The Order (Gabriel Allon #20) - Daniel Silva Page 0,43

and were at that moment headed toward St. Anne’s Gate. Under no circumstances, shouted the cardinal, were they to be allowed to leave the territory of Vatican City.

If the truth be told, Metzler was in no mood to tangle with the likes of Donati and his friend from Israel, whom Metzler had seen in action on more than one occasion. But because the throne of St. Peter was empty, he had no choice but to obey a direct order from the camerlengo.

Rising, he hurried through the barracks to the lobby, where a duty officer sat behind a half-moon desk, his eyes on a bank of video monitors. In one, Metzler saw Donati marching toward St. Anne’s Gate, a priest at his side.

“Good God,” Metzler murmured.

The priest was Allon.

Through the open door of the barracks, Metzler saw a young halberdier standing in the Via Sant’Anna, hands clasped behind his back. He shouted at the sentry to block the gate, but it was too late. Donati and Allon strode across the invisible border in a black blur and were gone.

Metzler hastened after them. They were now walking swiftly through the crowds of tourists along the Via di Porta Angelica. Metzler called Donati’s name. The archbishop stopped and turned. Allon kept walking.

Donati’s smile was disarming. “What is it, Colonel Metzler?”

“Cardinal Albanese believes you just entered the Secret Archives without authorization.”

“And how would I have done that? The Archives are closed today.”

“The cardinal believes you had help from your friend.”

“Father Benedetti?”

“I saw him in the monitor, Excellency. I know who that was.”

“You were mistaken, Colonel Metzler. And so was Cardinal Albanese. Now if you will excuse me, I’m late for an appointment.”

Donati turned without another word and set off toward St. Peter’s Square. Metzler addressed his back.

“Your Vatican pass is no longer valid, Excellency. From now on, you stop at the Permissions Desk like everyone else.”

Donati raised a hand in affirmation and kept walking. Metzler returned to his office and immediately rang Albanese.

The camerlengo was molto agitato.

GABRIEL WAS WAITING FOR DONATI near the end of the Colonnade. Together they returned to the Jesuit Curia. Upstairs in his rooms, Donati drew the envelope from his briefcase and pried open the flap. Inside, between two protective sheets of clear film, was a single page of handwritten text. The left edge of the page was clean and straight, but the right was tattered and frayed. The characters were Roman. The language was Latin.

Donati’s hands shook as he read it.

EVANGELIUM SECUNDUM PILATI …

The Gospel according to Pontius Pilate.

PART TWO

ECCE HOMO

24

JESUIT CURIA, ROME

EVEN HIS FIRST NAME WAS lost to the mists of time—the name his mother and father had called him the day he was presented to the gods and a golden amulet, a bulla, was hung round his tiny neck to ward off evil spirits. Later in life he would have answered to his cognomen, the third name of a Roman citizen, a hereditary label used to distinguish one branch of a family from the others. His had three syllables, not two, and sounded nothing like the version that would follow him down through the ages and into infamy.

The year of his birth is not known, nor the place. One school of thought held that he was from Roman-ruled Spain—perhaps Tarragona on the Catalonian coast or Seville, where even today, near the Plaza de Arguelles, there stands an elaborate Andalusian palace known as the Casa de Pilatos. Another theory, prevalent in the Middle Ages, imagined he was the illegitimate child of a German king called Tyrus and a concubine named Pila. As the legend goes, Pila did not know the name of the man who impregnated her, so she combined her father’s name with her own and called the boy Pilatus.

His most likely place of birth, however, was Rome. His ancestors were probably Samnites, a warlike tribe who inhabited the craggy hills south of the city. His second name, Pontius, suggested he was a descendant of the Pontii, a clan that produced several important Roman military figures. His cognomen, Pilatus, meant “skilled with a javelin.” It was possible Pontius Pilate, through his military exploits, earned the name himself. The more plausible explanation is that he was the son of a knight and a member of the equestrian order, the second tier of Roman nobility, falling just beneath the senatorial class.

If so, he would have enjoyed a comfortable Roman upbringing. The family home would have had an atrium, a colonnaded garden, running water, and a private bath. A second