Papal decree

3

The less one knows, the more one believes. It has always been that way and will be until the end of time. Today, commonly known natural phenomena that can be easily explained with the efficiency of science, such as thunder and eclipses, were once considered the anger of God, an omen of the world coming to an end. Believers knelt at every altar, appealing to Saint Barbara, Saint Christopher, and others to intercede with the Creator, Our Lord God, Allah, Jehovah; each one choosing an offering to placate the ire of the god, whoever He was. In earlier ages, intercession came through other saints and gods, now lost in the sands of time, forgotten forever. And the world just kept turning, as we know today, with no interest in the beliefs of those who inhabited it.

Nor did these beliefs matter to the man descending twenty steps, firmly gripping the handrails on each side. Age had not been kind to him. Deep wrinkles were etched in his face, like scars from a whip, reminders of past troubles. The rest of his body bore other reminders: a crippled leg that wouldn’t work as he wished it to, eyes that saw poorly, even with the aid of thick glasses — defects of an overworked, abused body that hadn’t been properly cared for.

He took one step at a time toward an underground structure built in the 1950s by five good men. They had constructed a deep shaft with an elevator. However, he considered the entrance, twenty steps up and down, safer. He wasn’t thinking about his old age or the impediment of his limbs or the twenty steps he would have to climb up now that he was halfway down. It wasn’t a route he took daily; only once a year, on the same date, the eighth of November.

The underground structure was located several hundred feet from a large house, surrounded by leafy trees showing the dead foliage of autumn. The entrance was inside a wooden shed the employees had probably used in times past to store yard tools. It looked abandoned, full of dust and spiderwebs, probably a home for animals that didn’t like humans showing up.

At the center of the shed was a bench that hid the entrance to the underground vault. It wasn’t as heavy as it looked. It was easier for the old man to move it than to descend those stairs. Once down, the route was short. About a hundred feet to another door, a metal structure a couple of feet wide, with bolts the size of a man’s leg. Sixty years ago, one would have had to insert a key in the proper place to activate the mechanism to open it, but now, with technological advances, an entirely electronic lock had been installed. It opened by an optic sensor, and he looked into it for a few seconds. A blue flash passed in front of the old man’s eyes and validated his identity. The eyes matched those registered by the viewfinder:

IDENTITY RECOGNIZED BEN ISAAC 8 NOV 2010 21H13S04 ACCESS PERMITTED

The mechanism set off an opening operation that, despite its being a logical sequence of releasing locks, sounded to Ben Isaac like disconnected noises coming from within the structure. Only at the end of the process did the two exterior cranks turn, upon which the heavy door opened outward with an exhalation of air, as if it were a living thing. One by one, the fluorescent lights turned on automatically, illuminating the interior of the vault. One hundred square feet of thick stone walls. The interior was two and a half yards high, enough to hold a standing person.

Everywhere the lights emitted a uniform white brilliance, leaving nothing hidden. The place itself was hidden enough dozens of feet above in the abandoned shed among the trees a hundred feet from the large house.

The walls consisted of cold, hard granite, making the closed room cool. The white tiles of the floor reflected the light. There was nothing on the walls. Bare. Three display cases stood alone in the center of the room, topped with three glass panes that prevented oxygen from seeping inside. In the lower left corner of each case, a gauge indicated the temperature of fifty-five degrees. In each of the cases were documents: two parchments and two more recent documents.

Ben Isaac moved to the case on the left that contained a parchment and looked at it. Time had been kinder to that document than to his old body… or so Ben Isaac thought, resentfully. What did he know of that document’s history? Whose hands it had passed through, and how it had been treated over the years, centuries, millennia, until this day, November 8, the anniversary of its discovery with other scrolls in Qumran in 1948? It had been in his possession in this same place for more than sixty-five years. It dated from the first century A.D., according to the most advanced scientific method of dating that money could buy, and in this regard Ben Isaac couldn’t complain. His money could buy anything. It was a small document, compared to the others, its edges worn away and scorched on the upper right side. It must have lain close to a fire on some cold night, or someone may have held it, with criminal intentions, over a flame. Whatever the reason, the burn had not damaged the text that Ben Isaac knew by heart and sometimes recited to himself in the language in which it was written, a dead language for most people, on nights he couldn’t sleep. Those nights.

Rome, year 4 of the reign of Claudius, Yeshua ben Joseph, immigrant from Galilee, confirms he is the owner of a parcel of land outside the walls of the city.

He couldn’t fail to be moved every time he saw that piece of parchment with those letters written by a Roman scribe about a man who would change the course of history for billions of people over the centuries. Jesus himself, son of Joseph, grandson of Jacob, heir of David the great, Solomon the wise, the patriarch Abraham, according to ancient legend.

He pressed a small green button below the glass which beeped before sliding open. Ben Isaac lifted the document very carefully, as if it were a newborn baby, and brought it close to his eyes. What emotion! Touching an object that Jesus himself might have touched two thousand years before. How privileged he was. He could touch it whenever he wanted. If a pope had succeeded in putting his hands on this document, any pope, he would have immediately been accused of sacrilege. But Ben Isaac confirmed it was authentic, he knew it as true.

He returned the parchment to its place and pushed the button to return the glass to its protective position. He moved on to the middle case, in which a much older parchment lay, degraded in some parts, so that some of the written characters could not be seen. But it was possible to read the essential message, which he remembered every day with a shiver and didn’t have the courage to read aloud. He didn’t want to touch this, never wanted to. The parchment was many years older than the other, but more important. It wasn’t a simple legal authorization, but a gospel known only to two people: Ben Isaac and a learned man whom he had approached to interpret the text, under a pact of silence. Ben Isaac was an expert at this. He let nothing slip.

The last showcase held two documents on letterhead paper, with the papal coat of arms at the top. Both texts were in English and easy to read.

November 8, 1960

Vatican City

I grant Ben Isaac, citizen of Israel, resident of London, a concession over the parchments found in the Qumran valley for a period of twenty-five years. While this agreement is in force, neither party will make the discoveries public. The Holy See will not attempt in any way to recover the documents, which it considers its own by right. At the end of the fixed time my successor and those of Ben Isaac will have to arrange a new agreement.

God be with you.

John P.P. XXIII

Ben Isaac (and three illegible signatures)

The other document was similar, with a different coat of arms and a shorter text.

November 8, 1985

Vatican City

I grant an extension of the agreement of November 8, 1960, for the identical term, at the end of which new arrangements will be made by the heirs.

Agreed to and signed by

John Paul P.P. II

Ben Isaac (and five illegible signatures)

Ben Isaac read and reread the documents. He remembered the negotiations. The cardinals, the prelates, the apostolic nuncios, the simple priests who came and went for two years with recommendations, offers, trivial details, curses, threats… the Five Gentlemen. He never met John XXIII or John Paul II, despite their having signed the documents. Perhaps it had been a mistake. Too many special envoys when it would have been simpler to sit down at the same table and talk. A nuncio came and offered him $2 million for the documents before the first agreement. He doubted that John XXIII had offered so much. Certainly, after the contract was signed, he was never troubled again. So many mistakes made over the course of his life. This had nothing to do with religion. He thought about Magda, tears blinding his eyes, and then Myriam filled his thoughts.

With a final glance at the parchments, Ben Isaac sighed. He looked at his watch. It was time. He left the vault and turned back to the stairs. He was too old for the battle, but he couldn’t turn his back on it. Life was a battle, nothing more.

Time was up. The agreement had expired.