Papal Decree

by Luís Miguel Rocha

  Jesus was a flexible, open, intelligent man, a rabbi, a master, a healer of souls, a preacher who greatly admired John’s methods. John the Baptist was an enormous influence. In reality John marked a break with the past. After him, Jesus intensified his rituals and preaching, presenting variations that were not pleasing to conservative believers. Jesus created a new branch of Judaism, a kind of sect. When John was beheaded by Herod Antipas, Jesus was his natural successor.

  ‘John never performed a miracle,’ Ben Isaac said, and then sighed deeply, as if in sorrow. ‘Neither did Jesus. The Jesus who gave sight to the blind and cured cripples exists only in the Bible.’

  ‘How boring. And where does Bethlehem and Nazareth fit into all this?’ Gavache asked, disillusioned.

  ‘The authors of the New Testament had to emphasize that Jesus was the Savior, the Anointed One, the Son of God, Emanuel, and that there was no doubt about this. The prophets of the Old Testament had pointed the way and described the steps to follow. He would be born in Bethlehem, flee to Egypt, return, and be called the Nazarene. But, as you noted, they confused “Nazarene” with “Nazarite.” ’ Ben Isaac smiled slightly. ‘The only time that He stepped foot in Nazareth, as an adult, he was poorly received. People wanted to kill him. Do you think that would have been possible if he had belonged to one of the good families of the region?’

  ‘What a confusing story.’ Gavache was speaking in general, not referring specifically to Ben Isaac’s account, which made sense. ‘Why did Pontius Pilate wash his hands of all this and order the Jews to decide?’

  ‘That’s more nonsense,’ Ben Isaac replied. ‘Do you know who the dominant force in the so-called civilized world was from 27 B.C. through the next four hundred years?’

  ‘I assume you’re referring to the Romans.’

  ‘You assume correctly. Do you know what happened during this time?’

  Gavache shrugged. He was an expert on life, not history.

  ‘Roman expansion, which lasted for several centuries, and in the case of the Eastern Roman Empire, more than a millennium.’ Ben Isaac counted off on his fingers. ‘The birth and death of Jesus and of Paul of Tarsus, the author of the Epistles. During this time the canonical and apocryphal gospels were written, and a new religion was born, Christianity.’

  ‘In other words?’

  ‘In other words, everything happened under Roman influence. There are no originals of the sacred texts, only transcriptions of unknown authorship and motivation. Christianity is a patchwork quilt, based on historical misrepresentations. Why do you think the Vatican is always so attentive to archaeological discoveries? Always so quick to refute or control any new fact unearthed? Because they’re living with a time bomb. They know that everything they have established is based on a lie. The New Testament is a purely political document, created to control the people. I think it also aimed to control the Jews, only they didn’t succeed.’

  ‘And why do you think they didn’t succeed?’ Gavache asked.

  ‘Because they knew the truth.’ Ben Isaac got up now and paced the room. The subject annoyed him. ‘Pontius Pilate wasn’t the good, courteous man the Bible portrays, nor was he intelligent. He was a bloody man with wicked instincts, a perverse schemer. He never washed his hands or let the Jews decide Jesus’s fate. Washing the hands was a Jewish ritual of purification, not Roman, the netilat yadaim. Barabbas, whom the Jews chose to free in Jesus’s place, according to the New Testament, was a Zealot, from a violent, fanatical sect of Judaism, different from the Nazarites, though they shared some methods. Barabbas had killed Roman soldiers, a serious crime; today he would be considered a terrorist. The Zealots led innumerable rebellions, always put down by the Romans, and in their final hour committed suicide en masse – men, women, and children. Pilate would never have freed a killer of Romans. It’s not only improbable but impossible.’

  ‘That doesn’t necessarily mean he didn’t wash his hands of it,’ Gavache insisted.

  ‘How does the Bible say that Jesus died?’ Ben Isaac asked.

  ‘Crucified.’

  ‘Exactly,’ Ben Isaac answered, as if expressing an obvious truth that Gavache didn’t get. ‘If you had doubts, the Crucifixion was proof that Pilate never washed his hands. He was the one who condemned Him, and not others.’

  Gavache was confused, and Ben Isaac realized it.

  ‘Crucifixion was always a Roman sentence, not Jewish,’ he explained. ‘If he’d been condemned by the Sanhedrin, the Jewish council, the punishment would have been death by stoning.’

  ‘A devil of a choice,’ Gavache said ironically.

  ‘But He wasn’t sentenced to the Jewish punishment, was He?’ Ben Isaac ignored Gavache’s comment. ‘Jewish participation in the death of Christ was greatly exaggerated.’

  ‘You mean they had nothing to do with His death,’ Gavache said.

  ‘Not only did they have nothing to do with it, they tried to help Him.

  ‘When the Roman soldiers and the Temple Police arrested Jesus in the Garden of Gethsemane on the Mount of Olives, they didn’t bring him before Pilate. The first stop occurred during the night at the house of Caiaphas, the high priest of the Sanhedrin, in front of the Praetorium, the governor’s palace. It wasn’t at the Temple or the place where the Sanhedrin met, which indicates an informal meeting, not an audience. Also, the Sanhedrin never met at night. One of its members was Joseph of Arimathaea, who aided Jesus along the route of the cross and offered his tomb to receive His body.

  ‘It was the beginning of Passover, the celebration of the freeing of the Israelites from Egypt, and the Sanhedrin never condemned anyone to death during this period. It was prohibited,’ Ben Isaac continued. ‘There are many indications in the Bible that suggest that the Jews never at any time mistreated Jesus.

  ‘The prophet said that the Messiah would enter Jerusalem on the back of a donkey, and the crowd would hail him as the Son of David. Jesus did that in the final days of His life, but the event was not as grand as Holy Scripture describes. The Romans reinforced all the gates of the city during Passover. If the event had had all the significance the Bible gives it, Jesus would never have entered the city without being arrested. It was a capital crime for a nobleman to proclaim himself king of the Jews. Another story has Jesus expelling the money changers and sellers of doves from the Temple. It was obviously an insignificant event, exaggerated by the apostles and the writers of the gospels. Any major altercation within the Temple would have called the attention of the Temple Police, and there’s no reference to this having taken place. Jesus couldn’t have created a great scandal without being expelled from the Temple and the city itself by the authorities.

  ‘Or killed?’ Gavache suggested.

  Ben Isaac shook his head. ‘The maximum would have been jail awaiting sentencing. As I told you, during Passover, there were no executions.’

  ‘But that’s not what happened. They did execute Him,’ Gavache contradicted him.

  Ben Isaac didn’t reply; he stopped suddenly, as if he were revealing too much. Too late. Gavache noticed.

  ‘It’s possible they didn’t have Him executed,’ Ben Isaac finally said, leaning back in the chair, defeated. ‘It’s possible that the evangelists and Paul changed certain events and exaggerated others, blaming the Jews and speculating about what they didn’t know. Only Saint John the Evangelist and Saint Matthew knew Jesus. No one else witnessed anything that occurred. All the other accounts are based on hearsay. There is also the problem that the evangelists relate conversations that occurred in private without any witnesses. How could they have known what was said?’

  Gavache sat down in a chair next to Ben Isaac. ‘None of this means that Jesus wasn’t crucified.’

  Ben Isaac sighed. ‘Do you know what documents the lady just carried out of here?’ he asked sorrowfully.

  Gavache didn’t know.

  ‘An inscription placing Christ in Rome in A.D. 45 and a gospel written by Him around the same year,’ he said.

 
Gavache listened without expressing an opinion. He was used to stories being a string of lies. In his profession he had caught many charitable souls, defenders of morality, some prominent in society and politics, with their hands in the cookie jar, caught doing the very thing they criticized and even prosecuted publicly. Everyone lied for one reason or another, or for no reason at all, because it was easy to complicate life, maybe a human need. The church had no reason to be any different, and wasn’t.

  ‘Do you believe what was written in the gospel?’ Gavache asked.

  ‘I don’t know. It has the same errors as the others – contradictions, incoherencies, coincidences. It’s a testimony in the first person up to the final days before the Crucifixion, with some interesting information – mysterious, even – and other news. It gives Him a real human dimension that’s different from the other gospels. He seems to have been in search of a state of permanent illumination. Perhaps it was His consecration to God from the cradle that nurtured this. He said, I am not the son of God, but the way to Him. The gospel places Him in Jerusalem at the time of the Crucifixion … and then ends abruptly.’

  ‘At least he didn’t narrate his own death, like Moses,’ Gavache joked.

  Ben Isaac didn’t react.

  ‘Tell me, Dr. Isaac, like you’re explaining to an eight-year-old kid, what all this means.’

  Ben Isaac took a deep breath. He was worn out. ‘It means He could have been simply a man whom the accidents of history ended up deifying.’

  ‘I understand,’ Gavache said thoughtfully. ‘What do you think?’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘Do you think He’s the Son of God or just the product of legend?’

  Ben Isaac didn’t hide his shock at Gavache’s question. How dare he ask a question so personal, so profound, that Ben Isaac had asked himself for years without an answer.

  ‘Did I upset you, Ben Isaac?’ Gavache asked without a trace of pity. He waited for a reply. ‘Come on. You should know better than anyone. You’ve guarded the secret for more than fifty years.’

  ‘What does it matter to you what I believe?’ Ben Isaac snapped back angrily. ‘Is that going to bring my son back to me?’

  ‘That’s in the hands of God and the Son of God,’ Gavache replied scornfully.

  Tears ran down Ben Isaac’s face. ‘What do you want me to say?’ he said, sobbing. ‘That I believe He was a man like me and everyone else? That every day I pray He wasn’t the Son of God? That I need that document to be true because that means that my daughter died because that’s the way life is and not because He took her from me? Is that what you want to hear? That I could lose another child, and that to keep my sanity I need to believe that it has nothing to do with divine intervention?’

  Gavache looked at a point beyond Ben Isaac toward the back by the stairs. Ben Isaac looked toward the same spot and saw Myriam. He swallowed dryly, unable to react or take a step in her direction. She clenched her fists, turned her back on him, and went upstairs angrily.

  Myr was the only thing he managed to say, silently, to himself.

  Finally he got up and rushed to the stairs. The cell phone on top of the table began to ring, making him stop. It was his. Was it the kidnappers again? He answered reluctantly. He didn’t want any more news. He thought about little Ben and closed his eyes, wet with tears.

  Gavache answered the phone without asking. He spoke some words in French and then in English, and immediately handed the phone to Ben Isaac. ‘It’s for you. Your son.’

  ‘What?’ Had he heard right?

  ‘Your son. He was freed and wants to talk to you.’

  Ben Isaac was incredulous. He heard Myriam running down the stairs.

  ‘Ben? Is it little Ben?’ she asked.

  Gavache nodded with the phone still extended toward Ben Isaac.

  ‘But the woman hasn’t even had time to land in Paris yet,’ Ben Isaac reasoned, grabbing the phone.

  Inspector Gavache hurried toward the door to leave. ‘So long, Ben Isaac,’ he said as a farewell.

  Myriam took the phone out of her husband’s hand and began to talk. It was her son. Tears of relief streamed from her eyes. The nightmare was over, even if she would be at peace only when she saw him in flesh and blood, safe and sound.

  ‘What’s going on, Inspector?’ Ben Isaac was unable to make sense of anything. ‘Where are Sarah and the documents?’

  Gavache looked back and took another drag on his cigarette before answering. ‘Your son is safe. That’s all that matters.’

  ‘Sir, sir,’ Gavache’s driver called out when the car reached the corner and stopped by the curb.

  ‘Oui?’ said the other, leaving behind what had happened in Ben Isaac’s house.

  ‘We’re here, sir,’ he told him.

  Gavache looked outside across the street? ‘Here?’

  ‘Correct, sir.’

  Gavache opened the door and stepped outside. ‘What’s your name?’ he asked the driver.

  ‘Paul, sir.’

  ‘Paul, if things get violent, call for reinforcements.’

  ‘How will I know, sir?’

  ‘You’ll know, Paul. Trust me.’ Gavache left.

  55

  ‘That threat only shows you don’t know me,’ Rafael said with a gun in his hand. He locked the door of Robin’s study and wedged the back of a chair under the knob to hold it.

  Robin smiled mockingly. ‘What are you going to do? Hold me hostage?’

  Rafael remembered Maurice and the coldheartedness with which he had murdered Gunter, the despair with which he had later taken his own life. ‘No, Robin. You’re like an Islamic terrorist,’ he accused, ‘capable of killing and dying for a cause, even if you don’t know what it is.’

  ‘Isn’t that what you do, too?’ Robin argued irritably.

  ‘No, Robin, don’t compare me with your insanity. I don’t kill innocent, defenseless people.’

  ‘Fuck you, Santini.’

  ‘That’s how all our conversations seem to end.’

  The door handle began to turn. Someone was trying to open it from the other side.

  ‘He’s here,’ Robin shouted. ‘Kill him. He knows too much.’

  Rafael struck him with the back of the gun, making Robin lift his hands to the wound in pain. When he looked at the palms of his hands, he saw blood. His lip had been split. He looked up with an expression of helpless fury.

  ‘Now shut up,’ Rafael threatened.

  Somebody continued to try to force the handle before suddenly stopping. Rafael knew what the next step would be and anticipated it by firing a shot halfway up the door. A heavy weight was heard falling to the floor on the other side of the shut door.

  ‘Son of a bitch,’ Robin swore.

  ‘Aren’t we all?’ the Italian replied, more to himself than to Robin. He stepped forward. ‘It was a pleasure, Robin. Until we meet again, God willing.’

  Robin was swearing at him, but Rafael didn’t hear a single word. His priority was to get out of there alive. He needed to stay alert. He shot through the door twice more just in case, and waited a couple of seconds. He heard nothing. He opened the door carefully. A young man in a black cassock was lying on the floor, eyes staring lifelessly. A Glock pistol lay a few inches away. Rafael bent down and placed his fingers on his neck to see if there was a pulse. Nothing. He closed the corpse’s eyes and sighed. Another life lost for no reason. He took the Glock and shoved it under his belt in the back.

  He got up, keeping his gun pointed, and locked the door behind him, leaving Robin captive, and proceeded step by step in silence. The other doors were closed. He tried to open them, but they were locked, except for the door to the bathroom, which was empty; one less problem.

  He looked through the door to the high altar. Only the table in the center could shield him from a threat. He ran and rolled over as quickly as possible until he was behind the table, and stayed there a few moments. From there he moved to a corner, from which he could see the nave.

 
; An acolyte behind the confessional, another by a column in the back. He didn’t see anyone else, but with so many hiding places it wasn’t going to be easy. He risked looking to see if some believer had come to pray at the wrong time in the wrong place. A woman was in the second pew, kneeling, head lowered over her hands, praying for mercy, a girl by her side, seated on the pew playing a video game. The kid probably prayed every night before bed that her mother would spend some money and buy her a new PlayStation. A few rows back was a homeless man in ragged clothes.

  ‘Santini,’ he heard a voice call from somewhere in the nave.

  ‘Robin,’ Rafael replied. ‘What a talent for escaping from locked offices.’

  The faithful looked around. How disrespectful. Shouting like that in a place of silence and devotion.

  ‘Shhh …’ said the woman in front.

  ‘Come out, Santini. I want to see you,’ Robin ordered, moving to the center of the nave.

  ‘No, I’m okay. I know when I’m not welcome,’ Rafael replied mockingly. ‘You guys don’t wish me well.’

  ‘Shhh …’ the woman repeated. It was too much. Not just a lack of respect for a sacred place but for common civility as well.

  ‘Don’t be afraid,’ Robin protested, approaching the first row of pews, next to the altar in the transept. He made an apologetic gesture to the woman, along with a forced smile. Then he took the Glock out of his cassock and held it against the head of the mother, who could not believe it. ‘Do you want this pretty girl to become an orphan?’

  The little one raised her eyes from the game and noticed what was happening. Instantly her tears began to flow. This wasn’t a game for points.

  Rafael got up from behind the altar table, hands in the air, and kicked his Beretta away. The acolyte behind the confessional aimed a gun at him with an angry look.

  ‘I knew you’d end up surrendering,’ Robin said.

  ‘You’re an excellent negotiator,’ Rafael said in mock praise.

  ‘You think you can come to my church and do what you want?’ Robin continued. ‘You’re so naive. Throw down the other gun, please.’