The Last Cato (47 page)

I was panting like a locomotive. It took me a while to gain control over my body, which was depleted by the cold. We found ourselves at the same level as in the cistern, but the landscape was completely different. There was a wide platform sloped toward the water like a stone beach that took up half the grotto. It was lit up by dozens of torches hanging on the walls. Without a doubt, the most extraordinary thing was the gigantic chrismon chiseled into the rock, outlined by torches that could be detected at the bottom.

“My God!” Farag said, deeply moved.

“It’s like a cathedral dedicated to the Monogram of God,” the captain observed.

“Look at the torches,” I whispered. “They were clearly expecting us.”

The silence of the place, broken only by the far-off crackle of a fire, overwhelmed us. We felt we were in a sacred enclosure, and started to swim very slowly toward the shore. Even barefoot, I was glad to have the ground under my feet again as I walked out of the water. I was so cold that the air in the grotto seemed warm. As I wrung out my skirt (I couldn’t have picked a worst day to wear a skirt), I cast a distracted eye around the place. My heart stopped when I caught Farag watching me closely from a short distance away. His eyes glowed as if they were shooting fire. I tensed and turned my back but his image remained engraved on my retinas.

“Look!” the Rock exclaimed. “The entrance to a cave under the chrismon! After you, Doctor!”

“Why do I always have to lead the way?” I protested with a certain apprehension.

“Because you’re such a brave woman,” he added with a smile, to urge me on.

“I don’t see it that way, Captain.”

But I complied and set off down the path. Well past that entrance, the Staurofilakes’ real test must be waiting for us. Walking carefully in bare feet, I wondered how Dante Alighieri would have solved the problem of the cistern. A serious, circumspect man like him would have been very angry after the tenth dunking in that disgusting water.

The distance to the cavern wasn’t very far, about two or three hundred meters, but I remained ultra alert as I walked, for I felt that the Staurofilakes weren’t ones to be trusted.

Finally we saw a light at the end of the walkway. When we reached the light, we saw an enormous circular space, a type of Roman circle, covered by a stone cupola high overhead. In the exact center of that space, a solitary sarcophagus of porphyry—blood red and big enough to hold an entire family—rested on four beautiful, life-size, white lions. Despite their frightful appearance, they seemed to be asking us to step up and examine them.

“What a place!” Farag declared. A deafening noise muted his words and made us suddenly turn 180 degrees, frightened. An iron gate had fallen from above, sealing off the cave.

“We’re in a fix now,” I exclaimed, indignant. “These people never let up.”

“Stop complaining, Doctor. Focus on the task at hand.”

Without realizing it, I looked at Farag, seeking his complicity. Suddenly the veil that had hidden my feelings lifted, and emotions rushed through me like an electric charge. Professor Boswell’s hair was plastered to his face, his beard was wet, and his sunken eyes were ringed by a black halo that worried me. In spite of that, he looked very handsome. I felt as if I had loved him all my life, as if I’d always been at his side, hand in hand, glued to his body, fused to him. An inexplicable tremor shook me all over. How can certain mental images make the earth move? I’d never experienced anything like that. This can’t go on, I told myself. I worried that I’d gone too far, confused ambition with vocation. Could I have called surrender and love what was just a job and a way of life? In the end, it would almost be better. Then that error would justify to my conscience what I was feeling for that handsome, intelligent man. At the same time it would excuse my hypothetical abandonment of my religious life… But what was I thinking? Hadn’t I seen him fooling around all day with Doria Sciarra? I cast him a scornful look and turned my back just as he started to smile. He must have thought I’d gone crazy or that all this was an illusion. With a sharp pain in my heart, feeling like I was roasting over a slow fire, I walked toward the sarcophagus, with the Rock right behind me.

Lined around the circular marble floor were twelve strange, tubular cavities, all at the same height. If we weren’t dealing with a Christian sect, I would’ve sworn they were sinister
bothroi,
openings in the wall where libations for the dead were poured and where victims were beheaded. They were not particularly large, and looked like the burrows of small, noxious animals, evenly spread out. On an arch over each cavity were strange engravings, which at first I didn’t pay attention to. Hanging from iron holders, torches glittered between them.

The impressive lions that held up the large sarcophagus were chiseled in white marble. When I approached the bier, my astonishment increased. Not only were its sides wondrously engraved with incredible scenes, but all its adornments and inlays were pure gold. Even the two ring-shaped handles (as thick as my fist) that must have been used to move it were artfully decorated. The lions’ claws, eyes, and teeth and the moldings on the cover were also made of gold, as were the laurel leaf design that framed the porphyry carvings. Without a doubt, this was a sarcophagus worthy of a king. Close up, the top, or
lauda,
above my head confirmed my suspicions. I examined the scene drawn on one of its sides; it was divided into two levels. On the lower level was a depiction of a crowd raising their hands imploring a central figure, who was dressed in Byzantine imperial clothes. This figure distributed handfuls of coins and was flanked by what looked like important court dignitaries and high-ranking functionaries.

I walked around to the feet of a bier and saw a medallion carved with the same imperial figure, on horseback, escorted by two much smaller figures wearing crowns, palms, and shields. Incredulous, I noticed a nimbus of saints encircling the emperor’s head; and on their shields was the monogram of Constantine. Not accepting the crazy idea forming in my head, I kept circling to get to the other side. The scene was of a Christ Pantocrator seated on his throne. Before that throne, the monarch performed
proskinesis,
the traditional act of tribute to the Byzantine emperors in which one knelt down and touched his forehead to the ground, his hands extended in prayer. Again the figure had a halo encircling his head, and his features were the same as in the two previous scenes. It was clear that they all represented the same emperor, and that the remains of that emperor were in that stone vessel.

“Wow, this is incredible!” Farag said behind me. He let out a long, admiring whistle. “Do you know who this grouchy old winged Hercules is, Ottavia?”

“What are you talking about, Farag?” I replied, annoyed, turning to face him. Above one of the
bothroi,
the Hercules Farag spoke of blew blasts of air out his mouth as he held a young maiden in his arms.

“It’s Boreas! Don’t you recognize him? The personification of the cold north wind. See how he blows through the conch and how snow covers his hair.”

“How can you be so sure?” I chided him. I got my answer when I read the sign underneath the figure:
Boρεας.
“Okay, don’t tell me, I get it.”

“Over there is Noto, I’m sure,” he said, as he hurried over to check it out. “Noto, the warm, rainy wind of the south.”

“So, each one of those twelve cavities has a wind above it,” the Rock commented.

Actually, they were the twelve children of dreadful Eolo, worshiped in antiquity as gods, the most powerful manifestations of nature. To the Greeks, the winds were the divinities that changed the seasons and bestowed life. They formed clouds and caused storms, moved the seas and brought the rain. They also controlled the rays of the sun that warmed the earth or burned it. The Greeks believed that human beings would die if the wind didn’t enter their bodies as breath. Life, for them, was thus completely dependent on these gods.

Going clockwise, in the first spot was the harsh, old North wind, exactly how Farag had described him. Next was Helespontio, symbolized by a storm; then Afeliotes, a full field of fruits and grain; on to beneficent Euro, “the good wind” of the east, “the one that flows well,” who appeared as a completely bald, mature man; then Euronoto; next, Noto, the southern wind, represented as a young man, his wings dripping with dew; after that was Libanoto; then Libs, a smoothskinned adolescent boy with puffed-out cheeks who carried an
aphlaston;
*
then young Zephyr, the west wind, who, along with his lover, Cloris the nymph, scattered flowers over his black
bothros;
then Argestes, depicted as a star; then Trascias, crowned with clouds; and, finally, the horrible Aparctias, with his heavily bearded face and furrowed brow. Between the last two was the sealed-up mouth of the cavern we had come through.

The four cardinal winds, Boreas, Euro, Noto, and Zephyr, were represented by the largest, most complete figures; the others, by smaller, less-detailed ones. The beautiful Byzantine images were comparable to the reliefs that depicted pride on the floor of the Cloaca Maxima. It had to be the same artist. What a shame his name hadn’t been recorded for history, for his work ranked with the best. Maybe he’d worked only for the brotherhood, which added to the value to his work.

“What about the sarcophagus?” Glauser-Röist asked suddenly.

“Impressive, isn’t it?” I murmured. “Its dimensions are extraordinary. Notice, Captain, that the
lauda
is as high as its head.”

“So, who’s buried inside?”

“I’m not sure. I need to examine the high-relief on its lid.”

Farag walked over to the large porphyry mass. I walked to the head to study one last engraving before I dared to verbalize my delirious hypothesis. All my doubts fell away when I recognized the familiar profile delicately carved in the
lauraton
of the red rock. The same face surrounded by a crown of laurels, the same raised eyes with a neck like a bull appeared on the
solidus,
the gold piece known among historians as the medieval dollar, the powerful currency created in the fourth century by Emperor Constantine the Great.

“It can’t be…,” Farag shouted, hopping around. “Ottavia, you’re not going to believe what’s in here!”

I looked around, trying to see where Farag’s voice was coming from. When I heard his next shout, I looked straight up at him. On all fours on top of the sarcophagus’s
lauda,
Professor Boswell, wide-eyed, wore a stupefied grin.

“Ottavia, you’re not going to believe me!” he kept shouting. “I swear you’re not going to believe me, but it’s true, Ottavia!”

“Stop the foolishness, Professor!” The captain’s voice vibrated to my right. “Will you please explain?”

Farag ignored him and turned to me with a crazy look on his face.
“Basileia,
I assure you, it’s incredible! Know what it says up here? Know what it says?”

My heart went off like a shot when he called me
Basileia
again. “Tell me,” I said, swallowing hard. “I can’t guess, but I have a sneaking suspicion.”

“No, no, you don’t! Impossible! Not in a million years could you guess the name of the dead man inside here!”

“How much do you want to bet?” I said, mockingly.

“Whatever you want!” he exclaimed, very convinced. “Don’t bet too much, because you’re going to lose!”

“Emperor Constantine the Great,” I said, “son of Empress Helen, who discovered the True Cross.”

His face reflected a huge surprise. He was in shock for a few seconds, then he stammered. “How did you guess?”

“From the scenes recorded in the porphyry. One of them shows the emperor’s face.”

According to Farag, on the
lauda,
in addition to the emperor’s chrismon, was a simple inscription that said
Konstantinos enesti
—that is, “Constantine is here.” It was the greatest discovery in many centuries. At some point between 1000 and 1400, Constantine’s tomb was lost forever under the dust from the sandals of the crusaders, the Persians, or the Arabs. We now were next to the sarcophagus of the first Christian emperor, founder of Constantinople. This proved, once and for all, that the Staurofilakes had always been willing to preserve anything that had anything to do with the True Cross. As soon as this charming allegory of purgatory was solved and after I ended my many years of work in the Classified Archives, I would lock myself away in the house in Connaught and write a series of articles on the True Cross, Staurofilakes, Dante Alighieri, Saint Helen, and Constantine the Great. I would tell the world the location of the emperor’s important remains.

“I don’t think Emperor Constantine is inside there,” the Rock unexpectedly declared.

Farag and I looked at him, astonished.

“How could that be possible?” the captain continued. “Such an important person would not have ended his days as part of the initiation tests of a cult of thieves.”

“Come on, Kaspar, don’t be such a skeptic!” Farag replied, climbing down. “These things happen. In Egypt, for example, in new archaeological deposits, the most unlikely things are discovered every day. Hey! What’s going on?” he exclaimed. The sarcophagus’s
lauda
had started to slowly shift and was about to throw him to the ground, pushing him down the sarcophagus’s neck.

“Jump, Farag! Get off!”

“What have you done, Professor?” the Rock shouted.