And with these words, he lifted the holy parchments from the box and laid them on the table.
‘I will read the words of our Lord to you, Herr Bunting – they are written in the ancient script of Aramaic.’
‘This is a language I have studied, sir. If I may, I would like to read it myself.’
The Pope glanced at the Duke with a wry smile. ‘I am impressed, Herr Bunting. I can see my journey may not have been in vain.’
Sitting himself down next to the Pope, his heart beating heavily, Bunting took a deep breath and lowered his eyes onto the holy writings.
6
The opening had gone as Nick had expected. A few keen collectors had arrived by four and secured the maps they were looking for. It was never a problem to sell his quality pieces to collectors; the secret of a successful exhibition was to sell as many maps as possible on the opening night.
Nick sipped a fresh orange juice. He never drank alcohol during an opening, leaving that for the clients.
He surveyed the scene from the mezzanine floor. The gallery was packed and humming with the same type of crowd as usual; not too many young people. Most people were dressed for the occasion, the men in blazers or suits and ties, and the women in evening wear. The hired wait staff, in their black and white outfits, were being kept busy serving champagne and wine.
Bronte’s sister Sarah, fresh off the plane from Melbourne for a young Australian’s obligatory year in Europe and looking more like a twin than a younger sibling, handed Nick another juice. Sarah had picked up some part-time secretarial work and was living, ‘until she got sorted out’, in Bronte’s front room.
On the far side of the mezzanine, a violin ensemble was making a fine job of Pachelbel’s Canon. Even so, as he descended the stairs, Nick could make out Bronte’s Aussie twang above the general noise. She was extolling the virtues of a selection of maps to a small group. ‘Scarce’, ‘fine impression’, ‘investment’ were some of the words Nick could discern. Bronte was working it hard. Nick smiled to himself. After nine years they made a pretty good team. She was a natural social networker while Nick preferred one-on-one interactions. In fact, he often felt apprehensive in crowds.
‘Signor Lawrance?’ An accented voice broke his train of thought. Nick was surprised to see that the voice, which was most definitely Spanish, belonged to a man of religion. Dressed in a black cassock, with a gold cross hung low around his neck, the man reminded Nick of the actor Robert De Niro.
‘Signor Lawrance,’ the clergyman said again, handing Nick a business card. ‘My card. It is my wish to purchase a number of your maps.’
‘Excellent, Mr …?’ Nick glanced at the card. ‘My apologies, Monsignor Montana. Which maps have taken your fancy?’
‘I will buy all these maps, sir,’ Montana said, waving a long, thin hand at the four maps by Bunting. ‘My payment will be by American Express.’
‘Excellent!’ Nick started to write out a receipt then stopped on hearing Bronte shout across the room.
‘Nick,’ she warned, ‘I’ve already sold Bunting’s World. I’m sorry, I forgot to put a red sticker on it. The other three are still available though.’
This was embarrassing for Nick but he tried not to show his annoyance. Turning to the clergyman, he advised, ‘I can sell you three of the maps, Monsignor.’
‘No, I will buy all four maps!’ Montano bristled.
‘I am really sorry, Monsignor Montano, but as you just heard, unfortunately the World Map is already sold.’ Nick made a half-hearted ‘what can you do?’ gesture with his shoulders.
‘But I desire all four maps!’ insisted the priest angrily, staring straight into Nick’s eyes.
‘It is not possible,’ Nick persisted in as conciliatory a tone as he could. This was the last thing he needed on an opening night.
The priest continued to stare hard at Nick for a few seconds and then turned to speak to another, darker-skinned man, not dressed in religious garb, who Nick had not previously noticed. They spoke softly in Spanish. When they’d finished, the other man turned to Nick.
‘His Excellency suggests that you refund the Bunting map purchaser’s money. He will pay you a substantial amount more for it in any event.’ Somewhat more softly, so others could not hear, the man went on. ‘I suggest it would be in your interests to comply with his Excellency’s suggestion, sir. He is a man who expects to get what he wants.’
Nick was not quite sure if he had just been threatened. ‘I don’t think I can do that,’ replied Nick. ‘I might be able to contact the purchaser in the next few days and see if they will let it go. However, there’s no real problem is there? I mean, I’m sure I can find another Bunting World Map for you in as good condition as this one. And, I can guarantee the same price.’
‘No!’ shouted the Monsignor. ‘I must have this one!’ A few heads turned towards them. ‘Is the purchaser here? In the gallery?’
Bronte, who had been following the conversation as best she could, broke in. ‘Nick, it was Doctor Baxter. He bought it over the phone earlier today. He said he won’t be in until next Tuesday to collect it.’
The dark man turned to the priest and once again they conversed quietly in Spanish. Eventually the Monsignor’s companion addressed Nick. ‘It is decided,’ he declared. ‘We will take the other three maps now. Please contact this Doctor Baxter and do what you must to get back ownership of the World Map as soon as possible.’
‘Signor Lawrance,’ – this time it was the Monsignor – ‘I will pay you triple for the map. This will be worth your effort I believe? We will return for our map on Tuesday.’
Nick, who didn’t want an even bigger scene to develop over this, quickly processed the credit card and placed the three maps in a Nicholas Lawrance Gallery carrier bag. Then with a quick bow and swish of his cassock, the Monsignor turned and hurried out of the gallery, his assistant following behind.
‘Jesus!’ said Bronte, a few minutes later. ‘I wouldn’t want to meet him on a dark night!’
‘I know what you mean, Bronts,’ agreed Nick. ‘He was trying the old stare-you-out trick. A bit of a control freak, if you ask me.’
There was movement on the gallery floor. ‘I’ll have to worry about it later though,’ said Nick. ‘I can see Mr and Mrs Palmer want me to persuade them to buy the Ortelius.’
7
Grey morning light seeped weakly through the grimy, narrow-arched windows of the church. Bunting’s mind was a whirlpool as he struggled to comprehend the revelations of the last few hours. The wooden box, now closed, gave no outward sign of the great secret within.
How was it possible that these Holy Words had survived over 1500 years? Yet, who was he to doubt this miracle? For years he had been preaching to his impoverished congregation to have faith – could he do any less?
The long and stressful journey could now be clearly seen on the Pope and Duke’s faces. Their grey pallor and exhaustion, previously hidden in the shadows of the night, were now revealed by the rising rays of dawn.
It was on reading the first few lines that Bunting had understood the Pope’s terrible predicament: Heed my words. Blessed is the Lord my Father. Faith is my gift to you. It is faith alone which will justify you and fulfil my laws.
These original handwritten Holy Words of the Lord Jesus were almost the exact words preached by the Reverend Father Martin Luther, the founder of the Protestant Reform movement, and a total contradiction of the Catholic Church’s position that justification occurs only by an intrinsic, infused righteousness by faith and works, and was not simply a gift, to be bestowed.
It had only been fifty years since Luther had questioned 1500 years of papal authority over Christians, finally leading to a massive schism in the Church. His refusal to retract his writings, at the demand of Pope Leo X in 1520 and Holy Roman Emperor Charles V in 1521, resulted in his excommunication from the Catholic Church by the Pope and condemnation as an outlaw by the Emperor.
‘All men are born in sin. Repent for your sins
today and for all your life. No man can remit guilt. This judgement alone belongs to The Father, the most holy, blessed be He.’
These words could have been written by Luther himself! Now it made sense why the Pope, the leader of the Catholic Church, would feel twisted. He and all previous Popes had been teaching the wrong message. There had been cataclysmic consequences due to the rise of the new Protestant movement. Luther had strongly disputed the claim that freedom from God’s punishment of sin could be purchased with money. The peasants, who had watched priests grow fat on the sale of these indulgences, while they lived in penury, joined the new movement en masse.
Thousands of clergy, dissatisfied with the Mother Church, had also joined, supported by many of Europe’s princes and aristocrats, tired of paying enormous taxes to Rome. The resulting power struggle had immersed Europe in forty years of massacres and atrocities, unmatched in the continent’s long and bloody history.
Bunting, in awe, his heart pounding, had read and reread all the fragments of the holy manuscript. ‘The Words’ of Lord Jesus were unambiguous and there was only one conclusion possible: the Church of Rome had been preaching a false message for over fifteen hundred years.
The Pope spoke first, his voice now stronger. ‘Herr Bunting, the effect of this revelation completely overwhelmed me. I blindly stumbled out of the study, staggered along the hall, only stopping to vomit violently, before collapsing onto the bed, my heart palpitating and my body bathed in sweat. So many thoughts pounded through my brain, it was as if my head would split with the pressure pulsating through it. I passed out. When I awoke, it was dark. Whether one of my attendants had tried to wake me, I knew not. However, the lamps were lit and I reasoned that they had thought me exhausted from my ascent to the Papacy, and let me be.’
‘I can understand now what you mean by twisted,’ said Bunting with compassion.
The Pope gave a small shrug. ‘What was I to do? Why, I wondered, hadn’t even one of the previous incumbents of this high office done something? How could they have attested to the writings of our Lord and then ignored the message? I tried to put myself in the heads of some of the greatest Popes over the preceding centuries. Slowly it dawned on me. They would rightly have reasoned that to reveal the information would have split the unity of our Church. Many would have called for the Pope and all the hierarchy of the Church to be dismantled, branded as charlatans and the deliverers of false messages.
‘Yet, on the other hand, others would have supported us for our godly intentions and still recognised us as the intermediaries between man and God. I then understood that the saving of lives had been those former Popes’ priority; it was for the greater good to keep “The Words” from the light of day. To reveal this terrible truth would only lead to bloodshed. It would be our cross to bear, to take this sin on ourselves, for the sake of the many.’
‘And, no doubt, silence was far more politically expedient as well,’ said Bunting. ‘They, the Popes, were also protecting their positions of power. Correct me if I am wrong but was it not you who said: “It is a man’s immortal soul in eternity which is important”?’
The Pope stared intensely at the young priest for many seconds, unable to hide his surprise at being spoken back to. Slowly, however, Bunting saw this anger melt to mere resignation. ‘Yes, that is also true, Herr Bunting,’ the Pope sighed. ‘It must be. But I do believe, and I have thought of little else over the last twelve months, that with few exceptions, all the Popes were godly and men of reason. I believe they came to the correct conclusion.
‘As I took up my new duties, I exuded confidence on the outside and applied myself with gusto. However, on the inside, I was still deeply troubled. It did not rest easily with me, being the guardian of the greatest secret ever known. Was I, then, somehow less than these previous men? Those who had taken the secret to their graves? Why could I not be like them? I lived a half-life those first few months in office. The weight of the knowledge was heavy on my soul and my prayers for direction were never answered.
‘However, the Lord had always heard my cry. It was me who was still, just as I was as a youth, too vain and egotistical to hear or see it. So, it was on the day of the Feast of the Nativity of Saint John the Baptist, four months after my ascendency, that I let my eyes wander over a pile of correspondence and books sitting on the occasional table in my antechamber. There, always in full view but overlooked and unread due to my troubled disposition, were many volumes. One attracted my attention – your book, Omnium Temporum et Annorum Series ex Sacris Bibliis.’
Bunting gasped as the Pope mentioned the name of the very treatise that had caused his humiliation.
‘Yes, Herr Bunting, yes. The Lord, from the very first day, had answered my call but I did not know it. I picked up the treatise amongst thirty others on that table and began to read your writings. This is why I am here: because of you. Your words were clearly out of step with your leaders, yet they bore little resemblance to the Mother Church either. I have read everything that Luther and Calvin – may they burn in Hell – have written, and they would also have condemned you. For instance, your views on that accursed race, the killers of our Lord, are almost beyond reason.’
He reached down into the folds of his cassock and produced a copy of a small tattered pamphlet, which Bunting knew only too well.
‘You say …’ The Pope urgently leafed through the pages.
‘Christian oppression has deformed the Jew. He lives in the shadows of Christian society and God’s grace, fated to live a life of penury and wretchedness. He is unwilling and unable to step out of his culture. It is for us the oppressor to examine the way we have treated him. A Christian without access to education, a trade or profession or to own land or property would soon be indistinguishable from the Jew. Were we to reach out and lift him from his worthless life, to surrender his oriental language and practices, to prepare him to receive Christ, then ultimately he would surely join the Christian fellowship of man.
‘And later on you say: Does the God of Creation, the God of Abraham and Moses, the God of Jesus, of Mohammed despise any of his children? These statements would not be tolerated in our Church, Herr Bunting. My inquisitorial tribunal would have demanded retraction and contrition.’
As did mine, thought Bunting, remembering his humiliation at the hands of the Committee for Orthodox Instruction chaired by Archbishop Wilhelm. Instead he said, ‘Yes, my treatise was not … well received … in the County of Lemgo.’
‘Nor Hanover. Nor Lower Saxony. Nor Greater Germany,’ added the Pope sharply, brandishing the pamphlet in the air. ‘My people in Saxony reported that your writings have put you at odds with your superiors and you were unceremoniously dismissed from your duties in Lemgo. Furthermore, you were given an ultimatum with your posting in Magdeburg not to publish and not to stray from Lutheran orthodoxy.’
Bunting winced at the memory of his humiliation. ‘How do you know this?’ he stammered.
‘I am the Pope! Do you think I would travel thirteen days in a carriage across Europe to this Godforsaken country without knowing everything about you?’
‘What you say is true,’ said Bunting, lowering his head.
The Pope raised his voice and stared at the young priest. ‘And then, like a lamp suddenly being lit at night, all was illuminated. God had answered my prayers and showed me the way. It was a revelation! An incredible one! The answer was you! An obscure, discredited Lutheran heretic whose destiny it is to hide “The Words”.’ The Pope struggled from his chair, refusing the outstretched arm of the Duke, and stood over the young priest. Bunting was taken aback by the sudden vigour and passion in the old man, whose eyes were now ablaze and locked on his. He grasped the young priest’s shoulder and held it tightly as he spoke. ‘I charge you, Herr Bunting, with the responsibility to hide these “Words” where no Christian man can discover them! This is your quest.’
‘No!’ railed Bunting. ‘Why should it be my quest? And why should I care if your Church should be shown
the errors of its ways?’
‘You will do it! You have been chosen!’ The old man went on as if Bunting had not spoken.
But Bunting wasn’t finished. ‘Why remove and hide these “Words” now anyway? After 1500 years? It makes no sense!’
The old man sighed and loosened his grip. ‘Because,’ he said gravely, ‘because I cannot trust one of my own.
‘Our Church is under attack from within by those who would accommodate the reformers; that “The Words” of Lord Jesus should align themselves with the heretics is almost incomprehensible. They must never be discovered, not by the reformers, for they would use the Lord’s words to malign and eventually destroy our Church and its institutions.
‘And these “Words”, these Holy Words, must not be destroyed either, as those of my Church would surely do, for this would be a sin greater than all … You now understand that if they were ever to become public, the horrors that would ensue would engulf Christendom forever. The massacres of the previous forty years would pale into insignificance compared to the upheavals that would surely result from these revelations. There is only crisis and catastrophe from outside. All Christendom is under attack from the barbarian Turks. The Sultan’s armies camp on the outskirts of Vienna and, be assured, they will make another attempt to conquer Malta in the next few years. It was a miracle that Sicily and the mainland were not invaded. The Holy City could be lost to these heathens at any time, as was Constantinople in 1453, with the resulting massacres, burnings and looting.’
The Pope took a deep breath, sat back down and gathered his thoughts. At last he continued. ‘I have considered the gravity of this situation for many months. When I read your treatise, I knew that you were the right person for this quest. Who would suspect an unknown German Protestant, a reformer and heretic, of holding the greatest secret ever?
The Bunting Quest Page 4
