The Lost Catacomb (11 page)
“
You know,
the person who recorded the details of the murder, whoever he was, might have
placed the glasses here as some sort of clue.
He said in the parchment that he hoped
someone would find out about this someday.
”
“
That
’
s assuming
he knew she had been murdered too,
”
Bruno
said,
“
and that he knew of
—
or maybe helped to arrange for
—
her
burial in this very crypt, next to the pope who loved her.
This is absolutely mind-boggling.
How are we supposed to solve a murder,
maybe two murders, that were committed centuries ago?
“
And by the
way,
”
he
continued,
“
if the etchings on the first gold glass base refer to the
Temple treasures, then it
’
s entirely possible that the second one refers to the same
event.
Maybe those figures
represent the emperor
’
s victorious march into Rome with Jewish slaves, in which
case the trumpets and lyres might be the musical instruments used by priests in
the Temple service.
The iconography
is incredibly similar to the motifs on the Arch of Titus.
”
“
I see what
you mean,
”
Nicola
said.
“
And if, as
the scroll suggests,
”
he
added, thinking out loud,
“
if the Church had possession of the Temple treasures all
those years ago, who knows? .
.
.
Maybe it still has them, hidden away in
some secret underground vault.
It
’
s not
beyond the realm of possibility.
That would be even more shocking than the double murder we think we
’
re looking
at.
”
He grew uncharacteristically silent for a moment, a slight
frown shadowing his handsome features as he considered the evidence.
“
You know, Nicola,
”
he
said slowly,
“
at the risk of sounding paranoid, if the Church still has
the Temple artifacts, assuming that we can rely on the scroll, then our
discovery could be a real problem
—
for us and for the Vatican.
“
Imagine
if, in the wake of our findings, the matter were to become known outside the
Vatican.
There could be all sorts
of nasty complications for the Church.
The State of Israel, for example, could put forth a very strong legal
claim to the treasures
—
probably one that would stand up in some sort of
international world forum or court.
And that
’
s apart from the moral dimensions of the issue.
Certainly Israel
’
s moral
claim to the treasures would be unquestioned.
Irrefutable.
“
It could
be really embarrassing for the Vatican.
I mean, how could it possibly justify keeping what amounts to booty that
was pillaged centuries ago from a place of worship to which it has no
connection whatsoever
—
a place of worship that still means so much to the Jewish
people?
And now that I
’
m thinking
of it, if the wrong people in the Vatican were to see where our investigations
are taking us, we might even be in danger.
”
Nicola looked at him in shock.
“
You don
’
t mean that, Bruno, do you?
Not really?
”
“
Look, I
’
m not
saying that anyone would want to get rid of us the way the bishops got rid of
our nameless pope, and possibly poor Mariamne,
”
Bruno continued hurriedly.
“
But we could find ourselves in an untenable situation in
which our credentials and academic reputations could be damaged, and we'd be
powerless to stop it.
“
I don
’
t want to
offend you, since you were born Catholic after all, but I think we both know
how powerful the Church is.
How
powerful and
—
I
’
m sorry to have to say this
—
how
single-minded it would be in protecting its own interests, which in this case
would be diametrically opposed to those of other claimants to the
artifacts.
We
’
d just be
some of the collateral damage along the way.
”
Nicola, meantime, was too agitated to continue sitting and
began to pace the floor of the crypt restlessly.
She tugged on a stray curl, in a gesture
that Bruno had come to associate with her when she was thinking seriously about
something or was simply anxious.
“
I know
what we should do,
”
she
finally said.
“
What?
Tell me.
”
“
Well, I
think we shouldn
’
t jump to rash conclusions before we really check things
out as thoroughly as possible, on our own, without telling anyone about our theories
until we
’
re sure about them and know whom we can trust.
“
Do you
have a copy of the
Liber Pontificalus
at home?
”
she asked.
“
Of course.
”
“
I think we
should take a close look at it.
We
know that underground burials in catacombs and
hypogea
continued only
into the 3
rd
Century, right?
So maybe we can see which popes lived during that time frame.
You know, look at the dates and official
biographies to see if something doesn
’
t sit right.
There must be some way of reading between the lines to get at clues to
what might have happened.
“
This has
to be solvable, Bruno.
It just has
to be.
”
Bruno and Nicola left the Piazza Navona, passing the famed
Fontana dei Quattro Fiumi and circumventing the usual groups of street artists
sketching caricatures of tourists and locals hawking fake or pilfered designer
goods.
They continued at a
leisurely pace down the narrow alleyway of the Via Agenale, between the
darkened fa
ç
ades
of apartment buildings and shops bordering the square, towards Bruno
’
s car.
Along the way, they were stopped more
than once by vendors of apparently Pakistani or Indian origin selling
long-stemmed roses that were thrust under their noses so many times that Bruno
finally asked Nicola if she would like some, though they would probably be
wilted long before she returned to the Villa Mirafiori.
Two hours earlier they had sat down to a relaxing dinner at
Tre
Scalini
, a fashionable old restaurant on the Piazza Navona that was famed
for its
tartufo
, a rich confection of chocolate
gelato
with a
cherry at its center.
Over
focaccia
dripping with fragrant olive oil and fettuccine with white truffles,
followed by a shared square of
tiramisu
—
which
Nicola could never resist
—
they had
discussed their next move.
“
I
agree,
”
Bruno said
as they walked towards the car.
“
It would be a good idea
to start with the
Liber Pontificalus
now that we
’
ve had a really good look at the graves.
I
’
m sure we can come up with some possible candidates
for our missing pope.
There has to
be someone, some figure whom the Church was at great pains to hide, whose
existence needed to be suppressed, but who
’
s somehow hinted at in the
Liber
.
Though it
’
s beyond me, at this point, why his name would need
to be so completely erased.
Plenty of popes have met with untimely deaths.
”
The
Liber Pontificalus
was, in effect, a concise
resource book for anyone researching the biographies of the first ninety popes
and the highlights of their ecclesiastical careers, from the time of St. Peter
through 750 AD.
Tantalizing for
what was left unsaid between the lines, since it almost never mentioned cause
of death or scandals surrounding the election of a new pontiff, it might
possibly provide the first real clues to the mystery of the ornately decorated
graves at the Vigna Randanini.
Bruno fell silent for a moment as he considered the
possibilities.
“
On
the one hand,
”
he
said,
“
this person
needed to be buried in obscurity.
After all, we
’
ve
never seen any popes interred in this particular location before, even if it is
in the vicinity of the catacomb of St. Calixtus, where so many other popes from
that period are buried.
And yet, on
the other hand, some very real effort was expended to stimulate the imagination
of those who would find the grave later on.
”
“
You
mean, to make sure someone would rectify this terrible wrong, don
’
t you?
”
Nicola countered, her
gray eyes filled with concern.
“
I just hope we can
figure this out by ourselves, without looking at the original manuscript of the
Liber
, since there are several discrepancies between the two major
editions that have been published.
Because otherwise we have no choice but to go to the Archives, and that
will probably mean telling Father Benedetto precisely why we need to see the
original.
And then .
.
. well, you
’
ve
painted a rather interesting scenario about the possible consequences.
”
“
If
worse comes to worst,
”
Bruno
said,
“
I think we
can speak to Father Benedetto.
I
like him, Nicola.
I think we can
trust him.
Cardinal Rostoni, on the
other hand, is not the most
simpatico
person I
’
ve ever met.
Too formal and cold for my taste.
“
Look,
”
he continued,
“
it
’
s not just that Father
Benedetto
’
s going
to ask some pretty direct questions.
That
’
s a
separate issue, and an important one, I grant you.
I just think that we may have no choice
in the matter.
He
is
a
manuscript expert after all, and if we need to authenticate the provenance of
the scroll without recourse to some sort of formal scientific analysis, he
’
s the one who
’
ll know if it
’
s genuine.
It could save us a lot of trouble.
”
By now they were in Bruno
’
s car, heading for his apartment on a tree-lined
street near the Aventine.
They
drove slowly, taking a circuitous, scenic route through the now quiet
streets.
They passed the Piazza
Venezia with its monument to Vittorio Emanuele, gleaming white in the pale
moonlight, and the Cordonata, the wide marble staircase leading to the
elliptical courtyard of the Piazza del Campidoglio and Museum of National Art,
with its replica of the famed equestrian sculpture of Marcus Aurelius in the
foreground.
They circled around the
Coliseum and the Foro Romano, their majestic ruins illuminated by bright
spotlights, and then drove past the Temple of Vesta and Janiculum Hill.
“
Should
we make a stop near the
Bocca della Verit
à
?
”
Bruno asked, referring to the ancient stone face that could supposedly
distinguish truth from lies when someone put a hand in its mouth.
“
Maybe
we can run some of our theories past it.
It will only bite off our hands if we
’
re wrong,
”
he added with a mischievous smile.
“
Actually,
I think the
Bocca
has other things to do, like exposing those who
violate the innocence of others,
”
Nicola replied quietly.
A
shadow flickered briefly over her face as she thought of the victims of Celeste
Di Porto
’
s
greed.
They reached the Aventine at last and parked a short distance
from Bruno
’
s
apartment building.
Huge terracotta
pots of hydrangeas in shades of bluish lavender and pink lined the courtyard
leading to the front door of the building, with its large marble-floored lobby,
painted with Art Deco murals.
Diagonally opposite the building was a small piazza, where, during
daytime hours, vendors sold farm-fresh designer produce and busy commuters
could stop off at small tobacconist shops and coffee bars for a quick cappuccino
on their way to work.
Bruno greeted the doorman and led Nicola to the
elevator.
His flat was on the third
floor and faced the street.
The
living room was fronted with casement windows shaded with netted under-drapes
for privacy and flanked by some heavier, printed fabric
—
probably Frette or Pratesi, Nicola conjectured
—
at the
sides.
Bruno drew the curtains and
went into the kitchen to make coffee. Although they'd had an espresso and
grappa
at the end of their meal at
Tre Scalini
, their work would require
concentration of an unusual nature, well into the late hours of the night.
“
Make
mine intravenous,
”
Nicola
said with a tired sigh.
The coffee now ready, Bruno went into his study to locate his
copy of the
Liber Pontificalus
, as well as some photo albums and
monographs containing sketches and reproductions of catacomb art that spanned
several centuries.
Perhaps these
would yield some hints about the mysterious provenance of the two graves.
The first one was the least problematic.
Clearly it was that of a female named
Mariamne Rufina, and clearly she had been Jewish, a representative of her local
synagogue.
But what was the
relationship between the two graves?
Was it really possible that a pope had been buried there?
And could it all be connected to treasures
looted from the ancient Temple in Jerusalem?
The real question was, could they rely
on the narrative in the parchment?
Nicola followed Bruno into his study.
The room was large and lined with
custom-made walnut bookcases that went from floor to ceiling, covering nearly
all of the wall space.
An antique
desk with a tooled-leather insert perched at an angle opposite the door and
sported an ultra-modern lamp, piles of books and papers, and a vase full of bright
irises.
A few tall houseplants
stood in a corner, and some antique lithographs were strategically propped on
easels on the bookshelves.
Some
were of early Roman architecture, while others appeared to be maps of Italy
before the unification.
A small sofa in deep teal blue, cozy looking and well worn,
was angled near another corner of the room, with tall matching halogen lamps on
either side.
It looked like the
perfect place for curling up with a good monograph
—
or a good friend
—
Nicola found herself thinking.
The sofa was scattered with several pillows,
some needlepoint, some of faintly Afghani origin.
“
You
didn
’
t acquire all
of these lithographs on a professor
’
s
salary did you?
”
Nicola asked in amazement as she
glanced around the study.
“
They must be worth a
small fortune.
”
“
Actually,
”
he replied,
“
most of them I
inherited from a great aunt, who hid them in a gentile neighbor
’
s home during the
war.
A few were purchased at an
antique art stall at a flea market
—
the
owner apparently had no idea of their value.
And one or two I acquired at auctions.
”
He walked over to one of the bookcase shelves and selected
several items.
“
Let
’
s take these into the
living room.
I
’
ll move some things
from the coffee table.
It
’
ll be roomier than the
desk in my study, and the seating area's more comfortable.
”
Bruno's living room was a wide airy space with a rustic
dining table at one end, surrounded by four modern sculptural chairs.
The other side of the room boasted a
colorful Killim rug, topped by two deep sofas that faced each other across an
oversized coffee table.
It had a
homey feeling to it, and Nicola sat down immediately on one of the sofas,
kicking off her elegant, but not terribly comfortable, sandals and tucking her
long legs underneath her.
She
sighed gratefully and reached for the cup of espresso that Bruno now handed
her.
Down below, in the darkened street, a shadowy figure in a
hooded black sweat suit stood half-hidden under an arching tree opposite the
apartment.
A cell phone was drawn
out of its pocket, and a low voice confirmed that Nicola and Bruno were inside
the building.
“
Yes.
I understand.
I
’
ll stay here all night if I have to.
.
.
.
What?
Of course!
I
’
ll wake you only if necessary.
Don
’
t worry.
It
’
s under
control.
”
