The Order (16 page)

It was the Samaritans
who finally did Pilate in. They had a holy mountain of their own, Mount Gerizim, where it was said that Moses had placed the
Ark of the Covenant after the arrival of the Jews in the Promised Land. Jewish rebels had dealt the Romans a humiliating defeat
there eighty years earlier. Pilate, in one final act of brutality, evened the score. Untold numbers were massacred or crucified,
but a few survived. They informed the Roman governor of Syria of Pilate's savagery, and the governor told Tiberius, who ordered
Pilate to return to Rome at once. His decade-long reign as prefect of Judea was over.

He was given three months to put his affairs in order, say his goodbyes, and brief his successor. Some of his personal records he undoubtedly destroyed. But some he surely carried back to Rome, where Tiberius waited to pass judgment on his conduct.
It promised to be an unpleasant encounter. The best he could hope for was exile. The worst was death, either at the emperor's hand or his own. He was certainly in no hurry to get home.

By December of 36
c.e.,
he was finally ready to leave. A journey by sea was not possible, not in the dead of winter, the season of storms, so he
traveled by Roman roads. Fortuna, however, was smiling on him. By the time he arrived, Tiberius was dead.

“It's possible Pilate appeared before Tiberius's successor,” said Father Jordan. “But there's no record of it. Besides, the
new emperor was probably too busy consolidating his own power to waste time on a disgraced prefect from a distant province.
Perhaps you've heard of him. His name was Caligula.”

It is at this point, Father Jordan continued, that Pontius Pilate vanishes from the pages of history and enters the realm
of legend and myth. In addition to the fabricated accounts of the apocryphal gospels, countless stories and folktales circulated
throughout Europe during the Middle Ages. According to the thirteenth-century
Golden Legend
, a compendium of stories about the lives of saints, Pilate was allowed to live out his days in relative peace as an exile
in Gaul. The author of a popular fourteenth-century chivalric romance disagreed. Pilate, went the tale, was cast by his enemies
into a deep well near Lausanne, where he spent twelve years alone in the darkness, weeping inconsolably.

Much of the lore depicted him as a deathless soul condemned to wander the countryside for all eternity, his hands soaked with the blood of Jesus. One legend claimed he was living atop a mountain near Lucerne. The story was so persistent that in the fourteenth century the mountain's name was changed to Pilatus. It was said that on Good Fridays, Pilate could be
seen sitting atop the chair of judgment in the middle of a foul-smelling lake. Other times he was seen perched on a rock, writing. Richard Wagner scaled Pilatus in 1859 to have a look for himself. Nine years later, accompanied by a royal party, Queen Victoria did the same.

“I actually hiked up it once myself,” confessed Donati.

“Did you see him?”

“No.”

“That's because he was never there.”

“Where was he?”

“Most of the Church Fathers believed he committed suicide not long after his return to Rome. But Origen, the early Church's
first great theologian and philosopher, was convinced that Pilate had been allowed to live out the remainder of his life in
peace. On this matter, at least, I side with Origen. That said, I suspect we might disagree over how Pilate spent his retirement.”

“You believe he wrote?”

“No, Luigi. I
know
that Pontius Pilate wrote a detailed memoir of his tumultuous years as prefect of the Roman province of Judea, including
his role in the most portentous execution in human history.” Father Jordan tapped the plastic-covered page. “And it was used
as the source material for the pseudepigraphic gospel that bears his name.”

“Who was the real author?”

“If I were to hazard a guess, he was a highly educated Roman, fluent in Latin and Greek, with a deep knowledge of Jewish history
and the Laws of Moses.”

“Was he a gentile or a Jew?”

“Probably a gentile. But what's important is that he was a deeply committed Christian.”

“Are you suggesting that Pilate became a Christian as well?”

“Pilate? Heavens no. That's apocryphal nonsense. I have no doubt he remained a pagan until his dying breath. The Gospel of
Pilate is a work of history rather than faith. Unlike the authors of the canonical Gospels, Pilate had seen Jesus with his
own eyes. He knew what he looked like, how he spoke. More important, he knew exactly why Jesus was put to death. After all,
he was the one who sent him to the cross.”

“Why did he write about it?” asked Gabriel.

“A good question, Mr. Allon. Why does any public servant or political figure write about his role in an important event?”

“To make money,” quipped Gabriel.

“Not in the first century.” Father Jordan smiled. “Besides, Pilate had no need of money. He had used his position as prefect
to enrich himself.”

“In that case,” said Gabriel, “I suppose he would have wanted to tell his side of the story.”

“Correct,” said Father Jordan. “Remember, Pilate was only a few years older than Jesus. If he had lived for fifteen years
after the Crucifixion, he would have known that the followers of the man he executed in Jerusalem were in the early stages
of forming a new religion. Had he lived to the age of seventy, not unheard of in the first century, he would have been hard
pressed not to notice the flourishing early Church in Rome itself.”

“When do you think Pilate wrote his account?” asked Donati.

“That's impossible to know. But I believe the book that became known as the Gospel of Pilate was written at approximately
the same time as Mark.”

“Would the author of Mark have known of its existence?”

“Possibly. It's also possible that the author of the Gospel of Pilate knew of Mark's existence. But the more relevant question is, why was Mark canonized and the Gospel of Pilate ruthlessly suppressed?”

“And the answer?”

“Because the Gospel of Pilate offers a completely different account of Jesus' final days in Jerusalem, one that contradicts
Church doctrine and dogma.” Father Jordan paused. “Now ask the next obvious question, Luigi.”

“If the Gospel of Pilate was suppressed and hunted out of existence by the Church, how do you know about it?”

“Ah, yes,” said Father Jordan. “That's the truly interesting part of the story.”

To tell the story
of how he had learned of the existence of the Gospel of Pilate, Father Jordan first had to explain how the book was disseminated,
and how it was suppressed. It was written for the first time, he said, in the same fashion as the canonical Gospels, on papyrus,
though in Latin rather than Greek. He reckoned it was copied and recopied perhaps a hundred times in this fragile, unstable
form and that it circulated among the Latin-literate portion of the early Church. Around the dawn of the second millennium
it was produced in book form for the first time, almost certainly at a monastery on the Italian peninsula. Like the
Acta Pilati
, the Gospel of Pilate was read widely during the Renaissance.

“The
Acta
was translated into several languages and circu
lated throughout the Christian world. But the Gospel of Pilate was never translated out of its original Latin. Therefore, its readership was far more elite.”

“For example?” asked Donati.

“Artists, intellectuals, noblemen, and the daring priest or monk who was willing to risk Rome's wrath.”

Before Donati could pose his next question, his phone pinged with an incoming text message.

Father Jordan glared at him with reproach. “Those things aren't allowed in here.”

“Forgive me, Robert, but I'm afraid I live in the real world.” Donati read the message, expressionless. Then he switched off
the phone and asked Father Jordan when the Gospel of Pilate was suppressed.

“Not until the thirteenth century, when Pope Gregory IX launched the Inquisition. He was more concerned about the threat to
orthodoxy posed by the Cathars and Waldensians, but the Gospel of Pilate was high on his list of heresies. I found three references
to the book in the files of the Inquisition. No one seems to have noticed them but me.”

“I suppose His Holiness gave the job to the Dominicans.”

“Who else?”

“Did they happen to keep any copies?”

“Trust me, I asked.”

“And?”

Father Jordan laid his hand on the page. “In all likelihood, this is the last one. But at the time, I was convinced there had to be another copy out there somewhere, probably hidden away in the library or archives of a noble family. I wandered the length
and breadth of Italy for years, knocking on the doors of crumbling old palazzi, sipping espresso and wine with faded counts and countesses, even the odd prince and principessa. And then, late one afternoon, in the leaky cellar of a once-grand palace in Trastevere, I found it.”

“The book?”

“A letter,” said Father Jordan. “It was written by a man called Tedeschi. He went into considerable detail about an interesting
book he had just read, a book called the Gospel of Pilate. There were direct quotes, including a passage regarding the decision
to execute a man named Jesus of Nazareth, a troublesome Galilean who had ignited a disturbance in the Royal Portico of the
Temple during Passover.”

“Did the family let you keep it?”

“I didn't bother to ask.”

“Robert . . .”

Father Jordan gave a mischievous smile.

“Where is it now?”

“The letter? Somewhere safe, I assure you.”

“I want it.”

“You can't have it. Besides, I've told you everything you need to know. The Gospel of Pilate calls into question the New Testament's
account of the seminal event in Christianity. For that reason, it is a most dangerous book.”

The Benedictine appeared in the doorway.

“I'm afraid I have kitchen duty tonight,” said Father Jordan.

“What's on the menu?”

“Stone soup, I believe.”

Donati smiled. “My favorite.”

“It's the specialty of the house. You're welcome to join us, if you like.”

“Perhaps another time.”

Father Jordan rose. “It was wonderful to see you again, Luigi. If you ever want to get away from it all, I'll put in a good
word with the abbot.”

“My world is out there, Robert.”

Father Jordan smiled. “Spoken like a true liberation theologian.”

 

Donati waited until
they were outside the walls of the abbey before switching on his phone. Several unread text messages flowed onto the screen.
All were from the same person: Alessandro Ricci, the Vatican correspondent for
La Repubblica
.

“He's the one who texted me while we were talking to Father Jordan.”

“About what?”

“He didn't say, but apparently it's urgent. We should probably hear what he has to say. Ricci knows more about the inner workings
of the Church than any reporter in the world.”

“Have you forgotten that I'm the director-general of the Israeli secret intelligence service?” Donati didn't answer. He was
typing furiously on his phone. “He was lying, you know.”

“Alessandro Ricci?” asked Donati absently.

“Father Jordan. He knows more about the Gospel of Pilate than he told us.”

“You can tell when someone is lying?”

“Always.”

“How do you go through life that way?”

“It isn't easy,” said Gabriel.

“He was telling the truth about at least one thing.”

“What's that?”

Donati looked up from his phone. “There's no one named Father Joshua who works at the Secret Archives.”

Alessandro Ricci lived
at the quiet end of the Via della Paglia, in a small rose-colored apartment building. His name did not appear on the intercom
panel. Ricci's work had earned him a long list of enemies, some of whom wanted him dead.

Donati pressed the correct button, and they were admitted at once. Ricci was waiting on the second-floor landing, dressed
entirely in black. His fashionable spectacles were black, too. They were propped on his bald head, which was polished to a
high gloss. His gaze was fixed not on the tall, handsome man wearing the cassock of an archbishop but on the leather-jacketed
figure of medium height standing next to him.

“Dear God, it's you! The great Gabriel Allon, savior of
Il Papa
.”

He drew them into the apartment. No one would have mistaken it for the home of anyone but a writer, and a divorced one
at that. There wasn't a single flat surface that wasn't piled with books and papers. Ricci apologized for the clutter. He had spent much of the day on the BBC, where his elegantly accented English was much in demand. He had to be back at the Vatican in two hours for an appearance on CNN. He hadn't much time to talk.

“Too bad,” he added with a glance at Gabriel. “I have a few questions I'd like to ask you.”

Ricci cleared a couple of chairs and immediately dug a crumpled pack of Marlboros from the breast pocket of his jacket. Donati
in turn produced his elegant gold cigarette case. There followed the familiar rituals of the tobacco addicted—the stroke of
a lighter, the offer of a flame, a moment or two of small talk. Ricci expressed his condolences over the death of Lucchesi.
Donati asked about Ricci's mother, who had been unwell.

“The letter from the Holy Father meant the world to her, Excellency.”

“It didn't stop you from writing a rather nasty piece about how much money the Vatican was spending renovating the apartments
of certain curial cardinals.”

“Did I make any mistakes?”

“Not one.”

The conversation turned to the coming conclave. Ricci mined Donati for a nugget of gold, something he might reveal to his American audience later that evening. It didn't need to be earth-shattering, he said. A juicy piece of curial gossip would suffice. Donati failed to oblige him. He claimed he had been too busy putting his affairs in order to give much thought to the
selection of Lucchesi's successor. At this, Ricci smiled. It was the smile of a reporter who knew something.

“Is that why you went to Florence last Thursday to find the missing Swiss Guard?”

Donati didn't bother with a denial. “How did you know?”

“The Polizia have pictures of you on the Ponte Vecchio.” Ricci looked at Gabriel. “You, too.”

“Why haven't they tried to contact me?” asked Donati.

“The Vatican asked them not to. And for some reason, the Polizia agreed to keep you out of it.”

Donati stabbed out his cigarette. “What else do you know?”

“I know that you were having dinner with Veronica Marchese the night the Holy Father died.”

“Wherever did you hear a thing like that?”

“Come on, Archbishop Donati. You know I can't divulge—”

“Where?” asked Donati evenly.

“A source close to the camerlengo.”

“That means it came directly from Albanese.”

The reporter said nothing, all but confirming Donati's suspicions. “Why haven't you reported the story?” he asked.

“I've written it, but I wanted to give you a chance to comment before I push the button.”

“Respond to what exactly?”

“Why were you having dinner with the wife of a dead mobster the night the Holy Father died? And why were you standing a few
meters from Niklaus Janson when he was assassinated on the Ponte Vecchio?”

“I'm afraid I can't help you, Alessandro.”

“Then let me help
you
, Excellency.”

Cautiously, Donati asked, “How?”

“Tell me what really happened that night in the Apostolic Palace, and I'll make sure no one ever finds out where you were.”

“Are you blackmailing me?”

“I wouldn't dream of it.”

“An old man died in his bed,” said Donati after a moment. “That's all that happened.”

“Lucchesi was murdered. And you know it. That's why you came here tonight.”

Donati was slow in rising. “You should be aware of the fact that you're being used.”

“I'm a reporter, I'm used to it.”

Donati beckoned Gabriel with a nod.

“Before you leave,” said Ricci, “there's one more thing you need to know. A couple of hours ago, I told a global television
audience that I thought Cardinal José Maria Navarro would be the next supreme pontiff of the Roman Catholic Church.”

“A daring choice on your part.”

“I was being untruthful, Excellency.”

“I'm sure it wasn't the first time.” Donati immediately regretted his words. “Forgive me, Alessandro. It's been a long day.
Don't bother to get up. We'll see ourselves out.”

“Aren't you going to ask me the name of the next pope, Excellency?”

“You can't possibly—”

“It's Cardinal Franz von Emmerich, the archbishop of Vienna.”

Donati frowned. “Emmerich? He's not on anyone's list.”

“He's on the only list that matters.”

“Whose is that?”

“The one in Bishop Hans Richter's pocket.”

“He's planning to steal the papacy? Is that what you're saying?”

Ricci nodded.

“How?”

“With money, Excellency. How else? Money makes the world go round. The Order of St. Helena, too.”