“But Jesus was not a myth, Your Holiness!”

“You believe in the historical existence of Jesus?” the Pope asked with unconcealed amazement.

“Of course, Holy Father.”

He laughed. “Have you never heard of the Hindu god Krishna? Is not Krishna—Christ?”

“But Jesus, Holy Father, actually existed. He was crucified and– —”

“And resurrected too?”

I gazed open-mouthed at the Vicar of Christ, refusing to be entrapped.

“His birth and his existence,” the Pope calmly continued, “are as true as his death and resurrection. The cross itself is a priapic symbol worshiped hundreds of years before Jesus. What warrant have we of Christ’s life? The gospels, written centuries after his supposed death, are a compilation of preposterous nonsense that even a child, allowed to think freely, could puncture and ridicule with ease.

“The Roman writers of the period, addicted to gossip and exaggeration as they were, and ready to pounce upon any picturesque incident, never allude to Jesus. Josephus, the most meticulous of historians, ignores him entirely. Whatever mention of him is found in the later editions of his books, is a clumsy and all too evident interpolation.”

“Your Holiness, can a legend subsist without basis of fact?”

“Imagination is a great architect. The flimsiest material suffices for a magnificent structure. How can a philosopher accept the multitudinous contradictions of the Holy Book? How can he accept an absurdity as colossal as the Trinity?”

He laughed. “There is a tribe in the jungle of Africa, with a triune divinity. The father is a man, the mother a camel, the son a parrot. Their religion is as rational as ours…”

“What is the name of this strange divinity, Holy Father?” I asked, laughing.

“I do not remember. Something like Pha-ta-pha—Yes, it must be that. The words read the same backwards as forwards. That proves the god’s perfection, does it not?”

We laughed.

“Such flimsy pretexts are the foundation of all religions, Count.”

We remained silent.

“How,” the Pope asked suddenly, “could Satan with his poor bag of tricks tempt the Son of God? Why must the Only Begotten Son remind his Father, omniscient and omnipotent, that He is forsaken at the critical moment? ‘My God, my God, why hast Thou forsaken me!’ I could wring the neck of the idiotic monk who, transcribing the Bible, did not have sense enough to erase from it this unpardonable offense, both against Jesus and Yahweh! The whimpering son of an absent-minded father!”

He struck the table with his fist. The Holy Grail tottered on the Decameron.

“Is a legend strong enough to uphold the Church?”

“The Church is an organization, Count—a vast Empire, composed largely of children. The average man is always a child. For his good, we invent fables and legends and promises, ridiculous and vain. Thus the favorite few may cultivate in peace and ease the fine arts and philosophies. The Church is the guardian of civilization…”

His logic was invincible. I would have gladly agreed with him. Alas, I knew differently! Once more reason failed. The irrational was the truth! Like the sudden flash of lightning which rends a clear sky, I saw before me Jesus, his trial, his crucifixion. And like the thunderclap which follows, I heard: ‘Tarry until I return.’ I closed my eyes. My head turned.

Alexander, proud of his eloquence, continued, but his words seemed to come from a great distance. My ears were smitten by the thunderclaps that frightened me in Jerusalem.

“Jesus is a Hindu divinity. Mary is a less imaginative conception of Venus. The very name of the goddess, risen from the foam of the sea, thrills and intoxicates! Venus—goddess of joy, goddess of beauty! Venus– —” He closed his eyes. His nostrils shivered. He reopened his eyes, and smiled. “Venus has become a mother—a virgin mother!”

The thunderclaps died in the distance. The Pope’s voice sounded clear and convincing.

“Jesus would have fared much better if infidels had presided over the Council of Nicæa! What a mess they made of it, Count! The bigoted Bishops disputed and wrangled and fought, and in their blind passion, they never realized that they included two contradictory genealogies of Jesus in the gospels! They should have edited either Luke’s or Mark’s. Besides, the attempt to trace the descent of Jesus to David, through Joseph, makes the immaculate conception preposterous. Jesus is either the Son of God, or the descendant of David. How can He be both at the same time?”

It amazed me not to be able to crush the shrewd and subtle Pope with powerful arguments. “You are surprised, Count, that the Vicar of Christ does not believe in Him? Why shouldn’t a Pope rise superior to his profession?”

‘I must make a dent in the armor of his conceit. I must defeat his logic by facts!’ I thought. ‘Besides, what subtle triumph for me if I, of all men, prove the existence of Jesus to the Bishop of Rome!’

Was it a racial trait which made me anxious to prevail in an argument? Was it vanity? Was it my passion for truth? I cannot tell, but “Your Holiness is mistaken,” I blurted out suddenly. “Jesus lived! I saw him! I spoke to him.”

Alexander laughed. “Many have spoken to Him.”

I shook my head.

“Many have seen Jesus. Our nunneries are crowded with brides of Christ…”

Whatever the consequences of my confession, I would confute and confuse this son of the Borgias.

“If Your Holiness will permit, I shall recount the truth about Jesus.”

He seated himself deeply in his chair, and playing with a diamond studded cross that hung around his neck, listened without interrupting me. Avoiding unnecessary details and sentimental reflections, I told him of my quarrel with Jesus. I described his trial and crucifixion, and in bold strokes, related the major incidents of my life, omitting only my excursion into Africa, Salome and Kotikokura.

When I had finished, he smiled. “In the archives of the Vatican, there is an account by a Bishop– —”

“An Armenian Bishop?” I asked.

“Yes! You have read it, Count.” He laughed, slapping his thighs.

“No, Your Holiness. It was I who confessed to the holy man, on the promise that he would not divulge my secrets.”

“He speaks about this promise, it is true, and he does not disclose the man’s history. He only recounts what was permissible for him to reveal,” the Pope said thoughtfully.

It pleased me that the Armenian Bishop had kept faith with me. I tried to recollect his face, but his features wavered in my mind like a torch in the wind. The face of Apollonius emerged, luminous and superb, instead.

“Ever since the story has become known,” His Holiness resumed, “we are pestered by Wandering Jews. Ordinarily, they are either ranting charlatans or dupes of their fancy. But truly, Count, a man like you—a thinker and a wit—should not indulge in so stale a farce…”

“I am telling the truth, Your Holiness.”

“What is truth?” Alexander yawned. “And how can you prove it?”

“Holy Father, it is difficult to prove the simplest proposition. Mathematics, even, must accept certain premises and axioms, must accept the possibility of drawing a triangle or a circle in a universe which permits neither circles nor triangles to limit its endless flow…”

“You have not mentioned the shoes, Cartaphilus!” His Holiness laughed.

“Shoes?”

“Did you not leave a pair of shoes with the Bishop?”

I searched my memory. “True, Your Holiness, a pair of sandals. My valet forgot them. I had to buy another pair as soon as I reached the first town.”

He laughed uproariously. “Of course. What is the Wandering Jew without the shoes? He must always leave behind him shoes—symbol of his wanderings and of his father’s profession.”

‘His father’s profession,’ I mused. ‘Can we never extricate ourselves from our ancestors?’

An officer entered, whispered something into Alexander’s ear, and left.