The Mithras Conspiracy

by M. J. Polelle

  “After what he put you through . . . including that bimbo who—”

  “Not here, please.” She looked around to see if anyone had overheard. “Anyway,” she whispered. “That was over a year ago.”

  “I don’t want to tell you what to do,” he said, escorting her to a side room. “But you shouldn’t have let him back in.”

  “It’s just temporary. He’s had some water problems in his place.”

  “The man’s nothing but a serial cheater.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Honey, it hurts me to say it, but you need to be more choosy in your men.”

  “And you should know . . .” She wasn’t going to play tit for tat by hurting him with bad stepmother memories. “Just let us work it out.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Commissario Marco Leone fretted while Inspector Riccardo Renaldi wove the squad car through Rome’s traffic jam to the Colosseum in morning air still gauzy with fog. “Hurry. I can’t be late.”

  “I’m doing the best I can. Traffic jam. An accident up ahead.”

  A special alert came over the radio about a terrorist group called Egyptian Phoenix making unspecified threats unless Rome’s obelisks were returned to Egypt.

  “Our thanks for returning the Axum Obelisk to Ethiopia.” Renaldi jolted to a stop centimeters from the rear end of the car ahead. “Now the Egyptians are making threats unless we return more.”

  “The special alert only referred to the Egyptian Phoenix. Not the Egyptian government.”

  “They’re all the same.”

  “Why not return some of the ancient phallic symbols?” Leone rolled down the window to let some fresh air in. Riding with Renaldi made him more claustrophobic than usual. “Rome has twice the number remaining in Egypt.”

  “Never.” The inspector cursed a driver cutting in front of him. “Next they’ll want reparations for the conquest of Egypt two thousand years ago.”

  The Colosseum played peekaboo behind fog patches thickened with the yeast of pollution. During the intervals of its disappearance, Leone imagined a terrorist’s bomb bringing down the Colosseum. If terrorists did not destroy it, time would likely do so. Because of the financial crisis, government funding for repair had ended, leaving only private donations. A neon-illuminated billboard in front of the Colosseum listed the major donors . . . World Heritage Fund, the Chinese Government Benevolent Fund, and Piso Global Enterprises. Lucio Piso . . . Mr. Moneybags was back home.

  “What’s the drug unit doing here in uniform?” Leone nudged Renaldi’s elbow just as traffic picked up.

  “My godfather reassigned the undercover narcs.” Renaldi zoomed around two totaled vehicles by the side of the road, one smoking like a minivolcano. “To protect the Colosseum from Egyptian terrorists.”

  “You don’t have to keep reminding me Malatesta’s your godfather.” Leone held up his hand with the tips of his thumb and forefinger nearly touching. “They were this close to catching those drug dealers until Malatesta pulled the plug.”

  If drug crimes increased, Questore Pietro Malatesta was sure to shift the blame to someone else for his decision to transfer the drug unit to guard work. Against Leone’s advice, the questore had once ordered a drug courier’s stomach pumped to recover a cocaine packet concealed in a condom. When the condom ruptured, causing death, the honorable Malatesta let Leone take the public-relations rap.

  “I understand why you’re so personally involved with drug crimes, Marco, but—”

  “Commissario Leone . . . please.”

  “Forget it, then.” The inspector gunned the engine and raced around a car, almost sideswiping it. “I have nothing to say . . . to you.”

  Forget it? How? Lorenza . . . his only child, working with drug addicts in a rehab program and becoming hooked herself, thanks to the crackhead patient turned boyfriend. She accused Leone of wanting a son instead of her. Days on end, after their fights, she would call herself Lorenzo instead of Lorenza just to spite him. She stopped talking to him after he arrested her in front of the Colosseum as a last-ditch effort to get her into a detox program.

  If only Lorenza had taken his advice. If only she had not fallen for the druggie. If only his ex-wife would stop blaming him for their daughter’s estrangement. If only . . . two useless words. One thing was certain. Mondo cane . . . dog world.

  It’s a dog’s world.

  He escaped his memories by reviewing the Abramo Basso investigative file. Owing Leone a favor, the lab director had prepared a supplemental report, using advanced DNA testing instead of traditional blood tests, that proved the blood on the snake-head knife was Abramo’s. Experts traced the knife used for sacrificial purposes to one of ancient Rome’s Mideastern provinces. “Guess what?” Leone looked up. “The blood on the knife is Basso’s. Not that of a bull . . . as you predicted.”

  “I still think the gang I arrested had something to do with Basso’s death. Remember the 365 cut into Basso’s forehead and smeared on the sarcophagi?”

  “Still blaming the gang, are you?” He had his own theory of the 365 puzzle. But he wanted to hear Renaldi out. “What about the 365?”

  “The gang is part of a punk-rock group called Bong 365. See now?”

  “Get over it, will you? Pure coincidence.”

  “Punk-rock bands also use Nazi symbols, like swastikas.”

  “I give up. Believe what you want.” Last night it had come to him. That year spent at yeshiva might pay off after all. “The number could relate to the three hundred sixty-five mitzvot . . . the negative commandments of Judaism. And then those swastikas. Whoever killed Basso had to be an anti-Semite.”

  “Don’t make this into one of those American hate crimes.” The inspector made a sour face. “How many even knew this Catholic priest was a converted Jew? They killed Basso because he interrupted a satanic ceremony. Period.”

  “Just get moving.” Goal for Renaldi. The inspector had a point. “I’m late.”

  As they drove past the Basilica of San Lorenzo, Leone’s chest tightened. His ex-wife and he, full of laughter and spirits after a party, had once taken a taxi with a Somali driver unfamiliar with Rome. They let him roam lost through the streets with the mutual promise they would let fate name their child after the first church they passed. She had pointed to the Basilica of San Lorenzo and declared, “I hereby name her Lorenza.”

  He shook off the bittersweet remembrance by examining the autopsy report from the forensic pathologist. A sharp instrument had pierced Basso’s chest. Even without the hand cuts indicating the victim had tried to protect himself, the stab wound showed Abramo was first murdered on land before winding up in the Tiber. The wound itself was fatal.

  Most unusual was the fingerprint report. Partial prints on the knife found at the scene proved insufficient for identification. The worn-away ridges lacked detail. The abrasive material used by certain manual workers, such as bricklayers, could cause such prints. Could it be—

  “We’ve arrived,” Renaldi said. “Campo Verano Cemetery.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  By the time Commissario Marco Leone arrived at the Verano cemetery, the priest had nearly finished the funeral service for Father Abramo Basso, immured behind a marble slab in the three-story Jesuit mausoleum. Students and faculty colleagues from the Pontifical Gregorian University swarmed the passageway lined on both sides with the marble slabs of the dead. Looking uneasy in the Christian crowd, old ghetto acquaintances greeted Leone with their disappointment that the Jew turned Jesuit was not buried in the Jewish section.

  Why was Fisher so intent on meeting Leone after the service? Maybe the professor knew something that could solve the case. Maybe Fisher would even confess to Abramo’s murder. Maybe Leone could make the plane to Chicago after all.

  After the final prayer for the dead, Fisher led Leone outside to a stone bench near the entrance. “I never thought he’d become a Jesuit prie
st.” Fisher sat down next to the commissario and kicked a pebble. “Instead, I was the one who couldn’t make it.”

  “My time is limited.” Leone tapped his foot. “Did you see me to make a confession?”

  “I’m sorry for reminiscing.” The professor crossed his arms and jutted his chin toward Leone. “But I have nothing to confess either to you or my spiritual confessor.”

  “Why, then, did you want to meet?”

  “You should know Wesley Bemis has discovered a dedication inscription in the Villa of the Papyri. It confirms Lucius Calpurnius Piso Caesoninus as the builder of this ancient mansion in Herculaneum.”

  “Four Latin names for one old Roman are impressive, but to me they mean nothing.” Leone checked his wristwatch. “Are we here to discuss ancient history?”

  “I believe the Villa of the Papyri is the home mentioned in the Festus parchment.” He handed Leone a sheet of paper. “I’ve underlined what I think are the missing words and letters of the Festus parchment referring to Seneca and Saint Paul. Kind of like a crossword puzzle.”

  “I like crossword puzzles.” Leone scanned the sheet: . . . in the home of the illustrious Lucius Calpurnius Piso Caesoninus who is the father-in-law of Gaius Julius Caesar . . .

  “We know from other sources,” Fisher said, “old Lucius was the father-in-law of Julius Caesar.”

  “What’s your point?”

  “I believe,” Fisher said, “the Festus parchment shows Apostle Paul, for some unknown reason, met Seneca, Nero’s adviser, in the Villa of the Papyri where we’re now excavating. We know a descendant of old Lucius, one Gaius Calpurnius Piso, who lived in the time of Paul, ran the place like an intellectual think tank. Earlier archaeologists have already recovered Greek poems and philosophical works and—”

  “Stop for a minute.” Leone held up a hand. “Even if the parchment’s genuine, it doesn’t say Seneca ever invited Paul.” He handed the sheet back. “Save all this speculation for your next book. None of this helps solve the Basso murder.”

  Before the professor could respond, the ground rippled like a conveyor belt under the commissario’s feet.

  Afraid it was another of his dizzy spells, Leone braced for a fall.

  A chunk of masonry fell from the Jesuit mausoleum and just missed Fisher’s head.

  “The tremors have returned.” Fisher headed for the cemetery entrance. “Let’s get out of here.”

  At the cemetery entrance, Leone and the professor waited in the open to make certain the shaking had ended. Nearby flower vendors taunted as cowards those competitors closing up their stalls in fear of further earth rumblings.

  “They’ve stopped for now.” Leone watched traffic thaw back into motion from its frozen state. He might as well hear the professor out. The quakes had delayed the arrival of Renaldi to take him back to headquarters. “What can you tell me about the Latin riddle in the Ardeatine Caves?”

  “My research led me to something similar in an ancient Christian writing called Questions of the Old and New Testament.” Fisher pulled out a leather-bound book from his briefcase. “In spelaeo velatis oculis illuduntur.”

  “What does it mean?”

  “They are deceived in the cave with their eyes blindfolded.”

  “Who’s deceived?”

  “The early Christian writer that scholars call Ambrosiaster was ridiculing the initiation rites of the Roman cult devoted to the god Mithras.” The professor returned the book to his briefcase. “The writer says the cult blindfolded initiates and had them flap their hands like wings and croak like ravens. Others roared like lions at a different stage of initiation. Some were even called soldiers, in a religious sense . . . like the song ‘Onward Christian Soldiers.’ They had their hands bound with chicken guts until someone named the Liberator severed the guts with a sword.”

  “You’re overlooking something.” Leone looked down the street but no sign of Renaldi. “The Latin words in the cave written in bull’s blood included the word non in capital letters. Non means not in Italian as well as Latin.” He put his hands on his hips. “Not deceived, Professor Fisher, is quite different from deceived.”

  “I didn’t overlook it. I just don’t know why it was added . . . yet.” Fisher rubbed his right temple. “Whoever wrote it wanted to deny any deception.”

  “A ritual murder in a cave does not surprise me. This is, after all, a country fascinated with the deeds of sorcerers, occultists, and fortune tellers. But literate murderers engaged in theological disputations?” Leone threw up his hands in mock despair. “Spare me.”

  “The media have sensationalized the numbers found on Basso’s forehead and in the caves.” Fisher stooped over to drop coins into a street beggar’s basket. He straightened up. “They’ve made the case into a black-magic homicide.”

  “Any ideas about those numbers, Professor?”

  “What comes to mind is the number of days in a year.”

  “What would be the significance?”

  “The Egyptians considered the god Thoth the creator of the three-hundred-sixty-five-day calendar.” Fisher pointed to a newspaper kiosk nearby. “The papers are full of stories about the Egyptian Phoenix terrorist group. Do you believe there’s a connection?”

  “Some claim to see the image of Padre Pio, the Italian saint, on a church wall in the Philippines.” Leone shrugged and sighed. “Believing is seeing, some say. I prefer to see before I believe. And I don’t see any connection. The Egyptian Phoenix wants the return of obelisks, not a calendar.”

  As Fisher walked away to hail a taxi, Leone called out, “The ancient knife I told you about in the Vatican exhibition . . . Do you know who was in charge?”

  “That would be Cardinal Gustavo Furbone.” He entered the taxi and asked out the window, “Is his name helpful?”

  “The most helpful information you’ve given me all day.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Shedding her shoes, Nicole Garvey dumped the day’s mail onto the kitchen counter. She ripped open the envelope from the Harvard University Department of Anthropology. The dean regretted to inform her that due to budgetary constraints, her contract for the position of senior lecturer in classical archaeology would not be renewed.

  She sat down to absorb a blow not unexpected. The dean had hinted as much before the semester ended. But it still smarted. She focused on the bright side. She had time now to reconnect with her husband by remaining in Georgia. She bore the greater fault for their estrangement. She had caused the long-distance nature of the marriage. It was her decision to traipse off to Harvard despite his law practice. He had given up his affair. It was now her turn to meet him halfway.

  Forgoing her meditation time-out, Nicole turned to her emails. The rhythmic press of the Delete button offered its own satisfying mantra. Her finger poised over the intriguing squiggle of a news link. “Renewed Excavation at Villa of Papyri.” She dipped into her private stash of Godiva chocolate, which was behind the monitor, and opened the link.

  Dr. Will Fisher, professor of early Christianity at Pontifical Gregorian University in Rome, and Dr. Wesley Bemis of the Center for the Preservation of Ancient Religious Texts (CPART) at Brigham Young University are exploring the Villa of the Papyri in Herculaneum. The Piso clan of ancient Rome owned the villa in which previous excavators have found hundreds of carbonized scrolls now being opened and translated.

  The eruption of Mount Vesuvius in AD 79 killed between 10,000 and 25,000 persons. Unlike her sister city of Pompeii, smothered under volcanic ash, Herculaneum perished in a river of volcanic mud. The result is that the interiors of buildings in Herculaneum are better preserved than in Pompeii but harder to excavate.

  The project seeks a qualified archaeologist to fill a team vacancy.

  The Wesley Bemis? She turned the name over in her mind during a much-needed bubble bath a little later on. It couldn’t be, but it was. An airport
reception committee of one, she had agreed to pick up the bubble gum–popping boy wonder with the cowboy hat. He came to lecture to the Harvard anthropology faculty on the use of multispectral imaging, or MSI for short, in deciphering ancient texts.

  A former computer specialist at IBM, he possessed dual degrees in archaeology and papyrology. The creep had made a pass at her outside her car, placing his hands against the door on either side of her head and aiming an awkward kiss she deflected onto her cheek. She could still smell the faint odor of a decaying tooth on his breath. And what had she done? Nothing. Instead of kneeing him in the crotch, she cajoled him. They’d be late for his lecture if he persisted. He relented, but she still felt a flash of shame.

  The opening for an archaeologist mentioned in the news link sparked her interest. The position could revive her career . . . if only she weren’t wholeheartedly committed to repairing her broken marriage. If she tried as hard with her marriage as with her profession, she could put her marriage back together. Now was not the time to run off to Cindy’s wedding on the Amalfi coast and especially not to an archaeological dig directed by the Mormon creep. She had to put her marriage first.

  She emerged refreshed from her bath in anticipation of the reconciliation dinner with her husband. She had to hurry. He didn’t like to be kept waiting. Before putting on her white terry-cloth robe, she rubbed the caffe latte birthmark shaped like a butterfly on her left arm. As a girl, she’d thought she could rub it off. The silly habit had stayed with her.

  In the bedroom she found the bed unmade. Was stress playing tricks? She had made it up before leaving for her stepmother’s funeral early that morning. She rubbed her eyes and looked again. Still there.

  Long blonde hairs from another female like a serpent’s spawn on his pillow.

  She stumbled toward the dresser and pawed through the drawer she had set aside for him. A stack of overdue bills and jumbled clothes concealed a blue envelope with red striping. Through tears she struggled to read the letter.