The Book of Love (19 page)

She was a solitary and still island in the center of the madness, one of the few women in the crowd. But that was not what made her different. It was her bearing, a regal demeanor that marked her as a queen despite the layer of dirt covering her hands and feet. She was slightly disheveled, lustrous auburn hair tucked partially beneath a crimson veil. Matilda knew that she had to reach this woman, to touch her, to speak to her. She knew all too well just who this was. But the writhing crowd held her back and she couldn’t get to her.

“My lady!” Matilda was screaming in the dream, reaching out to the woman, who reached back, staring at her with a face of aching beauty. She was fine-boned, with exquisite, delicate features. But it was her eyes that would haunt Matilda long after the dream was over. Huge and bright with unshed tears, they fell somewhere in the color spectrum between amber and sage, an extraordinary light hazel that reflected infinite wisdom
and unbearable sadness. The extraordinary eyes conveyed a plea of utter desperation to Matilda.

You must help me.

The moment was broken when the woman looked down suddenly at a young girl who tugged urgently on her hand. Matilda gasped: she had experienced this part of the dream before, years ago when she was very young. She saw this little girl tugging at her mother’s hand, and she knew what came next. Behind the little girl stood an older boy, her brother. The mob surged again and the older boy grabbed for his sister, to keep her from being swept up in the crowd. The little girl screamed in terror, and then Matilda could not see the children anymore.

It was starting to rain, and in the strange, nonlinear continuum of the dreamscape, Matilda was now out of the crowd, but she could see her lady, Maria Magdalena, ahead of her in her red veil. Lightning ripped through the unnaturally dark sky as she stumbled up the hill with Matilda behind her. It was a strange sensation of both participating and observing. Matilda could not tell if she was experiencing her own feelings or Magdalena’s feelings, as they were all blending together in the experience.

She was oblivious to the cuts and scrapes—hers, Magdalena’s, it no long mattered. She had only one goal, and that was to reach him.

The sound of a hammer striking a nail, metal pounding metal, rang with a sickening finality through the air. As she—or they—reached the foot of the cross, the rain escalated into a downpour. She looked up at him, and drops of his blood splashed down on her distraught face, blending with the relentless rain.

Matilda looked around, removed from Magdalena now and once again an observer. She could see her lady at the foot of the cross, supporting the figure of the mother of the Lord, who appeared to be nearly unconscious with her grief. There were other women wearing the red veils around them, huddled together, supporting each other. One younger woman dressed in white in the midst of them caught Matilda’s attention. Strangely, there was a Roman centurion standing next to the women, but he appeared to be protecting them rather than terrorizing them. There was something kind in his face, and he appeared to be as tormented as the
suffering family. In a brief flash, she noticed that this centurion had the most extraordinary ice blue eyes. No doubt the tears that filled them magnified their transparent appearance.

The children were nowhere to be seen, Matilda noticed with some relief. Somewhere in her consciousness she remembered Isobel telling her that the children had been taken to safety before the terrible event that would change the world.

Another Roman stood nearer the cross with his back to the mourning family. Matilda could not see his face, but something in this man’s stature made her shudder. He snapped orders at the other Roman soldiers in the retinue near the cross. Matilda could not hear his words, but there was a cold arrogance to his voice that was unmistakably dangerous.

In her desire to take in as much of the scene as possible, she noticed that there were only two men in attendance with the women. One was older, dignified in his grief. He had his arm around a younger man, who appeared near to collapse. Matilda could hear Isobel in her lessons from ten years earlier:

“Our Lord had a wonderful friend who was called Nicodemus. Nico-de-mus. Nicodemus was one of only two men who were with him when he died.”

Matilda gasped. This younger man must be Nicodemus, the great sculptor of the
Volto Santo.
It was then that she realized she had not yet allowed herself to look upon the face of her Lord. Lifting her head slowly, she took in the holy and terrifying sight that was immediately ahead of her. The rain flowed down the planes of the most beautiful face she had ever seen. Even in his agony, he radiated a light and goodness that was impossible to define. His hair was indeed black as Nicodemus had sculpted it, long to his shoulders and also with a forked beard. But it was his eyes that were the real tribute to the talent of the artist who would celebrate his likeness later in wood. They were huge and dark and heavy-lidded, and full of kindness, just as Nicodemus had depicted them. Jesus looked at her then, for a brief moment that lasted into eternity. He held her gaze and she heard him say, although his lips did not move,

“You are my daughter, in whom I am well pleased.”

Matilda was crying now, sobbing, her tears and grief blending with
those of the family huddled at the foot of the cross. She was part of them. She was separate from them. But somehow, they were all one.

A scream shattered the scene, a wail of absolute human despair that came from the lips of Maria Magdalena. As Matilda looked up at her Lord on the cross, she saw immediately what had happened. The dark centurion, the arrogant and dangerous one close to Jesus, had shoved his lance into her Lord’s side until blood and water flowed from the wound.

The sound of Madonna Magdalena’s sobs blended with the harsh laughter of the evil Roman, as Matilda awoke to the first light of a Tuscan dawn, a millennium later across the world.

“The
Volto Santo
is a wonderful likeness of our Lord.”

The Master, Isobel, and Patricio froze as Matilda entered the room with this unexpected announcement. She looked disheveled and obviously sleepless, but her statement was strong and she did not appear to be disturbed.

“What has happened, Matilda?” It was Isobel who asked.

Matilda told them all about the dream, describing in detail what and whom she had seen and how they all appeared. She described Maria Magdalena in detail, how beautiful and heartbreaking she was, then Nicodemus and even the Roman soldiers.

The Master stopped her here. “Did you see the faces of any of the centurions?” he asked.

When Matilda nodded, the Master was very still, waiting for her answer.

“One of them had the most extraordinary light blue eyes,” she said.

“That would be Praetorus.” He nodded. “The Libro Rosso describes him as a blue-eyed Roman very specifically.” The Master was quite satisfied with this. Matilda had not yet studied Praetorus and Veronica, as their story was part of the lessons that were to come when she was of age, which was officially today. The lessons about sacred union of beloveds were not taught until after an initiate’s sixteenth birthday. That Matilda saw Praetorus and was able to identify his unusual eye color,
when she could not possibly have known about it otherwise, was a powerful omen that her vision was authentic. The Master had no doubt that it was, but this was blessed confirmation.

“Did you see the face of the other centurion?”

She shook her head. “The dark one, the one who pierced our Lord?”

“Longinus Gaius,” the Master answered. “Someday I shall tell you more about him. But not today.”

“No, I did not see his face. But…” She stopped for a moment, starting to choke up. The Master was nodding at her knowingly. He knew that this was a hard thing to have witnessed for one so young and emotional. But her answer was important.

“I saw what he did. And I think that I will never forget it, nor will I ever forget the sound of his laughter as it happened, not for as long as I shall live.”

The Master looked very sad for a long moment before answering. “No, Matilda. And you should not forget it, for you have been blessed by a divine vision. And every part of it is sacred and should be cherished, even those moments that are very hard to endure. Continue, my child. What else did you see?”

Her voice caught in her throat as she attempted at first to recount her moment with Jesus on the cross.

“He was…so beautiful. And kind. And I could only think of how much his beautiful dark hair and eyes resembled that of the
Volto Santo
. It truly is a Holy Face because it is his face.”

The four of them talked about the dream for quite a while. Patricio had many questions about all the characters present. For him, this was a grand adventure, a view into the past that made it all come to life in a most extraordinary way. And as a member of the Order who was also coming of age, he was greatly interested in information about their founders, Joseph of Arimathea and Nicodemus. Matilda told him all that she remembered—about the older man’s dignity and his support of the younger man in his grief, and the fact that she was absolutely certain that there were no other men present.

Isobel wanted a complete description of Maria Magdalena. The two women cried together as Matilda recounted the extraordinary courage and pain she had witnessed in the face of such horror.

“Matilda, we have a gift for you.”

The Master left the room for a moment, and when he returned it was with a wooden box that had been carved with the sacred elongated diamond symbol across the hinged lid.

“We had planned to give this to you today as your coming-of-age gift, and now it would seem that it is all the more appropriate. So in the name of our Lady, Maria Magdalena, and in the name of the Order of the Holy Sepulcher, which was created by Nicodemus and Joseph of Arimathea and the blessed Luke to honor her name and memory, we present this to you with great love.”

She hadn’t cried this much since Bonifacio passed. But the Master’s verbal dedication was worth more to her than any physical gift, and her heart was touched deeply. She opened the box and removed the ring. It was identical to Isobel’s in shape and size—the circular pattern of stars dancing around the single circle in the center. It was the official seal of Maria Magdalena as preserved in the Libro Rosso. But whereas Isobel’s was bronze, Matilda’s was made of gold. It was a beautiful gift, worthy of a Tuscan countess.

She slipped it on the fourth finger of her right hand, the finger that is believed to connect directly to the heart, where it rested perfectly. “I shall never take it off. Never.”

She thanked them all profusely and spent the rest of the day crying through her lessons. She was surely the most blessed woman in Tuscany to have such friends. She asked that they end the afternoon with all of them walking in the labyrinth together and joining in the center to say the Pater Noster in the special way that was sacred to the Order, within each of the six petals. Once inside the center, she also reaffirmed her promise to build a greater shrine for the Holy Face, this time in thanks for the divine vision she had been given.

It was without a doubt one of the most beautiful days of a very memorable life.

And so it was that on the darkest day of our Lord’s sacrifice upon the cross, he was tormented in his final hour by a Roman centurion known as Longinus Gaius. This man had served Pontius Pilate in the scourging of our Lord Jesus Christ and had taken pleasure in inflicting pain upon the son of God. If this were not crime enough for one man, it was this same centurion who pierced the side of our Lord with his deadly spear at his hour of death.

The sky turned black at his moment of passing from our world into the next and it is said that within that moment the Father in Heaven spoke directly to the centurion thus:

“Longinus Gaius, you have most offended me and all people of good heart with your vile deeds on this day. Your punishment shall be one of eternal damnation, but it will be an earthly damnation. You shall wander the earth without benefit of death so that each night when you lie down to sleep, your dreams will be haunted by the horrors of your own actions and the pain they have caused. Know that you will experience this torment until the end of time, or until you serve a suitable penance to redeem your tarnished soul in the name of my son Jesus Christ.”

Longinus was blind to the truth at this time in his life, a man of sadistic cruelty beyond redemption, or so it would seem. But it came to pass that he was driven mad by the pronouncement of his eternal sentence to wander in an earthly hell. Therefore he sought out our lady Magdalena in Gaul to beg her forgiveness for his misdeeds. In her unlimited kindness and compassion she forgave him and instructed him in the teachings of the Way, just as she would any new follower, and without judgment.

What became of Longinus Gaius is uncertain. He disappeared from the writings of Rome and from those of the early followers. It is unknown if he ever truly repented and found release from his sentence by a just God, or if he wanders the earth still, lost in his eternal damnation.

For those with ears to hear, let them hear it.

T
HE LEGEND OF
L
ONGINUS THE
C
ENTURION
,
AS PRESERVED IN THE
L
IBRO
R
OSSO

Vatican City
present day

M
aureen grabbed Peter’s arm to steady herself as they entered one of the huge entrance doors to St. Peter’s Basilica. There was a time in her life when she would not have been able to force herself to enter such a place, so deep was her resentment of the harsh dogmatic aspects of Catholicism. But discovering Mary’s gospel had changed that, had changed her. While Maureen still had grave reservations about the politics of both the modern and historical Church, she tried to live the doctrine of forgiveness as preached by this woman who was an icon of nonjudgment and compassion.

And yet St. Peter’s Basilica as the seat of the bishop of Rome was, by definition and design, monumental and daunting. Maureen took a deep breath and entered, allowing Peter to steer her to the right of the basilica immediately upon entering.

Maureen had come to the Vatican to see Father Girolamo de Pazzi, as he had requested a meeting with her. Peter was determined to be present for the introductions and to help his cousin negotiate the often daunting security measures within the world’s smallest and most insular nation—Vatican City. Prior to the meeting, they had decided to go in search of their Tuscan countess.

“First, you must see the genius.” Peter was leading her to the first niche on the right, where flashbulbs and tourists were a sure sign of an artistic icon on public display. As they drew closer, Maureen found herself gasping unexpectedly at the sheer beauty that confronted her. Michelangelo’s masterpiece of sculpture, the
Pietà
, seemed to glow from within. The serene majesty of the Virgin Mary’s face, as she held the body of her son, was sublime and awesome at the same time. Maureen waited for the crowd to thin before moving closer to study the sculpture, which had been encased in glass since the 1980s, when a nutcase attempted to destroy it with a sledgehammer.

Maureen made an observation to Peter. “She looks very young, doesn’t she? Is it strange that this Mary looks younger than the man on her lap who is supposed to be her son? Do you think it’s possible that this is another Mary? Our Mary?”

Peter smiled at her and shook his head. “No. There’s no conspiracy here, Maureen. Michelangelo explained it himself in his lifetime, that the purity of the Virgin was such that she would have looked eternally youthful.”

Maureen accepted this with a nod, although she wasn’t necessarily convinced by this explanation. Whichever Mary this was meant to depict, she was astonishingly beautiful. “But what about the parchment that Bérenger received, the one with the family tree that ends with Michelangelo? The card that accompanied it said, ‘Art will save the world.’ The card was sent to Bérenger by the same person who also sent my parchment. The two are connected.”

“And whoever sent your parchment also had you robbed at gunpoint.”

“We don’t know that for sure.”

“Then who else? Come on.” Peter turned Maureen around to move her just a few yards down the aisle. “I will introduce you to the enigmatic countess of Canossa.”

Maureen drew up short, stunned by the massive marble monument before her. “Here? In such a prominent place? And forgive me for noticing, but so very close to Michelangelo? Could that be a coincidence?”

Matilda’s tomb was in the second niche along the nave, just below Michelangelo’s masterwork. The majestic Bernini sculpture that graced Matilda’s resting place was a larger-than-life image of an extraordinary woman. She was depicted as a warrior goddess in the classical style, toga and all, with a baton in her right hand, ostensibly to symbolize her accomplishments as a soldier and strategist. She clutched the papal tiara to her body on the left, and in that same hand she held firmly to the key of Saint Peter.

“How strange a depiction for a woman in the Vatican, holding the key to the Church itself.” Maureen was thinking out loud before turning to Peter. “What do you make of it?”

Peter translated the inscription over Matilda’s tomb in response. “The Holy Pontiff, Urban VIII, transferred the bones from the Monastery of San Benedetto Mantua, of the Countess Matilda, a woman with a noble soul and champion of the Apostolic See, known for her piety, celebrated for her generosity. With eternal gratitude and deserved praise in the year 1635.”

“Fascinating, but it still doesn’t tell us why she is holding the symbols of the papacy in her hands.”

“No, it most certainly does not.” Peter flashed a sly smile at her.

“But you know something you’re not telling me, don’t you?”

“Shhh.” Peter looked around surreptitiously. This was one place where the walls truly had ears. “Yes, I finished a large chunk of translations last night. We’ll go through them this afternoon.”

“You’re killing me.”

“I know, but it can’t be helped. In the meantime, let me show you the other Bernini sculptures here. They’re magnificent, and the art lover in you will appreciate them.”

He took Maureen to the focal point of the basilica, Bernini’s outlandish baldachino, the bronze centerpiece beneath the dome that was his attempt to blend art, architecture, sculpture, and spirituality. He created an enormous canopy cast in bronze, supported by elaborately carved twisted columns that he claimed came from a design drawn by Solomon himself for the first Temple. The baldachino was created to
mark the tomb of Saint Peter at the center of the basilica, commissioned by the now enigmatic Pope Urban VIII.

In niches surrounding the baldachino were larger-than-life statues of first-century figures. Maureen instantly recognized Saint Veronica with her veil but puzzled over the enormous figure that appeared to be a Roman centurion with a spear.

“Who is this?”

“Longinus Gaius. The centurion who pierced the side of Jesus at the crucifixion.”

Maureen shuddered. The character of Longinus had been clearly drawn in Mary Magdalene’s gospel account of Good Friday. This was a hardened and cruel man, most infamous for adding to the suffering of Jesus on the cross. Wasn’t it strange that Bernini had created such a beautiful and majestic image of him in the heart of the Vatican?

Peter answered Maureen’s query. “It is believed that Bernini created statues that corresponded to the holy relics that were to be housed here. Urban the Eighth, it seems, was something of a relic hound. For example, Veronica’s veil was to be kept under her sculpture. The Spear of Destiny, which is what the weapon of Longinus was called, was to be kept here with him. The Vatican only claims to have a piece of the spear, however. A museum in Austria claims another piece, and the rest of it disappeared centuries ago. It was, like the Ark of the Covenant, said to have magical powers and was one of the most coveted relics in history.”

“The spear of destiny?” Maureen repeated.

Peter nodded, then checked his watch and called an end to her tour of the basilica. It was time for her meeting in the confraternity offices.

Maureen wasn’t sure what she expected, but it wasn’t this. Father Girolamo was incredibly sharp and animated for his advanced years, but that wasn’t the surprise. The surprise was that he was charming, warm, and apparently genuinely interested in making her comfortable. He had tea brought into his office, and Maureen sipped it, grateful that it
was the strong Irish brew that she favored, and curious as to why a Tuscan priest kept tea from County Cork in his pantry.

Peter had left them alone so they could talk privately. He had prepared Maureen for the meeting earlier in the day, filling her in on the elder priest’s expertise, but also on his warnings. Father Girolamo de Pazzi had been correct. Someone was using Maureen, and they needed to try to understand who that might be.

“You think whoever sent the parchments to me and to my friends and the gunmen who robbed us are one and the same?” Maureen asked him.

He nodded. “Yes, I do. If you don’t mind, please describe what they took, exactly.”

Maureen explained how the red book had been given to her by the little girl and then taken by the gunman. She did not elaborate after that. Maureen and Peter had not told anyone in the Vatican as of this moment about Matilda’s autobiography. They had learned their lesson about turning over original documents and were keeping this one to themselves.

The old priest continued his questioning. “You never saw what the book contained?”

“No. It was locked, and one of the gunman took it before I could get a good look at it.”

“And what do you think it was?”

“I really don’t know. I’m sorry. It all happened so fast.”

Father Girolamo changed the subject. “Are you willing to discuss your dreams and visions with me? I ask out of a passion for the subject more than anything else. But of course if I can offer you any counsel, I am pleased to do so. It is important for you to know that you can trust me. Most of all, I want to protect you from whoever is attempting to use you for his own purposes.”

Maureen felt that she should tell him something, given that she had been so deliberately obtuse regarding the red book.

“Of course. What would you like to know?”

“You have visions of Mary. Waking visions as well as dreams.”

“Yes. But it is not your Mary.”

“You have never seen the mother of the Lord? She has never appeared to you?”

“No.” Maureen wasn’t being deliberately short, but she was uncomfortable with men of the Church at the best of times and wasn’t inclined to give too much away to them. Old habits die hard, and he hadn’t given her enough reason to trust him yet. Girolamo continued to probe gently.

“Your cousin tells me that you have dreams where our Lord speaks to you.”

In an attempt to be diplomatic, Maureen provided an abbreviated description of her recent recurring dreams that featured Jesus and the Book of Love.

“And this book that he appears to be writing,” the priest interrupted, animated by something she said, “did the pages, by chance, have blue light surrounding them?”

Maureen very nearly spit out her tea. “Yes. How did you know that?”

“Because I have heard this before.”

“From whom?”

He shook his head. “It was a confidential consultation, my dear, so I cannot reveal the source. Just as I will tell no one what you reveal to me here. Do you know why the words on the page are alive with blue light?”

When Maureen said she didn’t know, he explained, “Because all of the gospels are written for those with eyes to see and ears to hear. Even the canon as we know it today has layers within it that not everyone can readily read or interpret. If our Lord did write a gospel in his own hand, it is possible that he would have written it in such a way that not all the teachings were available to just anyone who would try to read it.”

“But why would Jesus write a book that not everyone can read?”

“Because he did not write it at a time when there were printing presses and mass distribution with the understanding that billions of people would one day be able to read such words. That would not have
been his intention—to have everyone read it. He wrote it at a time when it would be a teaching tool in the hands of a trained apostle, someone who would know how to interpret what he wanted us to know in a very specific way.”

Maureen nodded. “And would it be a safety precaution? So if the book ended up in the wrong hands, it could not be used against him or his followers as blasphemous?”

“Very possible. We cannot know for sure. But you see? I was able to shine some light on your dreams, even though you were reluctant to come here. You will not find anyone in the world with more experience in understanding visions. I hope you will feel free to come to me at any time if you need to discuss this further. And please, for your own safety, inform us immediately if you receive further contact from any outside source.”

Maureen thanked him politely for the tea and the conversation, and accepted his invitation to attend the confraternity’s forthcoming presentations on the appearance of our Lady at Knock. She knew it would mean a lot to Peter that she was trying not to hold judgment against all men of the Church. Hadn’t Tómas DeCaro proven to be an absolute gem during her search for Mary Magdalene? And Father Girolamo had been quite lovely today. Perhaps there was some real hope that these men of the Church would come around and consider allowing the truth into their hearts after all. It was a secret wish that she held close as she made her way back across the Tiber to her hotel.

The scent of the lilies hit her before she even opened the door. The room was filled with them. She smiled, certain this time that she knew who was responsible for the gesture. While Bérenger Sinclair had been persistent in his phone calls since the Orval incident, Maureen had not had the opportunity to speak to him. They had traded messages a few times but had yet to connect. She knew he was worried about her, and she longed for the comfort and safety that she felt in his presence. She
didn’t relish the idea of having to broker a truce between Bérenger and Peter, but clearly she couldn’t ignore their rift much longer.

Bérenger was not a man to be ignored or denied. The card that accompanied his flowers read,

Maureen laughed. Well, at least he gave her some notice. She had three hours to shower and get dressed.

Walking over to the picture window of her own suite, Maureen threw it open to take in the magic of the piazza. The fountain gurgled around the granite obelisk as tourists sat on the marble steps, snapping photos and eating panini. One of the tourists caught Maureen’s eye, causing her to draw a quick breath. Sitting on the steps beside the fountain and looking directly into her room was a man she had seen before—a man wearing a dark hooded sweatshirt and large sunglasses.

Rome
present day

U
SELESS
.

Their nonproductive meeting was over and the leader of the hooded men was left alone to strategize in silence. He removed the midnight blue covering from his head and threw it in disgust. The younger recruits were big on passion but short on common sense. They enjoyed carrying guns and playing cloak-and-dagger games, but God forbid that you needed one of them to think. And he was getting too old to carry so much of this burden without competent help. Even the short trip to Belgium had worn him out.