The Lost Catacomb

by Shifra Hochberg

  “It’s rumored that he had great influence on political tides at the Vatican during World War II and even greater influence on the Pope himself. But that might be nothing more than undocumented speculation.”

  “Dio! I didn’t realize we were going to meet with someone so powerful. That is the correct adjective, isn’t it?” she interjected, a perceptibly nervous edge to her voice. “I simply assumed he was just a very fine curator and experienced art expert, not a towering political force of some sort.”

  Bruno smiled in amusement. “Well, Nicola, it seems that Rostoni was a distant relative of the Duce's wife and that probably accounted for his meteoric rise in Curia circles. As I'm sure you know, Mussolini was kind of your basic serial adulterer, and some believe that Rostoni's appointment as personal assistant to Pius was a way of placating Rachele Mussolini. And so Rostoni apparently found himself in charge of many ecclesiastical affairs and soon became indispensable to the Holy Father.

  “Anyway, I’m rambling on, and our cappuccino needs some attention,” he said as a waiter placed a tray on the table. “Before it turns too cold to enjoy.”

  Nicola took a sip of her coffee and remarked thoughtfully, “I'm amazed that you know so much about that period, Bruno. It's not exactly early Empire.”

  “Actually it's one of my hobbies,” he admitted, shrugging his well-muscled shoulders. “That is, research on the Church during World War II.”

  Nicola looked at him in puzzlement. “Really? Why?”

  “Well, my parents barely managed to survive the German occupation of Rome—or rather, they survived it almost miraculously. I’ll tell you the story some other time, if you’re interested. The point is that this is a way for me to understand the terrible hardships they went through, especially since they don’t like to talk about it much—apart from the bare facts of where they hid during the war.”

  Nicola grew silent, thinking about her grandmother's stubborn refusal to mention anything at all about the war or her life in Italy, but decided that she didn’t know Bruno well enough yet to share this with him. Maybe later. Maybe when they finished their analysis of the crypt she would confide in him and enlist his help. If anyone could help her uncover her Italian roots, she had a feeling it would be Bruno.

  Chapter Five

  Bruno and Nicola now left the café and made their way towards the Apostolic Palace, the official residence of the Pope. The complex was shielded from view by the basilica of San Pietro and the immense piazza that fronted it, with its baroque fountains, towering Egyptian obelisk at the center, and two symmetric colonnades of Doric pillars designed by Bernini that embraced the elliptical perimeter of the space.

  As they approached the entrance to the Apostolic Palace, Bruno and Nicola were stopped by a group of Swiss Guards, who were traditionally entrusted with the protection of the Pope and other key Vatican personalities. Dressed in broadly striped uniforms, with white ruffs at the neck, chest armor, plumed halberds and swords, they came from a long tradition of Swiss mercenaries who had protected Italian princes during the 15th and 16th centuries. And, in fact, all of them actually were Swiss citizens.

  Their anachronistic attire—whose colors reproduced those of the once powerful Medici family—was somewhat misleading, however, since the Guards were also equipped with mace, well-trained in karate, and did weekly target practice at the Italian police force's rifle range at Tor di Quinto. The Vatican's Vigilanza, in contrast, carried out more covert work for the Holy See. Comprised, for the most part, of former carabinieri, it tapped phone lines within the Vatican and was empowered to arrest and detain people for trial in the Church's penal court system.

  One of the Guards pointed Bruno and Nicola in the direction of the Cardinal’s office, and they made their way, unaccompanied, down a broad corridor lined with elaborately framed paintings and marble statuary. Some of the building was taken up by the papal apartments and public areas designated for the entertainment of foreign and other dignitaries. The Secretariat of State, known several centuries earlier as the Holy Inquisition, was located on top of the southwest wing, while Cardinal Rostoni's suite of offices was situated in the northeast corner.

  The door was open and emblazoned with a gleaming bronze plaque in large Gothic letters—“Administrative Offices, Musei Vaticani and Pontificia Commissione di Archeologia Sacra.” The Cardinal’s assistant, a nondescript bespectacled male of indeterminate age in a plain black cassock, asked them to be seated. He knocked on one of the inner office doors, and a distinguished looking man of about forty-five, with the studious aspect of a scholar, emerged and introduced himself as Father Francesco Benedetto, chief curator of the Secret Archives of the Vatican.

  While, officially speaking, the Archives were considered to be headed by the Pope himself, in reality, the daily administrative tasks were left to highly trained curators such as Father Benedetto. He shook their hands graciously and explained that he was to be the liaison between them and Cardinal Rostoni, and an informal advisor should they require access to any of the archival holdings.

  Speaking in lightly accented English—for her benefit, Nicola supposed—rather than in the expected Italian, Father Benedetto told them that after their meeting with the Cardinal he would be happy to escort them to the Secret Archives and provide them with a brief orientation of its vast network of fire-proof, climate-controlled rooms. The Archives, he noted, extended under the Cortile della Pigna, the courtyard where the famous giant pine comb sculpture rested on an immense stone capital, flanked by two graceful bronze peacocks.

  “As you undoubtedly know,” Father Benedetto continued, “the Archivo Segreto houses carefully catalogued sketches and photographs of excavations and restoration work carried out in the various catacombs in Rome over the past century or so under the auspices of the Vatican. You may wish to have a look at them, in fact, as your work progresses, since most have never been reproduced in monographs or other research publications.

  “And of course,” he added, now gesturing towards another door, “I've arranged for each of you to receive a tessera, that is, a photo ID that will give you access to the Archives even if I’m not there.”

  Nicola and Bruno followed him into a room of impressive dimensions, with exceptionally large, mullioned windows on one side, framed by heavy velvet drapes that were tied back with satin rope cording, offering an expansive view of the Vatican gardens. The windowsills themselves were deep and filled with a few choice horticultural specimens, evidently of a variety that thrived in bright sunlight.

  As the Cardinal rose from his desk to greet them, he seemed to blanch momentarily and put a hand on the back of his chair, as if to steady himself. But then, quickly recovering his composure, he welcomed Nicola and Bruno cordially, thanking them for agreeing to assist in the resolution of the catacomb dispute. He was a tall, thin man, with a sallow complexion, an aquiline nose and high cheekbones, slightly stooped, but physically imposing despite his age.

  Dressed in a regal black cassock with red trim and a wide, tasseled red sash, he exuded authority and a sense of quietly restrained vigor. A red skullcap or zucchetto covered his thinning, slicked back hair, which was so dark as to arouse Nicola’s suspicions about whether or not its color had come out of a bottle. She knew that he had to be at least in his early 80’s, based on what Bruno had told her about his background, but somehow he seemed much younger than that.

  As he shifted to move back towards his desk, motioning to them and Father Benedetto to be seated, the sunlight suddenly streamed more intensely through the windows, gleaming strangely on the large cabochon ruby at the center of his gold pectoral cross. For a moment, Nicola thought the sunlight changed his appearance, somehow making his skin more transparent and his facial bone structure almost frighteningly cadaverous. She shuddered involuntarily, turning away from the dazzling reflection of light, and decided that it was only her overactive imagination, fueled by nervous tension.

  As he sat down behind his carved mahogany desk, Rostoni regard
ed her and Bruno intently with piercing dark eyes. “Professoressa Page, Professore Recanati,” he finally began, “please make yourselves comfortable. I’d like to lay out our expectations here at the Vatican before you begin your work.”

  Nicola shifted uneasily in her seat, and Bruno nudged her elbow surreptitiously.

  “First of all, we do not expect you to hold to a specific timetable for completion of your assessment, though we do expect a formal, well-documented report at the end of your examination of all the relevant data. And obviously,” he said with a note of barely concealed aversion, “you'll need to submit a copy of your report to the Marchesa's attorneys as well.”

  “Of course, Your Eminence,” Bruno answered for both of them, as Nicola nodded in assent.

  “As you know,” Rostoni continued, “the authority of the Holy See and its . . . how shall we say? . . . responsibilities for the new catacomb at the Vigna Randanini have been challenged. This has led to some legal entanglements,” he said euphemistically, “though at the moment it is unclear just who has the authority to decide the issue—the Italian court system or that of Holy Mother Church. We at the Commission for Sacred Archaeology are prepared to recognize only the authority of our own ecclesiastical courts, though the Marchesa’s family has brought the matter to the secular judicial system.

  “Since a restraining order from the Italian courts has been placed on the new hypogeum, restricting entry as well as the removal of any artifacts that have been found there, only you two, as disinterested parties acceptable to both sides, will be allowed access to the area. The Marchesa’s family has agreed in writing,” he continued, waving aloft a cream-colored document with a gold crest along the top, “to allow you to spend as much time as necessary to evaluate all evidence and ensure a fair resolution of our conflicting ownership claims.

  “A pity, but the Marchesa's family has apparently been worried about tomb raiding and has photographed the site thoroughly. The deleterious influence, no doubt, of certain misconceptions bred by recent popular films,” he added with obvious distaste.

  Without waiting for them to respond to his apparent reference to Indiana Jones and Lara Croft, he went on. “It is critical for us to learn if the new burial chamber houses the bones of any saints or martyrs, or whether the crypt is in fact an underground chapel. Your analysis of the fresco art and inscriptions should provide all of the necessary information. From a legal point of view, the presence of a chapel dedicated to the worship of a specific saint or martyr—or evidence of primarily Christian tombs—would strengthen our position tremendously.”

  Nicola listened carefully, recalling that by the 5th and 6th centuries, catacombs were used mostly for devotional purposes, as underground sanctuaries or basilicas, and not for interment of the dead. Hence, accurate dating of the hypogeum would be critical in determining its precise provenance and legal status.

  “Of course,” Rostoni observed, “a further issue involves ownership of the artifacts found at the site. The artifacts themselves are treasures of incalculable worth, both in terms of their intrinsic monetary value, as well as their historical significance. They will either find their final resting place in the private collection of the Marchesa, or they will become part of the Vatican Museums’ holdings. It should be obvious that the latter is our natural preference,” he added dryly.

  “And now,” the Cardinal suggested, “perhaps some refreshment is in order before we go on.”

  He paused and pressed an intercom buzzer on his desk. “Giampaolo, would you please bring us some mineral water? Four glasses, grazie.”

  The mousy-looking secretary entered quickly with a large silver tray and what appeared to be a Waterford crystal pitcher with matching tumblers. The Cardinal took several sips from his glass and continued. “By the way, I should mention that there has been a bit of agreed-upon, minor reconstruction undertaken to stabilize the actual entrance to the crypt, to ensure that there's no imminent danger of collapse.”

  Nicola's eyes widened at this, and she glanced quickly at Bruno, barely restraining herself from poking his arm with her elbow. The Cardinal, however, seemed not to notice, and added, “It's fortunate that almost no intrusive restoration work needs to be carried out in the crypt itself. Everything appears to be in pristine order, I'm told. Perhaps, at most, some cleaning of dusty surfaces with brushes or very mild agents may be necessary so that all the details in the frescoes can be clearly seen. Everything has been left intact, including the sarcophagi and marble plaques.”

  “That sounds perfect, Your Eminence,” Bruno replied. “We’re ready to begin work tomorrow. I’ve arranged for Signor Fossore to meet us at the Vigna Randanini and give us the keys to the catacomb entrance, as well as floor plans and the equipment we’ll need to conduct our work.”

  “Yes,” Rostoni answered. “My secretary, I believe, has taken care of the details. I’ll be expecting you to report to me or to Father Benedetto at regular intervals. You can arrange an appointment through my secretary, or call Father Benedetto directly on his extension in the Archives.

  “Of course, once you submit a formal assessment, our legal staff will take care of it from there,” he concluded. “I trust that the arrangements are satisfactory.”

  At this point the Cardinal stood up, signaling the end of the interview.

  As Nicola rose from her chair, she paused to look around the room more closely, fascinated by the richness of its décor. The walls were of pale ivory-tinted plaster, with molded friezes near the ceiling that looked several centuries old. Oil paintings rich with the patina of age hung everywhere, and there was one small piece with a brilliant sun blazing at its center—was it a Turner?—in an ornately gilded frame, resting on an easel on a small table.

  On one of the walls, strategically located away from the arc of bright sunlight that flooded the room, hung an immense tapestry from floor to ceiling, in muted colors, splashed here and there with darker shades of burgundy and crimson, ocher, pale yellow and flame.

  Nicola stared at it in wonderment—it reminded her of a painting, Nicholas Poussin’s “Conquest of Jerusalem by Emperor Titus.” She was not only familiar with its checkered history, but had seen a smaller version of the composition, “Destruction of the Temple in Jerusalem,” in the Kunsthistorische Museum in Vienna on her first trip to Austria. Two larger canvasses by Poussin, one an unfinished study of the work in question, had been the centerpiece of a special exhibit of European art depicting Biblical scenes and landscapes at the Israel Museum several years earlier. Purely by chance, Nicola had managed to see the exhibit while on a brief side trip to Jerusalem on her way home from a conference in Athens.

  As in the Poussin oil, a large edifice with an abundance of Ionic-type columns, alit with flames, occupied the upper part of the tapestry. Here and there were areas into which golden threads, in a basket weave pattern, had been introduced. These sections were reminiscent of the depiction of the golden Menorah being pillaged from the Temple in Poussin's painting and included some other objects, one of which was a golden table. A large figure on a white battle steed dominated the lower right-hand side of the tapestry. Crimson splotches and shadows seemed to indicate two-dimensional blood and gore.

  Fascinated, Nicola continued to stare at the tapestry. She wondered about its provenance. Was it from France or Bruges? Was it part of a series of religious themes or Biblical scenes? Or perhaps part of a group of tapestries depicting events in the ancient Temple in Jerusalem? Who had commissioned it? She wondered if there were any companion pieces, perhaps Christ admonishing the moneylenders in the Temple. Had the tapestry somehow inspired Poussin’s painting?

  Bruno touched her elbow lightly and cleared his throat to get her attention. She turned towards him and realized that Cardinal Rostoni was studying her reaction to the tapestry closely, the shadow of a smile—or was it something else? —on his face.

  “Magnificent, isn’t it?” he finally remarked neutrally.

  “Forgive me,” she said. “I did
n’t mean to be rude. It’s just that this tapestry is incredibly similar to a painting on the same subject. You’re familiar with Nicholas Poussin’s work, of course. Is it just me, or does it also remind you of Poussin’s representation of the destruction of the Temple in Jerusalem by Titus?”

  Rostoni looked at her curiously, his dark eyes seeming to narrow somewhat as he chose his words carefully. “I’m afraid that the exact provenance of the tapestry is as yet unknown, as is its approximate time of manufacture, if we can call it that—which is, shall we say, one of the reasons why it’s hanging here in my office, so that I can examine it more closely and attempt to date it properly. I find the challenge a source of continual inspiration.

  “It appears to have come from the southern part of France, probably woven by some unknown master tapissier from the town of La Tourette, where it was found in a stone annex to an old church that was destroyed by fire some fifteen years ago. It’s the only piece that survived. You may have noticed the small crest-like mark in the corner, in the selvage. That’s probably the weaver’s guild sign, but we have no other samples of such a mark to compare it with, so the tapestry remains a mystery. In the meantime.

  “Are you familiar with the other pieces we have by Poussin here at the Vatican?”

  “Of course—‘The Martyrdom of St. Erasmus,’ in the museum, and the altarpiece in the basilica,” she replied. “1628, to be precise. The altarpiece, that is. I hope you’re not testing me,” she added with a nervous smile, brushing aside and twisting a long tendril of hair that had strayed onto her forehead.

  “I see that your fine reputation is justly deserved,” he said. “By the way, many of the really good pieces that we have acquired over the last fifty years or so are not even displayed in the museum. Some of them are undergoing laborious restoration. Many of them decorate offices such as mine, and, of course, the papal apartments. As you can imagine, others are so valuable that they need to be protected in special climate-controlled rooms that are closed to the general public; some, in fact, are in sealed vaults that have never seen the light of day.”