The Lost Catacomb (20 page)
“
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.
”
“
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 fa
ç
ade 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.
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.
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
Niccol
ò
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.
Niccol
ò
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 forehead and twisting it
around her finger.
“
Perseus,
you know,
”
Niccol
ò
began,
“
was the son of Dana
ë
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 Dana
ë’
s father, the king of Argos.
“
The
king of the island on which they landed lusted after Dana
ë
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 wing
è
d 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,
”
Niccol
ò
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.
“
Anyway,
I guess the point is that these are universal stories with the usual universal
ingredients
—
the
good guys versus the bad guys
—
or
the monsters
—
the
beautiful princess waiting to be rescued
—
or sacrificed.
Love, lust, fate
—
you name it.
It
’
s really not that far removed from real life, when
you think about it, for better or worse.
”
She nodded, wondering if there was more.
“
By
the way, Elena, the oracle was fulfilled.
Perseus took his mother back to Argos, where he accidentally killed his
grandfather while playing with a discus.
Fate is fate, I guess, and no one can escape it.
Whatever God or the stars ordain.
”
He sighed.
“
I hope I
’
m not sounding too
preachy or boring you, but I really miss being at the university.
The exchange of ideas, the intellectual
stimulation, the excitement.
But
there
’
s nothing
much I can do about it.
That seems
to be my fate, at least currently.
“
And
so, my dear Elena,
”
he
said, recovering his equanimity and nudging her towards the window,
“
we have our own little
classroom here instead, which will have to do.
Not such a terrible substitute, when you
think about it,
”
he
added gently.
As Elena now bent over the telescope, she paused and looked
up at Niccol
ò
.
“
So, Perseus,
”
she asked, lowering
her eyelashes in mock bashfulness,
“
if
I
’
m ever
threatened by a sea monster will you rescue me?
”
“
What
do you think?
”
he
replied with a smile.
“
Here, let me help you.
”
He put his arm around her to help her direct the lens and
adjust the instrument into a position more comfortable for her height, and his
jet-black curls mingled momentarily with her dark wavy hair.
As he stood back, he saw that a faint
blush now colored her cheeks and suffused the slender white column of her neck
and throat.
And bewitched by her beauty and the tales told by the stars,
he bent and kissed the top of her head, her rosy cheek, and her soft and gently
welcoming lips.