The Expected One (53 page)

Maureen looked at the name on the calling card. “Tomas Francesco Borgia DeCaro,” she said aloud. “If you’ll forgive me for asking…”

The Cardinal laughed now, a true smile spreading across his face. “Yes, Signorina, I am a son of the bloodline, just as you are a daughter. You’ll be surprised at how many of us there are — and just where you will find us when you know where to look.”

“The moon is full and the night is perfect. Would you do me the honor of joining me for a walk in the gardens before retiring?” Bérenger Sinclair asked Maureen after the Cardinal had taken his leave.

Maureen agreed. She was entirely at ease with him now, comfortable in the unique manner that comes to people who have endured extreme circumstances together. And there were few things more beautiful than a summer night in the southwest of France. With the floodlights illuminating the majestic château and the lunar light reflecting on the marble paths, the Trinity Gardens were transformed into a place of pure magic.

Maureen told him everything she had discussed with the Cardinal, and Sinclair listened with sincere interest and attention. When she was finished, he asked her, “And what will you do now? Do you think you will begin a book about this experience? How do you intend to reveal the words of Mary’s gospel to the world?”

Maureen walked around the perimeter of the Magdalene fountain, running her finger along the cool, smooth marble as she thought about her answer.

“I haven’t decided what form it will take yet.” She looked up at the statue. “I’m hoping she’ll give me some guidance. Whatever it becomes, I only hope I can do her justice.”

Sinclair smiled at her. “You will. Of course you will. She chose you for a reason.”

Maureen returned the expression of warmth. “She chose you, too.”

“I think all of us were selected to play roles in our own way. You, me, certainly Roland and Tammy. And, of course, Father Healy.”

“So you don’t all despise Peter for what he did?”

Sinclair answered quickly. “No. No, not at all. Even if Peter did the wrong thing he did it for the right reasons. Besides, what kind of hypocrite would I be if I felt hatred for a man of God after discovering this treasure? Our Magdalene’s message is one of compassion and forgiveness. If everyone on earth could embrace those two qualities, we would have a much nicer planet to live on, don’t you agree?”

Maureen looked up at him with admiration, and the dawning of an emotion that was new to her. For the first time in her eventful life, she felt safe. “I’m not sure how to thank you, Lord Sinclair.”

The Scottish burr came out with greater force, rolling the “r” in her name as he spoke it. “Thank me for what, Maureen?”

“For this.” She gestured to the lush surroundings. “For introducing me to a world that most people have never even dreamed of. For showing me my place in all of it. For making me feel that I’m not alone.”

“You will never be alone again.” Sinclair took Maureen’s hand and led her deeper into the rose-scented lushness of the gardens. “But you must stop calling me Lord Sinclair.”

Maureen smiled then, and called him “Berry” for the first time, right before he kissed her.

The following morning, a package for Maureen arrived at the château. It had been sent from Paris the day before. There was no return address, but she didn’t require one to know who the sender was. She would know Peter’s writing anywhere.

Maureen ripped open the box, anxious to see what Peter had sent. Although she had no anger toward him for anything he had done, he wouldn’t know that yet. They would have to get through an awkward period of apologies and undertake some serious discussions about their shared history, but Maureen had no doubt they would come through this as close as ever.

Maureen let out a small scream of surprise and delight when she saw the contents of the box. Inside were photocopies of each page of Peter’s notes from all three books of Mary Magdalene’s gospels. All of his notes were here, from the first transcriptions to the final translations. On the top page, written on a page torn from one of his yellow legal pads, Peter had written:

…It was many years later when I had the chance to thank Claudia Procula in person for the risks she had taken for Easa. The tragedy of Pontius Pilate and his decision to choose Rome as his master was that it did not save his career or serve his ambitions in the end. Herod did indeed go to Rome the day following Easa’s passion, but he did not speak well of Pilate to the emperor. A true Herod until the end, he had another agenda, a cousin he wished to see in the position of procurator. He spoke poison in the ears of Tiberius, and Pilate was recalled to Rome to stand trial for his misdeeds while he was the governor of Judea.

Pontius Pilate’s own words were used against him at his trial. He had sent a letter to Tiberius telling him about Easa’s miracles and the events of the Day of Darkness. The Romans used his words against him, to not only eliminate his title and position, but to exile him and confiscate his lands. If Pilate had pardoned Easa and stood up against Herod and the priesthood, his fate would have been no different.

Claudia Procula remained loyal to her husband through the most terrible times. She told me that their little boy, Pilo, died within a few weeks of Easa’s execution. There was no explanation for it; he simply wasted away before their eyes. Claudia told me that at first it had taken all of her strength not to blame her husband for the death of their child, but she knew that Easa would not want that. She had only to close her eyes and see Easa’s face on the night he healed her son — that was how Claudia Procula found the Kingdom of God. This Roman woman of royal blood had an extraordinary understanding of the Nazarene Way. She lived it effortlessly.

Claudia and Pilate moved to Gaul, where she had lived as a child. She said that Pilate spent the rest of his life attempting to understand Easa — who he was, what he wanted, what he taught. Over many years she told him often that Easa’s Way was not something that he could apply his Roman logic to. One had to become like a little child to understand the truth. Children are pure, open, and honest. They are able to accept goodness and faith without question. While Pilate did not think it was in him to embrace The Way in the manner that Claudia had, she felt that he was, in his own way, a convert.

Claudia related an extraordinary story to me about the day before she and the procurator left Judea forever. Pontius Pilate had gone to the Temple in search of Jonathan Annas and Caiaphas, demanding that they see him. He asked them both to look him in the eyes on the most sacred ground of their people and tell him: did we or did we not execute the Son of God?

I do not know what is more extraordinary — that Pilate sought out the priests to ask the question, or that both of the priests confessed that they had made a terrible mistake.

Following Easa’s resurrection to our Father in Heaven, a number of men came forward to say that our followers had moved his physical body. These men had been paid to do so by the Temple, who now feared a terrible backlash if people were to learn the truth. Annas and Caiaphas confessed to this. Pilate told his wife that he believed these men were truly repentant, that they would suffer every day for the rest of their lives on earth as they lived with the knowledge of their terrible deeds.

If only they had come to me and told me this. I would have given them the teachings of The Way, and assured them of Easa’s forgiveness. For on the day that the Kingdom of God is awakened in your heart, you need never suffer again.

T
HE
A
RQUES
G
OSPEL OF
M
ARY
M
AGDALENE,
T
HE
B
OOK OF
D
ISCIPLES

M
aureen drove the rented car through the pastel dusk hours of the southern summer. As she pulled into the parking lot alongside the suburban cemetery, the fading light illuminated the little church within the cemetery gates.

This time, she did not skirt the gates. The daughter of Edouard Paschal entered through them, head held high. No one with loved ones buried here would ever have to visit their final resting places in a misfit and overgrown graveyard. The gates had been moved to incorporate the previously pathetic plots, thanks to the influence and a grant from a particular Italian cardinal.

The white marble of her father’s new grave marker seemed to glow from within as Maureen approached. An elaborate wreath of roses and lilies rested against the marble, just below the large gilded fleurdelis and the inscription that read:

She knelt before the grave and had a long overdue conversation with her father.

The sense of peace that Maureen experienced internally was entirely new to her, and very welcome. She had butterflies about what tomorrow would bring, but overall she felt more excited than afraid. Tomorrow in New Orleans she would meet members of the Paschal clan — aunts and cousins she had never known — for a lunchtime reunion. Following that event, she would fly to Shannon Airport in Ireland and drive to a little western Galway town and stay at the Healy family farm. Peter was meeting her there. It would be their first meeting since her cousin left the Château des Pommes Bleues. They had spoken on the phone a number of times, but they had not seen each other. Peter had requested that they meet in Ireland, far away from crowds and curious eyes. There, they could talk at length and he would have the time and opportunity to fill her in on the official status of the Arques Gospel.

Maureen was thinking of all these things as she strolled through the French Quarter, which was coming to life on a beautiful Friday evening. As she walked, the distant sound of saxophone music floated on the southern breeze. Rounding a corner, drawn by the music, Maureen caught her first glimpse of the musician. He wore his dark hair long, which emphasized his gaunt and soulful appearance. As she drew closer to him, he looked up at her, and their eyes locked for a moment.

James St. Clair, the street musician from New Orleans, winked at Maureen. She smiled at him as she walked by, the saxophone strains of “Amazing Grace” floating behind her through the air of the French Quarter.