The Book of Love (48 page)

“He must have been very proud of you.”

Bérenger shrugged. “I don’t know that he was. I didn’t really accomplish anything while he was alive. Even today, I still need to determine exactly what it is that is expected of me. Finding you…well, it was the first time I ever really felt like I might actually have the ability to fulfill my destiny.” He stopped for a moment to catch his breath as he was unexpectedly overwhelmed by the flood of the past years’ disappointments and desires. He composed himself quickly and continued.

“Maureen, I know you think I rushed into this with you, and now I hope you see why. The truth is, I am normally a very careful and calculating man in all other aspects of my life. But with you, I simply cannot be that. When I look at you and see what is in your eyes, I see someone
I have waited for. Not just in this life, but in others. Maybe for hundreds of years, maybe for thousands. But it was you I have waited for, you and only you. Of this I am certain.”

She was crying openly now as she listened. She replied through her tears, “I’m so sorry. I put you through so much when you have been so patient with me. And…I think I have been asleep for a very long time.”

He reached up gently and cupped her chin in his hand. “It’s time to awaken, my Sleeping Beauty. My dove.”

They were both beyond speech. Maureen’s reply was to lean in closer to accept the touch of his lips against hers. In the center of the piazza, with the fountain of Isis flowing behind them, these lovers of prophecy and scripture shared in the warmth of the
nashakh
, the sacred kiss. Their souls merged through this sweet blending of their breath. No longer were they two; they were One.

The Eternal City seemed a singularly appropriate location for such an epic reunion.

The following morning, Peter rose early to take on the day ahead of him. He knew where this was leading even if he didn’t know why. He would go to the church dedicated to Saint Ignatius, the church that just happened to be located a few hundred yards from Maureen’s hotel. He had the strangest sensation that he would find some answers there.

Peter had spent most of the sleepless night researching Montserrat, and the Black Madonna specifically. What he discovered was somewhat disconcerting. He reflected on how interesting and often shocking it was when information you have had for years suddenly takes on a very different meaning based on a shift in perspective. For while he remembered some of these details about Montserrat, they would not have struck him in the past as they did today.

Montserrat, like Chartres, had been a place of worship long before Christianity, recognized as it was by the ancients to be a location of ex
traordinary natural power. Since the earliest Christians, it had been some type of religious settlement dedicated to Mary, and the current monastery was referred to as Saint Mary’s. What Peter found disconcerting was that there were strong local legends indicating that Mary herself performed great miracles there. Looking closely at early Christian history and folklore, he could find absolutely no reference to the mother of Jesus coming to Spain. But there were plenty of legends linking Mary Magdalene to this region. This was the southern border of heretic country, and it had been for two thousand years. For Peter, there was only one conclusion. The miracles that were so firmly recollected here in Montserrat were Mary Magdalene’s. This was her place, her monastery, and that was her image carved in the ancient wood.

Through the Middle Ages, the monastery became known as a center of learning as well as a sophisticated cultural center visited by royalty and aristocracy. High-ranking noble families sent their sons here to study from all over France and Italy. Peter had found records in the archives and paged through the family names, which was something of a who’s who in terms of European wealth and privilege, but also in terms of heretical family ties. He had learned to recognize these family names over the last years of working on this subject around the clock.

Montserrat was widely referred to as the Grail Mountain, and there were theories that the Grail Castle of Parsifal’s legend was once nestled amid these rugged, barren peaks. The affiliation with the Grail, and the idea that the “container that held the blood of Christ” was an allegory for the Lord’s wife and his children lent further credence to the possibility of Montserrat as a sacred location for descendants of the Magdalene and her teachings.
Their
teachings. And if all this wasn’t enough, Montserrat was famous for a red book. In this case, what was called the
Llibre Vermell
was a book of sacred songs written in 1399 and bound carefully in red velvet some centuries later to protect it. But like so many legends, it was predated by earlier stories of a mysterious, secret book that was hidden in the monastery and known only by the highest initiates.

Reigning over all this mystery was the ancient sculpture of the ma
donna of Montserrat. She was nicknamed “La Moreneta” by the local people, a phrase meaning “little dark one.” While official records claimed it was carved in the twelfth century, the legend in Catalonia indicated that this petite yet powerful image of Notre Dame had been created in Jerusalem during the first century, either by Saint Luke or by Nicodemus. The same mythology indicated that the entire monastery was built around this statue when it was discovered, as it could not be moved by any number of men. Like Matilda’s favored sculpture, the
Volto Santo
, the Madonna of Montserrat had chosen the place where she wished to reside and was firm in her resistance to change.

Peter was struck by another strange similarity between the Holy Face in Lucca and the madonna in Montserrat. These two works of art represented an interesting pattern he was secretly exploring in the Church. Here were two carvings, both artistically beautiful and having strong legendary connections to the first century. And yet in both cases, the Church was emphatic that neither was original. Each piece was declared a copy from the Middle Ages. This would be easy enough to understand if it were true. What Peter found fascinating was that there was more information to substantiate that these items were potentially first-century originals than there was “proof” that they were copies. In his opinion, the case for both of these items being originals was quite a bit stronger. The
Volto Santo
, for example, had been considered original in Matilda’s time. If the current sculpture were a medieval forgery, what happened to the original? And why was there no outcry about its removal from Lucca if such was the case? Why does nothing in history indicate the removal of the Holy Face from the site that was chosen by God for it to rest in perpetuity? Peter believed that it was because the original had never been moved. The
Volto Santo
in Lucca today was, in fact, the original carved by Nicodemus. And he was beginning to think that the same was true of the madonna in Montserrat.

But why? Why wouldn’t the Church want the faithful to know that these items were authentic? This knowledge could only make them more valuable, and yet there seemed to be a concerted effort to convince the public that many of these sacred items from the first century
were forgeries, and that all the originals had simply disappeared into the mists of time. He had yet to understand it, but he would pursue it. Could this also be true of the Shroud of Turin? Did the Church, for some reason he hadn’t figured out yet, want us to believe that the Shroud was a fake when they knew that it was truly a holy relic of immense power? Just how big was this issue?

Peter had recently visited the Church of the Holy Stairs near the Lateran Palace. It was named for the staircase that the sainted Empress Helena brought with her to Rome, the twenty-eight white marble steps that Jesus climbed on his way to judgment by Pontius Pilate. Peter climbed the stairs on his knees, as is required of the faithful, to view the treasure that awaited him at the top. Installed in a vault was a legendary painting of our Lord, credited to Saint Luke but often called
acheiropoieton
, which means “not made by human hands.” Like the
Volto Santo
, it was believed that angels guided the artist’s hand that created the face of Jesus to ensure that it was perfected.

The last pope to display this painting in public, prior to its modern restoration, was Leo X, the son of Renaissance godfather Lorenzo de Medici. After the death of Pope Leo, the painting disappeared for several centuries. When it reemerged into public view, portions of the work had been covered permanently with silver and jewels, as if to obscure a number of details on the original board. In fact, the majority of the painting had been concealed by these late-addition papal decorations, leaving only the face of Jesus entirely visible. Was there some element of this original painting of our Lord that the Church did not want us to see? Otherwise, why would anyone tamper with such a holy object? Did they declare that it was a copy by an unknown artist with little value simply because they didn’t want the faithful to ask questions? Peter scoffed at this notion. In his experience as a priest, he had come to realize that the faithful rarely asked questions of their religious hierarchy, even when they were desperately necessary. If more questions were asked by parishioners, if more real answers were demanded, the Church might not be immersed in scandal at the dawn of the twenty-first century.

This painting was on display under the most heavily protected se
curity system in Rome. Peter had been in nearly every church in the city and had never seen security like this around any other piece of art. This painting of Jesus was set back from the viewer by at least ten feet, behind thick walls of protective and bulletproof glass and what appeared to be an impenetrable network of iron bars. Yet the Church declared that this painting was only a copy of the original, made by an unknown artist in the Middle Ages.

Really? Then why the iron-clad vaulting? The Hope diamond didn’t have security like this. Nor did any of the relics in Rome that were claimed to be authentic and priceless have security like this.

Peter found the whole thing puzzling, but when he listed the works of art that he believed were authentic, and that the Church claimed were not, he did find one important thread that connected them. All had an association with one of the original members of the Order of the Holy Sepulcher, either Luke or Nicodemus, or both. Could he make the leap that, subsequently, each of these items had potentially come into contact with the Book of Love?

Peter crossed the Tiber as he contemplated this idea, walking toward the section of Rome that contained two churches significant to the Jesuit order. The Gesù, the largest and most well known, had been the official headquarters of the superior general of the Jesuit order for hundreds of years. It was said that Michelangelo was so impressed with the power and purity of Loyola’s conversion that he offered to design his church, the Holy Name of Jesus, for free. Now, knowing what they did about Michelangelo’s lineage, Peter wondered if there wasn’t some greater connection between the great artist and Ignatius Loyola—a connection that somehow involved the Book of Love.

While the Gesù was imagined during the lifetimes of both the saint and the sculptor, construction began after their deaths. Peter passed the Gesù and bowed in respect to it but continued to the smaller church that was his destination, Sant’ Ignazio. In Peter’s eyes, this was the church of the working Jesuit, as it had once been the official center of worship for the Roman College, also known as the Pontifical Gregorian University. This, one of the oldest universities
in the world, was believed to be named after Pope Gregory XIII, who was a primary benefactor of its construction. But Peter was struck by another concept that had just occurred to him. A superior had told him a story once that the university had been called Gregorian also in deference to Gregory VII, a great reformer of the church. Matilda’s Gregory.

He entered Sant’ Ignazio, not entirely sure what he was searching for here, but standing in the faith that it would find him in this place. He moved to stand near one of the details that made this church unique—the golden disk in the floor that marked the perfect spot to view what appeared to be a beautifully vaulted dome, covered in elaborate frescoes. But the dome was a trick of the eye. It was painted by a brilliant Baroque craftsman, the Jesuit brother Andrea Pozzo, using a perfect trompe l’oeil technique. Legend said that the neighbors in Rome refused to allow a dome to be built that would block their afternoon sun, and the brothers were forced to create a false dome. Rather than becoming irritated by the restriction, they took it as an artistic challenge and created something truly memorable. When one stood on the golden disk, it was nearly impossible to tell that the dome was a trick of unequaled and illusory painting.

“The Church is full of grand illusions, isn’t it?”

Peter jumped at the voice behind him, then turned quickly to see who had made the same observation that had been running through his head for the last two years. Standing behind him was Cardinal Barberini, his brother on the Arques council. Barberini put his finger to his lips and pulled Peter around to sit in one of the pews.

Peter asked him simply, “Are you Destino?”

Barberini smiled. “No, no. Not even close.”

Peter considered for a moment before asking a follow-up question. “Is Destino a Jesuit?”

Barberini shook his head. “Destino is many things. He does not fit into any category that you have reference for. Yet. But that is for later. For the moment, I came here to tell you why you became a Jesuit, other than the reasons that you think you already know.”

It was a strange position that Peter found himself in. Here was a senior ranking member of the Church who had obviously followed him. Barberini had inside information on very serious and secret matters—and evidently quite a lot of it—but he was still something of an enigma. Cardinal DeCaro, whom he trusted implicitly, had introduced Barberini as an ally, and yet this clandestine behavior was strange. And unnecessary. Or was it? Was Peter being watched? He had always suspected he was, but this was potential confirmation. Was DeCaro being watched as well? The more conservative factions within the Vatican were in open conflict with Tómas’s progressive stance, particularly on the Magdalene material, but was there something deeper going on here?