The Thirteenth Apostle (11 page)

He found himself right in the middle of the central bay, his right arm stretched forwards, a forbidden book under his left arm, in a place he should never have entered, and to which he was not supposed to possess the key. It seemed to him as if the book stacks were moving away to either side of him so as to leave him even more alone and exposed to every gaze. Pitilessly, the spotlights shone out from the wall and berated him: “Father Nil, what are you doing here? How did you get hold of that key? What's that book? And why, yes, why did you borrow it yesterday evening? So what are you looking for, Father Nil? You did nothing else but sleep last night? Why were your wits so far away during this morning's office?”

He was about to be discovered, and he suddenly remembered Andrei's frequent warnings.

And he also remembered his friend's body rigid in death, lying by the tracks of the Rome express, his fist raised in anger against the sky.

As if he were accusing his assassin.

22

Gospel according to St John

Early on that Sunday morning, the women came back from the tomb, stupefied from finding it empty. They told the incredulous apostles a story about men in white so mysterious
that they could only be angels. Peter told them to be silent. “Angels! Old wives' tales!” The Judaean signalled to him. They slipped out of the house.

They walked for a while in silence, and then started to run. Peter was soon outdistanced, and was out of breath by the time he reached the garden: the two Essenes had left without waiting for him, but the Judean, who had arrived first, told the apostle how he had been able to speak to the Essenes. Yet again he had the advantage, yet again he was the privileged witness.

Peter, furious, returned to the upper room alone: without a word of explanation, the Judaean had headed off in another direction and was making for a wealthy-looking house in the west district.

The sect of the Essenes had come into being two centuries previously. It comprised monastic communities living separate from the world, as in Qumran, and lay communities who led more normal lives within Jewish society. The Jerusalem community was the biggest, and had even given its name to the western district of the city. Eliezer Ben-Akkai was its leader.

He gave his visitor a warm greeting.

“You were one of us for a long time – if you had not become one of Jesus's disciples, you'd probably have been my successor. As you know, the temple Jews hate us and refuse to accept the fact that we bury our dead in burial grounds that are separate from theirs. Some of these are hidden in the middle of the desert. Impure hands must never profane our tombs.”

“I know all that, Rabbi, and I share your desire to preserve the last dwelling place of the Just Men of Israel.”

“Jesus the Nazorean was one of those Just Men. His final place of burial must remain secret.”

“Eliezer… you are old now. You must not be the only person to know where Jesus's tomb lies.”

“My two sons, Adon and Osias, are carrying his body at this very moment. They know the place, as do I, and they will transmit the secret of the tomb.”

“What if something were to happen to them? You must entrust the secrets to me too.”

Eliezer Ben-Akkai stroked his sparse beard for a long time. His visitor was right; peace with Rome was extremely fragile, and it could all explode at any moment. He placed his hands on his visitor's shoulders.

“Brother, you have always been worthy of our trust. But remember: if you were to deliver the remains of our dead into the hatred of our enemies, the Eternal One himself would be judge between us and you!”

He glanced into the room, where Essenes were coming and going. He moved away to the corner of a window and beckoned his companion to follow him.

He leant forwards, and murmured a few words into his ear.

When they separated in silence, the two men gazed at each other for a long time. Their faces were particularly grave.

As he went home, the Judaean smiled. Jesus's tomb would not be the object of any power struggle.

23

Still dazzled by the glaring light that had flooded the library, Nil glanced down the nearest row of books: it was empty in the middle, and as smooth as the palm of a hand. He stepped forwards: at the far end of the second-century book stack, two big boxes had been placed – books that needed to be
catalogued. He quickly slipped behind them, hearing as he did so the characteristic rustle of an approaching robe. Was it a monk's habit, or the cassock of one of the traditionalist students? If they were coming to fetch a book from the second-century stacks, he was doomed. But perhaps the person approaching wasn't coming for a book? Perhaps he'd seen Nil enter, and was harbouring quite different intentions?

Nil crouched down.

The visitor passed the second-century stacks without stopping. Nil, hidden away in the shadows at the far end, behind the boxes, held his breath. He heard the man going into the first-century stacks from which he had taken away the
M M M
on the previous day, and he suddenly regretted that he had not thought to shift the neighbouring books on the bookshelf to disguise the big empty gap.

There was a moment of silence, then he made out the visitor's footsteps passing his stack, heading away towards the library entrance. He had not been spotted. Who was the intruder? A monk's footsteps can be recognized from those of a thousand others: he never attacks the ground with his heel, but slides his foot forwards and seems to be walking on a cushion of air.

It wasn't one of the students.

The main lights suddenly went out, and Nil heard the sound of the door closing, which automatically locked the door. His forehead was drenched with perspiration. He waited for a moment, then rose. Everything was dark and silent.

When he came out, having put the
M M M
back in its place, the north-wing corridor was empty: now he had to put the keys back where he had taken them from. The door to the librarian's office was still not locked. Nil went in and switched on the light: Andrei's clothes were still hanging over the back of his chair.
His heart was beating as he seized the trousers and thrust the bunch of keys into one of the pockets. He knew that he would never return to this office – never as he had done before. One last time he gazed round at the bookshelves in which Andrei stacked the books he had received before putting them in the library.

At the top of one pile, he noticed a book that did not have a label with its access number. His attention was drawn to the title:

“The edition of the Apocrypha he had been working on for ten years – finally published!”

Nil opened the work: a remarkable piece of scholarship, published with the aid of the CNRS, the French research centre. On the left-hand page, the Coptic text patiently established by Andrei and, on the right, a translation. His friend's last work: a testament.

He had lingered in this office for too long, and he came to a sudden decision.
Someone
had stolen from his cell Andrei's last note, addressed to him alone like a message from beyond the grave. Well, this book that his friend had received just before leaving, into which he had poured all his knowledge and all his love – this book belonged to
him
– to Nil. It was not yet labelled, and so had not been entered into the catalogue of the Abbey: nobody in the world could possibly know that he was appropriating it today. He wanted this book for himself. From beyond death it was like a hand held out by a man who would never publish anything again – would never again sit
down in this chair to listen to him, his head bent forwards, a mischievous gleam in the narrow slit of his eyes.

Resolutely, he slipped the edition of the Apocrypha of Nag Hammadi under his scapular, and went back out into the corridor.

As he headed for the stairs, his mind filled with the solitude in which he would henceforth dwell, he did not notice the shadowy figure flattened against the wall next to the high door of Biblical Studies. The shadow was that of a monk's habit.

On the smooth fabric a pectoral cross was dangling; the monk's right hand was caressing it nervously. On his ring finger, a very simple metal ring reflected no light.

Nil went back to his cell, closed the door behind him and stood stock still. When he had gone down for the office of lauds a while ago, he had left the labours of the night before meticulously arranged in small separate heaps. The pages were now scattered everywhere, as if by a gust of wind.

But it was November, and his window was closed. It had been closed since the day before.

Someone
had again come into his cell. They had come in and searched it. They had searched it and perhaps taken away some of his notes.

24

Acts of the Apostles

“Peter, what has happened to Jesus's body?”

Peter looked all round. Three weeks had already gone by since Jesus's death, and all that time he had not left the upper
room. Just a hundred or so sympathizers were there on this particular morning, and the same question was being urgently asked on every side.

At the far end of the room, their host was the only man standing, leaning against a wall. A score of men were sitting around him, turning their eyes alternately towards him and then to the window, at the foot of which the Eleven were all gathered together. Supporters, perhaps? “Now,” thought Peter, “it's him or me.”

The apostle looked at his ten companions. Andrew his brother, who was biting his lower lip; John and James, the sons of Zebedee; Matthew, the former customs officer… None of them possessed the stature of a leader.

Someone would have to stand up in the midst of this rudderless crowd. Stand up and speak out – for, just now, this was the only way to seize power.

Peter took a deep breath and stood up. The light from the window illumined him from behind, leaving his face in the shadow.

“Brothers…”

In spite of all his efforts, he had not managed to find out where the Essenes had buried Jesus's body after removing it from the tomb. “He is the only witness apart from me? Does
he
know? I must grab the attention of these people and assert my authority once and for all.” He decided to ignore the questions of the throng, and measured them with his gaze. They were about to find out that it was he who had executed God's judgement. God had used his abilities, and God would use them again.

“Brothers, Judas had to endure his destiny. He was one of the Twelve, and he was a traitor: he fell on his face, his belly opened, and his entrails were shed on the sand.”

A deathly silence fell on the room. Only the man who had murdered Judas could know these details. He had just publicly confessed that the hand which had held the dagger was not that of some Zealot, but his own.

He out-stared each of those who had noisily been demanding details of the fate of Jesus's body: under his gaze, one by one, they lowered their eyes.

The beloved disciple, at the far end of the room, was still saying nothing. Peter raised his hand.

“We must replace Judas; someone else needs to take over from him. Let him be chosen from among those who accompanied the Master, from the encounter on the banks of the Jordan up to the end.”

A murmur of approval swept through the gathering, and all eyes turned towards the beloved disciple. He alone could complete the college of the twelve apostles: he had been the first to meet the Master by the Jordan, and he had been his close associate right up to the end. He was obviously the right man to replace Judas.

Peter perceived which way the crowd was inclining.

“We are not the ones who will choose! God must designate the twelfth apostle. We must draw lots. Matthew, take your calamus and write two names on these pieces of bark.

Before Matthew could obey, Peter leant towards him and murmured something in his ear. The former customs officer stared at him in surprise. Then he nodded, sat down and wrote quickly. The two pieces of bark were placed on a kerchief, of which Peter lifted the four corners.

“You there, come over here and draw one of these two names. And may God speak in our midst!”

A young boy rose to his feet, stretched out his hand, plunged
it into the kerchief and took out one of the two pieces

of bark.

Peter seized it and handed it to Matthew.

“I can't read: tell us what's written there.”

Matthew cleared his voice, looked at the piece of bark and proclaimed:

“The name written here is Matthias!”

Protests erupted from the crowd.

“Brothers!” Peter had to shout to make himself heard. “God himself has just designated Matthias as the man to take Judas's place! There are twelve of us again, as at the last meal that Jesus ate before he died, in this very room!”

On every side men were rising to their feet while Peter drew Matthias to himself, embraced him and made him sit amid the Eleven. Then he stared at the beloved disciple, from whom he was separated by the throng of those sitting on the floor. A compact group of sympathizers was surrounding him now, standing erect, their faces sombre. Shouting above the tumult, Peter cried:

“Twelve tribes spoke for God: twelve apostles will speak for Jesus, in his place or in his name. Twelve, and not a single one more:
there will never be a thirteenth apostle!
”

The beloved disciple stared back at him for a long time without flinching, then leant over and murmured a few words in the ear of a curly-headed teenage boy. Suddenly feeling alarmed, Peter slipped his hand into the slit in his tunic and seized the handle of his
sica
. But his rival signed to those surrounding him, and silently made his way towards the door. Thirty or so men followed in his footsteps, their faces inexpressive.

* * *

As soon as he was out in the street, he turned round: the teenage boy had run up to his side, and held out to him the other piece of bark, the one that had slipped from the kerchief abandoned by Peter after the proclamation of God's choice. He asked the young boy: