Brotherhood of the Tomb (34 page)

FORTY-SIX

‘They called us the Dead.’

Francesca held herself tensely in the chair, as though braced against a storm at sea.

We were chosen. Chosen out of all the world, they said. A new nobility, a priesthood consecrated by God. So they told us. Our families chose us and the Seven approved their choice. Or disapproved it if they had doubts. Once chosen, there was no going back. It was as if someone had taken a sponge and wiped our names from a slate. From that moment, we were treated as though we were truly dead.’

She glanced at Patrick.

‘You know that: you rode to my funeral, you watched them bury me, heard them pray for my soul’s rest. You think now it was a mere pretence, an elaborate game they played. Perhaps. But their grief was no more simulated than yours. For them, it was as though I had really died. My parents knew they would never set eyes on me again. My brothers, Giulietta my sister, they all knew. So you see, they suffered almost as much as you, dear Patrick. Almost as much as you.’

She halted, her eyes nervously seeking his, as though to reassure him, to tell him his grief had not been wasted. But her own eyes held a sadness that frightened him more than simple grief.

‘The Dead are a brotherhood within a brotherhood,’ she continued. ‘Strictly speaking, they are divided into a brotherhood for men and a sisterhood for women. Like the first Christian monks, like the first Brothers of the Tomb themselves, they live in Egypt, in two order houses close together in the western desert

beyond the Dakhla oasis. Whenever their services are needed in Europe or America, they are sent for. For centuries, they have been the heart of the Brotherhood. Its eyes, its ears ... its hands.’

She shivered slightly, as though a thin draught had passed unseen through the room. They were close, she thought, closer than they had ever been. Events during the past few months had forced her to show her hand more than had, perhaps, been wise. They were still hunting, still waiting for her to make the one mistake that would put her in their hands. And when they found her, they would have no mercy. None at all.

‘Having died once,’ she said, ‘they are willing to die again. Or to kill. They are, in a sense, beyond morality. Of course, they have a morality of their own; but they bend it to their own ends, like fashioners of glass who pull and twist and draw it so fine that, in the end, it has no other purpose than to break.’

Patrick watched her thin fingers move as though spinning glass filaments. He remembered going with her once to see a craftsman on Murano work with the thinnest of glass, fashioning the legs of tiny insects. He had bought her a glass spider, but by the time she brought it home, two of its eight legs had broken.

‘The Dead,’ she was saying, ‘are substitutes. By accepting death while still alive, they renew Christ’s sacrifice.’ She hesitated. ‘How can I explain this? Patrick, when you were in the palazzo with my father, did you see a painting on the wall, a fresco?’

‘Yes, it showed ...’

‘The figure of Christ bound hand and foot, dragged to the tomb.’ She paused. ‘That isn’t how the Bible tells us he died, is it? But it’s not a painter’s fantasy either, nor some ghastly attempt at blasphemy. For

the Brotherhood, it is the literal truth. It is the centre of their faith.’

Patrick remembered Alessandro Contarini as he had last seen him, angry, his long white hair falling loose across his face, his finger raised, pointing again and again at the fresco on the wall and crying: ‘For that, you fool! For that!’

Francesca hesitated and turned to O’Malley.

‘Dermot, I...’

‘It’s all right, my dear. You’re doing well. Keep going.’

She closed her eyes briefly, then opened them again, as though, in a moment’s darkness, she had found strength.

‘The Old Testament,’ she said, ‘is built around the notion of sacrifice. Bullocks, rams and sheep, goats, turtle-doves, pigeons: an endless flow of sacrificial blood.

‘But there is human blood as well. Abraham goes to a mountain with his son and prepares to slit his throat as an offering to his God. Moses is sent by the same God to redeem His people from Pharaoh: the price is the blood of Egypt’s first-born. God gives them their Promised Land, and the price is yet more blood - whole cities put to the sword, men, women and children without distinction. Jephtha returns from his victory over the children of Ammon and the price is his only daughter, to fulfil a vow to God. Hiel the Bethelite rebuilds Jericho and pays with the blood of his sons, Abiram and Segub, cast beneath the foundations and the gate. In time, the Temple reeks of blood.’

The unseen storm that raged round her was reaching its height. She fought against it, denying its force in her.

‘Christ was born into a world obsessed with sacrifice. The daily burnt offering, the weekly sacrifice

on the Sabbath, the monthly offering, Passover; burnt offerings, drink offerings, sin offerings. Within days of his birth the streets were awash with the blood of little children. That was God’s price, the ransom that allowed him safe passage to Egypt. In Jerusalem, in the Temple, the altar was red.

‘He wanted to change that world, to invest the throats of doves and the necks of rams with a different sanctity. His own life for the world, his own body as a final sacrifice, his own blood as the price of everything, the coin that would buy God’s pardon. That is what the Church teaches, what the Church believes. The Mass repeats his sacrifice endlessly, flesh and blood on God’s new altar.’

She looked at Patrick, then at Assefa. Her eyes had a faraway look now.

‘That is what you believe, isn’t it? That in one man the Temple sacrifice became universal. But the Brotherhood thinks otherwise. The Brotherhood knows the truth.’

From the table next to her, she lifted a small book bound in black.

‘This is a copy of the Aramaic Gospel of James,’ she said. ‘It has been in the possession of the Brotherhood since its inception. Any other manuscripts that may have existed have long ago been lost or destroyed. The Brotherhood itself has only ever printed a few hundred copies. I stole this one from my father’s library just before I came to Rome. It’s an Italian translation. Let me read James’s account of the death of Jesus.

“He went up to the cross, and they nailed him and hung him on it, as the prophet had foretold. And he suffered greatly from the sixth hour until the ninth, whereupon he cried out with a loud voice and hung upon the cross as one dead. And yet he had not died,

but still lived. For when they came to take him down that they might carry him to the tomb, they rejoiced that they found him still alive.

“His mother and Mary Magdalene tended his wounds and nursed him by day and night for three months, until he recovered. And in those days but a tiny number of his followers knew what had passed, that he had not died as predicted, but was still alive. For most of the disciples thought he had been buried and had risen from the dead.

“For three months, his mother and the Magdalene tended him in secret. They let the Sanhedrin and the Romans think him dead, for in that thought lay his only hope of safety. It was their plan, once he was fully come once more to his strength and could walk again, that they might find a way for him to take himself out of Palestine, into another country. And he himself desired it greatly, for the cross had broken him, and he could not face the nails again.

“But I, James his brother, together with Simon the Canaanite, Andrew the brother of Peter, and seven others from among the disciples other than the twelve, all of us who knew the truth thought otherwise. For God’s will had been thwarted, and His Sacrifice remained unfinished. Wherefore, we met together in Simon’s house that is in the Street of the Water Gate and swore a solemn oath binding us to finish what had been left undone. That night, we came to a place outside the city, where Jesus had been hidden, and took him from there over the cries of the women that watched over him, and carried him to the place outside the city, where Joseph of Arimathea had given a tomb for his burial. And he was bound with cords and his mouth tied with cloth, lest he break free or the Romans hear his cries and send men to investigate.

“And we laid him in the sarcophagus that Joseph

had inscribed with his name and the circumstances of his crucifixion under Pilate. It was a great anguish to us to treat him thus, but we remembered God’s promise to us that He would forgive us all sins through the blood of His son, and the sins of all men. And so we laid him in his place and covered him with the stone and sealed the tomb.” ‘

She stopped reading and the room filled with a terrible silence. Minutes passed and still no one spoke. At last Assefa turned to Father O’Malley.

‘Do you believe this?’ he asked.

The priest laughed loudly, breaking the spell of gloom that had settled round them all. ‘Good God, no,’ he said. ‘I can’t say it isn’t all true, of course. How would I know? How would anyone know? But the world is full of apocryphal Gospels, isn’t it? Sure, the Gnostics had Gospels and Epistles and Apocalypses and God knows what coming out of them like eggs out of a chicken. I choose not to believe in the Gospel of Thomas or the Gospel of Peter or the Gospel of the Ebionites, or, for that matter, the Acts of Paul or Peter or Thomas, and the Lord alone knows what besides. So why on earth should I believe this Gospel of James? And if it is true, what difference would it make to anything? If the saints are in hell, I’d far rather be there with them than in heaven with James and his gang.’

He paused and looked sadly at Assefa.

‘I don’t doubt that the Brotherhood exists; I know too much about them and their doings for that. And the papyrus I showed Patrick is proof enough that they go back a long way. But it doesn’t mean they know all there is to know.’

He smiled.

‘Listen, we’ll talk about this later. In the meantime, I’ll let Francesca get to the end of her story.’

Francesca laid the book back on the table.

‘There’s not much more to say,’ she continued. ‘The Brotherhood grew, at first in Egypt, later in Italy. My ancestor Pietro Contarini met some Brothers there and was initiated into their secret. By that time, Egypt was under Muslim rule, and the Brotherhood wanted to find a way into Christian territories. From Venice, they spread to Rome, and in Rome they became bishops and cardinals. About the same time Pietro brought the faith to Italy, an Irish pilgrim on his way back from Jerusalem had taken it to Ireland. During the Crusades, French and English knights were welcomed into the Brotherhood by a branch living in Jerusalem, the Guardians of the Tomb itself.

‘As the years went by, the Brotherhood grew powerful. My family and others like it in Venice made it the centre of their existence. It was a tie that bound them more tightly than any bonds of kinship. Well, in one sense the bond was one of blood. It was not just the secret they shared that held them to one another: it was something darker and more primitive than that.

‘When the Brotherhood first reached Egypt, their faith had been tested to breaking point. Jerusalem had been destroyed, the Temple razed to the ground, the Holy of Holies put to the torch. They had no way of knowing how long the Tomb of Jesus would remain inviolate, or whether it had already been found and desecrated.

‘The Jews of Alexandria were of no help to them. They prayed and wrung their hands, but they were powerless. So the Brothers vowed that one day they would avenge the destruction of their Holy City. And in confirmation of that vow, they put to death their own children, their first-born sons and daughters, regardless of age. Jesus had not been enough, otherwise the Temple would never have been burned. God

was angry, He required more blood. If they were to come out of Egypt once more, like the Children of Israel following Moses, Passover had to be repeated. Not the blood of Egyptians this time, but their own blood freely given, a sin-offering, reparation for the sins of an entire people.

‘So it went on. Of course, they could not put all their first-born to death in every generation. So the institution of the Dead was introduced. I explained earlier that they were substitutes: instead of physical death, they embraced the grave while still living. From time to time, a child would actually be sacrificed. By then, child sacrifice had become more than a ritual of atonement. The leaders of the Brotherhood, the Seven, knew that involvement in murder would hold their followers together more firmly than any vows. Who would betray such a secret, to bring himself and his whole family into disgrace and worse?’

She stopped speaking. Patrick could see that she was growing agitated again.

‘I found out all of this by accident,’ she said, her voice almost inaudible. ‘Most of us had no idea, you see. Only the Seven, the Apostles immediately below them, the abbots of the Order of the Dead, and the heads of the families ever knew the full truth. But ... I learned of it and ... witnessed it. I saw my own father ... I’m sorry, I can’t...’

Francesca was shaking now, haunted by a memory she could not exorcise. She had no need for words, the horror was in the room with them, raw and bloody and full of strength. Patrick went across to her, oblivious of the others. He took her hand and lifted her from the chair, taking her gently into his arms, not as a lover, but as someone bound to her by grief.

‘What has happened to you has happened to me,’ he repeated.

But she shook her head and pulled away from him.

‘No,’ she said. ‘Love doesn’t enter into this. Whatever you felt for me, whatever I felt for you, it’s all irrelevant. They don’t care a thing for love. Not even the love of God. They don’t want God to love them, they want Him to reward them in return for what they offer Him. Not love, but power, Patrick. Power and the forgiveness of sins. Power in this world and glory in the next. They will sacrifice anything for that: their feelings, their loves, their children ... their souls.’

He stood watching her, perplexed, frightened, understanding nothing.

‘Mr Canavan.’ It was Quadri’s voice. ‘Please sit down. We have not finished yet.’ He turned to Francesca. ‘Please, Francesca, sit down too. You did well. I’m grateful to you.’

He paused and looked round the room slowly. His thin face showed signs of pain. His eyes were full and hard.

‘Mr Canavan, Father Makonnen,’ he continued. ‘For several years now, with Francesca’s help, a small group of people chosen by Father O’Malley and myself has been investigating the Brotherhood. We have identified several of its leading members, gathered evidence of their activities, compiled a dossier for presentation to the Public Prosecutor when the time is ripe. Because of the size and secrecy of their organization, we have had to proceed with the utmost circumspection. Every step we have taken has been planned and debated most carefully. At every moment we have been aware that a single slip might place our entire mission in jeopardy. An indiscretion, a premature revelation, a careless question - anything might serve to make them aware of our existence. So far,

we believe we have succeeded in eluding suspicion.

We have run a terrible risk in bringing you here today. The Brotherhood knows of you, it has members hunting you everywhere. Francesca is already marked for death. Ordinarily, I would have recommended leaving you to your fate. Our task is too important to be endangered for the sake of one or two lives. That is how we have to be to survive. But we had a reason for seeking you out.

‘We want to know everything you may have heard about Passover. One of our people heard of it first over a year ago. Since then, we have done everything in our power to find out more, with almost no success. All we know is that what they are planning is going to be their greatest triumph in the two thousand years they have been in existence; that it is going to take place very soon; and that over one hundred of the Dead have been brought to Italy from Egypt to carry it out. We need your help. Please think hard. If you know anything that may give us a clue, anything that...’

He looked round. Assefa had risen half out of his chair. On his face was a look of sheer horror. Slowly, he raised one hand and placed it over his mouth as though he was about to be sick. O’Malley got up and went over to him, taking his arm and holding him steady.

‘Father Makonnen, are you all right?’

The Ethiopian took O’Malley’s arm, squeezing it tightly, then looked into his face, his eyes wide open, an expression of fear and grief stamped on his features.

‘My God,’ he whispered. ‘O Jesus Christ, sweet Mary, I know. I know.’

‘What is it, Father? What do you know?’ O’Malley could feel ice in his veins.

‘I know what they are planning. God forgive me, I should have thought before this. I know what it is. And I know it will happen tomorrow.’

FORTY-SEVEN

O’Malley found a bottle of grappa in the kitchen. Assefa sipped it in small, nervous gulps, gasping each time the fiery liquid caught his breath. Roberto showed him how to calm himself with slow, rhythmical breaths from the diaphragm. For a while, he sat with eyes closed, breathing gently, letting the tension dissolve. When he opened his eyes again, it was only to stare at the floor; excitement had given way to languor and impassivity.

‘Father Makonnen.’ Roberto spoke gently, yet firmly, as though pressing a reluctant witness to admit what he had seen. ‘You must tell us what you know. It’s very important. Lives may depend on it. Innocent lives.’

Assefa shook his head.

‘It’s too late,’ he whispered. ‘What can we do? There’s no time.’

‘Please let me be the judge of that. Tell me what you can.’

Assefa looked up. His eyes were full of tears, and in them Roberto sensed a mute appeal, an unspoken plea for reassurance. He had seen it many times in other eyes, under very different circumstances. But the appeal was always the same: ‘Tell me this is just a dream, that in a moment I’ll wake up and find none of this has happened.’ It was the look of a man who has just been told he is dying of a fatal disease. It was a look Roberto knew very well indeed.

‘Very well,’ said Assefa. ‘I’ll tell you what I can.’ He paused, then began to speak, choosing his words with care. ‘For the last few months, the nunciature in Dublin has been involved with a series of highly

delicate discussions. I was present at a number of meetings, some at the nunciature itself, others at Leinster House, and some at the Egyptian and Iraqi embassies. You understand that I am only an addetto, that I was never privy to any but the lowest-level talks. But Archbishop Balzarin confided in me. I was expected to handle certain items of correspondence.’

He paused and raised the glass of grappa, then thought twice about it and put it down again.

‘About a year ago, the Holy Father decided to begin a series of negotiations aimed at achieving peace in the Middle East. His plan is to start with Lebanon, since he has direct influence there through the Maronite Christians. If the settlement there proves successful, he intends to attempt a demarche on Palestine or possibly the Gulf.

‘His great ally is the new President of Ireland, Mr MacMaolain. You may know that, before he became president two years ago, MacMaolain was a Lieutenant General in the Irish defence forces. For several years he was Force Commander with UNIFIL, the UN Irish Force in Lebanon. He learnt a lot then about the politics of the region.

‘It seems that he wants the Nobel Peace Prize like his old friend Sean McBride. It happens that he and the Holy Father got to know one another well after the war, when the Pope was studying at the Angelicum, the Dominican University here in Rome. MacMaolain had an older brother in holy orders who was also writing a thesis at the Angelicum, so he was sent to Rome himself for a year. His parents wanted him to be a diplomat like his father, and they thought a knowledge of Italian would help him get a posting to the embassy in Rome. Of course, he entered the army when he got back to Dublin; but it looks as though he wants to make up for that early change of direction.’

Patrick listened intently. Two of the hardest puzzles in this affair seemed to have cleared up simultaneously: why Ireland should have been involved at all, and why Alex Chekulayev had been in Dublin.

What sort of scheme are they cooking up for Lebanon?’ he asked.

Assefa bit his lip.

‘I don’t have the details, I’m sorry. But Balzarin gave me a broad idea. The Holy Father is of the opinion that people are sick to death of civil war now and will do anything for peace. If we forget about all the different factions, the basic division in the country is between Christians and Muslims. Roughly speaking, the Christians make up about forty-three per cent of the population.

‘The Holy Father intends to meet with the heads of the different churches, and then with the Muslim leaders. In return for a promise to use his influence in the United States to get the Israelis to agree to concessions on the Palestinians, he will propose a coalition government. Technically, Lebanon will become a Muslim state. But the Christian minority will be guaranteed full representation at all levels of government. It’s not that much different to the system established in 1926, except that the Shi’ites will be properly recognized as the majority within the Muslim population.

‘God knows if the plan has any chance of working. The Holy Father intends to establish a special Vatican secretariat in Beirut, responsible for supervision of the new constitution in conjunction with a Council of Shi’ite, Sunni and Druse clergy. The Irish have promised to install observers under the auspices of the UN. The hope is that they’ll be particularly acceptable to the Shi’ites because Ireland is a non-imperial power supposed to be engaged in a struggle for independence from Britain.’

He paused and drained the glass of grappa.

‘I don’t understand,’ said Patrick. ‘I can’t see how this relates to what we’ve been talking about.’

Francesca interrupted.

‘It could, Patrick. The Brotherhood has very strong feelings about Islam. When Muslim armies conquered Palestine and Egypt in the seventh century, the Brothers thought they were a scourge sent by God to teach the churches a lesson, perhaps to prepare the way for their own rise to power. But the Arabs stayed and took possession of the towns and cities in which their holy places were situated: the tomb of Christ in Jerusalem and that of John of Amathus in Alexandria, the church of the Seven at Babylon near modern Cairo, their private catacombs at Qum al-Shuqaffa. The Brothers swore a sort of holy war against the invaders, and through the centuries they did what they could to make life uncomfortable for them.’