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Authors: Valerio Massimo Manfredi
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HEY RETURNED to the car amid gusts of wind and squalls of rain. Father Hogan started it up and the vehicle shot off, cutting a path through the deep green of the dripping forests at every turn. The silence weighed heavily on both men.
Father Boni was the first to speak. ‘I don’t want . . . I wouldn’t have you judge me too harshly, Hogan. That text is just too important . . . We have to know. I only . . .’
‘You haven’t told me everything about that book. What else do you know? I must be told, if you want me to keep working with you.’
Father Boni raised his hand to his brow. ‘It all started with Father Antonelli’s diary. I found it in that safe when I took over his office. As I told you, he was suddenly taken ill and didn’t have the time to find a good hiding place for his private papers. The diary refers to a text called “The Book of Amon”, which foretells of a message that was to due to arrive from the heavens on a precise day, month and year. Had he gone mad, I asked myself, or could there be a germ of truth in what he asserted? I thought his words over long and hard before I decided to act on them, even though at the time the probability of getting anywhere seemed very small indeed.
‘That’s why I first asked to meet Marconi. What I asked him to do was a true challenge to his intelligence. I wanted him to build a radio for the Vatican Observatory, a radio with very specific characteristics. An ultra-short-wave radio. Something that no one had ever heard of or was capable of building.’
An old lorry laden with timber was making its way up the road, groaning and creaking, and Father Hogan slowed down to let it pass. As he turned his head towards his companion, the lorry’s headlights carved out the older priest’s sunken features and put a disturbing gleam in his light-coloured eyes.
‘The patent for such an invention would earn a fortune for its creator,’ Father Hogan mused. ‘Marconi has been working with you for three years. What have you promised him to persuade him to keep this a secret? You don’t have access to that much money . . . or do you?’
‘We’re not talking about money here. If we succeed in our intent, I’ll explain, in good time . . .’
Hogan dropped the subject. ‘Tell me more about the text,’ he said.
Father Boni shook his head. ‘There’s not much to tell, I’m afraid. A Greek monk brought “The Book of Amon” to Italy five hundred years ago, shortly before the fall of Constantinople. He was the only person on the face of this earth who could understand the language it was written in. He read the text directly into the ear of the reigning Pope, who did not dare destroy it, but insisted it be buried for all time in the vaults of the library. The monk was exiled to a desert island, his whereabouts kept a secret from everyone. There’s a well-founded suspicion that he was poisoned . . .’
Father Hogan didn’t speak for quite some time: his eyes seemed to be staring at the alternating movement of the windscreen wipers.
‘Where is the city of Tubalcain?’ asked Father Boni abruptly.
The car was back on the tarmac stretch of the road now and was travelling at a faster and more steady pace under the still-driving rain.
‘A city of that name never existed. You know what the Book of Genesis says: Tubalcain descended directly from Cain, and was the first man to forge iron and to build a walled city. I’d say he personifies the non-migratory peoples whose technology permitted them to settle in one place, as opposed to the nomadic shepherds that the Jews tend to identify with in the most archaic phase of their civilization. But, as you are well aware, current opinion holds that Tubalcain, as well as all the other figures in Genesis, are merely symbolic.’
Father Boni fell silent as the car started down Via Tiburtina in the direction of Rome.
‘Have you ever heard of a theory, a hypothesis set forth by Desmond Garrett, that the people of the Bible
Father Boni was the first to speak. ‘I don’t want . . . I wouldn’t have you judge me too harshly, Hogan. That text is just too important . . . We have to know. I only . . .’
‘You haven’t told me everything about that book. What else do you know? I must be told, if you want me to keep working with you.’
Father Boni raised his hand to his brow. ‘It all started with Father Antonelli’s diary. I found it in that safe when I took over his office. As I told you, he was suddenly taken ill and didn’t have the time to find a good hiding place for his private papers. The diary refers to a text called “The Book of Amon”, which foretells of a message that was to due to arrive from the heavens on a precise day, month and year. Had he gone mad, I asked myself, or could there be a germ of truth in what he asserted? I thought his words over long and hard before I decided to act on them, even though at the time the probability of getting anywhere seemed very small indeed.
‘That’s why I first asked to meet Marconi. What I asked him to do was a true challenge to his intelligence. I wanted him to build a radio for the Vatican Observatory, a radio with very specific characteristics. An ultra-short-wave radio. Something that no one had ever heard of or was capable of building.’
An old lorry laden with timber was making its way up the road, groaning and creaking, and Father Hogan slowed down to let it pass. As he turned his head towards his companion, the lorry’s headlights carved out the older priest’s sunken features and put a disturbing gleam in his light-coloured eyes.
‘The patent for such an invention would earn a fortune for its creator,’ Father Hogan mused. ‘Marconi has been working with you for three years. What have you promised him to persuade him to keep this a secret? You don’t have access to that much money . . . or do you?’
‘We’re not talking about money here. If we succeed in our intent, I’ll explain, in good time . . .’
Hogan dropped the subject. ‘Tell me more about the text,’ he said.
Father Boni shook his head. ‘There’s not much to tell, I’m afraid. A Greek monk brought “The Book of Amon” to Italy five hundred years ago, shortly before the fall of Constantinople. He was the only person on the face of this earth who could understand the language it was written in. He read the text directly into the ear of the reigning Pope, who did not dare destroy it, but insisted it be buried for all time in the vaults of the library. The monk was exiled to a desert island, his whereabouts kept a secret from everyone. There’s a well-founded suspicion that he was poisoned . . .’
Father Hogan didn’t speak for quite some time: his eyes seemed to be staring at the alternating movement of the windscreen wipers.
‘Where is the city of Tubalcain?’ asked Father Boni abruptly.
The car was back on the tarmac stretch of the road now and was travelling at a faster and more steady pace under the still-driving rain.
‘A city of that name never existed. You know what the Book of Genesis says: Tubalcain descended directly from Cain, and was the first man to forge iron and to build a walled city. I’d say he personifies the non-migratory peoples whose technology permitted them to settle in one place, as opposed to the nomadic shepherds that the Jews tend to identify with in the most archaic phase of their civilization. But, as you are well aware, current opinion holds that Tubalcain, as well as all the other figures in Genesis, are merely symbolic.’
Father Boni fell silent as the car started down Via Tiburtina in the direction of Rome.
‘Have you ever heard of a theory, a hypothesis set forth by Desmond Garrett, that the people of the Bible
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