have, some of which might blacken the reputation of the society and the good name of Saint Ignatius, but nothing compared with what was coming. Rafael had been the one to ask, and would be the one to suffer the consequences.
‘Since Jesus died, though there have always been questions’ — he searched for the right word — ‘what happened to him.’
‘He arose on the third day,’ Rafael objected.
‘That’s the fairy tale they tell in catechism.’
‘We don’t need any other,’ Rafael argued. One shouldn’t complicate what was simple.
‘It was good enough, Santini — in fact, for many years — but things changed with the Inquisition.’
‘The Inquisition is always to blame,’ he replied.
‘The Inquisition, as you know, created antibodies. The Jews, who had no love for Catholics, earned our hatred, a hatred that endures even today.’
Robin continued to relate how the Jews who fled started actual expeditions to the Holy Land, sometimes disguised as converted Christians or even as Muslims. The remains of parchments began to appear. Nothing special at first, later parchments from Jerusalem, Qumran, Syria, and the Middle East. Miqwa’ot, tombs, ossuaries. The church tried to keep on top of these discoveries, paid thieves and tomb robbers to intercept whatever was excavated, but that Hanukkah gang — Robin’s words — always defended themselves well. In the time of Leo X in 1517, rumors were heard for the first time of the discovery of a parchment that identified the location of the tomb that held Christ, and that text mentioned another parchment that had never been heard of before… the Gospel of Jesus.
‘The what?’ Rafael asked, astonished. Had he heard right? He got up and took off his jacket. He needed air. ‘What parchment is it that mentions that gospel?’
‘The Gospel of Mary Magdalene.’
‘But that didn’t appear until the nineteenth century.’
‘It reappeared in the nineteenth century is a better way to put it. Loyola never succeeded in bringing it to Rome.’
‘It’s too much to take in at one time,’ Rafael complained.
‘Do you think?’ Robin asked, seated with his legs crossed and Loyola’s book on his lap. ‘That’s nothing. The worst is yet to come.’
48
‘Manuscripts? What manuscripts?’ Schmidt asked, looking out the window.
A downpour with heavy wind was pounding Rome. Below, in Saint Peter’s Square, a few brave souls tried to zip up their raincoats, and others ran under the arcade to seek shelter. Banks of black clouds closed over the Eternal City as if preparing for the universal flood. The tourists and faithful looked like insects scurrying from the water and sheltering under its immense roof. It was afternoon in the Vatican, but it looked more like night- time.
‘The weather’s not going to change today,’ William observed indifferently.
‘If it’s confidential, I understand,’ Schmidt said, excusing himself. He didn’t want to put Tarcisio in a difficult position. Whatever was going to happen was enough.
William shot a constraining look at the secretary. Obviously he wasn’t going to share a papal secret with a simple priest, especially if he might cease to be one soon.
‘It’s confidential,’ Tarcisio confirmed uncomfortably. He wanted to reveal everything and let the logical, rational mind of the Austrian iceman analyze the case and come to conclusions, but he couldn’t do that in front of William.
Whether by fate or divine intervention, Trevor, the secretary of state’s assistant, knocked lightly on the door and came in with a cordless phone in his hand.
‘Excuse the interruption, Your Eminence,’ he said fearfully.
‘What is it, Trevor?’
‘A call for Cardinal William.’
‘Who is it?’ William asked, approaching Trevor.
‘David Barry, Your Eminence.’
William took the phone from Trevor, or, more correctly, snatched it from his hand. ‘If it’s all right with you, I’ll talk outside, gentlemen.’
‘Do as you wish, William,’ Tarcisio said.
William left with Trevor behind him, and the two men continued to watch the heavy rain come down on the square.
‘If this keeps up, the Tiber will overflow its banks,’ Schmidt observed.
‘Let’s hope it stops. I’m going to pray it does.’ Tarcisio turned his back on the window and went to sit on the leather sofa. He was too old to confront the Sodom and Gomorrah that contaminated society. The world was going to hell, and at an amazing speed. To find young people capable of devoting themselves to more than video games and iPods was like looking for a needle in a haystack. Consumerism was the new religion and, with every day that passed, gained followers more easily than any other faith.
A lightning bolt lit up the dark day for a brief instant, followed immediately by a deafening thunderclap.
‘God save us!’ Tarcisio cried out, terrified. ‘Sit next to me,’ he asked Schmidt. ‘I’m going to tell you the story of the manuscripts.’
Schmidt approached his friend and held up his hand. ‘Tarcisio, I don’t want you to tell me things you cannot or ought not tell,’ he said forcefully. ‘Friendship should not override duty.’
Tarcisio smiled. An admonishment like that could come only from Schmidt, who was always more concerned about the welfare of others than his own. Friends like Schmidt were becoming extinct.
‘Sit down, my friend,’ he sighed with consternation. ‘The problem is that I don’t trust William.’
‘Why not?’ Schmidt asked curiously, sitting down by his Italian friend.
‘I’m not sure he can be trusted.’
‘He’s a cardinal in the Apostolic Roman Catholic Church, a prince of the church, like you. He is the prefect of the Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith. What more do you need?’ Schmidt argued.
‘I know his credentials, Hans. That’s not the problem, nor is his dedication to the church,’ Tarcisio replied, choosing his words carefully. ‘I don’t know what side he’s on or what his goal is.’
‘Is that your impression?’ Schmidt asked, almost condescendingly. ‘His methods have gotten results. Rafael has got information. The girl is with Ben Isaac. Skepticism aside, he’s given us a suspect, and what a suspect. The glorious Society of Jesus.’
Tarcisio listened attentively. A cold analysis, based only on facts, relegating opinion and feelings to second place. That’s how Schmidt was. That’s why Tarcisio needed him.
‘Maybe it’s just an impression,’ Tarcisio agreed.
‘It is. He’s on our side,’ his friend assured him.
‘Let’s forget that,’ the secretary decided to change the subject. ‘The parchments I was telling you about were mentioned for the first time during the time of Leo the Tenth, specifically in 1517.’
Egidio Canisio, a prelate whom Leo X named a cardinal, had a prestigious professor of Hebrew with vast connections in Jerusalem. His name was Elias Levita. It was he who told Leo X about a document that mentioned where the bones of Christ reposed.
‘That would be a disaster,’ Schmidt remarked.
‘Leo the Tenth knew that. He was an astute businessman before he became a man of the church.’
‘I know. He was the one who had the bright idea to sell indulgences,’ Schmidt mocked.
‘Don’t remind me. He offered a license to sell indulgences in all the Germanic territories to a Dominican, Johann Tetzel. That’s why Luther did what he did.’
‘That’s another story,’ Schmidt said, going back to the subject they were discussing.
‘Well, moving along, Leo the Tenth kept everything secret and appointed his nephew to personally investigate
