Tricarico and Milano
‘ B uona fortuna, Allegra!’
Tricarico’s top piazza was crammed with well-wishers and a huge banner had been hung from the old stone balcony of Bishop Aldo Marietti’s palace. News travelled fast through the hill towns and there was not a single villager for miles around who was not aware that the Vatican had selected Allegra for this singular honour.
‘The Holy Father has approved it, personally,’ La Signora Farini, leader of the ‘Will of God Brigade’, said to anyone who could hear her over the more than slightly out of tune town band that was playing with gusto. The music reached a crescendo as Tricarico’s only car driven by the portly Bishop Marietti inched its way through the crowd. Allegra’s father had taken the front seat and Allegra, her mother and her two oldest brothers were crammed into the back of the little Flavia. Nonna wiped away a tear while Giuseppe clung to Nonna’s faded black dress, waving vigorously, his curly black hair shining in the morning sun that bathed the craggy granite of the mountains surrounding Tricarico.
It took over an hour to travel the 20 kilometres to the valley below the village. Bishop Marietti was not renowned for his driving skill and he struggled to keep the little car on the rough mountain track that led to the train station on the single rail line that served hill towns such as Tricarico and Grissano.
‘We are all very proud of you, Allegra,’ Bishop Marietti said, as they climbed onto the small deserted platform. ‘You will be a wonderful ambassador for the Church.’
‘I won’t let you down, Bishop Marietti. I promise.’
Mamma wiped at her tears as Papa beamed. The mournful whistle of the Taranto-Napoli Express could be heard in the distance as the old locomotive struggled through the mountains further down the line. The ramshackle train arrived in a cloud of steam and the driver waited patiently during the seemingly endless ritual of hugs and kisses. The whistle echoed across the valley again and the train lurched forward.
‘ Arrivederci! Scriva presto! ’
As the train rounded a bend and the little group frantically waving on the siding disappeared from view, Allegra settled back into her empty compartment with its cracked leather seats and wire luggage racks, her mind in turmoil. A short while later the train slowed for a herd of goats on the track, nibbling at the weeds and in no hurry to get off. Allegra was oblivious to the heated exchange between the driver and the gesticulating, wizened goatherd that could be heard above the noise of the engine. She reflected on how hard it had been to leave home to join the convent across the ravine. Milano seemed like the other side of the world. The train lurched and she gazed out the window at the granite foothills and beyond them to the mountains of Basilicata, rebellion and excitement competing with sadness and acceptance. Accettazione and testarda.
With so many thoughts buzzing around her head, Allegra could not settle down and she spent the twenty-four-hour trip dozing fitfully. When Trenitalia’s overnight service from Napoli via Roma arrived at Milano’s Stazione Centrale adrenaline took over. She clambered down the carriage’s absurdly high steps and looked around for a Father Giovanni Donelli, the senior postgraduate student charged by the Vatican to meet her. It was seven in the morning and as Allegra stood on the platform she was faced with what seemed like thousands of people rushing to work. She wanted to take in everything at once – the people, the fashions, the warm glow of the cafes, the smells, the noise. She knew she was ready to take on the biggest challenge of her life and she scanned the crowd eagerly.
As if on cue, a ruggedly handsome priest materialised out of the melee. He was dark-haired and at 175 centimetres, just a little taller than Allegra.
‘ Buongiorno, Signora! ’ Allegra was immediately captivated by the warmth of the brilliant smile that lit up Giovanni’s tanned face, and his blue eyes held an irreverent sparkle that was infectious.
‘Sister Allegra Bassetti?’ he asked, extending his hand. ‘ Mi chiamo Giovanni Donelli. Benvenuta a Milano! ’
‘ Grazie, Father. You are very kind to have met me at such an early hour,’ Allegra replied shyly.
‘I know habits die hard, no pun intended, but you must get used to calling me Giovanni,’ he said, taking Allegra’s battered suitcase and guiding her through the crowd. The Piazza Duca D’Aosta was even more frenetic than the train station but it didn’t faze the taxi driver at all. The car horn had been installed to overcome that problem and they charged across Via Vitruvio towards Ca’ Granda, a short distance away in the historic centre of the city. Allegra’s eyes widened; from the single-car mountain town of Tricarico to Milano was a thrilling culture shock.
‘I’ll call by later tonight to see you’re OK,’ Giovanni said after he made sure Allegra was officially admitted to the university. ‘ E benvenuta di nuovo a Milano! ’
It did not take Allegra long to unpack her meagre belongings. With a mixture of trepidation and excitement, Allegra headed out to explore the busy grounds of the old university. Built in 1456 it had once been a hospital but now the Renaissance archways and lawn courtyards were home to the liberal arts faculties of Milano’s Universita Statale. Orientation week was in full swing and everywhere she looked there seemed to be students handing out brochures and pamphlets. Candidates for the Student Union, invitations to join anything from the Ca’ Granda Debating Society and book clubs to UNICEF. There was even a University Film Club and from the look of the upcoming attractions, Allegra decided that the Bishop of Tricarico could be more relaxed about the ‘men only westerns’. An hour later and overwhelmed by information Allegra headed through Ca’ Granda’s main stone archway towards Milano’s cathedral.
Il Duomo was only a short distance away and when she arrived Allegra stood for a time in the piazza, staring up at the vast cathedral in awe. Three and a half thousand statues adorned the roof and the stone walls, dominated by a 45-metre gold statue of the Madonna. Inside, the five aisles were separated by massive stone pillars and high above the space reserved for the choir, Allegra could see the small red light that marked the vault where, since 1841, a nail from the Cross had been secured. The world’s third largest church, after St Peter’s and the cathedral in Seville, it had taken over four hundred years to build.
Allegra had promised Nonna she would say prayers for the family, as Nonna had insisted that in Milano they would carry greater weight, and she sank to her knees in one of the pews, not far from the altar where Napoleon had been crowned King of Italy. Silently she mouthed the words, ‘Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with you. Blessed are you among women, and blessed is the fruit of your womb Jesus…’ Allegra asked her God to protect her family and to see her through the coming years of study. ‘Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners
…’
The security of the Catholic Church she loved so much could not be put into words. From deep within Allegra felt that she was destined to serve the Church and she thanked God for the opportunity to study so that she might help others. In her naivety Allegra was unaware that her quest for knowledge and deep spirituality would also lead her down a path filled with pain and confusion. Her quest would take her into an unknown world of deceit, discovery and the brutal reality of life and death.
As the sun set behind the Alps to the north of Milano, Allegra waited in her room for Giovanni. The thought of a man visiting her seemed strangely exciting, although she knew Mother Alberta would have been horrified, even though Giovanni was a priest. In the Mother Superior’s world men were not to be trusted in other than a crowded room, and even then caution was advisable. Allegra’s guilt about men was deep seated and she constantly fought against it. One particular incident often crept into her thoughts, causing her to pray for forgiveness.
Allegra had just turned sixteen in the early spring of her last year of school and one Sunday afternoon she had gone walking on the banks of the river. She turned off the old Roman Appian Way and made her way down to the river through one of several farms outside Tricarico. The winter snows still capped the highest parts of the mountains, but the lower snows had melted and the river tumbled over dark boulders worn smooth over the ages. She wandered along the bank until she came to her favourite place at the base of a large rock. It stood like a sentinel at a sharp bend in the river and was hidden from the fields by a small grove of oak trees. Allegra stretched out on the grass and as the warm afternoon sunshine filtered through her light cotton dress, she drifted off into a peaceful sleep.
Sometime later she woke, startled by a movement a little further downstream. Sitting up she instinctively clasped her jacket to her as she heard someone approaching.
‘Carlo! You startled me!’
Carlo grinned. His swarthy young face was tanned and his long black fringe swung over his forehead.
‘Sorry. I didn’t mean to,’ he said, sitting down beside her.
‘How did you know I was here?’ Allegra demanded, sounding more accusatory than she meant to.
About two months before, Carlo Valenti had suddenly arrived in Tricarico with his family. The Valentis were Sicilians from Marsala, and their purchase of a large farm had created more than a ripple of conversation among the town’s traditional inhabitants. Dark rumours of drug money and Mafia connections and contracts on Carlo’s father had ebbed and flowed down the alleys and laneways of the little mountain village; but drug money and the Mafia were not the only topics of conversation, especially among Allegra’s classmates.
‘He’s not that good looking,’ Allegra’s best friend, Anna, had said.
‘Probably arrogant,’ Rosa, another of their group, decided.
‘Full of himself. All Sicilians are,’ agreed another. Among the young women of Tricarico Carlo had become an instant celebrity.
‘I saw you walking down the road,’ Carlo replied truthfully, not adding that he had seen her walking on the two previous Sundays and today he had deliberately waited for her to appear.
‘Carlo Valenti! You followed me here.’ Allegra was mildly offended by the invasion of her favourite place but strangely pleased that she should find herself alone with someone like Carlo.
‘It wasn’t like that,’ he said. ‘Sometimes I think things are just meant to happen. It’s God’s will,’ he added, using a line that had generated more than a little success with the young women of Marsala, particularly when he thought religion might be a barrier to conquest. ‘When I saw this figure walking from the top of the farm I hoped it would be you, and it was.’
Allegra felt a warm flush and her mind raced. Despite his suspicious background, she found the young Sicilian exciting. She knew her family wouldn’t approve, especially Papa, but deep down there was a small, insistent voice. It was one thing to be dux of her class but quite another to realise any of her potential. If she was ever to spread her wings and explore the world outside the mountains of Tricarico, the small voice seemed to be saying, she would need someone who was a little more worldly than the awkward young men of her area.
‘How are you finding Tricarico?’ she asked. ‘I suppose it’s a little dull after Sicilia?’
Carlo shrugged. ‘It’s different and the farm needs some work. It’s what you make of it, I suppose.’
She nodded and they fell into silence. The breeze was gentle and the sound of the river was soothing. Allegra began to relax and unselfconsciously she leaned back against her sentinel rock.
‘Why did you leave Sicilia?’ she asked, breaking the silence.
Carlo grinned disarmingly. ‘No doubt my father had his reasons. There are some things I don’t ask, but I wouldn’t believe everything you hear. We used to work my uncle’s farm in Marsala, and when this one came up, my father thought we should make the move to buy one of our own,’ he said. He leaned over and kissed her on the cheek. Startled, Allegra turned to face him and he kissed her on the lips.
At first Allegra didn’t know what to do, then feeling slightly heady from the warm sunshine, she responded. Slowly at first, then she let Carlo take her in his arms and they slid onto the grass. She could feel him hard against her and suddenly one part of her mind was arguing with another. Carlo kissed her again and started to unbutton her dress.
‘No…’ she said weakly, her voice strangely hoarse. Before she knew what was happening, Carlo had undone her bra and when he kissed her nipples she found herself responding again, pressing against him. Carlo’s hand slid inside her pants and Allegra felt as if she was being lifted on a wave. ‘No…’ she whispered again. She gasped as Carlo guided her own hand to his trousers, which were undone. He was wet and hard.
‘No! You mustn’t!’ she said, struggling against him now. Fear had taken over, extinguishing her own desires. The harder she struggled the stronger he held her. He bit her nipples roughly as he continued rubbing her hand against him. Tears fell onto Allegra’s cheeks as Carlo arched back and let out a low growl. She could feel him on her hands, first warm, then sticky, until finally he released his grip.
Allegra half ran, half stumbled along the river back towards the village. Tears ran hotly down her cheeks as she struggled to breathe. When she was sure he was not following her she sat down on a rock to calm herself, her tears slowly subsiding.
It was late afternoon by the time she managed to wash the stains from her dress and, with her eyes still filled with tears, Allegra knelt by the river.
‘Blessed Mother, I have sinned before you and all of heaven and I am not worthy to gather up the crumbs under your table.’ She asked the Blessed Virgin to pray for her and intercede on her behalf, for she knew that she would surely burn in hell. She recalled the Gospel of Mark very clearly and any sense of testarda had, for the time being, vanished. The nuns had quoted Mark often enough. Her Lord had said that ‘if your eye causes you to stumble, tear it out; it is better for you to enter the kingdom of God with one eye than to have two eyes and be thrown into hell, where the worm never dies and the fire is never quenched’.
Later that night Allegra lay awake in the family bedroom, her sobs hidden by the snores of her parents and brothers. How could she possibly be forgiven for such a momentous sin. She recalled the words of her Lord and Saviour and the truth began to dawn on her; this was a message. A reminder of the evils of sex that had so often been emphasised by the Bishop. The Lord Jesus would never ever have allowed himself to get in such a dreadful position. He had been perfect. Matthew was very clear. He had been celibate for the sake of heaven. ‘Let anyone accept this who can,’ her Lord had commanded.
What had happened between her and Carlo was a mortal sin because she had allowed it to start of her own free will, and she realised what she must do. She would join the local Dominican Order and devote the rest of her miserable life to making amends. Already the pain and the guilt seemed to be easing as she recalled the vision of St Catherine of Siena where the Blessed Virgin Mary had held Catherine’s hand while Christ put a ring on it. It would mean sacrificing all her dreams of exploring a world outside Tricarico, but it seemed a trivial price to pay for the ultimate marriage. She would become a Bride of Christ. The Mother Superior at the Convent of San Domenico had described it as the most mystical union, a gift that came directly from God.
Allegra was brought back to the present with a start by a quiet knock on the door. She opened it to find Father Giovanni balancing a basket of biscuits, coffee, some sweet cakes and chocolate.
‘Essentials for students!’
‘Father,’ she replied awkwardly. ‘Do come in. Forgive the sparseness,’ she said, offering him the only chair.
‘Please! Don’t apologise. Mine is exactly the same. And remember, it’s Giovanni. Have you settled in?’
‘More or less. It all seems a bit daunting.’
‘It always is for the first week or so until you find out where everything is. This is your first time at a university?’
Allegra nodded. ‘It was a real surprise, Father…’
Giovanni raised his eyebrows with a questioning grin.
‘Forgive me, I’m not used to calling priests by their first name.’
‘It’s all part of the program. Did they give you a briefing at your convent?’
‘Not really Fath-Giovanni,’ Allegra said, still struggling with the familiarity. ‘In fact, Mother Superior seemed a little cross about it.’
Giovanni laughed. ‘Sometimes change does not come easily,’ he said, ‘but I think there is method in John Paul I’s idea.’ A dark cloud shadowed Giovanni’s thoughts at the memory of the man he had so admired and respected. ‘We will have to write a brief report for the Vatican at the end of each semester,’ he continued. ‘Our impressions, how we relate to other students, their reactions, that kind of thing, but I dare say if we can open up the dusty corridors of the Curia to what is happening in the real world that will be no bad thing.’
Allegra started to relax, warming to the company of a man who seemed to know so much about everything, yet seemed so down to earth.
‘Have the others arrived?’ she asked.
‘Oh. You haven’t heard? Father O’Connell’s diocese is so desperately short of priests his Bishop won a last minute reprieve and I’m not sure who the other Sister was, but she resigned from her Order last week, so it’s just you and me, I’m afraid. If there’s anything I can do to help you settle in, let me know. I’m in Room 415 down the corridor,’ he said. ‘If you feel like getting out of here at the end of the week, there’s a great little pizzeria that’s within walking distance. On a Friday night they do a terrific wood-fired pizza and wonderful pasta especially for impoverished students like us.’ Giovanni bade her buonanotte and Allegra felt a little less alone.
That had been at the start of the academic year. As the year went on, although she was still troubled by some of the faculty teaching at Ca’ Granda, Allegra was more at ease with her new environment. With each passing week, she found herself looking forward to Friday night discussions with Giovanni over pasta.
Allegra hurried back from the little bookshop she’d found in one of the backstreets of Milano, a second-hand copy of John Allegro’s The Dead Sea Scrolls Revealed in her bag. She checked her watch and realised she had just enough time to get to Professor Rosselli’s introductory class on the Dead Sea Scrolls without actually running. Still wary of the traffic, she checked it twice and crossed the Corso di Porta Romana that led back to the university. Allegra slipped into the lecture theatre, just as the lecture was beginning.
‘ Buongiorno. Mi chiamo Professor Antonio Rosselli.’ A small man in his fifties with a weathered and lined face, the Professor wore a coat that was frayed and round black-rimmed glasses that were perched halfway down his large Roman nose. His white hair flopped in disarray, covering his large ears, and his dark eyebrows were bushy and as untidy as his hair.
‘Not one to spend much time with a comb,’ Allegra thought, intrigued by his mischievous smile.
‘Over the next few weeks we will be looking at the Dead Sea Scrolls,’ he began. ‘Over two thousand years ago, a mysterious sect of the Essenes lived in an isolated settlement known as Qumran on the northern shores of the Dead Sea. They were not, as the Vatican and others have suggested, a reclusive, pacifist and celibate bunch of monks, but rather one of the most advanced and enlightened communities of ancient civilisation. Their lifestyle followed that which Pythagoras had ordained for the ancient Greeks. Dressed in Pythagorean white, they rose before dawn to pray, and like Pythagoras, the Essenes were very advanced astronomers, mathematicians and well versed in philosophy.’ Professor Rosselli paused to tamp his pipe. ‘In this balanced society where women were considered the equal of men, work would cease at midday and they would bathe naked together in a ritual cleansing in one of several deep pools they had built in Qumran, before eating a simple communal meal’, he continued. The Professor’s enthusiasm for the ancient community was obvious. ‘The Essenes meticulously recorded every aspect of their lifestyle in an extensive library of scrolls. Part of their philosophy was to make their knowledge accessible to future generations. When the Roman armies advanced on Jerusalem in 68 AD the Essenes hid their scrolls in the caves above Qumran.’ Professor Rosselli surveyed his class over the top of his glasses. ‘But ever since the discovery of the Dead Sea Scrolls, there have been rumours of one particular scroll that reveals far more than the lifestyle of the mysterious sect of first-century Judaism,’ he said, his voice holding more than a hint of conspiracy. ‘Does anyone know what scroll that might be?’ Professor Rosselli asked.
Giovanni felt a sudden chill. ‘The Omega Scroll,’ he answered.
‘Yes, the Omega Scroll,’ Professor Rosselli said, his eyes gleaming. ‘The modern day equivalent of the Mummy’s Curse. As soon as people find it, mysterious things happen. It is also said to contain a revelation for humanity, a terrifying warning for civilisation. A secret so great that many seem to have been silenced in their search for this elusive archaelogical treasure.’
A revelation for humanity. Giovanni thought back to what he had witnessed in the Pope’s apartments, and he wondered whether there was any connection between Professor Rosselli and Professor Fiorini who had provided the brief for Pope John Paul I. Giovanni had tried to track the retired Fiorini down without success, and he resolved to speak to Professor Rosselli after the lecture.
‘So how did these scrolls come to light?’ Professor Rosselli, one of the world’s experts on the Middle East had a rare ability to transport his students back through time and space, and Allegra was not the only one to see the heat distorting the hills surrounding the Dead Sea. It was 1947.
The morning sun beat mercilessly on the Bedouin tents clustered in camps on either side of the long dusty road that since before the time of Christ had led from Jerusalem, east towards Jericho and down to where the River Jordan flowed into the Dead Sea. Centuries before, Christian pilgrims had been astounded at the sheer lifelessness of the water, and had given the sea its name. About 30 kilometres from Jerusalem the road forked. Straight ahead the river formed the border with Jordan, and the road led on to Amman. To the right, the road turned and led south towards Qumran where the cliffs stood like sentinels, watching over the ruins. The orange flintstone was caught by the sun, and the heat haze rose from the shimmering surface of the sea. On the other side lay Jordan and the wadis and canyons of the biblical mountains of Moab and Edom.
The young Muhammad Ahmad el-Hamed, nicknamed edh-Dhib or Muhammad the Wolf, cursed his errant goat and scrambled up the side of a cliff. By the time he reached the dusty ledge where he had last spotted his charge, the nimble-footed goat was nowhere to be seen. Edh-Dhib rubbed the back of his hand across his sweaty forehead and wiped it on his dust-encrusted robe. It was more than his life was worth to lose a sizeable chunk of his family’s livelihood and he stayed very still, listening and scanning the desolate cliffs for any sign of life. Then he saw it. From the ground below it would have looked like an indentation in the rock, but up here edh-Dhib could see it was the entrance to a cave.
‘So, my little goat, that’s where you’ve got to. We shall have to get you to come out,’ he murmured to himself. Edh-Dhib picked up a small stone and silently picked his way over the boulders. Stopping, he took careful aim. Even without a slingshot edh-Dhib was deadly accurate, and the stone flew straight through the centre of the entrance. Instead of startling a goat, he heard the sound of shattering pottery echoing out of the cave. Edh-Dhib moved forward, clawing his way up the cliff until he reached the narrow entrance. Squeezing himself through he dropped to the floor to find that he was in a narrow, high-ceilinged cave that was no more than 20 metres at its widest and about 65 metres long. Finding that he could stand up edh-Dibh looked around. There was no goat and no footprints in the fine dust, and no other sign that anyone had been around for a very long time. In fact, it had been nearly two thousand years since anyone had set foot inside the cave. In the gloom at the far end, nestled in the sands of centuries, stood several earthenware jars. The silence was eerie. Like the Egyptian farmer who had found manuscripts in a jar at Nag Hammadi two years before, edh-Dhib wondered what spirits of the past lurked within the cool dark cave and he backed slowly out towards the entrance. Two hours later he finally retrieved the goat.
Later that night he confided in his friend Abu Dabu. His friend was wiser by two whole years and he scoffed at any suggestion of spirits.
‘What if there is gold inside the jars?’ Abu Dabu suggested greedily, his dark eyes reflecting the light of the glowing embers of the fire.
‘Who would it belong to?’ edh-Dhib asked, uncertain as to what they should do.
Abu Dabu didn’t hesitate. ‘Whoever finds it, owns it,’ he said emphatically. ‘There is a Turkish trader in Bethlehem, Ali Ercan. My uncle has dealt with him before and he will know who will give us a good price with no questions asked.’
Early next morning, emboldened by his friend’s wise counsel, edh-Dhib led the way up the treacherous cliffs. He paused just below the entrance to the cave and cupped his hand to his ear, motioning for his friend to listen. The only noise was the wind growling across the face of the cliffs. Abu Dabu pushed past him impatiently, scrambling over the broken rocks and disappearing into the crevice. By the time edh-Dhib had dropped onto the soft, sandy floor, Abu Dabu was already at the far end of the cave.
‘Give me a hand,’ he urged, his voice rising with excitement. Together they wrestled the largest of the jars into the feeble light of the entrance. Abu wrenched off the large earthenware lid and reeled back as a putrid odour filled the cave. Covering his face with his robes he peered into the jar, reached in and took out a long oblong package.
‘It doesn’t look like gold,’ edh-Dhib ventured, not hiding his disappointment.
‘No,’ Abu Dabu muttered, fingering the ancient linen cloth. He tore impatiently at the end until what looked like a roll of old leather appeared. The rest of the jars yielded more rolls that were intact, as well as thousands of fragments that had succumbed to the ravages of time.
‘Whatever they are, edh-Dhib, someone thought it was necessary to hide these scrolls where they would not be found,’ he said, his Bedouin cunning coming to the fore. ‘We’ll hide them in my tent. Tomorrow we’ll take them to Bethlehem.’
Edh-Dhib had been told that sometimes an ancient scroll could be worth a lot of money and he tightened his grip on the hessian bag.
‘What time did you say the trader opened his shop?’ he asked Abu Dabu for the third time.
‘Don’t worry,’ the older boy assured him. ‘He will be here soon.’
As was his habit for the past thirty years, Ali Ercan walked down King David Road towards his antiques shop near Manger Square in Bethlehem. The snows of Christmas had long since receded and Bethlehem, perched on a hill about 8 kilometres south of Jerusalem, was in for another scorching day. The tower of the Church of the Nativity dominated the town and the surrounding Judaean desert as it had done since the days of the Crusaders, but neither the ancient surroundings nor their religious significance to the faithful concerned Ali. As long as the faithful had money to spend, he would be happy. Money for any of the hundreds of olive wood statues of Christ, the Virgin Mary or the Saints, or perhaps copper plates and goblets or brightly coloured Bedouin rugs and cushions. For the more discerning customer, an old and battered safe held some very fine filigreed silver. Ali catered for the discerning but less scrupulous customer as well, especially the ones interested in black market antiquities.
As he approached his shop, instead of tourists, Ali could see that two Bedouin boys were waiting for him and one of them was carrying a tattered hessian sack.
‘What do you want?’ Ali muttered. He fumbled for the large bunch of keys he kept suspended from a belt beneath his robes and wrestled open the rusting security grate.
‘My uncle sent us,’ edh-Dhib answered hesitantly. ‘We have some leather scrolls he thought you might be interested in.’
Beckoning the boys inside the shop that smelled of spices and olive wood, he checked the street and quickly closed the door behind them. Ali cleared a space on a bench at the rear of the shop and with the aid of an old silver magnifying glass he peered at the strange looking characters on one of the scrolls. Finally he put the glass to one side and picked his large nose thoughtfully, not immediately able to decipher the ancient script.
‘Where did you get these?’ he demanded.
‘In a cave near Yam Hamelah,’ Abu Dabu answered quickly, not wanting edh-Dhib to be any more specific than the Dead Sea.
‘They might be of interest but you will have to leave them with me while I make some inquiries. I will send you word in a few weeks. In the meantime, don’t tell anyone that you have found them, or of our meeting.’ With that he ushered them back out to the street.
Ali Ercan spent the next two nights examining the boys’ find. He still could not decipher the script but three scrolls appeared to be more carefully protected than the others, although one of them was in pieces. He separated them from the rest, put them in olive wood boxes and hid them in a cavity under the floorboards. The Ministry of Antiquities had visited the previous week and inspected his safe, but they were not likely to rip up the floor. Covering the floorboards with a rug, Ali resolved to get some advice from the Syrian Metropolitan at the Monastery of Saint Mark in the Old City of Jerusalem.
‘So what might be in these scrolls that seems to so worry the Vatican?’ Professor Rosselli concluded, abruptly bringing Allegra away from the Old City of Jerusalem and back to the lecture room at Ca’ Granda.
‘There seems little doubt that in the past the Vatican has vigorously opposed their publication,’ he said, his eyes twinkling again. As Allegra would come to know well, Professor Rosselli loved a good mystery. ‘Ever since their discovery the Vatican has prevented any access to the scrolls, other than by a team of a few privileged and, for the most part, Catholic academics from Europe and the United States. A group that has become known as the International Team. Curiously, the Vatican has gone to great lengths to assert that Christ had nothing to do with the Essene Community at Qumran, a stone’s throw from where John the Baptist baptised him in the Jordan.’
The accettazione side of Allegra was becoming more and more troubled as the discussion went on, but when she glanced at Giovanni he seemed very relaxed, encouraging Allegra’s testarda, her rebellious side, to inquire more deeply into the inflexible dogma of her faith.
‘Which has prompted some to suggest there is something in the scrolls, and the Omega Scroll in particular, that the Vatican will not allow into the public domain,’ Rosselli continued. ‘The American scholar Margaret Starbird has pointed out that the authors of the New Testament used gematria. This is a literary device where numbers are assigned to the letters in the words. Certain phrases add up to equal significant sacred numbers which in turn convey hidden meanings. I suspect that part of the answer lies in what has become known as the Magdalene Numbers.’
Professor Rosselli took a piece of chalk and turned to the blackboard.
‘Neither Hebrew nor Greek have separate symbols for numbers, instead individual letters stand for different numbers. If we take Greek,’ he said, writing on the board: Alpha? = 1 Beta? = 2 Gamma? = 3
‘And so on,’ Professor Rosselli explained, exposing the entire alphabet, down to omega,?
‘Which means that each word in Greek or Hebrew has a numerical value that is obtained by adding up the sum of the letters. Margaret Starbird draws our attention to Christ comparing the Kingdom of God to a grain of mustard seed. The Greek for mustard seed,???????????????, totals 1746. At first glance, Christ’s description of the Kingdom of God as a grain of mustard seed seems very peculiar, but it is deceptively simple.’ Professor Rosselli’s eyes danced as he warmed to the mystery.
‘The number 1746 is made up of the union or sum of 666 and 1080, and as a Jewish rabbi, Christ would have been well aware of the significance of the numbers 666 and 1080. For the Essenes, 666 represented the solar energy of the male. Many interpretations of the parable of the mustard seed are bizarre,’ he continued, ‘but when we understand that the other part of the union – the number 1080 – represents the lunar creativity of the feminine, the meaning becomes very clear. Not only does this parable link Christ with the Essenes, but the numerical code of the mustard seed is a simple and clear statement from Christ that the Kingdom of God, the Spirit, is not exclusively male but a combination of male and female, a balance of yin and yang. Christ’s 1746 of the mustard seed contains the lost feminine of Christianity.’ Professor Rosselli paused, a slightly sad look on his face. ‘The early Church Fathers brutally suppressed this message. Can anyone give me an example?’
Again it was Giovanni who answered.
‘All copies of the Gospels of Thomas, Mary Magdalene and Philip, the Gnostic Gospels, were destroyed on the orders of Iraneaeus, the Bishop of Lyons in 180 AD because they threatened the power of the male priesthood.’
Rosselli looked at his pupil with a growing respect. It was unusual, he reflected, to strike such a visible, intelligent candour in a Catholic priest.
‘Or so the early Church Fathers thought,’ Giovanni continued, ‘but someone took the trouble to spirit copies of the Gnostic Gospels down the Nile and bury them in an earthenware jar at Nag Hammadi, where they remained for nearly two thousand years. The Gnostic Gospels were carefully wrapped,’ he said, ‘and a Bedouin Arab discovered them digging for sabakh, the under soil that fellaheen use to fertilise their crops on the banks of the Nile. Many scholars are now of the view they should be included in the Bible to provide the feminine balance that was suppressed by the early Church Fathers.’
‘Not unlike the Dead Sea Scrolls and found just two years apart,’ Professor Rosselli added. ‘It’s almost as if the cosmos has coordinated the time of their respective discoveries, linking them together, and Father Donelli raises a critical point. The religions of the ancients had a balance of gods and goddesses and it is only in relatively recent times that religion has been hijacked by the male of the species. I am one of those who think that male-dominated religions are dangerously out of balance and as a result, they have done untold damage in the world. With the advent of weapons of mass destruction, male-dominated religions are a threat to humanity.’
It was a chilling prophecy and Giovanni wondered once again how much Rosselli knew about the contents of the Omega Scroll. It was as if Rosselli had read his thoughts.
‘It would be interesting to see if Starbird’s theories on the hidden numbers of the New Testament are borne out by the Omega Scroll.’ Rosselli’s eyes darkened momentarily. ‘Although I suspect the Omega Scroll contains a great deal more than the Magdalene Numbers. After the mid-semester break we will examine the significance of the number I think the Vatican fears most: 153. I have always been an optimist and some of you may wish to do some research on that over the break. It may have something to do with fish and cities falling out of the sky,’ he added mischievously. ‘And when we come back it would be useful to hear from someone other than Father Donelli.’
La Pizzeria Milano was crowded with students but even ‘out of uniform’ Allegra spotted Giovanni at one of the small corner booths.
‘ Buonasera, Allegra!’ Giovanni got to his feet to allow Allegra to squeeze into the small booth. He poured her chianti from the carafe he had ordered. ‘Pasta is coming,’ he said. ‘ Salute! ’
‘ Salute,’ she responded and immediately relaxed in his company, as usual.
‘So what did you think of old Rosselli today?’ Giovanni asked, leaning forward to make himself heard over the normal student excesses of a Friday night.
‘He’s provocative, isn’t he! I enjoy that, although I’m still on a pretty steep learning curve. Until I got to Milano I hadn’t even heard of the Essenes and their Dead Sea Scrolls, much less that the Vatican might be blocking access to them, but what really got me thinking was the Omega Scroll. Do you think it exists?’
Giovanni was saved from answering immediately by the arrival of the pasta, two steaming plates of puttanesca, spaghetti with olives, tomatoes, anchovies, chillies, garlic and basil. He knew he had to tell someone about his concerns over the connection of the death of Pope John Paul I and the Omega Scroll, as a way of trying to guarantee that a search for the truth would continue. Everybody connected with research on the Scroll had disappeared without a trace, academic papers had gone missing and prominent scientists had been ruthlessly discredited. Giovanni was wary of dragging anyone else into the dangerous maelstrom that clearly surrounded the Scroll, but he needed a confidante. Allegra was the only person he could implicitly trust. She had one of the finest minds he had encountered in a long time.
‘You think he was murdered,’ Allegra said solemnly after Giovanni had recounted the events at the Vatican.
Giovanni nodded. ‘Albino Luciani posed a threat to too many people, not least to our Cardinal Petroni here in Milano. The Vatican Bank’s criminal activities bothered him greatly, but that was not the only thing threatening the Curia. Petroni and the Curial Cardinals vigorously deny it but I know from the papers that Luciani wrote when he was in Venice, papers that have now mysteriously disappeared, that Luciani was strongly in favour of artificial birth control.’
A few short months earlier Allegra might have been taken aback. It had been a steep intellectual climb from the little backwater of Tricarico but the testarda in Allegra was rapidly taking hold.
‘I’m sorry I didn’t meet him,’ she said. ‘I used to accept the teaching against contraceptives but I’m coming round to his point of view. If I remember it correctly, the basis for prohibiting birth control in the twentieth century is a three-thousand-year-old text in Genesis where God puts Onan to death because he spills his semen on the ground, rather than perform a duty for his dead brother’s wife, right?’
Giovanni nodded, smiling. He had come to enjoy their Friday night intellectual joustings.
‘A text that was passed on by word of mouth for thousands of years before it was even written down,’ Allegra added. ‘That sounds more like an excuse for the male hierarchy to use sex as a means of control, and a pretty powerful one.’
‘It has always had far more to do with maintaining the power of the priesthood than any logical theological basis and Luciani would have agreed with you,’ Giovanni responded, a touch of sadness in his voice. ‘He was a great loss, not only to the Church but to the world. We were talking about birth control in Venice one day and he told me he had just read a report that over a thousand children die every hour from malnutrition. He saw effective birth control as part of the solution and after he was elected he told me that at last he was in a position to do something about it. In the end I think his views on contraception, his decision to investigate the Vatican Bank and his discovery that the Vatican had bought the Omega Scroll all combined to sign his death warrant.’
‘You didn’t get more than a glance at the brief?’
Giovanni shook his head. ‘Knowing what I know now I should have gathered up the entire file. Petroni arrived very quickly.’
‘Very odd that he was fully dressed at that hour,’ Allegra agreed. ‘Why didn’t you try to recover the Omega Scroll? Why not go to the Press?’
‘As soon as I could I searched the Secret Archives but someone had clearly been there before me. I seriously thought about going public, but I think there is more chance of finding the Omega Scroll if I stay low for the moment. Without the Scroll the Vatican would simply deny it as a figment of my imagination and put it about that poor old Donelli’s become unhinged as a result of Luciani’s unfortunate heart attack.’
‘From what you’ve told me that’s the least they would do. What about Professor Fiorini, can’t you go to him?’
‘This is where it gets very murky. I went to see Rosselli after the lecture today. I only gave him the bare bones of what I’ve told you, that I thought the Omega Scroll existed, and he seemed quite upset. He wouldn’t say much, but he told me Professor Fiorini disappeared the day after he returned from Rome.’
‘Murdered?’
‘It’s the classic “Italian Solution” and if these people in the Vatican are as closely linked to the Mafia as I think they are, it’s quite possible. It won’t stop Rosselli speculating in his lectures, but I’m guessing he’s been warned not to take his investigation too far and deep down he’s more than a little frightened. He told me to be very careful.’
‘So what do we do?’
‘For the moment, nothing. Play our cards close to our chests. Eventually something will give, the truth always outs.’
Giovanni reached over and refilled Allegra’s glass.
As they walked back towards the university Giovanni linked his arm through Allegra’s. A little voice told Giovanni that this was wrong, but the chianti seemed to blur the insistent voice and he rationalised that he had met his soulmate. Had he been more honest he might have admitted that the feelings he had for this intelligent and beautiful nun had thrown him into turmoil.
‘What are you doing over the semester break? Will you go home?’
Allegra shook her head. ‘I can’t afford it. I guess I’ll stay here and wrestle with Mary Magdalene, 153 and what was it? Fish and cities falling out of the sky,’ she said, laughing.
It was Giovanni’s turn to shake his head. ‘ Quello non va! That won’t do at all. I am going home to see my folks – I’ve even been invited to say Mass. You must come too. My family said they would love to meet you.’
‘I couldn’t,’ Allegra said quickly, without quite knowing why.
‘Why not?’ Giovanni demanded.
‘Well, there is Professor Rosselli’s research,’ she responded lamely.
‘My, my! He has got you worried. I’ll tell you what. While we’re at home we’ll spend some time on the pros and cons of Christ and Mary Magdalene and we’ll write it up when we get back.’
‘That would be nice,’ she said, giving in to his logic. Allegra felt the warmth of Giovanni’s body and nearly put her head on his shoulder. Accettazione and testarda. Deep within, strange feelings were stirring. The voice of Catholicism was telling her that it was wrong to be this close to a man. Like Giovanni, she put it down to feelings of friendship for someone whose intellect, warmth and compassion she had come to admire deeply.
‘Do you know, I don’t think I’ve even asked you where you live.’
‘Used to live,’ he corrected her, ‘but I still call it home. It’s a little fishing town on the Gulf of Policastro. Maratea. Have you heard of it?’
‘No, but now I’m looking forward to visiting it very much.’
‘You will love it. Everyone is very friendly and the mountains look like they fall into the sea. It is the perfect escape for students.’
‘Mmmm,’ murmured Allegra dreamily, and without a thought to what she was doing, she rested her head on his shoulder.
Giovanni knew he had to change the subject before the voice in his head completely disappeared. ‘One day I would like to go to the Holy Land and see all of those places that are in the Bible and visit Qumran.’
Allegra lifted her head from his shoulder.
‘And we could find the Omega Scroll – and put an end to all of Rosselli’s assignments,’ she said and her eyes sparkled.
Without realising it, the quest for the missing Omega Scroll had begun and their lives would change for ever.