Leeland opened his eyes in the greatest surprise. “What does that mean?” he thought. “He’s asking me to get Nil to talk, and then to make a report on him? Who does he take me for?”
The Cardinal was observing the American’s expressive features. He could read him like a book. He added with an avuncular smile:
“Don’t be afraid, Monsignor, I’m not asking you to act as an informer. Merely to keep me abreast of the research your friend is doing, the things he is writing. I’m extremely busy, and I won’t have time to invite him in. But I too am very curious to keep up with the most recent advances in exegesis… You’ll be doing me a favour if you can flesh out what I already know.”
When he saw that he had not convinced Leeland, his tone became sharper.
“I would also like to remind you of your position. We were obliged to bring you over from the United States to your appointment here, with the rank of a bishop, to draw a line under the scandalous polemic that you had provoked over there. The Holy Father will not tolerate anyone questioning his refusal – an absolute and justified refusal – to ordain married men as priests. And then it would be the turn of women – why not? He will tolerate even less a Benedictine Abbot, at the head of the prestigious St Mary’s Abbey, publicly giving him advice on this subject. You now have, Monsignor, an opportunity to redeem yourself in the Pope’s eyes. So I am counting on your discreet, efficient and total collaboration. Do you understand?”
His head lowered, Leeland did not reply. Then the Cardinal put on the tone of voice his father had used, in bygone days, when he returned from the Eastern Front.
“I have the painful duty to remind you, Monsignor, that it is also for another reason that we were obliged to make you leave your country as a matter of urgency and bestow on you the episcopal dignity that protects you at the same time as it honours you. Now do I make myself clear?”
This time, Leeland lifted to the Cardinal the eyes of a sad child, and nodded. God forgives all sins, but the Church makes its members expiate them.
At great length.
40
Pella, end of 66 AD
“Father, I thought I’d never make it here!”
The two men embraced effusively. Yokhanan’s drawn features showed how exhausted he was.
“The Roman XII Legion has put the coastal region to the fire and the sword. It’s just retreated in front of Jerusalem, with considerable losses. They’re saying that Emperor Nero is going to bring General Vespasian in from Syria, to reinforce the position with the V and X Legion – the formidable Fretensis. Thousands of seasoned soldiers are converging on Palestine – it’s the beginning of the end!”
“And Jerusalem?”
“Safe, at least for the time being. James fought for as long as he could against the deification of his brother, then he finally accepted it in public: for the Jewish authorities this was blasphemy, and the Sanhedrin had him stoned. The Christians are anxious.”
“James! With him, the last check on the Churches’ ambitions has gone.”
“Any news of Peter?”
“Still in Rome. There are rumours of persecutions there. Nero views Christians and Jews with an indiscriminate hatred. Peter’s Church itself is under threat. Perhaps it’s the end there too.”
He showed his satchel, containing a few parchments.
“James, Peter… They belong to the past, abbu. Now there are several Gospels in circulation, as well as other of Paul’s epistles…”
“I’ve received all of them, thanks to our refugees.” He stretched his hand out towards the table in the peristyle, laden with documents. “Matthew has rewritten his text. I saw he was drawing inspiration from Mark, the first to compose a sort of history of Jesus, from the encounter by the Jordan to the empty tomb. In fact, Matthew himself didn’t write it, since, you see, it’s in Greek. He must have written it in Aramaic and had it translated.”
“Exactly. There’s a third Gospel in circulation, also in Greek. The copies come from Antioch, where I managed to meet the author, Luke, a friend of Paul.”
“I’ve read those three Gospels. They’re increasingly putting into Jesus’s mouth words he never said: they make him say he was the Messiah, or even God. It was inevitable, Yokhanan. And… what about my narrative?”
He had finally agreed to write it, not a Gospel constructed like those of Mark and the others, but a narrative – which Yokhanan had copied and put into circulation. He started by relating his own memories: the encounter by the Jordan, the overwhelming experience of those first days. But he had not left Judaea, whereas Jesus had returned to live and teach further north, in Galilee. On what had happened there, he had almost nothing to say. His narrative resumed from the time when the Twelve and their Master had returned to Jerusalem, a few weeks before the crucifixion. Until the finding of the empty tomb.
Obviously, no reference was made to what had followed, the removal of the body by Adon and Osias, the two sons of Eliezer Ben-Akkai. The role played by the Essenes in the disappearance of the body of the condemned man needed to remain an absolute secret.
As did the location of Jesus’s tomb.
Between these two periods, the beginning and the end, he had added the memories of his Jerusalem friends: Nicodemus, Lazarus, Joseph of Arimathea. A narrative composed directly in Greek, describing the Jesus he had known: a Jew first and foremost, but filled with a dazzling light whenever he revealed how his Father dwelt in him, that God whom he called abba. Never before had a Jew dared to use that familiar term to designate the God of Moses. He repeated:
“And what about my narrative, Yokhanan?”
The young man’s face darkened.
“It’s in circulation. Among your disciples, who know it off by heart, but also in the Churches of Paul, as far as Bithynia, apparently.”
“And it doesn’t get the same reception there, does it?”
“No. In Judaea, the Jews criticize you for describing Jesus as a prophet superior to Moses. And among the Greeks, they find your Jesus too human. Nobody dares to destroy the testimony of the beloved disciple but, before reading it out in public, they correct it, they ‘fill it out’, as they say – to an increasing extent.”
“They can’t rip my guts out like they did to Judas, so they’re eliminating me by the pen. My narrative will turn into a fourth Gospel, one that fits in with their ambitions.”
As in bygone days, Yokhanan kneeled before his abbu, and took his hands in his own.
“So then, father, write an epistle for us, your disciples. I’ll put it in a safe place, while there’s still time: the fanatical Jews of Jerusalem won’t hold out for long. Write the truth about Jesus and, so that nobody can travesty it, say what you know about his tomb. Not the one in Jerusalem, the one that’s empty: the real one, the one in the desert, the one in which his remains lie.”
The refugees were now flooding into Pella from all sides. Sitting on the edge of the peristyle, the old man gazed out at the valley. Already, from the other side of the Jordan, plumes of smoke could be seen rising from the burning farms.
Pillagers, of the kind that always accompany invading armies. It was the end. He must transmit it to future generations.
Filled with resolve, he sat at his table, picked up a sheet of parchment and started to write: “I, the beloved disciple of Jesus, the thirteenth apostle, to all the Churches…”
The next day, he came up to Yokhanan, who was saddling a mule.
“If you make it through, try to hand over this epistle to the Nazoreans in Jerusalem and Syria.”
“What about you?”
“I’ll stay in Pella until the last moment. When the Romans approach, I’ll take our Nazoreans south. As soon as you get back, go directly to Qumran: they’ll tell you where to find me. Look after yourself, my son.”
With a lump in his throat, he silently handed over to Yokhanan a hollow reed, which the young man slipped under his belt. Inside it was a simple scroll of parchment, rolled up, bound by a linen cord.
The letter of the thirteenth apostle to posterity.
41
Nil first walked along the Villa Doria Pamphili and then took the Via Salaria Antica that was hemmed in between its walls. He loved to tread the uneven surface of the ancient imperial roads, on which the Roman paving is still evident. During his student years, he had passionately explored this city – the Mater Praecipua – the mother of all the peoples. He joined the Via Aurelia, which leads out onto the Vatican City from behind, and unhesitatingly headed towards the building in which the Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith was housed.
The Secretariat for Relations with the Jews is located in an annex of the building, on the side of St Peter’s Basilica. He had to climb up three flights of stairs before coming to a corridor of small bays directly under the eaves: the offices of the minutanti.
Mons. Rembert Leeland, O.S.B. He knocked discreetly.
“Nil! Bonjour, mon ami! It’s so good to see you!”
His friend’s office was tiny, separated from its neighbours by a mere partition. He just had space enough to slide onto the single chair facing the strangely bare table. Noticing his astonishment, Leeland gave him an embarrassed smile.
“I’m only a minor minutante in an unimportant secretariat… Actually, I tend to work mainly at home; here I’m so hemmed in I can hardly breathe.”
“It must be quite a change from the plains of Kentucky!”
The American’s face darkened.
“I’m in exile, Nil, for having said aloud what a lot of people think…”
Nil looked at him affectionately.
“You haven’t changed, Remby.”
They had both been students in the period just after the Second Vatican Council and had shared the hopes of a whole younger generation which believed in the renewal of the Church and of society: their illusions, gone with the wind, had left traces within them.
“Don’t delude yourself, Nil, I’ve changed a great deal, more than I can say: I’m no longer the same guy. But what about you? Last month we learnt about the brutal death of one of your monks, in the Rome express. I heard talk of suicide, and now I see you turning up here without my even asking. What’s happening, mon ami?”
“I knew Andrei well: he wasn’t the type of man to commit suicide, quite the opposite – he was passionate about the research we’d been involved in for years, not working together but in parallel. He’d discovered things that he wouldn’t – or couldn’t – tell me clearly, but I have the impression that he was urging me on to discover by myself. I was the one who went to identify the body officially: in his hand I discovered a note written just before his death. Andrei had jotted down four points he wanted to talk to me about as soon as he got back: it wasn’t the letter of someone who’s planning to commit suicide, but rather the proof he had plans for the future, and wanted me to be associated with them. I didn’t show this note to anyone, but it was stolen from my cell, and I don’t know who by.”
“Stolen?”
“Yes, and that’s not all: some of my notes were taken too.”
“And what about the inquiry into Father Andrei’s death?”
“In the local paper there was a brief article that called it an accidental death, and in La Croix a simple notice of death. We don’t read any other paper, we don’t listen to the radio or the television; monks only know what the Father Abbot wishes to tell them in the chapter meetings. The gendarme who discovered the body said it was a murder, but he was taken off the inquiry.”
“A murder!”
“Yes, Remby. I can’t believe it either. I want to know what happened, why my friend died. His last thoughts were of me, and I have the sense that something has been entrusted to me, that I need in turn to transmit. The last words of a dead man are sacred, especially when it’s a man of the scale of Father Andrei.”
* * *
Hesitantly at first, Nil told him of his research on St John’s Gospel, his discovery of the beloved disciple. Then he described his frequent conversations with Andrei, the unease the latter had felt at Germigny, and the fragment of the Coptic manuscript concealed in the binding of his last book.
Leeland listened without interrupting him.
“Nil, I’ve never been any good at anything except music. And computers, for processing the manuscripts I study. But I don’t understand how a labour of erudition can lead to such dramatic events and cause you such anguish.”
He prudently omitted any mention of the Cardinal Prefect’s request.
“Andrei was forever telling me in veiled terms that our research touched on something much more important, which I can’t discover. It’s as if I had all the threads of a tapestry in front of me and no idea of the design they’re supposed to form. But now, Rembert, I’ve decided to go all the way: I want to know why Andrei died, I want to know what is hidden behind this mystery. I’ve been going round and round in circles trying to solve it for years.”
Leeland looked at him, surprised by the grim determination he could read on a face that in his experience had always looked so placid and tranquil. He rose, walked past the chair and opened the door.
“I’ll leave you with all the time you need to carry on with your research here. But right now, we need to go to the Vatican library stacks. I have to show you the building site on which I’m labouring, and you need to show your face there: don’t forget that the reason you’re in Rome is my manuscripts of Gregorian chant.”
Leeland recalled his summons to Catzinger’s office: perhaps there was another reason, too? In silence, they made their way along the labyrinth of corridors and staircases that led to the exit on St Peter’s Square.
In the office next to Leeland’s, a man pulled off two earphones linked to a box fixed by a suction pad to the wooden wall. He was dressed elegantly in clerical garb, and let the earphones dangle round his neck while he rapidly sorted sheets of paper covered in tiny shorthand. His unusually black eyes shone with satisfaction: the sound had been of excellent quality, the partition was not very thick. Not a single word of the conversation between the American monsignore and the French monk had been lost. It would be quite enough just to leave the two of them together, they’d never stop talking.
The Rector of the Society of St Pius V would be happy: the mission was off to a good start.
42
“The book stacks are located in the Vatican basement. I had to get accreditation for you, since access to this part of the building is strictly controlled – you’ll understand why when you get there.”
They walked along the high wall of the Vatican City and went in through the entry on the Via di Porta Angelica, where the main guard post is situated. The two Swiss guards in traditional uniforms let them in without stopping them, and they crossed a series of inner courtyards, until they reached the Belvedere Court. Surrounded by high walls, it protects the Lapidary Gallery of the museums and the Vatican Library. Despite the fact it was still early, figures could be seen walking along behind the glass panes.
Leeland motioned Nil to follow him and headed towards the opposite corner. At the foot of the imposing wall, there was a little metal door with a small keypad. The American typed in a code and waited.
“A few hand-picked people have permanent accreditation, like me. But you’re going to have to prove you’re a bona fide visitor.”
A papal policeman in civilian clothes opened the door and scrutinized the two visitors suspiciously. When he recognized Leeland, he gave him a brief smile.
“Buongiorno, Monsignore. Is this monk with you? May I see his papers and accreditation?”
Nil had dressed in his monastic habit – it makes things easier here, Leeland had explained to him. They went into a sort of airlock, and Nil handed over a piece of paper with the coat of arms of the Vatican. The policeman took it without a word and went off.
“The controls are strict,” the American whispered. “The Vatican Library is open to the public, but its stacks contains ancient manuscripts that only a few scholars ar
e allowed to see. You’ll meet Father Breczinsky, the guardian of the place. Given the priceless value of the treasures stored here, the Pope appointed a Pole to this post, a timid and self-effacing man, but one who’s totally dedicated to the Holy Father.
The policeman returned and handed Nil’s accreditation back to him with a nod.
“You’ll need to show that paper every time you come here. You’re not allowed in by yourself, but need to be accompanied by Mgr Leeland, who has a permanent pass. Follow me.”
A long corridor, sloping gently downwards, bent off under the building and led to a reinforced door. Nil had the impression he was entering a citadel that was prepared for a siege. “This spot is buried under the thousands of tons of St Peter’s Basilica. The tomb of the Apostle isn’t far.” The policeman inserted a magnetic card and typed in a code: the door opened with a swish.
“You know your way around, Monsignor. Father Breczinsky is waiting for you.”
The man standing at the entry to a second reinforced door had a face whose pallor was set off by his severe black cassock. Round glasses on his short-sighted eyes.
“Good morning, Monsignor – and this is the French visitor for whom I have received accreditation from the Congregation?”
“The very man, my dear Father. He’ll be helping me with my work: Father Nil is a monk at St Martin’s Abbey.”
Breczinsky started.
“Are you by any chance a colleague of Father Andrei?”
“We were colleagues for thirty years.”
Breczinsky opened his mouth as if he were about to ask Nil a question, but then thought better of it and concealed his unspoken curiosity behind a quick nod. He turned to Leeland.
“Monsignor, the room is ready – if you will follow me…”
The Thirteenth Apostle Page 13
