The Quest: A Novel

was made of a substance like glass, but not glass. A stone, perhaps alabaster, and it let in the sunlight and the church was bathed in a glow that made my head swim and hurt my eyes. I had never seen such a thing and I am sure there is not such a thing, even in Rome.” He laid his head back in the corner and closed his eyes.
    Purcell, Mercado, and Vivian watched him closely in the dim light. Mercado asked, “Are we doing the right thing? Or are we killing him?”
    Purcell said, “I think he’s accepted death, so we need to accept it.”
    Vivian concurred and added, “He wants the world to know his story… and his fate.”
    Purcell agreed, “That’s what we do best. So I think we need to wake him.”
    Mercado hesitated, then crouched and shook the priest gently.
    The priest opened his eyes slowly. He said, “I can see you all now. This woman is very beautiful. She should not be traveling like this.”
    Purcell informed him, “Women do whatever men do these days, Father.” But no one translated.
    The priest took a deep breath. “So, now we make an end of it. And listen closely.” He pressed his eyes with his shaky hands. “So we walked through the strange light of the church and into an adjoining building. A bigger place it seemed, but perhaps it was the darkness that made it look so. It was a building of many columns. We walked in the darkness, and the soldiers had removed their helmets because they were in a church, but they did not sling their rifles on their shoulders, but held them ready. Though it made no difference. In a second, every column produced a robed monk. It was over in a second or two. Everyone was clubbed to the ground and not a shot was fired. There was very little noise…”
    Father Armano seemed to be failing, but he was determined to go on and spoke quickly. “I wore on my helmet a large cross which was the army regulation. So perhaps this is what saved me. The others were clubbed again and taken away. I remember seeing this, although I was stunned by the blow. But you see, I had left my helmet on, as it was not required of me to remove a head covering in church. You understand? So the steel absorbed the blow and God saved me. The monks dragged me away and put me in a cell.”
    The priest suddenly became rigid, and his face turned pale. His gums bit into his bearded lip, then the pain passed and he exhaled, drew a long breath, and said something in Latin that Mercado recognized as the Lord’s Prayer. He finished the prayer, then he picked up his story in Italian. “A monk’s cell… not a prison… they cared for me… two or three of the Coptic monks spoke some Italian… so I said to them… I said, ‘I have come to see the sacred relic…’ and one who spoke Italian answered, ‘If you have come to see it, you will see it.’ But he also said, ‘Those who see it may never speak of it.’ I agreed to this, though I did not understand that I had sealed my fate…”
    Purcell waited for Vivian’s translation, then commented, “I think he understood that.”
    And in fact, Father Armano added, “But perhaps I did understand… though when I saw the sacred relic, it did not matter…”
    Mercado asked Father Armano, almost casually, “What was it, Father? What did they show you?”
    The priest stayed silent for some time, then said, “So… so they brought me to it, and I saw it… and it was the thing that was written in the letter… and I fell to my knees and prayed, and the monks prayed with me… and the pain of the blow to my head vanished… and my soul was at peace.”
    Father Armano smiled and closed his eyes, as though reliving the peace that had filled him then. His body shook, then he lay motionless.
    Mercado felt for a heartbeat and Purcell felt for a pulse. They looked at each other, and Mercado said, “Dead.”
    They waited for more light so they could bury him.
    Vivian remained at the priest’s side, holding his hand, which was still warm. She felt something—his fingers tightening the grip on her hand. “Henry.”
    “Yes?”
    “He’s… squeezing my hand.”
    “Rigor mortis. Let go, Vivian.”
    She tried to pull her hand out of the priest’s grip, but he held tightly. She pressed her cheek on his forehead which was still burning with fever. “Henry… he’s alive.”
    “No—”
    The priest suddenly opened his eyes and stared up at the sunlight coming through the open ceiling.
    Purcell quickly gave him water and they knelt beside him. Mercado