a name was nil.