by Daniel Silva
“A fair question.”
“What’s the answer?”
“By the end of the fourth century, the die had been cast. The refusal of the Jews to accept Jesus as their savior was regarded as a mortal threat to the early Church. How could Jesus be the one true path to salvation if the very people who heard his message with their own ears clung to their faith? Early Christian theologians wrestled with the question of whether the Jews should even be allowed to exist. St. John Chrysostom of Antioch preached that synagogues were whorehouses and dens of thieves, that Jews were no better than pigs and goats, that they had grown fat from having too much to eat, that they should be marked for slaughter. Not surprisingly, there were numerous attacks on the Jews of Antioch, and their synagogue was destroyed. In 414 the Jews of Alexandria were wiped out. Regrettably, it was only the beginning.”
Still dressed in his borrowed clerical suit, Gabriel went to the window and, parting the blinds, peered into the Borgo Santo Spirito. Donati was seated at his writing desk. Before him, still in its sheath of protective plastic, was the page from the book.
EVANGELIUM SECUNDUM PILATI …
“For the record,” said Donati after a moment, “the Nicene Creed, which was written at the First Council of Nicaea, states unequivocally that Jesus suffered under Pontius Pilate. Furthermore, the Church declared in Nostra Aetate in 1965 that the Jews as a people are not collectively responsible for the death of Jesus. And twenty-three years after that, Pope Wojtyla issued ‘We Remember,’ his statement on the Church and the Holocaust.”
“I remember it, too. It went to great pains to suggest that two thousand years of Church teaching that Jews were the murderers of God had absolutely nothing to do with the Nazis and the Final Solution. It was a whitewash, Excellency. It was curial word salad.”
“Which is why my master stood at the bimah in the Great Synagogue of Rome and begged the Jews for forgiveness.” Donati paused. “You remember that, too, don’t you? You were there, if I recall.”
Gabriel took down a copy of the Bible from Donati’s bookcase and opened it to the twenty-seventh chapter of Matthew. “What about this?” He pointed out the relevant passage. “Am I personally guilty of the murder of God, or are the writers of the four Gospels guilty of the most vicious slander in history?”
“The Church has declared that you are not.”
“And I thank the Church for belatedly making that clear.” Gabriel tapped the page with this fingertip. “But the book still says I am.”
“Scripture cannot be changed.”
“The Codex Vaticanus would suggest otherwise.” Gabriel returned the Bible to its place on the shelf and resumed his study of the street. “And the other gospels? The ones bishops rejected at the Synod of Hippo?”
“They were deemed apocryphal. For the most part, they were literary elaborations on the four canonical Gospels. Ancient fan fiction, if you will. There were books like the Infancy Gospel of Thomas that focused on the early life of Jesus. There were Gnostic gospels, Jewish Christian gospels, the Gospel of Mary, even the Gospel of Judas. There was also a significant body of Passion apocrypha, stories devoted to Jesus’ suffering and death. One was called the Gospel of Peter. Peter didn’t write it, of course. It was pseudepigrapha, or falsely inscribed. The same was true of the Gospel of Nicodemus. That book is better known as the Acta Pilati.”
Gabriel turned away from the window. “The Acts of Pilate?”
Donati nodded. “Nicodemus was a member of the Sanhedrin who lived on a great estate outside Jerusalem. He was said to have been a secret disciple of Jesus and a confidant of Pilate. He’s depicted in Caravaggio’s Deposition of Christ, the figure in the sienna-colored garment grasping Jesus’ legs. Caravaggio gave him Michelangelo’s face, by the way.”
“Really?” asked Gabriel archly. “I never knew.”
Donati ignored the remark. “Dating the Acts of Pilate is difficult, but most scholars agree it was probably written in the late fourth century. It purports to contain material composed by Pilate himself while he was in Jerusalem. It was quite popular here in Italy in the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries. In fact, it was printed twenty-eight times during that period.” Donati held up his phone. “To read it now, all you need is one of these.”
“Were there other Pilate books?”
“Several.”
“Such as?”
“The Memoirs of Pilate, the Martyrdom of Pilate, and the Report of Pilate, to name a few. The Handing Over of Pilate describes his appearance before Emperor Tiberius after he was recalled to Rome. Never mind that Tiberius was dead by the time Pilate arrived. There was also the Letter of Pilate to Claudius, the Letter of Pilate to Herod, the Letter of Herod to Pilate, the Letter of Tiberius to Pilate …” Donati’s voice trailed off. “You get the point.”
“What about the Gospel of Pilate?”
“I am unfamiliar with an apocryphal piece of Christian writing by that name.”
“Are any of the other books considered credible?”
“No,” said Donati. “They’re all forgeries. And they all attempt to exonerate Pilate for Jesus’ death while at the same time implicating the Jews.”
“Just like the canonical Gospels.” The bells of St. Peter’s Basilica tolled midday. “What do you suppose is going on behind the walls of the Vatican?”
“If I had to guess, Cardinal Albanese is desperately searching for Father Joshua. I fear what will happen if he finds him. As camerlengo, Albanese has enormous authority. Practically speaking, the Order of St. Helena is running the Roman Catholic Church. The question is, do they intend to relinquish their power? Or do they have a plan to keep it?”
“We still can’t prove that the Order killed Lucchesi.”
“Not yet. But we have five days to find the evidence.” Donati paused. “And the Gospel of Pilate, of course.”
“Where do we start?”
“Father Robert Jordan.”
“Who is he?”
“My professor from the Gregoriana.”
“Is he still in Rome?”
Donati shook his head. “He entered a monastery a few years ago. He doesn’t use a phone or e-mail. We’ll have to drive up there, but there’s no guarantee he’ll see us. He’s quite brilliant. And difficult, I’m afraid.”
“Where’s the monastery?”
“A small town of considerable religious importance on the slopes of Monte Subasio in Umbria. I’m sure you’ve heard of it. In fact, I believe you and Chiara used to live not far from there.”
Gabriel permitted himself a brief smile. It had been a long time since he had been to Assisi.
26
ROME—ASSISI
TRANSPORT REQUIRED A MINIMUM OF four hours to acquire an untraceable car, so Gabriel, after changing into his own clothing, walked to a Hertz outlet near the Vatican walls and rented an Opel Corsa hatchback. He was followed there inexpertly by a man on a motorcycle. Black trousers, black shoes, a black nylon coat, a black helmet with a tinted visor. The same motorcyclist followed Gabriel back to the Jesuit Curia, where he collected Donati.
“That’s him,” said Donati, peering into the sideview mirror. “That’s definitely Father Graf.”
“I think I’ll pull over and have a quiet word with him.”
“Perhaps you should just lose him instead.”
He put up a good fight, especially in the traffic-clogged streets of central Rome, but by the time they reached the Autostrada, Gabriel was confident they were not being followed. The afternoon had turned cloudy and cold. So had Gabriel’s mood. He leaned his head against the window, a hand balanced atop the wheel.
“Was it something I said?” asked Donati at last.
“What’s that?”
“You haven’t uttered a word in ten minutes.”
“I was enjoying the remarkable beauty of the Italian countryside.”
“Try again,” said Donati.
“I was thinking about my mother. And about the number tattooed on her arm. And about the candles that burne
d day and night in the little house where I grew up in Israel. They were for my grandparents, who were gassed upon arrival at Auschwitz and fed into the fires of the crematoria. They had no other grave but those candles. They were ashes on the wind.” Gabriel was silent for a moment. “That’s what I was thinking about, Luigi. I was thinking about how differently the history of the Jews might have unfolded if the Church hadn’t declared war on us in the Gospels.”
“Your characterization is unfair.”
“Do you know how many Jews there should be in the world? Two hundred million. We could be more numerous than the populations of Germany and France combined. But we were wiped out time and time again, culminating with the pogrom to end all pogroms.” Quietly, Gabriel added, “All because of those nine words.”
“It must be said that throughout the Middle Ages, the Church intervened on countless occasions to protect the Jews of Europe.”
“Why did they need protecting in the first place?” Gabriel answered his own question. “They needed protection because of what the Church was teaching. And it also must be said, Excellency, that long after Jews were emancipated in Western Europe, they remained ghettoized in the city controlled by the papacy. Where did the Nazis get the idea of making the Jews wear the Star of David? They had to look no further than Rome.”
“One has to distinguish between religious anti-Judaism and racial anti-Semitism.”
“That is a distinction without a difference. Jews were resented because they were shopkeepers and moneylenders. And do you know why they were shopkeepers and moneylenders? Because for more than a millennium, they were forbidden to do anything else. And yet even now, after the horrors of the Holocaust, after all the films and books and memorials and attempts to change hearts and minds, the longest hatred endures. Germany admits it cannot protect its Jewish citizens from harm. French Jews are moving to Israel in record numbers to escape anti-Semitism. In America neo-Nazis march openly while Jews are being shot and killed in their synagogues. What is the source of this irrational hatred? Could it be that for nearly two thousand years the Church taught that the Jews were collectively guilty of deicide, that we were the very murderers of God?”
“Yes,” admitted Donati. “But what shall we do about it?”
“Find the Gospel of Pilate.”
South of Orvieto they turned off the Autostrada and headed into the rolling hills and thick forests of Donati’s native Umbria. By the time they reached Perugia, the sun had burned a hole in the clouds. To the east, at the base of Monte Subasio, glowed the distinctive red marble of Assisi.
“There’s the Abbey of St. Peter.” Donati pointed out the bell tower at the northern end of the city. “It’s inhabited by a small group of monks from the Cassinese Congregation. They live according to the Rule of Saint Benedict. Ora et labora: pray and work.”
“Sounds a bit like the job description of the chief of the Office.”
Donati laughed. “The monks support a number of local organizations, including a hospital and an orphanage. They agreed to give Father Jordan lodging in the abbey when he retired from the Gregoriana.”
“Why Assisi?”
“After working for forty years as a Jesuit academic and writer, he longed for a more contemplative existence. But you can be sure he finds time to research and write. He’s one of the world’s foremost authorities on the apocryphal gospels.”
“What happens if he won’t see us?”
“I’m sure you’ll think of something,” remarked Donati.
Gabriel left the Opel in a car park outside the city walls and followed Donati through the archway of the Porta San Pietro. The abbey was a few paces along a shadowed street, behind walls of red stone. The outer door was locked. Donati rang the bell. There was no answer.
He checked the time. “Midafternoon prayers. Let’s take a walk.”
They set out along the street against a flow of outward-bound package tourists, Gabriel in dark trousers and a leather coat, Donati in his magenta-trimmed cassock. He attracted no more than passing interest. The Abbey of St. Peter was not the only monastery or convent in Assisi. It was a city of religious.
It became Christian, explained Donati, just two hundred years after the Crucifixion. St. Francis was born in Assisi at the end of the twelfth century. Known for his lavish clothing and circle of rich friends, he encountered a beggar one afternoon in the marketplace and was so moved he gave the man everything he had in his pockets. Within a few years he was living as a beggar himself. He cared for lepers in a lazar house, worked as a lowly kitchen servant in a monastery, and in 1209 founded a religious order that required its members to embrace a life of total and complete poverty.
“Francis is one of the Church’s most beloved saints, but he didn’t invent the notion of caring for the poor. It was ingrained in Christianity from the beginning. And now, two millennia later, thousands of Roman Catholics around the world are doing the same thing, every hour of every day. I think that’s worth preserving, don’t you?”
“I once told Lucchesi that I would never want to live in a world without the Roman Catholic Church.”
“Did you? He never mentioned it.” They arrived at the basilica. “Shall we go inside and see the paintings?”
“Next time,” quipped Gabriel.
It was three fifteen. They retraced their steps to the abbey, and once again Donati rang the bell. A moment passed before a male voice answered. He spoke Italian with a distinct British accent.
“Good afternoon. May I help you?”
“I’m here to see Father Jordan.”
“I’m afraid he doesn’t accept visitors.”
“I believe he’ll make an exception in my case.”
“Your name?”
“Archbishop Luigi Donati.” He released the call button and gave Gabriel a sidelong glance. “Membership has its privileges.”
The lock snapped open. A hairless, black-habited Benedictine waited in the shadows of an internal courtyard. “Forgive me, Excellency. I wish someone had told us you were coming.” He extended a soft, pale hand. “I’m Simon, by the way. Follow me, please.”
They entered the church of San Pietro through a side door, crossed the nave, and emerged into another internal court. The next door gave onto the abbey itself. The monk conveyed them to a modestly furnished common room overlooking a green garden. Actually, thought Gabriel, it was more like a small farm. Surrounded by a high wall, it was invisible to the outside world.
The Benedictine asked them to make themselves comfortable and then withdrew. Ten minutes elapsed before he finally returned. He was alone.
“I’m sorry, Excellency. But Father Jordan is praying now and wishes not to be disturbed.”
Donati opened his briefcase and removed the manila envelope. “Show him this.”
“But—”
“Now, Don Simon.”
Gabriel smiled as the monk fled the room. “It seems your reputation precedes you.”
“I doubt Father Jordan will be so easily impressed.”
Another fifteen minutes passed before the British monk returned. This time he was accompanied by a small, dark man with a weathered face and a shock of unkempt white hair. Father Robert Jordan was wearing an ordinary cassock rather than the black habit of the Benedictines. In his right hand was the envelope.
“I came here to get away from Rome. Now it seems Rome has come to me.” Father Jordan’s gaze settled on Gabriel. “Mr. Allon, I presume.”
Gabriel said nothing.
Father Jordan removed the page from the envelope and held it up to the afternoon light streaming through the window. “It’s paper, not vellum. It looks to be from the fifteenth or sixteenth century.”
“I’ll have to take your word for it,” replied Donati.
Father Jordan lowered the page. “I’ve been searching for this for more than thirty years. Where on earth did you find it?”
“It was given to me by a priest who works in the Secret Archives.”
“Does the
priest have a name?”
“Father Joshua.”
“Are you sure?”
“Why?”
“Because I’m quite certain I know everyone who works in the Archives, and I’ve never heard of anyone by that name.” Father Jordan looked down at the page again. “Where’s the rest of it?”
“It was removed from the papal study the night of the Holy Father’s death.”
“By whom?”
“Cardinal Albanese.”
Father Jordan looked up sharply. “Before or after His Holiness died?”
Donati hesitated, then said, “It was after.”
“Dear God,” whispered Father Jordan. “I was afraid you were going to say that.”
27
ABBEY OF ST. PETER, ASSISI
THE MONK RETURNED WITH AN earthenware carafe of water, a loaf of coarse bread from the monastery’s bakery, and a bowl of olive oil produced by an abbey-supported cooperative. Father Jordan explained that he had worked there the previous summer, repairing the damage done to his body by a lifetime of teaching and study. It was obvious he had spent a great deal of time in the out-of-doors of late; his sunbaked face was the color of terra-cotta. His Italian was animated, flawless. Indeed, were it not for his name and his American-accented English, Gabriel would have assumed that Robert Jordan had lived his entire life in the hills and valleys of Umbria.
In truth, he had been raised in the comfortable Boston suburb of Brookline. A brilliant Jesuit academic, he served on the faculties at Fordham and Georgetown before coming to the Pontifical Gregorian University, where he taught history and theology. His private research, however, focused on the apocryphal gospels. Of particular interest to Father Jordan were the Passion apocrypha, especially the gospels and letters focusing on Pontius Pilate. They were, he said, depressing reading, for they seemed to have but one purpose—to acquit Pilate of the death of Jesus and place the blame squarely on the heads of the Jews and their descendants. Father Jordan believed that, intentionally or not, the Gospel writers had erred in their depiction of the trial and execution of Jesus, an error compounded by the inflammatory teachings of Church Fathers from Origen to Augustine.
