The Lost Catacomb (8 page)
“
In the
meantime, let
’
s take a closer look at the two sarcophagi,
”
he said.
Unlike the other graves in this particular crypt, these
were the only two coffins resting in the niches of the wall.
All the other recesses had been bricked
up, covered by simple marble plaques bearing only vague clues attesting to the
identity of those long gone sleepers in the dust.
Both sarcophagi had apparently been made
of polished marble, which had become slightly pitted with the passage of time,
though their strigilated, decoratively etched surfaces still bore the markings
of the craftsman
’
s skill.
While most sarcophagi were purchased ready-made from a
local stonemason, with additional engravings or carvings custom ordered, these
two were particularly remarkable in the richness of their ornamentation.
Their lids were embellished with
identical medallions, or a
clipeus
, at the center, displaying an
elaborately intertwined crucifix and Star of David, with the Hebrew word
Shalom
—
שלום
—
etched
underneath.
Hesitating only briefly, Nicola turned to Bruno and asked,
“
I know
this might sound kind of creepy, but do you think we should try to move the
lids of the sarcophagi?
I know they
’
re very
heavy, but maybe there
’
s something important inside.
I mean, besides the bones.
Maybe something hidden with the bodies
that will help us identify who
’
s buried here.
”
Bruno looked at her in disbelief.
“
You can
’
t be serious, Nicola.
Please tell me you
’
re kidding.
”
“
Come on,
Bruno,
”
she
tried to insist.
“
By now
there should be nothing left inside but dry bones.
Even if the bodies were embalmed
all those years ago, it
’
s not as if we
’
re going to find a mummy or anything.
”
“
Okay,
”
he finally
said.
“
I
’
ll help
you look inside.
But not
today.
And not before lunch, which
by the way, is long overdue,
”
he
added, glancing at the luminous dial of his watch and noting that it was
already three o
’
clock in the afternoon.
“
All right,
”
she
conceded with a rueful smile.
“
I wouldn
’
t want to
spoil your appetite.
But can we at
least have a closer look at the iconography on the plaques outside the crypt
before we leave?
Please?
”
she
begged.
“
Maybe
there
’
s something there that
’
s been overlooked.
Something that might indicate some sort of corroborative symbology.
Or maybe something pointing to another
carefully concealed chamber behind the
loculi
.
”
“
Okay, I
suppose that would be a good idea,
”
he
agreed somewhat reluctantly.
“
We
’
re already down here, so we might as well begin now.
I guess lunch can wait.
”
As they paced the corridor leading away from the crypt,
flashlights and magnifying glasses in hand, they examined its roughly textured
walls with meticulous care, one small section at a time, to see if anything
might require treatment with an antiscaling agent to remove salt crystals and
other degradation products on the surface.
“
I
’
m going
back inside to get the barium peroxide and ammonium carbonate,
”
Nicola
said.
“
I
’
d like to
try to clean the surface of the
tufa
near the entrance to the
chamber.
Maybe you can dry brush
some of the areas first, so the solvents will work more quickly.
”
After half an hour of painstaking effort, Nicola thought
she saw a glint of silvery-looking metal between two of the bricks, several
feet away from the entrance to the
hypogeum
.
Covered in layers of crumbling mortar,
centuries of dust, and chemical deposits, it was barely noticeable.
“
Look,
Bruno,
”
she
called out.
“
There
seems to be something buried in the wall, over here, next to one of the fake
loculi
.
”
Carefully they brushed the surface again and slowly abraded
the margin of the bricks to reveal something wedged inside that looked like a
small hand on a long sculpted stick.
“
I wonder
what that could be,
”
Nicola
said.
“
Do you
think it might be a toy?
Like a
rattle?
Maybe something that was
cemented into the wrong place, by accident?
After all, we
’
ve seen
quite a few children
’
s graves along the way that are decorated with dolls.
”
Gingerly, Bruno pulled out the object with a pair of flat
tweezers.
He turned it over in the
palm of his own hand and shone the flashlight on it.
“
It appears
to be made of silver,
”
he
observed as he examined it more closely.
“
And the handle has filigree detail around the base.
I
’
m not sure why it didn
’
t tarnish completely.
I guess it was protected from oxidization by the mortar and dust that
covered it.
In any event, it
’
s
definitely not a toy.
It looks like
a
yad
, the pointer used for reading from the Torah scroll on the
Sabbath.
“
But what I
don
’
t understand is, what it
’
s doing
here.
The
yad
as ritual
object dates from several centuries after the provenance of this catacomb.
”
He held it closer to the flashlight.
“
Look at this, Nicola,
”
he
said in puzzlement.
“
If I
’
m not
mistaken, there seems to be something written on it in Hebrew letters.
”
He polished the surface gently with a soft microfiber cloth
and read the inscription to her,
“
Hey, reish, nun, bet
—
ה
,
ר
,
נ
,
ב
.
It doesn
’
t spell an
actual Hebrew word, or at least not any word that I
’
m familiar
with.
I wonder what it could be.
”
He turned it over again, examining it from several angles,
determined to figure out what it could possibly mean.
“
Wait a
minute!
”
he
exclaimed suddenly.
“
Maybe it
’
s a Hebrew
date or some sort of
gematriya
equivalent.
”
“
Gematriya
?
”
Nicola
asked.
“
What
’
s
that?
I
’
ve never
heard of the term.
”
“
Well,
”
Bruno
explained,
“
gematriya
is an ancient Greek word that
describes the substitution of letters of the Hebrew alphabet for specific
numerical values, so that the numerical equivalent of the letters would be
. . . let
’
s see . .
.
‘
5, 200,
50, and 2.
’
“
If this is
supposed to be a year in the Hebrew calendar
—
which,
according to Jewish tradition, dates from the time of the creation of the world
—
then
it would be equivalent to the year 5252.
Maybe that
’
s when the
yad
was fashioned,
”
he
reflected out loud.
“
But that
would be ridiculous,
”
he
said, frowning.
“
That
’
s
centuries after these catacombs were excavated and in active use.
There must be something here that I just
don
’
t understand.
Some sort of symbolic meaning that I
’
m just not
picking up on.
”
He placed the object back into the narrow slit between the
bricks and turned to Nicola, his brow furrowed in thought.
“
Unless,
”
he
said slowly, his voice tinged with disbelief as he turned toward her,
“
unless we
convert the Hebrew year to its secular calendar equivalent.
Which would be 1492
—
the
year of the Spanish Inquisition.
”
“
But that
’
s impossible.
It makes no sense,
”
Nicola
countered.
“
No sense
at all.
”
“
I
know.
What would an object dating
from the 15
th
century be doing in this catacomb?
”
The sun was still shining brightly outdoors, in glorious
contrast to the dankness and gloom of the catacombs, and Bruno proposed that
they spend what was left of the day along the Via Appia Antica.
As they drove towards a nearby outdoor
caf
é
, they passed a series of villas that were set back from
the road behind tall brick walls and heavy iron gates, for maximum
privacy.
Lush fields dotted with a
riot of wildflowers bordered the estates, surrounded by crumbling walls of rock
and mortar, ancient relics of the imperial Roman Empire.
The cylindrical tower marking the tomb
of the Roman matron, Cecilia Metella, could be seen a short distance away.
“
By the
way, Nicola,
”
Bruno
remarked,
“
not everyone aspires to live in one of these villas.
The municipal property taxes here are so
high that some of the owners actually rent out their grounds for weddings and
other large parties, from time to time, just to ensure a means of extra income
to cover the cost of
la dolce vita
along the Via Appia.
”
“
Are you
serious?
”
Nicola
asked.
“
That
’
s
unbelievable.
But I can see why
people would find this area an unusually picturesque setting for a celebration.
”
Bruno now eased his car into a small parking space, just
before the roughly cobble-stoned area of the Via Appia Antica began.
“
A friend of mine once tried to drive his car
—
one
of those jeeps actually, with four-wheel drive
—
along the
road and blew out all of his tires,
”
Bruno
explained as they left the car.
“
So this is as close as we
’
re going.
”
They entered the patio of the caf
é
, which
was surrounded by tall pine trees, and sat down at a small table shaded by a
striped umbrella and overarching pergola.
A few minutes later, a stocky silver-haired man in sunglasses,
apparently a tourist, sat down at a table to their left.
He gave the waitress his order and began
to peruse a copy of
Der Spiegel
before he was interrupted by the ringing
of his cell phone.
He took the
call, speaking briefly in barely audible Swiss-German.
Between sips of his espresso, he glanced
casually at Nicola and Bruno several times and then returned to the reading of
his newspaper.
Sensing that someone had been watching her, Nicola put her
menu down.
She looked at the
stranger and frowned in puzzlement, wondering what he found so interesting
about her and Bruno.
But then she
decided that he was probably just enjoying a respite under the rustic pergola,
whose softly scented flowering vines filtered the strong sunlight.
An hour later, refreshed by this respite
—
and
by several badly needed cups of espresso and
ciabatta
sandwiches
—
Bruno
suggested that they drive over to the nearby Ardeatine Caves.
Though Nicola had been to the Via Appia
on countless occasions, she had never actually visited the caves, though she
was aware of their history and significance for most Italians.
Her attention had always been drawn by
the ancient archaeological highlights of Rome
—
crypts and
basilicas, churches and museums
—
not by more recent historical monuments to the dead.
In fact, she had passed by the
Fosse
Ardeatine
many times, but had done nothing more than take a quick glance,
noting their location for future reference, when and if she could make time for
them.
“
Yes,
Bruno,
”
she
said.
“
I would
like to see them.
I
’
m kind of
embarrassed that I never really made the effort before.
Thanks for suggesting it.
”
As they got up from the table, Nicola noticed that the
stranger was still seated at his table, now sipping a glass of wine absently,
his bowl of pasta largely untouched.
He signaled the waitress and asked for his bill.
