The Cana Mystery (39 page)

“What a relief!”

Paul gestured toward a nicely wrapped parcel resting on the nightstand. “That’s for you.”

Her eyes widened. “Why, Mr. Grant! How generous! Thank you. I don’t—”

He raised a hand for silence. “It’s something he wanted you to have.”

Hands shaking, Ava opened the package. Inside was the priceless blue porcelain tea service. A handwritten card read:
IN CASE YOU NEVER LEARN TO ENJOY COFFEE —
S
.
D
.

To celebrate the new pontiff’s official inauguration, more than one million visitors from around the world had gathered in Rome, infusing the city with optimism. As the flags of numerous nations waved in the bright sunshine, Pope Francis addressed the crowd. He urged his listeners to become protectors: “The vocation of being a ‘protector’ . . . is not just something involving us Christians alone; it also has a prior dimension which is simply human, involving everyone. It means protecting all creation, the beauty of the created world. . . . Whenever human beings fail to live up to this responsibility, whenever we fail to care for creation and for our brothers and sisters, the way is opened to destruction and hearts are hardened. Tragically, in every period of history, there are ‘Herods’ who plot death, wreak havoc, and mar the countenance of men and women. Please, I would like to ask all those . . . of goodwill: let us be protectors of creation, protectors of God’s plan inscribed in nature, ‘protectors’ of one another and of the environment. Let us not allow omens of destruction and death to accompany the advance of this world!”

Hours later the Americans were strolling along Via Condotti. Hoping to arrive on time at the historic Caffé Greco, Paul took Ava’s hand and helped her cut through the crowd.

Open since 1760, the establishment had hosted Stendhal, Goethe, Keats, and Baudelaire. Casanova sipped drinks there, as did Mark Twain and Lord Byron. Gogol wrote
Dead Souls
in the same room in which Wagner and Liszt met for pastries. Rossini composed on the rear parlor piano. The painter de Chirico called it “the place to sit and await the end.”

Paul and Ava waited in the foyer for a table. Eventually a tailcoated
cameriere
escorted them beyond a carved wooden bar, past tourists resting on red velvet sofas, and into a labyrinth of private salons. Mendelssohn’s “Violin Concerto in E Minor” played in the background. Rooms were adorned with gilt antique mirrors, faded photos of the café’s illustrious habitués, and romantic paintings set against a backdrop of gold and red damask. The
cameriere
seated them on richly upholstered chairs before a table of Napoleonic design. Paul ordered
granita di caffè;
Ava asked for a
cioccolata calda
with extra whipped cream.

After the waiter left, Ava excused herself to visit the rest room. As she stood, Paul’s eyes involuntarily tracked her thigh-high stockings, right up to the point where they disappeared beneath a pleated miniskirt. Feeling his eyes on her, she suppressed a grin. Paul began stammering an apology but then the world phone rang. Ava scanned the caller ID and answered. Waving adieu to Paul, she walked off engrossed in conversation.

When she returned, Paul asked, “Who was that?”

“
DURMDVL
.”

He tensed. “What’s wrong?”

“Not a thing. We’re getting together when I’m back in the States.”

“Okay,” he said, eyes clouding.

She looked at him. “Is that a problem?”

“No, of course not. That guy saved our bacon. I owe him big time.”

Ava giggled. “
DURMDVL
’s not a guy. She’s a sophomore at Duke.”

He brightened. “Seriously?”

Before Ava could explain the illogic of his sexist assumptions, Barakah arrived. Paul stood to greet him, and Ava invited the officer to sit. He presented the couple with notarized confirmation that Egypt had dropped its extradition demands and dismissed the criminal charges against them. Ava was relieved.

“And may I add that the Order of the Shepherd sends its compliments. You’ve earned our eternal gratitude.”

“Awesome,” said Paul. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

A smiling Barakah said, “We’re a secret brotherhood, sworn to protect humanity. Garagallo’s amulet bears our crest. Some claim the order was founded by Joachim of Flora in the twelfth century, others say it’s much older.”

“Joachim the what?”

“Joachim of Flora was an influential mystic theologian, a contemporary of Richard the Lionheart,” Ava explained. “Joachim visited Jerusalem during the Crusades and foretold the dawning of a new age in which rigid Church hierarchy would be obsolete and Christians could unite with non-Christians. He was too radical to be canonized, but the Franciscan monks considered him a prophet.”

Barakah nodded. “Brother Joachim understood the true message. He taught that Antichrists threaten all humanity, not just Christians. Accordingly, our brotherhood welcomes any who oppose hatred and evil. Regardless of faith, we are all children of God. Catholic Bishop Garagallo and Coptic Father Bessarion are my brothers, as were the seven brave Egyptians who fell defending the jars.”

Recalling that moment, Paul’s face darkened. “I’m not sure I deserve any gratitude. ”

“You played a critical role. But for you, Ava would have perished.”

“But for me, she would never have been in danger.”

“Perhaps, but who else could have unlocked the prophecy? If she’d remained in Boston—”

“I’m not exactly sold on my contribution either,” Ava said. “A helicopter crash stopped La Belva. Simon DeMaj sacrificed his life. All I did was shout into a microphone. Anyone could have done that.”

Barakah shrugged. “The fact remains that you read the prophecy aloud and the devil was vanquished. Whether this was coincidence or predestination is unclear. I don’t believe in coincidences, but then I’m just a policeman, not a philosopher.”

Paul smiled. Barakah stood. “I respect Simon’s decision. He died a hero, but we each played a role. Both of you faced destiny with valor. You put others’ lives before your own, and when darkness threatened, you found the courage to fight. For that, we’re forever in your debt.”

He replaced his chair, bowed formally to Ava, and took Paul’s outstretched hand.

“
Gardez bien.
”

Ava and Paul left the café. Hand in hand, they walked to the Spanish Steps, where artists, students, and backpackers had gathered to drink wine and socialize. An olive-skinned lad strummed a familiar melody and sang, “Each day I pray for evening, just to be with you.”

While Paul went looking for a good place to sit, Ava dropped a coin in the musician’s guitar case.

Resting on the ancient masonry, she crossed her ankles and leaned back against Paul. Together they watched the Roman sun disappear behind Michelangelo’s dome. Daylight dimmed. Then, for an instant, Ava beheld a bright emerald gleam. “Paul, have you ever seen anything so beautiful?” she marveled.

He didn’t respond. Curious, she turned to find him looking at her. Their eyes locked and he whispered: “Yes.”

Ava couldn’t breathe. Her pulse thundered. He pulled her toward him. Her lips parted. She shut her eyes, opened her heart, and surrendered herself to his kiss.

Epilogue

EPILOGUE

P
ARIS, 1555

Catherine de Médicis knows secret paths through the palace. Though born in Florence, she’d lived in Paris all her adult life. It has been twenty-two years since her uncle Pope Clement VII had arranged her marriage to King Francis’s second son, Henry of Orleans. She pauses a moment, remembering the innocent child she’d once been.

Her arrival in France had caused quite a stir. To enter grandly, the diminutive Catherine employed a Florentine artisan who, on her behalf, created Europe’s first pair of high-heeled shoes. After the wedding Catherine toured the country. The king found his new daughter-in-law a wonderful traveling companion, but King Francis aside, Catherine had few allies at court. She was generally disliked by the French. Jealous nobles referred to her as “the Italian woman.” Many suspected foul play when Francis’s eldest son died, making Henry heir to the throne. When Francis died, in 1547, Catherine became queen.

Despite producing seven children (three of whom became kings of France), Queen Catherine has retained her youthful figure. She is an attractive, regal woman with fair hair and the enchanting eyes of a Medici. Nevertheless, her marriage is a loveless farce. Catherine’s husband is openly besotted with his domineering mistress, Diane de Poitiers, who controls the weak-minded king.

Francis had been an enlightened monarch. Under his rule, in 1534 seven gifted university students formed the Jesuit order. Now de Poitiers is pressuring Henry to reverse his father’s humanist policies; to stifle the dissemination of knowledge by banning the sale or import of all unapproved texts; and to persecute the Huguenots, many of whom Henry now orders burned at the stake. These radical decisions infuriates Catherine. She thinks it unwise to punish men who worship in private and never take up arms against France. The queen conceals her political opinions, however, and focuses her considerable energy and attention on maternal duties.

To serve as tutors, she’d beckoned a variety of intellectual luminaries to Paris, eminent scientists, authors, and doctors. One provincial healer, who had protected her family from the plague, made a particularly strong impression. Catherine had him designated royal counselor and physician. It is this man whom she seeks now.

Catherine passes through the majestic library that King Francis had so greatly expanded. In 1537, his Ordonnance de Montpellier required that the royal collection receive one copy of every book sold in France. Francis appointed the noted humanist Guillaume Budé his chief librarian and summoned the Italian master Leonardo da Vinci from Rome to serve as Paintre du Roi. At Francis’s request, French agents had scoured the monasteries of Europe and amassed a wealth of rare books and manuscripts. Later, Francis shocked Parisian society by opening his library to scholars of all nationalities, facilitating the general diffusion of knowledge.

Catherine exits the main gallery via a concealed doorway. She enters a musty, forgotten chamber that has once housed the king’s personal library. As a younger woman she’d often escaped here. In this hidden room she was free to explore, read forbidden books, and avoid the disagreeable courtiers’ incessant barbs. Peeking around a bookshelf, the queen observes Michel at his labors. The doctor is seated at a writing desk, not far from a mechanical lion Leonardo gave King Francis in 1515. Classical volumes by Livy, Suetonius, and Plutarch as well as the medieval chroniclers Villehardouin and Froissart were arrayed around him. Scribbling diligently by candlelight, the doctor appears to be translating the ancient writings into French.

“What wicked secrets have you unveiled?” she whispers to him.

The physician, startled, jumps to his feet, bumping a candlestick and almost scorching an irreplaceable manuscript.

“Oh, your Highness! My manners are unforgivable. I sincerely apologize. I did not hear you enter, I was so immersed in my research.”

She smiles. “You are forgiven. What are you reading? Galen again? Hippocrates?”

“No, my lady. Today I’m translating prophetic works of great antiquity.”

“What manner of prophecy?”

“Just . . . arcane eschatological matters, nothing of practical significance,” he says.

Intrigued, by his obvious embarrassment, the queen commands, “Doctor, read aloud what you have translated.”

Michel gulps.

“‘At that time the prince of iniquity, who will be called Antichrist, shall arise from the tribe of Dan. He will be the son of perdition, the head of pride, the master of error, the fullness of malice who will overturn the world through dissimulation. He will delude many by magic art, and fire will seem to come down from heaven. When the Roman city is attacked, the Antichrist is revealed.’”

“The Antichrist?”

“Yes, Highness. He is an evil force or being who threatens humanity’s future. This volume describes the invasion of Gog and Magog and the tribulations that precede the end of days.”

She nods thoughtfully. “I have something that might interest you,” she says.

The queen crosses the chamber and pulls a tattered portfolio from the alcove where she found it, quite by accident, more than a decade earlier. It must have sat undisturbed for years. The reign of Louis XI ended long before Catherine’s time. Befouled by a century’s accumulated dust and rat droppings, and with the Spider King’s royal seal broken, the packet appeared worthless, but its contents were intact. Opening the folder, Catherine withdraws seven sheets of fragile vellum and passed them to the curious doctor. He is amazed to behold a bizarre ancient apocalypse. Someone had translated the prophetic text from Old Syriac into Latin and organized it into quatrains. As Catherine has anticipated, the physician is enraptured. Eagerly, Michel de Nostradamus spread the vellum across his desk and begins to read.

The enemy of Romans killed

On the anniversary of his accession.

The stable maid’s constant son

in this sign shall conquer!

The new city contemplates damnation,

Birds of prey circle the heavens.

After victory, pardon to the captives,

Cremona and Mantua witness great evils.