“I hope that sometime Professore Recanati and I might have the privilege of seeing some of these objects,” Nicola ventured tentatively.
Rostoni regarded her closely and replied after a moment’s hesitation, “Yes, of course. I’m sure it can be arranged.”
He paused again before continuing. “I must confess that I’m rather intrigued by your first name, Professoressa Page. The way it’s spelled, that is. You do know that, in Italian, ‘Nicola’ is the usual spelling for the male variant of the name?”
She blushed, feeling somewhat awkward and self-conscious again. “Actually, you’re the first person to point that out to me. I’ve always thought that the male version was spelled the way Machiavelli wrote his: ‘Niccolò.’ It never occurred to me that my name might be somewhat gender-ambiguous, as we say back in the United States. I’ve been told that I was named for a dead relative of my grandmother. She was born and raised here in Rome and immigrated to the United States after the war.”
“Really? I had no idea that you were of Italian descent,” he remarked thoughtfully.
“Must be my reddish hair and gray eyes that are so misleading,” she suggested, surprised by the more personal turn their conversation had taken and feeling slightly more comfortable than she had been until now.
“Tiziano’s favorite hair color, as I’m sure you know,” the Cardinal observed.
“Yes,” she nodded, pushing a lock of the aforementioned titian-colored hair behind her ear. “I’m told that I look a lot like my grandmother did at my age, except for my coloring, and her ancestors were Italian through and through.”
He scrutinized her once more and then turned to Father Benedetto, narrowing his eyes slightly. “Perhaps our guests would like a tour of the gardens, Francesco. Would you kindly escort them?”
Realizing that they had now been dismissed, Bruno and Nicola thanked the Cardinal for his time and promised to keep him abreast of all developments. They left the office and followed Father Benedetto out of the suite of offices and down the long corridor.
Cardinal Rostoni, in the meantime, returned to his desk, sat down, and propped his elbows on its polished surface. Resting his chin on his hands distractedly, he nearly scratched himself on the large golden ring with a crested amethyst that adorned his finger. Could it be possible? he asked himself over and over again, his gaunt hand now clenching his heavy pectoral cross in a nearly unconscious gesture. Perhaps it’s only my imagination.
Lost in thought, he stared off into space, looking momentarily perturbed when his secretary knocked on the door.
“Not now, Giampaolo. I’m busy,” he said impatiently.
“But,” the secretary tried to insist, “you have an important phone call.”
“I told you, not now. I am not to be disturbed,” came the cold reply.
Chapter Six
They left the Apostolic Palace and Father Benedetto led Nicola and Bruno out into the gardens, a seemingly endless expanse that covered a surprising fifty-seven square acres of space. The grounds were in the full bloom of summer, landscaped with carefully manicured grass that was interspersed with marble statuary and other ancient archaeological fragments. Maze-like shrubbery had been pruned to replicate the personal emblem of the current pope, and a multitude of colorful flowers—some indigenous to Italy, others of a more exotic variety—filled the air with their rich perfume. The majestic cupola of San Pietro could be seen in all of its glorious detail from most vantage points.
As the three of them went deeper into the gardens, lofty umbrella pines, rugged oaks, and centuries-old specimen trees towered overhead, shading them from the piercing heat of the morning sun. Their feet crunched softly on a white-pebbled path as Father Benedetto led them towards a rocky moss-covered grotto, where the unexpected gush of water from a massive fountain cooled the air and sprinkled their faces with a fine, refreshing mist.
Turning to face Nicola and Bruno, Father Benedetto now asked, “Should I leave the two of you here to enjoy the gardens for a while? The Pope doesn't come out here until early afternoon for his customary walk after lunch, so you'll have at least an hour or so to explore before you need to leave—for security reasons of course. But if you prefer, I can take you on a tour of the Archives.”
“That sounds nice. I think we've probably seen enough of the gardens already,” Nicola said. “Is that okay with you, Bruno?”
About an hour later, as they left the Archives, skirting the Apostolic Palace, Nicola turned to Bruno and after some silent deliberation confided, “I think I should share something with you. I'm not sure how to say this, but I had the impression—the distinct impression, I have to say—when we were introduced to Cardinal Rostoni, that there was something about me that disturbed him. Or that he didn’t quite approve of. I don’t know how to explain it. Just something I sensed when we walked into his office.”
“You know, I didn’t pick up on that,” Bruno reflected slowly, in puzzlement. “But maybe he was just surprised to see how young you are—or how young we both are, given our respective publication records. At the risk of sounding immodest, I think we both know we’ve achieved more than most of our colleagues have at this stage in our careers. Maybe he was just expecting us to look older and more experienced.”
Her brow furrowed in thought as she considered this possibility.
“Look, Nicola,” he continued, not waiting for her to respond, “the outcome of this case is extremely important to the Vatican. It’s not just a matter of who gains legal control of the catacomb and its artifacts. It’s also a matter of pride—and even saving face—for the Church. Although you are Catholic, you’re not Italian, so it’s something you wouldn’t necessarily be sensitive to. Even after all these years, since the signing of the Lateran Treaty, the Church still hasn’t become used to—or fully accepted—the loss of its temporal power in Italy.
“I wouldn’t worry, though” he said, patting her shoulder reassuringly. “We’ll be fine.”
“I hope you’re right,” she said with a perceptible sigh, though she continued to look troubled. “Maybe I’m just being paranoid.”
Meanwhile, high above the gardens, a heavy length of drapery was silently pulled to one side, and a black-garbed figure peered out of a tall mullioned window, half hidden in the shadows. The curtain rustled quietly and then closed.
Chapter Seven
“Giampaolo, would you get me a secure line?” Cardinal Rostoni spoke into the intercom in a voice carefully devoid of all traces of emotion. “Yes, I need it immediately. Grazie. And you may take the rest of the day off.”
The secretary knocked on the door to Rostoni’s inner office. “The line is ready, Your Eminence. Will there be anything else?”
“No. You may go.”
Rostoni waited a few minutes, until he heard the door to the outer office click shut. He then picked up the receiver and dialed a seldom-used number belonging to a former employee of the Vigilanza, who now operated a private international surveillance network that Rostoni consulted on occasion.
“It’s me, Giovanni,” Rostoni said tightly. “I think we have a problem. Or at least a potential problem.”
“Go on,” growled the deep voice at the other end of the line.
“You remember what we discussed about the new crypt that was discovered last month in the Vigna Randanini?”
“Si. I remember,” he replied carefully.
“In that case, I'm sure you recall that after all the publicity in the newspapers and on radio that the Pope forced my hand. That he insisted we make every effort to claim the artifacts that were found there for the Church.”
He paused for emphasis and then added with barely controlled anger in his voice, “That I had no choice but to engage those two art historians or he would have been suspicious of my motives. That I couldn't refuse him.”
“I know. What of it?” Giovanni said impatiently.
“Well, I believe I have reason to suspect that they might not be quite as malleable—or how s
hall I say?—as compliant as I had hoped. There's something about them that disturbs me. They're a bit too sharp. A bit too inquisitive for my taste. I’m concerned about what they might discover and what action they might take. They appear to be far more knowledgeable and meticulous than I had expected.
“I think it would be a good idea to have them watched. See where they go. Whom they talk to. And if possible, keep an eye on them particularly if they enter the Secret Archives. I’ll need to know which files they look at or if they make any special requests. I'm sure I don't have to remind you why,” he added harshly.
There was a brief pause as Rostoni listened carefully to the response. “Of course not. I understand perfectly. Don’t worry,” the deep voice reassured him. “I’ll have it covered. And we’ll keep a low profile. As always.”
Another pause, and Rostoni then replied tensely. “All right then. Please take care of it immediately. Too much is at stake. We can't afford to wait.”
Chapter Eight
The catacombs of the Vigna Randanini, where the new hypogeum had been discovered, were located on the estate of one of the oldest noble families of Rome, not far from the Via Appia Antica, the roughly cobbled consular road that had been built in ancient times to connect with distant parts of the Empire. The grounds themselves were hidden from the street by a formidable brick wall that enclosed the entire perimeter of the property.
As they approached the area with Signor Fossore, Nicola and Bruno were shocked to see three carabinieri jump out of a small car, their weapons drawn. Nicola grabbed Bruno's arm and turned to Fossore in disbelief.
“I'm so sorry," he apologized abashedly. “I should have warned you. The courts have not only restricted access to the grounds, but they're enforcing the injunction with a police presence around the clock. The Marchesa,” he confided, choosing his words carefully, “is concerned about possible attempts by the Pontifical Commission to—how can I put this delicately?—compromise the site. I'm sure you can understand her concerns.”
A short heavy-set man with thinning hair, Ugo Fossore was a retired archaeologist who had worked for the Vatican at the beginning of his career and had later been recommended to the Marchesa as a reliable restoration expert when one of the crypts at the Vigna Randanini had threatened to collapse several years ago. It was only natural, then, that she had called on Fossore to assess the damage to the catacombs on her property following the recent tremors. Under normal circumstances, the discovery of the new hypogeum would probably have stayed under wraps for a while. But one of Fossore's assistants had tipped off the local newspapers, probably hoping that his own name would appear in print, and the new crypt had unavoidably come to the attention of the Pope and the Pontifical Commission, resulting in the current dispute. The assistant's participation in the restoration project had, of course, been promptly terminated at the request of the Marchesa, Fossore added.
He now introduced Nicola and Bruno to the day-shift officers as the experts who were authorized to enter the area and then led the way through a heavy set of tall iron gates to a corner of the estate bordered by a rusty wire fence and a few ragged bushes and trees. Nicola glanced at Bruno skeptically, thinking to herself that this looked like a rather inauspicious start to what she had hoped would be the most fascinating set of catacombs she had ever seen.
Following their guide, Nicola and Bruno descended a short stone staircase leading to an enclosed courtyard that was paved in a wavy, undulating pattern of tiny black and white mosaic tiles. The brick walls of the courtyard bore a series of shallow arched recesses vaguely resembling small burial niches that were known as arcosolia. In the distance, against the background of a rolling hillock dotted with tall umbrella pines, the imposing façade of the Marchesa’s villa gleamed in the peach-colored splendor of the early morning light.
Unlocking a massive iron door at the entrance to the catacombs, Fossore produced three oxy-lamps, which would provide both heat and light inside the chilly subterranean network. The soft glow of the lamps, however, did little to dispel Nicola's initial disappointment at what she saw. The narrow passageway appeared to be nothing more than a long, roughly hewn tunnel leading to nowhere, with a strong smell of mildew and the stale odor of dust assailing her nostrils. She coughed several times and surreptitiously searched her pockets for tissues and a breath mint to soothe her irritated throat.
Unlike the enormous catacomb complexes of San Sebastiano and San Callisto along the Via Appia Antica, or the large burial vaults that rested under so many churches and basilicas in Rome, there was nothing dramatic or heart-stopping about what she was seeing. At least not yet. Somehow she had expected something more elaborate—more exciting and unique.
Fossore, however, was oblivious to Nicola's reaction, though Bruno shot her a puzzled glance, apparently wondering why she looked somehow dismayed. Clearly relieved that he didn't need to speak in English for Nicola’s sake, Fossore proceeded to review the history of the Vigna Randanini in rapid Italian.
“First I’ll give you a brief tour of the older catacomb area. As I’m sure you know, the Vigna Randanini functioned in ancient times as a small underground pagan cemetery that was later converted into a much larger Jewish burial ground. Galleries were added as needed, and most are beautifully decorated with frescoes. All of these rooms, by the way, appear in the map published by Frey in the 1930’s.”
“You know,” Nicola remarked, “I’ve never been able to obtain a copy of the map. Are there any indications on it of the existence of the new chamber?”
“None whatsoever,” Fossore replied, shaking his head emphatically. “Nothing that would hint, even remotely, at a room of this size or archaeological significance.
“Anyway, we’ll start with a tour of the catacombs and galleries,” he continued, “and then I’ll take you to the new crypt. By the way, not only was there no indication of it on Frey’s map, but its entrance had been sealed with brick and covered with a layer of mortar that blended in perfectly with the walls of the passageway leading towards it. Perhaps even more baffling to us was the fact that a series of marble plaques had been built into the passageway, apparently to simulate a group of loculi.”
“Are you saying that you had always thought the entire area was lined with actual burial niches, when in fact there were no real loculi there at all?” Nicola asked in surprise.
“That’s right,” Fossore replied, nodding his head. “The subterfuge was absolutely perfect. No one even suspected that the crypt was there.
“After the tremors, only a small portion of the entrance to the hypogeum was exposed, something more or less equivalent to a large peephole between two of the counterfeit loculi. It soon became obvious that some sort of hidden chamber lay behind the passageway, so my assistants and I decided to open up other small sections in the wall, to see what was behind them.
“I can only assume that the placement of these plaques was deliberate on the part of those who constructed this section of the catacomb network, though I can't presume to speculate why. Fortunately, the burial vault and its contents have been unusually well preserved as a result, since they’ve been protected from dust—and grave robbers—for centuries.
“We’ve removed enough of the mock tomb markers to open up a large doorway to the chamber, but at this point, I’m afraid that my work here has ended. As skilled in structural restoration as I may be, I just don't have the necessary background to analyze the contents of the crypt, which is why the two of you are here.”
They followed Fossore along the dank passageway towards a network of long rectangular galleries and square cubicula. From the ground up, along the walls of the tunnel, there were several levels of loculi, interspersed with one or two kôchim, or layered tombs.
Dim sunlight filtered in through two skylights, augmenting the warm yellow glow of the oxy-lamps. Though the original function of such skylights had been to provide a conduit for the removal of excavation debris as new underground galleries were quarried, they also enabled the
entry of sun and air, which helped preserve minimal hygienic conditions, given the large numbers of decaying bodies that were buried in the recesses of the walls. On occasion, the skylights would be positioned to allow a shaft of sunshine to emphasize an important or especially beautiful monument to the dead.
Okay, Nicola told herself. This is starting to look a bit better—not much, but definitely an improvement. She knew that humid atmospheric conditions in Rome had sometimes prevented funerary artists from using the type of labor intensive tomb ornamentation more generally found in Naples and Sicily, but still, the etchings on these plaques, while interesting, were not nearly as intriguing as she'd hoped they would be.
She dutifully took out her sketchbook and flicked on her headlamp, adjusting its strap over the thick tangle of auburn curls that had fallen over her forehead, and began to copy some of the etchings.
Fossore explained that the cylindrical shapes were supposed to be Torah scrolls and that the oval shapes were the fruits of the cedar tree—though Bruno quietly remarked that they looked more like citrons used for the holiday of Sukkoth. Other tomb decorations included the lulav or ceremonial palm frond, seven-branched menorah candelabra, and shofars or ram's horns. Still other symbols, more secular in meaning, included a heart-shaped bouquet of flowers with a long wavy stem and something that could have been another grouping of flowers or some sort of primitive palm tree.
One small room to the side, Fossore told them, was believed to be a communal tomb for a socially prominent Jewish family. Its white plastered walls, designed to offset the darkness of the crypt, bore simple, painted decorations, including a crudely sketched menorah candelabrum in red, with thick perpendicular lines bisecting its branches and semicircular cups for the holy oil. Each of the four corners of the tomb was painted with a date palm fresco in the corner, with garlands and stylized fruits between the loculi.
The Lost Catacomb Page 4