Ivo pressed his head closer into her.
Again, Pearse said nothing. He leaned over and kissed her. Pulling back, he ran his fingers along her cheek.
Finally, he stood and looked over at Ivo, happily tucked into his mother’s neck.
“I’ll see you soon, little man.”
Without moving, Ivo looked up at him.
“Keep an eye on Mommy for me, okay?”
Ivo smiled.
What more did he need than that?
seven
The last day and a half had been nothing short of a miracle, the first bombings-including the devastation at the Vatican-merely a prelude to the madness of the past nine hours. The wave of fear, mixed with outrage, was producing a kind of support Harris had never experienced in all his years connected with mass movements. Even the millennium nuts were getting involved. Religious commitment-whose death the pundits had been tolling for years- was having a genuine rebirth. Spontaneous rallies were springing up all over the place, doctrinal defensiveness evidently inspiring action. And what had begun with groups in the hundreds-petitioners in city squares, others outside state assemblies demanding greater “spiritual” security-had grown to ten times that number in a matter of hours.
And everywhere that blind hatred and moral indignation were commingling, the alliance was there.
Faith with firepower.
Those not so fortunate to share in the right system of belief were starting to feel the repercussions. Incidences of violence against Arab, Indian, even Chinese communities were occurring in every major city in Europe, as well as in the States. Kreutzberg, a section of Berlin, with the largest group of Turks outside of Turkey, had been the target of prolonged rioting. Stateside, several of the more outlandish radio personalities had taken to reminding their listeners not to forget who would benefit most from a clash between Christians and Muslims. Why not include an old favorite in the new brand of anti-Semitism?
In the meantime, Harris had been called by the PM to help devise a plan for calming the growing hysteria. Ten Downing Street was told it would have to wait. Harris needed to put the finishing touches to a Saturday- afternoon rally at Wembley Stadium. He’d been planning it for months-at the time, nothing more than an appearance to coincide with the alliance announcement. In fact, it had been Stefan Kleist who had suggested the date. The original sale of thirty thousand tickets had ballooned to over seventy in the last twelve hours. English television crews had been told to make space for the internationals, the Times Square Jumbotron in New York even promising to broadcast bits of the session.
Evidently, Savonarola would have his day after all.
The three-hundred-mile drive from Visegrad to Zagreb was eerily quiet, everything, Pearse noticed, virtually deserted. It was as if all of Bosnia and Croatia were holing themselves up. And why not? Who knew better how to gear up for the kind of conflict now boiling to the surface than those who had been caught on its dividing line for centuries?
He’d called the hospital twice along the way. Both times, she’d been asleep. Ivo, as well. No reason to bother them. He’d call again.
Pulling off the highway at Zagreb, he made his way to the station. He’d realized an hour back he needed time with the scroll, time to find out what lay inside, and he wasn’t going to get that in the van. It was why he was now opting for the train. More than that, he knew a train would meet far less rigorous security at the border than the van. Why take the risk? Five to midnight, and he was on board the last overnight to Italy, the scroll-wrapped in velvet-tucked deep inside his pack. The iron box, and everything else Ribadeneyra had placed inside it, remained with the van in the parking lot.
Except for the coins. Those he’d saved for Ivo.
Finding an isolated foursome and table at the end of one of the cars, Pearse settled in. He waited until the conductor had made his rounds, then turned to the scroll.
If he’d anticipated any awe or wonder as he undid the straps, he felt almost none. The scroll was no longer a piece of scripture existing in and of itself. It had a far more defined purpose, regardless of the imagined purity of its message. It was simply one more device to be used. And Pearse knew he was no different from the Manichaeans in that respect. They needed it to establish their church; he needed it to save Angeli and get back to Petra and Ivo. Who was to say which was more noble?
No vacuum dome at his disposal, he laid it out as best he could and began to read.
It took him nearly four and half hours to get through it, his only interruption at the Slovenian border some twenty minutes into the trip. The officer had checked his papers, uninterested in the roll of papyrus carefully placed on the table. Given the events of the past day, itwasn’t an American priest-even one out of black clericals-they were concerned with.
After that, he’d sat undisturbed, his astonishment growing with each verse he read. Device or not, the “Hodoporia” was far more than he expected, especially in its last few verses, his own familiarity with them at first unnerving. Almost disorienting.
Q.
Eight hundred and forty-five verses, and he’d only recognized it in the last half dozen or so.
The “Hagia Hodoporia” was Q, from the German word
Q.
Staring down at the ancient script, he couldn’t quite believe that this was what he had been after all along. Incredible.
Up to this moment, Q had been nothing more than an hypothesis, a scholar’s way to make sense of the central dilemma in Christian theology, the Synoptic Problem. In essence: if Matthew and Luke had used Mark as a common source (as they certainly had), what, then, of the parallel passages in the two Gospels that bore no connection to Mark? In other words, how could either writer-without ever having seen the other’s work-have come up with nearly identical elaborations in his own telling of the story? How? The only answer: another source beyond Mark. And one which, by definition, had to predate the Gospels.
A source contemporary with Christ, and thus unlike any of the four Gospels.
Q.
Reading through it, Pearse knew it was far more than just another exegetical tool. It stood as the last great mystery, even beyond that of the Dead Sea Scrolls.
A link to the Divine. Jesus’ sayings, untouched, pure, written in His lifetime.
Clarity at his fingertips.
Though no expert, Pearse was familiar enough with the scholarship to recognize Q from several of its final verses: “The Coming of John the Baptist,” “John’s Preaching of Repentance,” “John’s Preaching of the Coming One,” and “The Baptism of Jesus.” Matthew 3:1-17, Luke 3:1-22, the first of the non-Markan elaborations. Later still, the “Inaugural Sermon,” “Jesus on Blessings and Woes,” “Retaliation,” “Judging.” More stories: “Jesus’ Temptation,” “The Healing of the Roman Centurion’s Slave,” “The Exorcism of the Mute.” And, of course, the critical passage for any Q scholar-Luke 10:4–6, Matthew 10:10–13:
It was astounding enough to see the verses, one after another, stripped of their usual surroundings, now laid
