The Parchment (9 page)

Someone tapped lightly on the door.

“Come in, Sister Fiorina.” From the lateness of the hour, the cardinal assumed it was the housekeeper here to vacuum the floor and tidy up his desk. Instead, a Swiss Guard stuck his head into Barbo's office.

“Eminence. You have a visitor.”

“At five in the morning?”

“Yes. He says you're expecting him.”

Barbo was curious. “Show him in.”

A tall thin man carrying an overnight bag entered Barbo's office. For a moment, Barbo stared vacantly at his early morning visitor.

“Jean Calvaux! My mind was elsewhere. I apologize — I didn't recognize you.”

Calvaux smiled. “Without a red hat, a cardinal is indistinguishable from the rest of mankind.”

“Come, sit down. I didn't expect you so early.” Barbo moved some books off his office couch.

“My brother volunteered the use of his company's Lear jet. I arrived here much faster than I expected.” Calvaux put down his overnight bag and fell back onto Barbo's couch. “How are the hostages doing?”

“There have been no reports for several hours. If Israel will agree to free all the terrorists, the crisis would be over. We've pushed the Israelis as far as we can. It's up to the Americans now.”

“How much time is left before Hamas starts executing the hostages?”

“Seven hours.”

Calvaux paused for a moment. “And why does the Holy Father wish to see me?”

“I'll let His Holiness tell you himself. You know it's a coincidence that you should be here in my office. Tonight I've been reading a history of medieval France, and your family's name is mentioned prominently in several places.”

“Yes, during the twelfth century, the Montelamberts became vassals of the Duke of Provence and were given seisin over the castle of Cours-des-Trois. There's even a legend associated with the Montelamberts. As I'm sure you can appreciate, Francesco, there's nothing better than a family legend to increase notoriety.”

“What's the legend? This history I'm reading makes no mention of it.”

“During the Crusades, an ancestor, Gerard de Montelambert, is said to have discovered a cave where in 70 AD Jewish priests had hidden sacred vessels and census records from the Temple of Herod. They were put there to keep them from being destroyed by the Romans.”

“Census records?” A chill ran through Barbo's body.

“Yes. Historically, Jews have always kept meticulous records of births and marriages, because it proves who they are as a people.”

“I want to hear the legend.”

“Perhaps there will be time after meeting with the Holy Father.”

“We'll make the time.” Barbo looked at his watch. “It's almost five thirty. You must be exhausted. Let's find you a room in our new Vatican hotel, the Domus Sanctae Marthae.”

“Thank you, Francesco. The Domus has turned out to be a boon for visiting prelates like me.”

Barbo picked up the phone. “Not only that, Jean, it will also make the next conclave easier for all of us.”

“No more cots outside the Sistine Chapel?”

“No more cots.”

Calvaux smiled. “Too bad, though. The cots usually made for a short conclave.”
Cardinal Barbo awoke with a start. Sister Fiorina was standing over him.

“Eminence, it is time to go home.” She handed him a towel and an enamel basin of cold water.

“Thank you, Sister.” Barbo splashed the cold water on his face.

Fiorina organized the piles of correspondence that lay scattered around Barbo's office. She took the history of medieval France from the cardinal's lap and laid it on his desk. “No more reading, Eminence. Your eyes are bloodshot — as red as your zucchetto.”

“I will go home after I say Mass for Pope Benedict.”

Fiorina threw up her hands in exasperation. “Do they make every Prince of the Church as stubborn as you?”

Barbo climbed the staircase to the pope's apartment. A rather animated Sister Consuela met him at the door.

“Your Eminence, you must talk some sense into the Holy Father. He has dressed himself and wants to go to St. Peter's tomb under the Basilica. It is too dangerous for him.”

The pontiff's eyes lit up when he saw Barbo.

“Francesco, Sister Consuela won't let me go by myself. Maybe she'll relent if I'm accompanied by the cardinal secretary of state.”

Barbo knew it was unwise to incur Sister Consuela's wrath. “Holy Father, it is difficult for men our age to climb down to the tomb.”

The pontiff rummaged through a drawer in his desk. “Francesco, with your right arm and this flashlight, we should do fine.”

Sister Consuela continued to hold her ground. “One of the Swiss Guards should accompany you.”

Pope Benedict shook his head impatiently. “No, Sister Consuela, I want a private audience with St. Peter. I'll allow Francesco to come but no one else.”

Consuela knew when she was defeated. She looked plaintively at Barbo. “Your Eminence, you must watch his every step. The Holy Father is unsure on his feet.”

Barbo took Sister Consuelas hand. “I'll walk ahead of him so he won't fall.”

The two men climbed down a winding staircase under the Basilica. At the bottom of the staircase was an ancient necropolis that had been excavated in the 1950s during the pontificate of Pope Pius XII. At the far end of the necropolis was a tomb that archaeologists believe to be the burial place of St. Peter.

The lights had long since been turned off, so the pope shone the flashlight on the tomb. “When I have a difficult decision to make, I often come here and speak to Peter. We have a good relationship.” Barbo saw tears well up in Benedict's eyes. “Francesco, pray with me.”

The two men, pope and cardinal, knelt on the ground and recited the fifteen decades of the Rosary, each focusing on some aspect of the life of Christ and Mary His mother. When they had finished, Benedict stood up and looked at Barbo.

“Francesco, leave me alone for a few minutes. I have something to tell Peter.” Barbo saw Benedict place his hand on Peter's tomb and kiss the stone. After a few minutes, the Holy Father walked back to where Barbo was standing. The pope put his hand on Barbo's shoulder. “Francesco, I have decided to abdicate my position as Supreme Pontiff of the Catholic Church. It must be done quickly. Help me see this through.”

“Holiness, I understand your fear of Alzheimer's, but there must be another way.”

“Francesco, we have been friends for many years. You know as well as I there is no other way. My bouts of forgetfulness will grow longer and increasingly severe. Peter has given me the strength to make the decision.”

“Please reconsider, Holy Father. Your abdication would be unprecedented.”

“Perhaps in modern times but we both know Celestine V abdicated in 1294. He simply couldn't govern the Church.”

“Yes, but Dante put him in hell for what he did.”

“Dante's assessment was not the final word. Ten years after his abdication, the Church canonized Celestine. His feast day is May nineteenth.”

“But your abdication will create dissension in the Church.”

“No more so than my death, Francesco.”

“Who is ready to take your place?”

“Perhaps it will be you, Francesco.”

Barbo's face grew pale.

Shaken by Pope Benedict's decision to abdicate, Barbo returned to his apartment. After showering and putting on a change of clothes, he called Cardinal Calvaux in the Domus Sanctae Marthae.

“I hope you had a chance to get some sleep, Jean.”

“Yes, I did. When is my audience with Pope Benedict?”

“The Holy Father will not be able to see you today as he had planned. Perhaps you could join me for breakfast. I'd like to hear about your family legend.”

“My pleasure.”

“There's a wonderful pasticceria near Borgo Santo Spirito. It opens early to accommodate the clerical traffic. Come to my office at eight thirty.”

Cardinal Barbo was a frequent customer at Pasticceria di San Paolo. Before the two cardinals were seated, a splendid array of brioche and pastries magically appeared on the table.

“Try the pastries. They rival those made in your country, Jean.”

Calvaux put his hands in the air defensively. “I'll stick with toast and jam.”

“I understand you went to the Gregorian University for theology.”

“Yes, the Jesuits were superb teachers.”

“And your dissertation was on the massacre of the Cathars at Montsegur?”

Calvaux was impressed that Barbo had gone to the trouble of studying his resume. “Yes, it's left me with a passion for fourteenth-century French history.”

“It's curious. My dissertation at the ‘Greg’ was on the Knights Templar.”

Calvaux signaled the waiter for another espresso. “Both groups got pretty shabby treatment from the papacy and the French monarchy.”

“We have some time, Jean. Tell me your family legend.”

“About Gerard de Montelambert?”

“Yes and his discovery of the census records.”

Calvaux thought for a moment. “The Montelambert legend actually begins centuries before Gerard was born. It starts in first-century Palestine with one of our ancestors — a wine merchant from Gaul named Evardus.”

Barbo leaned forward and cupped his chin in his right hand. “Start where you will, Jean.”

THE DEATH
F A RABBI

T
ITUS FLAVIUS SABINUS
, son of the Roman Emperor Vespasian and commander of the Roman Legions in Asia, stood on the Mount of Olives looking out over the Valley of the Kedron to the walls of Jerusalem. At thirty-one, Titus was in the prime of his life. Although shorter than the average Roman, he was a feared opponent, whether on the battlefield or in the gladiatorial arena. With his brawny arms and broad shoulders, he could crack the neck of a man like a dried twig. With his olive complexion and curly hair, Titus exuded the animal magnetism of a stallion in search of a female to mount. Women found him irresistible. He reciprocated with feats of sexual prowess that exhausted even the most lecherous courtesan. Titus boasted that during one imperial banquet, he seduced the wives of four Senators and then took to bed his lover—a sixteen-year-old male slave. “The people call me a god. They want to see me act like one. The great Alexander could not have done better.”

Titus's prowess was not confined to the bedroom. He was a shrewd and cunning negotiator, with an instinctive sense of timing. He knew exactly when to act and when to hold back. His resourcefulness had recently been proven to his father. While Vespasian was commander of the legions of Asia and Titus was his second in command, a disastrous fire broke out in Rome. Although Emperor Nero accused a religious sect called Christians of starting the conflagration, the Senate blamed Nero. Convinced that the emperor had caused the fire, three officers of the Praetorian Guard—the troops assigned to protect Rome — broke into Nero's bed chamber, pulled him off his wife and stabbed him repeatedly in the chest. Nero's murder set off an immediate struggle for power, one group in the Senate vying against another. As the military force closest to
Rome, the Praetorian Guard had much to say in choosing the next emperor. When no senatorial faction could win the Guard's allegiance, however, the governor of Spain, Servius Galba, proclaimed himself emperor and marched on Rome to claim the prize. The Praetorian Guard put up no resistance.

Once Galba had solidified his power, he wasted no time in summoning Vespasian to Italy. “Having the general who commands our legions in Asia come to Rome,” Galba wrote, “would be a sign of unity in the Empire.”

When Galba's letter arrived, Vespasian read it and handed it to Titus. “Galba must take me for a fool. If I return to Rome, he will have me killed. I am his only rival.”

“Father, send me in your place.”

“What excuse would I give Galba for sending you?”

Titus thought for a moment. “The Jews are your excuse. They defeated the Twelfth Legion and captured its eagles. Until the Jews are crushed and the eagles restored to Rome, you cannot leave Palestine.”

“But if you take my place, he will kill you.”

“When you fear the lion, Father, you are careful not to harm the cub. Killing me would only lead to war, and at the moment that is the last thing Galba wants. No, he will accept my vows of loyalty—particularly when I wrap them in flights of birds and showers of meteors.”

“What do you mean?”

“Galba is no fool, but he is superstitious. Let me invent a dream, Father. One night while asleep, you saw a golden eagle land on the steps of the Capitoline Hill. The eagle slowly scratched the letter ‘G’ on the ground. When you awoke, you consulted your soothsayers. The dream, they said, foretold that Galba would become emperor and that his reign would usher in a second golden age for the empire.”

“Who would believe such a ridiculous story?” asked Vespasian.

Titus pulled a sheet over his shoulders and ran around his father's tent flapping his arms like a bird. “Galba would. He believes that birds bring messages from the gods.”

“Titus, I am glad you are my son and not my enemy. Go to Rome and tell Galba about my dream.”

Titus bowed to his father. “The next time you are called to Rome, Father, it will be as emperor.”

Titus traveled to Italy in April of the year 69
A.D
. Although initially suspicious of his adversary's son, Galba was gradually won over by Titus's charm and diplomatic skills. But there was a side to Titus that Galba did not see. Although he would praise and flatter Galba during the day, Titus sowed seeds of discontent at night. At dinners with prominent members of the senate, he would hint that Galba was thinking of disbanding that institution. When drinking in out-of-the-way tavernas with officers of the Praetorian Guard, he would toast his father's loyalty to the gods of Rome. Galba, he said, had failed to worship at the Temple of Jupiter when he had first entered Rome at the head of his legions.