“What now?”
Instead of answering, Ava uploaded the data onto the second computer. On the first, she opened the recording Gabe had captured from the artifact marked CHI. On the second, she opened the file he’d derived from the RHO disk.
“When I count to three, hit play,” she ordered. “Ready? One, two, three, play!”
They clicked the two buttons simultaneously. After a brief pause, the eerie noises began, just as before. Ava held her breath. Then the clamor changed. Instead of discordant noise, actual music emerged.
Ava shook her head. “Gabe guessed it right off the bat: mutually interdependent sequences.” The two recordings contained a common set of sounds but they were out of phase. Played sequentially, the disks produced jarring nonsense; played simultaneously, they harmonized. And when the libretto began, it wasn’t alien gibberish. Rather, it resembled a Gregorian chant. Paul watched Ava listen, enthralled by the otherworldly voices she’d discovered. Then she began to quiver.
Touching her shoulder, he whispered, “What’s the matter?”
She turned. He saw fear in her eyes.
“I . . . I think I can understand it.”
He took her hands. “What are they saying?”
“Something horrible.”
NEAR CALA D’INFERNO, ITALY
The master reclined in his private study, watching the news on television. NBC reported that on Monday, the College of Cardinals would meet for the first time since the pope’s resignation. “Under the supervision of Cardinal Angelo Sodano, the college will convene to deal with important ecclesiastical business, but Vaticanologists say some of the most significant discussions will unfold at private apartments, in restaurant backrooms, and around the coffee urn as cardinals meet in small groups to suss out who among them will become the next pope. After the congregations, the caucusing continues in informal, intimate settings. ‘All the real business takes place at night over anisette and grappa,’ said Christopher Bellitto, associate professor of history at Kean University.
“Modern conclaves have not lasted more than a few days—not surprising, as the whole point is to decide quickly. Nevertheless, it’s a tedious and time-consuming process. There are as many as two ballots every morning and two ballots every evening. Each cardinal takes an oath before casting a vote and the totals are tallied three times. It all happens in the Sistine Chapel, where silence is mandatory. The modern procedure was created by Pope Gregory X after a papal election that dragged on from 1268 to 1271, infuriating the people.
“Some speculate that the 2013 conclave will be the longest of the past one hundred years, but Vatican expert George Weigel disagrees. ‘Although it’s true that there are many possible candidates, there’s also a sense that this is a critical moment in the Church’s history.’ With the eyes of the world focused on Rome, the cardinals are under intense pressure to elect a new pope within three days.”
The master laughed. “‘How poor are they that have not patience.’” He glanced at the clock, dizzy with excitement. So few hours remained! After years of planning and preparation, the day of reckoning had arrived.
Ava reset the files and prepared to listen again to the otherworldly recording. She reviewed her notes: scribbles of words and bits of sentences on a yellow legal pad. She felt compelled to translate the message, but it wouldn’t be easy. Looking up, she saw that Paul was staring out the window. He seemed nervous.
“What’s outside?” she asked.
“Oh, nothing. I’m just surprised Tomás isn’t here.”
“Maybe Simon gave him the night off. Or maybe he went with them to the mainland. Who knows?”
“Yeah, I guess. Anyway, are you about done?”
She made a face. “You must be joking. Consider the problem’s complexity. I don’t speak the base language. I’m not sure anyone does. It resembles Old Syriac, but it’s funky. I’m speculating, but I think the vowel sounds may have shifted over the millennia. I recognize some basic structures, a few terms might be correlates, but I can’t just wave a magic wand, shout Eureka! and knock out a transcript.”
“But I thought—”
“Language is idiomatic, Paul. Grammar matters. For example—” she looked down at a sequence in her notes and said—“this word is repeated throughout. I suspect it means ‘pilgrim,’ but it could just as easily mean ‘journey’ or ‘travel.’ It could also be a verb, as the word voyage can be a noun or a verb, and it might mean different things at different times, capisce?”
He looked hurt. “Of course. I didn’t mean—”
She softened. “I know. You didn’t mean to be impatient or disrespectful, but I’m trying to decipher a message that’s at least two thousand years old and written in an obscure dead language. The process takes time. Plus, I don’t even have the crucial reference materials.”
Paul nodded, chastened. “Okay. So let’s get the hell out of here and go to a library. Let’s call Gabe and Professor Clarkson.”
“No. Before we tell anyone, we need an idea of what it says. Someone murdered hundreds of people to prevent us from decoding this message. I won’t put our friends in jeopardy again until we know why.”
“Wait till we tell Simon! He’ll call in favors with the NSA, hire a team of Nobel Prize–winners, and you two can write a comprehensive, scholarly article for Scientific American.”
Ava wasn’t amused. Rather, she looked frightened.
“What’s wrong?”
Her eyes dropped to the notebook. “Paul, I’m pretty sure this sequence means ‘rising demon’ or ‘new devil.’ Frankly, there’s a lot in here about the devil. Remember what Garagallo said about Antichrists? I think this is some kind of warning.”
“What’s the point of that? Everybody knows the Antichrist is bad news.”
Ava didn’t laugh. “This says: ‘He is here.’”
Gabe woke from a pleasant dream. He yawned, stretched, and scratched his neck. The wall clock indicated that it was almost suppertime. Gabe rolled off the couch and when he stood, his knees protested audibly. Surveying the small apartment, he thought: What a mess!
Jess was back from class; he could hear her singing in the tub. Thirsty, he staggered to the fridge. When he peered inside, he chuckled. The bottom shelf held thirty-six cans of Coke, organized into six neat rows of six cans each. She must have hit the grocery while he was napping. He grabbed a can, popped the top, and closed the door. Just then, his computer beeped. Taking a swig, he walked over to the desk: He’d received an encrypted message from DURMDVL. While waiting for it to unscramble, he blew his nose, swallowed a Sudafed, and chased it with another gulp of Coke.
He settled into the comfy chair and began to read: “GET OUT OF THE APARTMENT. THEY’RE COMING.”
The message sent his body into maximum alert. He began breathing faster and deeper. His adrenal glands spewed epinephrine, causing his heart to pound. Gabe stumbled to the apartment’s front window and separated the blinds. As he looked out, a white van entered the lot below. Its doors opened, and two armed men emerged. His stomach clenched. They’d found him.
Chapter 16
16
MALBORGHETTO, ITALY,
OCTOBER 27, 312
Regal Constantine rode through his camp near Prima Porta. He dismounted, went into his tent, and allowed a valet to remove his armor. Then, exhausted, he collapsed and ordered a bath. The strategist reclined his head and reflected. It had been an interesting year: Only seven months ago, he gathered this army, crossed the Cottian Alps, and conquered northern and central Italy. Beloved by the people, Constantine advanced slowly along the Via Flaminia, watching the opposition’s morale deteriorate and achieving many victories without bloodshed.
Now he faced a true challenge. His enemy, Maxentius, controlled Rome and the Praetorian Guards. Though the populace despised Maxentius, the city was well fortified, stocked with African grain, and protected by the almost impregnable Aurelian Walls. Constantine’s advisers expected Maxentius to sit tight, as he had during
the invasion of Severus in 307 and of Galerius in 308. Constantine knew the city’s defenses were formidable and that they could withstand any siege. A new stratagem was required.
A guard shouted: “Augustus! A message!”
Constantine accepted the letter and, recognizing his mother’s seal, ripped it open. Flavia Iulia Helena was a remarkable woman. Born a stable maid, she had used her wits and charm to rise in society, eventually marrying the governor of Dalmatia. Since his death she’d spent most of her time unearthing relics in Jerusalem.
“Beloved Son,” he read, “I write today from Palestine, near the site of Christ’s tomb. Please accept Bishop Macarius as my emissary and grant him an audience. He brings an offer of certain victory over the forces of evil.”
Constantine raised an eyebrow. Certain victory?
“Macarius carries relics of astonishing power,” she continued. “They can render your army invincible, if its cause is just. Son, I know you believe the Empire should tolerate all religions. To prove your sincerity, swear two things: First, promise to extend the religious freedom you granted Gaul, Spain, and Britain to the entire Empire. Second, promise to honor the Christian God by razing the vulgar temple Hadrian built near Calvary and constructing a grand cathedral in its stead. May divine favor preserve your successes together with the good of the state. May God grant you victory!”
He pondered the unusual offer. His first thought was to disregard it as mere superstition, but he’d learned to value his mother’s counsel. She’d advised his father and helped him achieve great things. He understood her appeal for religious freedom. Helena was a devout Christian, a follower of a faith that was illegal throughout most of the empire. Politically, it would be difficult to legalize Christianity, but if the offer was legitimate . . .
“Summon the emissary,” Constantine ordered. The guards ushered in Bishop Macarius, who bowed respectfully.
“I’m told you bring powerful relics. Show me.”
Constantine gazed in wonder at the shining disks, each golden as the sun, and listened to angelic voices. Two scribes, one Greek, one Roman, translated the message. When Constantine heard “In this sign, you will conquer,” he knew just what to do. That night, as his troops prepared for battle, Constantine commanded them to paint a new sigil on their shields: chi (X) crossed by rho (P).
Wicked Maxentius brooded in his palace. His situation was dire. The populace was beginning to support that son of a harlot Constantine. Citizens cheered for him, shouting acclamations during circus games. At the afternoon chariot races, spectators taunted Maxentius, chanting that Constantine was invincible. Maxentius knew Rome’s defenses could withstand a long siege, but if the people turned against him, he might not survive.
A messenger approached.
“What news?”
“Master, the keepers of the Sibylline Books have seen a prophecy. It foretells that the enemy of Rome will die tomorrow, on the anniversary of your accession.”
Maxentius was elated. He believed his anniversary to be a lucky day. Confident of victory, he issued bold new orders: “Prepare the army. Tomorrow we march north to defeat Constantine in open battle. We’ll see who is invincible.”
Maxentius crossed the Milvian Bridge, a stone structure carrying the Via Flaminia across the Tiber. Holding the bridge was crucial to defending Rome. He organized his force, which was twice the size of Constantine’s, into long lines with their backs to the river.
Soon, Constantine’s soldiers appeared. Instead of traditional standards, their shields displayed the mysterious new insignia. The army deployed along the length of Maxentius’s line and attacked. It was not a long battle: Constantine’s cavalry routed that of Maxentius. Constantine then sent his infantry, who pushed the rest of Maxentius’s troops into the Tiber. Many were slaughtered or drowned. The disciplined praetorians at first held, but under relentless assault they finally broke. Fearing defeat, Maxentius ordered a retreat. Only one escape route remained: the bridge. Then, miraculously, the bridge collapsed. All of Maxentius’s soldiers were killed or taken prisoner. Maxentius himself drowned in an attempt to swim across the river.
Constantine entered the city in triumph. Jubilant that the enemy of Rome had finally been defeated, crowds celebrated their new emperor’s grand entrance, parading Maxentius’s severed head through the streets. Constantine returned seized property, recalled exiles, released political prisoners, and offered the Senate a role in his government. He forgave Maxentius’s supporters and vowed to extend religious tolerance throughout the empire. In response, the Senate proclaimed him “the greatest Augustus.”
For almost thirty years Constantine traveled with the golden disks and marched under the CHI-RHO symbol, which came to be known as the Labarum. Thus armed, he achieved victories at Cibalae, Adrianople, the Hellespont, and Chrysopolis. After Constantine’s death, the sacred relics remained in Rome, protecting the Eternal City from evil.
BOSTON, MARCH 2013
Gabe burst into Jess’s bedroom. She grabbed a towel and covered herself. Gabe hadn’t even noticed that she was naked. He locked the door behind him. “How high is the balcony?”
“What? Why do you—”
“Those men are outside! Can we climb down?”
She shook her head. “I don’t think so.”
Furious, Gabe ran his hands through his hair, trying to think. Jess pointed to her bathroom. “How about that window?”
He raced into the tiny room. Its tiled floor was covered with dirty laundry and towels. Just outside the window was a big swamp oak. One branch looked close enough to reach. Standing on the toilet, he unlatched the window and tried to lift it, but several coats of paint had sealed it shut. After quickly donning jeans and a sweatshirt, Jess rushed to help. She locked the door as Gabe drew a Swiss Army knife from his pocket, flipped it open, and began gouging into cracks. Seconds later the two of them heaved against the pane. Wood split with a loud crack. Holding the window open, Gabe kicked the mesh screen. It bent, snapped off, and dropped. Involuntarily, Jess gulped.
Someone was now rapping on the apartment door.
“Hurry!”
Taking Jess’s hand, Gabe helped her up. Nervously, she poked her bare feet through the opening, then, with a dancer’s grace, eased herself out. Balanced on the sill, she let her heels glide across the dry stucco ledge until they wedged against a decorative corner piece. Gripping tightly, Jess looked down. She’d be lucky to survive, she thought. She studied the oak. Its closest branch was four feet away though it seemed miles. Jess glanced back at Gabe, eyes asking if this evacuation was absolutely necessary. As if in reply, the apartment door crashed open.
“Go, you’ll make it,” Gabe said urgently.
Jess took a breath and jumped.
She hit the branch hard, scraping her cheek and biting her tongue. Rough bark bit into her skin. Terrified, she hugged the tree and tasted warm blood. With supreme effort, Jess overcame her fear and began inching down the trunk. She found a solid foothold and descended the next stage with relative ease, moving from branch to branch. Ten feet aboveground she chose a sturdy limb, let herself hang from it, and then dropped to the ground.
After determining that no bones had broken, Jess watched her heavyset friend try to replicate her actions. Feeling helpless, she stage-whispered encouragement, but it was useless. He’d snagged a belt loop on the latch. The bathroom door gave way and angry voices shouted in Arabic. Desperate, Gabe leaped headlong through the opening, clawed the nearest branch, swung, and tried to wrap his legs around the trunk. Unable to bear his weight, the limb snapped, and Gabe fell three stories.
Inside Simon’s villa Paul strode back and forth, occasionally peering over Ava’s shoulder or out the window.
She raised her eyes from the notebook. “Will you please stop pacing? You’re driving me crazy.”
“What? Oh, sorry. Are you almost done?”
“I told you!”
“I know, I know. Horribly complex, two thousand years old, et cetera,
but are you at a stopping place? I really want to go.”
“Not now. Let me finish this stanza.”
He swore. “Will you please just indulge me?”
She looked at him.
“Maybe I’m getting paranoid, but I haven’t seen any security guards around. That feels wrong. Even if Tomás went to Naples, Simon would have left someone.”
Ava opened her mouth to argue. Paul was jumping to conclusions. Then she reconsidered. Paul’s intuition was usually on target. Maybe he was right.
“What do you have in mind?”
“I bet the Piccolo Bar is still open. Can you finish the translation there?”
Ava gave in. She gathered her papers and they made for the gatehouse. As they rounded the final corner, Ava froze. Two men, armed with identical SPAS-12s, patrolled the driveway. She recognized one immediately: He’d followed her in Yemen, and she’d never forget his frightening face. Like a specter from her nightmares, he opened his mouth to reveal sharp, wolfish teeth.
As the man raised his weapon, Paul reacted with lightning speed. Gripping Ava’s arm, he yanked her back behind the building. “Follow me,” he said. “Run!”
Concealed by a retaining wall, they hurried uphill on a narrow path that tracked the cliff’s edge. Far below, waves thundered against crags. Not far behind, the pursuers’ footfalls pounded closer. Paul raced ahead, rounded the final corner, and cut toward the main house, but as he broached the illuminated portico, two silhouettes appeared. Soon he could distinguish their features. The first man, dark-skinned and lean, was a stranger. The second was Sheik Ahmed.
The Cana Mystery Page 26
