“They were your people,” said Gabriel.

“Which is why I made it my life’s work to heal the wounds between Judaism and Christianity.”

“By finding the Gospel of Pilate?”

Father Jordan nodded.

“I assume your father’s letter contained a reference to it.”

“He wrote about it in considerable detail.”

“And that story you told Donati and me the other day? The one about you wandering the length and breadth of Italy searching for the last copy of the Gospel of Pilate?”

“It was just that. A story. I knew that Father Schiller gave the book to Pius the Twelfth, and that Pius buried it deep in the Archives.”

“How?”

“I confronted Father Schiller not long before he died. At first, he tried to deny the book’s existence. But when I showed him my father’s letter, he told me the truth.”

“Did you tell him—”

“That I was the grandson of the wealthy Roman Jew who had given the book to the Order?” Father Jordan shook his head. “Much to my everlasting shame, I did not.”

“Did you really try to find it? Or was that a story, too?”

“No,” said Father Jordan. “I searched the Archives for more than twenty years. Because there’s no reference to the gospel in the Index Rooms, it was a bit like looking for the proverbial needle in a haystack. About ten years ago, I forced myself to stop. That book was ruining my life.”

“And then?”

“Someone gave it to the Holy Father. And the Holy Father decided to give it to you.”

64

ABBEY OF ST. PETER, ASSISI

AT FIRST, HE THOUGHT IT was a practical joke. Yes, the voice on the phone sounded like the Holy Father’s, but surely it couldn’t really be him. He wanted Father Jordan to come to the papal apartments the following evening at half past nine. Father Jordan was to tell no one of the summons. Nor was he to arrive even a minute early.

“I assume it was a Thursday,” said Gabriel.

“How did you know?”

Gabriel smiled and with a movement of his hand invited Father Jordan to continue. He arrived at the papal apartment, he said, at the stroke of nine thirty. A household nun escorted him to the private chapel. The Holy Father greeted him warmly, refusing to allow him to kiss the Ring of the Fisherman, and then showed him a most remarkable book.

“Did Lucchesi know of your personal connection to the gospel?”

“No,” said Father Jordan. “And I never told him about it. It was my personal connection to Donati that was important. The Holy Father trusted me. It was just a stroke of dumb luck.”

“I assume he allowed you to read it.”

“Of course. That’s why I was there. He wanted my opinion as to its authenticity.”

“And?”

“The text was lucid, at times bureaucratic, and granular in its detail. It was not the work of a creative mind. It was an important historical document based on the written or spoken recollections of its nominal author.”

“What happened next?”

“He invited me back the following Thursday. Once again, Donati was absent. Dinner with a friend, apparently. Outside the walls. That was when the Holy Father told me that he planned to give the book to you.” He paused, then added, “Without informing the prefetto of the Vatican Secret Archives.”

“Did he know Albanese was a secret member of the Order of St. Helena?”

“He suspected as much.”

“Which is why Lucchesi asked you to make a copy of the book.”

Father Jordan smiled. “Rather ingenious, don’t you think?”

“Did you do the work yourself, or did you utilize the services of a professional?”

“A little of both. I was a rather talented illustrator and calligrapher when I was young. Not like you, of course. But I wasn’t bad. The professional, who shall remain nameless, handled the artificial aging of the paper and the binding. It was an extraordinary piece of work. Cardinal Albanese would never have been able to tell the difference. Not unless he subjected the volume to sophisticated tests.”

“But which version of the gospel did he remove from the papal apartments the night of the Holy Father’s murder?”

“It was the copy,” answered Father Jordan. “I have the original. The Holy Father gave it to me for safekeeping in case something happened to him.”

“That book belongs to me now.”

“It belonged to my grandfather before it was taken from him by the Order. Therefore, I am the rightful owner, just as Isabel Feldman was the rightful owner of that painting that magically resurfaced last weekend.” Father Jordan scrutinized him for a moment. “I suppose you had something to do with that, too.”

Gabriel made no reply.

“It never goes away, does it?”

“What’s that?”

“The survivor’s guilt. It gets passed down from generation to generation. Like those green eyes of yours.”

“They were my mother’s eyes.”

“Was she in one of the camps?”

“Birkenau.”

“Then you are a miracle, too.” Father Jordan patted the back of Gabriel’s hand. “I’m afraid there is a straight line between the teachings of the early Church and the gas chambers and crematoria of Auschwitz. To maintain otherwise is to engage in what Thomas Aquinas called an ignorantia affectata. A willful ignorance.”

“Perhaps you should put it to rest once and for all.”

“And how would I do that?”

“By giving me that book.”

Father Jordan shook his head. “Making it public will accomplish nothing. In fact, given the current climate here in Europe and America, it might make matters worse.”

“Are you forgetting that your former student is now the pope?”

“His Holiness has enough problems to deal with. The last thing he needs is a challenge to the core beliefs of Christianity.”

“What does the book say?”

Father Jordan was silent.

“Please,” said Gabriel. “I must know.”

He contemplated his sunbaked hands. “One central element of the Passion narratives is undeniable. A Jew from the village of Nazareth named Jesus was put to death by the Roman prefect on or about the holiday of Passover, in perhaps the year 33 C.E. Much else of what was written in the four Gospels must be taken with a cartload of salt. The accounts are literary invention or, worse, a deliberate effort on the part of the evangelists and early Church to implicate the Jews in the death of Jesus while simultaneously exculpating the real culprits.”

“Pontius Pilate and the Romans.”

Father Jordan nodded.

“For example?”

“The trial before the Sanhedrin.”

“Did it happen?”

“In the middle of the night during Passover?” Father Jordan shook his head. “Such a gathering would have been forbidden by the Laws of Moses. Only a Christian living in Rome could have concocted something so outlandish.”

“Was Caiaphas involved in any way?”

“If he was, Pilate makes no mention of it.”

“What about the tribunal?”