Jonathan Rabb - The Book of Q

“Yes,” answered Pearse

“And the first unannounced.”

Again he nodded. Clearly, it would take more than a few memorized lines to quell the lingering doubts. However much he wanted to guard against anything that might expose him, Pearse knew he had to engage the monk, gain his trust. More than that, he recognized the opportunity that now presented itself. Here was a modern-day Manichaean, a man with insights into a world of which Pearse had only begun to scrape the surface. He had to make the most of it.

“None of them was allowed inside this chamber, though,” Nikotheos added, the suspicion growing in his eyes. “None of them even knew of it. And yet, here you are. Without anyone to show you the way.”

A telling admission, thought Pearse. The Manichaeans on the mountain kept their Vault hidden, even from their own, despite the fact that they had no idea what it held. Nikotheos’s reaction to the pit had said as much.

“It’s what I was sent to find,” Pearse answered. “The Vault of the Paraclete.” He expected the added detail to put the monk’s mind at ease.

Instead, Nikotheos’s eyes went wide. It was several moments before he responded. “How did you know that?” he asked, his tone far more pointed than only moments before.

“Know what?”

“The name. How did you know the name?”

The response puzzled Pearse. “I don’t understand.”

“The Vault of the Paraclete. Only those of us of Photinus know that name. It’s been ours to protect for a thousand years. Yet, somehow you know it.” Nikotheos tightened his grip on the revolver. “You find the Vault. You know its name. And you come from the outside. How is that possible?”

Pearse stood motionless. He slowly realized what he had unearthed-the final line of defense between parchment and pursuer. None but the monks knew of the chamber’s name; and they knew nothing of what they protected. The ideal security system, one set up in such a way that should anyone ever have come across a reference to Athos or Photinus in his search for the parchment, his reward upon reaching the mountain would have been blank stares from the monks. “Parchment? We know of no parchment.” Were that person to have mentioned the Vault, he would no doubt have met a far more unpleasant fate. Even now, Pearse couldn’t be sure just how reluctant Nikotheos was to use the revolver. He imagined that the one thing holding the monk back was the fact that his captor was inside the Vault and not asking to be shown to it.

Pearse had little choice but to up the stakes. “Then there must be another source.”

Again the monk’s eyes narrowed, the suggestion even more perplexing. “Another-That’s impossible. No one else knows of it. No one else could have known of it. Not even the summus princeps .”

Not yet willing to dive into whatever the “ summus princeps ” might be, Pearse knew he needed to make the most of the monk’s confusion. As casually as he could, he asked, “Do you know why you keep these torches lit all the time?”

The question had the desired effect. “Why we … What are you asking me? What other source?”

“Do you know why?” Pearse repeated.

Again, the monk hesitated. “We keep the name hidden, the torches lit.”

“And yet you’ve never asked why?”

“Why?” His frustration mounted. “There was no reason to ask. We protect the eternal flame for Mani. What other source?”

Pearse let his eyes wander to the walls and tapestries. “It was so I could find this place,” he said, his tone now almost inviting. He turned and looked directly at Nikotheos. “You’ve kept the torches lit so that the ‘Perfect Light’ could lead me here.”

“What?” His reply was barely audible. “The ‘Perfect Light’?”

“The other source.” Pearse paused. He had to see how much the monk knew of the scroll. “Do you understand now?”

Nikotheos stared back, confusion slowly giving way to a moment of profound realization. “The scroll?” he asked in whispered disbelief. “You have the scroll? ” The significance of what he had said only now struck him. “And it brought you here.” His eyes grew wider still. “The ‘Hagia Hodoporia’ is here.” Pearse watched as the monk’s gaze tracked the discovery from pit to box to glass to leather-bound book. His puzzlement returned. “That … can’t be. The ‘Hodoporia,’ it’s supposed to be-”

“Much older,” Pearse cut in. “Yes. I know.”

Hagia Hodoporia , he thought. Holy Journey . The treasure hidden away for almost a millennium. In two words, Nikotheos had confirmed not only his familiarity with the hidden knowledge of the “Perfect Light”-something evidently not restricted to the Roman Manichaeans alone-but also his complete trust in Pearse; who other than someone of the highest order could know of such things? The former explained away all the “impossibilities”; the latter gave Pearse the freedom to delve deeper.

“So you have it?” the monk prodded. “The written text of the ‘Perfect Light’?” A moment later, he was looking around the Vault in childlike wonder, as if he’d forgotten Pearse entirely. “The ‘Hodoporia’ was here all along. And we never knew it.”

“Yes,” said Pearse.

The monk’s eyes caught on the tapestry of Mani, a giddiness now in his voice. “You know, you grow up hearing the stories, all about how the scroll was hidden away from our enemies. Hidden so well that it became lost even to us. Or stolen. Or destroyed. The myth of the ‘Perfect Light.’ Mani’s will, I suppose.” He turned back to Pearse. “And you believe one day a man will find it, unearth its mysteries, and discover the path to the ‘Hagia Hodoporia.’ The stuff of adolescent fantasies.” His smile broadened. “And yet, here you are. That one man.” A genuine admiration animated his face. “Tell me, when did you find it? The scroll, I mean.”

Pearse waited. “A few weeks ago. We needed time to decipher it.”

“Naturally.” The monk suddenly realized he was still holding the gun. He quickly placed it in the pocket of his robes. “You understand the precaution.” He now sat back on the edge of the pulpit. “Had we been told, we could have helped-”

“It was best this way.”

“Of course.” He nodded, a newfound deference in his tone, even in the way he held himself. Pearse realized that if nothing else, a Manichaean knew his place in the hierarchy. Nikotheos truly believed that the man who had discovered the lost scroll-and who now had access to the “Hodoporia”-had come from the very highest echelons of the church; he thus warranted a considerable respect. Pearse had no intention of convincing him otherwise. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he recalled John J.’s simple words of advice to a newly ordained priest, a young man uncomfortable with the pressures of the confessional: Plant the seeds, Ian. Give them the room to unburden themselves. And listen . Strange how appropriate they seemed in so incongruous a setting.

“The summus princeps made the decision,” said Pearse, testing the waters.

“Of course.” The monk nodded. “He’s always been fascinated with the ‘Hodoporia.’”

He , thought Pearse. A who, not a what. An invitation for more probing. “You can understand why he wanted to handle everything as discreetly as possible. Especially,” he added, not sure what he hoped to hear in response, “given the events of the last few days.”

“The cardinal has always been a cautious man,” answered the monk.

Pearse tried to mask the astonishment in his eyes. The cardinal . Had Nikotheos just confirmed von Neurath’s involvement? Pearse had no choice but to press further. “Nothing,” he continued, “not even the ‘Hodoporia,’ can be allowed to get in the way of the election.”