The Lost Catacomb (5 page)
“
That sounds perfect,
Your Eminence,
”
Bruno
replied.
“
We
’
re
ready to begin work tomorrow.
I
’
ve arranged for Signor
Fossore to meet us at the Vigna Randanini and give us the keys to the catacomb
entrance, as well as floor plans and the equipment we
’
ll need to conduct our work.
”
“
Yes,
”
Rostoni answered.
“
My
secretary, I believe, has taken care of the details.
I
’
ll be expecting you to report to me or to Father
Benedetto at regular intervals.
You
can arrange an appointment through my secretary, or call Father Benedetto
directly on his extension in the Archives.
“
Of course, once you
submit a formal assessment, our legal staff will take care of it from there,
”
he concluded.
“
I trust that the
arrangements are satisfactory.
”
At
this point the Cardinal stood up, signaling the end of the interview.
As
Nicola rose from her chair, she paused to look around the room more closely,
fascinated by the richness of its d
é
cor.
The walls were of pale ivory-tinted
plaster, with molded friezes near the ceiling that looked several centuries
old.
Oil paintings rich with the
patina of age hung everywhere, and there was one small piece with a brilliant
sun blazing at its center
—
was
it a Turner?
—
in
an ornately gilded frame, resting on an easel on a small table.
On
one of the walls, strategically located away from the arc of bright sunlight
that flooded the room, hung an immense tapestry from floor to ceiling, in muted
colors, splashed here and there with darker shades of burgundy and crimson,
ocher, pale yellow and flame.
Nicola
stared at it in wonderment
—
it
reminded her of a painting, Nicholas Poussin
’
s
“
Conquest
of Jerusalem by Emperor Titus.
”
She was not only familiar with
its checkered history, but had seen a smaller version of the composition,
“
Destruction of the
Temple in Jerusalem,
”
in
the Kunsthistorische Museum in Vienna on her first trip to Austria.
Two larger canvasses by Poussin, one an
unfinished study of the work in question, had been the centerpiece of a special
exhibit of European art depicting Biblical scenes and landscapes at the Israel
Museum several years earlier.
Purely by chance, Nicola had managed to see the exhibit while on a brief
side trip to Jerusalem on her way home from a conference in Athens.
As in
the Poussin oil, a large edifice with an abundance of Ionic-type columns, alit
with flames, occupied the upper part of the tapestry.
Here and there were areas into which
golden threads, in a basket weave pattern, had been introduced.
These sections were reminiscent of the
depiction of the golden
Menorah
being pillaged from the Temple in
Poussin's painting and included some other objects, one of which was a golden
table.
A large figure on a white
battle steed dominated the lower right-hand side of the tapestry.
Crimson splotches and shadows seemed to indicate
two-dimensional blood and gore.
Fascinated,
Nicola continued to stare at the tapestry.
She wondered about its provenance.
Was it from France or Bruges?
Was it part of a series of religious themes or Biblical scenes?
Or perhaps part of a group of tapestries
depicting events in the ancient Temple in Jerusalem?
Who had commissioned it?
She wondered if there were any companion
pieces, perhaps Christ admonishing the moneylenders in the Temple.
Had the tapestry somehow inspired
Poussin
’
s
painting?
Bruno
touched her elbow lightly and cleared his throat to get her attention.
She turned towards him and realized that
Cardinal Rostoni was studying her reaction to the tapestry closely, the shadow
of a smile
—
or
was it something else?
—
on
his face.
“
Magnificent, isn
’
t it?
”
he finally remarked
neutrally.
“
Forgive me,
”
she said.
“
I
didn
’
t mean to be
rude.
It
’
s just that this tapestry is incredibly similar to a
painting on the same subject.
You
’
re familiar with
Nicholas Poussin
’
s
work, of course.
Is it just me, or
does it also remind you of Poussin
’
s
representation of the destruction of the Temple in Jerusalem by Titus?
”
Rostoni
looked at her curiously, his dark eyes seeming to narrow somewhat as he chose
his words carefully.
“
I
’
m afraid that the exact
provenance of the tapestry is as yet unknown, as is its approximate time of
manufacture, if we can call it that
—
which
is, shall we say, one of the reasons why it
’
s hanging here in my office, so that I can examine
it more closely and attempt to date it properly.
I find the challenge a source of
continual inspiration.
“
It appears to have come
from the southern part of France, probably woven by some unknown master
tapissier
from the town of La Tourette, where it was found in a stone annex to an old
church that was destroyed by fire some fifteen years ago.
It
’
s the only piece that survived.
You may have noticed the small
crest-like mark in the corner, in the selvage.
That
’
s probably the weaver
’
s guild sign, but we have no other samples of such a
mark to compare it with, so the tapestry remains a mystery.
In the meantime.
“
Are you familiar with
the other pieces we have by Poussin here at the Vatican?
”
“
Of course
—‘
The Martyrdom of
St. Erasmus,
’
in
the museum, and the altarpiece in the basilica,
”
she replied.
“
1628, to
be precise.
The altarpiece, that
is.
I hope you
’
re not testing me,
”
she added with a
nervous smile, brushing aside and twisting a long tendril of hair that had
strayed onto her forehead.
“
I see that your fine
reputation is justly deserved,
”
he said.
“
By the way, many of the
really good pieces that we have acquired over the last fifty years or so are
not even displayed in the museum.
Some of them are undergoing laborious restoration.
Many of them decorate offices such as
mine, and, of course, the papal apartments.
As you can imagine, others are so
valuable that they need to be protected in special climate-controlled rooms
that are closed to the general public; some, in fact, are in sealed vaults that
have never seen the light of day.
”
“
I hope that sometime
Professore Recanati and I might have the privilege of seeing some of these
objects,
”
Nicola
ventured tentatively.
Rostoni
regarded her closely and replied after a moment
’
s hesitation,
“
Yes, of course.
I
’
m sure it
can be arranged.
”
He
paused again before continuing.
“
I must confess that I
’
m rather intrigued by
your first name, Professoressa Page.
The way it
’
s
spelled, that is.
You do know that,
in Italian,
‘
Nicola
’
is the usual spelling
for the male variant of the name?
”
She
blushed, feeling somewhat awkward and self-conscious again.
“
Actually, you
’
re the first person to point that out to me.
I
’
ve always thought that the male version was spelled
the way Machiavelli wrote his:
‘
Niccol
ò
.
’
It never occurred to me that my
name might be somewhat gender-ambiguous, as we say back in the United
States.
I
’
ve been told that I was named for a dead relative of
my grandmother.
She was born and
raised here in Rome and immigrated to the United States after the war.
”
“
Really?
I had no idea that you were of Italian
descent,
”
he
remarked thoughtfully.
“
Must be my reddish hair
and gray eyes that are so misleading,
”
she suggested, surprised by the more personal turn their conversation
had taken and feeling slightly more comfortable than she had been until now.
“
Tiziano
’
s favorite hair color,
as I
’
m sure you
know,
”
the
Cardinal observed.
“
Yes,
”
she nodded, pushing a
lock of the aforementioned titian-colored hair behind her ear.
“
I
’
m told that I look a
lot like my grandmother did at my age, except for my coloring, and her
ancestors were Italian through and through.
”
He
scrutinized her once more and then turned to Father Benedetto, narrowing his
eyes slightly.
“
Perhaps our guests
would like a tour of the gardens, Francesco.
Would you kindly escort them?
”
Realizing
that they had now been dismissed, Bruno and Nicola thanked the Cardinal for his
time and promised to keep him abreast of all developments.
They left the office and followed Father
Benedetto out of the suite of offices and down the long corridor.
Cardinal
Rostoni, in the meantime, returned to his desk, sat down, and propped his
elbows on its polished surface.
Resting his chin on his hands distractedly, he nearly scratched himself
on the large golden ring with a crested amethyst that adorned his finger.
Could it be possible?
he asked himself over and over again,
his gaunt hand now clenching his heavy pectoral cross in a nearly unconscious
gesture.
Perhaps it
’
s only my imagination.
Lost
in thought, he stared off into space, looking momentarily perturbed when his
secretary knocked on the door.
“
Not now, Giampaolo.
I
’
m busy,
”
he said impatiently.
“
But,
”
the secretary tried to
insist,
“
you have
an important phone call.
”
“
I told you, not
now.
I am not to be disturbed,
”
came the cold reply.
They left the Apostolic Palace and Father Benedetto led
Nicola and Bruno out into the gardens, a seemingly endless expanse that covered
a surprising fifty-seven square acres of space.
The grounds were in the full bloom of
summer, landscaped with carefully manicured grass that was interspersed with
marble statuary and other ancient archaeological fragments.
Maze-like shrubbery had been
pruned to replicate the personal emblem of the current pope, and a multitude of
colorful flowers
—
some
indigenous to Italy, others of a more exotic variety
—
filled the air with their rich perfume.
The majestic cupola of San Pietro could
be seen in all of its glorious detail from most vantage points.
As the three of them went deeper into the gardens, lofty
umbrella pines, rugged oaks, and centuries-old specimen trees towered overhead,
shading them from the piercing heat of the morning sun.
Their feet crunched softly on a
white-pebbled path as Father Benedetto led them towards a rocky moss-covered
grotto, where the unexpected gush of water from a massive fountain cooled the
air and sprinkled their faces with a fine, refreshing mist.
Turning to face Nicola and Bruno, Father Benedetto now asked,
“
Should I leave
the two of you here to enjoy the gardens for a while?
The Pope doesn't come out here until
early afternoon for his customary walk after lunch, so you'll have at least an
hour or so to explore before you need to leave
—
for security reasons of course.
But if you prefer, I can take you
on a tour of the Archives.
”
“
That
sounds nice.
I think we've probably
seen enough of the gardens already,
”
Nicola said.
“
Is that okay with you,
Bruno?
”
About an hour later, as they left the Archives, skirting the
Apostolic Palace, Nicola turned to Bruno and after some silent deliberation
confided,
“
I think
I should share something with you.
I'm not sure how to say this, but I had the impression
—
the distinct
impression, I have to say
—
when
we were introduced to Cardinal Rostoni, that there was something about me that
disturbed him.
Or that he didn
’
t quite approve
of.
I don
’
t know how to explain it.
Just something I sensed when we walked
into his office.
”
“
You
know, I didn
’
t
pick up on that,
”
Bruno
reflected slowly, in puzzlement.
“
But
maybe he was just surprised to see how young you are
—
or how young we both are, given our respective
publication records.
At the risk of
sounding immodest, I think we both know we
’
ve achieved more than most of our colleagues have at
this stage in our careers.
Maybe he
was just expecting us to look older and more experienced.
”
Her brow furrowed in thought as she considered this
possibility.
“
Look,
Nicola,
”
he
continued, not waiting for her to respond,
“
the outcome of this case is extremely important to
the Vatican.
It
’
s not just a matter of
who gains legal control of the catacomb and its artifacts.
It
’
s also a matter of pride
—
and even saving face
—
for the Church.
Although you
are
Catholic, you
’
re not Italian, so it
’
s something you wouldn
’
t necessarily be
sensitive to.
Even after all these
years, since the signing of the Lateran Treaty, the Church still hasn
’
t become used to
—
or fully accepted
—
the loss of its
temporal power in Italy.
“
I
wouldn
’
t worry,
though
”
he said,
patting her shoulder reassuringly.
“
We
’
ll be fine.
”
“
I
hope you
’
re right,
”
she said with a
perceptible sigh, though she continued to look troubled.
“
Maybe
I
’
m just being
paranoid.
”
Meanwhile, high above the gardens, a heavy length of drapery
was silently pulled to one side, and a black-garbed figure peered out of a tall
mullioned window, half hidden in the shadows.
The curtain rustled quietly and then
closed.
