Back in Amman Lara experienced the already familiar feeling of walking into a whole different era when she entered the small church Hussain had directed her to. Outside the busy side streets of Amman boomed with Friday frenzy – the fifth day of the Western week was a secular holiday in the country.
She'd left Petra early that morning after spending a night at her hotel. She had decided she needed one night of steady sleep alone without hassle before she hit the road again.
Not that she'd slept very well. The serenity she'd felt when leaving Hussain soon evaporated and anxiety had taken its place again. She'd tossed and turned the whole night and at the end went for a run when she felt the room walls began to close in on her.
She'd made good time in driving to Amman. She'd returned her rental car and rented a taxi for the day. Her flight would leave in four hours – she'd booked a night one because after running around the whole day she might be able to sleep in the plane. Not that this reasoning had worked before.
The small, empty church provided a moment of solitude she desperately needed.
It had obviously not been used for at least a century. Part of the ceiling had collapsed, statues were broken and pews nonexistant, but the murals and mosaics were stunning.
Lara wandered along the main nave into the altar area. On the altar stood a peculiar cross – no crucifix but just an iron cross. It was a delicate thing, almost paper-thin, and a rose ornament surrounded the points. A very thorny rose ornament.
She circled around the apse – altar area in Byzantine churches, always oriented towards the east. She snuck behind the ruined iconostasis, but the back area was empty.
In the north part of the church she found an exedra – a lineof columns near a wall with a narrow bench where worshipers could sit.
The wall included a frieze of darkened marble. Lara sat down on the bench to observe it.
The first scene showed men and women in prayer before Christ hanging on the cross. Roses grew around it and from it, and the crown Christ wore was not made of thorns but roses.
The second one depicted the cave where the Christ's body had been taken to, with the stone from the entrance moved aside with roses growing near the entrance. It seemed almost as though the roses had grown so strongly that it had been them who had pushed aside the heavy boulder. This fit well with what Hussain had said about death and love tangled into the rose's meaning.
The last one showed what seemed a monastery on a mountain – probably one of the numerous jebel monasteries found in the Middle East. Which one it was could not be identified. It was a combination of two pictures, the first showing an aerial view identifying the building as a monastery, and the second one only showed a wall of the building.
Against the wall stood a bush of roses, branching themselves into the heavens. Lara wished the frieze had been a mural instead so she could've identified a colour for the flowers.
The Byzantine church had emphasized an ascetically mystical theology, into which roses fit very well. Church architecture and iconography were vessels for a spiritual connection and they were to depict the Christ's role as a saviour and also illustrate the Virgin Mary and the saints in connection to this role. Monasteries had been a vital part of the church, perhaps even more so than in the Roman Catholic world, above all the mountain of Athos which still served as a spiritual centre for the Greek Catholic church.
It was only then she noticed the inscriptions beneath the frieze. It was easily readable Greek and the writing was nearly intact. Lara had not brushed up on her Greek for awhile, but after a few minutes she had an approximate translation.
The writing beneath the image of Christ on the cross read: "Wife, look at your son. He has come to see this suffering. And of this suffering he shall teach. He shall teach love."
It sounded strange at first. But when Lara racked her brain she could recall a short passage from the Bible about of the crucification. The Christ had said the first phrase to his mother who'd come to watch the execution. It was a reference to one of the younger disciples, whom the Christ's mother then had adopted. The last two phrases were unfamiliar to Lara – perhaps they were from some apocryphic book – one of the scripts that had been turned down from the original version of the Bible.
The inscription below the next scripture only included one simple phrase: "And love shall set you free."
The third one Made Lara's eyes light.
It was the answer she'd been looking for, in a way. It said "And this loveshall grow on every churchyard". Dante had called heavenly love rosa candida. Could rosa mystica then be this love beyond death, a love that grew on every churchyard in the form of a rose? There was no other plausible answer she could come up with.
Suddenly it felt so clear. Rosa mystica was any rose that grew on a churchyard.
"For the fifteenth time, I have a permit! Call the bloody embassy, they'll contact British authorities. Look, I don't have time for this – I have to be somewhere tomorrow. And I'm running out of patience rapidly," Lara steeled her tone and stood up from the uncomfortable airport chair she'd been indicated while a group of alarmed flight attendants along with several clerks tried to find out why she had a functioning handgun in her suitcase. She'd waved her permit around and given them several numbers to call, but they were too busy trying to decide whether she was a terrorist or not to bother listening to her reasoning.
Lara had a grim guess that had she been flying British Airways instead this would not have happened.
They'd wanted to do a strip search. She'd quickly discouraged them, which had lead to the security guys being called. It had taken Lara all her persuasive powers to ensure that she was at the moment unarmed and not dangerous and that they should first check her permits before throwing her into a cell.
It was just ten minutes before her flight would leave. Missing it would mean waiting eleven hours, a prospect which in Lara's current state of mind seemed catastrophic.
She was gently pushed back down. She grimaced at the taller security guard.
When there were three minutes left before her flight would take off one of the stewardesses returned. Lara jumped up before the guards could stop her. "Look, I just want to get home. Forget the bag, you can have it as long as you let me on that bloody flight!"
The woman gave her an apologetic smile. "Please calm down, Miss Croft. I faxed your permit to the customs at Heathrow and they assured me it is genuine. If you could please follow me we can now finish boarding."
"Thank God." Lara jogged after her and the shorter security guard followed them carrying Lara's purse which he had confiscated.
The stewardess lead her quickly to her seat and Lara could feel the gazes of the other passengers on her back. It was clear who had been the reason for the delay.
Lara stumbled along the aisle. Her legs felt heavy and cold, like she was heaving around lumps of ice. Her head pounded and her mouth felt dry. She must've been hungry for she had not eaten in twelve hours, but felt nauseous.
When she nearly lost her balance a steward hurried along to help her into her seat. He looked worried as he buckled her belt. "Can I get you something, Miss?"
Lara massaged her temples. She felt like a wreck. All the stress had transformed into indifference and exhaustion like no other she had ever felt. She wondered when she'd feel alright again.
But something told her that could not happen before the funeral. It was unusual for her to react to stress this way. Usually her mind worked separately from her body, and her body had usually served its master without complaints.
"An aspirin would be nice." And a whisky, she added in her mind. Perhaps she could ask for this from another attendant as they were probably not allowed to serve both medicine and alcohol to a single customer.
On the other hand, what was the harm in trying? "And could you get me a Glenlivet on the rocks, please?"
To Lara's surprise his smile melted into an apologetic face. "I'm sorry, Miss, we're out of Livet. But would you like some wine?"
Lara waved her hand when she had to close her eyes due to seeing black dots and nothing else. "Sure, whatever you've got."
She got her pill and glass of sour white wine soon. She gulped the medicine down, not expecting much of an effect. She drank the rest of the wine as though it was a glass of water. Then she gazed out of the window into the night until the sight began accelerating the headache again. She held the empty glass in her fingers, noticing that they trembled as though after physical strain.
No matter how hard she willed herself to calm down, the fact that she was approaching England with every passing minute made her feel increasingly horrible.
I hate you, Father, for still doing this to me.