The Tower

  ‘ “Ye shall earn your bread by the sweat of your brow,” ’ he continued, quoting from the Bible. ‘That was their punishment. “Ye shall work the land.” It was in Neolithic times that man became a sheep-herder and a farmer, developed a sense of property, forged metal to craft agricultural tools . . . But not only tools; weapons, as well. Especially weapons.’

  Father Boni raised his eyebrows. ‘Quite a simplistic hypothesis, and very banal all told. Hinted at long ago by the ancient poets of the pagan world in the myths of the age of gold and the age of iron.’

  ‘You say so? Then tell me, did man ever have the choice of not evolving, of not becoming conscious of good and evil? Wasn’t evolution an unavoidable process, provoked by a series of uncontrollable events like climatic and environmental changes and, in the final analysis, by man’s genetic predisposition as well? And if this is the case, Father, if man had no choice, what is original sin? What was the human race so guilty of? Why was man forced to bear the horror of violence, the awareness of decay and death?’

  ‘The author of Genesis was simply trying to explain the mystery of why evil is present in the world. It’s an allegory that can’t be interpreted literally.’

  Philip smiled ironically. ‘A similar affirmation would have sent you to the stake just a couple of centuries ago. You surprise me, Father Boni. But furthermore,’ he continued, ‘if evolution is not the fruit of chance but rather of the will of a divine providence who dictated the rules of the universe and the development of every form of life, well, then the problem gets even thornier, wouldn’t you say?’

  Father Boni broke in. ‘You’re running away with yourself, Garrett. In the first place, the Darwinian theory of evolution has not yet been definitively accepted, or demonstrated, in particular as far as the human race is concerned. And nor have theories about the expansion of the universe. The mind of God is a labyrinthine mystery, Garrett, and our presumption to fathom it is ridiculous,’ the priest concluded. ‘But tell me, what did your father hope to find in the desert to support theories that, do pardon me, are debatable at the very least?’

  ‘I don’t know. I swear to you I do not know. But perhaps . . . there was a document . . . something that my father had discovered. Perhaps it led him first here to Rome and then into the heart of the desert. Can’t you see that only Father Antonelli has the answer?’

  Father Boni did not let on how excited he felt. Could this ‘document’ be the bilingual text mentioned in Father Antonelli’s notes, so hurriedly stashed in the safe? What Desmond Garrett had found in the desert had provided him with the key to reading ‘The Book of Amon’!

  He merely nodded. ‘I’ll try to help you, Garrett. I’ll ask to have Father Antonelli meet you, but on one condition. If you find out something about this text that your father discovered, you’ll tell me about it.’

  ‘I will,’ said Philip. ‘But I’m curious to know why this text interests you so much. You’re not an epigraphist, you’re a mathematician.’

  ‘That’s right,’ replied Father Boni. ‘You see, I suspect that that text may contain a mathematical formula of revolutionary importance, given that we’re dealing with such a remote era, in which it is supposed that mathematical knowledge was quite elementary.’

  Philip was puzzled and felt tempted to push matters further, but he was certain that no more answers would be forthcoming. Boni was the type of man who gave nothing without getting something in return.

  Philip said goodbye and went towards the door, but as he gripped the handle he turned around. ‘There is more,’ he said. ‘It seems that something inexplicable has been happening in the south-eastern quadrant of the Sahara. That’s where my father disappeared ten years ago.’ He left.

  As he walked down the long, dim corridor, he crossed paths with a young priest heading in the opposite direction with a hurried step. He instinctively turned around and saw that the other man had turned as well. They exchanged glances for a moment, but neither spoke and each continued in his own direction.

  The young priest paused a moment in front of Father Boni’s door, knocked lightly and entered.

  ‘Come in, Hogan,’ said Father Boni. ‘Any news?’

  ‘Yes,’ replied Father Hogan. ‘He’s in a rest home, outside a small town between Lazio and Abruzzo.’

  ‘Very good!’ exclaimed Father Boni. ‘And how is he?’

  Father Hogan darkened. ‘He’s dying,’ he said.

  Father Boni sprang to his feet. ‘Then we must leave immediately. I absolutely have to speak with him, before it is too late.’

  Shortly afterwards a black car with Vatican number plates left through the San Damaso Gate, entered Spina del Borgo and disappeared down Lungotevere.

  PHILIP DINED THAT EVENING at Giorgio Liverani’s house but his conversation was less than brilliant. He couldn’t get the meeting with Father Boni out of his mind. The priest’s explanations were strange and ambiguous and the story of the mathematical formula was not really credible. What was he truly looking for?

  Philip went back to his room rather early and, although he felt quite tired, he picked up the book of his father’s that Colonel Jobert had given him.

  The first step had not been difficult, but unless he managed to meet Father Antonelli, it led nowhere. He wondered whether the other clues followed on from the first. If that were the case, he had found himself on another road leading nowhere. He leafed idly through the pages. It seemed that the dedication to him on the title page was written with the same pen and ink as the subsequent messages, but he saw no meaning in it. Perhaps his father had prepared the book years before as a gift for him and then had never given it to him.

  Fatigue won out as he struggled to give meaning to those words and he fell asleep, still fully dressed, on the sofa on which he had stretched out to read.

  3

  THE CAR WAS JUST beginning to wend its way up the curving Apennine road when the first drops of rain fell. The tarmac instantly turned shiny and black and the trees lining the road were soon bending over in the gusting wind. Father Hogan switched on the windscreen wipers and slowed down, but Father Boni, who had remained silent at his side until then, protested. ‘No, don’t. We can’t afford to lose any time at all.’

  Hogan stepped on the accelerator again and the big black car raced through the night, illuminated now and then by flashes of lightning from the storm.

  The tarmac ended a few kilometres later and the road became a kind of mule track, furrowed by streams of muddy water descending from the scarp above.

  Father Boni turned on the reading light and consulted a topographical map. ‘Turn left at the next crossing,’ he said. ‘We’re almost there.’

  Father Hogan did as he was told and, a few minutes later, started down a narrow path paved with rough cobblestones which ended in a courtyard. There they found a building dimly lit by a couple of street lamps. They got out under the driving rain, pulling their coats close, crossed the small, illuminated square and entered the building through a glass door.

  A very elderly man sat behind a desk reading the sports pages. He lifted his head and pushed his glasses up to his brow, considering the newcomers with considerable surprise. ‘Who are you?’ he asked, looking them over from head to toe.

  Father Boni showed his Vatican identification. ‘We’re from the Secretary of State,’ he said. ‘Our visit is strictly confidential. We must see Father Antonelli with the utmost urgency.’

  ‘Father Antonelli?’ repeated the man. ‘But . . . he’s very ill. I don’t know whether . . .’

  Father Boni stared him down with a look that brooked no objection. ‘We have to see him now. Understand? Immediately.’

  ‘Just a moment,’ said the man. ‘I must notify the doctor on duty.’

  He picked up the telephone and a very sleepy-looking doctor soon appeared, quite elderly himself.

  ‘Father Antonelli is in a critical condition,’ he said. ‘I don’t know if he’ll be capable of understanding or answering you. Is thi
s really necessary?’

  ‘It’s a matter of life and death,’ replied Father Boni. ‘Life and death, understand? We’ve been sent by the Secretary of State and I’ve been authorized to assume all responsibility.’

  The doctor shrugged. Such a commanding, self-assured individual must certainly have had a very good reason for coming all that way in such awful weather.

  ‘As you wish,’ he said resignedly, and led them down a flight of stairs and along a long corridor that was badly lit by a couple of lamps. He stopped in front of a glass door.

  ‘He’s in here,’ said the doctor. ‘Please, be as quick as you can. He’s on the brink of death. He has suffered atrocious pain all day.’

  ‘Of course,’ agreed Father Boni opening the door, beyond which the faint glow of a night light could be seen. They entered.

  Father Antonelli lay on his deathbed, pale and sweat-drenched, his eyes closed. The room was in semi-darkness but, as soon as he became accustomed to that dim light, Father Hogan could make out the austere furnishings, the crucifix at the head of the bed, a breviary lying on the bedside table, along with a rosary, a glass of water and several medicine bottles.

  Father Boni approached and sat on the bed without even taking off his raincoat. He leaned down and spoke into the sick man’s ear. ‘I’m Father Boni, Father Ernesto Boni. I must talk to you . . . I need your help.’

  Father Hogan leaned back against the wall and watched.

  The man slowly opened his eyes and Father Boni continued in a low voice. ‘Father Antonelli, we know how much you are suffering and I would never have dared to disturb you at such a time were it not out of desperate necessity. Father Antonelli . . . can you understand what I’m saying?’

  The man nodded with great difficulty.

  ‘Listen to me, please. Ten years ago you were in charge of the cryptographic holdings of the Vatican Library, and you received a man named Desmond Garrett.’

  The old man gave a violent start, his chest heaving with a painful intake of breath. He nodded his head again with a moan.

  ‘I read . . . your diary, in the safe.’

  The old man clenched his teeth and turned his head towards Father Boni, astonishment in his eyes.

  ‘I found it . . . by chance, you must believe me,’ continued Father Boni. ‘I was looking for some documents and I found it by chance. Why? Why did you show Desmond Garrett the Stone of the Constellations and “The Book of Amon”?’

  The old priest seemed on the verge of drifting into unconsciousness but Father Boni gripped his shoulder and shook him. ‘Why, Father Antonelli? Why? I must know!’

  Father Hogan felt paralysed, stunned at that brutal violation of the old man’s pain. Father Boni seemed not even to notice him and continued to torment the dying man with pitiless insistence. Father Antonelli finally turned towards his interrogator with an immense effort and Father Boni lowered his ear to the old man’s mouth so as not to miss a word.

  ‘Garrett could read “The Book of Amon”.’

  Father Boni shook his head in disbelief. ‘That’s impossible!’

  ‘You’re wrong,’ rasped the old man. ‘Garrett had found a bilingual fragment . . .’

  ‘But viewing of that text has always been absolutely banned! How could you lift such a prohibition and let an outsider see that text? Why did you do it?’

  Two tears fell from Father Antonelli’s nearly lifeless eyes and his voice sounded like a wail. ‘The desire . . . desire for knowledge . . . ungodly presumption . . . I too wanted to read that forbidden book, to penetrate the meaning buried within it. I agreed to show him the Stone of the Constellations and “The Book of Amon” if he would teach me the key for deciphering them. Absolve me, Father, I beg you . . . Absolve me!’

  ‘What did you learn? Did Garrett manage to read all of the text or just a part of it?’

  The old man’s fleshless cheeks were lined with tears. His eyes were staring and haunted by pain. His voice became hollow, hoarse, full of uncontrolled terror. ‘A Bible . . . a different Bible, the story of a fierce, alienated race, maddened by their own arrogance and intelligence . . . They had reached the oasis of Amon from an ancient ceremonial site buried in the southern desert . . . from the city . . . the city of . . .’

  ‘What city?’ demanded Father Boni relentlessly.

  ‘The city of . . . Tubalcain. In the name of God, absolve me.’

  His hand reached out towards the man who was questioning him, who might have lifted his own in the sign of the cross, but they never met. His last strength abandoned him and the old man collapsed onto his pillow.

  Father Boni got even closer. ‘The city of Tubalcain . . . what does that mean? What is it? The translation, where is the translation? Answer me. Where is it, in the name of God!’

  Father Hogan moved away from the wall then and confronted him. ‘Can’t you see he’s dead?’ he said in a steady voice. ‘Leave him. There’s nothing more he can tell you.’

  He drew close to the bed and closed the dead man’s eyes with a light gesture, nearly a caress. He raised his hand in the sign of the cross. ‘Ego te absolvo,’ he murmured with shining eyes and a trembling voice, ‘a peccatis tuis, in nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sancti et ab omni vinculo excommunicationis et interdicti . . .’

  THEY 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 th
at 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 can be traced to a very precise period of prehistory, between the end of the Palaeolithic era and the beginning of the Neolithic?’ asked Boni again.

  ‘Well, yes, I’ve heard of such hypotheses, but they really don’t change much. We use the word “technology” in talking about a Neolithic or even a late Bronze Age city, but the means they had at their disposal were no more than what an Amazon – or Central African or South-East Asian – tribe has access to today.’

  ‘Of course. But you can’t deny that we have a radio source – suspended at 500,000 kilometres above the earth in a geostationary orbit – emitting signals that seem to match up with the message from the heavens described in Father Antonelli’s diary, taken from a translation of those ancient documents. Coincidence, you say? I’m afraid I can’t believe that. And if we want to get at the real meaning of that message, we absolutely have to find the way to read the entire text. What we have learned up to now is extremely alarming, I would say. We certainly can’t afford to sit back and ignore the rest.’