Serpent of Moses (15 page)

“A list that will include anyone assigned to oversee a small portion of the cathedral,” Romero said. “Small enough that ensuring all but a few people remained unaware of his deviation from the approved plan—and that it would stay undetected.”

“An artisan,” Bramante said. “Of which there were many who worked on the cathedral, although I think we are safe in restricting our sample to those who worked on the project prior to 1510. After that, much of the work involved finishing and cosmetic touches.”

Esperanza leaned back in her chair and released a sigh. “That still gives us more than a hundred years to sift through.”

“A task that might be easier than you think,” Bramante said.

Without waiting for a reply, he rose and left the room, returning less than a minute later carrying an enormous leather-bound book. Sitting, he placed the book on his lap and opened it to the index.

“I maintain a variety of resources that help me with challenging appraisals,” he said as he scanned the index. “This monstrosity of a book is the most exhaustive I’ve ever found that lists artists dating all the way back to the seventh century, as well as biographies, notable works, and, important in this case, countries of origin.”

He opened the book somewhere in the middle and began flipping through the pages. Espy and Romero remained silent as he landed on a page and began reading it. He flipped one more page and then, with a satisfied smile, beckoned his guests to step over to his chair and take a look for themselves.

“There have been a number of artists of varying types who came from the area we now call Libya,” he said. “You have to remember that at one time northern Africa was home to a number of Greek colonies, and much of what they brought with them in terms of sculpture, painting, and construction techniques remained long after the colonies disappeared.”

As Espy looked over the Italian’s shoulder, she saw a list of perhaps thirty names, a quick scan telling her that she was not familiar with all of them. However, she suspected that by reviewing the birth and death data next to each, they could begin to narrow the list down a bit.

“Our first step is to find out which of these would have been alive during the time period we identified,” Bramante said. “Then, if we’re lucky, there will be some mention of one of them having paid Milan a visit.”

Esperanza understood that it was a big
if
. She also understood that if they failed to find a name on the list that could be tied to the cathedral, they would be back to square one. She felt herself sinking into a darker mood and it took her a few minutes to identify the cause. When she and Romero had decided to drive to Vigevano, she’d been hoping that Bramante would provide them with some magical piece of information that would tie things together for them. She’d forgotten the hard work necessary to make the connections.

With that in mind, she shrugged off her disappointment and joined Bramante and Romero in poring over the list.

The sheer size of Milan Cathedral was enough to make even someone as travel-seasoned as Espy pause in a spot from which she could view it in its entirety. In her lifetime Espy had witnessed some truly remarkable sights. This was different, however. Standing with her brother and staring up in awe at the majestic cathedral, it did something to her—made her wonder at the human spirit, the creativity and persistence it took to raise up something so grand. She suspected her brother felt the same way, though he’d spent the last half hour distracted, complaining about his empty stomach.

As if to lend credence to that thought, Romero shuffled on feet that had to be as tired as Espy’s own and said, “As much as I admire your on-again, off-again beau—and this remarkable building—I have to warn you that I have only a certain amount of reserve to expend before I abandon the entire enterprise and go hunting for the rarest piece of red meat in the area.”

There was nothing exaggerated about the statement; Espy knew her brother well enough to understand that when presented with a task, he would work for hours without complaint. Yet when his circumstances called for aimless wandering, his stomach often held sway.

“We have a good idea about what we’re looking for,” Espy said. “I think you can hold out for another half hour.”

The look on her brother’s face suggested otherwise, but she knew he would acquiesce, if only to keep his sister from punching him. And as much as he might grumble, he wouldn’t abandon a friend.

Once they’d stepped into the building, it hit Espy that if she wasn’t careful she could lose her focus. They were there for a specific reason—to study a small portion of the massive cathedral. But everywhere she turned, she saw something she wanted to learn more about—something she could spend hours studying. Without the specter of Jack’s disappearance hanging over her, she would have been content exploring every corner of the building. And so it was with a sigh that she shook off the lure of leisurely study and set her sights on what they’d come there for.

Leaving the entryway, they entered the nave, where in less than two steps, Esperanza’s resolve to stay on point faltered. The nave rose up more than 140 feet, the cupola decorated with so many statues—saints, church fathers, mythical beings—that Espy felt as if a crowd of mute but attentive witnesses surrounded her. Romero, knowing his sister well, put his hand on her elbow and guided her forward. She looked up at her brother and saw that he wasn’t immune to the masterwork that surrounded them. His eyes moved over everything, his trade granting him an understanding and appreciation for details that the average tourist would not notice.

The nave was filled with people, and Espy and Romero had to weave their way down one of the aisles toward the altar, Espy trailing her hand along the pews as she walked. Before they reached the altar, they passed a large two-tiered marble dais—a platform in the empty space between pew and altar that looked ready to act as a base for something large such as a statue, although the position of the dais made it an odd place to set anything large, as doing so would obscure the view of the altar. Espy paused for a few moments to study the dais, with its stones adorned with a variety of symbols, most of which Espy did not recognize. However, as much as she would have enjoyed spending time around the platform and hazarding guesses as to its use, she knew it wasn’t the reason they’d come.

When they reached the front, Espy paused because, while no service was in progress, a few people were kneeling in front of the altar, heads bowed in prayer. And while what Espy and Romero had come to see required them to ascend the steps, she couldn’t help feeling that doing so would be an intrusion on their private moments.

“If they wanted privacy, they could pray in their homes,” Romero said in a stage whisper.

Espy considered that and, with a shrug, stepped around a woman well into her rosary.

Standing near the altar with her brother, Espy spotted the choir stalls she’d noticed when they’d first entered the sanctuary. Now that she was closer to them, she found herself surprised that, if they were right, the information they needed was somehow linked with the simplest structures in a building of beautiful, intricately detailed artwork.

The wooden stalls had been constructed on two levels, with the first level running in a semicircle around the back of the raised platform. The second level was separated into two elevated sections akin to theater boxes. From Espy’s perspective, the stalls possessed a simple beauty; she could see the intricate carvings along the rails and seams, but other than those, the lines were straightforward and clean.

“They hardly seem the place in which to implant a clue,” Romero said, echoing her thoughts.

“There may be nothing here,” Espy said, “but there was only one artist from northern Africa in the records and this is what he worked on.”

Romero looked unconvinced, yet with the absence of another plan he kept silent.

They’d spent more than an hour sitting with Bramante, going through his book, and regardless of how many different searches they’d performed on the text, they kept returning to a single name. And after they’d finished their review of the book, Romero had used Bramante’s computer to validate the findings. But while the Internet search opened up the door to a few additional candidates, none of them seemed as good a fit as al-Idrisi.

According to the construction logs—documents that spanned hundreds of years and were compiled with varying degrees of detail—the choir stalls had been added in the early seventeenth century, with the charge of design and construction falling to an artisan carpenter named Francesco Brambilla. However, rather than assign the stalls a strict European identity, the man had involved an African carpenter in both the design and construction phases.

To even Espy’s unpracticed eye, Muhammad al-Idrisi’s cultural identity had been formed by both the region’s old yet fading Greek presence as well as the influx of Islamic influence. This could be seen in every detail, from the gentle arc of the handrails and the intricate latticework to the denser base that would have looked crudely hand-carved if one did not notice the complete uniformity of its entire span.

Esperanza began her study of the first level of stalls to her left, looking at both the flat facing surface and the more detailed portions that gave it life. From the corner of her eye, she saw Romero do the same, starting from the right. Espy’s experience with this sort of thing was limited; she’d proven helpful in the hunt for Elisha’s bones years before, but that was because, ultimately, the most important element of that search had been a language puzzle, which was her province. She doubted she would get that lucky again. It was why she held out the greatest hope in her brother, who while not as accustomed to the practice of archaeology as their missing friend, had a good deal more experience with the process than she.

She took her time walking along the stall, her hands running over certain places, bending so she could get closer to review something of interest. But as she walked, and as she saw Romero making similar progress, she could not find anything that stood out as something other than adornment.

Fifteen minutes later, they met in the middle and shared a look that communicated their disappointment.

“The other side?” Romero asked.

Espy nodded and they separated again, each finding the small opening near their respective walls that allowed them access to the place in which the choir would stand. With less light on that side, Espy found it more difficult to study the stalls and had to rely more on her hands. As she moved along, slower than she had with the front, she caught the occasional glimpse of her brother disappearing from view, then popping up at some distance farther down.

On the choir side, a wooden footrail ran the length of the stalls. While Espy was impressed that she could not find a seam in the entire run of the rail, neither could she find any mark or symbol on its surface.

“There’s still the second level,” Romero said when they’d finished their search.

“Unless we’ve missed it,” Espy said, acknowledging the fact that the person most suited to conduct the search was the person who was relying on them.

“There’s also the distinct possibility that we’re wrong,” Romero said. “That our conjecture regarding a Libyan connection being found in this building—and that the only north African artisan on the project somehow fashioned a message into his work—could be completely without merit.”

“It certainly sounds ludicrous to
me
,” Espy said.

“But what other choice do we have?” Romero finished for her.

With that, the two found the narrow stairs that led up to the second level, this time choosing to stay together. When Espy arrived at the top, she moved to the wall and looked out over the nave, the whole of it stretched out before her. Some of the people sitting in the pews, or walking about taking pictures of the sculptures, frescoes, and stained-glass windows, were looking in her direction, making her wonder if she and Romero had crossed some line no one had shared with them. With that in mind, she stepped away from the wall and set to work.

In backing away, she noticed that the panels of the stall contained a level of detail and design missing from their counterparts below. Romero noticed it too, and lowered his large frame to a knee so he could lean in and get a closer look.

“I don’t know what these are, but there’s an Arab look to them,” Espy said, pointing to a symbol formed of an outer box, an inset triangle, a box within that, and an interior circle. The only thing that made it seem more than a progression of geometric shapes was the decorative edges of the outer box.

Romero grunted. “It’s not Arabic. It’s an old European symbol for alchemy.” He pointed to the edges of the outer box. “This looks similar to an Arab technique common to Muslim craftsmen of the time period.”

Espy absorbed that and was about to ask a follow-up question when she saw her brother frown.

“What’s that?” he asked, pointing to something blue along the edge of the outer box.

Espy followed the line of his finger and saw what he meant. It was just a small amount of color, hardly noticeable. She traced the edge of the box with her finger, and when she pulled it back, her fingertip was blue. Puzzled, she rubbed together her finger and thumb, then watched as the powdery substance spread.

She stared at her discolored fingers for several seconds, brow furrowed. When the answer came, a smile replaced the former expression. Turning to Romero, she held her finger up for investigation.

“It’s powder,” she said. Her smile grew wider. “Jack was here; he took an etching.”

Romero reached for her hand, using his own larger finger to wipe a portion of the blue powder from Espy’s. Then he turned his attention to the stall panel, his eyes tracking downward. He pointed to a short trail of the same powder on the floor.

“I’d say we’re on the right track,” he said.

Esperanza felt her excitement level growing, yet she tempered it by realizing that neither she nor her brother understood the significance of the symbol.

“I suggest we study the rest of the panels,” Romero said. “I don’t think that this by itself will take us where we need to go.”

With no further prompting, Espy backed away from the find and continued on, this time keeping an eye out for any telltale marks left by Jack’s etching chalk. However, in studying the rest of the panels, she didn’t find anything that stood out. The rest of the ornamentation, excepting the alchemy symbol, looked solely decorative, forming a semicircle with what appeared to be a bisected flower at the midpoint of the handrail. Romero thought so as well, and as he and Espy took a break to sit against the wall, the stall paneling across from them seemed content to retain its secrets.

“There has to be more than that,” Espy said.

Romero nodded his agreement. “Perhaps it’s in the loft we haven’t yet searched.”

“Perhaps.” Although . . . while she lacked Jack’s, and to a lesser extent Romero’s, experience with this sort of thing, she thought that finds like the one they’d made often followed a definite pattern. Which meant they would find another symbol—perhaps even the same one—in the other loft. Assuming that was true, she tried to envision what they could do with the information. How could they take two different symbols and learn something meaningful from them?

“That can’t be all of it,” she said. “Symbols are one thing, but what about instructions about how to use them?”

“Maybe Jack already had those,” Romero suggested.

Espy supposed that made as much sense as anything else, and she released a resigned sigh and lapsed into silence. After a few moments, though, she heard footfalls on the steps to their left. Neither sibling moved as a head came into view—an older woman with a camera, followed by a younger woman who bore a family resemblance to the first woman. Catching sight of Esperanza and Romero sitting against the wall, both sets of eyes turned in her direction, the woman stopped before reaching the top of the steps, a startled, almost guilty expression on her face—as if she, rather than the Venezuelans, had been caught hiding in the choir loft.