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Authors: Gerald T. McLaughlin
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crown materialize on the figure's head.
Barbo hurried across the bridge. He knew who it was in the river—it was the Trickster, the Master of Lies. From his seminary days, Barbo believed that Satan was as real as God himself. The eternal struggle between Good and Evil takes place every day in thousands of conversations and in thousands of decisions. Barbo had an intuition that this Magdalene scroll was somehow part of that eternal struggle. If the parchment were made public, the Trickster would go about in the guise of a scholar or journalist, sowing confusion and deceit, chipping away at the legitimacy of the apostolic succession of the papacy.
By the time he reached St. Peter's Square, Barbo was wide awake. He decided to go back to his office to read the books he had asked for. When he opened the outer door to his office suite, Father Alessandri was still working at his desk.
“Enrico, did Renini send the books I asked for?”
“Yes, they're on your desk. Renini included a biography of Philip IV of France, even though you didn't ask for it.”
“Good.” Barbo glanced at his watch. “It's after two o'clock in the morning, Enrico. This is your second night without sleep. Go to bed.”
Barbo entered his office and hung his blazer on the back of a chair. Pouring himself a glass of water, the cardinal did a quick inventory of the books that Renini had left for him—a biography of Philip IV of France, a history of medieval France, and several reference books on the Templars, including his own dissertation. Barbo smiled as he thumbed through a volume about the founding of the Order of the Temple. He remembered using the book to write his doctoral dissertation on the Templars. He was embarrassed to see how many pages he had left dog-eared. Barbo's father had admonished him not to damage books this way, but these paternal admonitions fell on deaf ears. Turning to the last page of the book, Barbo found a Latin epigram he had copied from the Roman poet Horace. Et mihi res, non me rebus, subjungere conor . “I try to suit life to myself, not myself to life.” The epigram reminded Barbo of the idealism and sense of purpose he felt as a young seminarian. Little of those feelings had survived the successes and honors of his life. Idealism and a sense of purpose may be things you experience perfectly only once and then feel their loss forever, he thought.
Alessandri brought a tray into Barbo's office. “You might like some espresso and dolci.”
“Thank you, Enrico.” Barbo continued to page through the books on his desk.
Alessandri turned to leave. When he was halfway out the door, the cardinal looked up. “Enrico, do you believe in the devil?”
“Not if you mean the one with horns and a pitchfork.”
Barbo smiled. “I forgot. The devil of old has been relegated to the basement along with our childhood toys. What about evil? Do you believe that there's a force capable of destroying the Church?”
“Yes, if you put it that way, Eminence.”
Barbo looked at Alessandri. “I felt the reality of that evil tonight, Enrico — on Ponte Sant'Angelo. What frightened me was how chillingly close it felt.”
Several hours later, having read a history of medieval France, Barbo yawned. He opened a balcony window to let in some freshair. The first glimmers of dawn had begun to brighten the ancient facades of the city. Seeing the light of the morning drive off the darkness of night always comforted Barbo. God performs his greatest miracle every day, he thought, but few take the time to witness it.
Someone tapped lightly on the door.
“Come in, Sister Fiorina.” From the lateness of the hour, the cardinal assumed it was the housekeeper here to vacuum the floor and tidy up his desk. Instead, a Swiss Guard stuck his head into Barbo's office.
“Eminence. You have a visitor.”
“At five in the morning?”
“Yes. He says you're expecting him.”
Barbo was curious. “Show him in.”
A tall thin man carrying an
Barbo hurried across the bridge. He knew who it was in the river—it was the Trickster, the Master of Lies. From his seminary days, Barbo believed that Satan was as real as God himself. The eternal struggle between Good and Evil takes place every day in thousands of conversations and in thousands of decisions. Barbo had an intuition that this Magdalene scroll was somehow part of that eternal struggle. If the parchment were made public, the Trickster would go about in the guise of a scholar or journalist, sowing confusion and deceit, chipping away at the legitimacy of the apostolic succession of the papacy.
By the time he reached St. Peter's Square, Barbo was wide awake. He decided to go back to his office to read the books he had asked for. When he opened the outer door to his office suite, Father Alessandri was still working at his desk.
“Enrico, did Renini send the books I asked for?”
“Yes, they're on your desk. Renini included a biography of Philip IV of France, even though you didn't ask for it.”
“Good.” Barbo glanced at his watch. “It's after two o'clock in the morning, Enrico. This is your second night without sleep. Go to bed.”
Barbo entered his office and hung his blazer on the back of a chair. Pouring himself a glass of water, the cardinal did a quick inventory of the books that Renini had left for him—a biography of Philip IV of France, a history of medieval France, and several reference books on the Templars, including his own dissertation. Barbo smiled as he thumbed through a volume about the founding of the Order of the Temple. He remembered using the book to write his doctoral dissertation on the Templars. He was embarrassed to see how many pages he had left dog-eared. Barbo's father had admonished him not to damage books this way, but these paternal admonitions fell on deaf ears. Turning to the last page of the book, Barbo found a Latin epigram he had copied from the Roman poet Horace. Et mihi res, non me rebus, subjungere conor . “I try to suit life to myself, not myself to life.” The epigram reminded Barbo of the idealism and sense of purpose he felt as a young seminarian. Little of those feelings had survived the successes and honors of his life. Idealism and a sense of purpose may be things you experience perfectly only once and then feel their loss forever, he thought.
Alessandri brought a tray into Barbo's office. “You might like some espresso and dolci.”
“Thank you, Enrico.” Barbo continued to page through the books on his desk.
Alessandri turned to leave. When he was halfway out the door, the cardinal looked up. “Enrico, do you believe in the devil?”
“Not if you mean the one with horns and a pitchfork.”
Barbo smiled. “I forgot. The devil of old has been relegated to the basement along with our childhood toys. What about evil? Do you believe that there's a force capable of destroying the Church?”
“Yes, if you put it that way, Eminence.”
Barbo looked at Alessandri. “I felt the reality of that evil tonight, Enrico — on Ponte Sant'Angelo. What frightened me was how chillingly close it felt.”
Several hours later, having read a history of medieval France, Barbo yawned. He opened a balcony window to let in some freshair. The first glimmers of dawn had begun to brighten the ancient facades of the city. Seeing the light of the morning drive off the darkness of night always comforted Barbo. God performs his greatest miracle every day, he thought, but few take the time to witness it.
Someone tapped lightly on the door.
“Come in, Sister Fiorina.” From the lateness of the hour, the cardinal assumed it was the housekeeper here to vacuum the floor and tidy up his desk. Instead, a Swiss Guard stuck his head into Barbo's office.
“Eminence. You have a visitor.”
“At five in the morning?”
“Yes. He says you're expecting him.”
Barbo was curious. “Show him in.”
A tall thin man carrying an
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