Book of James: a novel

by Patrick Goggins

  Seven

  “Monsignor Gäenswein will see you now,” said the bespectacled man at the desk.

  Molino had been battered with text messages and phone calls from Cullinane, eager to hear about Istanbul, but he ignored them. Molino didn’t want to discuss this new information with anyone except the parties involved – the person who had the box, and the person who wanted it back. Rome, and especially the Vatican, were bees’ nests of gossip. Molino was certain that news of this Book of James was, to put it lightly, controversial. He knew that Clark was using it toward his own ends. He also knew that he had been unwittingly made part of Clark’s plan. His mission was to get the box back, if it meant playing into Clark’s plans, so be it. He would discuss this secret ecumenical council with Monsignor Gäenswein.

  He ascended the staircase, and turned down the decorous artificially lit hallway with purpose, only giving the bespectacled man cursory acknowledgement of the formal bow. He tapped on the frame of Gäenswein’s open door.

  “Ah, Captain Molino, so good to see you!” said Gäenswein.

  “And you as well,” said Molino.

  They sat on the Carver chairs at the small round table. “I have good news,” said Gäenswein.

  “Yes?”

  “Herr Sciarpelletti confessed that he took box 52 to the Palazzo Malta.”

  “That is good to hear,” said Molino, unfazed. Clearly Gäenswein knew it was Molino who secured the confession. Surely he knew that Molino had interviewed Clark and Metropolitan Theodosius. More Vatican subterfuge. Molino played along. “Why do you think that the American lawyer Clark would be interested in it?”

  “I suspected Herr Clark all along. We recently completed our review of the covered documents and have identified the missing ones. Herr Clark’s name was all over them.”

  “It was?”

  “Positively. The box contained correspondence relating to a secret ecumenical council that Herr Clark has been promoting.” Molino did not respond, sensing there was more that Gäenswein was going to say. “We- we have been studying the issue,” said Gäenswein.

  Molino went straight to the point: “So what is this about the Book of James?”

  Gäenswein scowled. “Myth and fiction, in that order. It’s something that Istanbul has been whispering about for decades but somehow hasn’t gotten around to producing. I’m sure anything they have is a complete forgery.”

  “Clark seems to think that it is convincing enough to get you to the table for this secret ecumenical council.”

  “I’m afraid not, the Holy Father does not respond to blackmail, especially something so obviously contrived.”

  “I’m afraid the only way you’re going to get your documents back is to agree to this secret council.”

  Gäenswein fidgeted uncomfortably in his chair. “Surely there is something your office can do to get these documents from the Palazzo Malta.”

  “We have no jurisdiction.”

  Gäenswein fidgeted some more. “I will take it up with the appropriate people.”

  Molino sensed that Gäenswein was not going to enthusiastically endorse attending this secret council. He left the Apostolic Palace through a side exit, to avoid walking into St. Peter’s Square, where he was convinced Cullinane would be waiting. He also had the disquieting feeling that he was being followed. He made his way to Via dei Condotti where he had arranged to meet again with C. Bennett Clark. The armed guard waved him into the courtyard with the Maltese Flag laid out in red and white pavers.

  “Defense of the faith and assistance to the poor,” Molino mumbled to himself, sensing the hypocrisy in the motto of a group that would bring down the church from such a lavish residence. Still, he knew he had few choices. The well-tailored young man led Molino down another corridor to a small kitchen. Clark was there, in a robe and slippers, slurping on coffee and eating a muffin.

  “Coffee?” offered Clark.

  “No thank you,” said Molino, now with some sense of urgency. “First, let me say that I don’t appreciate being your message boy.”

  “Ah, but you are a lovely messenger,” said Clark, with a hint of flirtation in his voice. Molino retracted, shocked. Clark continued, “But they won’t talk to me anymore.”

  “Why not?”

  “If you read those letters, you’d know why. So you met with the Metropolitan?”

  “Yes, he said he would meet.”

  “That’s no surprise. And Gäenswein?”

  “He said he would study the matter.”

  “Oh, that’s too bad,” said Clark. “I was hoping the little bit of exposure he’s had so far would convince him to be more understanding. Too bad.”

  “So make some copies, give me the box, I can return it, and you can take it up with Gäenswein.”

  Clark laughed, “Like I said Captain, I don’t have any box marked with a Q, at least that I know of.”

  Molino got angry. “Mr. Clark, you’re immune so long as you’re in this building, but as soon as you step out onto the streets of Rome, you are mine.”

  “Intriguing as that sounds, Captain, I wouldn’t try that. Touch me and the mayor of this fine city will fire you so fast you won’t know it until you’re feeding pigeons at the Trevi Fountain, and you wouldn’t want Verona and those two fine children to have to do without, would you?” Molino was alarmed to the point of shock. Only an animal would threaten another man’s family. “And anyway,” said Clark, “I have an opinion letter from the avvocato di Roma on the topic of my diplomatic immunity. So let’s just stop all that talk, shall we?”

  Molino stood, feeling red with rage, but consciously composing himself. “I guess then, sir, we have nothing more to discuss.”

  “We’ll see,” said Clark, “we’ll see.”

  Molino left the Palazzo Malta and reported to the Chief. His job here was done as far as he could tell. He located the missing box, but he could not get it. This was an internecine battle between church organizations. The people of the city of Rome had no interest in this whatsoever. And what’s more, this Clark was a finocchio. The Chief listened serenely. It was almost as if she knew this would be a fruitless endeavor from the start. She told Molino to go home and get some rest.

  The Pantheon was built during the reign of Emperor Augustus. It burned to the ground in the great fire of Rome, and was rebuilt by Hadrian in the year 125. The name relates to “all of the gods,” it was a place of worship and sacrifice under the Roman religio, referred to now disparagingly as paganism but at its height, was a sophisticated polytheistic cult. The seven alters were likely places to make sacrifices to the known planets. Later, perhaps, gods and emperors were venerated there. In its day, the religio was seamlessly merged with the empire. The emperor himself was known as Divi Filius – the son of god.

  When Constantine made Christianity the unifying state religion, temples like the Pantheon were rededicated to the Christian god, under an amorphous theological mix between monotheism and polytheism. They believed in the triune God – one god made of three persons, the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit. Then there were the apostles, saints, and martyrs – newly converted Christians worshipped them all. Festivals under the religio became feasts under Christianity. Statues and holy relics replaced the pagan icons as holy objects in daily life. For Romans, having three main gods and many lower gods in the divine realm was perfectly acceptable. For them, the transition to Christianity was intuitive, especially when mandated by the Emperor. Worship was much the same, ritual sacrifices to the gods became the ritual paschal sacrifice at mass. For the Jews, who this new religion came from, there was only one God, whose name they could not utter. Their relationship with this new cult of the messiah was much more complicated.

  The painter Raphael was buried in the Pantheon, as were two Italian kings. The granite used in the portico columns was mined in Egypt. The magnificent rotunda was made of Roman concrete in a ring of voussoirs and barrel vaults forming the oculus at the top. It could hold a sphere 150 Roman feet in diame
ter, with almost perfect dimensions. Computer imagery found the ancient builders’ dimensions were still accurate within a few millimeters. The celestial symbology of the structure was perhaps still present, inherent in the form of the building as it stood, but at the same time hidden to the modern visitor, swept away with the veneration of a Jewish peasant.

  Monsignor Georg Gäenswein led a delegation of German businessmen and politicians through the Piazza della Rotunda to the steps of the portico. There were over fifty visitors in his group, all in awe of the architectural marvel. This was not part of his official duties, but the ambitious Monsignor Gäenswein rarely shied away from an opportunity to get face time with influential Catholics, who were forever lobbying him to get an audience with the pope. It was growing dark and the church would close soon. The church was unusually crowded, mostly with tourists, some locals, and clergy. A group of seven monks stood near the entrance, praying in unison in their tunics and cowls. Security guards stood at regular distances from one another, passively surveying the crowd.

  Gäenswein led his guests to the seven altars, explaining the history and significance of each with studied assurance. Then the murmur of the crowd was broken by several loud reports.

  Gunshots!

  As the crowd dashed instinctively to the door, security scrambled. They went towards the sounds, but the sounds seemed to be coming from everywhere and nowhere. Soon the panicked crowd became crammed up at the open portico door. There was screaming. Terroristi! Terroristen! Gäenswein was stuck in the crowd but found himself surrounded with monks. At first, he was comforted. He assumed that they had come to protect him. That soon changed when all seven pulled long knives out from under their tunics. They plunged the knives into Gäenswein’s abdomen, chest, and back. His cries blended with the noise of the crowd until a firm hand covered his mouth. The monks moved Gäenswein, blood now beginning to appear on his black vestments, and sat him on a bench near the door. They filtered out with the crowd and disappeared into the night.

  A woman screamed. Padre! Padre! Dio mio! Gäenswein sat slumped on the bench. Dead. A pool of blood lay on the floor at his feet.

  Molino arrived on the scene an hour later. The Pantheon was now closed, and the body had been taken away. The security personnel reported that the gunshots were actually several dozen time-released blanks hidden around the rotunda. They were timed to fire over the course of three minutes, presumably to cause maximum confusion. No one else was hurt in the foray, but Gäenswein’s wounds were almost certainly fatal. There was talk of a group of monks standing near him, confirmed by their security tapes. Cowls hid their faces.

  The Chief arrived on the scene.

  “Now the bastard’s not just a thief, he’s a murderer!” yelled Molino.

  “What makes you think it was Clark?” asked the Chief.

  “It’s this secret ecumenical council that Clark wants,” explained Molino, “Gäenswein was against it, and I could see it in the bastard’s face. The man is a sociopath and he committed murder in my city. Screw his legal papers, he’s mine now.”

  “I think we need to get some more facts,” said the Chief. Reluctantly, Molino agreed. He asked the Chief for permission to brief Cullinane and Phillips on recent events. The Chief agreed.

  Eight

  It was nearly midnight, but Cullinane and Phillips arrived at the commando locale looking as if they understood the urgency of the situation.

  “I told you they were a military order,” said Cullinane.

  “Pox,” chided Phillips, “How can you be sure it was the Knights of Malta?”

  “I saw his face,” said Molino. “This man could order a killing like you or I order a cup of coffee.”

  “How did they get him?” asked Cullinane.

  “A group of men dressed like monks,” said Molino. “They set off a diversion and in the confusion, they surrounded him and stabbed him to death with knives they kept hidden under their cloaks.”

  Phillips and Cullinane looked at one another, both having arrived at the same conclusion at the same time. “Sicarii,” said Cullinane. Molino looked at them, uncomprehending.

  “Sicarii,” repeated Phillips. “They were a sect of Jewish Zealots in the days of the Second Temple. The Zealots were anti-Roman, but the Sicarii actually did something about it. The word ‘sicarii’ is Latin for ‘dagger-wielders.’ They carried daggers under their cloaks and at public gatherings, would attack Roman citizens or their sympathizers. They were most violent of the radical Jews of the time, and were feared by all Romans. It is said that the Sicarii were the last to die on Masada.”

  “So these people are dangerous?” asked Molino.

  “They don’t exist,” said Cullinane, “or at least we haven’t heard of any since the fall of the Second Temple. But you can’t deny the symbolism of the attack. The Pantheon represents the Christian god succeeding the Roman gods as an instrument of institutional oppression. The clergy are the new high priests.”

  “There’s more,” said Molino. Phillips and Cullinane drew nearer, eager to hear what Molino has learned. “Clark had Gäenswein killed because the Monsignor was an impediment to holding a secret ecumenical council with the Eastern Orthodox Church.”

  “Secret ecumenical council?” asked Phillips, “Why?”

  “Finances,” said Cullinane. “The Knights of Malta now command so much money, they want to set Vatican policy.”

  “That’s ridiculous,” said Phillips.

  “I heard it with my own two ears,” said Molino. “From Metropolitan Theodosius, Clark, and even Gäenswein himself.”

  “I don’t understand,” said Cullinane. “How is killing Gäenswein going to make this secret council happen? If anything, it will drive the Vatican away.”

  “There’s more,” said Molino.

  Phillips and Cullinane looked at one another and chuckled. “Of course there’s more,” said Phillips. “So tell us.”

  “Well, it seems that the missing box had correspondence about your missing Q source.” Phillips’ and Cullinane’s eyes widened. Molino continued, “It seems that in 1946, a Syrian Catholic priest bought a collection of old books from a goatherd in Transjordan. One of them is what Metropolitan Theodosius called ‘the Book of James.’ Apparently it is first century, one of these apocryphal gospels you were talking about.”

  Phillips and Cullinane were white as sheets. “James?” asked Cullinane. “Did he say which James?”

  “Oh,” said Molino. “James the Just.”

  Phillips crossed himself. There were tears forming in Cullinane’s eyes. “Praise Mary, mother of God,” he said.

  Molino didn’t understand their reaction. “So this is important?”

  “If what you’re saying is true Captain, ‘important’ doesn’t begin to express the significance of this...this miracle,” said Phillips. “If it is what you say it is, it is the gospel of James the Just, Jesus’s brother.”

  “Wait, Jesus had a brother?” asked Molino.

  “According to scripture, at least three, and at least one sister,” said Phillips.

  Molino was confused. “Who is James the Just?”

  “After the crucifixion,” said Cullinane, wiping tears from his eyes, “James succeeded Jesus’s mission. Jesus inherited John the Baptist’s mandate, James the Just inherited Jesus’s mandate. After the crucifixion, James founded an ascetic community in Jerusalem and they lived according to John’s and Jesus’s teachings. They called themselves The Way. The Jews called them the Ebionites, which means ‘the poor.’”

  “What, they had to be poor?” asked Molino.

  “No, it’s more like communal living,” said Phillips. “They did what Jesus told them to do: sell your possessions and give the money to the poor. For the Ebionites, that meant the communal treasury.”

  “And James the Just was their leader?”

  “Yes. The Apostles Paul and Peter answered to James,” said Phillips.

  “Technically, Paul was not an apostle,” said Cullinane.r />
  “Either way,” said Phillips, annoyed. “As Paul’s ministry to the Gentiles grew, there was a dispute whether they should be circumcised. It was known as the ‘justification dispute.’ At the first council in Jerusalem, James decided to relax some of the restrictions on Gentiles. This did not sit well with some orthodox hard-liners. It was the fallout from that dispute which led to Paul’s arrest and transportation to Rome.”

  “That comes from the Acts of the Apostles,” said Cullinane, “which is in my mind, suspect. Money was involved too. Paul was delivering tithes from the Gentiles to the church in Jerusalem.”

  Ignoring that remark, Phillips continued, “By the time that James was killed by the High Priest Ananelus, roughly 30 years after the crucifixion, he was a man of influence among the Jews in Jerusalem. Not long after James’ death, they moved to Pella, which in 1946 was in Transjordan.”

  Molino’s father would often tell him stories of Jesus’s life, probably to supplement his youthful inattention in mass, but they were all from the Bible. He realized that biblical stories did not exist in a vacuum. Before that night, Molino never stopped to wonder how the death of an itinerant Jewish preacher could start a world religion. Of course politics was involved. Of course there were competing social, cultural, religious, and economic factors. But which ones? How did it happen? More importantly, why? Ever the investigator, he became curious. Maybe he could get to know Jesus on his own terms. If he was going to understand the importance of the Book of James, he needed context.

  “So Jesus was crucified and James took over, what happened next?”

  Phillips replied, “When Titus attacked Jerusalem in the year 70, the city was still very heavily populated. The carnage of Titus’ siege was nothing less than epic. Josephus said over a million Jews were killed. And one cannot understate the significance of the destruction of the Second Temple to the Jews of the day. It was where they came to do ritual sacrifice, it is where their holy books resided. More than that, for them, it was God’s place on earth. It was a building the size of six football pitches, ten stories high. The Romans left only rubble. The Jews literally lost the very foundation of their faith. The final humiliation came with the fall after the long siege of Masada in the year 73. Once again, the Jews and their God had no home.”