The Quest: A Novel (61 page)

The sun was setting ahead of them, and the few patches of sunlight were becoming dimmer. It was harder to see more than twenty or thirty feet ahead, but the stream guided them.

The jungle looked somehow different, Purcell thought, and it was more than the changing light that made it seem altered. Purcell noticed date palms and breadfruit trees, and trees that bore fleshy fruit, and other trees that he thought bore nuts, and black African violets covered the ground. This was tended land, a tropical garden such as Purcell had seen in Southeast Asia, barely distinguishable from the untamed jungle. He said, “The monastery is just ahead.”

Vivian, who was in the lead now, said, “I know.”

The stream bent sharply to their right, and they followed it for a minute, but then Vivian stepped out of the stream and walked between two towering palms.

Purcell and Mercado joined her.

To their front, about thirty feet away, rising above a twenty-foot-high thicket of bamboo, was a black wall.

Vivian stared up at the glossy stone. She said simply, “We are here.”

P
urcell had no image in his mind of what the wall would look like, and he saw now that the black stones were the size and shape of brick, laid without mortar, piece by piece, until the wall reached about forty feet, the height of a four-story building.

The sun had sunk lower, and the east side of the monastery where they were standing was in dark shadow, but there was a sheen to the wall, and the bamboo thicket and surrounding palms seemed to be captured in the stone.

None of them seemed to know what to do or say next, but they all understood, Purcell thought, that the road that had taken them here was strewn with betrayals and death—but also with acts of courage and caring, and memories that would last them a lifetime—no matter how short or long that was.

Mercado asked, “Do you think anyone is here?”

Vivian replied, “Let’s find out.”

They pushed their way through the thicket of bamboo to a narrow path that ran along the base of the wall and they went to their right.

They walked along the wall for about two hundred yards to the corner and turned along the north side, then around to the west, and to the south side of the long wall, then back to where they had started. As Father Armano had said, the monastery was built in the style of the Dark Ages, without an opening. But sitting on the ground now was a large basket attached to a thick rope.

Purcell was about to ask if they were sure they wanted to climb into the basket, expecting some hesitation or discussion, but Vivian threw her revolver on the ground and stepped into it without a word. Mercado dropped his AK-47 and followed. They both looked at him. Purcell said, “Maybe we want… a potential survivor.”

Vivian said to him, “That is your decision, Frank.”

Mercado said, “Don’t wait for us too long.”

Purcell hesitated again, then threw his Uzi on the ground and climbed into the basket, and held on to the rope that Vivian and Mercado were holding.

The basket began to rise.

They didn’t bother to look at the top of the wall—there would be no one there.

The basket came to a halt, and they were now able to see the roof of the church that Father Armano had described.

They climbed over the parapet onto a wooden walkway that surrounded the walls, and they looked down into the monastery below. It was as the priest had described—a fountain, gardens, eucalyptus trees, palms, and a pond. The peaked roof of the large church was made of a translucent material, also as the priest described. There seemed to be no one there. But of course, there was.

Again without hesitation or comment, Vivian led the way along the wooden walk until they came to a staircase, which they descended.

They all walked toward the closed doors of the church, which were covered in silver that had obviously been rubbed and polished not too long ago, and they saw the symbols of the early Christians on the doors—lambs, fish, and palms, and in the center of each door was a Coptic cross.

Vivian asked Purcell, “Do you have any weapons?”

“No.”

“Then open the door.”

Purcell grasped the large ring on the door and pulled. The door opened easily and he went inside, followed by Vivian, then Mercado.

The inside of the large church was simple and almost crude. The walls and floors were of black stone and there was no ornamentation, and Purcell was reminded of the church of San Anselmo in Berini. But unlike San Anselmo, the altar here was a simple and crude table, partially covered by a white cloth, on which sat a Coptic cross. Also unlike San Anselmo, there were no stained glass windows—in fact, no windows at all.

But the sun was still high enough to come through the high ceiling, and a strange, prismatic light came through the translucent roof,
casting rainbows over the floors and walls. The colors seemed to dance, and to separate into their primary components—red, green, blue—then blend again into their various hues.

Purcell noticed a door behind the altar, and he walked toward it. Mercado and Vivian followed, and Vivian said in a barely audible voice, “This is the way Father Armano walked.”

This door behind the altar was open and Purcell passed through it. He sensed, but could not see, that he was in a large space. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he could make out that he was in a long, narrow gallery, and that two rows of stone columns ran the length of the space.

Vivian came up behind him and put her hand on his shoulder. Mercado stood to Vivian’s side, and they all stood where Father Armano and the ten men of his patrol had stood forty years before. Unlike Father Armano, Sergeant Giovanni, and the other men, they did not move forward—but neither did they retreat.

At the end of the long gallery they could now see two fluttering candles, but the candlelight was so weak that they could see nothing but the flames, as though the fire radiated no light, but gave light.

They stared at the candles. Vivian said, “It is there.” She took their hands and began walking with them between the two rows of thick columns.

As they passed each set of columns, Purcell thought that he should be feeling fear, but a sense of peace took hold of him, and he continued on with Vivian’s hand in his.

As they got closer, the two candle flames seemed to give off more light, and he could see that the candles were set toward the middle of a table. As they got even closer, they could all see that it was a very long table, on which was a white cloth that seemed to shine as though it was luminescent.

Behind the table were thirteen high-backed wooden chairs, facing them, and Purcell understood that this was a representation of the table of the Last Supper, with a chair for Jesus and all the apostles, including one for Judas, though that chair was often missing in such representations.

Vivian and Mercado didn’t see it at first, because it was small, and the bronze was not polished, but in the center of the table, between
the two candles, and opposite the chair of Jesus, was the kiddush cup of the Passover. The Holy Grail.

Vivian stepped close to the table and let go of the men’s hands. She stared at the cup. Mercado, too, stared at it, and took a step closer. He said, “It is filled.”

Vivian said, “It is beautiful.” She turned to Purcell. “Frank?”

He kept staring where they were looking, but he saw nothing.

“Frank?” Vivian seemed concerned. “Do you see it?”

He didn’t reply.

Mercado kept staring at the spot. “How do you not see it?”

“There is nothing there.”

Vivian again looked at him, then back at the spot between the candles. “Frank… do you feel it?”

“I don’t… I can’t see anything, Vivian.” He looked at her, then at Mercado, realizing they were sharing the same hallucination.

Tears began running down Vivian’s face. “Frank… you must see it. Why can’t you…?”

He stepped up to the table and reached his hand out between the candles, but there was nothing there.

Vivian said to Purcell, “Do you want to see the cup or do you want to be proven right?”

Purcell stood there, not knowing what to say or what to do. Finally, he said, “I want to see it, and believe it.”

Mercado opened Vivian’s backpack and he pulled the skull out and quickly unwrapped it.

Purcell said to him, “Henry, what are you doing?”

Vivian replied, “We have brought Father Armano home.”

“No, put that back.”

But Mercado had set the skull on the table, in the center, facing the seat of Christ, and Christ’s cup.

Purcell drew a deep breath and reached for the skull, and he felt something touch the back of his hand. He felt it again, and he looked at his hand, where two drops of red glistened in the candlelight.

He stared at the two red drops that were now running down to his wrist, then he looked past his hand, and sitting on the table was a small bronze goblet that he had not seen before.

He kept staring at it, to be sure it was there, and he said to Vivian and to Mercado, “I can see it.”

He held the back of his hand toward Vivian and Mercado and Vivian smiled. Mercado, too, smiled, and said, “We were worried about you, Frank.”

Vivian said to him, “I was never worried about you. You just needed to believe in your soul what your heart already knew.”

Purcell nodded.

The three of them looked up toward the ceiling, and they all saw the lance, suspended in air, and as they watched, a red drop formed on the tip and fell into the cup.

They heard something behind them and they turned. Coming out of the darkness of the gallery, between the columns, were figures moving toward them. As the figures got closer, they could see that they were men in monks’ robes and cowls, walking two by two. The monks came closer, then separated, left and right, and stood in a line behind them, but seemed not to notice them though they were only a few feet away.

The monks all dropped to their knees, facing the long table, then bowed their heads and began praying silently.

Vivian took Purcell and Mercado by the arm and turned them around, facing the table, and they dropped to their knees. Vivian took their hands again and they all bowed their heads.

Vivian said softly, “We have come a long way and we are not afraid.”

Purcell didn’t know if she was speaking to him, to the monks, or to God. But whatever fear he felt at seeing the monks vanished, and he squeezed her hand. “There is nothing to be afraid of.”

Mercado said, “I told you, Frank, we have been chosen.”

Vivian said, “We can go home now.”

Purcell nodded. He was ready for that journey home.

F
rank Purcell sat on a bench and lit a cigarette. A cold wind blew down from the Gianicolo—the hill of Janus—and the Vatican gardens were nearly deserted on this overcast afternoon in February.

It was time to leave Rome, but before he left he wanted to see Vivian and Henry.

Henry had suggested dinner at Etiopia, but Purcell had suggested the Vatican park, after Henry left work. This needed to be short, sweet, and non-alcoholic.