Nicola took another sip of water and glanced in Bruno’s direction. He nodded and she added almost casually, “And it would explain the questions raised by the other grave next to his, which is equally elaborate and equally unusual in its iconography.”
“What?” Father Benedetto exclaimed. “What other grave?” he repeated.
Bruno looked at Nicola, who had begun to twist a lock of her hair, a sure sign that she was anxious.
“Would you like me to take over, Nicola?” Bruno asked her.
“Grazie. That sounds like a good idea,” she said with a quiet sigh of relief.
Father Benedetto nodded and directed his attention to Bruno, who began to elaborate.
“The other grave has some very strange symbols near it,” he said. “A Star of David. Something that looks like a scroll. Maybe a Torah scroll or maybe just a hint to look for the scroll that we ultimately found. There’s also a crucifix and something that looks like a papal miter, as well as a menorah. Both of the sarcophagi have an equal mixture of Jewish and Christian symbols, and the initials M and R appear on the marble plaque near one of the graves, the one with a fresco painting of a woman.”
He met Nicola’s eyes briefly and then explained, “Mariamne Rufina—that was the name of the woman mentioned in the parchment.”
Father Benedetto now interjected, “At the risk of sounding overly sensational, or suspicious, isn’t it a bit too coincidental that we have this woman’s grave near the sarcophagus of the so-called, to use your rather quaint expression, ‘suppressed’ pope—especially since there are only two sarcophagi in the crypt?
“If there’s one thing I’ve learned over the years from all of the manuscripts I’ve analyzed, there’s no such thing as coincidence. And melodrama is frequently just a heightened version of the cold facts. Maybe whoever killed him also murdered her.”
“Dio!” Bruno exclaimed. “That’s exactly what we were thinking. Nicola, I think it’s time to show Father Benedetto the scroll.”
She opened her purse, a sleek leather Mandarina Duck shoulder bag that she'd purchased the previous week at a boutique near the Spanish Steps. Gingerly, she pulled the carefully wrapped parchment out of the heavy cardboard box in which it rested.
“I do hope you realize that we’re entirely in your hands,” she said. “We have no one else to turn to or trust. We’ve removed something of earth-shattering consequence from the catacomb site, and we’ve done it without permission. It’s not only illegal, but perhaps even dangerous.
“If what we suspect is true,” Nicola went on, “the new catacomb area will be sacrosanct to both Jews and Christians. Both a Catholic pope and a Jewish martyr appear to be buried there. At least that’s the way it looks at the moment. The effect on the court case could be devastating for the Vatican, not to mention the problem of who obtains custody of the artifacts in the hypogeum, and the scandal surrounding these unsolved murders.
“Also, we can’t ignore the apparent involvement of the Temple treasures and the very real possibility that they might still be here, somewhere in the Vatican.”
Father Benedetto unrolled the parchment carefully and began to read. Several minutes later, he looked up from the manuscript, pale and visibly shaken.
“It’s definitely genuine. The appearance of the parchment, the smell, the look and type of ink. It won’t be necessary to send it for further analysis.
“I think it’s time to visit the Archives. Your theory—in fact, all of your theories seem more than plausible. I beg you,” he urged, “not to discuss this with anyone else. Not every one within the walls of the Holy See would share my confidence—make that my trust—in your sincerity.”
Carefully considering the impact of his words, he was silent for a moment and then added calmly, but emphatically, “I don’t want to frighten you, but I’m sure that you understand the broader implications of the motive for these murders—and I think we have no choice but to call them that—namely the possibility of a hidden treasure whose ownership would be even more debatable, more legally problematic, than that of the new catacomb and its artifacts. Please, be as cautious and discreet as possible.
“For now, I’ll lock up the scroll in my wall safe. No one else has the combination, so you don't have to worry. I’ll return it to you after we leave the Archives. I’ll accompany the two of you myself and stay there with you until you’ve finished, so you won’t be disturbed while taking notes. If anyone asks, I’ll say that only I can handle the manuscript in question. No one will give it a second thought.”
An hour later, as they left the Archives and bade Father Benedetto farewell, Bruno turned to Nicola and remarked thoughtfully, “Do you remember that I mentioned in passing that someone had jimmied the lock on my office door the other day?”
“Yes. You said that perhaps some student might have wanted to steal or alter the grade sheets from your graduate seminar.”
“That’s right. That’s what I thought at the time. Well, now I’m beginning to wonder if someone was looking for something else. Maybe something connected to our research. Not that I’ve kept anything related to the project in my office,” he added quietly. “But who knows? I guess I’m starting to become a little paranoid—just like you cara,” he added with a sober smile.
253 A.D.
Mariamne and the Lost Pope
“Dear, beauteous death! The jewel of the just,
Shining nowhere but in the dark;
What mysteries do lie beyond thy dust . . .”
~~ Henry Vaughan, “They are all gone into a world of light”
Chapter One
The ancient servant rapped faintly on the arched frame of Mariamne’s library door, the noise barely audible, his bent form half hidden in the flickering shadows. “My lady,” he whispered quietly, almost hesitantly, “you have visitors.”
Seeing that there was no response, he knocked more loudly this time, clearing his throat as he slowly entered the room, afraid to disturb her, yet equally afraid not to, as she sat at a long wooden table, poring over a fragile parchment scroll that was yellowed with age. She lifted her head distractedly, her dark ringlets shining in the reflection of the long tapers that burned steadily beside her. “Yes, Severinus,” she asked in a soft, melodious voice, “what is it?”
“My lady, there is a messenger newly arrived from Rome,” he announced in a quavering voice. “He brings news from the papal court. Or so he says,” he added swiftly, as he saw the look of shock spread across her lovely face. “He is accompanied by three synagogue elders from the communities of Labicana, Monteverde, and the Suburra.”
She pushed the scroll aside, taking care to mark her place in the manuscript with a small polished stone. “Take our guests into the atrium,” she said, rising from her seat and waving him towards the door. “And Severinus, please see to it that they are given some refreshment after their long journey. Perhaps some fruit and nuts will be welcome, some honey cakes, and wine, of course. I’ll join them momentarily.”
What could this possibly mean? she asked herself, as she adjusted the jeweled clasps at the top of her white stola, draping it gracefully over her flowing tunica. All the way from Rome? To see me? Why?
At twenty-one, Mariamne Rufina was the only child of a recently deceased and deeply mourned presbyter, or synagogue elder, in the port city of Ostia, a suburb of Rome. Her father, a successful cloth merchant, had been married to a woman much younger than he, who had died giving birth to Mariamne after a tragic series of miscarriages and stillbirths.
Despite the unbearable price paid for her entry into the world, Mariamne had been the pride of her father’s old age, the light of his eyes. Throughout his travels, he had painstakingly acquired an outstanding collection of scientific and theological manuscripts from all over the known world, and his villa boasted the finest library in Ostia. The best tutors had been found to teach the young Mariamne to read Latin, Greek, and Hebrew from these texts, and she proved to have not only a remarkable gift for language
s, but had also received expert instruction in mathematics, rhetoric, and logic, subjects generally reserved for male pupils.
To her father’s delight—and to the astonishment of the Jewish community in Ostia— at the tender age of sixteen she had even penned a brief treatise, an exercise in the art of disputation, in which she had compared the basic tenets and relative merits of Judaism and Christianity. The text was currently being used as an adjunct to Talmudic studies at the local synagogue, where the congregants found her discussions of certain thorny religious issues as persuasive as those rendered by hoary-headed scholars in faraway Palestine.
Nor were the feminine graces neglected in this motherless household: Mariamne was taught to play the lute, the lyre, and the kithara with equal facility, and she managed the domestic economy of her father’s household with efficiency, kindness, and effortless charm. Indeed, her father had set an example of democratic values by freeing the majority of his slaves, who continued to be employed as free men and women in his sunlight villa at the edge of the bustling cardo, with its shops, open-air markets, temples, and public baths.
Many had sought Mariamne’s hand in marriage, even when her father was still alive, but none of the offers had been attractive enough to tempt her to give up her personal autonomy and the delights of scholarship in favor of becoming a matrona answerable to the whims—however pleasurable they might ultimately prove to be—of a husband and babies. Perhaps someday, but only for a most special individual, who could share her hopes, her dreams, and her keen sensitivity and intelligence.
In the community in which she lived, marriage was consensual, rather than arranged. Based on love and mutual respect, it was a contractual obligation freely entered into, and though she was verging on spinsterhood—at least according to the standards of the time—she was financially independent, surrounded by a loyal and loving household of freed slaves who were almost like family members, and well respected in the community. Thus there was no need to make any rash decision that could conceivably curtail all that she had achieved, so far, in her brief life. In fact, shortly after her father’s death she had been elected mater synagogus, or mother of the synagogue, an honorary position generally reserved for women much older and more experienced.
Now, Mariamne’s smooth brow furrowed in thought as she left the library and made her way down a wide hallway towards the atrium, a large courtyard that doubled as a reception room, where her guests waited expectantly. The atrium was paved with tiny colorful mosaics depicting symbols from the Jewish holidays, and its walls were decorated with frescoes portraying pastoral landscape scenes from the Bible. The atrium gave onto yet another, smaller courtyard, a column-lined peristyle with plants, flowering shrubs, and fruit-bearing trees. A small pond stood at its center, its crystal waters reflecting the overhead sun.
As she entered the wide courtyard, the four men rose to greet her, bowing slightly as they introduced themselves, one by one. “Please,” she began graciously, “you may be seated. You are most welcome to my home. Most welcome indeed.
“And what, if may I ask, brings you to our fair city of Ostia all the way from imperial Rome? A journey of this nature must undoubtedly have some pressing purpose.” She sat down on a nearby divan and smoothed the folds of her tunica, waiting for them to reply.
“My lady,” the eldest member of the delegation now began, “your proficiency as a rhetorician and your fame as—if we may say so—a theologian have reached our humble ears, even in Rome. And we are in urgent need of your assistance and your skills.”
He paused, noting that her cheeks had flushed becomingly and that she had placed her goblet of wine, with trembling hands, on a nearby table.
“I am most grateful for—indeed humbled by—your courtesy and compliments,” she answered. “Do go on. You may be quite direct with me. I am generally unused to flattery, and I assure you, none is necessary. If there is anything within my power, some service that I can render, you may rest assured, I’ll do it with all my heart.”
“Thank you, my lady,” he replied. “I will delay no longer. As you are no doubt aware, the Church has heavily taxed the Jewish communities of Rome and Ostia for centuries. We have long been considered aliens, not citizens of Rome, despite the long tenure of our residence in the imperial city and our numerous contributions to its culture and economic stability. We have bowed ceaselessly to the excessive demands of the Bishops of Rome, who have treated us differently than other populations residing in the Empire. And we have paid the price for refusal to change our religious faith, repeatedly.”
“All this we could continue to live with, without complaint, seeing that we have managed to flourish and grow, despite the cruel terms of our situation. But now, the new Pope, influenced by a powerful group of bishops, has proclaimed yet another edict, a heavy tax that will bring the eleven synagogai of Rome and Ostia to ruin. Sheer and utter ruin.
“We beg you to come with us to the papal court, my lady. You are so well schooled in logic and rhetoric that you may be our only hope of convincing him to rescind it. We have tried to send local representatives from Rome itself to the court, but they’ve been turned away, time and time again. We hope that your youth and your reputed beauty—please, my lady, it is only the truth—will somehow gain you an audience with the Pope. This achieved, we are sure you will be able to convince him, somehow, to reconsider this rash and unwarranted step.”
She looked around the room, examining their worried countenances one by one, and then gestured to Severinus, who had stood all the while, silently attentive, in a corner of the atrium.
“Summon my maidservant,” she said quietly, as she removed her sandals. “Tell her to bring my cloak, my leather shoes, and a pouch of gold coins. She will accompany me to Rome, as my chaperone. We will be away for a several days, perhaps longer.”
She handed him the ring of keys at her waist. “I am leaving you in charge of my household, Severinus,” she whispered softly. “I know it will be in good hands.”
Chapter Two
Mariamne stood alone in the inner vestibule, as she had been instructed. The synagogue elders who had escorted her on horseback from Ostia had been summarily dismissed by a cleric and told to wait for her outside the forbidding walls of the papal palace, in the merciless heat of the midday sun. Even her maidservant had been prohibited from accompanying her as chaperone to this audience with the new Pope.
Young as she was—unused, as she was, moreover, to the deceits and subtle stratagems of royal or papal courts—Mariamne understood that this was a calculated attempt to cow her spirit, to render her uneasy and vulnerable. She was a young woman, alone and unprotected, about to face a heartless array of hostile bishops who were dedicated to one goal and one goal only—wealth, and the limitless power that it brought. To be here on her own was unheard of. It was immodest, and perhaps, she thought, as she shivered in her light woolen cloak, she would not live to tell the tale.
She glanced once more around the cold antechamber, a musty room illuminated by a single burning torch, a windowless room that had apparently never seen the cheerful warmth of daylight. As her eyes adjusted to the darkness, she saw that large wooden crosses hung everywhere. Primitive figures, carved from ancient pine—pierced by nails and crowned with thorns, their hollow eyes oozing large wooden tears—gazed mournfully at her. “Guilty,” they seemed to cry out, loudly and incessantly, from all sides of the room, in a torment of everlasting pain. “You are guilty of killing us. You must pay. You and all your brethren must pay. You can never atone for our death. Never.”
She blocked her ears and closed her eyes, trying to focus her thoughts. This is not real, she said to herself. This is not happening. She shivered in her light cloak and opened her eyes slowly. This is but an unreal mockery, and these but wooden figures, lifeless and cold, not the living godhead. I’m tired, that’s all. I’m tired and in despair. They're doing this to me deliberately. They're trying to break my spirit before I’ve even begun.
A bare
ly perceptible scent of stale incense and unwashed bodies suffused the dank room, contending with the stronger smell of mildew that pervaded it, making her feel faint and sick at heart. She had not eaten nor drunk in many hours. How am I to do this? she asked herself yet again. How? She thought of her father and wondered what he would have done in her place. She prayed for strength. Please, God, she begged once more. Please defend me and my people, as our cause is just.
Chapter Three
How young she is, Domitius thought to himself as Mariamne entered the audience chamber, flanked on either side by a forbidding phalanx of guards. How young and how exceedingly beautiful. It cannot end well for her, he speculated as he readied his quills and vellum. Nor for the Jews of Rome either.
Mariamne approached the dais on which the Pope sat, throned in glory on the chair of St. Peter and surrounded by a protective semicircle of clerics. She curtsied deeply, her face pale and solemn, as she met his gaze unflinchingly and waited for him to speak, as custom demanded. He stretched out his hand for her to approach and kiss the fisherman’s ring that graced his finger and was shocked to see that she refused to acknowledge the gesture.
“Please, my daughter, you may speak freely,” he said finally, choosing to ignore the rebuff. But still she remained silent. “You may speak,” he repeated, a look of mild irritation on his face as he glanced momentarily at the scribe. “Is that not why you've come?”
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