Steve asked their young teacher, Maria, if she had ever been in the catacombs.
“No,” she replied, “and frankly I’m scared.”
“Well, there’s nothing to fear. There’s really nothing down there.”
“Nothing except death,” she said with a shudder.
“You have fourteen children with you. I’ll lead the group single file along the passageways. We will make occasional stops at side vaults. You will be at the rear of the last child. Try to keep them moving along. I’ll be at the front with a flashlight and I’ll give you a flashlight, otherwise, when I turn a corner you would be in the dark.”
As the children followed the priest along the musty path, the single flashlight bobbing in the dark ahead of the group, one boy near the rear disappeared into a side passageway. Although the teacher was positioned at the rear of the group to make sure no one was left behind, somehow, the boy had slipped away from her unseen, possibly as a prank, into a dark narrow side tunnel that led off the prescribed tour route.
After collecting the group upstairs at the end of the tour, a head count disclosed that the boy was missing. Steve, Maria and two seminarians immediately descended into the darkness to find the lost boy. They spent an hour searching side passageways—to no avail. Steve was distraught. The teacher was in a panic. Although the searchers called out, there was no answering sound. Steve was beginning to get seriously concerned at the thought that the boy might have wandered into an uncharted section of the catacombs and could have fallen down a staircase into a black abyss. The boy might have hit his head and could be lying somewhere unconscious. Then again, the boy might be nearby but simply too terrified to call out—wondering with a child’s imagination whether the call would be answered by someone living or dead.
Steve recalled that he had once while walking alone in the catacombs, intentionally switched off the flashlight. He did it to feel what it was like being in the blackness far underground. For a moment, buried alive, his flesh crawled. The experience told him what the lost boy must now be going through—a prank turned into a terror.
Steve and other searchers, frantic now, began tracing their way back to the entrance. They would have to widen the search with a large search party. They stiffened as they heard the scream. The scream became a long wail that although horrifying, gave them a direction to move in. Running swiftly through a side passageway, they came upon a large dead-end alcove. It was a grotto where bodies had formerly been stacked in crypts arranged in a semi-circle. The boy was lying on the earthen floor surrounded by dogs—a pack of hungry snarling wild dogs that had begun to tear at his clothing and would soon be trying to devour him. The boy was gamely kicking at the dogs but he was in a losing battle.
Steve lunged in swinging the heavy flashlight like a weapon, the light bouncing crazily off walls, ceiling and floor. He let out a loud growl and a shout as he swept in flailing at the dogs. In the melee, some yelps told him he had hit his mark a few times. The startled animals, deprived of an easy meal, escaped and disappeared in a passageway. Steve carried the boy back to the main passageway and up the stairs.
The teacher was angry. “You said there was nothing to fear down there; nothing that is, except an occasional pack of wild animals.”
“Please forgive me,” Steve said contritely. I had no idea there were wild dogs down there and can’t imagine how they got in.”
An examination by a doctor who was called in said the boy was badly shaken but except for a few minor nips and scratches, he didn’t appear to be seriously injured; however, he had to be taken to a hospital for rabies shots. Apologies were profuse. Angelo agreed to pay for the boy’s torn clothes and medical costs.
“There is a risk of rabies,” the doctor said. “Since we can’t round up a pack of dogs to have them tested, we have to assume the worst. We can’t take the chance.”
*****
After the incident was over and Steve had returned from the hospital, he slumped exhausted in a chair as Angelo nervously paced the floor. “The doctors are starting to give the boy the series of rabies shots,” Steve said, “and they say he’ll be OK. But tell me, where did the dogs come from, Angelo? Who owns them?”
“No one knows. They are new to the catacombs. A new problem. We believe they must have entered through one of the overhead light shafts. I’ve seen one or two. They are narrow and steep like the walls of a chimney.”
“Where do they come to the surface?”
“One comes up in the middle of a thicket over by the old Roman aqueduct. When the Christians built the catacombs, they dug a few hidden openings to the upper world at various places along the passageways. Not many, you understand, and we don’t really know the purpose—perhaps to provide light or access to some areas. We can only guess. But I suspect the dogs have found a way in through one of these overhead openings.”
“Can’t you do anything about them? The dogs are wild; they travel in a pack and they’re dangerous. They were getting ready to eat that kid alive.”
“What can one do? We have searched for them but never found them. Once in a great while, like today for example, they suddenly appear. Then, in a flash, they are gone.”
“What about the people who do the restorations? Do they ever encounter the dogs?”
“There have been a few comments. Not complaints really, just comments. They see an occasional curious dog but apparently the bright lights, the equipment, the noise surrounding the large crew… scares the dogs off.”
“But I’m puzzled, Angelo. How do the dogs live down there? What do they eat? “
“I suspect there’s a food chain: the dogs eat the rats; the rats eat the mice; but only God knows what the mice eat. Maybe bits of candy bars and cookie crumbs dropped by the tourists.”
*****
On the day following the incident with the dogs, after his morning run, Steve decided to walk over to the old Roman aqueduct. He was curious about how the dogs might have gained access to the catacombs. Hidden in the center of a dense thicket of bushes covered with thorns and brambles, close to a wall of crumbling ancient brick, he came upon a small opening in the ground. It was just wide enough for a slender man or a large animal. The opening had a loose iron grate over it that had been pushed to one side. Kneeling down, he peered into the opening and decided it very likely led down into the catacombs. The walls were steep but seemed negotiable. He decided not to try climbing down. This hole, and possibly others like it, would have provided entrance for the dogs.
*****
Several days after the incident with the dogs, Steve was saying goodbye to a tour group when Angelo met him at the front entrance and asked him to come into his office. “Steve, take a seat. Here have some wine. I found out something today that you should know.”
Steve didn’t know whether to be happy or sad. Could this be good news from the Vatican or the end of the line for his vocation to the priesthood? He declined the proffered glass of wine and poured some espresso from a carafe on a side table. He sank into a chair in front of Angelo’s desk. He noted that Angelo’s face did not have an expression that would indicate good news.
“Steve, what I’m about to tell you is not about your case but it could affect your case indirectly. Do you remember the legend about the heads of Saints Peter and Paul preserved in urns at San Giovanni Laterano—the Saint John Lateran Basilica?”
“I remember it of course, but frankly, it always sounded like a wild legend to me.”
“To me too,” Angelo replied. “But something has happened that relates to one of those heads. As you Americans say ‘to make a long story short’, there is a young man in Rome who claims to be related to Saint Peter.”
“That’s quite a stretch seeing as how Saint Peter died almost two thousand years ago. I’d love to see that family tree.”
“He’s not basing it on lineage. He claims that a tissue sample was taken from the head of Saint Peter—which by the way is believed to be no more than a skull with bits of tissue attach
ed here and there, and probably hair from a beard. Apparently, someone stole into the church twenty-some years ago and removed a tissue sample from the head. This young man then claims that the tissue was used to clone a human— him. He maintains that he is related to Saint Peter, of course, in a kind of relationship that is difficult to define. A son perhaps? Some people are saying he is the rightful heir to the throne of the papacy.”
“Even if the story is true, how does it make him an heir to the throne?”
“As you may recall, Steve, each pope sees himself not as a successor to the pope that preceded him, but as a direct descendent of Saint Peter. Presumably then, each pope is a second Peter. Some of this young man’s followers say that since he is of Peter’s flesh, he has more right to the papacy than a pope who is merely elected by a group of cardinals.”
“Does the pontiff know of this? And the Curia?”
“Unfortunately, yes. And the way it affects you Steve is that the Curia and the pontiff have suddenly became extremely wary of human cloning. So frightened have they become of the repercussions and the threat to the status quo, their feelings about human cloning have become strongly negative. They find it hard to deal with something new when they don’t know where it will lead.”
“So, as a human clone, I represent a threat,” Steve added dourly.
“As a human clone, not necessarily. They would probably take a live-and-let-live approach to a cloned individual, but having a clone as a Catholic priest would make them extremely nervous. The other factor is even more serious. My contact tells me the business of animal cells mixed in the cloning process has produced strongly negative reactions among members of the Curia. Frankly, on hearing of this possibility, the members of the Curia sitting around the conference table uniformly shook their heads muttering: ‘No,’ and words like: ‘Impossible’.”
“Do you mean they didn’t believe it was possible to produce a chimera?”
“Oh, they believed it. Modern science has them thoroughly cowed. Centuries ago, the church fathers closed doors and windows to keep evil spirits out; now they close doors and windows to keep science out. What the Curia members meant was the impossibility of accepting that such a being could have undergone ensoulment by God. In a case like this, science is seen as having gone one step too far. Now remember, this is only tentative, an initial reaction. They haven’t fully studied the issue and obviously have no formal conclusion. But it bodes ill, my friend.”
“Maybe in a hundred years they could accept it,” Steve said, a crestfallen expression growing on his face. Tell me more about the young man who claims to be the son of Peter. Where can I find him?”
“Preaching on street-corners of Rome to any audience that will listen to his claim. He calls himself Peter the Second. He sometimes attracts large crowds, mainly young people.”
“No wonder the Vatican is upset.”
“The worst part, Steve, is that people are starting to believe this young man, especially young people who feel the church has lost touch with them. They believe there are too many gray-headed bishops and cardinals running things and telling them what is right and wrong. They say Jesus sought to establish his church among the common people. Jesus was a peasant. If he was anything, he was anti-establishment. He did not intend to create a new monarchy of untold wealth and power. Added to that, Jesus was young, only thirty-three when he died. It’s easy to see that today’s youth might see more of a tie between the young Peter and Jesus than with the old men who have taken over the church.”
Steve thought a minute, then got up and started pacing the floor. “The thing to remember, Angelo, is that if this young man is telling the truth, he may in fact be a kind of descendent of Saint Peter.”
“True. But that hardly makes him qualified to act as the head of the Catholic Church. It would have the makings of a disaster for the church. This young man is nothing more than a street-corner preacher.”
“If he became a real problem for the Vatican,” Steve said with a smirk, “the Knights of Carthage would take care of him. By the way, Angelo, I would like to see the young Peter. I’d like to listen to what he has to say.”
“That’s easily done, my friend. I understand he mostly preaches at the Spanish Steps, although I don’t know what days or times.”
*****
Three days later, Steve parked Angelo’s car in an alley a few blocks from the Spanish Steps. He was in luck. He saw a crowd on the lower steps surrounding a young man who appeared to be in his early twenties. The young man was standing on the edge of a low wall and could be seen full length over the crowd. As he glimpsed the young man from the rear of the crowd, Steve’s eyes met piercing black eyes, long unkempt brown hair and a full scraggly beard. The young man was dressed in a simple coarse brown robe. On closer inspection, Steve saw that he wore open-toed sandals. His feet were dirty. My God, Steve thought, he looks like he just stepped out of the bible with the dust of Palestine still on his feet. Pressing closer, Steve heard familiar tales from the New Testament. The young man spoke in Italian, but Steve understood enough to get the gist of the message. The sermon told the stories of Jesus selecting Peter the simple fisherman as the rock upon which he would build his church; Jesus calming the storm on the Sea of Galilee; Jesus walking on the water; the miracle of the loaves and fishes; Peter held prisoner in the Mammertine Prison near the Roman Forum, and later crucified upside down where the obelisk stands in the center of Saint Peter’s Square. No new revelations, just things Steve knew and had preached scores of times in his Sunday sermons at home. He waited for something new, something unique this man might have to offer.
After listening for half-an-hour to stock bible stories, somewhat disgustedly Steve turned to leave the gathering when he heard the young man refer to himself as the flesh and blood of Peter...the son of Peter. On hearing these words, there was a murmur of approval from some in the crowd. People began kneeling and crossing themselves. Steve’s curiosity was aroused. As he turned back to resume listening, he realized he was intrigued by the audacity of this young man who was claiming openly to be of the flesh of the first pope. Steve wondered—what did the crowd think? Did they really accept this claim? Did they believe the young preacher was a human clone of Saint Peter? Or perhaps did they think he was a miraculous incarnation of Peter’s son? Whatever they thought, it was obvious from their homage that they didn’t think young Peter was a fraud.
Young Peter was now reminding the crowd of onlookers that Jesus was a peasant. As such Jesus rose up in opposition against the established religion of the day and the priests and scribes who had constructed a large wealthy organization. The young man’s voice was strident and filled with emotion as he talked. “Jesus was disturbed that the wealthy and powerful had taken over the Jewish synagogues. He railed against this. And today, yes today, the same thing has happened in the Catholic Church. The church has become an all-powerful monarchy of untold wealth with a full retinue of lords and princes who are referred to as: ‘Your Excellency,’ and ‘Your Grace’ and a court that mimics the courts of the great medieval and renaissance kings of Europe. In fact, until John Paul I, popes used to be crowned with a tiara like kings. When a new pope ascended the throne, each cardinal in turn was expected to kneel at his feet and pledge absolute obedience. No room for independent thought—only absolute obedience. Yet these popes weren’t chosen by God, or by Jesus as Peter was, each was elected by his fellow cardinals. Whatever the early church was at the time of Christ, it is no longer. With each passing century, the power of the papacy has become more monarchical with absolute religious power vested in its monarch. I say to you gathered here, it is time for a change.”
The young Peter, arms raised, was now shouting from the steps. “If Jesus were here today, he would angrily throw these money changers from the new temple and distribute their wealth to the poor. I say to you, the time is at hand to return to the simple beginnings of Christianity. God will point the way—through me as His lowly servant.”
**
***
A few hours later, Steve sat in a quiet trattoria with the young Peter. After the gathering on the Spanish Steps had begun to disperse, Steve had collared the young man and offered to buy him dinner. The offer was readily accepted for two reasons: the young Peter hadn’t eaten for several days and Steve’s Roman collar gave the young man an opportunity to talk directly to one he assumed represented the Vatican. Steve, concerned at first that the conversation might proceed in his halting Italian, found young Peter’s English to be surprisingly good. “Where did you learn such good English?” he asked.
“I was born in Rome, but I lived for many years in America. I was studying to be a priest at Cathedral College, a prep seminary in New York. Ever hear of it?”
“Of course. Did you complete your studies?”
“No. I dropped out.”
“I’m from an area further south. I was pastor of a parish for many years.” Steve checked his tongue because he was on the verge of mentioning the Archdiocese of Washington; nor did the young man question the location of his parish.
“Now you are assigned to the Vatican?”
“No,” Steve replied. I am just in Rome on a visit.”
The waiter took a long uncertain look at the unlikely pair as he presented menus. One patron obviously a modern priest in a neatly tailored black suit with Roman collar, the other a dirty bearded tramp from the streets. He decided the priest was doing his charitable deed for the day.
Steve ordered only cafe latte, while the young Peter with an agreeable nod from the priest, ordered a small mountain of food. “You look somewhat thin,” Steve commented with a concerned look on his face. “You don’t seem to be getting enough to eat.”
“Yes, I know.”
“After your sermons, why don’t you pass a collection plate around? I’m sure the people would contribute.”
Young Peter sneered: “Just like a typical Catholic priest,” he said. “It’s always the money...always the money. You and your kind make me sick.”