Solomon's Throne (2 page)

The Jesuit sat for a few more moments, finishing the deep red wine that his father’s oldest friend had offered him. Sighing, he rose and bowed his goodbye. Doctor Balsemao never looked up.

Two weeks later, the Jesuit was sitting in the same chair. Cold had arrived, and a brisk wind was blowing across the river. Leaves had deserted the trees on the surrounding hills, and the grey sky looked flat and heavy. He kept his hands tucked into the arms of the cloak, and the hood over his head. He would have preferred to sit inside by a warm fire, but Doctor Balsemao was agitated, and had preferred not to speak in the hearing of his family.

“I did not begin this translation with any suppositions. I am sure you can see that one could slant one’s work towards a particular outcome, which of course we did not want. Whatever the letter says, it is best to know this clearly.” He swung his arms as he paced around the small area of grass, blowing on his hands and rubbing his ears, but not suggesting they continue inside. “I must confess to you, Eduardo, that I am most chagrined by this letter. If it is real, if it is nothing more or less than what it says, it is a letter that has the power to do much damage to the world as we know it…”

The Jesuit took in a sharp breath. “That is what he said. That is what the man who died said… He said it would change the world. I cannot see how a letter could do such a thing!’

The doctor sat down across the small weathered oak table from the Jesuit. He looked at him, then looked out over the gray river. He didn’t move for a very long time, but a sudden gust of wind stirred him. Without looking at the young man, he said, “The letter is from Paul of Tarsus. Our Saint Paul. It was written to the church in Jerusalem, dictated to his scribe Achalichus just before he was executed in Rome. Achalichus was to deliver the letter to Jerusalem himself. There is no indication, however, that this was accomplished. It is possible, of course, that the letter is a forgery… We can pray that the letter was a forgery.” He trailed off, staring out over the river once again. A few raindrops fell.

“Come, let us go in before the fire. I will tell you what your letter says, and I will give it back to you. I will try never to think of this letter again, and I will pray that you will have God’s wisdom on the matter.”

The two men went inside quickly, as the freshening rain began to slant towards them. The housekeeper had kept the fire high in the small room the doctor used as his study, and the Jesuit stood in front of it, hands as close to the flames as he could manage. Balsemao went to a heavily ornate chest in the corner and returned with the pouch and several sheaves of paper. He handed the papers to the Jesuit, and took a seat in front of the fire. He didn’t look at the priest as he read, just stared into the flames, lost in his own thoughts.

Paul, a bondservant of Jesus Christ, called to be an apostle by the will of God, to the church at Jerusalem: Grace and peace be to you from our Father, in the name of our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ.

I always thank God for you all, for your faithfulness to our Lord in the land of His birth. We know that God has called and blessed the nation of Israel since the time of our father Abraham, and that He will honor your faithfulness in this time of affliction. I have longed to return to you, and to share with you all that God Almighty has done among the Gentiles. Alas I know from the Spirit of our Lord that my journey is almost at an end, and that I shall be united with my Father before the year is finished.

I am very pleased with the news that reached me through my son and friend Timothy, that you have elected Peter to be the bishop of the church in Jerusalem, and that James, the brother of our Lord, has become the bishop of Alexandria. While the Jews rejected Jesus, there are many of us following the Way, and we know that is it written, “The Deliverer will come from Zion, he will banish ungodliness from Jacob; and this will be my covenant with them when I take away their sins.” Israel will be saved, and it is right and fitting that she should be the center of our work to spread the gospel of good news to the world. Would that I could come!

We know that there are many upheavals going on throughout the world. We know that you are persecuted by the Jews for your faith in Jesus Christ, and by Gentiles for your faith in Abba Father. Through all things, the God of Abraham, Isaac and Jacob will be with you. As the church grows and spreads from Jerusalem throughout the entire world, may you continue to see His hand on our own people.

Timothy, my brother, greets you, as do Justus and Priscilla.

Achalichus, who wrote this letter, will deliver it to you with all haste, so that you may know that I have longed to come to you, and am keeping you before our heavenly Father at all times.

Now to Him who is able to do all things, may you find strength beyond your earthly bodies, and may His strength increase as yours decreases. To the only wise God, glory and honor forever. Amen!

The Jesuit stood very still, the temptation to throw the pages and the parchment into the fire very strong. He reread the letter, hands shaking. He looked at his friend, who was still staring into the flames.

Finally he spoke. “Peter was the bishop of the church. In Jerusalem.”

The doctor nodded. “Yes, according to this letter.”

“Not Rome. Jerusalem.”

Another nod.

“But…” He stopped. He was again tempted to throw the letter into the fire. He could pretend he’d never seen it, never read it, never… But no. He had seen it. Somehow, against all odds, this letter had survived for 1600 years. It had been hidden by the dead man, and those before him, to protect the Church of Rome… Well, that’s what he assumed. But someone else knew about it. Someone else wanted it. Someone had killed trying to get it. Or get it back?

“Eduardo.” The Jesuit realized that Doctor Balsemao was speaking to him. “Eduardo, I must ask you to go now. I do not want this in my house any longer. There is still a Court of Inquisition here; Antonio Vieira is in Rome trying to end the
auto-da-fe’,
but they still have power. I cannot risk my family, my lands… Please, you must take your letter and go!”

Fumbling with his cloak, draped over the chair to dry in front of the fire, the Jesuit stuffed the handwritten pages from the doctor into his undershirt, pulled the drawstring tight on the leather pouch, and ran outside, oblivious now to the wind and rain.

When Father Eduardo returned to his small apartments at St. Anthony’s, he tucked the pages away in his small chest and put all his energies into forgetting them. Unable to destroy them, and unable to forget them, he stumbled through the next several weeks in a haze of duty and cold. Winter had come to Lisbon, and with it the poor and destitute seeking help. He kept busy visiting parishioners and helping with the smallpox epidemic that cropped up over the Advent and Christmas seasons.

From time to time the letter would force its way into his thoughts, and he would just as forcibly push them back. He had no idea what to do with the information that Providence had put in his path, and was well aware of the dangers posed by the Inquisitors. The five year suspension ordered by Pope Innocent XI had led to a truce of sorts in the country, and very slim tendrils of trust had returned. But this… this was catastrophic. This letter produced by a complete stranger had the power to undermine the legitimacy of the entire Church. What would Rome do to stop such a thing from happening?

After the Christmas season had passed, the Jesuit noticed that a stranger had begun attending mass. Lisbon had many travelers, traders and people from the Empire seeking a new life in the cosmopolitan city. But this man did not seem to be a trader. He had dark hair and fair skin, and he did not have the hands or sun baked skin of a sailor. He did not worship, but sat in the back of the chapel, hands folded in his lap, staring at Father Eduardo with a stoic expression.

The Jesuit spent the cold wet weeks of January and February in his small room, fire in the inadequate grate, working on a calligraphy copy of the New Testament for the Abbot at the Jeronimo Monastery. He had trained in such work in his youth, and still enjoyed spending the cold winter months creating the beautiful books. His mind was consumed with the detail, and he did indeed forget about the letter hidden away in his chest.

On the first fine day of the year, he took a chunk of bread and cheese, and set out to walk the wharf and enjoy the warm noonday sun. Seagulls fought over rotting fish carcasses, and stray dogs and cats lolled about in the unexpected sunshine. The strong smells of a working wharf washed over him as he strolled along, enjoying the massive nau in for the winter, and the smaller fishing boats tied up to unload their early morning catch. Finding a stone wall on which to perch, he turned his face to the sun and closed his eyes, saying a silent prayer for his meal.

“Good afternoon, Father.”

The voice startled him, and he turned towards it. Standing before him was the man from the chapel, the man who had been attending mass. He had been coming so long now that the priest had stopped wondering about him. And yet here he was, standing in front of him at the wharf, far from St. Anthony’s. His dark eyes were squinting against the bright sun, but he was standing very still and straight, hands clasped in front of him.

“Oh! Good afternoon. I’m sorry, I didn’t see you there.” He tried a smile, but he was feeling very uneasy.

“Father, I believe you knew a friend of mine. Sebastian de Gois?”

The priest thought a moment, “I’m sorry, no. Was he a member of our parish?”

The man stared at the Jesuit. “At the end. He died in your chapel. In your arms, I believe.”

“That was his name? I didn’t know it. Well, now we can properly mark his grave. I’m sorry about your friend.”

At the mention of a grave, the man’s intensity increased. “He was buried? Where?”

“Yes, of course. Ah! I assume you thought he would have been put in a pauper’s grave, since we didn’t know who he was? Luckily he had some coin with him, and he seemed to be a gentleman soldier from the little we spoke. I arranged for him to be buried at the Jeronimo Monastery…”

He trailed off as the man spun around and stalked up the street, away from the wharf. The Jesuit still felt very uneasy, and decided he would return to his cell and vouchsafe his belongings. Sebastian de Gois.
What trouble have you wrought upon me, Mestre de Gois?

When he returned to his small room, he was relieved to see that it was undisturbed. Feeling foolish at his increasing anxiety, he gathered the leather pouch containing the vellum scroll, the translation given to him by Doctor Balsemao, and the small handwritten journal that he had found in the dead man’s pocket, and hurried with them into the chapel. Constantly looking over his shoulder for the man at the wharf, he scuttled to and fro in the small building, trying to find a hiding place both large enough to contain all his secrets, and small enough to be inconspicuous.

Stopping in the middle of the sanctuary, he closed his eyes and breathed a silent prayer. Taking a deep breath, he opened his eyes, and looked around him, pushing aside his fear. There. The small side altar. He knew from having conducted services there that, behind that small altar, on the old stone floor, was a loose paving stone. He had never tried to move or repair it. Hurrying over, he got down on his knees and pushed on rear edge of the rock. It wobbled just a bit. Unable to get any purchase with his shaking fingers, the Jesuit leapt up and rushed into the sacristy. There he grabbed the knife with which he trimmed the candle wicks.