The Lost Catacomb (17 page)
Mariamne
’
s maidservant laid the silver-backed hairbrush down on a
nearby table, next to the open jars of sandalwood, myrrh, and lemon-scented
balm, whose soft fragrance filled the room.
“
Will there be anything else, my lady?
”
she asked
as she placed a small clay oil lamp near Mariamne
’
s bedside.
“
No,
”
Mariamne
replied.
“
Sleep
well, Domitilla,
”
she
added as the young girl left the room.
Climbing into bed, Mariamne settled herself against the
downy pillows and pulled the crimson silken coverlet up to her chin.
But sleep evaded her, as it had for so
many nights on end. She thought of the last time she had seen the Pope.
She knew she had convinced him of the
worthiness of her people and was certain that the new tax would soon be
cancelled.
But none of that explained the gentle expression, the
fleeting look of sad regret in his eyes when he bade her farewell, for what might
possibly be the last time.
Unlike
their other meetings, which had ended with a curtsey on her part and an
acknowledging bow of the head on his, he had taken her hand and looked deep
into her eyes.
In that one reckless
moment, whose recalled air of unreality still stirred her very soul, she had
thought
—
perhaps only imagined
—
that he had wished for something more, a brotherly kiss or
perhaps a tender embrace.
Her eyes glistened with tears as she thought of that lost
moment, which might never return, and fearful of being overheard by the
servants, she wept silently into her pillow for what could never be.
For her business at the papal court was all but concluded,
and Mariamne realized, in a wave of heartbroken misery, that she might never
see her beloved Benedictus again.
Four horsemen galloped apace under the cover of a starless
night, their dark faces hooded by inky cloaks that streamed out behind them in
the bitter wind. The black stallions they rode frothed at the mouth, their
hooves pounding the hilly terrain that led to the densely forested outskirts of
Ostia.
Half a mile from the slumbering port city, the riders
dismounted and made their way on foot to a thickly knotted grove of gnarled
olive and fig trees, where they left their horses and moved silently, swords in
hand, to the villa where Mariamne and her household rested tranquilly.
A few dry leaves crackled on the ground as they approached
the high stone walls surrounding the villa and climbed into the outer
courtyard.
Somewhere in the night,
an owl screeched and a wolf howled its lonely cry to the vanished moon.
“
Secure the
place,
”
the
leader growled in a low voice.
“
Kill
anyone you find, whether or not they resist.
I
’
ll look for the girl.
”
He paused for a moment to admire the rich furnishings of
Mariamne
’
s home, as he moved noiselessly down a wide corridor.
He knew that his reward for this night
’
s work
would enable him to acquire anything he had ever desired, and possibly
more.
It would not be necessary for
him to loot the villa.
Suddenly he was aware of someone standing at the end of the
hallway, outside an open door.
It
was an old man, in nightclothes, a small torch in his hand.
“
My lady,
”
the
old servant called out.
“
Is that
you? Are you all right?
Is there
anything you need?
”
The dark figure rushed forward, and the faithful Severinus
hobbled into Mariamne
’
s chamber, hoping to protect her.
A sweep of the assassin
’
s sword
severed his neck, and Severinus fell bleeding onto his mistress
’
bed, as
Mariamne shrieked over and over again in terror, scrambling to back away from
the headless corpse.
“
What do
you want with me?
”
she
pleaded hysterically.
“
What have I done?
”
“
You know
what you have done, and now you must pay,
”
he
snarled as he neared the bed.
“
Your
servants are all dead. There is no one to help you.
No one who will hear your cries.
“
And your
beloved Pope is dead too,
”
he
taunted her, as he threw down his sword and pulled a small dagger from the
depths of his inky cloak.
“
No!
”
she cried,
shrinking back into the bed as he moved towards her.
“
No!
It
’
s not
possible!
Oh, my beloved!
”
she sobbed
helplessly.
“
My true, my only love!
”
And as she collapsed in an agony of unbearable grief, the
dark figure stepped forward, and with a single, sudden thrust of his blade, he
slit her alabaster throat.
"Though lovers
be lost love shall not;
And death shall have
no dominion."
~~
Dylan
Thomas, "And Death Shall Have No Dominion"
“
I have a
person-to-person, collect call for Nicola Page.
The party placing the call is a Dr.
Sedgwick, from Mount Sinai Medical Center in New York.
Will you accept the charges?
”
an operator asked briskly as Nicola answered her cell
phone.
“
Dr.
Sedgwick?
”
Nicola
responded in a puzzled tone of voice.
“
I don
’
t know anyone by that name.
Could you ask what this is about,
please?
”
There was silence for a few moments on the other end of the
line, and then the operator returned, explaining that Dr. Sedgwick was the
attending physician in the Neurology ward at Mount Sinai and that Ms. Page
’
s phone
number and address abroad had been found in the wallet of someone named Elena
Keating.
Nicola turned pale and looked at Bruno in panic as she took
the call.
“
Ms. Page?
”
said a
businesslike female voice at the other end of the line.
“
I
’
m sorry to have caught you off guard, but your phone number
was found in Ms. Keating
’
s possession, and we assumed that you were the correct
person to contact in case of an emergency.
”
“
Oh my God,
”
Nicola
gasped.
“
What
’
s
happened?
”
“
Ms.
Keating appears to have suffered a mild cerebral hemorrhage or possibly a
myocardial infarction.
She was
found unconscious in a dressing room at Saks Fifth Avenue by one of the sales
personnel and has just been brought by ambulance to Mount Sinai.
“
Are you a
friend or a relative of hers?
”
Dr.
Sedgwick asked.
“
We need
some consent forms signed, and we
’
re not sure whom to ask.
”
“
I
’
m her
granddaughter,
”
Nicola
replied.
“
I . . .
.
I can
’
t think
straight.
Give me a second.
”
She paused and sat down awkwardly on a nearby chair.
“
Look,
”
she
continued, trying to regain some of her composure,
“
please fax
me whatever you need signed.
I
’
ll
authorize whatever
’
s necessary.
But meantime, you have my verbal consent for anything you need to
do.
And please, if she
. . . no,
. . .
when
she
wakes up, please tell her that I
’
m on my way home.
I
’
ll get a flight out of Rome as soon as I can.
”
Nicola disconnected the phone and burst into tears.
Between sobs she explained, somewhat
disjointedly, what had happened.
When Bruno had finally calmed her down, he called the travel agency used
by
“
La Sapienza
”
and
booked her on an Alitalia flight that was scheduled to leave Rome for New York
in four hours.
“
Look,
Nicola,
”
he
said, stroking her cheek gently,
“
you need to pack a few things, and you need time to get out
to Fiumicino.
Don
’
t worry
.
I
’
ll take you back to the Villa Mirafiori right now.
You
’
ll want to travel light so you don
’
t have to
wait for your luggage at JFK, and from there you can easily take a cab to the
hospital.
“
Please,
carissima,
please don
’
t cry,
”
he
said as he put his arm around her shoulder and kissed the top of her head.
She looked up at him with tears in
her eyes.
“
If you
feel that you need me, I can grab a flight to New York myself,
”
he
added.
“
All you
have to do is let me know.
You do
know that, don
’
t you?
”
he
asked, kissing her again and holding her close.
“
And I
’
ll make sure my
telefonino
is turned on, in addition
to my regular phone line.
Even
overnight.
Okay?
”
