“You know, Bruno,” she suddenly gasped in surprise, turning towards him, “maybe this first grave is hers. The initials M and R appear on the plaque, and there’s a fresco of a seated woman. Remember that we thought the grave marker was a bit strange? This sort of tomb usually isn’t anonymous. There are always names, occupations, some indication of social position, dates, whose spouse the person was, or how many children were left behind. Something.
“And remember how we couldn’t figure out if a man or woman was buried in the second sarcophagus?” she went on almost feverishly. “Well, I think we have our answer now. It must have been the pope who loved this woman Mariamne. My God, I bet she was murdered by the same people who got rid of him for daring to love her.”
“Or for daring to consider relinquishing the Temple treasures,” Bruno interjected. “We can’t ignore that possibility. Maybe a double motive. How can we be sure?”
Nicola now interrupted him, her thoughts almost outstripping the speed at which she spoke. “Some of the symbols were definitely Jewish on the gold glasses. A Star of David, a candelabrum, a Torah scroll. Or what looks like one. Maybe the Torah scroll wasn’t meant to be a Torah scroll at all. Just a regular one. Maybe that was supposed to be a hint at what to look for.
“You know, the person who recorded the details of the murder, whoever he was, might have placed the glasses here as some sort of clue. He said in the parchment that he hoped someone would find out about this someday.”
“That’s assuming he knew she had been murdered too,” Bruno said, “and that he knew of—or maybe helped to arrange for—her burial in this very crypt, next to the pope who loved her. This is absolutely mind-boggling. How are we supposed to solve a murder, maybe two murders, that were committed centuries ago?
“And by the way,” he continued, “if the etchings on the first gold glass base refer to the Temple treasures, then it’s entirely possible that the second one refers to the same event. Maybe those figures represent the emperor’s victorious march into Rome with Jewish slaves, in which case the trumpets and lyres might be the musical instruments used by priests in the Temple service. The iconography is incredibly similar to the motifs on the Arch of Titus.”
“I see what you mean,” Nicola said.
“And if, as the scroll suggests,” he added, thinking out loud, “if the Church had possession of the Temple treasures all those years ago, who knows? . . . Maybe it still has them, hidden away in some secret underground vault. It’s not beyond the realm of possibility. That would be even more shocking than the double murder we think we’re looking at.”
He grew uncharacteristically silent for a moment, a slight frown shadowing his handsome features as he considered the evidence. “You know, Nicola,” he said slowly, “at the risk of sounding paranoid, if the Church still has the Temple artifacts, assuming that we can rely on the scroll, then our discovery could be a real problem—for us and for the Vatican.
“Imagine if, in the wake of our findings, the matter were to become known outside the Vatican. There could be all sorts of nasty complications for the Church. The State of Israel, for example, could put forth a very strong legal claim to the treasures—probably one that would stand up in some sort of international world forum or court. And that’s apart from the moral dimensions of the issue. Certainly Israel’s moral claim to the treasures would be unquestioned. Irrefutable.
“It could be really embarrassing for the Vatican. I mean, how could it possibly justify keeping what amounts to booty that was pillaged centuries ago from a place of worship to which it has no connection whatsoever—a place of worship that still means so much to the Jewish people? And now that I’m thinking of it, if the wrong people in the Vatican were to see where our investigations are taking us, we might even be in danger.”
Nicola looked at him in shock. “You don’t mean that, Bruno, do you? Not really?”
“Look, I’m not saying that anyone would want to get rid of us the way the bishops got rid of our nameless pope, and possibly poor Mariamne,” Bruno continued hurriedly. “But we could find ourselves in an untenable situation in which our credentials and academic reputations could be damaged, and we'd be powerless to stop it.
“I don’t want to offend you, since you were born Catholic after all, but I think we both know how powerful the Church is. How powerful and—I’m sorry to have to say this—how single-minded it would be in protecting its own interests, which in this case would be diametrically opposed to those of other claimants to the artifacts. We’d just be some of the collateral damage along the way.”
Nicola, meantime, was too agitated to continue sitting and began to pace the floor of the crypt restlessly. She tugged on a stray curl, in a gesture that Bruno had come to associate with her when she was thinking seriously about something or was simply anxious.
“I know what we should do,” she finally said.
“What? Tell me.”
“Well, I think we shouldn’t jump to rash conclusions before we really check things out as thoroughly as possible, on our own, without telling anyone about our theories until we’re sure about them and know whom we can trust.
“Do you have a copy of the Liber Pontificalus at home?” she asked.
“Of course.”
“I think we should take a close look at it. We know that underground burials in catacombs and hypogea continued only into the 3rd Century, right? So maybe we can see which popes lived during that time frame. You know, look at the dates and official biographies to see if something doesn’t sit right. There must be some way of reading between the lines to get at clues to what might have happened.
“This has to be solvable, Bruno. It just has to be.”
Chapter Fourteen
Bruno and Nicola left the Piazza Navona, passing the famed Fontana dei Quattro Fiumi and circumventing the usual groups of street artists sketching caricatures of tourists and locals hawking fake or pilfered designer goods. They continued at a leisurely pace down the narrow alleyway of the Via Agenale, between the darkened façades of apartment buildings and shops bordering the square, towards Bruno’s car. Along the way, they were stopped more than once by vendors of apparently Pakistani or Indian origin selling long-stemmed roses that were thrust under their noses so many times that Bruno finally asked Nicola if she would like some, though they would probably be wilted long before she returned to the Villa Mirafiori.
Two hours earlier they had sat down to a relaxing dinner at Tre Scalini, a fashionable old restaurant on the Piazza Navona that was famed for its tartufo, a rich confection of chocolate gelato with a cherry at its center. Over focaccia dripping with fragrant olive oil and fettuccine with white truffles, followed by a shared square of tiramisu—which Nicola could never resist—they had discussed their next move.
“I agree,” Bruno said as they walked towards the car. “It would be a good idea to start with the Liber Pontificalus now that we’ve had a really good look at the graves. I’m sure we can come up with some possible candidates for our missing pope. There has to be someone, some figure whom the Church was at great pains to hide, whose existence needed to be suppressed, but who’s somehow hinted at in the Liber. Though it’s beyond me, at this point, why his name would need to be so completely erased. Plenty of popes have met with untimely deaths.”
The Liber Pontificalus was, in effect, a concise resource book for anyone researching the biographies of the first ninety popes and the highlights of their ecclesiastical careers, from the time of St. Peter through 750 AD. Tantalizing for what was left unsaid between the lines, since it almost never mentioned cause of death or scandals surrounding the election of a new pontiff, it might possibly provide the first real clues to the mystery of the ornately decorated graves at the Vigna Randanini.
Bruno fell silent for a moment as he considered the possibilities. “On the one hand,” he said, “this person needed to be buried in obscurity. After all, we’ve never seen any popes interred in this particular location before, even if it is i
n the vicinity of the catacomb of St. Calixtus, where so many other popes from that period are buried. And yet, on the other hand, some very real effort was expended to stimulate the imagination of those who would find the grave later on.”
“You mean, to make sure someone would rectify this terrible wrong, don’t you?” Nicola countered, her gray eyes filled with concern. “I just hope we can figure this out by ourselves, without looking at the original manuscript of the Liber, since there are several discrepancies between the two major editions that have been published. Because otherwise we have no choice but to go to the Archives, and that will probably mean telling Father Benedetto precisely why we need to see the original. And then . . . well, you’ve painted a rather interesting scenario about the possible consequences.”
“If worse comes to worst,” Bruno said, “I think we can speak to Father Benedetto. I like him, Nicola. I think we can trust him. Cardinal Rostoni, on the other hand, is not the most simpatico person I’ve ever met. Too formal and cold for my taste.
“Look,” he continued, “it’s not just that Father Benedetto’s going to ask some pretty direct questions. That’s a separate issue, and an important one, I grant you. I just think that we may have no choice in the matter. He is a manuscript expert after all, and if we need to authenticate the provenance of the scroll without recourse to some sort of formal scientific analysis, he’s the one who’ll know if it’s genuine. It could save us a lot of trouble.”
By now they were in Bruno’s car, heading for his apartment on a tree-lined street near the Aventine. They drove slowly, taking a circuitous, scenic route through the now quiet streets. They passed the Piazza Venezia with its monument to Vittorio Emanuele, gleaming white in the pale moonlight, and the Cordonata, the wide marble staircase leading to the elliptical courtyard of the Piazza del Campidoglio and Museum of National Art, with its replica of the famed equestrian sculpture of Marcus Aurelius in the foreground. They circled around the Coliseum and the Foro Romano, their majestic ruins illuminated by bright spotlights, and then drove past the Temple of Vesta and Janiculum Hill.
“Should we make a stop near the Bocca della Verità?” Bruno asked, referring to the ancient stone face that could supposedly distinguish truth from lies when someone put a hand in its mouth. “Maybe we can run some of our theories past it. It will only bite off our hands if we’re wrong,” he added with a mischievous smile.
“Actually, I think the Bocca has other things to do, like exposing those who violate the innocence of others,” Nicola replied quietly. A shadow flickered briefly over her face as she thought of the victims of Celeste Di Porto’s greed.
They reached the Aventine at last and parked a short distance from Bruno’s apartment building. Huge terracotta pots of hydrangeas in shades of bluish lavender and pink lined the courtyard leading to the front door of the building, with its large marble-floored lobby, painted with Art Deco murals. Diagonally opposite the building was a small piazza, where, during daytime hours, vendors sold farm-fresh designer produce and busy commuters could stop off at small tobacconist shops and coffee bars for a quick cappuccino on their way to work.
Bruno greeted the doorman and led Nicola to the elevator. His flat was on the third floor and faced the street. The living room was fronted with casement windows shaded with netted under-drapes for privacy and flanked by some heavier, printed fabric—probably Frette or Pratesi, Nicola conjectured—at the sides. Bruno drew the curtains and went into the kitchen to make coffee. Although they'd had an espresso and grappa at the end of their meal at Tre Scalini, their work would require concentration of an unusual nature, well into the late hours of the night.
“Make mine intravenous,” Nicola said with a tired sigh.
The coffee now ready, Bruno went into his study to locate his copy of the Liber Pontificalus, as well as some photo albums and monographs containing sketches and reproductions of catacomb art that spanned several centuries. Perhaps these would yield some hints about the mysterious provenance of the two graves.
The first one was the least problematic. Clearly it was that of a female named Mariamne Rufina, and clearly she had been Jewish, a representative of her local synagogue. But what was the relationship between the two graves? Was it really possible that a pope had been buried there? And could it all be connected to treasures looted from the ancient Temple in Jerusalem? The real question was, could they rely on the narrative in the parchment?
Nicola followed Bruno into his study. The room was large and lined with custom-made walnut bookcases that went from floor to ceiling, covering nearly all of the wall space. An antique desk with a tooled-leather insert perched at an angle opposite the door and sported an ultra-modern lamp, piles of books and papers, and a vase full of bright irises. A few tall houseplants stood in a corner, and some antique lithographs were strategically propped on easels on the bookshelves. Some were of early Roman architecture, while others appeared to be maps of Italy before the unification.
A small sofa in deep teal blue, cozy looking and well worn, was angled near another corner of the room, with tall matching halogen lamps on either side. It looked like the perfect place for curling up with a good monograph—or a good friend—Nicola found herself thinking. The sofa was scattered with several pillows, some needlepoint, some of faintly Afghani origin.
“You didn’t acquire all of these lithographs on a professor’s salary did you?” Nicola asked in amazement as she glanced around the study. “They must be worth a small fortune.”
“Actually,” he replied, “most of them I inherited from a great aunt, who hid them in a gentile neighbor’s home during the war. A few were purchased at an antique art stall at a flea market—the owner apparently had no idea of their value. And one or two I acquired at auctions.”
He walked over to one of the bookcase shelves and selected several items. “Let’s take these into the living room. I’ll move some things from the coffee table. It’ll be roomier than the desk in my study, and the seating area's more comfortable.”
Bruno's living room was a wide airy space with a rustic dining table at one end, surrounded by four modern sculptural chairs. The other side of the room boasted a colorful Killim rug, topped by two deep sofas that faced each other across an oversized coffee table. It had a homey feeling to it, and Nicola sat down immediately on one of the sofas, kicking off her elegant, but not terribly comfortable, sandals and tucking her long legs underneath her. She sighed gratefully and reached for the cup of espresso that Bruno now handed her.
Down below, in the darkened street, a shadowy figure in a hooded black sweat suit stood half-hidden under an arching tree opposite the apartment. A cell phone was drawn out of its pocket, and a low voice confirmed that Nicola and Bruno were inside the building.
“Yes. I understand. I’ll stay here all night if I have to. . . . What? Of course! I’ll wake you only if necessary. Don’t worry. It’s under control.”
Nicola finished her coffee and placed the cup on a coaster on the nearby table. She reached for the Liber Pontificalus and started reading. After half an hour of close attention both to the brief details mentioned and what could be read between the lines, she tapped Bruno excitedly on his shoulder.
“Maybe I’m grasping at straws, but I think I might have a possible candidate for our papal murder victim,” she said, pointing to one of the entries. “Look here.
“According to the Liber, Pope Sixtus II, along with all of his deacons, was murdered and then buried in the catacomb of St. Calixtus on August 6, 258. Maybe his body was exhumed at some point and moved, especially if he'd offended a powerful group of bishops who might have been forced to give him a public funeral, just to cover their tracks. Maybe they moved him later to a more obscure location in order to punish him—even after death—by erasing his memory. Or maybe they wanted to make sure no one would worship at the grave of a wayward pope who'd agreed to restore the Temple treasures to the Jews.
“Maybe the other loculi in the crypt, which are anonymous and g
eneric, are his deacons’ graves,” she continued breathlessly. “You know, the catacomb of Calixtus isn’t that far from the Vigna Randanini, and maybe the scribe who wrote the scroll we found, the friend of the pope, was one of the deacons who was murdered too. Maybe the bishops knocked off all of the pope’s friends, just in case he'd confided in them.”
“I understand what you’re saying,” Bruno replied thoughtfully. “But then we have no plausible explanation for all of the so-called clues that were incorporated into the frescoes and gold glasses. If the pope’s friend had been murdered, he couldn’t have arranged for the ornate tomb decorations, could he? It’s true that there are many loculi with undifferentiated plaques near the two graves, but they don’t appear to be those of deacons or religious figures. There’s nothing in the iconography to suggest it. And don’t forget, the parchment mentions that the murdered pope wasn’t buried in the usual location designated for bishops of Rome. So it doesn’t seem likely that he would have first been interred in the crypt of St. Calixtus and then exhumed and moved.”
“I see what you mean,” Nicola said, as she twisted a lock of her hair absently.
“But speaking of possibilities,” Bruno continued rapidly, as if in stream-of-consciousness mode, “the more I think about it, the figure of the woman in the fresco might not be sitting near a sarcophagus, and the cherubs might not be pagan cherubs after all.”
Nicola looked at him in surprise, listening attentively.
“What if the box that we think is a sarcophagus is really supposed to be the Ark of the Covenant, and the cherubs are meant to represent the golden cherubim that decorated it? That would make perfect sense in the context of the Menorah resting on the box. And it would also provide a plausible link to the Jewish symbols on the gold glass bases. It would certainly validate the information in the scroll—that is, the implication that even mere knowledge of the Church’s possession of the Temple treasures was dangerous, if not deadly.”
The Lost Catacomb Page 8