Roman Ice

by Dave Bartell

  Assistant Volcanologist to Georges Julius Poulett Scrope

  “The letters that your grand-père wrote are in this section here.” She pointed. “I don’t know why we never met. He seemed so intent on getting the answers.”

  “Tell me why you saved these notes all these years,” said Darwin. He decided her comment was the forgetful memory of an older person.

  “When I was a girl we had so little, and the tenants in the building could not afford rent, so my parents worked day and night to support the family. They left me on my own. One day I found this notebook in a box of old things. My father did not know much about it other than to say it was his grand-père’s.”

  “I did not like school, and so I took the book and pretended I was a volcanologist like my grand-père. I went on my little explorations, but found nothing on Puy de Dôme. They destroyed so much of Scrope’s work in the rush to build the tourist road after finding the Temple of Mercury.”

  “But there is a curious section near the end of the journal where he writes about a tunnel beneath the old cathedral,” she continued.

  “The black one?” asked Darwin, referring to the massive gothic Cathédrale Notre Dame de l’Assomption de Clermont-Ferrand, which was built of blocks cut from the surrounding black lava.

  “Yes, that one. So beautiful,” she said. “He wrote about a cave under the crypt and being called there one day after a cave-in during an internment. He describes a deep tunnel, but the priests would not let him explore any farther.”

  Darwin sat straighter. This was what he wanted to hear.

  “In my teens, I tried to get in the crypt with my friend Marcel, who was an altar boy and later became a priest. We could not find a way in. Years later Marcel wrote and said he had found a book that mentioned the tunnel and the wall. I was living in Paris and he said he would show it to me when I came home for a holiday.”

  She brought her hands to her mouth and looked out the window. Her eyes filled with tears.

  “Grand-Mère! Are you okay?” asked Marc.

  “Yes, yes. I’m fine. This was all so long ago.” She dabbed her eyes with a napkin.

  “The Nazis invaded and Marcel was gone by the time I returned. I never saw him again. No one knows what happened to him.”

  “I’m so sorry,” said Darwin.

  “Thank you. He was such a nice man…” She paused, and then added, “Will you please do me a favor?”

  “Yes.”

  “Take this notebook. Marcel’s letter is in the back. Find the book he mentions and discover where that tunnel goes.”

  “I promise,” said Darwin.

  “Thank you.”

  They said their goodbyes and Darwin thanked her again for the journal. Downstairs Darwin asked Marc if he wanted copies.

  “No, I have no need. Grand-Mère trusts you. Let us know what you find.”

  “D’accord, okay,” replied Darwin and turned in the opposite direction toward his hotel.

  14

  Amelie was right. Most of the journal was technical observations of the volcanic activity in the region. It took hours to decipher the cursive handwriting and the hundred-fifty-year-old French.

  Darwin found entries for three tunnels: a large one at the base of Puy de Dôme, a second near the summit where the temple was found and the last under the cathedral in the city center. They explored the tunnel at the volcano base in 1847 and described it as being in poor condition because of its use by humans and animals over the centuries.

  Giraud wrote:

  … thirty metres past the main opening, the cave narrows into a tunnel just tall enough for a man to stand. The walls have crumbled, but the smooth texture of the original wall remains in sections. Evidence suggests that magma exited the cone through this vent or tube. At fifty metres, the tube is blocked. The clean edges of the basalt shows the blockage occurred in recent times as there is little soot on the exposed lava.

  I almost missed an important mark near this blockage. Crude drawings and graffiti cover the main cave, but this symbol was cut deep. Only half of the symbol remained on the wall. I found the other half in the rockfall on the floor. The whole symbol looked like this:

  Darwin gasped.

  He grabbed his iPhone and dialed.

  “Salute,” said Emelio.

  “Grandfather, I found the Aquila!” Darwin shouted.

  “What? Where are you?”

  “Clermont-Ferrand, and I met with Amelie Giraud yesterday.”

  “You did! How is she?”

  “She’s great,” said Darwin. “Nice lady. She gave me her grandfather’s notebook, and I looked through it today. He drew an exact copy of the Aquila.”

  “Are you sure?” asked Emelio.

  “Yes! But the opening was destroyed years ago.”

  “Merde!”

  “I know, but the research Amelie gave me suggests that there’s a tunnel underneath the cathedral. She said she would call the local bishop to give me access to their texts. I hope to persuade him to let me into the crypt.”

  “Excellent work, my boy. Do you think a tube might be down there?” asked Emelio.

  “Dunno, but too many things about this location line up. I’ll call you when I find out more.”

  “Okay, Darwin. Good luck to you.”

  “Avvedici. Goodbye.”

  “Avvedici,” said Emelio.

  Darwin determined that any tunnel entrances on the volcano were long destroyed and focused on the third tunnel under the cathedral. He theorized the Romans would have used the same spot. Deities changed, but holy sites remained constant. It was easier for people to adopt a new god if it connected to their existing beliefs. Zeus and Jesus looked like brothers in old paintings.

  René Giraud made an entry dated 17 September 1855:

  Bishop Féron summoned me to the cathedral after a cave-in revealed an unknown crypt and tunnels. An architect, Armand Mallay, was working to shore up the foundation in the apse. A crypt had caved-in during an internment of an important parishioner. Mallay did not have the stomach to enter the tunnel that led to lower levels and required my expertise.

  He laid it side-by-side with a letter from Marcel:

  My dearest Amelie,

  I miss your friendship and I can only hope your new life in Paris is as fulfilling as you expect. My job as a junior priest is more administrative than I imagined, but it led me to an interesting discovery.

  While cleaning the Bishop’s office, I found an old book of accounts. Most of it concerns procurement for the cathedral, but I happened upon some entries for the mid-1800s that detailed supplies and labor to seal up tunnels discovered in the crypt.

  There are payments to your grandfather for his services to explore and document the tunnels. There is a letter inserted in the pages, written by a Bishop Féron and signed by Giraud, swearing him to secrecy about the tunnels.

  I had to put the book away as the senior priest Piguet returned. He questioned me and said to leave the old books undisturbed.

  When you return, I will show it to you. There are notes about the sarcophagus that hides the opening to the deep tunnel. We will find what your grandfather kept secret.

  Yours in Christ,

  Marcel

  Darwin was itching to run over to the cathedral but instead took in a deep breath. Experience taught him to do his research. He might get only one chance and needed to know what he was looking for.

  He secured a meeting with the Bishop’s secretary this afternoon and needed his questions to be clear and respectful. That he was a French Catholic would help, but he was a scientist seeking the truth based on empirical observations. The cathedral embodied heaven on Earth, where faith was Truth.

  At the back of the journal was a page written by an elderly hand. Darwin transcribed it into his notebook:

  3 March 1883

  I am nearing the end of my time and will be called by the Lord any day. Although I swore never to tell, there is a secret beneath that must be explored. I will be gone
when this final note is found and will answer to God Himself if I have done wrong.

  There are tunnels deep below the cathedral that were not made by the hands of men. A single tunnel at the lowest level is smooth, round and big enough for a large wagon pulled by twin yoked oxen. Perhaps this is the work of volcanoes, but I have never seen lava tunnels of this magnitude.

  Go to the South Chapel in the crypt. Locate the large sarcophagus carved with Romanesque figures. Go through the iron gate at the right side end of the sarcophagus.

  Find the tomb of Guillaume de Baffie and descend the opening beyond the iron grate next to the tomb. Follow the tunnels to the bottom. There you will find the large lava tunnel.

  May God be with you and forgive my trespass.

  Darwin realized he had stopped breathing while reading and inhaled.

  15

  Darwin arrived at the cathedral for his three o’clock meeting. The Gothic structure was black from the tips of its spires to their twin slanted shadows. Basalt lava blocks accounted for the unusual dark color. He had read somewhere that it was one of the better preserved cathedrals because the murderous rampage of the French revolution had been less extreme here.

  “Richard Ndebele,” said the Bishop’s secretary. “Very pleased to meet you.”

  “Darwin Lacroix, pleased to meet you Father,” said Darwin as they shook hands. He expected to see a much older man, instead, Ndebele was about his own age and the same height, but with a sturdier build and a strong African accent.

  “I thought you would be…”

  “A white man?”

  “No.” Darwin felt his face flush. “I meant French because of the Bishop.”

  Ndebele chuckled. “Don’t be embarrassed. That was humor on my part. I am South African, Zulu. Bishop Santos is a man of vision and ambition. He recognizes that the future of the Church is the developing world and is fostering leadership and collaboration. Most people have forgotten the sacred and the mysterious.”

  “I don’t know what to say,” said Darwin.

  “Not to worry. It is not a test, merely an observation. Now, how can I help you? Your friend Madame Giraud was very persuasive with the Bishop. He said to show you anything you wanted to see. Please, sit down. Can I get you some water or coffee?”

  “Water, thank you,” Darwin said as he took a chair next to a small table by the window. Father Ndebele handed him a glass of water and sat opposite. The office smelled of old books and had a timeless appearance except for a telephone and computer monitor on the large oak desk.

  “Tell me how I may help you,” said Father Ndebele.

  “Well, Father Ndebele,” Darwin began.

  “Please call me Richard. ‘Father’ makes me feel old.”

  Darwin related a cautious version of the tunnels near Puy de Dôme and his suspicion that one ran beneath the cathedral.

  “That’s a very interesting idea. Why do you suppose the Romans used a tunnel under the cathedral?” said Richard.

  “Long before Christianity took hold in this part of Europe, I think they might have used this tunnel during rituals to move between the temple of Mercury and this local site. You know, show the power of Roman gods, to gain spiritual authority over the local tribes. My god is stronger than your god idea,” said Darwin.

  “And the Church built on that idea by locating the cathedral here?” asked Richard.

  “Probably.”

  “Hmmm… Well, let’s go explore. Shall we?” said Richard. He pressed the intercom button on the phone. “Your Grace, I’m taking our visitor to the crypt and will be gone an hour. Do you need anything?”

  “No, thank you Richard. Please respect the relics,” said a gravelly voice through the small phone speaker.

  “We shall your Grace,” he said and motioned Darwin toward the door.

  Richard took him on a tour of the crypt and told him the stories of the relics brought to the cathedral in the fourth and fifth centuries. While Clermont-Ferrand might not be a city that came to mind when tourists thought of France, its cathedral had an important history, including that it served as the model for much of the Romanesque gothic architecture in southern Europe.

  “This is my favorite section,” said Richard. They reached an arched doorway leading into the chapel. A window was carved into the stone wall just to the left of the door. Its graceful, sweeping lines must have taken weeks to perfect.

  The ceiling depicted Jesus and his disciples. Baskets lay in the foreground of the fresco as figures painted in terra cotta and ochre distributed food to a gathering of figures on the left. Each disciple’s head was circled by a large halo, as was the style in early Christian painting.

  A Roman style border of woven leaves and flowers ran across the top of the fresco. Splotches of soot marked the archway over their heads, where people would have stood to gaze at the painting.

  “We are not the first people to stand here,” said Richard seeing Darwin look at the ceiling.

  “How old is this?”

  “We don’t know. The cathedral was built in the fifth century and sacked and rebuilt about four times. The current cathedral covered this section in the late 1200s, so it was painted around the same time.”

  “Could be,” agreed Darwin. “This is a treasure.”

  Richard showed him the main chapel in the crypt, but the tour ended there. He pointed to tombs beyond an iron gate.

  “My apologies, but, out of respect to the dead, I must get permission from Rome if I am to proceed beyond the gate,” said Richard.

  Darwin argued that he was an archeologist and knew how to work around sensitive sites, but Richard was firm. He would not countermand the Bishop’s decision but, said he would let Darwin know when permission was granted.

  Merde. I don’t have that kind of time. It took fifty years to coax something out of Amelie. I need to get in there now, thought Darwin as he slumped away from the cathedral.

  He went back to the hotel and threw his street shoes in a corner. How did Emelio deal with this? he thought while pulling on his running clothes. He needed space to think.

  Once outside, he started running. Thunderstorms hugged the hills blotting out the sun, and the air was still cool in this part of France. He rubbed his arms to ward off the chill. At first he ran toward the cathedral, then past it toward Jardin Lacoq. His mind raced, vacillating between anger at the Bishop and ways he could get into the crypt. The entrance to the garden was full of children on a school outing, so he turned left onto Boulevard Lafayette.

  His body warmed, and the endorphins kicked in to lift his mood. It was a week since his last run and the release was exhilarating. What the hell, I’m in France. One shop had put a display on the sidewalk and he swung out closer to the street. A sporting goods shop displayed gear to promote caving in the Puy de Dôme region. As he ran past, he thought of the trip he and Zac had planned the summer to the Lechuguilla Cave in Arizona.

  He stopped and turned around. What he needed was in this shop. He had put his credit card, along with his room key, in the small pouch in his running shorts. He walked in and purchased a climbing harness and gear, some rope, a helmet and headlamp. He smiled all the way back to his hotel.

  16

  Later that night, Darwin snuck back in the cathedral. It took far more time to pick the lock than the couple minutes the kit he had bought online promised. He had purchased it the prior year to open a locked closet when he had misplaced the key, and he had left it in his backpack. He tensed as he pushed the old iron gate, expecting the hinges to screech like a cat, but it shuddered on first push and swung open. He switched on the new head lamp and moved down the corridor to the heavy chapel door.

  It was no darker underneath the cathedral than when he visited earlier, but felt more dark as it was now nighttime outside. He pushed aside thoughts of dead bodies and walked across the wide chapel space past a sarcophagus to an ancient wooden door. It took almost fifteen minutes to pick its lock. The door groaned open with a sound that would have delig
hted a Foley artist. Darwin jumped back into the shadows under the arch, certain someone had heard.

  He paused and breathed to bring down his heart rate. He thought of his encounter with the London police during the summer before he went to California. What if I’m caught? He tried to recall French law and whether he would lose his ability to teach in France. As his pulse settled, he recalled the letters from Amelie’s forebears. They were clear. There was something under this crypt.

  He knew there were no cameras or security patrol. He had asked Richard earlier how they protected the cathedral who said anything valuable was in a vault in the Bishop’s room and the only precious art was painted onto the stone walls.

  No one had come, and he moved deeper into the crypt. Everything was covered in the centuries of dust that had rained down due to the vibration of the overhead foot traffic. A stray spider’s web caught him in the face. His shoulders shuddered as he swatted at the strands and brushed his face clean.

  Moving forward again, he found the Bishop’s marker at the end of the row:

  Guillaume de Baffie

  Episcopus Autem Clermont

  1096AD

  On the floor near the right side of the raised tomb was a circular iron grate. Darwin knelt down and, placing his hands on either side of the grate peered into the darkness. His headlamp illuminated a bricked shaft about five meters deep with iron rungs set in its wall.

  He used a small pry-bar from his backpack to lever up the grate. Grit locked it in place and he removed it in a couple minutes of patient work. He tested his foot against the top rung. Solid.

  The bottom opened into a narrow hallway sized tunnel he could just stand up in. The walls of the tunnel were smooth, but not man-made. It’s a lava tube. His heart pumped faster. Scanning the walls, he found a symbol about a meter to the left of the shaft that looked like the one Emelio had shown him. He dug his notebook out of the backpack and thumbed to the page with his notes on the Aquila symbol.