The Lost Catacomb

by Shifra Hochberg

  “You could be right,” Nicola replied. “Look, I’m going to continue reading the Liber and see if there’s anything else I can come up with. Do you mind making me another cup of espresso?”

  “Good idea. I could use one myself.”

  Bruno had just reentered the living room with two cups of steaming espresso on a small tray, when Nicola called out suddenly. “Look at this, Bruno!” she exclaimed. “Here! See this? I can’t believe I nearly overlooked it!”

  He put the tray down on the glass-topped coffee table and joined her on the sofa.

  “The twenty-second Pope was someone named Cornelius, who sat on the throne of St. Peter from 251 – 253 AD. He was buried near the cemetery of Calixtus on the Via Appia Antica on the estate of Lucina, a martyr who’d been tortured and beheaded.”

  “Okay,” Bruno replied carefully. “Where's this going?”

  “Look at the next line—‘The bishopric was vacant 66 days.’ That’s got to be the time frame for our missing Pope! The next pope, officially, was Lucius, from June 26, 253 through March 5, 254. Also a martyr and beheaded, and also buried in the cemetery of Calixtus on the Via Appia.

  “We haven’t seen any other chronological gaps of this magnitude between the reigns of any other popes listed in the Liber. And by the way, this seems to be a very rare instance of precise dates, with months and days, not just the usual global parameters of years.

  “So maybe our missing pope, the murdered pope, was Bishop of Rome between Cornelius and Lucius and was totally erased from the text.”

  Bruno considered the possibility for a moment and then concurred. “You might be right, Nicola. A 66-day gap is definitely suspicious.

  “And by the way, there's something else I just thought of that seems to validate the information in the scroll and that makes Mariamne's identity as a spokesman for her people even more plausible.”

  “What would that be?” she asked.

  “Well,” Bruno explained, “there were thirteen separate Jewish synagogai in Rome during the 3rd Century, including the one in Ostia Antica, the port city just outside Rome. Now what may be of relevance is the fact that women played a very significant role in their communities.

  “They could hold the position of archisynagogus, which was the head of the synagogue; they could be the mater synagogus, or mother of the synagogue; or they could be archons, for example. Some of these titles were honorific, but most were elected administrative positions.”

  Nicola nodded sadly, her eyes filling unexpectedly with tears. “I guess that means that Mariamne Rufina must have been a very special woman. No wonder the Pope fell in love with her. Just imagine—she was young, beautiful, intelligent, and her talents were obviously recognized by the community in which she lived. What a tragic story. What a terrible ending for them both.”

  “Look, Nicola,” Bruno said. “I think we should write up a brief sketch of our theory and present it to Father Benedetto, or at least use it to organize our thoughts when we speak to him. He can then decide if Cardinal Rostoni needs to be told, or what he should be told, on a need-to-know basis. I’m going to put the Liber away and sit at the computer for a while. Why don’t you curl up on the sofa and make yourself comfortable until I’m finished?”

  He picked up the volume and headed for his study, as Nicola reached for a newspaper that lay in a wicker basket nearby and began to read.

  Exhausted after all of this intense concentration, she closed her eyes for a moment, and when she looked up, Bruno was standing over her, an indulgent smile on his face. She leaned back into the soft pillows of the sofa, yawned, and stretched. “Bruno, what time is it? I think I dozed off for a couple of minutes.”

  “Actually, you did. And for more than a few minutes. I didn’t want to wake you.”

  He was now sitting beside her and gently pushed a long wisp of hair off her forehead. “You looked quite peaceful,” he added. She smiled sleepily at him and then leaned forward, impulsively kissing him on the cheek. “You are sweet,” she said.

  He drank in the fresh scent of her shampoo and floral perfume, and his lips softly brushed her hair. Slowly and with infinite care he kissed her forehead, her cheek, the tip of her nose, and then her lips, again and again.

  As she nestled into his arms, he began to massage her neck and shoulders lightly with his fingertips. As naturally as if this were not the first time for them together, Bruno reached for the zipper at the back of her dress. She loosened herself from his embrace and helped him pull it down, almost to her waist. He ran his fingers around the edge of the pale violet lace of her bra, tracing the rise and swell of her breasts, and then pushed the straps off her shoulders.

  Nicola moaned and an almost orgasmic shudder of desire went through her, as he loosened the clasp of her bra and flung it over the arm of the sofa. “Hey,” she murmured, “be careful with that. It’s a La Perla.”

  He lay down beside her and slid his hands under her dress, along her thighs and up towards her hips. Lowering her thong, he stroked her slowly, teasing out the moment to the point of unbearable expectation. She fumbled at his belt and pants. He was hard and ready for her.

  Afterwards, cradled in his arms, she confessed somewhat shyly, “I wasn’t expecting this to happen, but I’m glad it did. Bruno, this wasn’t just casual for me. I’ve . . . I’ve never really let go like this before, especially on such short acquaintance.”

  She blushed to think that, despite her age, she’d only slept with two other men. One had been an upperclassman she’d dated during her freshman and sophomore years at NYU, and she’d known him for a year before she’d finally relinquished her virginity to him. The other had been an up and coming probate attorney whom she’d met shortly after her grandfather’s death, when she was still reeling from the aftershocks of her loss. In fact, his firm had been the one to handle Tom’s estate.

  In retrospect, she understood that he’d taken advantage of her vulnerability. It had turned out that they’d had nothing in common of any substance. The relationship, she'd quickly come to realize, was based mainly on physical attraction and her own desperate emotional need immediately following her grandfather’s death. All in all, it had lasted for little more than a month. And when she looked back at that time in her life, it was with a certain degree of embarrassment and, above all, self-reproach for her initial, all too glaring failure to deal with her grief over Tom’s death in a more suitable way—to face it head on and draw strength from her memories of the bond they had shared, rather than sublimating it in an inappropriate sexual relationship that could not help her heal.

  For her to feel such a strong connection to Bruno so soon after they’d met obviously heralded a significant change. Unlike the superficial nature of her ill-advised fling the previous year—with time spent mostly in chic restaurants or at the theatre—she and Bruno had shared physically exhausting and intellectually challenging days in a dusty catacomb, among crumbling tombs and relics of the dead, and were never bored with each other. She had felt comfortable with him from the moment they’d met, but in a different way than she felt when she was with Matt, who was more like the brother she’d never had.

  It was not merely the warmth of Bruno’s personality—reflected so clearly in his passionate understanding of history and ardent pursuit of knowledge related to the past—that had somehow appealed to her admittedly more dormant imagination. She felt, in some extraordinary way, as if she’d known him all her life. As if he were a part of herself that she was now ready and eager to embrace. She couldn’t explain it rationally, but somehow, with Bruno, she felt as if she had finally come home. As if she had finally found roots and a long sought emotional refuge.

  “I know, cara,” he said softly, almost as if he’d read her thoughts. Playing with a long tendril of her hair, he confided, “I haven’t been with anyone since Paola and I broke up over a year ago. No special relationship, however brief.”

  She reflected silently for a moment and then decided to tell him about Matt.
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  “He was always like the brother I never had,” she explained to Bruno. “I grew up without parents, without siblings, without cousins—and with only a few close friends. When I met Matt in college, we just somehow clicked. He was very popular on campus, with any number of girls wanting to date him. But he always had time for me, even when he was involved in a romantic relationship.

  “When I broke up with my first serious boyfriend at the end of my sophomore year, Matt was so supportive. I remember how unsure I was at the time, about whether I was doing the right thing. I was really immature, I guess, and didn't have the self-confidence to know what I wanted or needed then. I cried on Matt's shoulder, literally, for a period of several weeks.

  “Even when my grandfather died last year,” she continued, “Matt was there for me. He helped me and my grandmother organize the funeral. I don't know what we would have done without him. And when I got involved—briefly and stupidly—with my grandfather's attorney, he helped me sort things out emotionally. He understood me. And he never made me feel that I had been naïve and overly trusting.”

  Finally she ended with what Matt had asked her to think about on the eve of her departure to Rome and how surprised she had been.

  “Now I know why I didn’t jump at the opportunity,” she whispered softly. “I guess I was waiting for you.”

  He caressed her cheek tenderly and held her close. “And I for you, cara.”

  Turning off all but one lamp, so they wouldn’t trip over the clothing and shoes that lay scattered around the sofa, he led her to his bedroom. Like the living room, it also faced the street, and he briefly clicked on a bedside lamp, which shone through a narrow crack in the drapes at the window.

  Outside, the bored but watchful figure, now sitting in the shadows on a large hydrangea pot near the entrance to the building, carefully noted the lights flickering on and then off.

  “She hasn’t left the building yet,” he whispered into his cell phone. “I think they might have moved into a bedroom. What do you want me to do?”

  “This is an unpleasant complication, but we’ll deal with it later,” the voice at the other end growled. “Stay there till she does leave. You can pretend you’re one of those disgustingly devoted early morning joggers. Make sure you don’t disappoint me.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  It had been a difficult decision, but Nicola and Bruno realized that without examining the original manuscript of the Liber Pontificalus there was no way to test their theory about who the nameless murdered Pope might have been or to confirm the putative role of the Temple treasures in his death. The difficulty, of course, lay in their need to request access to a manuscript that others might feel had no apparent relevance to their work. It was a step that might raise questions they preferred not to answer just yet.

  Freshly showered, they now sat at Bruno’s kitchen table over morning coffee, quietly debating what to do next. Nicola was wearing one of Bruno’s old T-shirts and was comfortably ensconced in a deep, cane-backed chair, with one leg tucked under the other, as if she really belonged there. She felt happier than she’d been in a long time and smiled radiantly at him.

  “Bruno? I wish we could just stay here, inside your apartment, all day,” she sighed contentedly.

  “I know, cara, so do I, but, unfortunately, business beckons. Or rather, the Archives do.” He hesitated for a moment and then said, “I don’t know how you feel about this, but I think it might be a good idea if we kept this new aspect of our relationship quiet for a while. I’m not sure how our mutual employer will react. He might think it will affect our professional judgment. I’m referring, of course, to Cardinal Rostoni.”

  “I know what you mean,” she replied.

  Instinctively, Nicola had recoiled from Cardinal Rostoni the very first time they had met. Although he had seemed gracious enough, though cold, in their initial meeting, there was something about him that she couldn’t quite put her finger on—some nameless fear that hovered uncomfortably at the back of her consciousness as she thought of that brief, almost hallucinatory moment, when a chance ray of sunlight had glanced off the unusual red jewel on his pectoral cross. She shivered in a nearly automatic reflex as she recalled the way his face had looked for that split second, almost skeletal in the bright sunshine.

  She thought of her grandmother Elena’s superstitions about the evil eye, which she had always brushed off as irrational Italian nonsense. Malocchio. Being looked over. Maybe there was something to it after all, though she hoped not.

  “Nicola?” Bruno asked. “Are you okay? You seem distracted.”

  “Sorry. I was just thinking about Rostoni. It’s not just that he’s intimidating. There’s something a bit ‘off’ about him. Something almost too professionally detached. I don’t know. Just a gut reaction, I guess. On the other hand, I feel quite comfortable confiding in Father Benedetto about our theory. I think we can trust him. Or at any rate,” she said with a sigh, “I don’t think we have much of a choice.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  The Secret Archives had been established as a division of the Vatican's meticulously acquired assemblage of documents back in 1612. At first it had been housed in one of the wings of the Apostolic Library, in a magnificent space with frescoed cove ceilings and inlaid wood-paneled walls. Later, however, it was transformed into a formal research institute, but with certain limitations. Documents were closely supervised and censored, with those dating from World War II among the most highly classified. Even the library staff in the Secret Archives could not access them, for they were under proverbial lock and key in secret underground vaults that were said to zigzag mysteriously beneath the Vatican gardens. Only recently had documents from the Spanish Inquisition been made available to a select few, and then only with great reluctance and a certain amount of trepidation at what might be revealed to the world.

  Nicola and Bruno had phoned Father Benedetto several hours earlier and were now on their way to meet him near the entrance to the Archives. He greeted them with a warm smile and led them to his office, where, he told them, they could explain what they needed to see and why, in complete privacy.

  “I hope you don’t mind my asking why you need to examine the specific manuscript that you mentioned over the phone,” he said, as he sat down behind a large desk cluttered with files and motioned them towards two comfortable looking armchairs on the other side. “It’s just that I might be able to give you better direction or more effective assistance if I know exactly what you’re looking for.”

  Nicola and Bruno looked at each other tentatively, and finally Nicola took a deep breath and plunged in.

  “You see, Father, we’ve made a rather disturbing discovery. Yesterday, while we were in the catacombs, we found an old clay amphora that had been hidden behind a brick near one of the sarcophagi with the strange iconography. I’m sure you remember that because of the lien on the new hypogeum, nothing has been removed or even handled by anyone other than the two of us.

  “The amphora had a parchment scroll inside, and we took the liberty of removing it from the premises for fear that it might be stolen, despite police surveillance of the property.” She paused for a moment and added, somewhat sheepishly, “Even at the risk of our being accused of stealing it. It’s here in my bag, as a matter of fact. The parchment, that is,” she said with a sudden surge of nervous energy. “I’ll show it to you in a few minutes. The amphora itself is still at the site. We replaced it behind the brick.

  “Anyway, the scroll contains a narrative that we can only assume is genuine. We just don’t know how to date it precisely, and we don’t yet know who wrote it. Probably some scribe or highly connected cleric in the Apostolic Court, back in the 3rd Century.”

  As Nicola spoke, Father Benedetto's features began to take on a look of barely veiled concern. “Go on,” he said, leaning forward in his seat, his hands clasped tightly under his chin as Nicola continued rapidly.

  “It seems that there was a pope who was murdered beca
use he fell in love with a Jewess. She had come to the papal court to plead for her people, since this pope had intended to place new taxes on the Jewish communities of Rome and Ostia. Apparently he was being pressured into doing this by an influential group of bishops. The young woman was quite young and beautiful, and a brilliant rhetorician. She not only convinced him to rescind the decree, but she even engaged this unnamed pope in theological debates.

  “By the way, the writer of the scroll seems to have been a close friend of the pope. He might even have been in love with the young Jewess himself.

  “Also, there’s another complication to this story. In his effort to prove to the young woman that Christianity was superior to Judaism, the pope allegedly said that he would show her some incredible treasures whose very existence would prove that God now favored the Church, and not the Jews. The writer of the scroll said that they were the lost treasures from the ancient Temple in Jerusalem, and we think that perhaps the fact that the pope compromised this secret was the real reason for his death.”

  Nicola now paused to drink some of the water that Father Benedetto had poured from a bottle of—of all things, she thought—San Benedetto mineral water. She looked at him and at the water bottle in mock disbelief, then blushed as she went on almost breathlessly.

  “We think that the murdered pope was someone who occupied the papal throne for a brief time only. Sixty-six days, to be exact—sometime between the papacy of Cornelius, the twenty-second pope, who reigned from 251-253 A.D., and that of Lucius, the twenty-third pope, who reigned from June 26, 253 A.D. through March 3, 254 A.D. These dates are exact. I memorized them.

  “We examined the Liber Pontificalus last night, painstakingly, and to quote the anonymous scribe who made the entry, ‘The bishopric was vacant 66 days.’ We think there was another pope at some point between those dates. And we think that his name and his very existence were deliberately suppressed from the text. That would explain the anonymity of the tomb and its obscure location, away from the usual papal crypts near the Via Appia Antica. And remember, until the recent earth tremors exposed this new hypogeum, it had been completely undetectable, plastered over with mortar and totally sealed off from the rest of the catacombs in the Vigna Randanini.”