Brotherhood of the Tomb (32 page)

There was a roar outside as the traffic began to loosen up. O’Malley let in the clutch and moved off honking loudly.

We kept in touch after that, a bit like yourself and him. In fact, I think he mentioned your name to me once or twice. From time to time he’d come to Rome for a visit, and we’d have a week or two together then. He never could stand to stay at the Irish College. And I didn’t blame him: they think the only food in the world is champ and carrots.’

Patrick could tell that O’Malley was struggling to smother powerful emotions, that Eamonn De Faoite’s death had brought him intense and permanent personal pain.

They turned into the Via dei Corridoni, heading down towards the Vatican. On their left, the massive dome of St Peter’s struggled above the rooftops as though aching to be free of the nervous, jostling streets that hemmed it about like relatives about the bedside of a dying man.

On the Via di Porta Angelica, they turned left through St Anne’s gate, the Vatican’s service entrance. It was almost clogged with cars, vans and motorcycles. The Swiss Guard on duty waved them

through. A second guard on the inner gate took greater care. O’Malley wound down his window and held out a small pass. The guard nodded, saluted, and let them through.

They headed straight along the Via del Belvedere and through a short tunnel into a courtyard where dozens of cars were parked, most of them bearing plates with the letters SCV, standing for Sacra Citta Vaticano. O’Malley drove into a space on the left.

‘Have you ever been in the Vatican before, Patrick?’

Patrick shook his head.

‘Oh, that’s a pity. It’s a great place. Maybe we’ll have time for a proper tour another time. For your present information, you’re in the Cortile del Belvedere, the Belvedere Court. That door on your right takes you into the Vatican Library. But the door on the left is the one for us. It leads to the Secret Archives.’

Patrick raised his eyebrows.

‘Ah, you needn’t look so surprised,’ said the priest. ‘There’s precious little secret in there these days. Indeed, I don’t think there ever was. If they don’t want you to see something in this place, you can be sure they don’t leave it lying around somewhere you might stumble across it. But that doesn’t mean there aren’t nice little discoveries to be made from time to time by them as knows where to look.’ He glanced at Patrick. Tour friend Eamonn De Faoite knew where to look. More’s the pity for the man.’

They got out of the car, leaving it unlocked. Theft was almost unknown here, and the Vatican gaol enjoyed the reputation of being the least used in the world.

Inside the main door, a stern-faced custodian sat behind a large mahogany table. He looked as though he was aged somewhere between fifty and one hundred and ninety. With a look of irritation, he glanced

up from the improving book he was reading and adjusted a pair of bifocals heavily clouded with specks of dandruff. Looking first at Patrick, then at O’Malley, he drew himself up straight in his high-backed chair.

‘Yes? May I help you?’

‘My name is Father O’Malley. I’ve come to look at some manuscripts. I take it you still keep some manuscripts here.’ His Italian was strangely perfect, not tainted in the least by the heavy brogue that coloured his English.

The custodian stared at him as though he had just claimed to be the Pope.

‘I see. You have a tessera of course.’

‘Sure, what would I need one of them things for? I’ve better things to do than spend half my life among dirty old books. God knows what I might catch.’

The custodian’s face, already the colour and texture of faded parchment, turned several shades paler.

‘I regret that...’

‘But I’ve got something better than a tessera, if it’s a permit you’re after. Here, take a sniff at this.’

O’Malley took a heavy envelope from the inside pocket of his jacket and passed it to the man behind the table. The custodian picked it up and glanced at it as though it had rabies.

‘What’s this?’

‘Open it and see.’

The custodian hesitated, guessing he had been outmanoeuvred, then opened the envelope and took out a sheet of thick, letter-headed paper. Less than a minute later, he was bowing and scraping as he escorted Patrick and Father O’Malley to seats at one of the huge black desks in the main reading-room.

O’Malley bent towards Patrick as they walked, whispering
  
in
  
his
  
ear,
  
‘After
 
twenty-odd
 
years,

Patrick, even a man like me gets to know some people in high places. Would you believe that was a letter from the Pope’s private secretary? A man called Foucauld. We were friends a long time ago.’

Once they were seated, the custodian approached the prefect, a sort of gargoyle with jaundice who sat upright on a tall, throne-like chair surveying his little, ageless realm, and spoke with him briefly before leaving. The room was empty save for the prefect, his assistants, and a handful of privileged scholars hunched over heavy black volumes as desiccated as themselves. On one wall, a huge clock ticked loudly, a reminder to everyone that, in the end, the pendulum and the calendar take care of everything, even learning.

While an assistant scurried off to fetch the file O’Malley had requested, the priest bent close to Patrick and whispered quietly in his ear.

‘The Church has had some sort of archive in Rome since the sixth century. Most of what was in its keeping then was held in the Lateran, but it’s said it was all destroyed in fighting at the beginning of the thirteenth century. However, it’s my opinion that what I’m about to show you came from there.

‘In any case, after that the archives were kept either in the Vatican or with the Pope himself whenever he travelled about the country. Later on, the whole lot was moved to the Castel Sant’ Angelo for safe-keeping. The really important stuff- things like privileges and papal charters - was held in what they called the Archivium Arcis.

‘Then, in 1611, Paul V founded the Secret Archive, the Archivium Secretum Vaticanum. He had eighty armaria, great wooden chests, filled with material from different sources - the Biblioteca Segreta, the Camera, the Archivium Arcis. Until 1879, the archive

really was secret, but it was then that Leo XIII decided to let reputable scholars in to study the documents. Some of them look as though they’ve been here ever since. As you can see, I’m not all that reputable; but I’m not without a little influence either. In my experience, there’s nothing in the Vatican that a little bottle of Black Bush in the right hands won’t arrange.’

He paused as the assistant returned, carrying a small book in his hands. Without a word, he set it down on the desk in front of them and left.

‘Now, Patrick, listen carefully. You’ll see that the call number on the back of this file reads AA Arm. I-XVIII 6725. All that means is that it comes from the Archivium Arcis, that it’s stored in the lower set of armaria, series one to eighteen, and that its item number is 6723.’

‘What is it?’

‘Now, don’t go getting impatient. If you’ll just open it...’

There was a hissing sound from the direction of the prefect’s chair. They looked up to see the old buzzard holding a bent finger to his lips. O’Malley lowered his voice even further.

‘If you look inside, you’ll see that it’s a copy of a Gnostic Gospel written in Coptic. According to a little note in Latin pasted in at the front, it was found among the contents of the Archivium Arcis when everything was transferred to the Secret Archive. Of course, Gnostic Gospels weren’t exactly popular in those days, so the book sort of rotted away here in its wee box without anyone ever taking a proper look at it.’

He looked down at the worn leather cover, the curious Coptic binding tied with thongs.

‘Eamonn De Faoite was the first person in centuries

to do more than glance at it. And what do you think he found?’

‘Suppose you show me.’

‘Be my guest.’

Patrick untied the thongs and opened the little volume. Page after page of crabbed Coptic script in black ink with the capitals in red. It looked dreary and quite unreadable.

‘I can’t read Coptic’

‘Can’t you? That’s a terrible pity. Neither can I. But look here.’

The priest opened the book again, leafing through it until he came to two leaves near the middle. Carefully, he peeled one away from the other. Inside lay a third sheet, unbound. O’Malley lifted it out and spread it on the table in front of Patrick.

“You can read Aramaic, though, can’t you?’

Patrick looked down. Unfolded, the sheet was a large piece of papyrus, covered in fine Aramaic writing. Aramaic: the language of much of the Old Testament, the language of Palestine at the time of Jesus.

FORTY-FOUR

‘At times trumpets blow on the high towers. Now on the tower of Psephinus, now on the tall pinnacles of Hippicus and Phasael and Mariamme. They chase the birds from the sky, and we think the end is come. Simon bar Goria and his men hold the Upper City and much of the Lower also. The Temple and Ophel are in the hands of John of Gischala and his followers. All that lies between has been burned to the ground. There is smoke everywhere. Smoke and the sound of wailing. Some say the Temple has begun to burn.’

Patrick looked up. He could hear the sound of the clock ticking and the scratch of a pencil as someone took notes at another table. O’Malley watched him, impassive, like a teacher waiting for his star pupil to show what he is made of.

‘Am I to take it that this is genuine?’ whispered Patrick.

‘I don’t know. What do you think? You’re the one who reads Aramaic, not me.’

Patrick pondered. It was years since he had read Josephus, but there could be no mistake.

‘I think it’s a description of the Siege of Jerusalem in AD 70, during the Jewish War with the Romans. But that’s impossible. Nothing in writing survived the siege.’

‘You mean nothing anyone knew of before this.’

Patrick nodded. There was nothing inherently implausible in such a document having been rescued.

‘Do you think they could fetch me a magnifying glass? This script is very fine.’

‘Good idea. Make them do a bit of work.’

O’Malley summoned an assistant, and minutes later

an enormous magnifying glass made its appearance on the table in front of Patrick. He lifted it and continued reading.

‘Passover has come and gone, but there has been no deliverance. Three weeks ago, the Continual Sacrifice ceased and the altar was deserted. Outside the city walls, the armies of Pharaoh’s son are massed. Four legions, and with them Arab and Syrian auxiliaries.’

For a moment Patrick was puzzled. Then he understood. The Roman general in charge of the campaign was Titus. His father, Vespasian, had just been made Emperor. So Vespasian was ‘Pharaoh’ and Titus was ‘Pharaoh’s son’.

‘He has moved his own camp to a spot opposite the Tower of Psephinus. The Tenth Legion remains on the Mount of Olives. Their engines of war are the largest and the most terrible: quick-loaders, stone-throwers, catapults. They hurl great stones of white marble into the city. The watchers on the walls cry out when they see them coming, and we flee in terror. On every side, the sound of battering rams rises to the heavens. But our prayers stay here below. They have brought rams to the western arcade of the Temple. The end cannot be long now. Lord, why have youforsaken your people?

‘Those of the brethren that remain in the city meet daily in the house of John the Zealot, who was blessed by James in the days before his death. We pray no longer for forgiveness, but for understanding. There is one still among us who remembers the words of our Lord, when he came out of the Temple with his disciples. He said to them: “See you all these? I tell you solemnly, not one stone here shall remain on another: all will be destroyed.” Even so, it is coming to pass. Then, we pray, all things will be fulfilled, and his promise unto us, that he will return.’

Patrick looked up, rubbing his eyes.

‘Whoever wrote this was a Christian. Did you know that?’

‘Oh, yes, certainly. What you are holding in your hands is without question the earliest surviving document of the Christian church. I think you’ll find your man was a Jewish Christian, not one of Paul’s upstart Gentiles.’

Patrick nodded. James, the brother of Jesus, had been head of the church in Jerusalem. He and his followers, unlike Paul and those he converted, had observed the Jewish law and attended the Temple regularly, while teaching that Jesus was the Messiah. Up to the destruction of the city in the year 70, they had been the most important group in the early church. Then Jerusalem was destroyed and they were either killed or scattered, leaving Paul and his followers free to run the new faith as they wished.

Patrick continued reading.

‘Of the brotherhood of Jesus that were in the city before the days of Passover, breaking bread together and praying according to the teaching of the apostles, but a few are now left. We pray daily that our brothers who have gone have reached Egypt in safety, and that they will be spared the wrath of these last days.

‘A party among us, numbering seven, according to the number of deacons presented to the Twelve, have met on this, the eighth day of Loos, to take counsel together in secret. Chief among us is John the Zealot, a holy man fired by the love of God, and a prophet sent to guide the brethren in these days of darkness. He was appointed head of the Twelve by James, the brother of the Lord, in the days before they stoned him to death. Beneath him are seated Eleazar bar Simon, Judas of Gamala, Barnabas the son of Jeshua the Elder, Jonathon, a deacon of Emmaus, Paul of Acrabetta, and myself, Simon bar Matthias, the Levite.

We have named ourselves the Seven of the Tomb, swearing to defend the sepulchre of our Lord, in which are also buried his brother James and his mother. The sepulchre lies hidden among the tombs that lie beyond the walls, to the north of the tomb of Simon the Just. John knows a secret way that passes through the Valley of Hinnom in the south. From there, we shall go by night westwards, skirting the camps of the invader, until we come again to the north.