And he was right, too. Payne had been intrigued by magic since his grandfather pulled a quarter out of his ear back when Payne was still wearing pajamas with feet. The tricks. The secrets. The performers. The history. He’d been a connoisseur for as long as he could remember.
So he said, ‘The first documented magic tricks were performed in Egypt about 3,000 years before the Roman Empire. Their tricks ranged from the simplistic — the ball and cup tricks that are still prevalent today — to the complex. Around 2700 BC, an Egyptian magician named Dedi gave a performance where he decapitated two birds and an ox and then restored their heads.’
‘Really? How’d he do that?’ Ulster wondered.
Payne ignored his question. ‘With enough preparation the Romans could’ve figured out a way to make it work. In fact, it probably would’ve been easier than Dedi’s performance because everybody in his audience would’ve been expecting a trick, whereas the people in Jerusalem were expecting a crucifixion. I mean, nobody would’ve been looking for a sleight of hand or a last-minute substitution since they weren’t expecting a show.’
Maria grimaced. ‘That being said, how would you have done it?’
Payne gave it some thought. ‘Hypothetically, you could fake a crucifixion by drugging the victim. I mean, the victim would look like he died on the cross, right? And a large crowd would’ve witnessed it. From there you hide the victim until he wakes up. Just like that, the illusion of resurrection.’
The room grew silent as they considered Payne’s theory.
‘Of course, the toughest part would’ve been figuring out what drug and dosage to use. In addition, you’d have to administer the drug in front of an audience, which might’ve been tricky.’
‘Actually,’ Ulster stated, ‘the Romans had a great understanding of pharmaceuticals and had mastered the art of capital punishment. The guards sometimes killed up to 500 prisoners a day, so they would know the best way to accomplish this. All they’d have to do is slip the prisoner a drug while he was on the cross, and he’d fall into a comalike sleep within minutes.’
Jones asked, ‘But how would they do that? Wasn’t Jesus surrounded by his followers at the time? Surely they would’ve objected if the Romans had tried to drug him.’
Maria shook her head. ‘According to the Bible, Jesus sipped wine vinegar from the end of a long stalk while he was hanging on the cross. It was such a common practice during crucifixions that no one would’ve given it much thought.’
Boyd added, ‘I recall several historical references to mandrake, a plant that still grows in Israel today. The Romans used the ground-up root as a primitive anesthetic.’
‘Furthermore,’ Ulster added, ‘mandrake would explain the speed of Christ’s death.’
‘How so?’ Payne wondered.
‘To put it simply, crucifixion was a lengthy process, one that typically lasted more than thirty-six hours and sometimes as long as nine or ten days. In the end the victim usually died from hunger or traumatic exposure, not because he bled to death.’ Ulster paused for a moment, searching for the right words. ‘On occasion, when the Romans wanted to accelerate the process, they would smash the victim’s legs with a hammer or a war club to steal his ability to breathe. After that the victim was no longer able to prop himself up on the nail through his feet, and that put too much strain on his arms and chest to take in any air. Suffocation quickly followed.’
Payne asked, ‘But they didn’t do that with Christ, right?’
‘No, they didn’t,’ Boyd assured him. ‘Which is an issue that has bothered historians for centuries. Most victims lasted at least thirty-six hours, like Petr mentioned, whereas Christ died very quickly, spending no more than a few hours on the cross. Remember, Christ was crucified alongside two other criminals, men who had their legs broken to hasten their deaths. Yet when the Romans moved into position to shatter Christ’s legs, they realized he was already dead.’
‘“Not one bone of his will be broken,”’ Maria whispered, quoting the scripture. ‘The way Christ died fulfilled a prophecy. A prophecy that the Romans would’ve known about.’
Boyd nodded. ‘So did the actions of Longinus, the centurion who stabbed Christ in the side after his death. John 19:31–37 stated, “They will look to the one whom they have pierced.” And in time, the Romans looked to Jesus as their God. Just like Tiberius and his accomplice wanted.’
Jones asked, ‘Out of curiosity, what proof do we have that a drugging took place?’
Boyd frowned. ‘One panel in the archway does show Jesus drinking from the hyssop stalk. I failed to give it much thought at the time since it’s a fairly obscure moment to memorialize. Come to think of it, I can’t remember seeing that event honored in stone before.’
‘Nor I,’ Ulster said. ‘What about you, Maria?’
‘Not really.’ Then after a moment of silence, she surprised everyone by blurting, ‘Wait! The archway! I just remembered something about the archway.’ She leapt to her feet and bolted toward the door. ‘Nobody move. I have to check on something. I’ll be right back.’
The four of them nodded in unison, half afraid to disobey her order. At least for the first few seconds. After that, Payne’s curiosity got the best of him. He had a feeling that she was on the verge of a major breakthrough and wanted to be there when she had it.
‘Damn, D.J., will you look at the time? We’re missing my favorite show!’ He grabbed the photo of the Lipizzaner stallions and rushed toward the hallway. ‘Wait, Oprah! I’m coming!’
To keep from laughing, Jones nearly bit through his bottom lip. ‘Sorry you had to see that. Jon’s in a delicate place in his life right now and my ebony sister is teaching him how to cope.’
Payne and Jones hustled down the wooden stairs and found Maria sitting in Ulster’s office, scouring her videotape for new evidence about the crucifixion.
She said to them, ‘You must think I’m crazy, running out of the room. It’s just all that talk about the archway made me realize something. I think there’s a clue on one of the carvings.’
Jones raised an eyebrow. ‘What kind of clue?’
‘I barely gave it any thought until now, but when Petr started talking about the use of mandrake as an ancient Roman drug, it opened my eyes to a possibility.’
‘Just a second,’ Payne grumbled. ‘What’s this mandrake stuff you keep talking about? Some kind of exotic poison?’
‘Not exactly,’ answered Boyd as he burst into the office. Ulster arrived a few seconds later, his cheeks bright red from exercise. ‘Mandrake is a plant with a forked root that closely resembles the human body. Because of this resemblance, many early cultures believed the plant possessed magical powers. That’s how it got its name. Mandrake is an abbreviated version of the original Latin term, mandragora, which means the plant is part man and part dragon.’
Maria continued, ‘As I was saying, I think I found some evidence that might shed some light on the crucifixion. I’m pretty sure there’s an anomaly in one of the carvings.’
Boyd said, ‘An anomaly? What kind of anomaly?’
Instead of answering, she hit play on the VCR, then moved aside so everyone could witness the tragedy that was about to unfold. Images from the Catacombs rolled past like tanks toward a defenseless village. In her heart she knew the closer the camera got to the archway, the sooner Christianity was going to take a serious blow.
‘To be honest, I’m surprised that one of us didn’t notice this earlier. Focus on the archway. Look at the different scenes of the crucifixion. Do you notice anything that looks out of place?’
The two lowest blocks showed Jesus getting nailed to the cross and being hoisted into the air by a team of Roman soldiers. The next pair depicted Christ as he hung from the cross, blood pouring from his hands and feet onto the rocky ground below, a sign over his head that read, “Iesus Nazarenus Rex Iudaeorum.” The crowns, the two stones that sat near the top of the arch, revealed the events right before his death: the moment he drank wine vinegar from the
end of a hyssop stalk and the instant his head fell to his chest in acceptance of death.
‘I’m sorry, my dear, this is pointless. I just don’t see anything anomalous.’
‘Then look closer!’ she ordered. ‘Ignore what you think you know about the crucifixion and view these carvings as a brand-new story. What’s the artist telling us about this moment?’
With a prolonged sigh, Boyd inspected the scenes even closer. In his mind it was hardly necessary, since the images were burned into his brain like a cattle brand. But in his heart he somehow hoped the videotape would reveal something his eyes had missed in the Catacombs. Possibly a name or a face that he’d somehow overlooked. Or even the location of another scroll.
Ulster gasped. ‘Oh my Lord, look at the ground in the fifth carving!’ To make his point clearer, he ambled to the TV and pointed to the block directly to the left of the laughing man. ‘Look beneath my finger, near the base of the cross.’
Payne studied the image. ‘Looks like a flower.’
‘Not just any flower,’ he corrected. ‘That’s a very specific flower.’
‘Specific? In what way?’ Payne studied the rest of the archway and slowly realized the image appeared in only one carving: the scene where Christ was drinking from the hyssop stalk. Oddly it was the only panel that had any background scenery at all — a fact that spoke volumes to Payne and the rest of the group. ‘Wait a second! Are you telling me that…?’
Payne glanced at Maria, and she nodded, letting everyone know that Ulster had found the clue that she was referring to. The flower in the picture was unmistakable to her and anyone who was familiar with the odd-looking species. It was Mandragora officinarum, better known as mandrake, the plant that fueled the most popular narcotic of the Roman Empire.
One that was on the verge of changing the course of religious history.
For the second time in the past two thousand years.
52
The Roman Catholic Church is one of the wealthiest organizations in the world, with an estimated worth in excess of one trillion dollars. In addition to their priceless art collection, they own more stock, real estate, and gold than 95 percent of all countries on earth. Yet, amazingly, the Church swears they’re broke, claiming they’re the caregivers for more than a billion people around the world, which has prevented them from stockpiling the assets that most experts insist they have. In fact, some Vatican officials have stated that the Church is losing money every year and has been operating in the red for nearly a decade.
Benito Pelati laughed the first time he heard that rumor because he knew the truth about the Vatican’s finances. He knew about their diverse accounts with the British Rothschilds, Credit Suisse in Zurich, and the Chase Manhattan Corporation. He knew about the gold ingots they kept at the U.S. Federal Reserve Bank and the various depositories in Switzerland. Knew this for a fact.
Hell, he had seen the books himself, compliments of his best friend Cardinal Bandolfo.
Until a few months ago, the Supreme Council was run by Bandolfo, a charismatic public speaker who could’ve convinced the Keebler Elves to buy Girl Scout cookies. Neither slick nor grating, he had a way of expressing his views in such an eloquent fashion that the rest of the Council rarely contradicted him. It was the only reason that the Vatican turned to Benito when they needed things done outside of legal channels. Half the Council admired Benito for his tactics and his results; the other half despised him. In the end it was Bandolfo who always convinced the Council to call on Benito again and again.
But that was about to change. It had to. Three months ago Bandolfo passed away.
As Benito walked into the room, the look on their faces told him everything. The Supreme Council was upset. Upset with the situation. Upset with the negative publicity. And most importantly upset with his results. What had started off as a single death had turned into a major crisis. Now the onus was on him to explain. In person. And the fact that Benito had refused to meet with them Wednesday had made things worse. Especially with Cardinal Vercelli.
Vercelli, a native of Rome who was now in charge of the Council, preached that rules had to be followed in order to preserve the sanctity of the Church. Even so, he knew that Benito was so well-respected in the Italian community — mostly because people didn’t care about his criminal ways as long as he got the job done — that it would be foolish to take him on without provocation. So he opted to wait, all the while praying that Benito did something so reprehensible, so unforgivable, that the Council had no choice but to dismiss him.
Simply put, Vercelli was waiting for a day like today. A day when he could pounce.
What he didn’t know was that Benito was waiting, too. Waiting to launch a surprise attack on Christianity.
It would make for an interesting meeting.
‘As all of you know,’ Benito told the Supreme Council, ‘the first note arrived at Cardinal Vercelli’s office on Friday, July seventh. The demands were quite simple: one billion dollars or confidential information about the Church would be leaked to the media. We get nonspecific threats like this every day, so His Eminence did nothing wrong by putting it into the system.’
Vercelli spoke from the head of the table. ‘I did everything by the book.’
That included contacting the Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith, an intelligence agency that operates out of the Vatican and has been compared to the Russian KGB. Five hundred years ago it was known as the Holy Inquisition. Now it was simply called the CDF.
Benito added, ‘In addition to the CDF, His Eminence felt it would be appropriate to bring in an outside handler, someone with the Council’s best interest in mind.’
All the cardinals in the room nodded. They knew why Benito was there and what he could do for them. The CDF was required to report directly to the pope, whereas Benito had the freedom to do what the cardinals wanted. It was a luxury that the Council had used many times before.
Benito continued, ‘The second letter arrived on Saturday, and it was much more specific than the first. It said an offshore bank account had been set up for a wire transfer. If their demands weren’t met in forty-eight hours, they would go public with the first clue.’
‘What kind of clue?’ asked the Spanish cardinal who was taking notes.
‘They didn’t say. But they hinted that their price would escalate as the clues advanced. They also threatened to harm a Council member so we would take them seriously.’
He glanced around the room, letting his words sink in. Everyone knew what had happened to Father Jansen, the priest who used to take the minutes at every meeting. Still, this was the first time that his death was put in the appropriate context. Jansen had been killed as a warning.
‘If they had chosen one of you,’ Benito said, referring to the cardinals on the Council, ‘there would have been a full investigation by the CDF, Vatican security, and the Italian police. Financial accounts would’ve been locked, and we would’ve been forced to issue a statement. By choosing Father Jansen, they got their point across without making a major scene.’
Vercelli cleared his throat. ‘If you think crucifying Father Jansen isn’t a major scene — ’
‘Not compared to a cardinal. Believe me, it could’ve been much worse. What if they had chosen you instead? Don’t you think that would’ve received more publicity than Father Jansen? His murder, as brazen as it was, let us know that we were dealing with professionals. These weren’t street hoodlums looking to make a quick buck. These were men who knew the inner workings of the Vatican. Men who knew our system. Men who we should fear.’
Vercelli stated, ‘Which is why I called you on Monday. With your intimate knowledge of the criminal mind, I figured you’d be the man to stop the bleeding. At least that was my hope.’
Benito ignored the insult. He’d deal with Vercelli later. ‘We received our third note on Monday, twelve hours after Father Jansen was discovered. Their asking price went up to 1.1 billion dollars. The message stated that four people would
be crucified in the four corners of the world, each one bringing more attention to the sins of the Church — sins that we buried in Orvieto.’
‘Orvieto?’ asked the Austrian cardinal, the youngest member of the Council. He’d been brought in when Bandolfo passed away. ‘What did we bury in Orvieto?’
‘The past,’ the Spaniard grumbled. ‘We buried the past.’
While the cardinals whispered among themselves, Vercelli sensed the opportunity to make a speech. He was well-versed in Church history and liked to show off his knowledge.
‘When the papacy split in two, the holy father found shelter in the hills of Orvieto. He stayed there, secretly, for many years and was often joined by the wealthiest families in Europe, Catholics who feared for their lives due to their alignment with us. As you might imagine, the demand for those spots was very high, exceeding the space available. In time, the Church brokered a compromise: entrance to the city was sold to the highest bidder.
‘Later, once the factions settled and the papacy returned to Rome, there was plenty of rancor between the sides, enough to pressure the Church into making some questionable decisions. You see, while these wealthy patrons were hiding in Orvieto, dozens of them passed away. Something needed to be done with the bodies, so the Church stored them in a series of ancient tunnels that we’d found hidden in the plateau.’
The Austrian gasped. ‘The Catacombs of Orvieto?’
Vercelli nodded. ‘Over the years, the legend picked up a wave of momentum. What was nothing more than an underground mausoleum grew into a tomb of mythical proportions.’
‘Come, come,’ the Brazilian teased. ‘That isn’t true, and you know it. You have been telling the same story for so many years that you’re starting to confuse our fiction with the real facts.’ He turned toward the Austrian. ‘We have no one to blame but ourselves. If we had come clean in the very beginning, we would have ended the myth once and for all. The Italian cardinals wanted to protect the secrecy of Orvieto, just in case another schism occurred and we were forced back into hiding. The only way to do that was to pretend that they were never there. And it was that denial that got them into trouble.’
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