by Jack Hyland
“But, they’re not moving. The tie ropes went slack,” Greg said.
“Give them a tug,” Tom suggested.
Greg pulled on the ropes, got resistance which meant that the ropes were still tied to the two archaeologists, but they didn’t pull back to signal everything was fine.
Something was wrong.
“How stable is the passageway?” Tom asked Greg.
“We’ve no way of knowing. Our instruments couldn’t penetrate that far.”
Tom called down into the tunnel several times. Silence.
“We’ve got to get someone down there. If there was a cave-in, they might be in trouble.”
“I’ll go,” Greg said, hooking a lead line to his belt and grabbing a flashlight. “I’ll let you know what’s down there.” He handed Tom the radio.
“Take a mask,” Tom said. “The dust might be intense.”
Greg nodded, put on the mask offered by another team member, and jumped down into the tunnel.
Every minute Greg was gone was agony for the crew. The tautness of his lead line was a good sign. Greg was still moving forward. Then, suddenly, it went slack. Everyone was paralyzed with fear.
“Greg, what’s happening?” Tom radioed in.
Silence.
A few minutes later, they heard scrambling. Greg appeared at the opening. Tom gave him a hand to help him up.
Ripping off the mask, Greg gasped, “They’re not moving. They’re just lying there. I tried to . . .”
“Calm down. Tell us what you saw.”
Greg was breathing hard. “It was dark and narrow. I called to them as I went through the tunnel. I saw a light. The tunnel got bigger. I kept calling. Then, I saw them. They were on the floor in a large room. I shouted. I shone the light on their faces. They were covered with some kind of . . . green moss. Their eyes were wide open like they had seen something horrible.”
“And? What else?”
Greg stared up. “They’re dead.”
2
Tom had to think fast. “We need to get an ambulance.”
“Dr. Stewart, I can call the Carabinieri,” Alex Cellini offered, taking out her cell phone.
“Good,” Tom responded immediately, glad that the Italian military police would be here soon. But a few thoughts began to gnaw at Tom. Why had this tragedy happened? Was there any physical danger to the Academy’s team? He was now the senior person from the American Academy present—he had to call the director, deal with the police, protect the Academy’s reputation. And what else? Would he have to deal with the press? From the pleasant pastime of watching an archaeological dig in the famous Roman Forum, he was suddenly at the center of some very unpleasant action.
Alex nodded and punched in the emergency number. She spoke to the operator, then turned to Tom. “Help’s coming. I told them we need a doctor and ambulance.”
“We have to go after them,” Greg said, still visibly shaken by the horror of the scene he had come upon.
“No,” Tom replied quickly and firmly. “It could be extremely dangerous to go down there. We can’t help them. It’s better to wait for medical help.”
Within moments, they heard the wail of the Carabinieri siren. The flashing blue lights of a squad car appeared at the Arch of Constantine, followed by an ambulance two minutes later.
Two police officers stepped out of the squad car and asked their questions in Italian. Alex answered them and then translated for Tom. “They want to know who’s in charge, and what happened. I told them that you’re a trustee of the American Academy and the senior person here.”
Tom gave the carabinieri the highlights of what had happened with some help from Alex. The EMT crew from the ambulance attended to Greg. His body was trembling as he relived the quick deaths and the mysterious green mold. The officers found nothing wrong with Greg, however, and asked him if the men might have died from a cave-in.
“Their bodies,” he said, “were lying there, free of any debris.”
The carabinieri put up a cordon around the area, making certain that the perimeter around the dig was sealed off.
“We have to retrieve the bodies,” the senior officer said. “Since we don’t know what caused their deaths, we’ve got to take precautions. I’ve requested our Squadra di Hazmat unit. They’ll collect the two bodies and get them to our labs. This excavation will be sealed until further notice.”
Tom realized that the situation was now in the carabinieri’s hands. He took a moment and called Caroline Sibelius, director of the American Academy, and filled her in.
“Doc and Eric dead? I can’t believe it. What happened?”
“It’s unclear. The police are removing the bodies to do an autopsy.”
Caroline was silent. “Well, it’ll be all over the news tomorrow, then. I’ll contact the families. Please ask our group to come back to the Academy as soon as they can. Call me the moment you know more.”
“Will do.”
“I’ll stay to translate,” Alex offered as the other students collected their things and headed back to the Academy. The ambulance also left while the two carabinieri remained with Tom and Alex.
“I can’t tell you how helpful you’ve been to me,” Tom said to Alex.
“I really haven’t done much—just calling the police,” she replied. “What happened to Doc and Eric is overwhelming me—I’ve got no answers for this.”
Tom saw that she had tears in her eyes and put his hand on her shoulder. In a quiet voice he said, “I’ve no answers either, but we’ll find them.”
Alex looked at Tom, and he looked back at her. Neither said anything further.
About thirty minutes later, a dark blue Land Rover Defender with a white roof and Carabinieri red stripe along the side, followed by a Mercedes Unimog 3000-5000 mobile lab, pulled up to the gate where Tom and Alex were waiting. An official in full uniform stepped down from the Rover and walked over to them.
“Dr. Stewart?”
“Yes, I’m Dr. Tom Stewart.”
“I’m Lieutenant Giovanni Gabrielli from the Italian Environmental Protection Command,” he said in English, extending his hand. “My sympathies for the loss of your colleagues. We’re here to assess the situation.” Two men emerged from the Unimog, tethered to the vehicle with long lines feeding them oxygen. The lines unspooled as they walked. The men were garbed in full white hazmat suits and gloves. The police officers directed them to the passageway at the site. Gabrielli, Tom, and Alex followed close behind.
“These men are equipped with a video data line so that we’ll be able to see exactly what’s in the tunnel. We can observe it on this mobile monitor,” Gabrielli said, pointing to a small flat screen set up on a cart near the opening.
They watched as the men descended into the passageway with their flashlights at the ready. As they walked through the tunnel, they reported back to Gabrielli over the data line that they unspooled as they walked. As the two men came to the end of the passage, Tom could see on the video screen an opening into a large space, which had shiny walls.
The bodies were contorted as if something had caused them incredible pain before they died. There was nothing natural about the position of their bodies. They look broken, like rag dolls tossed against a stone wall. Tom was puzzled by a bright green substance, like pollen, on Doc’s and Eric’s hands. But he was struck by what he could see of their faces—looks of agony. It was sickening to imagine that Doc and Eric had suffered excruciating deaths. In the background of the video, Tom saw the dim remnants of something else. At first he thought they were mounds of rags, but as the camera moved closer, he saw that they were human skeletons clothed in what appeared to be lab coats.
Gabrielli then spoke to his two men in the underground chamber, ordering them to carry each of the bodies back through the passageway. On the video monitor, Tom and Alex could watch as the two of
ficers enclosed each of the bodies in a black plastic bag, which was zippered closed. Making two trips, the men brought the bodies of Doc and Eric to the Unimog.
“We’ll conduct an autopsy on the bodies and will be in touch with the American Academy as soon as we have the results. I’d like to schedule a call with you and the director of the Academy for tomorrow morning, perhaps at 10 a.m. Now, please accompany me to our examining station. We’ll need a full report about what happened. After that, we’ll take you wherever you wish.”
As they left the American Academy’s excavation site, Tom noticed that a crowd of tourists and reporters had gathered outside the gate. Caroline was right about the news. Tom grimaced.
Gabrielli must have noticed Tom’s expression. “Sensational stories are difficult to contain. Deaths in the Roman Forum will be big news—international news.”
“Can’t be helped, I suppose.”
“We’ll of course not give out any information until we know what happened. But you should be prepared to be contacted by the reporters.”
“I’ll leave that to the Academy director.”
The interview at the station did not take long. There wasn’t much to tell. It all had happened so quickly.
A police car drove them to Via Angelo Masina and the main building of the American Academy. The car stopped and idled. Tom got out and turned to Alex.
“Thanks for your help today.”
“Not a problem. Please let me know if there’s anything else I can do.” She took out a business card from her purse and scribbled on it. “Here’s my cell number. Call me anytime.”
“Thanks. I’ll do that. Get home safely.”
She gave the driver instructions. “Ciao, Tom.”
“Ciao.”
Tom walked up to the front gate of the American Academy. Norm Robertson, the guard, stepped out of his gate station.
“Sorry about what happened, Dr. Stewart.”
“Thanks, Norm. I’m here to meet with—”
“Go right in. The director’s expecting you. She said for you to meet her in the courtyard.”
Tom climbed the front steps, walked through the vestibule to the courtyard. Its walls were covered with flowering vines filling the evening air with the scent of jasmine. Tables lined the outer edge of the courtyard under the alcove of the building.
The Academy fellows and residents, including Doc’s archaeological team, had already finished supper and left. Tom waved at Caroline and John Connor, Caroline’s predecessor as director of the Academy, and joined them at their table under an arch. Caroline Sibelius was a highly regarded art historian, and was now on sabbatical from Duke University in order to serve as director here. She was an expert on gothic architecture in Italy. Connor was the world’s expert on Francesco Borromini, a highly influential late-Renaissance architect. He was also on sabbatical in Rome from his professorship at Columbia University.
“Tom,” Caroline said warmly, “how are you? You’ve been through so much. Please sit down. Would you like a coffee or cappuccino or something to eat?”
“I’m not particularly hungry, but I’d like a cappuccino.”
Caroline called one of the waiters over and asked that Tom be brought food and drink. Then she said, “I still can’t believe that Doc and Eric are dead.”
Tom recounted his arrival at the excavation early in the morning, taking Caroline and John through all the incidents, including the mysterious underground chamber where Doc and Eric were found.
The waiter brought the cappuccino and a small plate of fruit, cheese, and bread.
“Grazie.”
“I had no idea this excavation was so dangerous. Doc seemed to indicate that it was fairly routine,” Caroline said.
Tom sipped his cappuccino. “Yes, it should have gone off without a hitch. But I’m concerned about some of the bizarre elements that came to light.”
“You mentioned a large room with shiny walls and skeletons?”
“Yes. Not what you’d expect to find in an ancient Roman palace.”
“Also, from what you’ve described,” John added, “Doc and Eric seemed to have died quickly and horribly without any warning at all.”
“I’ve never heard anything like it,” Caroline said. “As for the Academy community, they know only the bare facts of what’s happened. I’d like to keep it that way until we know more.”
“Agreed. Although the media will probably be pestering you,” Tom said.
Caroline nodded. “I’ve already gotten calls, and Lieutenant Gabrielli’s office telephoned to arrange a phone meeting tomorrow morning. I’d like you to attend if you can.”
“Sure thing.”
“Well, something leaked out,” Connor said, breaking off a small cluster of grapes. “I had an odd telephone conversation this afternoon with Tim O’Boyle.”
“Who’s that?” Tom asked.
“The former chief archivist of the Vatican libraries. He’s a retired priest. We’ve become friends since we both spend time at the Vatican doing research.
“Father O’Boyle expressed his sympathy at what happened in the Forum—just how he knew about it so quickly, I have no idea. He discreetly began to ask questions about what actually had happened, and how much detail we have. And, he asked about you, your connection to the Academy, your profession. Very polite, but probing. Finally, he asked the oddest of questions.”
“What did he say?” Tom asked, startled by a perfect stranger’s interest in his life. What could this unwelcome intrusion mean?
“O’Boyle said, ‘Is this Stewart person a wholly ethical person? Is he totally trustworthy?’ Just like that. Ethical, trustworthy—in my opinion, very odd questions. Out of order, really.”
“I agree,” Tom said. “How did you answer—if I may be so bold?”
“I told him ‘very ethical, very trustworthy.’ O’Boyle definitely had something on his mind, though I certainly did not know what it was. ‘One final question,’ he said. ‘Is Stewart a man of action?’”
“How in the world did you reply to that?” Tom asked.
“I said that you were courageous and had walked through the chaos, destruction, and danger of 9/11 helping to identify human remains to give families of lost ones some closure. Wouldn’t that serve as a proxy for ‘action’?”
“Thank you, John,” Tom said. “I’m honored by your answers.”
“Well, here’s the unusual part. Just before dinner tonight, he called back, somewhat nervously, to ask that I consider our prior conversation ‘off the record.’ Just not ‘off the record,’ but totally off the record.”
“That’s off the wall,” replied Tom. “What’s O’Boyle like?”
“Quite a likable guy,” John replied, “with a wry sense of Irish humor. A serious scholar. Often, you’ll find him in the Mithraic Temple in the third level of San Clemente Church.”
“Mithraic Temple?”
“O’Boyle’s an expert on this clandestine group—mostly Roman soldiers who kept their secret rites to themselves. He loves to sit on the stone bench in the anteroom, imagining, he says, he can hear the soldiers praying.”
“John,” said Tom, “that was two thousand years ago.”
“I know, I know.” He laughed. “In Rome, we all have our pet fetishes. His is harmless, and his research is well regarded. I’ve never heard him so anxious to understand the essence of someone’s character, nor back away from this line of questioning so abruptly. I’d even say he seemed uneasy or afraid of something. I still don’t get what he meant by ‘man of action.’”
Caroline had been half-listening since she was preoccupied with the Academy’s new problems, stemming from the tragedy in the Roman Forum.
“Tragic news travels fast, especially over the Internet,” Caroline said. “I’ve received a few calls and e-mails from Doc’s colleagues in Rome. Apparently, it
’s been on TV as well.”
“How did the families take the news?”
“As you’d expect. They were devastated. Eric’s parents will be on the evening plane to Rome to take him home. Doc had no immediate family, except for a sister living in California. She asked me to arrange to have him sent to a funeral home in her area. Of course, the Academy will pay all the expenses.”
“Are you planning to have a memorial service for Doc and Eric in Rome?” Tom asked.
“Yes, I’ve been thinking about that.”
“What about their personal items?”
“Greg Bator is collecting Eric’s. Doc’s are still up in his room here.”
“Doc was a good friend. I’d be happy to help with that,” Tom said.
“Thanks. I expect there isn’t too much.”
“It’s been long day.” Tom stood. “I think I’ll head back to my apartment.”
“Just ask Norm to call you a taxi,” Caroline said. “You’re sure you’re okay?”
“I’m fine. Just a little shaken. See you tomorrow. ”
The taxi pulled up to the front door of his apartment building on Via Gregoriana. As Tom let himself in the front door of the building, he was too tired to notice a man standing in the shadows across the street. When the outside door closed and Tom was inside, the man spoke quietly into his cell phone and then walked down the street, disappearing into the night.
3
After showering the next morning, Tom dressed, then let himself out onto the terrace, the best feature of his apartment. From the terrace, covered with planters filled with red geraniums blooming like crazy, he could see all of Rome stretch out before him. The thought struck him—the ghastly events of yesterday—they changed everything. The news would be in the papers, too. He walked down the nine flights and into the street. It was a three-minute walk to the Hotel de la Ville, where he knew he could buy the morning’s International Herald Tribune and have breakfast.
The Hotel de la Ville was full of tourists, but he had no problem getting a table. After ordering, he glanced at the main headlines on the first page. Good, he thought, no mention of the incident. Then, below the fold, in the lower right-hand side of the front page, there was a photograph of him in the Roman Forum shaking hands with Doc. The headline read: mysterious deaths at the roman forum. The opening paragraph said: