The Parchment Read online

  Calvaux smiled. “As long as you intend to do good, you can accept any evil as an unintended consequence of your good intent. No matter how I try, I cannot envision Jesus preaching the ‘Parable of Unintended Consequences.’ You can justify almost anything with that tangled logic.”

  Barbo nodded his head. “Double-effect theory reads well in a theological textbook, but it's not much help when making tough moral choices.”

  “Let me ask you something, Francesco. Suppose you were offered a large sum of money to help the poor in your diocese but the offer had certain conditions attached to it. Would you take the money?”

  “I see your interest in double-effect theory is more than theoretical. I would have to look carefully at the conditions—would they cause a disproportionate amount of evil or....”

  A stewardess interrupted the two cardinals.

  “Cardinal Calvaux, your plane is at the gate.”

  Calvaux finished his espresso and picked up his attaché case. The stewardess escorted the churchmen through the airport concourse to a private gate where Calvaux's plane waited. Barbo and Calvaux shook hands.

  “Jean, we can finish the conversation about double-effect theory when you get back. In the meantime, I'll pray for your success with the president.”

  As the stewardess closed the door of the plane behind Calvaux, the pilot turned on the engines. The plane pushed back from the gate. Barbo noted it was precisely eight o'clock. Calvaux should reach Brise Norton by ten thirty—half an hour before Air Force One was due to arrive.

  When Barbo returned to his office in the Apostolic Palace, Bishop Renini was waiting for him in the reception area. The Bishop held tightly to his brief case.

  “Your Eminence, I have a preliminary report on the Magdalene parchment.”

  “Come into my office.” Barbo signaled Alessandri to join them. “What did you find, Renini?”

  The bishop walked over to Barbo's conference table and opened his brief case. “A member of the library staff discovered this — in a cabinet drawer no less.” Renini took out a yellowed document that had been placed inside a plastic folder. “This doesn't specifically mention a bloodline from the Magdalene but....”

  Barbo grew impatient. “What does it say?”

  “It's a letter from the grand master of the Templars, Jacques de Molay, to someone named Gerard de Montelambert.”

  “Gerard de Montelambert!” Barbo was stunned.

  “We think he was also a Templar.”

  Barbo could hardly contain his excitement. “Read the letter, Renini.”

  “It's only a few lines. ‘Gerard, the Hebrew manuscript is in your safekeeping. Hide it well. Someday the world may come to learn whether there is a divine bloodline.’”

  Barbo knew instinctively that this letter and the legend of the Montelamberts were somehow linked. For the second time in two days, Barbo felt the closeness of evil. Last night as he walked over Ponte Sant'Angelo, Barbo had seen the Trickster in the dark waters of the Tiber. Tonight he felt him staring out from the words of this letter. But this time Barbo was not frightened. On the contrary, he felt strangely alive and emboldened as if the Holy Spirit were calling him to some undisclosed task.

  “Did you find anything else in the library?”

  “No, but Bishop Pellent called me from Avignon. His computers are down. He'll work as fast as he can once everything is up and running.”

  “Remind Pellent that whatever he finds should be sent to me immediately.”

  CHAPTER IX

  GERARD DE MNTELAMBERT

  THE MEETING BETWEEN the president and Cardinal Calvaux had gone on twenty minutes longer than scheduled.

  The president's chief of staff paced up and down outside the stateroom where the two men were meeting. Finally he knocked softly on the door. “Mr. President, we must be on our way. They're waiting for us in Washington.”

  The door opened, and the president and Calvaux emerged from the stateroom.

  “Your Eminence, I apologize. My staff keeps me on schedule—too much so sometimes.” There was a hint of impatience in the president's voice.

  The president ushered Cardinal Calvaux to the door of Air Force One. A light rain was falling as the two men shook hands.

  “Tell Pope Benedict, the First Lady and I are looking for some excuse to come visit him. Perhaps tonight we've found one.”

  “His Holiness would be pleased if you would come.”

  A Marine sergeant opened an umbrella and escorted Calvaux down the wet boarding ramp to the tarmac. As Calvaux watched from the ground, the door of Air Force One slowly closed and the ramp pulled back from the aircraft. Two secret service agents walked around the plane with flashlights doing a final check of the tires and the landing gear. Lights flashing, the president's plane taxied out to the runway. Just then two Royal Air Force jets streaked overhead, waiting to accompany the president's plane out of English air space. Air Force One was soon in the air, and a member of the president's security detail drove Calvaux to his plane.

  Exiting the car, the cardinal stopped for a moment before boarding and dialed his cell phone. “Francesco, I just left our friend.”

  Over the years, Calvaux had learned never to trust the privacy of cell phones.

  “What was his reaction to the initiative?”

  “Positive—up to a point. Let's talk when I get back to Rome.”

  Calveaux's plane landed at Leonardo da Vinci Airport about 2 A.M. The cardinal was waved through customs and driven immediately to the Apostolic Palace. A Swiss Guard brought him to Barbo's office.

  “You look exhausted, Jean. Can I offer you something?”

  Calvaux took off his Roman collar. “Cognac would be nice.”

  Barbo opened a cupboard under one of his bookcases and took out two snifters. He poured the liquor liberally into both and handed one to Calvaux.

  “So the president is positive up to a point. I didn't like the ‘up to a point.’”

  Calvaux swirled the cognac in the bottom of the snifter. “He has conditions for his support. First, the president wants the Vatican, not Washington, to brief Israel and the Palestinians on the details of the initiative. He doesn't want it to look like its coming from the Americans.”

  “That's reasonable. The president isn't a risk-taker.”

  “Once both sides are fully briefed, the president will speak with the Israeli Prime Minister and ask him not to dismiss the pope's initiative out of hand.”

  Barbo leaned forward. “Ask or tell?”

  “He said ‘ask.’”

  Disappointed, Barbo sat back in his chair. “And his second condition?”

  Calvaux consulted some notes in his briefcase. “He wants the pope to invite the world's major religious leaders — the Eastern Patriarchs, the Dalai Lama, the Sheik of A1 Azhar, the Chief Rabbi of Israel—to join him in Jerusalem to pray on the Temple Mount. At the same time, the president will invite heads of state to come to Jerusalem as well. He hopes that the sight of religious leaders of all faiths praying alongside the world's government leaders may trigger an irresistible momentum for peace.”

  Barbo shrugged his shoulders. “The president is looking for a media event to end all media events.”

  “Will it be difficult for Pope Benedict to travel to Jerusalem in his present condition?”

  “Yes, but it may not be totally out of the question. Anyway, we must tell him. He'll have to make the ultimate decision.”

  Barbo stood up and poured more cognac into Calvaux's snifter.

  “Jean, my office has pending another matter of great importance to the Church. Strange as it may seem, your family history may have some bearing on it.”

  “How?”

  “You told me how one of your ancestors, Gerard de Montelambert, discovered Jewish records that were hidden from the Romans during the first century.”

  “Yes, it's a fascinating story.”

  “I know it is late but could you tell me more about this Gerard. You said he was a Templar.”


  “Yes, he was.”

  “Push, Mistress, push.” The midwife put her hand up the birth canal. “Push harder. I do not feel the child.”

  “Midwife, the contractions have stopped.”

  Thunder rumbled outside the window of the Marquise's bedchamber.

  “You must expel the child or you will die.”

  The Marquise cried out in pain as she tried to resume pushing. “The child will not come. Bring my husband.”

  A servant girl ran to the great hall of the manor house. She spoke nervously to the Marquis. “My Lord, your wife cannot deliver the child.”

  The Marquis pushed past the girl and hurried to his wife's bedchamber.

  “My Lord, take me into the chapel.” The Marquise looked imploringly at her husband.

  The Marquis lifted his wife out of bed and carried her into the small chapel that adjoined her bedchamber. When he set her down in front of the altar, the Marquise put her finger to her husband's lips as if anticipating an objection.

  “You must leave, My Lord.”

  The Marquis left the chapel and paced nervously outside. Their first child had been a girl and the Marquis had prayed that this child would be the male heir he so desperately wanted. Now for this to happen!

  A loud cry of pain sounded from the chapel. When the Marquis ran inside, his wife was smiling.

  “The contractions have started again. I made a promise to the Virgin. She will give us our child.”

  And so, Gerard de Montelambert was born. The village of Cours-des-Trois — the ancestral home of the Montelamberts in the foothills of the Pyrenees — celebrated the birth of the Marquis's heir for three days. Although the Marquis asked numerous times, Gerard's mother would not tell her husband what promise she had made the Virgin. She would keep this a secret for two decades.

  From his earliest years, Gerard de Montelambert displayed a fearsome courage that bordered on recklessness. Villagers told the story of how at twelve years of age, Gerard saved his younger sister Annette's life. The girl was trapped on the roof of a burning cowshed. Gerard doused blankets in a cistern of water and climbed up on the roof. Although the smoke blinded his eyes, Gerard could hear Annette crying. Stretching out his hand in the direction of her voice, Gerard managed to find her in the smoke. Throwing the wet blankets over both of them, he led her to the edge of the roof. A wagon full of straw was wheeled to the side of the shed.

  Gerard listened to the voices below. “Push the wagon farther to the right.”

  When the wagon was moved, Gerard shouted to his sister. “Jump, Annette.”

  The girl stood paralyzed, refusing to leap into the smoke.

  Gerard put his arm around his sister's waist and pulled her with him off the roof. Brother and sister landed safely in the wagon. Despite poultices from several doctors, however, it was two months before Gerard's eyesight returned. His sister Annette was less fortunate. She suffered severe burns on her right leg that stayed with her all her life.

  When he learned what had happened, the village priest told the Marquise. “God has destined your son for great things.”

  Gerard grew tall and slender like a cypress tree. His dark brown hair and olive complexion reflected the rich soil of Provence. Gerard's mother insisted that he go to an abbey in a nearby town to learn to read the Scriptures in Hebrew and Latin. His father attended to his secular education. As the future lord of Cours-des-Trois, Gerard was taught how to plant and harvest crops, how to measure land by metes and bounds, and how to carry out the duties expected of someone of his station.

  On Gerard's sixteenth birthday, his father summoned him to the great hall of the manor house. The Marquis's younger brother, Gerard's Uncle Edouard, was also there.

  “Gerard, today you are old enough to begin learning the skills of a knight. Your Uncle Edouard has agreed to take on this responsibility. Your uncle was a Templar and fought in Palestine.”

  “Until a Saracen lance pierced my armor. The tip of the lance is still in my side. But that is in the past.”

  Edouard opened a locked casket and carefully took out an ancient parchment scroll. “Your grandfather showed this manuscript to your father and me on our sixteenth birthdays. It has been passed down through the Montelambert family for over a thousand years. It was written by one of our ancestors — a wine merchant named Evardus.”

  Edouard carefully handed the ancient manuscript to Gerard.

  “Your mother tells me you learned to read Latin at the abbey. You should be able to understand it.”

  The young boy held the parchment up to the light. “It talks about the destruction of the Jewish temple in Jerusalem — about the things Evardus saw and heard.”

  “Read on.”

  “It mentions a Jewish rabbi whom Evardus met along the road to Jaffa. Before he died, the rabbi told Evardus about a copper scroll buried in ‘the stone of life’ under the Holy of Holies. The rest of the writing is faded—all I can make out are the words ‘vessels and records of the Jewish people.’”

  His father spoke. “Gerard, since the Crusades began, many of our family have gone to Jerusalem and searched for this scroll. None have found it.”

  “Why did you not go to Palestine, Father?”

  A resigned look passed over the Marquis's face. “I was the oldest son. It was my duty to become lord of Cours-des-Trois.”

  Edouard stared at his brother reproachfully. “If you had wanted to, Brother, you could have left the bailiff in charge of the manor.”

  The Marquis slammed his hand on the table. “Edouard, please not in front of Gerard.”

  “Uncle, when you went to Outremer, the land beyond the sea, did you search for the scroll?”

  “Yes — until the Saracen's lance cut short my efforts. Maybe it will be your destiny to find the scroll, Gerard.”

  The Marquis looked angrily at his brother.

  “Edouard, enough of this. Remember Gerard is the heir to Cours-des-Trois. His responsibility lies here, not in Palestine.”

  Edouard began to train Gerard on the very next day. “Before you pick up a sword, Gerard, you must learn about your body—how far it can run, how much it can carry, how long it can fast, how high it can jump.”

  Edouard looked at the sky. “The day grows colder. Put on your heaviest cloak and stand outside the manor house for an hour.”

  When the hour was over, Gerard came inside, trembling with cold.

  “Do it again, Gerard, only this time stand in the middle of your clothes.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Pull your body into yourself. Create a space between you and your clothes. The space will keep you warm.”

  After Gerard stood for another hour, he was not trembling.

  “You have learned an important lesson about your body. It can be ruled by the mind.”

  Edouard created a daily exercise regimen for his nephew. Gerard would run three leagues, then carry heavy stones from one place to another and finally scale the wall that circled the manor house. Once a week, Edouard would add another component to the regimen. Gerard would be required to swim back and forth across the treacherous currents of the Durand River for two hours.

  After three months, Edouard abruptly changed the daily routine.

  “Gerard, you have learned what your body can endure. Now you must learn to sharpen your senses. For that, we must go into the forest.”

  On one day, Edouard would teach Gerard how to tell time from the position of the sun; on the next, how to live off the forest plants; on another, how to understand the behavior of animals.

  One Sunday after Mass, Edouard took Gerard aside and handed him a silver coin. “Give this coin to your father's bailiff if he can find your hiding place.”

  Gerard warmed to the game. There was a grove of elm trees along the forest road where as a child Gerard had often hidden from his sisters. He climbed the tallest tree and waited. Several hours later, he heard the hoof beats of a horse. Someone dismounted and walked into the grove. Gerard sa
w the bailiff staring up at him.

  “Have I earned the coin, my young master?”

  Gerard told Edouard what had happened.

  “Give the bailiff another coin if he can find you again. This time sit in the town square in front of the church.”

  Gerard followed Edouard's instructions. He spent the day talking with his friends in the town square. The bailiff never found him. When Gerard told Edouard what had happened the second time, his uncle smiled at his nephew's look of amazement. “Gerard, what do you learn from being discovered in the forest but not in the village square?”

  Gerard thought for a moment. “Sometimes the best place to hide is in the sunlight.”

  When rain kept them out of the forest, Edouard would take Gerard into the stable.

  “Gerard, when you jumped off the burning roof with your sister, the smoke made it impossible for you to see. What did you do?”

  “I listened instead. The voices of the townspeople guided me to the wagon.”

  Edouard handed his nephew a blindfold. “Put this on and try to dodge my blows.”

  Edouard picked up a stave and hit Gerard on the back of his legs.

  “You can learn to hear the blow coming, Gerard. Listen for it. Hear through your other senses.” Although there were many nights when Gerard went to bed with bruises on his shins, he gradually learned a remarkable lesson — all the senses are interconnected. One can learn to hear colors and taste shapes.

  After a year of training his mind and body, Edouard finally permitted Gerard to begin practicing with the sword and lance. From the very first drill, Edouard could see that Gerard possessed formidable talents. His foot movements were balletic; his thrusts and parries never left him off balance; and his instincts were unerring.