The Lost Catacomb
By
Shifra Hochberg
THE LOST CATACOMB
By
Shifra Hochberg
Copyright © Shifra Hochberg 2014
Cover Illustration Copyright © 2014 by Novel Idea Design
Published by Enigma Press
(An Imprint of GMTA Publishing)
Names, characters and incidents depicted in this book are products of the author's imagination, or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the author or the publisher.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means whatsoever, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the publisher and/or author.
Contact:
GMTA Publishing
7405 Beaver Run Dr.
Fayetteville, NC 28314
Printed in the U.S.A.
ISBN-13: 978-0615975696
ISBN-10: 0615975690
DEDICATION
To my husband and children, whose love and support made this possible.
Contents
The Present
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
253 A.D.
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
The Present
Chapter One
Chapter Two
1943 - 1944
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
The Present
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Endings
About the Author
The Present
“So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.”
~~ F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Great Gatsby
Chapter One
“Nicola, cara,” Elena exclaimed, her dark eyes shining as she opened the front door and kissed her granddaughter on both cheeks. “I’m so happy you could come for the weekend. Do you need any help with your bags?”
“Grazie, Nonna,” Nicola answered with a smile as she stepped inside, “but I didn’t bring much with me this time. Not even my laptop. Complete R and R, for a change. I promise.”
She put her overnight case and hooded jacket down on a small antique bench in the foyer and gave Elena a warm, lingering hug.
“Here,” she said, handing her grandmother an insulated bag with a bottle of icy cold Prosecco in it. “So we can celebrate.”
Brushing aside a heavy lock of wavy auburn hair, she pushed her sunglasses onto the top of her head and followed Elena into the warmth of the sunlit kitchen. Sighing contentedly, she sat down at the familiar pine table overlooking a broad flagstone patio and mosaic-tiled lap pool bordered by lush flowerbeds. She closed her eyes and inhaled deeply. The mingled scent of basil, lemon verbena, and sweet marjoram in the pots lining the deep bay windowsill filled the air. It was a heady fragrance that Nicola always associated with her grandmother's kitchen—with coming home.
The old Connecticut farmhouse, with its white clapboard siding and black-shuttered windows, had been in her grandfather Tom’s family for generations. Set against a leafy backdrop of sturdy oak and maple trees, its wide veranda offered an expansive view of a meadow dotted with wildflowers, through which a long meandering driveway twisted its way from the main road. Nicola had grown up there, in her grandparents' home, after the tragic death of her parents in a car accident one snowy winter afternoon more than twenty-seven years ago on their way to see an old Victorian house that had just come on the market. A truck had skidded off the road, barreling into their car and killing them instantly.
It was an event that Nicola could scarcely recall, since she had been a mere toddler at the time, but it had changed the course of her life irrevocably, in ways she was only beginning to come to terms with and understand. Her recollections of her parents had become increasingly hazy as the years went by, though she could still recall the deep timbre of her father's voice reading her a bedtime story and the scent of her mother's perfume, a subtle blend of rose and honeysuckle, which still had the power to stir an unfulfilled longing in a secret part of her heart.
Her maternal grandparents had taken her parents' place as best they could, reinforcing what had been Nicola's first—though all too brief—experience of unconditional love. And thus, though Nicola now lived in a small brownstone near the Washington Square campus of NYU, where she taught early Roman art history, her grandparent's farmhouse remained her true home and emotional anchor, a place of quiet refuge where she always felt sheltered and secure.
“Some coffee?” Elena asked as she busied herself near the stovetop. “Which do you prefer, cappuccino or espresso? And I have freshly baked muffins. Blueberry, your favorite.”
As always, Nicola marveled at Elena's energy and enthusiasm, her upright posture and slim figure belying her age, her face nearly as unlined as it had been almost three decades ago, when she had taken the newly orphaned Nicola into her home. Nicola never forgot how lucky she was that Elena had retained both her health and zest for life, since, as far as she knew, she had no other living relatives apart from her grandmother.
As Elena placed some brightly colored faience plates and linen napkins on the table near Nicola, waiting for the Bialetti to heat up, she asked, “So tell me, cara, what’s the special news you have to share with me? A new boyfriend, finally?” she ventured with a barely suppressed note of hope in her voice. “Or another publication?”
“None of the above, actually. And I think you should sit down for this one,” Nicola added with an enigmatic smile, her grey eyes bright with excitement as she gestured to a cane-backed chair and waite
d patiently for Elena to be seated. “I’ve been invited to Rome—by the Pontifical Commission of Sacred Archaeology at the Vatican.”
“Dio!” Elena exclaimed, setting her mug down abruptly. Her cappuccino sloshed onto the glossy surface of the table, and she quickly grabbed a napkin and mopped up the mess. “What would they like you to do for them?”
“Well,” Nicola replied as she reached for a blueberry-studded muffin, “it seems that an elaborate underground crypt adjacent to the Jewish catacombs of the Vigna Randanini has been discovered following a series of earth tremors. There’s a legal battle going on now between the Church and the family of the Marchesa on whose estate it was found, with both parties claiming ownership of the new chamber. And since it contains some very rare artifacts, I’ve been invited—along with an archaeologist from ‘La Sapienza’—to determine its provenance.”
“I'm impressed,” Elena said, “though not surprised, of course, given your wonderful academic reputation. But why the need for two experts?”
“Oh, that's because the Italian archaeologist is Jewish,” Nicola explained. “He’ll able to decipher all of the ancient Hebrew writing in the crypt. Most of the tomb inscriptions, you see, are either in Greek or Hebrew, which is why both of us are needed to work on the project, since our fields of expertise overlap.”
“But I thought that ever since the Lateran Treaty back in the 1920s the Vatican had relinquished control of all catacombs in Rome,” Elena remarked, her brows knitted together in puzzlement. “I don’t understand why this should even be an issue.”
“You would think so, at first glance,” Nicola acknowledged, pausing to take another sip of her coffee. “But apparently the Church maintains it had renounced rights only to those areas known to exist at the time of the agreement with the Italian government. They’re convinced that the new hypogeum might house the bones of martyrs or contain an underground chapel dedicated to an important religious figure. Or,” she said, shrugging her shoulders, “based on evidence from the frescoes, there might be grounds to beatify some previously unknown saint.
“If any of this is true, then the Church feels that the sacred nature of the site makes it imperative that it take charge of all excavations and future restorations. But if the crypt turns out to be Jewish in origin, then its contents will remain in the hands of the Marchesa, since the crypt is on her property.”
“I see,” Elena said pensively, her dark eyes briefly taking on a distant, almost distracted expression. For a moment she seemed lost in thought but then collected herself, quickly adding, “This sounds very complex—and challenging.”
“Yes, it is, and there’s a lot at stake here for both parties,” Nicola said, nodding her head in agreement, her auburn curls catching the rays of sunlight that filtered in through the wide bay window. “And of course it’s a very prestigious invitation,” she added, blushing slightly. “Especially for someone my age.”
“I’m so proud of you, Nicola,” Elena said, reaching out to pat her granddaughter’s cheek softly. “Now I understand why you waited to tell me in person.”
“As a matter of fact, I want to show you the letter of invitation. I brought it with me,” and she left the kitchen to retrieve it from her purse.
“Here it is,” she said, as she returned triumphantly and waved it in the air with a dramatic flourish, “—calligraphy and all—addressed to Professoressa Nicola Page at the Department of Art History, New York University.”
She handed the heavy vellum envelope to Elena, who opened it with trembling hands. Unfolding the letter inside, she glanced first at the heavily embossed Vatican crest on the stationery, and as her eyes traveled to the bottom of the page, she gasped audibly, a look of something nearly akin to terror flashing across her face. The piece of paper fell from her grasp, fluttering to the polished oak-planked floor. Her breath now coming in shallow gulps, she clutched the edge of the table for support, while Nicola stooped to pick up the letter and gave it back to her.
“Is something wrong, Nonna?” Nicola asked worriedly, as Elena pushed the letter away, recoiling violently, as though her fingers had been scorched by its very touch. “Are you all right?”
“Of course, I am,” she replied quickly. “I’m . . . delighted for you. It was just . . . such a . . . shock to see the actual letter. My own granddaughter receiving an invitation like this from the Holy See,” she added hastily. “Yes, this is a remarkable opportunity for you.”
She walked slowly to the refrigerator, her slight frame now bent almost in a posture of defeat, and poured herself a glass of ice water. “I think I need to rest for a moment,” she said, taking a deep breath and absently brushing aside a tendril of silvered hair that had loosened itself from her usually elegant chignon. Her dark eyes darted around the room nervously as she sipped her water with shaking hands, focusing—or so it seemed to Nicola—anywhere but on the table where the letter now lay.
“I'm sorry, cara,” Elena said, swiftly changing the subject as she struggled to regain her composure. “When do you leave for Rome?”
“Well,” Nicola replied, puzzled by her grandmother's clearly evasive behavior, “I’m going to try to book a flight for next week, on Tuesday or Wednesday. The return reservation will be left open, since I've no idea how long the evaluations and data analysis will take. It all depends on what we find.
“Look,” she said, as she picked up her empty mug and the basket of remaining muffins, bringing them to the marble counter near the kitchen sink. “Why don’t I take my things up to my room? Then maybe we can go out for some fresh air. You did take your beta-blockers this morning, didn’t you?” she prodded, anxiously twisting a lock of her hair as she spoke.
“Of course,” Elena replied, now sipping her water slowly, her face still pale and drawn.
“All right. But I think you’ll feel better if we sit outside for a while. I’ll be down in a few minutes.”
As Nicola unpacked, a strange feeling of unease came over her as she thought of her grandmother’s reaction to the letter. What could possibly have prompted such a peculiar response? Did Elena think she wasn’t up to the task? That she might ruin her professional reputation if she failed to determine the precise origins of the crypt? Or was she simply afraid that she would be lonely in Nicola’s absence?
Yes, that had to be the reason for Elena’s peculiar behavior, Nicola decided. It was probably just a sign of instinctive fear at being somehow abandoned. After all, Elena was still grieving for her husband Tom, who had died less than a year ago, and now Nicola, her only granddaughter, was leaving for what might prove to be an extended trip. It was already mid-June, the start of summer vacation, and for all she knew, she might not be returning to the United States for several months.
Her grandmother had been recently diagnosed with a mild cardiac arrhythmia, and though it was well controlled by medication, Nicola had begun to worry almost obsessively, each time they parted, that it might be the last time she would ever see her. Nicola realized that her concern was irrational—that it had more to do with her own emotional dependence on her grandmother than with the actual state of Elena's health. But now, given Elena's baffling reaction to the letter, she wondered if she had been rash in accepting the invitation without consulting her. What if something terrible happened to her grandmother in her absence?
As far as Nicola knew, Elena had no one to rely on but her. Her grandmother had met and married the handsome young Captain Tom Keating before the end of World War II, when he was stationed in Rome, and had left everything behind when she immigrated to the United States. She had never spoken of her childhood or family in Italy and had never returned to visit. Her life up to the point of her marriage was simply a topic that was never raised. In fact, any time Nicola had tried to pursue the subject, Grandpa Tom had told her to let it rest. That there had been tragedy and great pain. That it was best to let the past stay buried, where it was.
Now she recalled a conversation with her grandfather several weeks before his
death, as they sat outside the old farmhouse at sunset, when he had been in an unusually confiding mood. The sky had been streaked with barred clouds of orange and rose as they sat on a garden bench near a bed of tall delphinium, lupine, and wild daisies that shifted their petalled stalks in the soft evening breeze. Sensing that the timing might finally be right, Nicola had broached the subject of Elena’s life in Italy, hoping that maybe just this once she would glean some facts about her grandmother’s past.
“I know you’ve told me to stop asking you about this countless times,” Nicola pleaded, a perceptible catch in her voice, “but can’t you understand how important it is for me to know something about where I come from? None of us is getting any younger—and I don’t just mean you and Nonna, Grandpa. I mean me as well.”
“Sure, like you’re really over the hill, Nicola,” Tom replied, his grey eyes crinkling at the corners in amusement.
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