The Lost Catacomb (16 page)
If Benedictus had supposed that another audience with
Mariamne would cure him of the doubts that plagued him, he soon realized that
he was mistaken.
His need to
understand the economic hardships that the Jews of Rome and Ostia faced, the
result of a heavy burden of taxes levied solely on them, gradually evolved into
a need to understand the very tenets of their faith, to understand why they
clung so stubbornly to their beliefs, when conversion to Christianity seemed to
be not only the path to salvation, but a practical and rational solution to
their oppressed state in society at large.
Mariamne had been summoned to Rome again on more than one
occasion, and instead of being convinced of the error of her beliefs, she had
brought Benedictus face to face with the possibility that her religion was not
merely the wellspring from which his own derived, but that it might be an even
purer form of faith, uncompromising in its view of mankind
’
s direct
and open relationship with the Creator.
To his horror, the Pope himself had now begun to
doubt.
He had misgivings not only
about the wisdom of the new tax, but had in fact begun to question some of the
fundamental doctrines of his own faith.
Plagued by these uncertainties, it was not long before he came to a
dangerous decision
—
dangerous because if he failed to convince Mariamne this
one time of the supremacy of the Church and its teachings, he knew that he
would no longer be able to convince himself either.
And so, one fine morning shortly thereafter, Benedictus
took his gamble.
When Mariamne
arrived at the court, she was quietly whisked into his private study by
Domitius, far from the searching eyes of inquisitive servants and meddling
clerics.
Seated opposite the Pope,
she faced a wall-sized fresco, finely detailed, that depicted a group of
Christian martyrs about to be devoured by wild beasts in an arena.
“
I am
prepared to show you something astounding,
”
Benedictus
offered.
“
Something
that few have seen, and that none outside these walls know of.
“
What you
are about to see will convince you, I am certain, of the special blessing which
God has conferred upon the Church.
It will prove to you, beyond the shadow of a doubt, that God now favors
the Church.
It will prove to you
that the major symbols of your religion have been transmuted, by His divine
will, into mere relics of the past, commemorating the dead rituals of a
disempowered nation
—
dead rituals, I repeat, that will never be reinstated.
“
Domitius,
would you kindly bolt the outer door?
”
he
asked.
Then turning to the wall
behind him, he placed his hand on the open mouth of an exceptionally large lion
at the center of the fresco.
An
audible gasp escaped from Mariamne
’
s mouth as the wall shifted inward, and Domitius rose from
his own seat in shock.
“
Holy
Father, my reverend Benedictus,
”
he
whispered, crossing himself,
“
what can this mean?
”
“
Follow me,
both of you,
”
said
the Pope with quiet authority.
“
You must swear never to reveal, to anyone at all, that
which I am about to show you.
”
“
You have
no right to them, you realize.
If
you keep them, you are no better than a thief . . . You are no better than a
thief . . . You are no better than a thief . . .
”
The words rang in his ears over and over again, like a
persistent and endless echo.
He had
not expected a reaction of this sort from the young Jewess.
Who was she to tell the Holy Father what
to do?
Who was she to judge him and
all those who had preceded him at his holy task?
—
for they
had likewise been privy to the secret of the Temple treasures.
Over the centuries, precise knowledge of how the artifacts
had come into the possession of the Church had somehow been lost.
It was assumed that the Roman slaves who
had carried the rich booty to its final resting place behind the walls of papal
palace had all been executed, their bodies disposed of near the muddy banks of
the Tiber.
Benedictus was not sure
who else knew of the treasures, apart from himself, Domitius, and Mariamne.
Like the other pontiffs who had reigned before him, he had
discovered the secret of their existence only after his election, when he was
given a sealed document to read.
The document bore the waxed insignia of the previous pope, and after
Benedictus had read it, he had resealed it with the imprint of his own
fisherman
’
s ring and hidden it in a camouflaged recess behind his
bed, to be removed and opened by his successor, only after his own demise, as
tradition demanded.
Was he in fact a thief?
Was he no better than those who had been
crucified by the Romans along with Jesus on that barren hilltop centuries
ago?
And if the Church continued to
keep these stolen goods
—
for that was what they appeared to be
—
what
kind of claim to moral authority could it possibly have?
What kind of claim could it or should it
continue to have upon his immortal soul?
He knew that over the years many Roman nobles had secretly
converted to Judaism, rejecting the false gods of the imperial Empire and
refusing to adopt the teachings of Christianity. He knew precisely what the
laws of Mariamne
’
s religion demanded of its adherents.
And he had once asked, circuitously
—
indirectly
enough, he hoped, to allay any suspicion
—
about the process of conversion to the faith of Abraham,
Isaac, and Jacob.
It was tantalizing to fantasize that he could somehow leave
the heavy yoke of the papacy behind him and opt for a simpler life, based on a
purer faith, perhaps, than he had known until now.
That a different sort of existence might
yet be possible, far from the intrigues and power plays of the papal court.
Would he have the courage to do what was right?
Should he restore the treasures to their
lawful owners, the Jews?
And if he
did so, could he possibly get away with it, unscathed?
Moreover, if he was admitting to the
right of the Jewish people to these looted artifacts, was he not somehow
admitting, as well, to the spiritual supremacy of Judaism?
Whether he wished to acknowledge it fully or not, at the
root of all this was the further question of the lovely Mariamne herself.
How much of his desire to know more
about her religion
—
indeed how much of his inclination to consider the needs of
her people
—
stemmed, in truth, from the strange and powerful attraction
he had felt, from the very beginning, in her presence?
Was it her physical beauty or the beauty
of her brilliant mind that continued to obsess him?
He was a priest, for God
’
s sake
—
the
Holy Father, spiritual heir to the legacy of Christ and the apostles.
He had taken his vows of celibacy and
chastity years ago.
But as part of his continuing fascination with Mariamne and
the religion of her forefathers, he had journeyed the previous week to Ostia,
to attend Friday night services in the synagogue.
Feigning indisposition and fatigue, he
had retired to his bedchamber for an uncharacteristic afternoon nap, informing
his servants that he was not to be disturbed, that his rest period would likely
stretch into the nighttime hours.
He had refused the ministrations of all but the faithful Domitius, who
had bolted the door to the bedchamber and disappeared with Benedictus through a
secret exit from the room, a tunnel originally designed to facilitate the
escape of popes in times of war or siege, should that ever prove necessary.
Disguised as humble travelers, the two had made their way
to where Domitius had tethered two horses several hours earlier, on the
outskirts of the lush orchards near the papal court.
From there it was a three-hour ride to
Ostia.
Hoping to remain unnoticed, Benedictus and Domitius had
seated themselves in a shadowy corner of the men
’
s gallery
in the synagogue to observe the service. Thanks to their scholarly experience
with Hebrew texts, for both had been educated to read ancient tongues, they
followed the prayers with quiet interest.
Benedictus had even taken note of the location of the
mikva
, the
ritual bath in whose waters proselytes would immerse to complete the process of
conversion to Judaism after they had been circumcised.
When the prayer service ended, several
congregants approached to ask if he and Domitius needed shelter for the night
or wished to join them for the Sabbath meal, but they declined, returning to
where their horses waited for the long ride back to Rome.
Hours later, as they finally reentered the Pope
’
s
bedchamber and quietly sealed the hidden exit, they heard some soft noises
outside the door.
Perhaps they were
the footsteps of one of the servants, come to check if the Pope had risen from
his bed.
A shadow seemed to move
along the narrow space between the lower margin of the door and the tiled
floor, slowly, deliberately.
Unbolting the heavy wooden door, Domitius saw that a supper
tray for two had been left on a small table in the hallway. The food was cold.
It had probably been left there hours
ago.
He picked it up and brought it
into the room.
Benedictus walked slowly towards the basilica with a heavy
heart, though his face did not betray his emotions.
It was time to celebrate the mass, and
all would partake in Holy Communion.
He would offer the same host and the same wine, as he did each Sunday
morning, the ritual as familiar to him as the face that had peered back at him
with troubled eyes from the polished mirror as he adjusted the ceremonial miter
on his forehead.
He was apprehensive at the thought of facing the bishops
and deacons who had assembled here for mass.
What is it? he asked himself. Why am I
so unnerved?
No one had seen him go or return from Ostia.
No one had recognized him in the
synagogue.
How could they?
No Jew, in fact, but Mariamne had ever
been granted an audience with Pope.
Only she had seen his face, and since women did not attend synagogue
prayers on Friday evenings, there had been no danger of exposure.
He had taken no foolish risks
—
or
at least none that he knew of.
And yet he felt, somehow, that his secret was not safe.
For over the past few days, one at a time and under varying
circumstances, he had been approached by several of the bishops, seemingly by
accident, wherever he happened to be
—
twice in the corridors of the papal palace, once at
mealtime, and once outside his private chapel.
Each had demanded, some more
courteously, some less politely, that he decide, once and for all, about the new
tax.
These were easy revenues to be
had, they had insisted.
Why should
the Church worry about the economic hardships of those who had not only
rejected her teachings, but who had murdered their Lord?
The Church deserved these extra
funds.
Truly, the Jews were
responsible for their own misery.
What was there to discuss or even consider?
Entering the basilica, he approached the high altar, gazing
distractedly at the assembled clerics.
He raised the host aloft, and then, turning to a young deacon who was to
assist him, he waited for the sacramental wine to be poured into the large
silver chalice.
He began to chant,
“
In
n
ò
mine Patris
,
”
as he had
done so many times before. Now, however, he found himself stumbling
—
unexpectedly,
inexplicably
—
over the words.
Benedictus gazed uncertainly, as if hypnotized, into the
chalice.
Its contents were blood
red, like the blood of Christ, he thought dully, a purpled crimson.
His reflection wavered on the surface of
the wine, his features suffused by the deep scarlet color of the drink.
Should he taste it? Should he take
communion?
He sensed that the
others were watching him.
His hand
trembled, and a few drops splashed onto his white robes, startling him out of
his reverie.
Is this an omen? he
wondered.
Then an elderly bishop approached, one who had been
fiercely opposed even to Benedictus
’
initial,
seemingly harmless, meeting with Mariamne.
He extended his wrinkled hand, as if to steady the chalice that
Benedictus held.
“
Perhaps
the Holy Father is having a relapse of last Friday
’
s illness,
”
he
suggested with deliberate emphasis, his eyes narrowing slightly.
“
Perhaps the Holy Father requires some help in drinking the
sacramental wine,
”
he
added, as he raised the chalice and held it to the Pope
’
s lips.
What am I doing? Benedictus thought desperately as the wine
was forced with violent hands into his mouth.
Mariamne, what have I done?