Payne gazed over the edge of the 900-foot precipice, trying to find the site that Barnes had described. No helicopter, no truck, no physical evidence of any kind. Only the fertile farmland of the southern Orvieto valley. ‘Where’s the damage? There should be some serious damage down there. Scattered debris, scorched earth, loss of vegetation, the works.’
They spotted a path about one hundred feet to the left, which took them to the valley floor in a steep, zigzagging pattern. At the bottom they noticed several sets of tire tracks in the grass that were too shallow to be spotted from the high cliffs above.
Jones sank to his knees and studied the wheel prints, an art he’d learned in the military police. ‘I’d say there were three trucks heading east at a slow rate of speed, probably within the last twelve hours. Large, industrial trucks. Fully loaded. Possibly salvage equipment. Not your typical four by four pickup. The treads are too large.’
‘So we’re in the right area.’
Jones nodded. ‘It would seem so, yeah.’
They proceeded east, following the tracks like bloodhounds. They ran parallel to the plateau, bisecting the open space between the olive groves to the right and the rock face to the left and swerved for nothing. The trucks had plowed through a vegetable garden, a small wooden fence, and a patch of white oleander before stopping near a massive pile of rocks. Payne stared at them and realized the front edge of the stones surpassed knee level. There was no way a loaded truck could’ve cleared this obstacle without gutting its underbelly. There had to be a different solution, something they were overlooking. ‘Could these have been dump trucks?’
‘Maybe.’
‘What if these trucks arrived with stones? Couldn’t they have dumped their payload right here? That would account for the abrupt end to the trail. The rocks would’ve covered it up.’
Jones considered this as he walked several meters to the far side of the pile. ‘You might be right. There are dozens of tracks here, fanning out in a wide variety of angles. And unless I’m mistaken, the depth of the tread keeps changing. That means they lessened their weight significantly in a short period of time.’
‘So the trucks came speeding along in the middle of the night and dropped several tons of rocks right here in the middle of nowhere… Is that what we’re saying?’
Jones shook his head. ‘This was more than just dumping rocks. This was about picking up, too. Not only did someone beat us to the crash site, they decided to take it with them.’
Tourists were usually the only people to visit Il Pozzo di San Patrizio (aka Saint Patrick’s Well), the artesian well built in 1527. But due to a rumor that swept through Orvieto, locals were drawn to the beige brick building like freshmen to a keg party.
Payne and Jones spotted them on the other side of the Piazza Cahen, a large square in the center of town, and assumed it was the line to see the well. They passed the bus station and approached the back of the throng. Hundreds of people, young and old, clogged the courtyard ahead of them, surrounding the circular building with a silent intensity quite similar to the tone of the earlier funeral. For a better view, Jones climbed on a nearby wall and searched for Donald Barnes. He wanted to see his photos of the Orvieto crash site, hoping they would reveal something important, possibly the reason that the wreckage was hauled out by trucks in the dead of night. ‘I don’t think they’re even letting people inside the well. The door looks barricaded.’
‘Maybe tourists go in as a group? Hopefully, Barnes is inside and will come out shortly.’
The comment attracted the attention of a dark-haired man standing nearby. ‘I mean not to bother you,’ he mumbled in broken English. ‘But visits are no more today due to death. No one is inside Il Pozzo but the polizia.’
‘Really? They stopped the tours because of Monday’s accident?’
‘No, you no understand. Not Monday, today. Another person is dead today.’
Jones leapt off the wall. ‘What do you mean?’
The man frowned, as if he had trouble understanding the question. ‘Ah, like you friend say: two persons on Monday and one person today. We no have violence in Orvieto for long time, now three dead real quick.’ He snapped his fingers for effect. ‘It’s a funny world, no?’
Funny wasn’t the f word that came to mind. They had come to Orvieto looking for a nonviolent criminal, at least according to Manzak’s intel. Now there were three casualties in the small town where Boyd was last seen.
Payne said, ‘I thought the pilot was the only person who died on Monday?’
‘No, no, no, no,’ the man stressed, waving his index finger for emphasis. ‘The pilot is from Orvieto. Very good man. Worked with polizia for many years. I know him long time. The other man, he no from here. He visit polizia, they go for ride, they no come back.’
A theory entered Payne’s mind. ‘Out of curiosity, was the stranger bald?’
‘Bald? What is this bald?’
Payne pointed to his head. ‘Hair? Did the guy have hair?’
‘Si! He have hair, just like you. Short, brown hair.’
Payne glanced at Jones. ‘Who do you think it was?’
‘Could’ve been anyone. We don’t even know if Boyd is involved in this. We could be jumping the gun.’
‘Speaking of guns,’ Payne said. ‘What can you tell us about today’s murder?’
The man frowned, then paused to kiss a silver crucifix that dangled around his neck. ‘Shhh,’ he pleaded. ‘Silenzio is very important tradition in Italy from long time ago. We show respect for the dead with no words. Let the dead sleep in peace, no?’
But Jones wasn’t buying it. ‘You’re not allowed to talk, yet everyone in town is already here. How in the world did that happen? ESP?’
The man eyed the hundreds of people around him, then grinned. ‘Sometimes my people not very good at tradition. Word of this crime spread quick.’
Payne smiled. ‘What do you know about today’s victim?’
The man lowered his voice. ‘I hear he found at bottom of well on donkey bridge. He was, how do you say?’ He slammed his two hands together in a violent clap. ‘Splat!’
‘Was it an accident?’
‘No, I never say that.’ He slid his thumb across his neck in a slow, slashing motion. ‘It be tough for him to slip without help. The windows of the well are very small, and American was very fat. He would need much help –’
‘American?’ Payne blurted. ‘The victim was an American?’
‘Yes, that is what I heard. A big, fat cowboy.’
Payne looked at Jones, irritated, realizing that Donald Barnes fit the description.
The Italian picked up on their tension. ‘What is wrong? I have insulted you?’
‘No, not at all. It’s just, we think you’re describing a friend of ours. We were supposed to meet him here, but we haven’t been able to find him.’
The man turned pale, stunned at the revelation. ‘Mamma mia! I so sorry for my manners.’ He grabbed them by their arms and pulled them into the crowd. ‘Please! I lead you to your friend. I talk to police and let you pay your respects! Come with me! I get you inside the well!’
24
When the Vatican hired Benito Pelati, they knew they were getting one of the top academic minds in Italy. A man of passion. Someone who had dedicated his life to the art of antiquities and had risen to the top of his field. Remarkably, what they didn’t know was what fueled his desire. For if they had, they would’ve done everything in their power to have Benito terminated.
Not just fired but killed. Before he could do any damage.
And the reason was simple: Benito’s secret. One passed down from father to son for centuries. Started in Vindobona, Illyria, many generations before, spoken by a guilt-stricken man on his deathbed. Miraculously the secret had survived wars and plagues and tragedies of all kinds. Two thousand years of whispering, concealing, and protecting. And only one family – Benito’s family – knew the truth about what had happened so long ago.
Stil
l, in all that time, no one had the guts to do anything about it.
No one until Benito’s father told him the secret so many years ago.
From that moment on he did everything in his power to take advantage of the information. He studied longer, worked harder, and kissed every ass he needed to kiss in order get into the inner circle of the Church. And he did it with one goal in mind: to prove that the secret was real. In his heart he knew it was. Yet he realized he needed tangible evidence from the Vatican to back up his family’s claim. Otherwise, his ancestors had wasted their breath for the past two millennia because no one in their right mind was going to believe it. And there was no way he was going to let that happen. He’d find evidence in the Archives or die trying.
Benito worked at the Vatican for more than a decade when he came across the first shred of proof. Twelve years of cleaning statues and logging paintings when he found a small stone chest filled with several untranslated scrolls. No one knew where they had come from or what they said due to their archaic language. Yet Benito sensed something special about them, a kind of cosmic connection that made him shove everything else aside and focus exclusively on the scrolls and the carvings on the stone box. There was just something about the main figure that gave him chills. The way the face looked at him. Laughed at him. Like he had a secret he wanted to reveal but was waiting for the right moment. Benito identified with him at once.
He couldn’t explain why, but somehow he knew this was the discovery he was looking for.
Word by word, line by line, Benito translated the scrolls. Each one giving him another clue to a giant puzzle that spanned two thousand years and affected billions of people. A puzzle that started in Rome, spread to the Britains and Judea, then ended up buried in the mythical Catacombs of Orvieto and forgotten by time. A plan hatched by a desperate emperor and carried out by his distant relative. A laughing man immortalized in stone for a secret he possessed.
Finally, Benito had the evidence he was looking for. The proof his family needed.
Now all he had to do was figure out what to do with it. How to take advantage of it.
That proved harder than he thought.
Benito left his office with his bodyguards in tow. One of them carried an umbrella, shading Benito’s face from the hot sun as he made his way down Via del Corso. Streams of tourists strolled by at a casual pace, most of them heading toward the Pantheon, the Palazzo Venezia, and the rest of the sites in the center city. The sound of music could be heard above the growl of nearby traffic. The faint scent of garlic wafted from the corner pizzeria.
An hour earlier the Supreme Council had summoned him to give an update on Father Jansen’s death. They wanted to know what he had learned since they asked him to look into things on Monday and what the murder meant to the Vatican. But Benito declined their invitation. He told them he wasn’t ready. He needed more time to investigate.
This infuriated Cardinal Vercelli, the head of the Council, who was used to kowtowing and ass-kissing from everyone but the pope. Benito stood his ground, though, and told Vercelli that his day was filled with urgent meetings related to the investigation. Benito said he could meet with them on Thursday, if they were interested, but no sooner. This angered Vercelli to no end. Yet he had no leverage when it came to an institution like Benito Pelati, so he eventually relented.
Their meeting was set for Thursday. He would fill them in at that time. When he was ready.
Victorious, and with nothing better to do, Benito decided to go for a walk.
25
Dr Boyd knew that Maria would have her doubts about the document, so he started from the beginning. ‘When I came to Italy, I was on a specific quest. I was looking for an artifact inside the Catacombs of Orvieto. A scroll that was more important than the vaults themselves.’
Maria pointed to the document. ‘You mean our scroll? You came here looking for this and didn’t bother to tell me? Santa Maria! I don’t believe this! What’s so special about it?’
‘Instead of telling you, let me show you.’ He removed a single sheet of paper from his fanny pack. ‘This is a photocopy of the Bath document. Notice how the script matches the handwriting on the Orvieto scroll.’ He pointed to the similarities in flow and spacing. ‘The first scroll was written by Tiberievm, better known as Tiberius Caesar. Penned by his own hand in 32 AD.’
Maria’s eyes widened. She’d been reading about the second emperor of Rome only a few hours before. ‘Tiberius? Are you positive?’
‘As sure as a historian can be. Not only was the document signed and dated, but I ran the papyrus and ink through a number of tests. The results came back remarkably clear: the Bath document is approximately two thousand years old.’
‘But couldn’t it have been written by someone else, a scribe or an assistant of some kind? How do you know it was Tiberius?’
‘Good question,’ he admitted. ‘But I do have an answer. Take a look at the canister we found in Orvieto. Remember the engraving I showed you? I chose not to tell you at the time, but that’s a very specific symbol assigned to Tiberius by order of the Roman senate.’
‘For what purpose?’
‘In his later years, Tiberius became something of a recluse, opting to live on the Isle of Capri, which was a terrible inconvenience for the senate. All decisions had to be delivered over land and sea, and that was a risky proposition. Therefore, the senate devised a way to seal their documents in metal, then added an extra safeguard by assigning a specific symbol to Tiberius. When it appeared on a chambered document, such as the one we found, it meant the information was written by Tiberius’s own hand and too critical to be read by a messenger.’
Maria considered the information and accepted it. Two scrolls written by Tiberius, found over a thousand miles apart. Unfortunately, that still didn’t explain Boyd’s outburst and failed to clarify the connection to Christ. ‘Professore, not to be rude, but what did the document say?’
‘The Bath scroll was addressed to Paccius, the top general in Tiberius’s army. You see, the general and his troops had been sent to the Britains to survey the land explored by Julius Caesar several decades before. It was a critical mission, one that would spark further expansion of the Empire. Alas, while Paccius was there, something happened back in Rome, for Tiberius sent a fleet of his fastest ships to locate him and request his immediate return.’
‘What had happened?’
‘The document didn’t say, simply hinting at “a swelling among the slave ranks of Galilee that needs to be profited from.”’ Boyd paused, letting that information sink in. ‘But if you think about it, history gives us a pretty solid clue as to what was taking place. What significant event occurred in that territory less than a year later?’
The color faded in Maria’s tanned face. ‘The crucifixion of Christ.’
‘Exactly! Now maybe you’re beginning to understand the importance of this.’
She nodded, trying to retain her focus. ‘What else did it say?’
‘Tiberius said if he died before Paccius’s return, then Paccius should complete the plot by using the records that would be stored in the newly built haven at Orvieto. He said the plans would be “locked in bronze and sealed with the Emperor’s kiss.” Obviously a reference to the engraved canister that we found.’
‘But since the scroll was still sealed, we can assume that Paccius returned before Tiberius’s death, right? They had a chance to talk in person?’
Boyd shrugged. ‘That’s an assumption at best. You must remember that both canisters were found sealed. Not only the one in Orvieto but the one in Bath as well.’
‘So what are you saying? Paccius never got the message?’
‘That’s one possibility. Another is a duplicate set of messages. I figure, why dispatch a single canister when you’re sending an entire fleet to locate someone? What if the message ship sank? The scroll would’ve been lost forever. So for safety’s sake, why not send two scrolls or more?’
Maria nodded her acce
ptance. It seemed like a reasonable theory. ‘What does history say about Paccius? What happened to him?’
‘For some reason, his death was never chronicled. One minute he was the second most powerful cog in the Roman Empire, the next minute he was gone. Vanished, without a trace. Of course, his disappearance could mean many things. He might’ve died in the Britains or drowned at sea on his journey home. Or he might’ve sailed directly to Judea in order to carry out the emperor’s wishes.’ Boyd shook his head in confusion. ‘Whichever it is, I do know this: Tiberius was a tactical genius, known for his brilliant mind and precise planning. And according to this scroll, he figured out a way to use Christ as a pawn in the most ruthless plot of all time.’
‘How in the world did he do that?’
Boyd took a deep breath, struggling to find the appropriate words. How do you challenge someone’s belief system without upsetting her?
‘Maria,’ he stuttered, ‘why do you believe Christ is the Son of God?’
‘Why? It’s what I was taught as a child. It’s what I was raised to believe.’
‘But you’re no longer a child. You reached the age of independent thought long ago. At some point you started challenging your parents. Whether it was Santa Claus or politics, you eventually questioned what you were taught.’
‘Yes, but –’
‘But what? You should draw the line at religion? If anything, religion should be the first concept that you challenge because it’s the most personal thing that a person can have. Religion is what you believe, not what you’re told. It’s what you feel, not what others expect.’
‘But I believe in Christ! I’ve studied the Bible, gone to Mass, and spoken to several priests. And guess what? I believe in God and Jesus Christ. It just feels right to me.’
His tone softened. ‘If I challenged your faith, would it bend under the weight of my words?’
‘Not a chance. I believe what I believe. Your comments aren’t going to change that.’
‘And what about evidence? Would your faith crumble in the face of new evidence?’
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