The captain stretched in his armchair. “All this was carried out very quickly. Barely twenty-four hours after the accident, His Most Reverend Eminence, the secretary of state, was contacted by the Holy Synod of the Greek Church. As discreetly as possible, all the Catholic churches around the globe possessing Ligna Crucis were ordered to check their reliquaries, and soon, we found out that sixty-five percent of the cases were empty, including those that contained the most important fragments: the Lignum of Verona, the Ligna of Santa Croce in Gerusalemme and Saint John of Letran in Rome; those from Santo Toribio de Liebana and Caravaca de la Cruz in Spain; the one at the Cistercian monastery of Boissiere; and the one from the Sainte-Chapelle in France. Latin America had also been plundered: The important fragments from the Metropolitan Cathedral of Mexico and the one from the Brotherhood of Jesus of Nazarus from the consulate of Guatemala, among others, were also missing.”
I’ve never felt the least devotion to relics. Nobody in my family was in favor of adoring exotic pieces of bones, fabric, or wood, not even my mother, whose tastes are Tridentine in matters of religion. Pierantonio was even less devoted to relics, and he lived in the Holy Land, where through his administration of many archeological excavations he was responsible for finding more than one body or object with a saintly scent. Nonetheless, the story the captain narrated frightened me. Many devout people place their faith in such sacred objects, and under no circumstance should there be a lack of respect for the beliefs of these individuals. Over the years the Church itself had abandoned such dubious practices, but there still existed a very strong movement toward the veneration of relics. The most surprising thing was that it wasn’t the mummified arm of Saint So-and-So, nor of the rotting body of Saint What-You-May-Call-It. We’re talking about Christ’s Cross, the wood on which the body of the Savior supposedly suffered torture and death. Even if all the Ligna Crucis in the world were to be considered frauds, it was still strange that those pieces of wood would be the only focus of a gang of fanatics.
“The second part of this story, Doctor, is the discovery of the scarifications on Iyasus’s body. While the Greek and Ethiopian authorities unsuccessfully investigated the man’s life, His Holiness, through the secretary of state and petitions to the churches of the East, decided we ought to figure out who was stealing the Ligna Crucis and why. If I recall correctly, the pope’s order was to stop the removals immediately, recover the stolen relics, find the thieves, and bring them to justice. As soon as the Greek police discovered the strange scars on the Ethiopian, they passed that information along to His Beatitude the archbishop of Athens, Christodoulos Paraskeviades. Even though relations with Rome are not very good, he requested that a special agent be present at the autopsy. I was that agent, and you already know firsthand what followed.”
I hadn’t eaten all day and I was beginning to feel the unpleasant effects of hypoglycemia. It must have been very late, but I didn’t want to look at the clock. I’d gotten up at seven in the morning, taken a plane all the way to Ireland, and returned to Rome that very night. I was so exhausted even my breath ached.
There was still so much of the story left to tell, I thought, looking at the linen shroud in front of me. Despite my curiosity, I knew that if I didn’t eat something soon, I was going to faint onto the table. So I took advantage of the captain’s sudden silence to ask if we could take a moment to eat since I was suddenly feeling dizzy. There was a murmur of unanimous approval. Clearly no one else had had dinner. His Eminence Cardinal Colli nodded to the captain, who took the package out of my hands and put it back in its leather pouch. He left the room for a few seconds and returned with the restaurant manager.
Shortly thereafter, an army of white-jacketed waiters entered the room pushing carts piled high with food. Once His Eminence blessed the food with a simple prayer, everyone, even timid Professor Boswell, pounced on the dishes. I was so hungry that, no matter how much I ingested, I wasn’t satiated. I didn’t lose my composure enough to make a pig of myself, but I ate as if I hadn’t eaten in a month. Lack of sleep and fatigue were also probably to blame. Finally, seeing Monsignor Tournier’s judgmental smile, I decided to stop.
During supper and as we were having an exquisite, steaming espresso, His Eminence Cardinal Colli described His Holiness’s great hopes that we would resolve the complex problem of the theft. Relations with the churches of the East were worse than I could possibly imagine after so many years of fighting over ecumenicalism. If we recovered their Ligna Crucis and managed to put an end to the looting, perhaps the patriarch of Moscow and All the Russias, Alexy II, and the ecumenical patriarch of Constantinople, Bartolomeos I—the two most prominent Orthodox leaders in a pleiad of leaders and Orthodox Churches—might be willing to engage in a dialogue of reconciliation. Apparently, these two Christian leaders were facing off over the territory of the Orthodox churches in countries that were once part of the former Soviet Union; but together they formed an unshakable coalition against the Church of Rome on the subject of reclaiming Catholic-owned goods once seized by the Communist regime and which now were in Orthodox hands. In the end, all this was about the vulgar subject of property and power. The hierarchic structure of the Orthodox Christian churches (which did not exist, in theory at least) was a dense network formed by historic scheming and economic plots. The patriarchate of Moscow and All the Russias, in the hands of His Holiness Alexy II, sheltered under its wing the independent Orthodox churches of countries in Eastern Europe (Serbia, Bulgaria, Romania). The Patriarchate of Constantinople, led by His Very Divine Holiness Bartolomeos, harbored all the rest (in Greece, Syria, Turkey, Palestine, Egypt, as well as the very important Greco-Orthodox Church of America). Nevertheless, the divisions were not as clear as it would seem at first glance. Both factions had monasteries and temples in each other’s sphere of influence. In any case, the Ecumenical Patriarchate of Constantinople, despite not having any power over them, “proceeded honorably” to represent all the rest of the Orthodox patriarchates of the world, including Alejo II, who seemed to totally ignore the millennia-old tradition, and was primarily concerned with preventing the Russian authorities from drawing the Catholic Church into their feud. Up till now, he had been quite successful.
In short, chaos. By resolving the theft, we would be able to help smooth out the rocky road to uniting all Christians. This would fuel the rickety motor of ecumenicalism.
For hours in that meeting room, Professor Boswell had not unglued his lips, except to eat. Yet, I could see that he listened very carefully to all the discussion. Once in a while, he slightly nodded or shook his head. He was the quietest man I’d ever met. He gave the impression that the world overwhelmed him. He was not comfortable in the least.
“Well, well… Professor Boswell,” Monsignor Tournier blurted out as if he were reading my thoughts. “I believe it’s your turn. Do you speak my language? Do you understand what I am saying? Do you understand any of what has been said here tonight?”
Glauser-Röist half closed his eyes and fixed his stare at the monsignor. Professor Boswell blinked. He cleared his throat in a desperate attempt to gain control over his voice.
“I understand perfectly, Monsignor,” stammered the professor with a noticeable Arabic accent. “My mother was Italian.”
“Ah, wonderful!” exclaimed Tournier, flashing a wide smile.
“In addition to Arabic and Coptic,” Glauser-Röist clarified sharply, leaving no room for doubt, “Professor Farag Boswell has perfect command of Greek, Turkish, Latin, Hebrew, Italian, French, and English.”
“Really, it’s nothing,” the professor hurried to explain, stuttering. “My paternal grandparents were Jewish, my mother Italian, and the rest of my family, including myself of course, are Coptic Catholics.”
“But your last name is English, Professor,” I said, confused, until I recalled that Egypt had once been a colony for the English.
“You’ll like this, Doctor,” said Glauser-Röist with a strange smile. “Professor Boswell is the gr
eat-grandson of Dr. Kenneth Boswell, one of the archeologists who discovered the Byzantine city of Oxirrinco.”
Oxirrinco! That was extremely interesting, but the best part was seeing Glauser-Röist in his role as the Egyptian’s friend and champion.
“Is that true, Professor?” I asked him.
“It is, Doctor,” confirmed Boswell with a shy nod. “My great-grandfather discovered Oxirrinco.”
Oxirrinco, one of the most important capitals of Byzantine Egypt, lost for centuries, swallowed up by desert sands, was revitalized in 1895, thanks to the English archeologists Bernard Grenfell, Arthur Hunt, and Kenneth Boswell. It’s considered the most important repository of Byzantine papyruses and a true library of lost work by classic authors.
“So, naturally, you are also an archeologist,” affirmed Monsignor Tournier.
“True. I work…” He paused, rubbed his forehead, and corrected himself… “worked in the Greco-Roman Museum of Alexandria.”
“You no longer work there?” I wanted to know, surprised.
“It’s time for a new story, Doctor.” Glauser-Röist leaned over again to the leather portfolio resting on the floor and again took out the package wrapped in linen, covered with sand from the Sinai. This time he didn’t give it to me. He laid it carefully on the table. Holding it with both hands, he contemplated it with an intense metallic sparkle in his eyes. “That day after I left your lab, as you already know, I met with Monsignor Tournier, and caught a plane to Cairo. Professor Boswell was waiting for me at the airport, commissioned by the Copto-Catholic Church to serve as my interpreter and guide.”
“His Beatitude Stephanos II Ghattas,” interrupted Boswell, nervously placing his glasses at his side, “the patriarch of our church, personally asked me to do everything in my power to help the captain.”
“The professor’s help has been inestimable,” added the captain. “We wouldn’t have… this”—he pointed to the package with his chin—“if it weren’t for him. When he picked me up at the airport, Boswell already had a vague idea of what I needed to do, and he put all his knowledge, resources, and contacts at my disposal.”
“I’d like another cup of coffee,” Cardinal Colli interrupted. “What about the rest of you?”
Monsignor Tournier glanced at his watch and nodded. Glauser-Röist got to his feet again and left the room. He took several minutes more than I could bear in that company, but finally he returned with an enormous tray of cups and a large coffee urn. As we served ourselves, the captain continued speaking.
Entering Saint Catherine of Sinai turned out to be a difficult task, explained Glauser-Röist. For tourists there is a limited schedule of visits and an even more limited route around the monastic enclosure. Since Glauser-Röist and Boswell didn’t know what they were looking for or how to look for it, they needed plenty of freedom of movement and time. So, the professor concocted a risky plan that worked like a dream.
Even though in 1782 the Orthodox monastery of Saint Catherine of Sinai was freed from the Patriarchate of Jerusalem for vague reasons (it became known as the Orthodox Church of Mount Sinai), the patriarchate continued to have certain control over the monastery and its head, the abbot and archbishop. His Beatitude Stephanos II Ghattas used his influence to ask the patriarch of Jerusalem, Diodoros I, to send letters of introduction for Captain Glauser-Röist and Professor Boswell so that the monastery would willingly open its doors to them. Why should Saint Catherine accept the request from the Patriarchate of Jerusalem? Very simple—one of the visitors was an important German philanthropist interested in donating several million marks to the monastery. In fact, in 1997, desperately needing money, the monks had agreed for the first and only time in the history of the monastery to lend some of its most valuable treasures for a magnificent exhibition at the Metropolitan Museum in New York. The idea was not only to obtain the money the museum had paid handsomely for, but to attract investors to finance the restoration of their ancient library as well as their extraordinary, yet dilapidated, collection of icons.
Thus trying to find a way to get the investigation off the ground, Captain Glauser-Röist and Professor Boswell went to the offices of the Orthodox Church of Mount Sinai in Cairo and told their barefaced lies. That same night they rented an all-terrain vehicle and set off across the desert to the monastery. The abbot, His Beatitude Archbishop Damianos, a kind, extremely intelligent man, received them in person and offered them his hospitality for as long as they wanted. That same afternoon, they began to inspect the abbey.
“I saw the crosses, Doctor,” murmured Glauser-Röist, clearly moved. “I saw them. Just like those on the body of our Ethiopian. Seven altogether. The same ones in the scarifications. There they were, on the wall, waiting for me.”
And I didn’t get to see them, I thought. I didn’t get to see them because you all left me on the sidelines. I didn’t get to go to the Egyptian desert and jump over dunes in an all-terrain vehicle because Monsignor Tournier decided to fire me for knowing more than I should. I was sick with anger.
“I know I shouldn’t be saying this out loud, but I really envy you, Captain,” I heard myself say, gulping down my coffee. “I would’ve liked to see those crosses. They’re as much mine as yours.”
“You’re right. I would have liked for you to see them, too.”
“Sister,” added Professor Boswell, “it may not be of any consolation…” He blinked and pushed his glasses as high as he could up on his nose. “But you would not have been able to do much in Saint Catherine. The monks don’t readily admit women into the enclosure. They’re not as radical as the community of the Mount Athos, in Greece, where not even female animals are permitted, but I don’t believe they would have let you spend the night in the abbey or stroll around the place, as we were fortunate enough to have done. The Orthodox monks are similar to Muslims in their regard for women.”
“That’s true,” echoed Glauser-Röist. “The professor is telling the truth.”
I wasn’t surprised. In general, all religions of the world discriminate against women, either relegating them to a puzzling second class or legitimizing their abuse and mistreatment. It’s really a shame that nobody seems to want to find a solution to it.
The Orthodox monastery of Saint Catherine was located in the heart of the Wadi ed-Deir Valley, at the foot of a spur of Mount Sinai. It was one of the most beautiful places on earth, a rare harmonious collaboration between nature and mankind. A rectangular perimeter, walled in by Justinian in the fourth century, it sheltered unimaginable treasures and an endless beauty that struck dumb those astonished few who were admitted into its interior. The dryness of the desert and the barren, red granite mountains protected it but didn’t prepare pilgrims for what they were to find inside the monastery: an impressive Byzantine basilica, numerous chapels, an immense refectory, the second most important library in the world, the number one collection of beautiful religious icons, all decorated with carved wood, marble inlay, silver with gold leaf, precious stones… A feast for the senses and an unequaled exaltation of faith that couldn’t be found anywhere else in the world.
“For a couple of days, the professor and I roamed all over the monastery in search of anything that had anything to do with the Ethiopian man. The presence of the seven crosses in the southwestern wall was beginning to lose its meaning. I asked myself if this was simply a ridiculous coincidence and if we were headed in the wrong direction. But the third day…” His mouth widened with a huge smile. He turned to the professor, seeking his agreement. “The third day they finally introduced us to Father Sergio, the head of the library and the museum of icons.”
“The monks are very cautious,” explained the professor almost in a whisper. “That’s why they made us wait two days before showing us their most precious objects. They don’t trust a soul.”
At that point, I finally looked at my watch: It was exactly three a.m. I couldn’t hold out any longer, not even after two cups of coffee. But the Swiss Rock acted as if he hadn’t seen my g
esture or my spent face and continued unperturbed.
“Father Sergio came for us around seven in the evening after dinner, and guided us through the narrow alleys of the monastery, lighting our way with an old oil lamp. He was a heavy-set, taciturn monk who wore a pointed wool cap instead of the black cap like the rest.”
“And he was constantly tugging at his beard,” added the professor, as if the gesture had struck him as very amusing.
“When we arrived at the library, the father took from the pleats of his habit an iron ring loaded down with keys. He opened one lock after another until he’d opened seven.
“Again seven,” I let slip out, half asleep, remembering the letters and the crosses on Abi-Ruj’s body.
“The doors opened with a loud screech. The interior was as dark as the inside of a wolf’s mouth, but the worse part was the smell. You can’t even imagine the smell… It was nauseating.”
“It smelled like rotten leather and old rags,” clarified Boswell.
“We inched along in the shadows along rows of bookcases full of Byzantine manuscripts whose letters were decorated with gold leaf which sparkled in the light of Father Sergio’s lamp. Finally, we stopped in front of a display cabinet. ‘This is where we keep some of the oldest codices. You can take a look at whatever you want,’ said the monk, but I thought it was joke. It was so dark in there, you couldn’t see a thing!”