Lamb of God

By W.J. Traversy

Lamb of God was inspired by a news story about a man claiming to be Jesus Christ. Even though the Second Coming is prophesized several times in the Bible, and billions of people fervently believe it will happen, no one believed him. His name became yet another added to the long list of people who have struggled with that (presumed) delusion. Dozens are alive today, and like all the hopefuls through two millennia, have failed to convince anyone.
This book is a story about how the Second Coming might be believed and succeed on a scale for the modern world. It starts in 1968, a year that started out badly for student activist Joe Dioletta. His mind was barely hanging on after losing his great love, Fiorella, his soulmate since childhood. Then he watched from the prison of his broken body when Bobby Kennedy and Martin Luther King were murdered, and the dream of his generation to save the world by making love not war was reduced to childish naivety. "And they say the devil doesn't exist", his mother would always say, when she really meant he does, and Joe would always have rolled his eyes dismissively in response. But now he believed every word, that all of it must have been Satan's cruel hand at work. Joe wanted only to stop living and rejoin Fiorella, but instead something happened that would make anyone believe there truly is an ancient, mystical battle of good vs. evil playing out behind the scenes, and that a higher power had reached out to Joe.

It happened at the Vatican Archives. Joe had been rescued from his isolated misery by a job as a researcher there. He was together with a powerful Cardinal and another priest examining artifacts when they made the stunning realization that Joe was holding the preserved DNA of Jesus Christ in his hands. He shot to his feet looking skyward with a transfixed gaze and then fell to the floor, having fainted as the implications hit him hard. They were furious with Joe's explanation when he awoke, but after finding reassurances in scripture, and despite their complete aversion to the notion, they concluded that Joe had experienced a vision from God, and they'd been chosen to save mankind in a way that no one had ever imagined. When they realized that it is not for mortal men to decide how the Second Coming will occur, that it is for God alone, they made a secret pact to use that DNA to recreate the Saviour, to clone Jesus Christ. They also knew that if they really had been chosen, it meant that God could foresee that within their lifetime mankind would finally succumb to its virulent moral decay, and it was time to send His Son, once again.

It was a time when even the word clone was new, and now they had to somehow perfect the science, secretly raise Him to manhood, then take control of the Vatican in order to have the only person people might believe introduce Him to the world; the Pope. When their unwitting benefactor, the Pope, dies, they almost lose the battle before it starts. His successor furiously vows to see them thrown in jail then mysteriously dies that very night, only thirty-one days into his Papacy. It was a troubling reminder that the battle was real, and dangerous, and they would have to prevail over many unforeseen threats or fail humanity.
As the story moves from the recent past and present into the near future, it crescendos with plot twists and turns while the planet endures its darkest days. In a crumbling world economy, a vengeful psychopath of unlimited wealth is corrupting one bankrupt country after another, and finally conspires with powerful government allies to murder the reborn Savior before He can restore peace and prosperity to everyone.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Apr 12, 2022
• ISBN: 9781667823706

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© 2020 Walter Traversy

All Rights Reserved

ISBN 978-1-66782-369-0

eBook ISBN 978-1-66782-370-6

Contents

Forward

Acknowledgments

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

For my beautiful family. I love you all.

And to all who helped me to tell this story,

thank you, from the bottom of my heart.

I could never have achieved this

without your friendship and input.

Forward

Lamb of God was inspired by a news story about a man claiming to be Jesus Christ. Even though the Second Coming is prophesized several times in the Bible, and billions of people fervently believe it will happen, no one believed him. His name became yet another added to the long list of people who have struggled with that (presumed) delusion. Dozens are alive today, and like all hopefuls through two millennia, have failed to convince anyone.

My first thought was that no one will ever believe anybody making that claim unless the Pope held a news conference to say he had video proof that they’d cloned Christ, and here He is. My second thought was that there must be a book in there. Not a religious one, but an entertaining story about how the Second Coming might be believed and succeed on a scale for the modern world.

While researching, I discovered that in 1969 Pope Paul VI confirmed publicly that the main altar in St. Peter’s Basilica was indeed built over the tomb of St. Peter. This, despite offering no evidence, and despite zero evidence found during an historic excavation under the altar in the 1950s. That 1969 event gave me a perfect starting place in more ways than one. In fact, I enjoyed using numerous real events to steer the story from that recent past into the near future.

Most importantly the late 1960s was the season of the Peace movement, of the rally cry to Make Love Not War. A whole generation marched together to Save the World. They were witness to surreal violence and corruption, and earnestly believed the world needed saving. What a perfect backdrop for a passionate, former student activist, to emerge heroically out of the Vatican Archives with a plan to do far more than shout slogans. Lamb of Godinto a multi-generational family saga, where love, unrequited love, devotion, greed, treachery, lust, and corruption, are all at play in an epic tale of good vs evil.

Among Christians, there are a number of beliefs about what the Second Coming will bring. This work joins those who believe that it will deliver world peace, with universal love, respect, equality, inclusiveness, and tolerance, for all humankind, everywhere.

I hope you enjoy the story.

Acknowledgments

I owe thanks and a debt of gratitude to all the people who made time in their busy lives to help me with this project. To my beautiful father, the late Raymond Traversy, who read my first draft and yet still found enough love in his heart to declare me a genius. I offered no argument. Thanks Dad.

To my editor, Michael Garrett, who urged me to make the story shorter. Thank you for your gentle and professional touch, Michael.

To Cecile Suchal, who’s ruthlessly honest eye literally saved this work. Thank you so, so much for the incredible time and effort, Cecile.

To my children, Lauren and Adam, to my brother, Greg, and to my dear friends, Jeannie Martin, Jane Wilson, and Julie Ross. Many thanks. I acted on every suggestion.

Finally, a special thank you to, Beth Nightingale, who spent many hours critiquing the almost final draft, including a read-aloud round. That was truly invaluable, Beth. Thank you so much.

Part One

Chapter One

Joe Dioletta looked out again and again at the ominous thunder clouds and the pouring rain. He felt almost defeated before the day had begun. Does it always rain like this in Rome? Why would the sky unleash this kind of BS on the day I start my new job? This can’t be a good omen.

He waited as long as he could for a break in the weather because he desperately did not want to show up with his new hand-made grey suit and his new black shoes all in a wet mess. His mother is a seamstress and had worked hard to help him look good for today, even winning the fight to trim his long dark hair, at least back to shoulder length. Now, he absolutely had to leave, and a nervous tension was eating away at the positive mood he’d been trying so hard to keep. As he stepped outside his worries took a back seat to avoiding puddles while trying to keep his tall frame under his umbrella. The cars and scooters made it extra nerve-wracking as they somehow managed to zip by each other in both directions, honking and swerving for their share of the narrow road, not giving the slightest thought to the huge sprays they sent flying through the air. This was nothing like the quiet village where he grew up.

On weekday mornings the twisted side streets from his new apartment to the Vatican were usually too chaotic for newcomers to process, and Joe was a typical newcomer. He’d arrived in Rome only the week before. To him it was still an anxiety-inducing mess of smells, horns, and danger, and yet no one in the coffee bars along the way seemed to take any notice. They calmly enjoyed each other’s company as they smoked cigarettes and chatted while sipping delicious smelling brews from tiny cups.

We have to get a little rain sometime, Joe thought, trying to convince himself that it wasn’t actually some kind of supernatural sign. That argument completely disintegrated when he arrived at St. Peter’s Square and it was utterly empty, but for him. The wet weather had kept everyone else away. It would have kept him away, too, if he didn’t have to be there. Now the threatening sky and surreal emptiness felt like some kind of message. Of course, he muttered, What else? St. Peter’s Square is always jammed with tourists except on the day I start working here, and his brow again furrowed with worry.

Hurrying across the wet square, he glanced up at the stone saints standing on semi-circles of enormous columns. For a moment the possibility that they were all watching him seemed disturbingly real. The overpowering enormity of the structure gave him instant perspective on his tiny place in the court of all things holy. He felt powerless and exposed, as though the saints were looking right through him and judging his dark secret, and a little more of his positive mood was replaced by a sense of anxious uncertainty. Why did I even take this job? What have I gotten myself into? Ever since accepting it he’d worried that he should have told the Pope the whole truth and asked for forgiveness.

Joe is among the few people who can call the Pope a family friend, so close a friend that he’d been kind enough to rescue Joe with a job offer, a kind hand to pull him out of his maze of despair. Joe agonized over accepting, knowing he could never admit what really happened, to anyone. To have even one person know would destroy him. Now it felt like a sin to have accepted the Holy Father’s help, as though he’d conned the Pope with a lie. Today’s bad weather felt like a higher power telling him that they knew, and they weren’t happy.

He paused on the steps outside the Basilica to clear his head, holding his umbrella tight in a small battle with the wind and rain. This is so stupid! I’m letting my nerves and guilty feelings get to me. Those stone saints aren’t watching anyone. Of course God forgives me, it was an accident. And of course there’s no one here, it’s raining. Desperate to regain a positive attitude, he reminded himself that this might all be happening to lead him to the destiny that the Pope had foretold for him so many years before.

Joe remembered every detail of the day he met the Pope, because it was also the moment he first noticed her. He was only five years old, and people called him little Giuseppe then. Fiorella was standing across from him on the bride’s side of the wedding party. There were plenty of distractions in the beautifully adorned church, with stained glass and incredible statues complimenting the exquisitely detailed white marble altar, but he could only see her, and she magically defined anyone’s notion of an adorable flower girl. Her eyes were even darker than her long curls, and her hair even shinier than the silk ribbons running through it. His stare was so focused that the entire church, filled with people, faded away until only she remained. He completely forgot that he had to bring the rings forward. The priest finally called to him with a friendly laugh, which was met by gentle laughter from the guests. They enjoyed Joe’s sudden decision to return to the bride’s side and stand beside Fiorella even more. Then, when the priest told the groom he could kiss the bride, Joe’s exploding heart met no resistance from his mind, and he kissed Fiorella as lovingly as the moment demanded. Howls of laughter were still ringing in Joe’s ears, and he could still feel his red cheeks burning hot as he stood there in the cool rain reminiscing.

Later, the reception was held in the church hall where the worn carpets and tired walls looked completely renewed by dozens of well-placed wedding decorations. Tables were set with white place settings and made special with white flowers paired with even whiter silk ribbons. There were white lights everywhere and the buffet table was an absolute excess of food and drink that a small army of neighbors had spent most of the day putting together. People were lining up to speak with the priest.

Joe’s mother, who often warned Joe that his behavior would have to improve if he ever wanted to become a priest one day, wanted her little son to go and apologize for his earlier disruption. She re-tucked in his shirt and slicked back his hair to make him presentable, and then made him join the queue. Little Giuseppe’s words might not have been so bold had he known that one day the priest would become Pope.

In an instant he knew just what he had to do. Ignoring the growing crowd of eager onlookers, he looked up at the priest with his brave brown eyes fighting through tears of fear, and said, I am Giuseppe Dioletta, Father, and I’m sorry I cannot be a priest like you, because now I am married. There was an eruption of laughter and an embarrassed little Giuseppe became frozen in place, staring at the floor. He would always remember how polished but worn the poor priest’s black shoes looked. A perfect match to his own. He felt a kind wave of sympathy for the priest flow through him. Joe could still see the future pope smiling with delight as he crouched to give tiny Joe a hug and assure him that he was still an eligible bachelor.

They became fast friends in that moment, and then the priest stood and uttered the words that would forever define Joe’s future. He turned to Joe’s mother and said, There can be no doubt that God has special plans for your fine son, Mrs. Dioletta. If ever he needs my help, I’ll do whatever I can. That’s a promise.

She accepted that prophecy as the gospel truth and forever after would remind Joe of it often. The priest speaks the word of God, Giuseppe. You’ve been chosen to do something special. It’s a great honor that you must respect. Joe grew up believing it with every molecule of his existence, the way small children accept everything their parents tell them. In fact, he believed he’d been living the priest’s prophecy right up until last year. He was sure of it, and then it was all taken from him in one horrible moment.

As it happened, Joe and Fiorella might as well have been married that day, because they fell deeply in love and were rarely apart afterward. They would see the priest from time to time through the years and would always share a laugh about the day they met. Joe excelled at school and when he won a scholarship to study at Oxford, they moved to England together, becoming engaged just before graduation. While they were there the priest ascended to lead the Church as Pope, and Joe became even more certain that the prophecy was true and was directing his life.

Being at Oxford in the mid-1960s was to be a part of the student protest movement in the UK, where Malcolm X preached for racial equality and students marched for civil rights and against the war in Vietnam. Their entire generation literally believed it was their destiny to save the world, by teaching everyone to make love not war. It was a mantra you couldn’t escape. Make Love Not War was on tie-dyed t-shirts, magazines, newspapers, and newscasts, everywhere, all the time. The hippie peace movement was more empowering to Joe’s generation that even World War II had been to the generation before. Joe couldn’t imagine a calling more special than world peace and was sure it was what the priest’s prophecy had been about.

A year ago, they were returning to Italy after graduating when the drive home changed everything. A stopover trip in Switzerland to do a little skiing with friends ended on a happy note and they were all excited to be heading out to start their adult lives. As Joe and Fiorella tore off down the mountain road home their long hair tangled together until she closed her window. Joe lit up a joint he’d pre-rolled for the trip and the acrid smell of hashish filled their jam-packed, midnight blue Austin 1800. Eric Clapton’s seminal rock riff from Sunshine of your Love was turned up as loud as it could go, and Joe sped along like a professional race car driver. They didn’t get far before he drifted off.

Only two things survived the crash. An antique mirror Fiorella loved had miraculously remained unbroken, unlike Joe, who nevertheless had also pulled through, somehow. Now his scarred reflection was a constant reminder of the sadness of losing his beautiful fiancé, whose memory often shimmered in pools of his tears, her waist-length hair a glorious tangle of curls and cloth ribbons that always matched her headband and flowing skirts. His best friend who’s screams had awakened him just as the trees were crashing through the windshield, now awaken him every night, countless times, even with medication.

It had crushed him completely and shattered his faith in the priest’s prophecy. That it was entirely his own fault was an unbearable secret that he knew he would have to keep, or risk being vilified and rejected. He wished he could tell someone, so they might understand how deep his depression and regret, but knew he could never admit to it. He was filled with self-loathing and avoided the sight of his own reflection because his scars were such a sickening reminder. All he could do was rearrange his long hair to hide them. There wasn’t enough hair.

A month ago, Joe was still convalescing at his mother’s home when the early morning hours twice brought unexpected, good news. Joe’s tortured mind would find some daily relief when he sat at his desk in his childhood bedroom, reading the morning paper. Delicious smells would drift in from the kitchen where his mother always had a pot of her amazing sauce simmering while she made fresh bread for the day. She had lovingly hung Fiorella’s mirror above the desk, and it comforted him to touch its beautiful frame and talk to her through it. It was his last connection to her, and though he’d come to hate mirrors, he loved that one. He’d just discovered that the lead story was good news for a change when the phone started to ring. He ignored it, too engrossed in the wonderful news that Robert F. Kennedy had declared his candidacy for President of the United States. He smoothed the paper out to read it again. Even in Italy, it gave people a sense of hope. The future looked brighter.

He heard his mother rush across the terra cotta tiles in the kitchen to answer the call, and he felt badly for ignoring it. He should have saved her the trouble, knowing how hard she was working to make his life easier. World War II had made her a young widow and that made her love for her son considerably more intense. All his life she’d told him how proud he made her, and how much like his father he was, tall and strong, and so kind. Joe had towered over his mother since he turned twelve and he’d always felt as much her protector as she was his. He knew it was killing her to see him so depressed and hopeless, but he just couldn’t shake it.

His mother was overcome by the good news from the caller and burst into tears after hanging up. It was the job offer from their old family friend, the Pope. She was having trouble getting her emotions under control as she told Joe about it, finally asking if it wasn’t the best possible news. He smiled and said, It’s great news, Ma. How nice of him to keep his promise to help me.

After Fiorella died, Joe had decided the Pope’s prophecy was just a bunch of empty words spoken in polite conversation. Now the surprise call from such an important friend rekindled the possibility that the prophecy might yet come true. He wondered if God knew how sorry he was for the accident and had forgiven him. It hadn’t been malicious, after all. Perhaps destiny really was at work when he and the Pope first met. His mind was still fragile, but he felt the smallest ray of hope shining through his stupor of depression.

Joe climbed the steps he’d been lingering on, turning to look up at the stone saints on their high perches once more, this time hoping they actually might hear him. He prayed for their help, closed his eyes, and readied his mind to let his future reveal what it would. Taking a deep breath, he walked past the Basilica’s huge wooden doors with a renewed sense of purpose, and as he did, the rain finally stopped, and the sun burst through the clouds.

The extreme change in lighting made it hard to focus his eyes for a moment. All he could see were brilliant rays of sunlight streaming in through windows high above like spotlights from heaven, illuminating the entire cavernous room. He could make out the red light glowing over the confessional, meaning they were hearing confessions this morning, but he quickly looked away. His sin could never be confessed, at least not to a man, besides, he’d already confessed directly to God. As his eyes adjusted, the silhouettes of dozens of people started to appear, and Joe laughed a little inside. So, this is where they all are, he thought. Everyone else had been smart enough to come in out of the rain. He felt the clouds of his fears instantly dissipate as he closed his umbrella and brushed the rain from his sleeves.

Joe’s instructions were to wait inside the Basilica for someone to come and take him to meet Cardinal Casarsa, the Pope’s right-hand man who was to be his new boss. As he lingered, he was drawn to Michelangelo’s Pieta and was nearly brought to tears by the unbearably sympathetic way the artist had softened a block of stone into the sad scene of Mary, gently holding her murdered son’s limp body. Joe turned when he felt a warm hand on his shoulder and was surprised to see a Cardinal standing there, introducing himself as the man he was there to meet.

Cardinal Casarsa was a heavy-set man in his mid to late fifties who was probably happy that he had to wear a Cardinal’s robes, which did a good job of hiding how much of him was underneath. He was shorter than Joe with thinning grey hair and smiling eyes gave him the look of a kindly grandfather, which relieved Joe. He hoped the Cardinal’s personality would match.

Well, you seem to be the only tourist without a camera, joked the priest with a small laugh. You must be the famous Giuseppe Dioletta.

Joe was feeling nervous and awkward, but managed to blurt out, Your Eminence, pleasure to meet you. Please, my friends call me Joe.

Joe it is then, Cardinal Casarsa replied with a warm smile. Come, I’ll show you to your office and we’ll have a chat about your new job.

The click of their heels echoed across the enormous room as they walked, and the Cardinal handed Joe an envelope that included keys and a security card with his photograph on it. Joe laughed when he realized the Cardinal already knew who he was looking for and didn’t just somehow pick him out of the crowd.

Oh, is there a picture of you in there? The Cardinal made it clear he was trying to sound like he was covering up his small deception. That instantly made Joe feel comfortable, and he sensed he was going to enjoy working for this man.

As they walked, Cardinal Casarsa made friendly small talk and Joe learned his own office was inside the Vatican Archives. It turned out to be a forlorn and lonely looking space, an old wooden desk and a small file cabinet it’s only decorations, but he didn’t mind. He’d be spending most of his time out there examining artifacts anyway.

Let’s sit down for a moment, Joe. Casarsa motioned for Joe to sit behind the desk while he pulled up a tiny wooden chair. Now, I want you to know you can turn to me or my secretary anytime for anything. The Holy Father has made it clear that you should have whatever you need. I understand you two you have been friends for some time?

Yeah, for most of my life, actually. I sure hope I can come through with whatever he’s looking for, but I have to admit I have no idea what I’m supposed to find down here. No idea at all.

And that’s why I’m glad he gave the job to you and not me, teased the priest. To be honest, none of us know. Even he doesn’t know if you’ll find anything down here, but it’s a good place to start. Every Pope wants a showpiece accomplishment that will symbolize his legacy. Your simple task is to come up with ideas for one for this Holy Father.

Simple task? Man, I hope I don’t let him down. He may be putting way too much faith in me. Joe leaned back on his wooden chair, ran his hands through his hair, forgetting the scars he was revealing. The Cardinal unsuccessfully attempted to avoid looking, but his eyes soon told of his sympathy for this nice young man whose recent tragedy was well known to him.

Yes, he’s pretty big on faith, the Cardinal said with a laugh as he forced himself to look away. "Hey, if he didn’t think you were qualified for the task, he never would have made the offer. There aren’t a lot of people around who speak and read ancient Aramaic, Hebrew, and Latin, and that’s a basic job requirement. So, here’s what to do. First, spend a few weeks looking around. Get to know how other Popes have marked their time in office, then think of ways this one can outdo them. Make some notes, get a big chart or two going, and I’ll come back each week and spend a bit of time to talk through your ideas.

Thank you, Cardinal, I’ll do my best. That much I can promise.

Before long the job became Joe’s refuge, his escape from troubling memories and from depressing headlines about war and racial violence. Pleasant weeks turned into happy months. Joe and the Cardinal became such good friends that he even invited Joe to call him Sal. Unfortunately, one of the world’s darkest days delivered some news Joe couldn’t escape. Civil rights crusader Martin Luther King Jr. had been gunned down by an assassin.

Student activists like Joe had loved King and everything he stood for. They believed if he could force the deeply troubled USA to put racism behind them, the whole world could change. Now it felt hopeless. It felt like their dream of saving the world was just that, a dream, one that would never come true. Once again Joe found refuge in the archives, where he could lose himself among ancient masterpieces and curiosities.

While digging into dark corners, he was fascinated to learn that Hebrew men around the time of Christ had their own seals, a kind of family crest that would identify them. These were carved onto cylinders that could be rolled in clay, or wax, or on papyrus, to act like a signature, or even a cattle brand. Many were quite elaborate. They became a bit of an obsession and Joe spent all his time cataloging all he could find. He thought that perhaps the Church could design a special seal to commemorate this papacy that would draw on some of the important family seals from the time of Christ. His office walls started to slowly fill with ideas, notes, and sketches.

He also spent a long time examining the contents of boxes from a historic excavation that had gone on in the 1950s under Saint Peter’s Main Altar in the Basilica. The Church had always believed the altar was built over Saint Peter’s tomb, but had no proof. People had long ago started to question the story, passed down for a couple of thousand years. Unfortunately, despite bringing in famous historians and archaeologists, the effort didn’t turn up anything solid. While they found a lot of interesting artifacts, none were in any way provable as Saint Peter’s remains.

Joe carefully examined photos of curious graffiti on the walls of the tomb. He cleaned and repacked each bone shard and piece of broken pottery. One well preserved metal box with a decorated lid interested him. It contained two small ceramic bottles and although the ancient pottery was broken and cracked, when reassembled he could see they bore the same simple family seal as the lid. Joe suspected they were from the same time period as the other seals he’d been cataloging. He carefully cataloged this one, too, before sending the boxes back into storage.

About six months after starting, Joe was called to Sal’s office for a special meeting. He worried because it was out of the ordinary for their meetings to take place anywhere but in his own office, discussing the ever-expanding charts and drawings now covering every inch of his walls. He sat waiting and worrying long enough to have re-examined the photographs on the walls of every Pope since the advent of photography, five times, when the young priest who was the Cardinal’s assistant finally looked up and said, His Eminence will see you now, Mr. Dioletta.

Joe walked into the Cardinal’s spacious office, elegantly decorated with large oil paintings, tapestries, dark woods, leather chairs, and deep burgundy velvet curtains. Sal was grinning from ear to ear, waving an envelope back and forth. He motioned for Joe to take a seat. Guess what’s in here, he teased.

Oh boy, said Joe, his heart in his throat, my walking papers?

What? Ha! Of course not, Joe. We’re delighted with what you’ve been doing.

Joe was relieved to hear those words. Oh, thanks, Sal, but it’s so unusual to be called to your office for a meeting that I wondered if I should worry.

Cardinal Casarsa continued, Not your walking papers, Joe, your flying papers.

I don’t understand, replied Joe.

His Holiness would like you to represent the Church and travel to Wales, in search of the Holy Grail itself, the Cardinal exclaimed, clearly tongue in cheek. You’ve heard of the Nanteos Cup, haven’t you?

Sure. The wooden chalice that people believe was the cup Jesus and the Apostles used at The Last Supper. Has it turned up somewhere? Does the Church believe it’s the real thing?

No and no, but do you know the history of the cup? Joseph of Arimathea, the rich man who owned the tomb they placed Jesus in, is said to have brought it with him to England when he left to bring Christianity to the UK.

Oh, I’ve read all about it, Sal. I studied at Oxford, as you know. Some brave monks rescued the cup and saved it and themselves from Thomas Cromwell during the dissolution of the monasteries. They were taken in by the family at the Nanteos mansion in Wales. Whatever became of it?

Well, we’ve recently learned that the last surviving member of that family is just now putting the mansion up for sale.

Isn’t that interesting? They still live there? And do they still have the cup?

They say they do.

And my job?

Joe, this thing belongs in the Vatican Library. Real or not, it’s a famous piece of Christian history, and we want you to go there and get it. The Holy Father worries that this might be our last chance to make sure it can be cared for and preserved.

Get it? How?

We’re sending you with a blank check. Maybe they’re selling because they need cash and might find a lot of money hard to pass up. They’ve agreed to have you stay with them for a couple of days to discuss our interest in the cup.

Chapter Two

Joe boarded the plane as though it was a completely familiar routine, concealing his child-like excitement. His default move on a bus or train was to hide his scars behind whatever he was reading, so he held his book in front of his face and prayed that everyone would walk right by. To his dismay, a man who’d apparently doused himself in the heavy smell of cigarettes took the seat beside him. Soon after they were airborne, Joe started to get the sensation he was being watched and looked over to find an old friend smiling at him.

Joe Dioletta! It’s so good to see you. We think of you all the time, Joe. You look good. Like you’re back on your feet, His friend had a warm and sympathetic tone that comforted Joe instantly.

Mario! This is fantastic. Of all the random things to happen, we get seated together. What are the odds? Why are you going back to England? Haven’t had enough of that place? Joe asked with a laugh, delighted to see a familiar face.

Mario was short and heavy set, with longish, curly black hair. He laughed and flipped what he was reading to the cover page and pointed with a nicotine-stained finger. The Developmental Capacity of Nuclei taken from Intestinal Epithelium Cells of Feeding Tadpoles, by J.B. Gurdon. I’m moving back, Joe. I’m going to be working directly under him at Oxford. This is his paper about his breakthrough experiment that everyone talks about. It’s very controversial.

Holy! Congratulations, man. That’s fantastic! replied Joe. That guy’s a genius.

More like unholy, actually. My mother says that she’ll be saying Novenas for me full-time, that he’s trying to play God and the church will excommunicate me. He fumbled in his jacket pocket for a moment and pulled out a pack of cigarettes, asking, Care for a smoke? Joe declined and admitted to feeling queasy around them. Mario kindly put them away, which Joe appreciated, and he settled in to enjoy the chat.

What about you, Joe? Why are you heading there?

Ha-ha. Speaking of holy, this is probably going to make you laugh. The Pope sent me on behalf of the Church. I’m working at the Vatican now, in the Archives. I’m meeting with people who have something we want.

Mario blessed himself quickly, adding a humorously guilty looking expression that made Joe laugh out loud. Not to worry, Mario. I’m way more liberal than your average Vatican guy. I think Gurdon’s work is amazing. Of course, you’re probably going to hell, but let’s face it, that was going to happen anyway. I remember your parties! Joe laughed as he teased his friend about some of the less than holy things they were up to during their student years.

The rest of the flight was a steady stream of conversation; first about scientific research, and when that ran its course, politics, war, and then promises to keep in touch as they deplaned and departed.

The drive through Wales was also pleasant, but long. When the imposing mansion finally came into view, rising dramatically from well-tended grounds, it completed the picture Joe had imagined perfectly. Dust billowed up behind them and pebbles crunched under tires as they made their way toward the house. Joe thought about how insufferable a trip it must have been in the days of horse-drawn carriages. He made arrangements to be picked up in two days time, after breakfast.

He rang the bell and waited. The massive oak door that had stood strong for all those years looked like it could last ten thousand more. After more than a minute passed and he’d started to wonder if anyone could possibly have heard the bell in such a huge place, the door opened. Joe was greeted by a distinguished looking gentleman with thinning grey hair, who peered down his nose to get a better view through his glasses. He introduced himself as the husband of the woman Joe was there to meet, and escorted Joe to a sitting room to wait. She made her entrance a moment later and was clearly taken aback.

Oh my, she said. This is a surprise. I had expected them to send someone much older. I had no idea nice young men still took an interest in the church.

Joe blushed and jumped to his feet. I’ll take that as a compliment, he said, extending his hand. She was an elegant looking woman, tall with silver and chocolate brown hair, swept up in an attractive bun. Based on her attire, she’d obviously just come in from the stables and had two Corgi dogs following closely. Her British accent completed an illusion of being some distant member of the Royal Family. Suddenly he had to suppress a smile when he found himself wondering if a handshake was the appropriate greeting and imagined himself performing a more elaborate bow.

You’ve had a long trip, Mr. Dioletta, you must want to refresh yourself. Dear, show our guest to his room, and if you would be so kind as to come back down in say, forty-five minutes, Mr. Dioletta, that will give us a couple of hours to explore the grounds and house before dinner.

After a pleasant afternoon, they invited Joe to freshen up and join them in the dining room at six-thirty. He’d been nervous about seeming too pushy and hadn’t managed to bring up the purpose of his trip with his hosts yet, not wanting to be returning empty-handed because they’d found him too rude. Actually, Joe proved to be an interesting dinner guest who charmed his hosts with stories about his life and how he got his job at the Vatican. They enjoyed fine red wine and a wonderfully succulent beef Wellington, as they sat together at one end of a ridiculously long table, under the glow of magnificent chandeliers.

There was a small staff of two, who carried out the service with all the formality the room seemed to demand. Joe told his host’s how badly he wanted to repay the Pope’s kindness by succeeding with his mission in Wales, and just like that the conversation turned to the cup and its long history with the family.

Mr. Dioletta, I do hate to disappoint you, but I told your Cardinal Casarsa that I was in no way even able to consider selling the cup, to anyone. A defensive stare added emphasis to the way she sat erect with her hands folded over her teacup and her lips unintentionally pursed ever so slightly.

Oh! Then please forgive me, said a visibly surprised Joe. He somehow left out that small detail when he asked me to make the trip. After collecting his thoughts for a moment, he continued, Maybe he thought I’d be able to persuade you. He’s convinced that only the Vatican will make sure that it’s carefully preserved forever.

Yes, Mr. Dioletta, and perhaps it will eventually, but unfortunately, I’m bound by a family pact that we were sworn to by my ancestors, to the monks who brought it here. I’m honor bound to personally protect it while I’m alive. To do otherwise would be to condemn myself. I’m sorry, but I’m certainly not going to take that chance!

Thank you for making that so clear. I wouldn’t even begin to contemplate trying to persuade you to risk that, replied Joe.

His hostess forced a lukewarm smile to thank him and end his pursuit of the cup. Joe struggled to return it, but felt