Instantly, the entire cathedral was in an uproar, but Jeza allowed no time for the dust to settle.
“Come, eyes of the world,” she announced to the astonished media. “Come and bear witness to God's revelations of truth!”
Jeza bounded down the steps of the altar, off toward the north sacristy door, leaving a flustered di Concerci and a disheveled pope in the smoke of her destruction. The Swiss Guard looked nervously toward the pontiff and di Concerci for guidance. The media, caught totally unawares, scrambled to mount a pursuit.
Keeping up with the swift-moving Messiah was an impossibility for the live-coverage video crews, whose bulky broadcast cameras and equipment prevented rapid redeployment. But not so for the print media, who quickly joined in the chase. Feldman, Hunter and Cissy, who were one of the few with entirely mobile video capabilities, nevertheless found themselves out of position, and had to struggle to catch up.
Jon Feldman was completely overcome by what had just transpired. Hunter, panting along next to him, his camera and equipment haphazardly slung over his shoulder, looked at his friend in amazement. “God,” he puffed, “would you believe, right after the cardinal's vicious attack, I said to Cissy, ‘Only a miracle's gonna save that little lady this time!’ God damn!”
And yet here they were, plunging headlong after this incredible woman once again, the entire momentum of events suddenly slammed into reverse, hurtling back in her favor. Not knowing where he was going, or why, Feldman's heart raced out of control in his chest. Not from exertion, but from excitement. His mind was reeling, frantically attempting to keep pace with his feet.
Back at the smoldering altar, amid the swirl and confusion, a stone-faced di Concerci grabbed his distraught pope's trembling arm to assist him from his throne.
“No,” his pontiff replied in a shaken voice, staring in the direction of Jeza's departure. “Tell the Guard to stand down. We don't know what we're dealing with here, Antonio, and I don't choose to antagonize this woman any further. If indeed she's God's messenger, let her reveal her truths, whatever they may be. And let her leave us as quickly as possible!”
After exiting the great basilica, Jeza took a right past the Sistine Chapel and continued her northerly course into the grottoes, an area of the Vatican Feldman had yet to see. Hurrying beneath the scowling statue of Saint Andrew, she entered the long corridors of the Vatican Library, passed under the Torre dei Venti, the Tower of the Winds, and continued on through the Museum of the Profane.
Jeza wheeled through the venerable halls at a surprising gait for someone of such small stature. As she and the winded troop following her neared the end of the corridor, their passage was blocked by a large bronze porticoed double door. The entrance was manned on either side by two stalwart young Swiss Guardsmen who, at the sight of the approaching crowd, reflexively crossed their halberds in front of the threshold. But, after a quick check on their radio phones, the guards, exchanging looks of disbelief, unlocked and unbolted the huge doors, stepped back into attention and reassumed their impassive stare.
“Oh my God!” Feldman heard an Italian-accented woman behind him exclaim in English.
82
The Vatican Secret Archives, Vatican City, Rome, Italy 1:41 P.M., Sunday, March 19, 2000
Beyond these doors lay Bramante's Corridor, the first floor of what is the largest, least-understood, most shrouded depository of knowledge in the world. This was the fabled Bibliotheca Secreta, a suppressed papal mystery that traced its origins back to the first centuries A.D., to the very presence of the four evangelists themselves.
An excited murmur from her followers surrounded the prophetess as she placed her palms against both huge doors and with one, powerful thrust, heaved them aside full force, crashing and jarring them violently against their stops. Before them stood the dust-laden vista of eras long passed. A murky, brooding milieu interrupted at regular intervals by parallel diagonals of sunlight cast from high windows. Across the barrel vaults of the lofty ceilings, mischievous imps and horned satyrs grinned down from faded murals.
Advancing into the musty dimness, Jeza pressed onward past innumerable aisles of fourteen-foot-high, hand-carved wooden bookcases. Stacked in monkish fastidiousness along the shelves were countless thousands of letters, autographs, calligraphies, original manuscripts, one-of-a-kind transcriptions, documents and codices of priceless, hidden, forgotten wisdoms.
A young newspaper reporter, in better shape than most of his colleagues, managed to overtake the racing prophetess. “Jeza!” he puffed. “Where are we?”
“We are among the dark secrets of the ages,” she announced, without looking at her pursuer. Blindly, she pointed down a passing aisle to her left. “There, recorded in Hebrew, the original Gospels of Matthew and the lost Apocrypha of Thomas.”
She switched her aim to a high shelf on her right. “Here, the missing Gospels of James the Lessor.” She began a series of rapid, random spearings with her index fingers. “The lost
Hunter, Feldman and Cissy could only fleetingly ogle the wealth of disintegrating manuscripts as they hastened along. Many of the bound volumes bore the rubricated coat of arms of the respective popes who reigned during their acquisition, with roman numeral dates embossed on the spines of the blanched and cracked bindings. Hunter stopped periodically with his camera to catalogue as many forbidden tomes as he could before dashing on to catch up with the group.
Jeza never slowed to consider her direction, but moved ever onward, around corners through archways, leading her troop deeper and deeper into the bowels of the archives. Soon they arrived at yet another large bronze double door, sentried by a lone, dour-faced friar in brown robe sitting behind a desk. As the monk watched this strange posse bear down on him, his eyes grew wide, he anxiously rose to his feet and stepped protectively in front of the doorway.
Jeza trained her irresistible glare on him and demanded forcefully, “Unbar the door!” Which he did, with nervous fingers and fumbling keys, without hesitation.
Drawing open the doors, the quaking monk admitted them down a long, broad flight of stone stairs. The expansive repository that awaited them at the bottom was of relatively recent renovation, its appearance open and contemporary. It occupied the basement deep under the Cortile della Pigna, the least accessible extremity of the archives.
Here resided the most private, jealously guarded reservoir of the Holy Roman Catholic Church. The enormous vault contained over fifty thousand meters of flat, metal file cabinets, each drawer meticulously numbered and labeled. Within these drawers, whose latches were individually protected by an unbroken wax impression of the official papal seal, lay thirteen hundred years of detailed Vatican documents. Listed year by year, they held all surviving papal records, in succession, from the sparse materials of A.D. 692, all the way through the complete dossiers of the most recent calendar year, bearing the fresh, red-wax stamp of December 31, 1999.
The files were arranged in long, endless rows, interrupted systematically by cubicles housing computer workstations with the latest in data-processing equipment. The highly classified materials and information stored here included all existing acts and documents relevant to the government of the Church. Everything from minutes of private papal meetings to copies of papal correspondence, privileged notes and messages, and all the working papers at the service of the pope and his court.
Withdrawing to an open anteroom just inside the entranceway, Jeza moved to a large chalkboard at the far end. When finally the surviving news teams had collected themselves in front of her, Jeza raised her hand and the
