Book of James: a novel Read online

  “But the people of the church in Jerusalem had been commanded by a revelation, vouchsafed to approved men there before the war, to leave the city and to dwell in a certain town of Perea called Pella.”

  Eusebius, History of the Church 3:5:3

  One

  An injured goat sounds like a crying child. Abdul knew the sound, and roughly where it came from. He sighed, put his meal back into the cloth sack, got up and walked. Father was going to be angry. A goat with a broken leg must be killed, and Abdul had already lost three this year. The herd was supposed to grow, not shrink.

  The heat beat down on Abdul as he used his crook to draw together the alarmed herd. At least they would be able to continue eating. The hill path was covered with dust. Abdul cursed the heat and the dust as he climbed. This one had gotten higher up than the others. Following the sound, he left the path and ascended a perilously steep part of the hill. The braaah braaah got louder. He turned a corner, then another, and along an unusually steep formation of rocks, there it was.

  Braaah braaah.

  Abdul had to find fingerholds as he approached. There was a foothold, about six inches wide, which Abdul used to approach the panicked goat. Its rear right leg was caught between two rather large flat stones propped up against the side of the hill. They were a different color than the red rock of the hill. They were almost black, like the ones in the riverbed. Abdul reached for the goat’s neck and pulled, but its leg was stuck between the rocks. Broken, very clearly broken. Abdul could not reach around the second rock to get to the goat’s leg, so he placed his hand on the rock and pulled. It was stiff, wedged tightly into the face of the hill. Abdul pulled harder, it gave way some. Dust and small rocks rolled down the hill. Abdul had to be careful not to pull out the foothold along with the rock. One more tug. A small part of the foothold gave way, rolling down the hill. The loosened base and the weight of the rock started it moving more freely. One more tug and the rock separated from its base and tumbled down the hill in a cloud of dust. The sound echoed through the hills.

  The goat lay on the foothold, its leg shattered. Abdul pulled out his knife and said a prayer for the goat. It was crying loudly. He drew the knife across the goat’s throat and immediately its cries were silent, although it took a few moments for it to die. The blood ran over the first rock and down onto the foothold. Soon enough, the goat was still. God is great in His mercy.

  As he waited for the goat to die, he felt a chill. Abdul looked where he had pulled the rock from the wall. Behind it was a hole, more like a cave, cut into the hillside. The mid-day sun did not penetrate the cave, but it was at least ten degrees cooler inside. It was dark, he could only see the entrance floor, bare red rock covered with fine white dust.

  Abdul pushed the first rock aside a few inches so he could fit into the cave. There was very little light. The cave went a few meters and then he hit a wall. Blindly, he felt the wall from the floor. The wall went up almost a meter to a shelf. It was too low for him to stand, but he could feel along the floor of the shelf – it went back further than his arm could reach.

  He fumbled in his bag for his matches. He struck one and the cave lit up. The entrance was a small entry tunnel. The shelf was actually a small room, about three meters by three meters, one meter high. On the shelf were several wide-mouthed earthen jars. They were egg-shaped, flat on the bottom, and tapered slightly toward the top. They were glazed with a mottled rusty brown finish. There were no markings on the jars that he could see. They were covered with the same fine white dust that covered the floor. Abdul crawled up onto the shelf. The jars were arranged intentionally, three deep and four across.

  The match went out.

  Abdul lit another one. The jars all had lids. They were slightly domed and only had a small lip that he could use to pry with his fingers. Abdul pulled the lid off the first jar and looked inside, hoping to find bandit treasure. He had heard stories of the bandits who roamed these hills, robbing travelers who were naïve enough to travel alone or in small groups through this part of the wilderness, as it was known in the old days. They would hide their treasure throughout the hills to pay bribes if they were ever caught. Abdul looked down into the jar.

  Paper, only paper. He reached in. It was papers bound in leather, many of them. Abdul pulled out one and opened the cover. There was writing. It looked very old, and skillfully done with an ancient hand, but Abdul couldn’t read, so he put it back and looked into the next jar. Paper. The next. Paper too. It took a few more matches, but he pulled the lids off of all the jars and that’s all there was. Paper. Paper books.

  Abdul soon lost interest in the treasure and left the cave. The goat was dead. He grabbed it by the legs and carried it to the valley. There would be hell to pay from Father.

  “What do you mean you lost another?” shouted Father. He beat the youth several times until Mother came and pulled him away. “The boy was sleeping I tell you! He’s worthless!” Mother brought the boy into the house and wiped his tears.

  “You are not worthless, don’t listen to your father.”

  “I promise Mother, I was not sleeping.”

  “I know son, your father can be difficult. Give him a day and he will forget.”

  “I want to tell him about the treasure.”

  “Treasure?”

  “Treasure. I found the goat up on the hill, very far from the herd. He was stuck in the entrance of a cave. I looked inside and there was treasure.”

  “What treasure?” Mother asked intently.

  “Books, lots of books.”

  Mother was visibly disappointed. “Son, we have no use for books.” None of them could read.

  “But they looked important.”

  “We will not hear of it. Now go get cleaned up. We eat soon.”

  The family gathered around the table. From the fire oven came bread and goat meat mixed with nuts and spices. After his father and mother and three older brothers had spoken, Abdul told the family of his discovery. Mother looked at him crossly, but his brothers were eager to see the treasure.

  The next morning, the four boys climbed the sheer rock wall toward the cave. The goat’s blood was dry on the first rock. Abdul’s brother Fayed pushed the rock away. They lit their torches, crawled in, and examined Abdul’s find. Surely they were worth something to someone. Soon they had the clay jars out of the cave. One by one, they passed each jar to one other in a chain, then loaded them onto the cart they had left at the bottom of the trail. There were twelve jars in all, each about half a meter high and half a meter wide. It took two trips to get them home.

  A few months later, Father Ibrahim Abdau was making the rounds in the Saturday market in Aljoun. As usual, the city square was full. Tables were set up under tents, people selling everything from fruits to cigarettes. One man was selling radios, another surplus German uniforms. No one asked where they came from or how he got them, most assumed he got them from the company of Nazis that was routed at Al Khazneh during the war.

  Father Abdau was tall and thin, studious and wore thin wire rim glasses. His neatly cut hair and long jagged nose gave him a severe look, which faded quickly when he smiled. A Syrian Catholic, after his ordination, he spent several years studying church history at the Pontifical Gregorian University in Rome. When the war came, he returned to his home parish at Aljoun, a small town in northwest Transjordan. And while his congregation was dwindling, he still drew respect from the crowds as he passed.

  “Hello Father, bless you,” said a woman as she crossed herself. He raised his hand in benediction and returned the blessing.

  “The love of God be with you,” said a man, bowing. Father Abdau bowed back and blessed the man. Some thrust free goods at him, which he politely refused. Some of t
he young women looked at him and blushed shyly. He smiled and passed. The crowds this day were thick and exceptionally loud.

  In the back of the market was a table, notable only for its complete lack of visitors. Two boys sat behind the table laughing and pushing one another. Father Abdau approached them and his eyes opened wide when he saw what was on the table.

  “What are these?” he asked.

  “Some books my brother found,” said the oldest boy, looking at his first interested customer of the day. “They’re quite old, I’m sure they’re very valuable.”

  Almost trembling, Abdau saw that they were codices, and very old. He ran his thin fingers over the dark leather binding cover of the one on top. It was dry and brittle. He untied the leather cord and opened it. He gasped. The paper was ancient, probably vellum or papyrus. The handwriting was in Greek. His Greek was rusty, but he managed to read the first line. He closed the cover suddenly.

  “Where did you get these?” he asked the boy, with as much insouciance as he could muster.

  The boy became suspicious. “We didn’t steal them.”

  “Oh, my goodness no, that’s not what I meant.” The boy looked at him. He continued. “It’s just that I...I have a friend who collects old books like these, and I’m sure he’d love to know.”

  The boys looked at one another. Trusting the priest, they relaxed. “He was in the hills near our house. He found them in a cave.”

  Abdau barely suppressed a laugh. “Oh did he? What, were they stacked in a library there?”

  “No, they were in clay jars.”

  The priest looked down and opened the second codex. This one was in Greek too. He felt dizzy. He laid them out one by one, opened each, and carefully closed each one. There were ten of them. “How much?” asked the priest, resolutely.

  “For all of them?” asked the boy, joyously.

  “Yes.”

  The boys motioned to themselves. “Twenty pounds.”

  Abdau had nearly fifty in his pocket, but didn’t want to seem overly eager. “I’ll give you ten.”

  “Fifteen.”

  “Twelve.”

  The boys looked at one another. “Done.”

  Father Abdau counted out the notes and handed them across the table. The boys smiled at one another conspiratorially. They were flush with cash, and the day was still young. There would be many adventures before they had to be home.

  As the priest was stacking the books to carry, the younger boy said to him, “Come back next week. Bring your friend. We’ll have more.”

  Abdau looked up. “There’s more?”

  Two

  The telephone rang. Dio cane! Molino rolled over, still asleep, reaching for the handset. If the telephone woke the children there would be hell to pay. Che cos’e?

  It was the Chief. “I didn’t wake you did I?”

  Molino rubbed his eyes. “It’s four in the morning, don’t you sleep?”

  “Get in here.” With that, the Chief hung up.

  “Ach!” Molino tossed his head back onto the pillow.

  Verona got up. “I’ll make you some coffee.”

  “Sleep my love,” said Molino. “I’m just going to rinse off.” But it was too late, Verona was already at the door, the hallway light shining through her nightgown, revealing her lithe form underneath. Molino huffed.

  Ten minutes later, he was dressed. Verona was in the kitchen, stirring her cup. “Yours is in the travel mug.” Molino scooped it up. “Do you think it’s the Paoletto affair?” She was a smart girl. For months, the rumors have been swirling around Vatican City about the papal documents that the tabloid journalist Gianluigi Nuzzi published back in January. They came from somewhere, and in recent weeks, suspicion focused on Paolo Gabriele, Pope Benedict’s personal butler.

  “He didn’t say,” said Molino, kissing her and heading down the steps. “But I’ll let you know when I get back. Ciao bella.”

  Only ten years on the force and Georgio Molino was already district captain of the Comando Di Polizia Locale Di Roma Capitale Xvii Gruppo. Always fit, he wore his uniform well. His dark eyes and dark hair were classic Roman – his family had lived in Rome for generations uncounted. There were Mafiosi among his ancestors, and there were fascists. There were also priests. He was the first cop in the family that anyone could recall, everyone was proud that he was doing so well.

  His father was a chef at a bakery. Salvatore Molino was a simple man, uneducated, but very devout. He was a daily communicant and served as an usher at church on Sundays. He never said it, but he was deeply disappointed that Georgio was not religious. Going to church on Easter was only paying lip service to his faith. Children rarely possess their parents’ virtues, but they have virtues of their own.

  The commando locale was on Via del Falco, on the west bank of the Tiber River, only blocks away from the Vatican wall. With the scandal going on inside, everyone on the Polizia Municipal was waiting to see if there would be any fallout in Rome proper. For now, the Vatican authorities have been handling everything themselves, and once the leaks came out on television, they appointed a high-powered commission to investigate.

  The walls of the commando locale were painted brown. Dingy bars covered the doorway, cross-hatched iron screen covered the windows. There was graffiti on the outside wall, a crackling florescent light lit the entrance. The sidewalk stank of urine. Security cameras looked menacingly in all directions as Molino approached. He walked in and ascended the stairs.

  “What took you so long?” barked the Chief, sitting behind Molino’s desk.

  “You’ve seen my wife,” said Molino, grinning.

  The Chief laughed. She adjusted in his seat and addressed Molino directly. “Well, it’s on.”

  “Do we get the warrant?”

  “No,” said the Chief. “Too political. The mayor doesn’t want it.”

  “He’s losing his flair for the dramatic.”

  “More like he’s getting smart.”

  “So then why am I here?”

  “There’s a twist.”

  “There’s always a twist.”

  “They’re going to arrest Paoletto this morning, but we’re told that there’s something missing.”

  “Missing? What?” asked Molino, sincerely curious.

  “They have it on good information that he took eighty-three boxes of documents,” said the Chief.

  “Mio Dio...”

  “Yes, but there’s only eighty-two in his apartment.”

  Molino looked at the Chief, beginning to comprehend. “So the eighty-third box is in...”

  “...We don’t know,” said the Chief.

  “And that’s what I’m going to find out,” said Molino, with an assured grin.

  The Chief grinned and shook her head. “Smart young man. You must have had your coffee already.”

  “Looks like I’ll need more before this day is over.”

  The Chief gave Molino the contact information for Major Ritti, the man in charge of the investigation for the Vatican Gendarmerie. Molino met Ritti at their headquarters, located in the Palazzo del Governatorato, directly behind St. Peter’s Basilica. It was a three-tiered sandstone building with wide arched windows, idyllically set on the Vatican grounds. Molino brought three officers, but it was understood that they would only be there as observers.

  Paolo Gabriele’s apartment was on a quiet lane south of St. Peter’s square. Everything in Vatican City was neat and in order. The plants were all trimmed, the streets were clean, every passage flat and well lit. There were only three exits from the building. A small crowd of curious civilians and clergy had gathered around the building as the police contingent approached. There were five cars and several officers on foot. The car’s emergency lights came on once the exits were covered. Inside, Gabriele kissed his wife and daughters. Gendarmes kept the growing crowd back from the entrance. Ritti and three other Vatican Gendarmes entered the building, and ascended the steps toward Gabriele’s apartment. With children in the apartment,
they kept their weapons holstered to avoid alarm.

  Ritti, a thirty year veteran of the force, was a graying avuncular sort, who approached this task with solemnity. Gabriele clearly knew they were coming. He opened the door fully dressed, stood silently as Ritti read the warrant, and stood calmly as he was handcuffed and walked out of the building.

  Gabriele slid into the back seat of the police car. By now, the crowd was large, and people began calling. “It’s a fix! It’s a fix!” one called. “He’s being framed!” yelled another. Still another shouted, “May you burn in hell!” Everyone in the crowd seemed animated, but one man stood out. He was pale, stooped, had thinning grey hair, and was wearing a red cardigan sweater and a grey wool scally cap. He just stood there watching.

  The car carrying Gabriele pulled through the crowd and headed to the Vatican Gendarmerie headquarters. Behind it, a van pulled up. One after one, police carried banker’s boxes, two at a time. Ritti personally counted them as they were loaded into the van.

  “Eighty-two?” asked Molino.

  “Eighty-two,” confirmed Ritti. The man in the red cardigan was counting as well.

  The van pulled away. “Where’s it going?” asked Molino.

  “Home,” said Ritti, “It’s going home.”

  Back at Vatican Gendarmerie headquarters, Gabriele was being questioned by a police investigator and a priest. Molino thought it strange that a priest would be involved in police business, but this was the Vatican. Normal rules do not apply. He met Ritti in his office.

  “Close the door, please,” said Ritti.

  Molino closed the door and sat down. They had coffee and exchanged pleasantries.

  “So I’m told there is another box,” said Molino, eager to get to business.

  Ritti smiled, pleased that the Chief sent such an ambitious young lieutenant. “Yes,” said Ritti, “There is another box.”

  “How do you know?” asked Molino.

  “Monsignor Gäenswein, the pope’s personal secretary, found them missing.”