The Lost Catacomb (3 page)
Nicola deplaned with the other business class passengers at
Fiumicino and began to walk towards the baggage claim area.
Even the large glass of Lambrusco that
she
’
d had with
dinner on the flight to Rome had failed to relax her or help her sleep.
She was still taken aback
—
stunned, if she
were really honest with herself
—
by
Matt
’
s admission
that he wanted something more than friendship with her, especially after so
many years.
The truth was that she'd never thought of him in quite that
way, even though he was witty, considerate, and had the rugged good looks and
muscular build of a football player.
She was always so comfortable with him, and they had so much in common
professionally.
What more could she
possibly want, if she considered it objectively?
She thought of all the times when Matt had put what she'd
assumed to be a fraternal arm around her or greeted her with a friendly kiss on
the cheek.
Now she realized that
those gestures might not have been as casual as she'd always supposed.
When had his feelings for her changed?
She guessed that he'd finally had the courage to speak,
knowing full well that her upcoming trip to Italy would provide the necessary
time and distance for her to confront the true tenor of her feelings.
And, perhaps more importantly, that it
would blunt the edge of any potential embarrassment should she decide that
friendship was enough.
Yes, she would give it some thought, or more accurately, she
would try to decide whether her deep-seated fear of losing those she allowed
herself to love was the real issue here.
She had kept so many potential lovers literally at arm
’
s length over the
years, telling herself that the chemistry was wrong or that she had no time for
a serious relationship.
With two
notable exceptions
—
one
of which had been a cause for deep regret at her foolishness in dropping her
guard
—
she
had been focused on other things.
Her career, her publications, and a few close friends had filled the
empty spaces in her life in an emotionally nonthreatening way.
Now as she exited passport control, distracted by the turmoil
of her thoughts, she saw that someone was actually waiting for her, holding up
a large sign that read
“
Professoressa
Page
”
in bold
letters.
She had not expected to be
met at the airport and, in any case, was perfectly comfortable making her own
way to the university guesthouse.
In fact, she'd been to Rome so many times that she could give any taxi
driver directions to almost any area in the city
—
and in fluent Italian, thanks to Elena's
insistence, throughout her childhood, that she learn to speak a second
language.
She looked intently at the tall broad-shouldered figure
holding the sign.
He appeared to be
around her age, thirty-two, or perhaps a few years older, with curly black
hair, dark brown eyes, and an olive complexion.
He was dressed casually in chinos and a
perfectly pressed open-necked shirt, but with the elegance so typical of many
of the Italians she
’
d
met in the past, who knew the importance of
fare una bella figura
—
of looking good,
no matter what the occasion.
She
surveyed her own rather creased beige linen slacks with a sense of dismay,
feeling uncomfortably rumpled.
As she approached, he extended a hand and asked in perfect, though
slightly accented English,
“
Professoressa
Page?
I
’
m Bruno Recanati, from
‘
La Sapienza.
’
Here, let me help you with that
bag.
”
“
What
a nice surprise,
”
Nicola
replied, shaking his hand firmly, thinking to herself that based on his
extensive publication record she had assumed he would be much older, not young
and surprisingly handsome.
Gratefully surrendering her heavy tote bag, she added,
“
Thank you so much.
I really didn
’
t expect this.
”
Early the next morning, Nicola waited for Bruno on the broad
cobble-stoned driveway in front of the Villa Mirafiori, the guesthouse at
“
La Sapienza.
”
Both she and Bruno had been
offered a generous sum of money by the Pontifical Commission of Sacred
Archaeology and an agent of the Marchesa to cover their work and all associated
expenses.
Nicola, in particular,
had been pleased to see in the letter of invitation that she was free to make
her own travel arrangements, including the choice of an airline, and to take
care of her own hotel accommodations.
She could economize or spend it all wildly, as she pleased.
While she was being paid more than enough to book a room in
almost any good hotel for the duration of her stay
—
well, perhaps not the Hassler, she reflected
with a sigh
—
Bruno
had recommended that she stay in one of the comfortably furnished apartments at
the Villa.
Usually these were
reserved for university guests, and though, strictly speaking, she was visiting
Rome under the aegis of the Vatican and the Marchesa, she had agreed to give a
lecture or two for Bruno
’
s
department in order to make herself an official guest of
“
La Sapienza
”
as well.
Situated near the Philosophy Department and shielded from the
street by a massive brick wall and heavy iron gate, the Villa Mirafiori was a
squat two-storey brick building, nestled between lofty deciduous trees and
dense shrubbery.
A century earlier
it had served as quarters for the servants and household staff of the mistress
of King Vittorio Emanuele II.
Beyond the campus walls, to the right of the Villa, along the wide
tree-lined Via Nomentana, stood the heavily guarded Russian embassy, surrounded
by carefully tended gardens and a formidable wrought-iron fence.
Further down the street lay the Villa Torlonia,
Mussolini's residence during World War II and the location of Jewish catacombs
that had been closed to the public for years in the wake of noxious gases that
had seeped into its dangerously crumbling network of crypts.
Now making their way towards Vatican City, Nicola and Bruno
left the car along the Via della Conciliazione, the wide boulevard traversing
the long sight line between Castel Sant
’
Angelo,
the darkly imposing fortress that had sheltered popes over the centuries during
tumultuous times, and the massive cupola of San Pietro, gleaming white in the
distance.
The boulevard was
lined with spotless shops that stocked the usual Vatican-inspired souvenirs and
books, as well as the ubiquitous silk scarves sold all over Rome that hung from
revolving display racks.
Small groups of Black African vendors, hawking Gucci, Prada, and Louis
Vuitton knock-offs, stood along the sidewalk, their wares dangling on their
arms like so many large leather bangles.
Bruno and Nicola had deliberately arrived an hour early for
their appointment at the office of the Pontifical Commission for Sacred
Archaeology and sat down in a small caf
é
to discuss details of their project over a leisurely breakfast, since
Nicola had admitted that she was surprisingly anxious about this initial
meeting with Cardinal Rostoni, who held the most senior position at both the
Pontifical Commission and the Vatican Museums.
Historically speaking, as Bruno now explained, these two
positions were not generally filled by the same individual, but Rostoni
’
s credentials were such
that he was the natural choice for both
—“
until
further notice.
”
The late director of the
Commission had died suddenly of a massive cerebral hemorrhage only four months
ago, and Rostoni had been called in to take his place temporarily while
retaining his post at the
Musei Vaticani.
With advanced degrees in art history
from the
Pontificia Istituto di Archeologia Cristiana
, he was the
obvious choice, especially now that the Holy See found itself embroiled in a
certain amount of legal intricacy in the wake of the new catacomb
discovery.
Rostoni was currently
responsible for all of the assistant curators and restoration experts who
worked in both divisions.
“
You
see,
”
Bruno told
Nicola, as he led her towards a small corner table covered with a blue and
white checked cloth,
“
Cardinal
Rostoni has been around for a long time.
He has a great deal of political clout and far-reaching contacts within
the Italian government after years of service in the Curia.
“
It
’
s rumored that he had
great influence on political tides at the Vatican during World War II and even
greater influence on the Pope himself.
But that might be nothing more than undocumented speculation.
”
“
Dio
!
I didn
’
t realize we were going to meet with someone so
powerful.
That is the correct
adjective, isn
’
t
it?
”
she
interjected, a perceptibly nervous edge to her voice.
“
I simply assumed he was just a very fine curator and
experienced art expert, not a towering political force of some sort.
”
Bruno smiled in amusement.
“
Well, Nicola, it seems that Rostoni was a distant
relative of the Duce's wife and that probably accounted for his meteoric rise
in Curia circles.
As I'm sure
you know, Mussolini was kind of your basic serial adulterer, and some believe
that Rostoni's appointment as personal assistant to Pius was a way of placating
Rachele Mussolini.
And so Rostoni
apparently found himself in charge of many ecclesiastical affairs and soon
became indispensable to the Holy Father.
“
Anyway,
I
’
m rambling on,
and our cappuccino needs some attention,
”
he said as a waiter placed a tray on the
table.
“
Before it turns too
cold to enjoy.
”
Nicola took a sip of her coffee and remarked thoughtfully,
“
I'm amazed that you
know so much about that period, Bruno.
It's not exactly early Empire.
”
“
Actually
it's one of my hobbies,
”
he
admitted, shrugging his well-muscled shoulders.
“
That
is, research on the Church during World War II.
”
Nicola looked at him in puzzlement.
“
Really?
Why?
”
“
Well,
my parents barely managed to survive the German occupation of Rome
—
or rather, they
survived it almost miraculously.
I
’
ll tell
you the story some other time, if you
’
re
interested.
The point is that this
is a way for me to understand the terrible hardships they went through,
especially since they don
’
t
like to talk about it much
—
apart
from the bare facts of where they hid during the war.
”
Nicola grew silent, thinking about her grandmother's stubborn
refusal to mention anything at all about the war or her life in Italy, but
decided that she didn
’
t
know Bruno well enough yet to share this with him.
Maybe later. Maybe when they finished
their analysis of the crypt she would confide in him and enlist his help.
If anyone could help her uncover her
Italian roots, she had a feeling it would be Bruno.
