The Cana Mystery

by David Beckett

  “And the Vandals sacked Rome shortly thereafter,” marveled Professor Clarkson.

  “Yes,” said the bishop, “although sacked may be an exaggeration. Pope Leo persuaded the Vandals to refrain from violence, thus preventing Rome’s destruction. The invaders remained for fourteen days, but they did not burn the city, contrary to their custom. St. Prosper reports almost no murders.”

  Paul asked, “Did Prospero say what the relics were?”

  Ava flinched. Garagallo smiled and said, “If he did, no record survives. Predictably, it’s a topic of fierce debate. Numerous scholars believe the sacred relic was the mummified head of John the Baptist.”

  Paul’s nose wrinkled with disgust. “You’re kidding! A severed head?”

  “Please show some respect, Paul,” Ava cautioned. “You’re talking about the man who baptized Jesus.”

  “It took me by surprise.”

  “You find that hypothesis implausible?” asked Garagallo.

  “Well, no, not necessarily. I’m keeping an open mind, but who would worship a rotting head—”

  “Paul!”

  For a moment, there was an awkward silence. Then Garagallo erupted into peals of laughter. Ava was momentarily taken aback, but then such an august churchman chuckling was irresistible. Then Paul joined, and soon all four were laughing.

  When he regained his composure, Garagallo said, “For what it’s worth, I tend to agree. I don’t think the relic was the Baptist’s preserved head.”

  “Good, because that would be creepy,” Paul said. Ava squirmed. Ignoring her, he went on: “What relics do you think they had?”

  The bishop smiled at his guests. “I believe they possessed two of the lost jars of Cana. Does anyone care for coffee?”

  After dinner, Clarkson checked his messages. He’d received an urgent call from the history department chair. Apologizing profusely, he excused himself and stepped in to the garden to return the call. When he came back, he announced that he had to leave.

  “What could be so important at this hour?” Garagallo asked.

  Clarkson answered, “Dominic is . . . curious about the situation. He’d like to ask me a few questions.”

  Ava’s face was ashen. “I hope you’re not in trouble.”

  “Oh, don’t worry. He’s an eminently reasonable man. He won’t jump to conclusions. Nevertheless, it’s vital that I see him immediately.”

  Clarkson thanked their host for the splendid meal and made preparations to leave.

  “Should we go too?” Ava asked him.

  “No, that might complicate things. I’d prefer to speak with him first in private.”

  “Ava, I wonder if you and Paul would like to stay here awhile longer,” Garagallo said. “My housekeeper prepared a variety of desserts. She’ll be inconsolable if no one tastes them.”

  Ava glanced at Paul. He didn’t seem nervous. She decided to accept the bishop’s invitation. Predictably, the desserts were phenomenal. Paul’s favorite was the crisp cannoli filled with sweet ricotta and chocolate. Ava preferred the warm figolla (soft, almond-stuffed cookies). Garagallo then invited the Americans to join him for a postprandial snifter of brandy. He led them to his private study: an interior room protected by a thick, ancient door of oak and iron. Inside, Ava noticed portraits of Shakespeare and Marlow, a statue of Democritus meditating, and a bust of Homer. Paul’s attention was captured by an escutcheon mounted behind the wide desk. The heraldry featured a flaming sword and a shepherd’s crook crossed above a castle with seven towers. Beneath it hung the motto GARDEZ BIEN. As Paul struggled to remember where he’d heard those words, the bishop excused himself to see about the drinks. While he was gone, Paul whispered, “Do you trust him?”

  Ava sighed. “Not fully. I like him, but I sense he knows more than he’s telling. Why play games with us?”

  “He seems to know a lot about the jars.”

  “Yes but, I wonder—”

  Garagallo’s return interrupted her sentence. Noting her startled expression, he said, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to intrude.”

  “Oh, no, Excellency. We were just discussing Shakespeare.”

  “Really? What play?”

  “The Tempest.”

  “Ah, yes.” He smiled. “One of my favorites. ‘We are such stuff as dreams are made on . . .’”

  For several minutes they chatted about the work, Ava and the bishop quoting verses from memory. Paul’s attention wandered. He resisted the temptation to gulp his brandy. Finally, Ava asked the bishop: “Something you said at dinner piqued my curiosity. You mentioned the lost jars of Cana.”

  “A fascinating subject, yes? You might even call it my hobby. What would you like to know?”

  “You said Pope Leo and Emperor Valentinian had two jars. Weren’t there six originally?”

  “Yes. The Gospel of John specifies that six jars were present at the first miracle. Later, these six were split into three pairs. Each pair was hidden on a different continent to prevent destruction by the Antichrists . . .”

  Paul interrupted: “Hold on. Did you just say Antichrists? There’s more than one?”

  “Regrettably, yes. History has withstood a seemingly endless succession.”

  Paul shook his head. “I’m confused. I thought Satan was the Antichrist.”

  Garagallo explained. “Jesus Christ epitomizes the Christian virtues, the greatest of which is love. Do you agree?”

  Paul nodded. “I do.”

  “Thus, anyone or anything opposing those virtues is, by definition, anti-Christ. The word can describe Lucifer or any other monster who serves death, injustice, and damnation. Early Christians considered Herod and later Nero to be Antichrists. Of course, there have been others. I believe each generation must find the courage to combat this evil, embodied in some new, hideous form.”

  “But what use are stone jars against a monster?”

  “The jars contain a prophecy. If you believe the legend, reading the prophecy aloud at the proper place and time can defeat the devil.”

  “Too bad it didn’t work against Hitler.”

  Garagallo closed his eyes and anguish passed over his face. In a hollow voice, he said, “Yes. Hitler was a terrible Antichrist. Even as a little boy, I despised him. I’m proud we Maltese resisted his evil, and I grieve for all those who sacrificed their lives.”

  For a moment the bishop couldn’t speak. Finally, he opened his eyes, gazed up at the antique crest, and went on. “As a man of faith, I believe the sacred jars’ power might have stopped the Nazis. Sadly, we’ll never know. At least one jar was destroyed in 455. After the fall of Rome, the surviving jars’ whereabouts were lost to humanity. St. Bede believed one was given to King Osby of Northumbria in 665. He may have hidden it under Whitby Abbey or possibly Whitekirk, but the others disappeared.”

  Ava asked, “Were any hidden in Egypt?”

  “According to legend, two jars were given to Africa. No one knows what happened to them. If I were to guess their location, Egypt and Ethiopia would be my top candidates. Why do you ask?”

  Generally, Ava distrusted churchmen. She knew the Church’s spotty history, and she was well aware of its recent scandals. Not all Catholic leaders had acted honorably. Yet Ava trusted Garagallo. She heard sincerity in his voice, and she shared the bottomless anger he expressed regarding the Nazis. Though she sensed he had a secret agenda, Ava concluded that the bishop was an ally, not an enemy. Having made her decision, she answered him. “Because that’s where we found two of them.”

  Garagallo was silent. After a moment, he reclined in his chair, whispered a prayer of thanks, and said, “Please, tell me everything.”

  Ava told him of their journey from the monastery to Malta. She began by describing the relics’ discovery and concluded by explaining how she and Paul had escaped the catacombs. For now, she omitted any mention of the disks. Garagallo listened intently. Though he nodded occasionally, he never spoke, allowing Ava to relate her story without interruption. When she finished,
he asked, “What do you intend to do with the jars?”

  Ava glanced at Paul. He nodded. “We want to give them to the Church,” she said, “pursuant to certain conditions.” She listed their terms.

  For a moment, Garagallo appeared lost in thought. Then he rose, smiled, and took Ava’s hands in his. With a warm voice he said, “On behalf of the Church, I thank you for your honesty, selflessness, and generosity. Naturally, in a matter of such importance, I must contact Rome. I may not receive guidance until after we’ve elected our new pope, but you may rest assured that we appreciate your astounding gift.”

  They left the study and returned to the main hallway. As they neared the stairs, the bishop said, “Friends, tonight has been a rare pleasure. Thank you for trusting me. I’m honored, and I give my word that you’ll come to no harm within these walls. Please feel welcome to spend the night in my guest quarters. All are fully equipped and comfortable. Or, if you prefer to go, my butler will call a cab. Of course, none may be available right now.”

  At that moment, Paul heard gunshots. In an instant, he lunged for Ava, threw her to the ground, and covered her with his body. Once he was sure she was safe, he raised his head to locate the source of the attack. “Fireworks, Paul,” the bishop said quickly. “Those were just fireworks. Weren’t you aware of the festival? They have fireworks at midnight.”

  Paul glanced at his empty wrist. Then he consulted the bishop’s grandfather clock. Its hands pointed straight up, and it was chiming. Embarrassed, Paul’s face reddened.

  “Sorry,” he muttered sheepishly. “Guess I overreacted a bit.” As Paul helped Ava regain her footing, Garagallo turned away from his guests and crossed the room. Heading through the doorway, the bishop turned and waved goodnight.

  Outside, the street festival continued. After enjoying the dazzling fireworks, the mob of brightly costumed revelers paraded and twirled through the smoky air. The Mediterranean night echoed with the sounds of a thousand happy voices. Groups clustered to sing folk songs, play instruments, dance, and drink.

  Amid the throng, two men seemed out of place. They cut through the crowd like sharks through a shoal. Ignoring catcalls and whistles from some intoxicated students, the men approached the waterfront and entered a grand structure. The elder of the two patted his pocket, ensuring that the stolen key was secure. They climbed the stairs.

  When they reached Paul and Ava’s room, each man drew a pistol and clicked on his night-vision goggles. Quietly, Lieutenant Barakah slipped the key into the slot. The door unlocked. Motionless, he waited, straining for the faintest sound. Hearing nothing, he eased the door open. With his accomplice covering him, Barakah launched himself through the doorway. Something flashed. Cat-quick, Barakah dropped, rolled, and came up aiming his gun. Silence. No movement. He scanned the room. The blinking light was just an old satphone charging on the nightstand. Then Barakah spotted the closet. He crept toward it. After gesturing for his confederate to enter the room, he grasped the handle and pulled. A hinge squeaked. Startled, his cohort began firing. Barakah’s stomach knotted at the sound. Furious, he swung around and leveled his weapon. The younger man raised his arms and whispered an apology. For several seconds Barakah considered killing him for sheer incompetence. Then he lowered his gun and examined the damage. Bullets had shredded the room’s linens and pillows, but there was no blood. The bed was empty.

  At dawn the aroma of rich Ethiopian coffee lured Paul into wakefulness. He cracked open the door and spied the butler, who intimated that the bishop awaited him downstairs. After requesting a few moments to prepare, Paul washed his face, brushed his teeth, and dragged a comb through his thick mop. More than a month had passed since his last haircut, and he was starting to look like a rock star. He pulled on his dirty clothes and went to the breakfast room. Garagallo stood when Paul entered. “Did you get some rest?”

  “Yes, thanks. Your guest rooms are very comfortable.”

  “And Ava?”

  Paul grinned. “Sleeping like a baby. I didn’t wake her.”

  “That’s probably best. Unfortunately, I have disturbing news. It will be easier to tell you man to man.”

  They sat. Garagallo poured Paul a demitasse of steaming coffee. “Commissioner Rizzo called. There’s been another attempt on your life. Last night criminals broke into your hotel room and stole the jars. Security found your bed riddled with bullet holes.”

  Paul sagged into his chair. Despite everything they’d endured, the jars were lost. It was simply too much. He’d been a fool to think he could protect Ava from these thieves. They’d survived thanks only to amazingly good fortune. Sooner or later, luck would run out and they’d be captured or killed. He sipped his coffee, but it had no taste. He looked at the bishop. “I’m sorry about the jars. Is there anything I can do?”

  “Don’t worry about that. We’ll find them, but you must leave Malta. Dark forces are at work. The longer you wait, the more dangerous it will become.”

  “Where should we go?”

  “Take Ava across the strait to Italy. The Virtu Rapid Catamaran sails from Valletta to Sicily. When I meet with the commissioner, I’ll arrange tickets.”

  Noting Paul’s expression, he asked, “Do you object?”

  “No. I’m sorry, Father. That sounds fine. Italy’s as good a destination as any, but it seems pointless to keep running. It’s only a matter of time before they find us.”

  “Have faith. The tide may yet turn. There is an old German proverb: Wo die Not am grössten ist, ist Gott am nächsten. It means ‘Where the need is greatest, God is nearest.’”

  The bishop stood, walked to Paul, and handed him a small golden amulet. It was inscribed with a flaming sword and a shepherd’s crook crossed above a castle. Looking into Paul’s eyes, he said, “Take this. When you’re in dire need, show it for protection.”

  Paul thanked him, looped its chain over his head, and slid the amulet under his shirt. Making the sign of the cross over his guest, Garagallo whispered, “Gardez bien.”

  Ava was roused by the ring of the now fully charged world phone. It was Gabe, and he could hardly contain himself. “I think sound data is preserved on your artifacts!” he shouted.

  She fell back against the pillows. Audio! Of course! That’s why “no one can read it with mortal eyes.” She recalled Revelation 3:6: “If you have ears, listen to what the Spirit says to the people.” She laughed, then spoke aloud Jesus’s admonition: “Having ears, hear ye not?”

  Someone knocked at her door. It was Paul, carrying a pot of tea. He looked worried. Why was she was acting crazy?

  Ava yanked him into the room and slammed the door. She set the phone to speaker and began discussing Gabe’s radical hypothesis. Instantly, Paul was lost. When he couldn’t stand any more technical jargon, he asked, “Excuse my skepticism, but how could ancient people record audio? Is that possible? I mean, they didn’t have electricity.”

  Ava smiled. “Gabe, do you want to field this one?”

  “You don’t need electricity to record stuff,” Gabe explained. “Before the advent of magnetic tape, sound was recorded mechanically. In 1877, Edison’s phonograph used metal cylinders. Sound vibrations were physically printed and played back when a stylus read the impressions. You can still listen to some. There’s a cool site called tinfoil dot com. Despite background noise, you can hear historical audio of President Taft, William Jennings Bryan—”

  Paul stopped him. “But could they record onto a gold disk?” Ava flinched. Gabe had a reputation for intellectual arrogance. He frequently referred to techno-illiterate classmates as troglodytes and imbeciles. She feared Paul was about to be similarly flayed. Instead, Gabe answered calmly.

  “Yes, of course. In fact, it’s the medium NASA used. Do you remember Voyager?”

  “The space probe?”

  “Exactly. In 1977, NASA launched Voyager 1 and Voyager 2. Each carried a twelve-inch gold disk containing audio recordings selected by Carl Sagan. The records were encased in protective aluminum jacket
s with a cartridge, stylus, and symbolic instructions on how to play them.”

  “I’m sure NASA could do that in 1977, but these artifacts date back to biblical times.”

  “That’s why it’s so cool. Several people have claimed to discover ancient audio recordings, but no claim has been scientifically substantiated. It was the basis for a classic X-Files episode—”

  Ava cut him off. “Gabe, wouldn’t the recorded information have deteriorated by now?”

  “Maybe. It matters how often it was played and by what method. Unfortunately, playing a mechanical recording hastens its destruction. Most of Edison’s recordings on tin have deteriorated, but they were played often. I suspect gold would preserve data just fine. Besides being ductile, gold is unreactive. Therefore, it resists corrosion and tarnishing.”

  “Enough to last millennia?”

  “It’ll be forty thousand years before Voyager approaches a planetary system. If NASA expects those recordings to last that long, then two thousand years seems possible—even on Earth.”

  “Can we play these disks? Obviously, a phonograph won’t work. Nothing would fit, and the needle would probably destroy them, but could we reverse-engineer an ancient playback device?”

  “Why do all that? Why not just capture the data to a PC running good audio software?”

  “How?”

  “It depends. You could use an optical scanner or a light-contact technique. Optical is easier and usually results in a better sound. Unlike bouncing a laser beam off a record, optical scanning isn’t susceptible to dirt, damage, or wear. On the other hand, light contact is quicker and more authentic.”

  “What do you mean ‘authentic’?”

  “Optical-scan results require digital filtering, meaning somebody guides the process. In effect, he or she decides how the final recording will sound, but now there’s some cutting-edge software incorporating precision optical metrology with slippery pattern recognition algorithms—”