The Last Cato (38 page)

The next day we didn’t get good results either. We went over the text front and back and analyzed it word by word. Except for the first and last sentences outlined in red, nothing in the prayer directly alluded to the Staurofilakes’ tests. Late in the afternoon, however, we figured out something that further clouded the few ideas that had occurred to us. The sentence “Christ fed you in groups of one hundred and fifty hungry people” could only refer to the evangelical passage about multiplying the loaves and fishes. The evangelist Mark talks about the multitude “placed in groups of one hundred and fifty.”
*
Once again, we found ourselves empty-handed.

We soon outgrew the office the delegation had given us. The reference books, our notes, the dictionaries, the reams of pages printed off the Internet were
peccata minuta
in comparison to the boards we set up over the weekend. Farag thought we might see something—or see more—if we worked on an enlarged photograph of the prayer. The captain scanned the image from the pamphlet at high definition. Just as with the silhouette of Abi-Ruj Iyasus, he printed out sheets and taped them to a piece of cardboard the same size as the original tablet. He placed that reproduction on a large tripod that simply didn’t fit in the office. So on Sunday we moved all our gear to a more spacious room with a large chalkboard where we could draw diagrams or analyze prayers.

Sunday afternoon I deserted my companions—desperation had dampened our spirits—and went alone to the Franciscan church in the Old City where Pierantonio celebrated Mass every Sunday at six. I couldn’t miss something that special while I was there. (Besides, my mother would have killed me.) Since the Franciscan church stood next to the Basilica of the Holy Sepulchre, once I got out of the delegation’s car just outside the walls, I walked the same route as the first day to get refocused. Where better than Jerusalem? I felt truly blessed to be elbowed and shoved on the Via Dolorosa.

According to the directions Pierantonio had given me over the phone, the Franciscan church was directly across from the entrance to the basilica. I didn’t need to go all the way to the plaza but veered a couple of alleyways to the right before I took a strange roundabout route, all by myself, to reach my destination.

I piously attended Mass and received communion from Pierantonio’s hands. Afterward, we went for a stroll and talked. I told him the entire story of the theft of the
Ligna Crucis
and the Staurofilakes. When it grew dark, he offered to walk me back to the apostolic delegation. We retraced our steps—I saw the Cupola of the Rock, Al-Aqsa Mosque, and many other things. We stopped in the plaza of the Basilica of the Holy Sepulchre, drawn by a small crowd gathered to take pictures and videotape the daily closing of the doors.

“It’s incredible! Anything gets people’s attention!” my brother said ironically. “How about you, Miss Tourist? Do you want to see it too?”

“You’re very kind,” I answered sarcastically, “but no thank you.”

Yet, I headed in that direction. I suppose I couldn’t tear myself away from the enchantment of nightfall in the Christian heart of Jerusalem.

“So, Ottavia, there’s something I’ve been meaning to talk to you about, but I hadn’t found the right time.”

Like a circus performer, a little man climbed up a very tall ladder that leaned against the doors. He was lit up by the lights and flashes from the cameras below. The man toiled away with a heavy iron lock.

“Please, Pierantonio, don’t tell me you have more disturbing news for me.”

“No, this has nothing to do with me. It’s about Farag.”

I whipped around to face him. The little man on the ladder began his descent. “What about Farag?”

“To say the truth, there’s nothing wrong with Farag,” he said.
“You’re
the one who seems to be having problems.”

My heart stopped. The blood rushed to my face. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Pierantonio.”

Some shouts and an alarmed murmur arose from the spectators. My brother spun around to watch, but I was paralyzed by Pierantonio’s words. I’d tried to keep my feelings in check, I’d done everything I could to hide my emotions, but Pierantonio had found me out.

“What happened, Father Longman?” I heard my brother ask. I looked up and saw he was addressing another Franciscan monk passing by.

“Hi, Father Salina. The Guardian of the Keys fell off the ladder. He injured his foot and was knocked out. Fortunately he was close to the ground.”

I was so numb by the pain and shock it took me a few seconds to react. Thank God my brain started functioning and a voice repeated in my head: “The Guardian of the Keys, the Guardian of the Keys.” I struggled to come out of the fog as Pierantonio thanked his fellow Franciscan.

“The man on the ladder took a tumble. Now, let’s get back to our talk. I promised myself I would talk to you today without fail. If I’m not mistaken, you have a serious problem, little sister.”

“What exactly did that monk from your order say?”

“Don’t try to change the subject, Ottavia,” Pierantonio rebuked me sternly.

“Enough of this foolishness! What did he say exactly?”

My brother was very surprised by my sudden change of mood. “That the basilica doorman tripped and fell as he was climbing down the ladder.”

“No!” I shouted. “He didn’t say doorman!”

A light must have switched on in my brother’s mind. The look on his face changed and I saw he understood. “The Guardian of the Keys!” he stammered. “The one who has the keys!”

“I have to talk to that man!” I exclaimed as I left him standing there open-mouthed and the tourists made way for me. Someone called the “Guardian of the Keys” of the Basilica of the Holy Sepulchre of Jerusalem had to be pretty close to “the one who has the keys: the one who opens and no one closes and closes and no one opens.” It wasn’t exactly right, sure, but I had to give it a try.

By the time I reached the center of the crowd, the little man had gotten to his feet and was brushing dirt off his clothes. Like many other Arabs I had observed, he was dressed in a shirt and no necktie, the collar unbuttoned and his sleeves rolled up. On his upper lip he had a thin moustache. He wore a look of annoyance and contained rage.

“Are you the one they call the ‘Guardian of the Keys’?” I asked in English, slightly embarrassed.

The little man looked at me with indifference. “I believe that’s obvious, ma’am,” he replied, looking quite exasperated. He immediately turned his back on me and set to work on the ladder, which was still leaning against the church doors. I felt the opportunity slipping away, and I simply couldn’t let that happen.

“Listen!” I shouted to get back his attention. “I was told to ask for
‘the one who has the keys’
!”

“Sounds like a good idea to me, ma’am,” he answered without turning around, assuming I was a poor crazy woman. He pounded on a box concealed in one of the doors, and it opened.

“Sir, you don’t understand,” I insisted, pushing aside a couple of pilgrims who were taking pictures of the ladder ceremony. “I was told to ask the one who opens and nobody closes, and the one who closes and nobody opens.”

The man stood there stunned, for several seconds. He then turned and fixed his gaze on me. For a moment, he observed me the way an entomologist studies an insect. He showed his surprise. “A woman?”

“Am I the first?”

“No,” he said, after thinking it over. “There’ve been other women, but not with me.”

“Can we talk?”

“Of course,” he said, tweaking his mustache. “Meet me right here in a half an hour. If you don’t mind, I must finish this.”

I let him continue his work. I turned to Pierantonio, who was waiting impatiently.

“That was the guy?”

“Yes. We arranged to meet back here in half an hour. He wants to meet when he’s through and we can talk.”

“Good, then let’s take a walk.”

Half an hour was not much time, but if my brother insisted on getting back to the subject of Farag, the time would feel like an eternity. To eat up some time, I asked for his cell phone and called the captain. The Rock was satisfied with the news of the Guardian of the Keys, but also alarmed, since there was no way he and Farag could get there in time. So he ticked off a long list of questions to ask the Guardian, then repeated himself like a broken record, reminding me to do or say what he’d just told me to do or say. After four days of delay and uncertainty, this important clue was a light in the dark. Now we could carry out the test of Jerusalem, whatever that was, and leave for Athens as soon as possible.

I talked at length with the captain and wasted as much of the half hour as I could, not giving my brother the chance to ask me any more compromising questions. When I finally gave him back his cell phone, Pierantonio smiled. We were in front of his church.

“I’ll bet you think we can’t talk about your friend Farag anymore,” he said, taking me by the elbow and guiding me toward the rocky side street that led to the Via Dolorosa.

“Exactly.”

“I just want to help you, dear Ottavia. If things are going badly, you can count on me.”

“Things are going very badly, Pierantonio,” I admitted, crestfallen. “Surely all nuns and priests have crises like this. We’re not superhuman and we’re not immune to human emotions. Hasn’t this ever happened to you?”

“Well…,” he mumbled, looking away. “The truth is, yes. A long time ago. Thank God, my vocation prevailed.”

“Then I have trust, Pierantonio.” I wanted to hug him, but this wasn’t Palermo. “I trust God. If he wants me to follow his call, he will help me.”

“I will pray for you, little sister.”

We had reached the plaza of the Holy Sepulchre. The Guardian of the Keys was waiting for me in front of the church door, as he had said he would. I approached very slowly and stopped a few steps from him.

“Repeat the phrase for me, please,” he asked me amiably.

“They told me: ‘Ask the one who has the keys: the one who opens and nobody closes, and the one who closes and nobody opens.’”

“Very well, ma’am. Now listen carefully. The message I have for you is this: ‘the seventh and the ninth.’”

“The seventh and the ninth?” I repeated, dumbfounded. “What seventh and what ninth? What are you talking about?”

“I don’t know, ma’am.”

“You don’t know?”

The little man shrugged. “No, no ma’am. I don’t know what it means.”

“So, what do you have to do with… with the Staurofilakes?”

“Who?” He arched his eyebrows and brushed back his black hair.

“I know nothing about that, forgive me. You see, my name is Jacob Nusseiba. Mujik Jacob Nusseiba. The Nusseiba family has been in charge of opening and closing the doors of the Basilica of the Holy Sepulchre ever since 637, when Caliph Omar gave us the keys. When the caliph entered Jerusalem, my family was part of his army. To avoid conflicts among the Christians, he gave the keys to us. For thirteen centuries, the eldest son of each generation of Nusseibas has been the Guardian of the Keys. At some point, this long tradition joined another. Each father says to his son when he passes the keys to him: ‘When they ask if you are the one who has the keys, the one who opens and nobody closes and the one who closes and nobody opens, you answer: “the seventh and the ninth.”’ We memorized it and have been saying it for many centuries when somebody asks us, just like you did today.”

The seventh and the ninth. Seven and nine again, Dante’s numbers—but what could they refer to this time?

“Is there anything else I can do for you, ma’am? It’s late.”

I shook my head gently, waking from my daydream. I looked at Mují Nusseiba. That little man’s family tree was older than many European royal houses. To look at him, you’d guess he was a waiter at a café.

“Have many people come like me?” I asked him. “I mean…”

“I understand. I understand,” he hurriedly answered, waving his hand to shut me up. “My father gave me the keys ten years ago. Since then, I have repeated the answer nineteen times. Counting you, twenty.”

“Twenty!”

“My father repeated it sixty-seven times. I believe five were women.”

T
he Rock wanted me to ask about Abi-Ruj Iyasus, but the Guardian of the Keys didn’t give me a chance. “I’m really sorry, ma’am, but I must go. They are expecting me at home. It’s very late. I hope I’ve been of some help. May Allah protect you.”

With that, he disappeared at a fast clip, leaving me with as many questions as I had had before I talked to him.

Suddenly Pierantonio appeared right in front of me, with a cell phone in his hand. “Want to call to your pals?” he asked.

“The seventh and the ninth?” the captain exclaimed, taking giant steps from one side of the office to the other. He was a caged lion. He’d been locked up for four days, keying phrases from the prayer into the computer, searching for a match with other documents around the world. All he’d managed to do was to miss out on the meeting with the Guardian of the Keys. He lost what little patience he had listening to the enigmatic instructions the Guardian gave me.

“Are you sure he said ‘the seventh and the ninth’?”

“I’m absolutely sure, Captain.”

“‘The seventh and the ninth,’” Farag repeated, pensive. “The seventh test—but there’s no ninth test. The seventh word and the ninth word of the prayer? The seventh and the ninth strophes of the circle of the wrathful? The Seventh and Ninth Symphonies of Beethoven? The seventh and ninth of something we don’t know?”

“What are the seventh and ninth strophes of this cornice in Dante?”

“Didn’t I tell you that there’s nothing of interest in the fourth circle aside from the smoke?” Glauser-Röist roared, without stopping his desperate pacing.

Farag picked up the copy of the
Divine Comedy
and began to look for Canto XVI of
Purgatory.
The captain looked at him scornfully.

“Isn’t anybody paying attention to me?”

“The seventh strophe of the sixteenth canto,” Farag said, “verses nineteen through twenty-one, says:

‘Each prayer they sang began with
Agnus Dei;
The same words, sung in unison, produced
An atmosphere of perfect harmony.’”

“What’s Dante talking about?” I asked.

“About the souls that approach them. About how they can’t see the souls coming because they’re blinded by the smoke. They know they’re close by because they hear them singing the
Agnus Dei.”

“The
Agnus Dei?”
shouted the Rock.

“What we pray during Mass as the priest divides the Bread: ‘Lamb of God, who takes away the sins of the world, have mercy on us.’”

“I already told you—those strophes have nothing to do with this!”

Farag lowered his eyes to the book. “The ninth strophe of the same canto says:

‘And who are you whose body cleaves our smoke?
You speak of us as though you still belonged
With those who measure time by calendars.’”

“The souls are surprised to find a live person in their cornice,” I deduced. “Nothing too interesting.”

“No, of course not.” Farag mulled it over, rereading the strophes.

Glauser-Röist let out an impatient bellow. “I had already said so! The only important thing is the smoke, and the smoke is this damn prayer that keeps us from seeing anything.”

“What other options did you mention, Farag?”

“Options?”

“When you said that the seventh and the ninth could be strophes of Canto XVI, you mentioned other possibilities.”

“Ah, yes! I said they could be the tests we’re taking. That’s out, since there’re only seven tests. I don’t think Beethoven’s symphonies are an option, do you? I also said they could be the seventh and the ninth word of Father Stephanos’s prayer!”

“That sounds good,” I said, getting to my feet and walking over to the life-sized photograph of the panel. After four days of intensive work, I had memorized it and didn’t need to look at it to know what it said:

You who have overcome pride and envy, overcome wrath with patience now. Just as the plant thrives through the will of the sun, implore God that his divine light fall on you from heaven. 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 even as he had faith even in the wicked tax collector. Your soul, like the soul of the bird, races and soars to God. Do not hinder it by committing sins and it will arrive at Christ’s side. If you conquer evil you will reach the light before the dawn. Purify your soul bowing down before God like 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.

I sighed. There was no doubt about one thing: just as Glauser-Röist had said, it was truly a smokescreen.

“Grab a marker, Ottavia,” Farag said. “Something just occurred to me.”

I got right on it. When Farag had an idea, it was always a good one. I grabbed a thick black marker and stood stock-still, like a diligent student, waiting for the teacher to share his wisdom.

“Let’s suppose that the two sentences written in red and black ink have a special meaning on their own.”

“We studied that several times this week.” The Rock sulked.

“‘You who have overcome pride and envy, overcome wrath with patience now.’ That statement is meant to grab our attention. The aspiring Staurofilax arrives at the crypt of Holy Sepulchre. Standing before the relics, he finds the tablet warning him that what’s coming next is part of the next test.”

“What I don’t understand,” I murmured, “is how aspirants who come to Jerusalem discover that secret vault and how they manage to get in it.”

“How long ago did we begin the tests?”The Rock suddenly stopped his pacing and leaned on the back of the armchair.

“Exactly two weeks ago,” I answered. “Sunday, May 14. I was in Palermo at my father’s and my brother’s funeral when you and Farag called me. Today is Sunday, May 28. Exactly two weeks have passed.”

“Two weeks? Suppose that, instead of going from city to city in a helicopter or a plane, instead of having computers and the Internet and the inestimable aid of its vast knowledge and people in the respective cities helping us out, only one of us had to make all the moves on foot or horseback and find the test of Santa Lucia or the test of Pythagoras. How long do you think that would have taken?”

“It’s not the same, Kaspar,” protested the professor. “Remember, what for us is out-of-synch, historical knowledge, for someone in the twelfth to eighteenth centuries was a normal part of their studies. Back then, education guided a person to become well-rounded, to be a painter, sculptor, poet, architect, astronomer, musician, mathematician, athlete, minstrel—all at the same time! Science and art weren’t separate the way they are today. Remember Hildegard von Bingen, Leon Batista Alberti, Trotula Ruggiero, or Leonardo da Vinci. From childhood, any medieval or Renaissance aspirant to Staurofilax, such as Dante, studied all these things that we have to salvage from a keepsake chest. Dante was also a doctor, did you know that?”

“Well, but Abi-Ruj Iyasus,” I objected, “the only present-day case we know of, didn’t get that classical education you’re talking about.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“Well, I’m not—but Ethiopia is a country where people die of hunger, where half of the population lives in refugee camps…”

“Don’t be so quick to judge, Ottavia,” Farag contradicted me. “Ethiopia is a country with a history, a tradition, and a culture that Europe and America would have envied. Before the catastrophe it’s living through today, Ethiopia—Abyssinia—was rich, strong, powerful, and, above all, cultured, very cultured. Today, TV images show us a miserable country in a remote part of Africa. Just think, the queen of Sheba was Ethiopian, and Ethiopia’s royal family was thought to have descended from King Solomon.”

“Please, Professor!” the Rock interrupted. “Don’t get off the subject! I asked you two a simple question and you haven’t answered me. How long would it take one of us to get through these tests without any help?”

“Months probably,” I answered. “Years even.”

“That’s what I’m saying! The Staurofilakes aspirants weren’t in any hurry. They go from one city to another, from one test to another, with all the time in the world. They study, ask questions, use their brains. In Jerusalem, the logical thing is to live here for several months until…”

“Until they lose their patience—that’s what this test is all about,” pointed out Farag, with a smile.

“Exactly! But we don’t have that kind of time. In two weeks we have completed pre-Purgatory and the first two circles.”

“With a little luck, Kaspar, if we work all night, in a few days we may have completed the first part of the third circle.”

Farag’s words were a wake-up call, so I grabbed the marker again. He continued.

“As I was saying before this pleasant chat: When the aspiring Staurofilax arrived at the crypt of the True Cross, he finds the tablet decorated with the Constantine chrismon and a couple of sentences outlined in red. That gets his attention. The first sentence marked in red points out that he has finally found the test of wrath, which he must be patient to solve—very patient. Patience is the theological virtue that counters the deadly sin of wrath. The last sentence says, ‘May your patience be filled to the brim by this prayer,’ and advises him to look for the solution in the prayer, since it will fill his search to the brim. Eliminating the two sentences outlined in red, we’re left with the text in black. I think that’s where we’ll find ‘the seventh and the ninth.’”

“So, the seventh and the ninth words?” I asked, turning to the photograph.

“Let’s try it, for lack of a better idea.” Farag looked at the Rock who remained stock-still.

“The seventh word is οταν—’when,’” I said circling it, “and the ninth, ελιος—’sun.’”

“Oταν o ελιος…,” pronounced Farag with satisfaction. “‘When the sun…’ I believe we are right,
Basileia!
At least it means something.”

“Don’t be so fast to celebrate,” Glauser-Röist scolded him. “Besides, those words don’t match the words in the translation.”

“No translation can ever match, Kaspar. But those words are in keeping with the literal translation. In the first sentence that should be, ‘Like the plant that thrives when it desires the sun.’”

“Okay, supposing we look at the seventh and the ninth words of each sentence,” I said, to stop them from arguing. “The following are κατεδυ and εκ—’to set’ and ‘at.’”

“There we have the test, Kaspar!
‘Oταν o ελιος κατεδυ
—or, ‘When the sun sets at…’ It’s the Greek expression for ‘at sunset.’ What do you think?”

I kept counting words and circling them until I’d distilled the complete message from the prayer.

“‘When the sun is setting,’” I read, “‘from where the grave of one hundred and ninety two Athenians to the tax collector. Run and arrive before dawn. As a supplicant knock seven times on the door.’”

“That makes sense!” shouted Farag.

“Oh, sure!” the Rock joked. “Explain it to me. I don’t get it.”

Farag came over and stood beside me. “At sunset, from the tomb of the 192 Athenians to the tax collector. Run and get there before dawn…”

“Why do you punctuate it the way it is in the prayer?” I added. “Take out the periods and the sentence works better.”

“You’re right. Let’s see. At sunset, hmm… At sunset, run from the tomb of the 192 Athenians to the tax collector and get there before dawn. As a supplicant, knock seven times on the door. In Greek, ‘calling at the door’ and ‘knocking at the door’ mean the same thing.”

“That’s very good. The translation is correct.”

“Are you sure, Doctor? Because I don’t understand that part about running from the 192 Athenians to the tax collector. Hope you don’t mind me saying so.”

“I think we ought to go have lunch and continue later,” Farag proposed. “We’re worn out. We’ll do better if we rest, get back our energy, and refresh our brains. What do you think?”

“I agree,” I chimed in. “Come on, Captain. Let’s stop for a while.”

“You two go ahead. I have some things to do.”

“Like what?” I asked, grabbing my jacket off the back of the chair.

“I could say it’s a personal matter,” he answered in a grouchy tone of voice. “But I want to investigate those Athenians and their tax collector.”

As we were walking down the stairs to the dining room, I couldn’t help remembering everything my brother told me about Captain Glauser-Röist. I was about to tell Farag, but thought better of it. That kind of information shouldn’t be circulated, at least not by me. I preferred to be the final destination for information, not a way station.

When I emerged from my thoughts, seated across the table from the professor, I realized that his turquoise blue eyes were studying me; but I was unable to meet his gaze. During lunch I evaded their burning look, while I desperately tried to keep my voice completely normal. I admit, even though I fought with all my might, that that night I found him… very handsome. I don’t know if it was the way his hair fell over his forehead or the way he gestured or how he smiled. As we headed back to the office where the charming Glauser-Röist was waiting for us (Farag was bringing him back some lunch), I felt weak in the knees. I wanted to flee, go back home, run away and never see him again. I closed my eyes in a desperate attempt to take refuge in God, but I couldn’t.