Paul II swept majestically across the hall. The cardinals bowed as he passed, the movement of their cassocks forming a purple wave through which his white alb cut like a sail. The Holy Father followed the line of the carpet that led to the dais. Archbishop Angelo stood to one side of the nave, leaning on a pillar. From there, he could see only the tip of the Pope’s miter rising above the skullcaps. He craned his neck to look toward the far end of the basilica, where the benches reserved for important guest were located. As a sign of his disapproval, Pietro de’ Medici was not there. After all, the Pope had forced his hand. Once again, he was represented by his son, Lorenzo the Magnificent, who was subtler and more diplomatic. Lorenzo was dressed in a glittering doublet, its gold and silver brocade gleaming in the light from the stained-glass windows. He sat with his back straight and his head high, defying the austerity of the place with his ardent beauty, the insolent richness of his attire, the flashy rings, the huge plumed hat placed in full sight on the armrest of a prie-dieu. The two monks who had come with him were sitting behind him, their figures somehow blurred, timid, retiring, askew, as if they were merely the shadow of the dapper young lord. A patched-up bag lay across the knees of one of them. It was still stuffed with the pages that had served as wrapping. Their yellowed, crumpled ends stuck out from the flap, as hard as pigskin, dotted with mold, their sheen diminished by the years. The poor monk was constantly trying to push them back into his bag as if he were ashamed of such a pitiful package. But the recalcitrant leather kept unfolding, embarrassing him even more. Angelo looked at him pensively. His sandals were dusty, the material of his habit dulled by the sun. And yet there was a luminous, almost arrogant quality in his gaze. He might be the only real man of God here.
A casket adorned with precious stones lay on the Papal throne, its glitter forming a limpid prism. The Pope slowly climbed the steps, hiding now the halo of the emeralds and rock crystals. He took the key handed to him by his secretary then knelt and inserted it in the lock. All present prostrated themselves. He carefully opened the lid, murmured a blessing then, suddenly seeing the faded letters, crossed himself and burst into tears. The silence was so absolute that it was as if the voice of the Lord was rising from the casket. The Holy Father kissed the sacred manuscript with his fingertip, not daring to take it in his hand. The parchment was crumbly. The Vatican archivists had recommended that it not be exposed to the light. One of them began reading the Latin translation that had been made of it by the experts.
Jesus knows that he will soon die. He makes no attempt to conceal his terror. Annas tries to comfort him, assuring him that his sacrifice will not be in vain. But Jesus refuses to be consoled. He is in no way resigned to his fate. Is he not being killed to stop him from speaking, because his confessions disturb Jerusalem as much as Caesar? The Jews are wrong to believe that his execution will assuage the anger of the Romans. Many others will perish, like him. The temple will be destroyed, says Jesus. And Rome will fall.
The interpreter broke off his reading abruptly. Paul II stood up, announcing sternly that the revelations that followed related to future times and that it was not appropriate to divulge then too soon. Spread prematurely, Christ’s last message would be misunderstood by the faithful. Worse still, it would be distorted by the enemies of the faith. The assembled nuncios and legates muttered in frustration and disappointment, but the Holy Father was already closing the casket back up. He gave the key back to his secretary and let a majordomo quickly remove the fabled text to the cellars. That very evening, soldiers of the Vatican guard would round up all the scholars who had had access to Annas’s notes and put them to the sword.
“Write this. There is a beginning and there is an end. The temple will be destroyed. And Rome will fall. In the last resort, God will die with man . . . ”
“You blaspheme!”
“What father would want to survive his child?”
I ask the accused to retract, but to no avail. He remains insistent.
“Write this. There is a before and there is an after. Everything begins and everything ends when the first innocent dies. And God dies with him. It is you who blaspheme by denying him that death, that sorrow.”
“What kind of Jew are you to talk thus?”
Sitting by the fire, Paul II reread the Nazarene’s statement one last time, his diatribe against priests and Caesars alike, his predictions of the atrocities that would be committed in his name, his rejection of any special treatment, any burial, his farewell letter to Mary. When you came down to it, Christ’s reproaches were as harmful to the rabbis as to the priests. The Brotherhood had never had any intention of spreading them. This was simply a settling of accounts between Rome and Jerusalem, which concerned nobody else. The freeing of one of their people was a mere pretext. The book hunters had just been waiting for the convenient moment. And now the times were favorable to them. An insidious wind was blowing through Christendom. That was why they were throwing themselves blindly into the battle at the sides of those they thought they could win over to their wretched cause, in Paris, Florence, and Amsterdam—people who would betray them at the earliest opportunity. They had become much too sure of themselves. Here was the proof. By communicating Annas’s minutes, the Brotherhood was doing a lot more than challenging the Papacy. It was showing its strength, convinced that it had gained its first victory. But it was the Church that would win the war against the Jews and the humanists. Louis XI and the Medicis would sing a different tune when they saw their allies sentenced to burn at the stake.
Paul II thanked the Lord for having entrusted the defense of the faith to him and for having at last restored Christ’s last words to whom they most concerned. He would show himself equal to the task. He summoned his secretary and immediately dictated his instructions to the Inquisition, ordering a hardening of the censorship with regard to heretics and the suppression of the Jews, wherever they were, followed by an appeal to the Catholic kings to support him in his struggle against all these abominable attacks from the enemies of God. All his doubts were gone. He knew now that he had been chosen by Providence to protect the Savior’s message from the folly of men. They were not yet ready to receive so much light. He, Paul II, would be their guide. The Vatican would now keep the truth in its cellars, under seal, until the day of Revelation.
If the infidels in Palestine had not grasped the deep meaning of the Nazarene’s words, it was because they had not read them as believers, as followers. Annas had been mistaken. Christ had not blasphemed. God did indeed bleed with the blood of man and weep with his tears. “He dies,” as Jesus had said so eloquently, in spite of the high priest’s outraged protests. Those who rejected this teaching of Our Lord were therefore denying the suffering of God. Well, they would now have to be taught that suffering.