“What about the tribunal?”
“If that’s what you want to call it,” said Father Jordan. “It was very brief. Pilate barely looked at him. In fact, he claimed not to be able to recall Jesus’ physical appearance. He merely jotted a note for his files and waved his hand, and the soldiers got on with it. Many other good Jews were executed that day. As far as Pilate was concerned, it was business as usual.”
“Was there a crowd present?”
“Heavens, no.”
“What was the charge against Jesus?”
“The only crime punishable by crucifixion.”
“Insurrection.”
“Of course.”
“Where did the incident take place?”
“The Royal Portico of the Temple.”
“And the arrest?”
The bells of Assisi tolled two o’clock before Father Jordan could answer. “I’ve told you too much already. Besides, you and your family have a plane to catch.” He rose and extended his hand. “God bless you, Mr. Allon. And safe travels.”
There were footfalls outside in the corridor. A moment later Chiara and the children appeared in the doorway, accompanied by the Benedictine monk.
“Perfect timing,” said Father Jordan. “Don Simon will show you out.”
The monk saw them into the street and then quickly closed the gate. Gabriel stood there for a moment afterward, his handhovering over the intercom, until Irene finally tugged at his sleeve and looked up at him with the face of his mother.
“What’s wrong, Abba? Why are you crying?”
“I was thinking about something sad, that’s all.”
“What?”
You, thought Gabriel.I was thinking about you.
He lifted the child into his arms and carried her through the Porta San Pietro to the parking garage where he had left the car. After buckling Raphael’s seat belt, he searched the undercarriage more carefully than usual before finally climbing behind the wheel.
“Try starting the engine,” said Chiara. “It helps.”
Gabriel’s hand shook as he pressed the button.
“Maybe I should drive.”
“I’m fine.”
“Are you sure about that?”
He reversed out of the space and followed the ramp to the surface. The only road out of the city took them past the Porta San Pietro. Framed by the archway, like a figure in a Bellini, was a white-haired priest, an old leather satchel in his hand.
Gabriel slammed on the brakes and climbed out. Father Jordan offered him the bag as though it contained a bomb. “Be careful, Mr. Allon. Everything is at stake.”
Gabriel embraced the old priest and hurried back to the car. Chiara opened the satchel as they sped down the slopes of Monte Subasio. Inside was the last copy of the Gospel of Pilate.
“Can you read it?” he asked.
“I have a master’s degree in the history of the Roman Empire. I think I can handle a few lines of Latin.”
