“Who is this?”
“My name is Quinn McCauley, from Yale University. I’m a paleontologist. You spoke with my assistant the other day.”
“McCauley?”
“Yes, Father.”
“Dr. Quinn McCauley? Oh yes. You had some research questions apparently.”
“Yes. I’ve just arrived in Rome with my colleague, Dr. Katrina Alpert from Cambridge. Would you be available to meet this afternoon? I recognize it’s short notice, but…”
“It depends. Can you give me a better sense of the agenda?”
“I’d rather do that in person. Let’s just say that you were recommended based on your research and your willingness to think out of the box.”
“Out of the box, Dr. McCauley? Or between the lines in the Bible?”
“I don’t know how to answer that, Father Eccleston. All I know is that you might be very important to talk to. I think you’ll agree, it won’t be a waste of time.”
Katrina re-examined a photograph of the priest on her cellphone. Now in the main Vatican library they looked for the same man, age fifty-five, who in the picture had a full beard and wore large tortoise-shell glasses.
After fifteen minutes, their anxiety abated. A larger-than-life character wearing the requisite garb, bounded into the Vatican Apostolic Library. He was, without a doubt, Father Jareth Eccleston, a man with an unmistakable quality and incredible vigor. The headshot on the Internet couldn’t have suggested his height. At six-foot-six he could very well stand closer to God than any other priest in the Vatican.
McCauley covered half the ground toward the priest. Katrina was right behind him.
“Father Eccleston?”
“Please, Jareth works fine.” His voice was as deep as his smile was wide. The priest’s Welsh accent glided from a high-to-low pitch, like a lilting folk song.
“Jareth it is. Quinn McCauley. So pleased to meet you. And this is Dr. Alpert.”
“Katrina,” she quickly corrected.
“Well, let me show you around a bit. This library is a feast for the eyes.”
Neither McCauley nor Alpert had been to the Vatican Apostolic Library before. It was a researcher’s mistake. Father Eccleston explained how the library was one of the oldest in all Europe, and for centuries, the largest. The shelves covered religion, secular history, politics, philosophy and science, and a collection of Bibles from around the world. “The library houses an immense collection of Greek and Latin classics plus compendia of maps and military history. Some were claimed in bloody conquests and found their way to the Vatican. Speaking of conquests, we also have Henry VIII’s love letters to Anne Boleyn. You know where that led!” He gave a hearty laugh. “Imagine such material being read under candlelight by, well, whomever might be into such research.”
As they continued their walk through the venerable structure, the priest described the depth of the Renaissance collection and the thousands of volumes that chronicled the history of the Roman Catholic Church and Rome itself.
“Contrary to popular thought, it’s an issue-neutral facility. You’ll find books about the challenges the Church faced through the Protestant Reformation, the Catholic Counter-Reformation, and how the Vatican sided with or side-stepped dictators and despots. The resources go well beyond Catholicism. The Vatican Library is steeped in essays, letters, books and rare research covering Judaism, Islam, Hinduism and Buddhism, and likely every religion under the sun.
“This, of course, started as the pope’s library, dating back to the middle of the fifteenth century, established by Nicholas V. His goal was to create a public library for the court of Rome as well as clergy and laymen. It would be a work of art itself, rivaling St. Peter’s for attention,” the priest added. “Nicholas and his successors collected beautiful hand-written books and the earliest of print editions, displaying them in frescoed suites, lit by huge windows. But to protect them from theft, the church brought in some of its extra iron chains and locks, anchoring the most valuable editions to wooden benches. In my estimation, a much better use of the hardware than in its dreadful prisons in the bowels of the Vatican.”
McCauley and Alpert enjoyed Fr. Eccleston’s engaging delivery.
“By the mid-1400s,” Eccleston continued, “there were more than 3,500 volumes notated in the handwritten catalogue. Amazing for its time, even more incredible through the ages. The library soon became an obligatory destination for writers, theologians, philosophers and even scientists who visited Rome. I kind of cover both sides of the equation.”
“Is that difficult?” Katrina wondered.
“Not for me. Oh, sometimes I can bend a bishop’s nose out of joint. When that happens I hear about it. So far, nothing so great that it’s required serious thumping. Not like what my brethren experienced years ago.”
Eccleston stopped and thought. “Is this going to be one of those times, doctors?”
“Father Eccleston,” McCauley said aware that he was speaking completely formally, “is there a place we can talk quietly?”
“I’ve half expected you to ask. Certainly. But first we have to get you admitted.”
Eccleston took a few steps forward and spoke in Italian to the nearest librarian. Alpert followed as best she could. McCauley picked up a few words. It was all polite. The librarian made a call. Soon, a nun came through the door, marching toward them with the look of someone who was going to require serious convincing.
“Sister Cynthia Fernando,” Eccleston said softly. “We have a number of nicknames for her.”
“I can only imagine,” Katrina said noting the nun’s bulldog expression.
“Padre,” Sister Cynthia began. The rest was only understood by expression, at first troubled, then more so. Eccleston steered the gatekeeper away from them. From a few feet away they heard their formal names. “Dr. McCauley, Yale. Dr. Alpert, Cambridge.”
McCauley felt that Sister Cynthia would have made a great Inquisition jailor. It seems that’s how she saw her job.
Eccleston didn’t stop pitching. She listened. The worst thing he could do was pause and allow her time to curtly dismiss them.
The nun frowned, nodded no, and turned to McCauley and Alpert as if to evaluate their worthiness. They automatically straightened and looked as professional as possible. A suit would have helped McCauley, but he was still in an acceptable dark sports jacket. Fortunately, Katrina was wearing the proper length dress and covered up appropriately.
Another minute of selling and the nun finally nodded yes. Father Eccleston motioned for his guests to join him.
Sister Cynthia did not step aside. They had to walk around her.
“Gracia,” McCauley said.
“Gracia, Sorella,” Alpert added.
“Just walk quietly,” Fr. Eccleston recommended.
“What did you tell her?” Alpert asked.
“Later.”
The priest led them through the library to an open table. When he was certain they were out of earshot of anyone else, Eccleston answered Katrina’s question.
“I told Sister Cynthia that my esteemed colleagues had come all this way to compare signatures on some letters they brought from their respective colleges’ collections. Very old, very rare, but if authentic, would add significantly to history of seventeenth century science.” He smiled. “You did bring some letters or did I explain things incorrectly?”
“Father Eccleston,” McCauley observed, “you told Sister Cynthia a bold-faced lie.”
“Oh dear me. Did I misstate anything? I will surely have to apologize at some later date.”
With that, they moved on. The priest took them past the public shelves, into a corridor where they settled into an empty long wooden table.