‘It’s all part of the program. Did they give you a briefing at your convent?’
‘Not really Fath-Giovanni,’ Allegra said, still struggling with the familiarity. ‘In fact, Mother Superior seemed a little cross about it.’
Giovanni laughed. ‘Sometimes change does not come easily,’ he said, ‘but I think there is method in John Paul I’s idea.’ A dark cloud shadowed Giovanni’s thoughts at the memory of the man he had so admired and respected. ‘We will have to write a brief report for the Vatican at the end of each semester,’ he continued. ‘Our impressions, how we relate to other students, their reactions, that kind of thing, but I dare say if we can open up the dusty corridors of the Curia to what is happening in the real world that will be no bad thing.’
Allegra started to relax, warming to the company of a man who seemed to know so much about everything, yet seemed so down to earth.
‘Have the others arrived?’ she asked.
‘Oh. You haven’t heard? Father O’Connell’s diocese is so desperately short of priests his Bishop won a last minute reprieve and I’m not sure who the other Sister was, but she resigned from her Order last week, so it’s just you and me, I’m afraid. If there’s anything I can do to help you settle in, let me know. I’m in Room 415 down the corridor,’ he said. ‘If you feel like getting out of here at the end of the week, there’s a great little pizzeria that’s within walking distance. On a Friday night they do a terrific wood-fired pizza and wonderful pasta especially for impoverished students like us.’ Giovanni bade her buonanotte and Allegra felt a little less alone.
That had been at the start of the academic year. As the year went on, although she was still troubled by some of the faculty teaching at Ca’ Granda, Allegra was more at ease with her new environment. With each passing week, she found herself looking forward to Friday night discussions with Giovanni over pasta.
Allegra hurried back from the little bookshop she’d found in one of the backstreets of Milano, a second-hand copy of John Allegro’s The Dead Sea Scrolls Revealed in her bag. She checked her watch and realised she had just enough time to get to Professor Rosselli’s introductory class on the Dead Sea Scrolls without actually running. Still wary of the traffic, she checked it twice and crossed the Corso di Porta Romana that led back to the university. Allegra slipped into the lecture theatre, just as the lecture was beginning.
‘ Buongiorno. Mi chiamo Professor Antonio Rosselli.’ A small man in his fifties with a weathered and lined face, the Professor wore a coat that was frayed and round black-rimmed glasses that were perched halfway down his large Roman nose. His white hair flopped in disarray, covering his large ears, and his dark eyebrows were bushy and as untidy as his hair.
‘Not one to spend much time with a comb,’ Allegra thought, intrigued by his mischievous smile.
‘Over the next few weeks we will be looking at the Dead Sea Scrolls,’ he began. ‘Over two thousand years ago, a mysterious sect of the Essenes lived in an isolated settlement known as Qumran on the northern shores of the Dead Sea. They were not, as the Vatican and others have suggested, a reclusive, pacifist and celibate bunch of monks, but rather one of the most advanced and enlightened communities of ancient civilisation. Their lifestyle followed that which Pythagoras had ordained for the ancient Greeks. Dressed in Pythagorean white, they rose before dawn to pray, and like Pythagoras, the Essenes were very advanced astronomers, mathematicians and well versed in philosophy.’ Professor Rosselli paused to tamp his pipe. ‘In this balanced society where women were considered the equal of men, work would cease at midday and they would bathe naked together in a ritual cleansing in one of several deep pools they had built in Qumran, before eating a simple communal meal’, he continued. The Professor’s enthusiasm for the ancient community was obvious. ‘The Essenes meticulously recorded every aspect of their lifestyle in an extensive library of scrolls. Part of their philosophy was to make their knowledge accessible to future generations. When the Roman armies advanced on Jerusalem in 68 AD the Essenes hid their scrolls in the caves above Qumran.’ Professor Rosselli surveyed his class over the top of his glasses. ‘But ever since the discovery of the Dead Sea Scrolls, there have been rumours of one particular scroll that reveals far more than the lifestyle of the mysterious sect of first-century Judaism,’ he said, his voice holding more than a hint of conspiracy. ‘Does anyone know what scroll that might be?’ Professor Rosselli asked.
Giovanni felt a sudden chill. ‘The Omega Scroll,’ he answered.
‘Yes, the Omega Scroll,’ Professor Rosselli said, his eyes gleaming. ‘The modern day equivalent of the Mummy’s Curse. As soon as people find it, mysterious things happen. It is also said to contain a revelation for humanity, a terrifying warning for civilisation. A secret so great that many seem to have been silenced in their search for this elusive archaelogical treasure.’
A revelation for humanity. Giovanni thought back to what he had witnessed in the Pope’s apartments, and he wondered whether there was any connection between Professor Rosselli and Professor Fiorini who had provided the brief for Pope John Paul I. Giovanni had tried to track the retired Fiorini down without success, and he resolved to speak to Professor Rosselli after the lecture.
‘So how did these scrolls come to light?’ Professor Rosselli, one of the world’s experts on the Middle East had a rare ability to transport his students back through time and space, and Allegra was not the only one to see the heat distorting the hills surrounding the Dead Sea. It was 1947.
The morning sun beat mercilessly on the Bedouin tents clustered in camps on either side of the long dusty road that since before the time of Christ had led from Jerusalem, east towards Jericho and down to where the River Jordan flowed into the Dead Sea. Centuries before, Christian pilgrims had been astounded at the sheer lifelessness of the water, and had given the sea its name. About 30 kilometres from Jerusalem the road forked. Straight ahead the river formed the border with Jordan, and the road led on to Amman. To the right, the road turned and led south towards Qumran where the cliffs stood like sentinels, watching over the ruins. The orange flintstone was caught by the sun, and the heat haze rose from the shimmering surface of the sea. On the other side lay Jordan and the wadis and canyons of the biblical mountains of Moab and Edom.
The young Muhammad Ahmad el-Hamed, nicknamed edh-Dhib or Muhammad the Wolf, cursed his errant goat and scrambled up the side of a cliff. By the time he reached the dusty ledge where he had last spotted his charge, the nimble-footed goat was nowhere to be seen. Edh-Dhib rubbed the back of his hand across his sweaty forehead and wiped it on his dust-encrusted robe. It was more than his life was worth to lose a sizeable chunk of his family’s livelihood and he stayed very still, listening and scanning the desolate cliffs for any sign of life. Then he saw it. From the ground below it would have looked like an indentation in the rock, but up here edh-Dhib could see it was the entrance to a cave.
‘So, my little goat, that’s where you’ve got to. We shall have to get you to come out,’ he murmured to himself. Edh-Dhib picked up a small stone and silently picked his way over the boulders. Stopping, he took careful aim. Even without a slingshot edh-Dhib was deadly accurate, and the stone flew straight through the centre of the entrance. Instead of startling a goat, he heard the sound of shattering pottery echoing out of the cave. Edh-Dhib moved forward, clawing his way up the cliff until he reached the narrow entrance. Squeezing himself through he dropped to the floor to find that he was in a narrow, high-ceilinged cave that was no more than 20 metres at its widest and about 65 metres long. Finding that he could stand up edh-Dibh looked around. There was no goat and no footprints in the fine dust, and no other sign that anyone had been around for a very long time. In fact, it had been nearly two thousand years since anyone had set foot inside the cave. In the gloom at the far end, nestled in the sands of centuries, stood several earthenware jars. The silence was eerie. Like the Egyptian farmer who had found manuscripts in a jar at Nag Hammadi two years before, edh-Dhib wondered what spirits of the past lurked within the cool dark cave and he backed slowly out towards the entrance. Two hours later he finally retrieved the goat.