The Lucifer Gospel (12 page)

Five minutes later Finn reappeared and got back into the car.

“So?” asked Hilts.

“Believe it or not, his name was Alberto Pacino and he insisted on doing bad imitations from
Scarface
in an Italian accent.”

“So other than saying hello to his little friend, did you find out anything?”

“I didn’t say hello to his little friend, but I found out who the resident history guy is in the town. His name is Signore Abramo Vergadora. He’s a retired professor and he lives in a place called Villa Embreo Errante, a few miles north.

“Embreo Errante?”

“The Wandering Jew,” translated Finn.

Signore Vergadora’s villa was located in a pleasant shaded valley between two of the seemingly endless number of rocky hills that rose throughout the area like overgrown piles of discarded dirt thrown up by some gigantic dog searching for an old buried bone. Unlike most of the valleys they’d driven through, this one actually seemed capable of growing something. The villa was located in an olive grove, and off to one side a brook meandered pleasantly through the trees. The villa itself was reasonably modest and very old, yellowed stucco peeling away from ancient stone, the deep windows covered with wrought-iron gratings, the roof dusty red with terra-cotta tiles, a central tower in front standing guard above the rest of the sprawling building.

Finn parked in front of the main door, and she and Hilts climbed out of the car and into the bright, warm sunlight. Finn could hear the brook now, babbling quietly to itself, and the afternoon breeze rustling through the poplars that stood around the house like sentries, much taller than the gnarled grove of olives that might have been here as long as the house, perhaps centuries.

They stood in front of the heavy planked front door and Finn pulled the bell chain. From somewhere deep inside the villa there was a faint tinkling sound and then the shuffle of approaching feet. A moment later the door creaked open and a face appeared: an Italian J.R.R. Tolkien wearing a yarmulke pinned to unruly silver hair, drooping bags beneath twinkling eyes, and rosy cheeks forced down by time and gravity on either side of an almost feminine mouth that looked as though it rarely frowned. The man had bright red reading glasses perched on his forehead and wore a brown corduroy suit much too warm for the summer, complete with vest, white shirt and tie, the vest decorated with a fob and chain that spanned a moderate belly. He wore purple velvet bedroom slippers.

“Ah,” he said happily, “you are the American couple.”

“How’d you know that?” Hilts asked.

“Alberto called me from the
Municipio,
” the old man answered, still smiling. “That one thinks every American is a Hollywood producer looking for new stars.” He stepped aside and gestured them forward. “Come in, please. My name is Abramo Vergadora.”

Vergadora took them through several high-ceilinged underfurnished rooms, finally ushering them into what was obviously his sanctum sanctorum, a library, the walls lined with overflowing bookshelves, the stone floor covered with overlapping Persian carpets. The room was laid out with a dozen chairs and couches, with more tables and chairs piled high with books and more stacks on the floor. The whole room smelled of paper, leather, cigar smoke and ash from the gigantic fireplace that stood in the corner. Finn stopped. Carved into the mantel of the fireplace was the same coat of arms she’d seen on Pedrazzi’s ring and on the corner of the ancient handkerchief that had been wrapped around the gold medallion.

“That’s the arms of the Pedrazzi family,” she said.

Vergadora looked at her curiously.

“No, it’s not,” he said. “But it is extraordinary that you should know it at all.”

“It is the coat of arms Lucio Pedrazzi used,” she insisted.

“True, but not one that the Pedrazzi family had any right to,” Vergadora replied quietly. “But before we get into any further discussions, perhaps I can offer you coffee, or tea? Lemonade? A soft drink? I only drink Dr Pepper, I’m afraid.” The old man’s smile widened even more. “Or perhaps something stronger. A martini? Brandy Alexander? They are the only two American drinks I know how to make, and sadly I am without domestic help with the exception of the old woman who does my laundry on Thursdays.”

“Coffee would be nice,” said Finn.

“Sure,” said Hilts with a nod.

“Wonderful.” Vergadora beamed. He turned and scuttled away, his bedroom slippers whispering into the distance.

“He’s a nut bar,” said Hilts. “A nice nut bar, but a nut bar nevertheless.”

“I prefer the word ‘eccentric,’ ” Finn said and smiled. She began wandering along the rows of books.

“He’s got everything here from Dante’s
Inferno
to
The Stand
by Stephen King.”

“Not such a leap when you think about it,” Hilts said, dropping down into one of the comfortable leather armchairs. He watched Finn continue her inspection of the bookshelves. “What do you think about the Pedrazzi thing?”

“I can’t wait to hear his explanation,” said Finn.

“He’s Jewish,” mused Hilts. “That’s a bit strange.”

“The villa’s called the Wandering Jew. Historically there’ve been Jews in Italy for thousands of years.”

“Not something you hear about much.”

“Fiorello La Guardia was an Italian Jew. Modigliani, the sculptor, was a Jew. I think the guy who invented the Olivetti typewriter was Jewish.”

“He was. His name was Camilo Olivetti.” Vergadora came back into the room carrying a tray. In addition to the coffee there was a single budding rose in a slim, porcelain vase. He set the tray down on a table.

“I knew his son, Adriano, quite well,” the old man continued. “We spent the war in Lausanne together pretending to be exiles. If he hadn’t been so wealthy he would have been a communist, I’m positive.”

He paused, his smile wistful. “Did you know they are the only company that still manufactures manual typewriters? I find that a comfort in a world where people have things called BlackBerries instead of address books and computers are named after fruit.” He smiled at Finn. “Cream? Sugar?”

“Black,” she said.

“Both,” said Hilts.

Vergadora poured, then handed the cups around as Finn took a seat across the table from him.

“Tell me about Pedrazzi and the coat of arms,” said Finn.

“Tell me why you wish to know,” Vergadora replied.

Hilts answered. “A few days ago we found his dried-up corpse in a cave in the Libyan Desert. Someone had shot him in the head.”

“How wonderful,” the old man said and beamed again. “An end devoutly to be wished. He was truly an evil man.” He took a sip of coffee and squinted at the rose. He adjusted the single stalk fractionally. “Did you find the remains of that
busone
DeVaux, as well?”

“No, Pedrazzi’s body had been hidden away in an old ossuary,” said Finn. “The only other remains were some British soldiers from years later.”

“Pity. As a rabbi I’m supposed to be above that sort of thinking, but sometimes I just can’t help thinking that some people should have been strangled at birth, Pierre DeVaux being very high on my list.”

“You still haven’t explained about the coat of arms,” Finn prodded.

“What were you doing in the middle of the Libyan Desert?”

“Do you always answer questions by asking them?” asked Hilts.

“It’s a rabbinical thing, a bad habit, but useful.” Vergadora offered up one of his gentle smiles. “It gives an old man time to think. I’m not quite as sharp as you young people.”

“Yeah, right.”

“The coat of arms?” insisted Finn.

“Three hands holding crescents, three palm trees, and a lion rampant. Nothing particularly Hebraic about that in Pedrazzi’s limited brain except that the duchy of Lorro, which was centered roughly where the olive grove is outside my door, used to belong to my family, the Duca di Levi Vergadora Ibn Lorro being the original holder of the title granted by the Lombard kings in the twelfth century. If Pedrazzi had done his research he would have realized that crescents, palms, and open hands were all indicators of the Jewish faith in heraldry. I was the last duke of Lorro, not that Italian titles meant much by then in any real sense, but in 1938 Mussolini decided to follow Hitler’s path and Jews became persona non grata for a time. I was living outside of Italy by then, but in absentia they stripped me of the title, this house, and what land was left. It was given to Pedrazzi as a gift by Il Duce himself. Pedrazzi took his dukedom very seriously; he had the crest put on everything.”

“You went to Switzerland, Lausanne,” offered Finn.

“And then America after the war, then Canada, then Israel for a time. But I am as much Italian as I am a Jew, and I became homesick. I heard that the villa was for sale and I purchased what had once been mine. Pedrazzi had named it for himself, but I erased that as well.”

“The Wandering Jew comes home,” Hilts said and grinned.

“Something like that.” Vergadora nodded. He finished his coffee and set the cup back on the tray. He sat back in his chair, dug into his pocket for an old briar pipe, and lit it using a kitchen match he took from the other pocket and struck with his thumbnail. The old man puffed, the pipe sucking with a noisy gurgle. He looked more like Tolkien than ever. “So,” he said, once the pipe was fuming and sending up clouds of aromatic smoke toward the nicotine-colored ceiling. “You seemed surprised to see my family crest over the fireplace, ergo, that is not the reason you came here. Since you are American and have recently been in the Libyan Desert, I can only presume that you were part of that buffoon Rolf Adamson’s so-called archaeological expedition that has been so much in the news of late. Yes?”

“So-called?” said Finn.

“Rolf Adamson has the somewhat limited archaeological credentials of a man digging a cesspool in his back garden.”

“I can see you don’t mind sharing your opinions,” Hilts said with a laugh.

“Archaeology is serious business, young man,” said Vergadora, using the stem of his pipe to emphasize the point. “As somebody once said, the blueprint of the past often provides a road map for the future.”

“If you don’t know where you’ve been, how can you know where you’re going?” Hilts responded.

It was the old man’s turn to laugh.

“He who forgets the past is doomed to repeat it.”

“How about this one—‘Archaeology is the search for fact… not truth. If it’s truth you’re looking for, Dr. Tyree’s philosophy class is right down the hall,’ ” Hilts quoted.

“Now you’re making fun of me,” puffed Vergadora, laughing even harder.

“You’re both crazy,” said Finn. She reached into her pocket, took out the old cigarette tin, and slid it across the table toward the white-haired old man. He looked at the picture of the woman on the lid for a moment, then popped open the tin. Pedrazzi’s old handkerchief had been replaced by a square of cotton batten from a drugstore. Vergadora stared at the gleaming medallion, then carefully turned it over and looked at the obverse side.

“This is the reason we came to Venosa,” said Finn.

“Oh dear,” the old man murmured.

“Oh dear?”

“Young Luciferus Africanus and his mythical legion.”

“Mythical?”

“There is very little factual evidence that he ever existed, let alone his legion. When Rome fell, so did its bureaucracy, I’m afraid. There are scattered references here and there, but not much more than a hint. He was a legionary in Judea at the time of Jesus, that much is known. Some credit him as being the Roman who guarded Christ’s tomb and witnessed the Resurrection. Others credit him as the source for Lloyd C. Douglas’s novel
The Robe
. He’s also supposed to be the man who led the Lost Legion into the desert, and Almasy thought he was the source of the legends about the blond, blue-eyed men who were the guardians of Zerzura.”

“In other words he’s anyone you want him to be.”

“Basically, yes.” He glanced at the medallion again. “Although this would seem to take him out of the realm of myth… if it’s genuine.”

“How can you tell if it’s the real thing?” Hilts asked.

“Difficult,” the old man said and shrugged. “Gold is extremely hard to date accurately. Someone melting down gold objects from the appropriate era and using Roman gravity casting methods from the time period would have little difficulty forging such an object.”

“It was in Pedrazzi’s pocket when we found his body.”

“So much for provenance then,” the old man said, snorting. “If ever there was a man who could rightfully be charged with falsifying data, it would be him.” He shook his head. “On top of that there are the other legends.”

“What other legends?”

“The legends of the Luciferians and the Lucifer Gospel.”

“The Luciferians?” Finn asked.

“Sounds devilish,” said Hilts.

“Please,” sighed Finn.

“The Luciferians were a schismatic group within the Catholic Church during the late fourth century. They followed the teachings of a man named Lucifer Calaritanus, who was a bishop in Sardinia. Lucifer had once been a follower of Arius, a quite important theologian who argued that Christ was not part of the godhead but only a mortal expression of it. Some people, Pedrazzi included, thought that Luciferus Africanus was the namesake of Lucifer Calaritanus, the bishop. There’s a lot of Freemasonry and idiocy about the Knights Templar involved, which Pedrazzi embraced fervently of course, since much of it was the mythic foundations of Nazism. All that silliness with Beowulf and Wagner and the
Übermensch
. Your friend Pedrazzi even thought there was a connection between Arius the heretic and ‘Aryan,’ the racial term invented by lunatics like the Frenchman, the conte de Gobineau, and his English friend Houston Stewart Chamberlain.”

“Never heard of either one,” Hilts said.

“Hitler did. He used Gobineau’s
An Essay on the Inequality of the Human Races
as a blueprint for
Mein Kampf
and the Final Solution. It described the concept of a concentration camp perfectly, among other things. The French may have invented the idea of Liberty, Equality and Brotherhood, but sadly it was a Frenchman, not a German, who also invented Nazism, I’m afraid. Chamberlain was one on his acolytes. He came up with an amusing theory that Christ was somehow not Jewish. Hitler called his good friend Herr Chamberlain the Prophet of the Reich.”