Maureen watched him closely, a true admiration blossoming for this man who had started off as such an enigma to her. He was a mystic and a poet in his own right, a seeker of spiritual truths. More than that, he was a good man — warm, caring, and clearly very loyal. She had underestimated him, which became more evident with his final words on the matter.
“It is my opinion that an attitude of forgiveness and tolerance is the cornerstone of true faith. In the last forty-eight hours, I have come to believe that more profoundly than ever.”
Maureen smiled and put her arm in his, and they walked back through the garden. Together.
Vatican City, Rome
June 29, 2005
CARDINAL DECARO was finishing a telephone call in his office when the door burst open. It amazed the high-ranking church official that this Bishop O’Connor had not yet realized how tenuous his footing was here in Rome, but the man appeared to be utterly clueless. DeCaro was still unsure if it was pure ambition or complete lack of perception that afflicted O’Connor. Perhaps it was both.
The Cardinal listened with feigned patience and mock surprise as the man babbled on about the discovery in France. But then O’Connor said something that made DeCaro’s spine stiffen. This was inside information. No one at this level should know about the scrolls yet — and certainly not of their content.
“Who is your informant?” the Cardinal asked, assuming a casual tone.
O’Connor squirmed. He wasn’t yet ready to reveal his source. “He’s very reliable. Very.”
“I’m afraid I cannot take this terribly seriously if you are unwilling or unable to give me further details, Magnus. You must understand how much misinformation comes through here. We cannot investigate all of it.”
Bishop Magnus O’Connor shifted uncomfortably. He dared not reveal his source, not yet — it was his only remaining power play. If he turned over his source, they would no doubt go directly to him, leaving O’Connor with no power or involvement in this most important historical situation. Besides, there were others he would have to answer to besides DeCaro and the Vatican Council.
“I will check with the informant and see if I can reveal him to you,” O’Connor offered.
Cardinal DeCaro shrugged, much to O’Connor’s annoyance. This nonchalant reception of his earth-shattering news was not what he wanted or expected. “Very well. Thank you for the information,” said the elder official dismissively. “You are free to go about your duties.”
“But, your grace, don’t you want to know exactly what they found?”
Cardinal DeCaro peered over his reading glasses at the Irish cleric. “Unsubstantiated sources do not interest me. Good night, sir. May God bless and keep you.”
The Cardinal turned his back and picked up a sheaf of papers, sorting through them as if the Bishop had just told him something as basic as that the sun rose in the morning and set in the evening. Where was the shock? The concern? The gratitude?
Sputtering with indignation, Bishop O’Connor mumbled a reply and waddled out the door. He was finished here in Rome for the moment. He would go to France. Then he would show them.
Château des Pommes Bleues
June 29, 2005
AS PROMISED, Maureen met Tammy in the media room following her stroll in the garden with Sinclair. She first popped her head into the study to check on Peter, who was immersed in the translation of the second book. Her cousin looked up and gave her an unintelligible grunt, his eyes glassy with the work. She knew this was not a good time to interrupt and went out to find Tammy.
Outside the study, there was an exhilaration running through the château, a buzzing sense of history and excitement. Maureen wondered how much the servants knew, but also assumed that they were all highly trusted and loyal. Roland and Sinclair were meeting to discuss security measures until the remainder of Mary’s gospel was translated and a decision was made about the proper course of action. No one had discussed this openly yet, and Maureen found herself very curious about what Sinclair intended to do — and when he intended to do it.
“Come in, come in.” Tammy beckoned as she saw Maureen at the door.
Maureen plunked down on the couch next to Tammy, allowing her head to roll back with a groan.
“Uh-oh, what’s wrong?”
Maureen smiled at her. “Oh nothing and everything. I was just wondering, will my life ever look the same again?”
Tammy answered with her throaty laugh. “No. So you’d better get used to that now.” She grabbed Maureen’s hand. This time, she spoke more sympathetically. “Listen, I know most of this is new for you and you’ve had to process a lot in a short period of time. I just want you to know that you’re my hero, okay? And so is Peter, for that matter.”
“Thanks,” Maureen sighed. “But do you really think the world is ready for all this tweaking of their sacred belief systems? Because I don’t.”
“I disagree,” Tammy said with her usual conviction. “I think the timing has never been better. It’s the twenty-first century. We don’t burn people at the stake for heresy anymore.”
“No, we just bash their skulls in.” Maureen rubbed the back of her head for emphasis.
“Point taken. Sorry.”
“I’m just being dramatic. I’m fine, really.” Maureen gestured to the wide-screen television. “What are you working on now?”
“We were sidetracked the other night and I didn’t have a chance to show you the rest of this. I think now, more than ever, you’ll find it very interesting.”
Tammy had the remote in her hand. Pointing it at the television monitor, she continued, “We were looking at bloodline pictures, remember?” She released the pause button as portraits filled the screen. “King Ferdinand of Spain. Your girl Lucrezia Borgia. Mary, Queen of Scots. Bonnie Prince Charlie. Empress Maria Theresa of Austria and her more famous daughter, Marie Antoinette. Sir Isaac Newton.” She paused on an image of several American presidents. “And here is where we get into the Americans, starting with Thomas Jefferson. Then we move gradually into modern times.”
A modern photograph of a large America family reunion filled the screen.
“What’s this?”
“The Stewart family reunion in Cherry Hill, New Jersey. I took this last year. And this one, too. Seemingly regular people in regular locations, but they’re all bloodline.”
Maureen was struck with a thought. “Have you ever been to McLean, in Virginia?”
Tammy looked puzzled. “No. Why?”
Maureen recounted her unlikely experiences in McLean, and the lovely bookstore owner she had met. “Her name was Rachel Martel, and…”
Tammy cut her off. “Martel? Did you say Martel?”
Maureen nodded, to which Tammy burst out laughing. “Yeah, well, no wonder she has visions,” Tammy said. “Martel is one of the oldest bloodline names there is. Charles Martel, the line of Charlemagne. If you dig around that part of Virginia, I bet you’ll find a huge concentration of bloodline families. Probably came over for asylum during the Reign of Terror — that’s how most of the noble French families ended up in the States. Pennsylvania is crammed with them, too.”
Maureen laughed. “So that’s why there are so many sightings there. I’ll have to call Rachel when I get back to the States and let her know.”
They returned their attention to the screen, where another reunion photograph appeared as Tammy explained.
“This is the St. Clair family reunion in Baton Rouge last summer. Louisiana has the highest concentration of bloodline families because of the French legacy there. You know that firsthand now. See this guy here?”
Tammy clicked the remote to pause on an image of a young, long-haired street musician, playing a saxophone in the French Quarter. She released the pause to allow some of his hauntingly beautiful sax music to fill the room before halting it again.
“His name is James St. Clair. Homeless. Survives as a street hustler in New Orleans but plays a saxophone that would make you cry. I sat down on the st
reet corner and talked to him for three hours. A brilliant, beautiful man.”
“Do all of these people know they’re bloodline?”
“Of course not. That’s the beauty of it, and it’s also the final point of my film. In two thousand years of history and evolution, there are probably close to a million people on earth carrying the blood of Jesus Christ in their veins. Maybe more. There’s nothing elitist or secretive about it. It could be the guy who bags your groceries or your teller at the bank. Or the homeless guy who breaks your heart every time he picks up a saxophone.”
Château des Pommes Bleues
July 2, 2005
PETER WORKED TIRELESSLY, but his perfectionism overtook him and it was another two days before he was ready to share the translations of the latest scrolls, the Book of the Time of Darkness.
Maureen had fallen asleep on the couch the afternoon of the second day, content to be in the vicinity of Mary’s gospel as it was transcribed.
The sound of her cousin’s sobs awakened her.
She looked up to see Peter, his head in his hands, surrendering to the exhaustion and emotion that swept through him. But Maureen couldn’t determine immediately what the emotion was. Was it sorrow or joy? Elation or devastation? Maureen looked up at Sinclair, who was sitting opposite Peter at the table. He shook his head at her helplessly. He, too, was at a loss to understand what had triggered Peter’s intense reaction.
Maureen approached Peter and put her hand gently on his shoulder. “Pete? What is it?”
Peter rubbed the tears from his face and looked up at his cousin. “I’d rather let her tell you,” he whispered, pointing to the translation before him. “Will you get the others, please?
Tammy and Roland hurried to Sinclair’s study. They were easy to find because they were now openly together. Nor were they ever far away as neither wanted to be too distant from the scrolls for fear of missing anything. They both noticed the fevered look on Peter’s face as they entered the study.
Roland called a housemaid to bring in tea for everyone. Once she was dismissed and the door was closed behind her, Peter picked up where he had left off.
“She calls this the Book of the Time of Darkness,” Peter said. “It deals with the last week of Christ’s life.”
Sinclair started to ask a question, but Peter stopped him. “She tells it far better than I.”
And he began to read.
…It is important to know who Judas Iscariot was in order to comprehend his relationship with me, with Easa, and with the teachings of The Way. Like Simon, he was a Zealot and passionate in his desire to drive the Romans from our shores. He had killed for this belief and had been more than willing to do so again. Until Simon brought him to Easa.
Judas embraced The Way, but his conversion was neither quick nor easy. Judas came from a line of Pharisees and had a strict perspective on the law. He had followed John as a young man, and was suspicious of all he had heard of me. In time, we became friends, brother and sister in The Way — because of Easa, who was the great unifier. And yet there were times when Judas and his old ways would surface, and this would cause tension among the followers. He was a natural leader and would insinuate his position of authority. Easa admired this, but some of the other followers did not. But I understood Judas. Like mine, it was his destiny to be misunderstood.
Judas believed that we should be taking every opportunity to expand our following and that we should do this through donations to the poor. Easa designated Judas as treasurer, and it became his responsibility to raise money for distribution among the needy. He was a man of honesty and conscience when it came to this task, but he was also a man without compromise.
The greatest argument occurred on the night I anointed Easa in Bethany, in the home of Simon. I took a sealed alabaster jar that had been sent to us from Alexandria. It was filled with a blend of costly and aromatic spikenard with myrrh. I broke the seal and anointed Easa’s head and feet with the balm, proclaiming him our messiah in keeping with the traditions of our people and the Song of Songs as given to us from Solomon. It was a spiritual moment for all of us, one filled with hope and symbolism.
But Judas did not approve. He was angry and chastised me before everyone, saying, “That balm was valuable. Sealed, it would have brought a great price, money we could have allocated to our collections for the poor.”
I did not have to defend my actions, as Easa did so for me. He reproved Judas, saying, “You will have the poor always, but you will not always have me. And let me say this further — wherever the deeds of my life are preached throughout the world, so will this woman’s name be preached with my own. Let this be done as a memorial to her and the good works she has wrought for us.”
It was a moment that showed Judas did not fully comprehend the sacred rituals of The Way and one that upset some of the elect — some who never trusted Judas fully after that.
As I have said, I hold no ill toward him for that or any other act. Judas could not overcome who he was in his heart, and he was always true to that.
I mourn him still.
THE ARQUES GOSPEL OF MARY MAGDALENE,
THE BOOK OF THE TIME OF DARKNESS
Chapter Nineteen
Jerusalem
33 A.D.
It had been an eventful day for the Nazarenes. When Easa entered Jerusalem, he had been received with the popular support that they had anticipated. Indeed, his reception had exceeded expectations. When the followers were called to learn the Prayer of the Way — Easa was now calling it the Lord’s Prayer — the grotto location on the Mount of Olives proved too small. The followers who attended Easa’s preaching spilled out over the hill, waiting for their turn to get close to their anointed one, their messiah, so that he could teach them how to pray as well.
Easa stayed until every man, woman, and child was satisfied that they knew and understood this prayer and took it into their hearts.
On the way down the Mount and moving toward the city, the Nazarenes were stopped by a pair of Roman centurions. The Romans were guards at the eastern entrance to the city, the gate closest to Pilate’s residence in the Fortress Antonia. They challenged the group in butchered Aramaic, questioning their destination. Easa came forward and surprised them by speaking in perfect Greek. He pointed to one of the centurions, noticing that the man’s hand was heavily bandaged.
“What happened to you?” he asked simply.
The centurion wasn’t expecting to be asked this, but answered plainly. “I fell into the rocks during a night watch.”
“Too much wine,” cracked his watch partner, an unsavory-looking character with a jagged scar slashing across the left side of his face.
The injured centurion glared him into silence and added, “Don’t listen to a word Longinus says. I lost my balance.”
Easa stated simply, “It is painful for you.”
The centurion nodded. “I believe it is broken, but I have not had the chance to be attended by a physician. We are stretched thin with the Passover crowds.”
“May I see it?” Easa asked.
The man held out the bandaged hand, which hung at an unnatural angle from the wrist. Easa placed one hand underneath it and another above it, gently. Closing his eyes, he said a silent prayer as his hands closed in gently but firmly over the centurion’s hand. The injured Roman’s eyes grew large as the assembled Nazarenes watched the healing that was taking place. Even the scar-faced centurion appeared momentarily rapt.
Easa opened his eyes and looked into those of the Roman. “You should feel better now.” And as he released the hand it was clear to everyone in view that it was now straight and strong. The Roman stuttered, unable to speak. Instead, he unwrapped the bandages and flexed his fingers. His sky blue eyes grew cloudy with unshed tears as he looked up at Easa. He dare not speak for fear of losing his place among his fellow soldiers. Easa knew this, and saved him from embarrassment.
“The kingdom of God is yours for the taking. Tell others of the good news,” Easa
said, and continued on a path around the city walls, followed by Mary, the children, and the elect.
Mary was exhausted, but she would not complain. The weight of the child she carried slowed her down a little, but she had such joy in it that she refused to complain. They were settled in the house of Easa’s uncle, Joseph, a wealthy and influential man with lands immediately outside the city. She was thankful that both little John and Tamar were asleep. The day had worn them out as well.
Mary had time to reflect on Easa’s healing abilities as she sat in the cool shade of Joseph’s garden, alone. Easa was with his uncle and some of the male followers, planning their visit to the Temple the following day. Mary chose to leave them to it, seeing the children to their beds and taking a few moments for rest and prayer. The other Marys and the female followers were gathered together tonight in a prayer ceremony, but this Mary chose not to attend. Solitude was an increasingly rare commodity for her and she cherished it.
But as Mary Magdalene recalled the events surrounding the healing of the Roman soldier earlier in the day, she found herself feeling uneasy and disconcerted. She couldn’t identify the feeling, and she wasn’t sure why it made her nervous. The centurion himself was decent for a Roman soldier, almost pleasant. And she had felt his distress, as Easa had, when he was near tears from the miracle of the healing. The other soldier was a different story altogether. He was hard and coarse, what they had all come to expect of the mercenaries who had spilled so much Jewish blood. This scar-faced man, called Longinus, had been startled by the healing, but he would not be affected by it in any positive way. He was too battle-hardened for that.
But the blue-eyed man had been not only healed, but changed. Mary saw it in his eyes as it happened. As she thought back on it she felt an electric charge run through her, the strange feeling on the edge of prophecy that always warned her she was glimpsing the future. Mary closed her eyes and tried to catch the image, but came up empty. She was too tired, or perhaps she was simply not meant to see this.