The Sixth Station(107)
“The ancestors of many in this region.”
I was beginning to get the picture.
“The blood may have been carried in something that Mary Magdalene brought here with her. Something that was placed into the hands of the Cathars.”
“You aren’t saying it was a skull with blood in it, are you?”
“Doubtful. The Baphomet might have not been a vial, but merely an imprint on a cloth—as in the tale of the Veil of Veronica.”
“You believe this?”
“Yes. I do. But who knows where—or if—it exists any longer. There are so many copies around the world, it’s become a joke.”
“But the real one—if it exists—is in the Vatican—right? I mean the most important relic in all of Christendom?”
“Have you not listened to anything I’ve said? It was the job of the Cathars and then the Templars to keep the thing out of the hands of the popes, who would do nothing but evil with it.”
“Your people may have cloned with this blood!” I snapped. “That’s not evil?”
“It was meant for good. Nothing from the actual DNA of Jesus, you must understand, could ever do evil. Trust me, I know evil.”
“I’m sure you do.”
“The Vatican claims to have a copy, which they bring out once a year. But it’s a fake—or at least not the image of God.”
“The Vatican has a fake? You sound crazy, if you don’t mind my saying so.”
Apparently not minding at all, he continued with the education of a Russo.
“What’s interesting is that—and listen to this carefully—the Baphomet is only mentioned once in relation to the Templars, and it was right here—at the Templars’ tribunal in Carcassonne. The Church held an Inquisition against the Templars to try to coerce the Templars to reveal what they’d done with the head.
“But even under unimaginable torture they refused.”
“And what happened to them? I mean, they’d been Crusaders and had killed for the pope and his mission.”
“Every one of them was convicted of worshipping the ‘devil head’ and was burned alive.”
“Like the Cathars.”
“But not all at once—and probably because they’d converted.”
It was all coming together in my own Baphomet. I needed to find this “head,” this cloth, this cup with a head on it, or whatever it was.
If I could find it, and the source blood, it would either prove the legitimacy of Demiel or unmask the hoax. Either way, I couldn’t lose—if I lived long enough to find the story and tell it, that is.
“I’m sorry. You must be very hungry after I touted the cuisine here,” Pantera interjected, allowing me time to let it all sink in. “May I order for you?”
“Sure, be my guest. No fleshy horns though.” Back to reality.
He ordered Carpe à la bière, a local fish, for himself, and Coq à la bière, a kind of chicken stew, for me. Since the food arrived literally in five minutes, I assumed that he must have told them beforehand what we would be having. For once I kept my mouth shut.
It all smelled delicious, but I just wasn’t hungry. Was it my reporter’s zeal for a story, or was it the company that was making me forgo my previous ravenous appetite?
“You’re not eating,” Pantera said, gesturing with his fork at my steaming bowl.
“Oh, no, really I am.” With that he put down his fork and picked mine up. He fed me a tiny bit of chicken, which I ate with deliberate slowness. Neither one of us misinterpreted what was going on.
“Sweet—no?”
“You sure you’re not trying to impress a girl?”
“Positive.”
Then a song I didn’t recognize came on, and I gave him an inquisitive look.
“Like I said, Paolo Nutini.”
Without saying another word, we got up again, and I fell into his arms. This time I completely relaxed into it, and as Paolo Nutini sang, “I just want you closer, is that alright? Baby let’s get closer, tonight. Oh baby, baby, baby tell me how can, how can this be wrong?” Pantera pulled away, looked at me for a long time, and then tipped my head back, leaned in, and kissed me.
Just like that, Yusef Pantera, the only person in the world who was more vigorously hunted than I, had kissed me.
We came back together and continued dancing.
When the song was over, we went back to the table and I smiled at him and said, “Well, we’ve come a long way since I tried to blow you up five days ago.”
He didn’t answer.
So what comes now? Do we fall into each other’s arms and go on the lam together like Natural Born Killers?
“Do you mind if I smoke?” he asked.