The Last Cato (37 page)

We toured every inch of the basilica, including the Anastasis rotunda. Along the way, Pierantonio and Father Murphy told us that the Latin, Greek Orthodox, and Armenian Orthodox communities were equal co-owners of the church. It was governed by a status quo, that is, a fragile agreement, for lack of a better solution. The agreement tried to bring peace to the Christian churches of Jerusalem. They said the Orthodox Coptics, the Syrian-Orthodox, and the Ethiopians could also conduct their ceremonies in the basilica, to which Farag protested vehemently that the Coptic-Catholics didn’t enjoy a similar right, but Father Murphy begged him, half joking, half serious, not to fan the fire.

When we finished the tour, my brother and Father Murphy proposed we continue by visiting other holy places in the city.

“There’s still something we haven’t seen,” I answered back. “The underground crypt.”

Pierantonio looked puzzled. Father Clark flashed a knowing smile.

“How do you know of the crypt’s existence, Doctor?”

“It’s a long story, Murphy,” Farag answered, taking the words out my mouth, “but we’re very interested in seeing it.”

“That’s going to be complicated…,” he murmured, deep in thought, tugging at his beard again. “That crypt is the property of the Greek Orthodox Church. Just a few Catholic priests—you can count them on one hand—have seen it. Only your brother, Guardian Salina, could get permission.”

“I didn’t even know it existed!” my brother said, disconcerted.

“I haven’t seen it either, Father,” Murphy replied. “Like your sister, I would be delighted to do so. You can ask permission from the Orthodox patriarch of Jerusalem; a phone call ought to do it.”

“Is this absolutely necessary?” my brother asked, clearly put off by the idea of asking for politically compromising favors.

“I assure you it is.”

Pierantonio headed for the exit. Sheltering himself from the multitude outside the doors in a corner of the atrium, he took his cell phone out of the pocket of his habit. He was only gone a few minutes.

“Done,” he announced happily. “Let’s go find Father Chrysostomos. Let’s just say it wasn’t easy! It seems there is a secret vault, hidden in the deepest part of the basilica. You should have heard the surprised and incredulous exclamations that came through the phone. How do you know about it?”

“It’s a long story, Pierantonio.”

My enthused brother approached the first Orthodox priest who crossed his path. A few minutes later we found ourselves before a pope with a gray beard who wore the “chimney stack”–style hat, just like men wore in Florence during the Renaissance. Father Chrysostomos, whose glasses hung down his chest from a thin chain, looked completely disconcerted. His expression very clearly revealed that he still hadn’t recovered from the phone call that warned him of our arrival and the reason for our visit. Pierantonio introduced himself, citing all his offices, and Father Chrysostomos held out his hand with respect, still with a look of surprise that seemed frozen on his face. Then the rest of us were introduced. Finally the Orthodox priest expressed the anguish weighing on his heavy heart.

“I don’t want to be rude, but can you tell me how you knew of the existence of the chamber?”

“From some ancient documents that described its construction,” replied the Rock.

“Is that right? If you don’t mind, I would like to know more. Father Stephanos and I have spent our whole lives watching over the relics of the True Cross preserved in the crypt. We had no idea that it was known, nor that there were documents that spoke of its construction.”

As we descended, step-by-step, into the depths of the earth, Farag, the Rock, and I told him what we knew about the Crusades and the secret chamber, but we didn’t mention the Staurofilakes. After going down hundreds of stone steps, we came to a rectangular enclosure used for storage. Paintings of ancient patriarchs hung on the walls, and furniture covered by sheets of plastic seemed to sleep a slumber of the righteous. There was also an old Orthodox habit on a hanger, immobile as a ghost. In the back, an iron grate protected a second wooden door that seemed to be our objective. An old man with a long white beard got up from a chair when he saw us enter.

“Father Stephanos, we have visitors,” announced Father Chrysostomos.

The two curates exchanged a brief dialogue in a low voice and then they turned to us. “Go ahead.”

The old Orthodox curate took a ring of iron keys from inside the pleat of his soutane, turned toward the grate, and opened it in slow motion. Before doing the same with the wooden door, he pressed an antediluvian button located in the lintel.

I was really surprised when I entered in the Staurofilakes’ secret vault, built around the year 1000 to protect the True Cross from the destruction ordered by the crazed caliph, al-Hakem, and I found myself in a type of military barracks furnished like a kitchen. After taking a second look, I made out a small altar in the center of the room, along with a beautiful icon bearing the image of the Crucifixion. Directly across from it was a pair of small crosses that turned out to be reliquaries holding the holy sliver. To my left, some old metal file cabinets, folding chairs, and wooden tables were scattered throughout the room. It was just a mess. If the Staurofilakes could see that! After thinking it over, maybe it was the smartest way to protect something so valuable.

Father Stephanos and Father Chrysostomos crossed themselves repeatedly in the Orthodox style. With great reverence, they pointed to tiny pieces of the Cross behind the windows of the reliquaries. We all then kissed those objects, except the Rock, who turned his back and stood as still as a statue. When Father Stephanos saw that, he slowly walked over to the Rock to see what the captain was studying with such interest.

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” he said in very correct English.

The rest of us walked over, too. What a surprise! We saw a beautiful Constantine chrismon painted on a large dark wooden board; a long Greek text was inscribed on it. The board rested on the ground, leaning against the wall.

“It’s my favorite prayer. I’ve meditated on it for fifty years. Believe me, each day I find new treasure in its simple wisdom.”

“What is it?” Farag asked, and bent down to get a better look.

“Thirty years ago, some English scholars told us it was a very old Christian prayer, from the twelfth or thirteenth century. The text contains many errors, so the penitent or artist who did the work probably wasn’t Greek. The scholars told us it was probably a Latin heretic who visited this place. In gratitude he presented this beautiful board to the basilica, inspired by the True Cross.”

I squatted down beside Farag and, in a low voice, translated the first words: “You have overcome pride and envy, now overcome wrath with patience.” I stood up and gave the captain a meaningful look.

“‘You who have overcome pride and envy, now overcome wrath with patience.’” I repeated in Italian.

Understanding what I was saying, the captain’s eyes widened. Any Staurofilax aspirant who passed the tests in Rome and Ravenna must have known that the message was meant for him.

“That is what the first sentence says. Its ancient letters are outlined in red.”

Father Stephanos looked at me fondly. “Has the young lady understood the meaning of the prayer?”

“Forgive me!” I apologized quickly. “I didn’t realize I’d switched languages. I’m deeply sorry.”

“Oh, don’t worry! The emotion in your eyes when you read the text makes me very happy. I think you have grasped the importance of the prayer.”

Farag stood up and the three of us exchanged meaningful looks. Not wanting to miss a thing, the three of us immediately looked at Father Stephanos… Father Stephanos or Stephanos the Staurofilax? I wondered.

“Do you like it?” the old man wanted to know. “I can give you a pamphlet printed shortly after the scholars visited. It includes a fulllength photograph of the tablet and several smaller detailed photos. Unfortunately, the publication is rather old and the photos are in black and white. But it contains a translation of the prayer.” He added with a proud smile, “I must warn you, I was the one who translated it.” Deeply moved, he started to recite from memory. “‘You who have overcome pride and envy, can now overcome wrath with patience now. Just as the plant thrives through the will of the sun, implore God that his divine light falls on you from the heavens. Christ says: fear nothing but the fear of sinning. Christ fed you in groups of one hundred and fifty hungry souls. His holy word did not say groups of ninety or two. Then trust justice as the Athenians did and do not fear the grave. Have faith in Christ as he had faith even in the wicked tax collector. Your soul, like the soul of the bird, races and flies to God. Do not hinder your soul by committing sins, and it will arrive at Christ’s side. If you conquer evil, you will reach the light before dawn. Purify your soul, bow down before God as a humble supplicant. With the help of the True Cross, strike down your earthly appetites without mercy. Cleave to the Cross alongside Jesus with seven nails and seven blows. If you do this, Christ, in his majesty, will receive you at the sweet door. May your patience be filled to the brim by this prayer. Amen.’ Beautiful, isn’t it?”

“It’s… beautiful, Father Stephanos,” I murmured.

“I see it has touched you!” he exclaimed, happy. “I’ll go look for those pamphlets and give one to each of you!”

And in a slow, unsteady step, he left the crypt and disappeared.

The tablet was indisputably very old. The wood had been darkened by the smoke from the candles that had burned before it over the centuries, though it held no candles at the moment. It was about a meter high and a meter and a half long. The letters were ancient Greek, and the text was written in black ink; the first and last sentences were decorated with a red border. At the top, like a shield or a crest, was the emperor’s chrismon and its faithful horizontal bar.

My brother quickly detected that this was something important. He struck up a trivial conversation with Father Murphy and Father Chrysostomos so Farag, the Rock, and I could talk.

“This tablet,” the Rock observed, “is what we are in Jerusalem for.”

“The message couldn’t be any clearer,” agreed Farag. “We will have to study it carefully. The content is very strange.”

“Strange?” I exclaimed. “Extremely unusual! We’ll fry our eyes trying to understand it!”

“What do you two think about Father Stephanos?” asked the Rock.

“Staurofilax,” Farag and I answered simultaneously.

“Yes, definitely.”

Father Stephanos reappeared, holding his pamphlets tightly so he wouldn’t drop them. “Pray this prayer every day,” he said as he handed them to us, “and you’ll discover the beauty hidden in its words. You can’t imagine the devotion it will inspire if you recite it patiently.”

An absurd anger toward that cynical Staurofilax was growing inside me. I rejected the fact that he was an old, old man and couldn’t be a member of the brotherhood. I wanted to grab him by the soutane and tell him to stop mocking us, for we had nearly died several times on account of his strange fanaticism. Then I recalled that the new test dealt with wrath. I tried to stifle my fury, brought on, I was sure, by physical and mental fatigue. I wanted to cry when I realized that those diabolical millenary deacons had devised that initiation process meticulously.

In a daze, we left the crypt with the old priest’s affection and Father Chrysostomos’s friendship and thanks. We promised to send him the historical documentation on the crypt. It was late in the afternoon, yet waves of tourists were still entering the basilica of the Holy Sepulchre.

W
e were given a modest office in the delegation so we could work on the prayer. The captain insisted on getting Internet access, while Farag and I requested several dictionaries from the library of the Biblical School of Jerusalem on classical Greek and Byzantine Greek. After a frugal dinner, Glauser-Röist settled down in front of the computer and began tapping away. To him, computers were like musical instruments that must be perfectly tuned or powerful machines that should be well oiled. While he began furiously typing on his new toy, Farag and I spread the pamphlets out on the desk and got to work on decoding the prayer.

Father Stephanos’s translation could be called meritorious. His reading of the Greek text was irreproachable; however, grammatically it left a lot to be desired. The old man had clearly done his best, given how deficient the material was. Its author didn’t seem to have a command of the Greek language: Even considering that Greek verb tenses are extremely complicated, some verbs were misspelled and some words were in the wrong place. Normally, one would have deduced that whoever wrote the prayer had put his soul into expressing his thoughts in a language he didn’t know well, driven by some social or religious need. But knowing this was in fact a Staurofilax message, we couldn’t overlook those errors. The first thing that got our attention was the sentences that contained numbers, partly because they didn’t make contextual sense and partly because we were almost positive they were some sort of code. “Christ fed you in groups of one hundred and fifty hungry souls. His holy word did not say groups of ninety or two. Cleave to the Cross along with Jesus with seven nails and seven blows.” We were pretty clear that the number 7 wasn’t a coincidence, but 100, 50, 90, and 2?

That night we didn’t get much farther. We were so tired we could hardly keep our eyes open. So we went to bed, convinced that a few hours of sleep would do wonders for our intellectual capacities.