The Cana Mystery (25 page)

Ava nodded.

“I’m very pleased. It’s one of my favorites.”

Paul examined the wall painting. “Is that Attila?”

“Yes. Why do you ask?”

“I don’t know. I guess I expected Attila the Hun to look more demonic or monstrous. Wasn’t he called the Antichrist?”

“Attila was known as the
flagellum dei,
or Scourge of God. He was a powerful warrior. Countless thousands were slain at his command, but are you familiar with the particular scene Raphael has portrayed?”

Paul wasn’t.

Garagallo explained: “In AD 452, Attila invaded Italy and threatened Rome. Flavius Aetius’s army was vanquished; thus, no earthly power could prevent a Hunnic conquest of the Eternal City.”

He approached the painting and pointed to a regal figure astride a white horse. “Pope Leo the Great, shown here with Consul Avienus and Prefect Trigetius, rode out to meet Attila in Lombardy, near the city of Mantua.”

He glanced at Ava. “My dear, you are a classicist, yes? Do you know Mantua?”

“Yes, Excellency. The birthplace of the immortal Virgil.”

The bishop smiled. “Correct. Mantua is also mentioned in
Romeo and Juliet.
It’s where Romeo was sent after he killed Tybalt Capulet. May I refresh your glass?”

Startled, Paul looked up. He’d downed his tiny measure of Spanish sherry in one gulp.

“Sure. Thank you. It’s delicious,” he commented, trying to ignore Ava’s disapproval. Smiling, Garagallo lifted an antique crystal decanter and refilled Paul’s drink, then continued the story.

“The two leaders met privately in Attila’s tent on the banks of the Mincio. When they emerged, Attila surprised the world by vowing to withdraw from Italy in peace. The Scourge of God never attacked Rome.”

“Wow. Really?” asked Paul. “Pope Leo must have been a persuasive guy.”

Clarkson spoke up. “Of course, not everyone believes that account. There are a host of theories regarding Attila’s decision to spare Rome. His forces were greatly weakened after the Battle of Châlons. Some historians allege he was bribed. Some believe the Hunnic army was wracked with infectious diseases. Still others argue that Attila’s men had grown so rich from plunder that they already possessed more gold than they could carry.”

Ava interrupted. “But I sense our host favors a different explanation.”

“Correct again,” said Bishop Garagallo. Turning to Paul, he asked, “Do you see the figures suspended above Pope Leo?”

Paul nodded.

“Those are St. Peter and St. Paul. What do they carry?”

Paul studied the fresco. “Swords. Is that significant?”

“I find it quite significant. According to Leo’s biography, during the meeting Attila received a vision of Peter and Paul dressed in priestly robes and armed with flaming swords.”

Clarkson interrupted. “Flaming swords? I’m sorry, but no one buys that fanciful chronicle. It’s clearly an allegory, not meant to be taken literally.”

“Precisely,” the bishop said. “Swords represent special knowledge, truth, or the Word. For example, Ephesians 6:17 states:
‘[T]he sword of the Spirit is the word of God.’ Raphael uses swords to symbolize that although Pope Leo carried no weapons, he was armed with truth.”

Clarkson grunted. “You make too much of it. Gibbon himself called this tale a pious fable.”

“Indeed,” said the bishop, “but I believe this fable is rooted in fact.”

Further argument was suspended by the butler’s announcement that dinner was served. The party moved from the sitting room to the formal dining room, decorated with another Raphael fresco,
The Coronation of Charlemagne.
Atop a polished African mahogany table, to ravenous Paul’s great joy, sat the first course of what promised to be a feast. Garagallo’s cook had prepared stuffed octopus in a piquant tomato sauce;
fenek
(rabbit) simmered as a casserole in wine;
bragoli
(parcels of chopped eggs, bread crumbs, and herbs wrapped in thin sheets of beef braised in gravy); and a crisp roasted hen served on a bed of sliced potatoes, eggplant, onions, and garlic. The symphony of flavors was intoxicating.

Between courses the good-natured historical debate resumed. Professor Clarkson and Bishop Garagallo defended their positions like master fencers, each seeming to enjoy the cerebral combat. Before long Ava joined the fray. “Didn’t St. Prosper of Aquitaine describe the encounter between Attila and Leo?”

“Indeed,” said the bishop. Begging their pardon, he rose and retrieved an ancient illuminated text from a bookshelf. Opening it to a page marked by a golden tassel, he read: “‘Our most blessed Pope Leo, trusting in the help of God, who never fails the righteous in their trials, undertook the task. And the outcome was just as foreseen. When Attila received the embassy, he was so overwhelmed by the high priest’s words that he promised peace and ordered his army to give up warfare.’”

“What does he mean when he says the outcome was ‘foreseen’?” Ava asked.

“That’s an excellent question, my dear,” replied Garagallo, smiling. “I wondered the same thing for years, and then I unlocked the secret. Do you recall the allegorical biography’s mention of flaming swords?”

She nodded.

“What do flaming swords represent?”

“As you said, a sword represents truth and flames represent the Holy Spirit. Thus, a flaming sword symbolizes a miraculous truth, or God’s truth.”

“Precisely. The pope came to that historic meeting armed with miraculous truth. Specifically, he carried a sacred prophecy. It foretold that if Attila showed mercy and withdrew from Italy, Leo would crown Attila’s heir the rightful Roman emperor. Attila spared Rome because he believed the pope’s prophecy.”

For several minutes they ate in silence, pondering the bishop’s words. Then Paul spoke up. “So did it come true? Did Attila’s heir become emperor?”

“Not right away. Attila’s greedy sons squabbled over his legacy. Divided, they were defeated and killed by the combined might of the Ostrogoths and the Gepids, but one of his daughters married the Gepid king Adaric. A child of that marriage, the beautiful Princess Austrigusa, married King Waccho of the Lombards. Waccho and Austrigusa are considered ancestors of—”

Ava gasped. Her eyes shot up to the fresco. Then she finished his sentence: “Charlemagne, emperor crowned in Rome by Pope Leo III.”

Garagallo beamed.

Unwilling to surrender the field, Clarkson persisted. “That’s a fine story, and I hate to be so cynical, but if the prophecy dissuaded Attila from attacking Rome, why didn’t it protect the city from the Vandals in 455?”

“According to legend, the scroll on which the prophecy was written caught fire when it was read aloud. Such pyrotechnics likely had a marvelous effect on Attila, but regardless of whether it was a miracle or a parlor trick, the prophecy was consumed.”

Looking up from his rabbit, Paul asked, “Couldn’t they just print another copy?”

“Apparently not. The prophecy was said to come from a holy relic. Historical sources are in conflict here. Some say the relic was possessed by the Roman emperor Valentinian III; others say it was divided so that Pope Leo and Emperor Valentinian each held a piece. In any case, when the emperor was assassinated by Petronius Maximus, at least part of the relic was lost.”

“And the Vandals sacked Rome shortly thereafter,” marveled Professor Clarkson.

“Yes,” said the bishop, “although
sacked
may be an exaggeration. Pope Leo persuaded the Vandals to refrain from violence, thus preventing Rome’s destruction. The invaders remained for fourteen days, but they did not burn the city, contrary to their custom. St. Prosper reports almost no murders.”

Paul asked, “Did Prospero say what the relics were?”

Ava flinched. Garagallo smiled and said, “If he did, no record survives. Predictably, it’s a topic of fierce debate. Numerous scholars believe the sacred relic was the mummified head of John the Baptist.”

Paul’s nose wrinkled with disgust. “You’re kidding! A severed head?”

“Please show some respect, Paul,” Ava cautioned. “You’re talking about the man who baptized Jesus.”

“It took me by surprise.”

“You find that hypothesis implausible?” asked Garagallo.

“Well, no, not necessarily. I’m keeping an open mind, but who would worship a rotting head—”

“Paul!”

For a moment, there was an awkward silence. Then Garagallo erupted into peals of laughter. Ava was momentarily taken aback, but then such an august churchman chuckling was irresistible. Then Paul joined, and soon all four were laughing.

When he regained his composure, Garagallo said, “For what it’s worth, I tend to agree. I don’t think the relic was the Baptist’s preserved head.”

“Good, because that would be creepy,” Paul said. Ava squirmed. Ignoring her, he went on: “What relics do you think they had?”

The bishop smiled at his guests. “I believe they possessed two of the lost jars of Cana. Does anyone care for coffee?”

After dinner, Clarkson checked his messages. He’d received an urgent call from the history department chair. Apologizing profusely, he excused himself and stepped in to the garden to return the call. When he came back, he announced that he had to leave.

“What could be so important at this hour?” Garagallo asked.

Clarkson answered, “Dominic is . . . curious about the situation. He’d like to ask me a few questions.”

Ava’s face was ashen. “I hope you’re not in trouble.”

“Oh, don’t worry. He’s an eminently reasonable man. He won’t jump to conclusions. Nevertheless, it’s vital that I see him immediately.”

Clarkson thanked their host for the splendid meal and made preparations to leave.

“Should we go too?” Ava asked him.

“No, that might complicate things. I’d prefer to speak with him first in private.”

“Ava, I wonder if you and Paul would like to stay here awhile longer,” Garagallo said. “My housekeeper prepared a variety of desserts. She’ll be inconsolable if no one tastes them.”

Ava glanced at Paul. He didn’t seem nervous. She decided to accept the bishop’s invitation. Predictably, the desserts were phenomenal. Paul’s favorite was the crisp cannoli filled with sweet ricotta and chocolate. Ava preferred the warm
figolla
(soft, almond-stuffed cookies). Garagallo then invited the Americans to join him for a postprandial snifter of brandy. He led them to his private study: an interior room protected by a thick, ancient door of oak and iron. Inside, Ava noticed portraits of Shakespeare and Marlow, a statue of Democritus meditating, and a bust of Homer. Paul’s attention was captured by an escutcheon mounted behind the wide desk. The heraldry featured a flaming sword and a shepherd’s crook crossed above a castle with seven towers. Beneath it hung the motto
GARDEZ BIEN.
As Paul struggled to remember where he’d heard those words, the bishop excused himself to see about the drinks. While he was gone, Paul whispered, “Do you trust him?”

Ava sighed. “Not fully. I like him, but I sense he knows more than he’s telling. Why play games with us?”

“He seems to know a lot about the jars.”

“Yes but, I wonder—”

Garagallo’s return interrupted her sentence. Noting her startled expression, he said, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to intrude.”

“Oh, no, Excellency. We were just discussing Shakespeare.”

“Really? What play?”

“
The Tempest.
”

“Ah, yes.” He smiled. “One of my favorites. ‘We are such stuff as dreams are made on . . .’”

For several minutes they chatted about the work, Ava and the bishop quoting verses from memory. Paul’s attention wandered. He resisted the temptation to gulp his brandy. Finally, Ava asked the bishop: “Something you said at dinner piqued my curiosity. You mentioned the lost jars of Cana.”

“A fascinating subject, yes? You might even call it my hobby. What would you like to know?”

“You said Pope Leo and Emperor Valentinian had two jars. Weren’t there six originally?”

“Yes. The Gospel of John specifies that six jars were present at the first miracle. Later, these six were split into three pairs. Each pair was hidden on a different continent to prevent destruction by the Antichrists . . .”

Paul interrupted: “Hold on. Did you just say Antichrists? There’s more than one?”

“Regrettably, yes. History has withstood a seemingly endless succession.”

Paul shook his head. “I’m confused. I thought Satan was the Antichrist.”

Garagallo explained. “Jesus Christ epitomizes the Christian virtues, the greatest of which is love. Do you agree?”

Paul nodded. “I do.”

“Thus, anyone or anything opposing those virtues is, by definition, anti-Christ. The word can describe Lucifer or any other monster who serves death, injustice, and damnation. Early Christians considered Herod and later Nero to be Antichrists. Of course, there have been others. I believe each generation must find the courage to combat this evil, embodied in some new, hideous form.”

“But what use are stone jars against a monster?”

“The jars contain a prophecy. If you believe the legend, reading the prophecy aloud at the proper place and time can defeat the devil.”

“Too bad it didn’t work against Hitler.”

Garagallo closed his eyes and anguish passed over his face. In a hollow voice, he said, “Yes. Hitler was a terrible Antichrist. Even as a little boy, I despised him. I’m proud we Maltese resisted his evil, and I grieve for all those who sacrificed their lives.”

For a moment the bishop couldn’t speak. Finally, he opened his eyes, gazed up at the antique crest, and went on. “As a man of faith, I believe the sacred jars’ power might have stopped the Nazis. Sadly, we’ll never know. At least one jar was destroyed in 455. After the fall of Rome, the surviving jars’ whereabouts were lost to humanity. St. Bede believed one was given to King Osby of Northumbria in 665. He may have hidden it under Whitby Abbey or possibly Whitekirk, but the others disappeared.”

Ava asked, “Were any hidden in Egypt?”

“According to legend, two jars were given to Africa. No one knows what happened to them. If I were to guess their location, Egypt and Ethiopia would be my top candidates. Why do you ask?”