The Lost Catacomb

by Shifra Hochberg

  “The clinic, by the way, has a small, thirty-bed facility for those patients wishing to receive more intensive, full-time treatment on site. Obviously this is not an option for the Pope.” He waited for Rostoni to respond.

  Rostoni nodded. “Obviously, my dear Niehans, obviously. Do go on. You are beginning to try my patience, which, unlike God’s, is not infinite.”

  Niehans squirmed uncomfortably in his chair. “Well, we have some private funding from sources that, I’m sure you’ll understand, wish to remain anonymous. Some are Swiss; some are German. No names, I’m afraid. But I’m sure that none of them would mind your being privy to the fact of their nationalities. Nothing confidential about that sort of general information, eh?” he added somewhat apprehensively.

  “Interesting,” Rostoni rejoined. “Now tell me, just how exclusive is your clinic? Who are your competitors? Or, to put this more precisely, do you have any rivals, other clinics elsewhere in Switzerland, working on similar, shall we say, scientific goals?

  “And please, no evasions, my clever friend. Don’t even think of sweeping this question under the carpet for fear that we’ll turn to them for more effective therapy. The Pope believes in you, even if I don’t. You were aware of that small fact, were you not? I mean, my very slight degree of skepticism, or, should I say, lack of total confidence in your powers,” he added sardonically, raising one eyebrow.

  Niehans wavered for a moment, but knew he had no choice. “You are sure this will not affect my professional relationship with the Pope?” he asked.

  “You have my guarantee, as I’ve already told you. Purely a matter of scientific curiosity on my part, nothing more.”

  “Okay,” Niehans replied, beads of perspiration now gathering on his forehead. “There are actually several clinics working on similar therapies. Some are mere fledgling institutions. Not much financial support. Not such well-trained scientists.

  “But there is one clinic that we, in Geneva, regard as a rather troublesome competitor, especially since technologies of this sort have significant financial potential, as you would expect.”

  “And what might be the name of this clinic?” Rostoni parried. “Details, details, if you please.” He snapped his fingers suddenly, startling Niehans.

  “It’s called the ‘Maternal Fertility Clinic,’ located near Lake Lugano. In a small village you’ve probably never heard of, in the mountains.”

  “Try me,” Rostoni said impatiently, pounding his fist on the desk. “Its precise location, if you please. Really, I don’t know how His Holiness puts up with you!”

  Niehans blanched and shrank back into his chair. “It’s called Engenweill. It’s the one town with a Swiss-German name in the entire area. Its proprietor is Dr. Hans Gotthard. He was trained in Zurich, at the university. The clinic opened approximately five years ago and specializes in fertility treatments for women who cannot otherwise conceive. The fees are astronomical, so only the wealthy can afford to avail themselves of its services. They stay there for the duration of their treatment and give birth under the closest supervision possible.

  “They’re not actually our competitors, in the sense that they specialize in female fertility and pregnancy, while we specialize in therapies that promote better health and longevity. But we’ve heard that they are doing experimental work in the area of cell technology, and that that’s why they have such a high success rate with their infertile and high-risk maternity patients.”

  Rostoni now cut him off abruptly. “My dear Niehans, you have such a wealth of interesting information at your fingertips, and I never even suspected it. This has been a most edifying conversation. Grazie.

  “My assistant is waiting just outside the door,” he added coldly, as he rose from his seat. “I’m sure he’ll be glad to show you out of the papal palace. Te benedictus, my learned friend. May you continue to enjoy the Pope’s unabated confidence.”

  Thus summarily dismissed, Niehans got up and made his way hastily, if not gratefully, towards the door.

  Rostoni now sat back pensively in his chair, tapping his fingertips together for a few moments. His eyes narrowed slightly as he pondered this new information. Listening for sounds outside his office door and hearing none, he picked up the receiver of his private desk phone and dialed a number that was known only to a few select individuals in the Curia.

  “Yes, that’s right. It’s a number in Engenweill, Switzerland. No, I don’t know the dialing code offhand. Get the information for me as soon as possible. And tell no one. No one at all.”

  Chapter Four

  “Buon giorno,” Mauro Rostoni said somewhat acerbically as he entered the papal apartments on the terza piano of the Apostolic Palace. In his usual disdainful manner, he swept past the Swiss Guards posted at the entrance, deliberately ignoring the grim-faced Mother Pasqualina, who regarded him with a disapproving, jaundiced expression. The Pope was indisposed for the moment—otherwise engaged, he was told. He knew the euphemism well. It meant that the Holy Father’s stomach complaints were occupying him at the moment. Obviously Niehans was not doing his job well. No surprises there, he thought.

  Despite Mother Pasqualina’s apparent objections, Rostoni entered a small sitting room adjacent to the Pope’s private study, prepared to wait. The room was paneled in walnut and furnished with comfortable chairs and a sofa. A few medieval icons and Renaissance paintings hung on the walls, jarring with a cubist depiction of a large white dove, the Holy Spirit hovering over a geometric abyss, an olive branch—or was it simply an ugly green serpent? —in its mouth. He’d never liked that one. Too modern for his taste.

  Yet another painting, attributed to an obscure Flemish artist, depicted a triumphant Ecclesia, the allegorical Church, richly clad and crowned in glory, a chalice and crucifix in her regal hands. Aloof and majestic, she looked down scornfully at Synagogus, from whose right hand dangled a shattered lance, the broken Tablets of the Law clutched in the other, her eyes blindfolded to symbolize her benighted state. This was one of his favorites, a masterpiece of light and shadow with perfectly balanced elements, reminding him of the remarkable tawny marble statuary on the façade of the great Cathedral at Strasbourg, which depicted the same theme, using similar iconography.

  As Rostoni looked around the room, somewhat bored, he noticed something glittering on the pale ivory and black diamond-patterned floor, just near a plushly upholstered armchair that he knew to be a papal favorite. He walked over to the chair and picked up the object. To his surprise, it was the Pope’s fisherman’s ring, a heavy, massive gold band that was used as the official seal ring of the Holy See. Each newly elected pope would receive a copy of the ring, with a representation of St. Peter in a boat, fishing, and his own name inscribed around it. Knowing that the ring was not worn on a daily basis, unlike other pontifical rings, Rostoni looked at it thoughtfully, glanced towards the door, and seeing no one, quickly pocketed it.

  A few moments later, the door opened and the Pope himself appeared.

  “Mauro, my dear friend, please, come into the study.” The Pope looked pale and somewhat agitated. “Look!” he said. “Look at what the German ambassador has sent me,” he repeated as he led Rostoni to a corner of the room.

  An antique brass birdcage, about two feet high and one foot in diameter, perched on a round, marble-topped table with curved legs. Inside, a tiny hummingbird flitted around, whirring its blue-black iridescent wings in continuous bursts of energy. Rostoni regarded it with an air of impatience.

  “Si, Your Holiness?” he asked.

  “Do you think it right to keep this poor creature of God locked up in a cage?” the Pope asked. “Don’t you think it hearkens for its freedom?”

  “That depends on whether you believe it will fare better in the outside world, in the garden underneath your very windows, perhaps, or locked up within the gilded walls of its cage. It also depends on just how fond you are of hummingbirds.”

  “Actually, I’m not at all fond of hummingbirds. Or any birds, for that
matter. But it was a gift, and one does not wish to offend those who offer them. Especially the Germans.”

  Rostoni thought for a moment. “If you like, I’ll take care of the matter for you, Holiness. You can tell the Germans that their little gift is now in a very safe place. Out of the public eye, for its own protection. Here, let me take it.”

  He kissed the jeweled ring on the Pope’s outstretched, gaunt hand and reached for the decorative loop on top of the cage, lifting the bird and its golden prison off of the table. As he made his way down the corridor of the Apostolic Palace, he stopped to place the cage on the deep ledge of an open casement window overlooking the Vatican gardens.

  He gazed onto the broad grassy spaces, shaded by tall specimen trees, whose dark green foliage filtered the dappled sunlight onto moss-covered statues and flowering shrubs beneath. Near a white graveled path, an old man with a battered straw hat knelt with a trowel next to a lush bed of purple and yellow pansies.

  Reaching into the door of the birdcage, Rostoni grasped the bird lightly in his right hand. And carefully snapped its neck.

  Chapter Five

  A tall thin man in his early twenties, dressed in dark, nondescript clothing of the sort that could have been worn by anyone, anywhere in Rome, entered a small shop on a narrow street not far from the ghetto. It was an area known for its anonymous, nearly identical shabby storefronts and discreet shop owners. Transactions were made in cash only, no names exchanged, no receipts given, no questions asked.

  He drew a large golden ring from his jacket pocket, which glittered even in the dimly lit room, and showed it to the startled shopkeeper. “Can you make a copy of this seal?” he asked in a commanding voice. “It’s a family heirloom that belonged to my father and to his father before him. I cannot afford to take it to a jeweler and have it duplicated in silver or even in some other, less precious metal. And as a matter of fact I may even have to pawn it at some point because, like everyone else in this God-forsaken city, I may find that some day I’ll be desperate for some ready cash.

  “I would like a copy of the seal itself, our family crest, you might say, for sentimental purposes. Are you able to do this for me?”

  The shopkeeper, owner of a small business that duplicated keys and repaired shoes, boots, and other leather goods, glanced quickly at the ring and replied that he could make a wax mold and use it to produce a relatively inexpensive, but authentically detailed copy of the seal in iron or some other cheap material.

  “I suppose you would like to wait while I do this?” he asked. “I imagine that the ring is of great value in and of itself because of the gold, and not merely because of any nostalgic value you might attach to it.”

  “That will be quite satisfactory,” replied the tall figure. “I’m prepared to wait if it can be done immediately.”

  The shopkeeper indicated an uncomfortable looking chair in a dusty corner of the store, and Rostoni sat down to wait in the shadows.

  Chapter Six

  The myths that once inspired the naming of the stars—those heavenly constellations that shimmer in the firmament, far beyond the fallible reach of man, those stars that will continue to gleam until he reluctantly turns out the lights on the sad stage of his history—those myths about the stars are more than simple fairy tales that once warmed the hearts of ancient warriors, battle weary, sitting around a bright fire, or a merry group of heroes toasting their latest victory with wine and wassail, entertained by a hoary bard.

  They are, at once, both literal figurations and broadly symbolic narratives. They explain how man discovered fire—or, rather, stole it from its rightful owners. Why winter makes its fearsome appearance with such terrible regularity—or, rather, why spring and summer can never last. Why mermaids sing their sultry siren songs, tempting us to misdeeds, or how evil came into this naughty world when a curious and rather silly young girl opened a tiny, innocuous-looking box.

  Of such seemingly minor events is the fabric of man’s time on earth woven.

  Myths, in fact, spring from the most elementary realities, the perceived realities of our lives—lives all human beings have led since they first tumbled into the light of day unbidden. There are heroes and villains, as in any good tale. There is both conflict and congress, both good and evil.

  There is literal fire, flaming brightly with a bold and orange glow, and there is the passionate fire of the indomitable human spirit, the raging fires of war and destruction, and the fierce radiance that is the pledge of undying love.

  There is the literal season of winter, in which nature lies dormant under a lacy covering of white, pale as a funeral shroud, colder than the secrets of an early grave. And there is the symbolic winter of our lives, sometimes merely representing old age, sometimes troping our stunted dreams and the death of all hope, long before the years could fulfill the neglected promise of our wasted youth.

  In any love story there will be a lover, as well as a beloved. Sometimes there will be a happy ending. And sometimes not. It is all foretold in the stars.

  For the stars, as the poet once said, the stars, with trembling light, flickering in and out behind the darkened clouds of the nighttime sky, the stars determine our fate with the tales they tell. Tales they tell with remarkable indifference and complete impunity.

  And so it was on this balmy evening, somewhere in the heart of Trastevere, along the banks of the gray and silently flowing Tiber, that Niccolò Rossi, having made a conscious decision to ignore the 7 o’clock curfew imposed by the Nazis on the entire city of Rome, stood at the kitchen window of the Conti family apartment, with a portable telescope that had been manufactured in Germany by Zeiss, producer of the highest quality lenses in the civilized world.

  He had brought a lightweight tripod with him and had just finished positioning the telescope on it. Now he adjusted the focus mechanism expertly and motioned to Elena to join him at the window of the darkened room. Outside all was dark as well, since most of the population of Rome had covered their windows with blackout curtains or blinds, and the street lamps were unlit.

  Elena was very excited. She had always enjoyed stargazing in an amateur way and thought it was fascinating and very romantic. She could identify the Big Dipper and the North Star with little difficulty on a clear evening, but the other constellations were little more than a bright jumble of sprinkled light on a velvety black canvas, as far as she was concerned. She really couldn’t tell one from the other. This was going to be her first time looking through a professional telescope, with someone who could actually explain it all to her at her side.

  Niccolò decided to focus the lens on some of the northern constellations, partly because they were unobscured by clouds that evening, and partly because he liked the stories that they told. Since the time he was a young boy, he had been fascinated by Greek mythology and, in particular, by the story of Andromeda, rescued by Perseus from the jaws of death, or more precisely, from the jaws of a hungry sea monster sent by Poseidon to punish Andromeda’s mother, Cassiopeia, who had stupidly boasted that her own beauty far exceeded that of the Nereids, or sea nymphs.

  There were three constellations that he knew he could easily show Elena—those of Cassiopeia, Perseus, and Andromeda. He would need a bit more skill and luck to find those of Cetus, the sea monster, and Cepheus, Andromeda’s father, to complete the elements of the tale.

  “Vieni qui, Elena. Come here,” he called out, motioning towards the window. “I’m going to show you a few constellations whose stories are connected. They all have something to do with the myth of Andromeda and Perseus. The Andromeda constellation is especially interesting because of its unusual spiral nebula, which is quite beautiful—you’ll see, it’s kind of tilted and elongated in appearance.

  “But first, let me refresh your memory and tell you a bit about the myths behind these particular stars. It'll be more interesting that way.”

  Elena smiled expectantly and waited for him to begin, brushing a dark tendril of her long wavy hair from her foreh
ead and twisting it around her finger.

  “Perseus, you know,” Niccolò began, “was the son of Danaë and Zeus, and had been set adrift at sea in a wooden chest, together with his mother, because the oracle had proclaimed that he would grow up to kill Danaë’s father, the king of Argos.

  “The king of the island on which they landed lusted after Danaë and tried to get rid of Perseus—who seems to have been rather protective of his mother from an early age—by asking him to obtain the head of the Medusa, the only mortal among the Gorgon sisters. With the assistance of Hermes and Athena, Perseus killed the Medusa and used her severed head to turn the sea monster that was about to devour the beautiful Andromeda into stone.

  “Of course, he just happened to be passing by on Pegasus, the wingèd horse, at the time, and naturally he married the grateful Andromeda, and they lived happily ever after.”

  “Naturally,” said Elena, with a twinkle in her eye.

  “There are many versions of the myth,” Niccolò continued, “including fairy tales from the Middle East, which claim that something similar took place either in Lydda or along the Jaffa coast, and as you’ve probably guessed, the tale is one of the sources for the Christian myth of St. George and the dragon.”

  He paused for a moment and mused aloud, “Many myths, whether pagan or Christian, have a great deal in common. It’s actually quite a fascinating subject. And incidentally, there were even one or two astronomers along the way who made an attempt to give the constellations some Christian names and meaning.

  “Of course it didn’t catch on. People preferred the old Greek stories and had come to associate the patterns of the stars with them.