'The feet of a crucifixion victim were nailed to the cross. Once he was dead, the body was left to rot unless there was some reason to take the body down, like freeing up space at the Circus of Nero. Removing the nail to take the body down was too much trouble. The Romans simply cut the feet off. The bones were from someone who, most likely, had been crucified.'
The thought of a number of Renaissance paintings depicting Christ's ascension came to Lang's mind. None of them showed Him footless.
The tour guide shone a pencil beam of light onto an inscription. 'The Church's official position is in the Latin inscription on the silver. It means 'From the bones that, discovered under the Vatican arch-basilica, are believed to be those of the blessed Apostle Peter.'
'
Sounded like equivocation to Lang. He understood covering your bets.
'We'll leave by way of the Vatican grotto,' the lead priest announced.
A final door wheezed open and they stood in a large, low-ceilinged room. Squares were formed by groups of sarcophagi, each with the effigy of the former Pope it contained. Minutes later, the group emerged into sunlight. From where he stood, Lang could see the entrance to the necropolis.
He made a mental list of what he was going to need.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Nimes, France
L'Hopital de Nimes
At the same time
The doctor in white came into her room, a big smile on his face. Instead of helping her out of bed for her usual afternoon stroll around the ward, he turned on the television secured to the wall opposite her bed by a bracket. Curiously, she watched a man appear, his lips moving silently as a crawler slid across the bottom of the screen. She recognized the format as a news program, even though she had no idea when she had ever watched such a broadcast.
It went on a full minute before she realized the sound she heard was no longer that in her head but the voice from the man on the television. Her hearing had returned as suddenly as it had gone.
She squinted at the screen. For some reason, she knew two things: The man was asking anyone who could identify her to call the Nimes prefecture of police, but he was asking it in a language that was not hers. What her own tongue might be, she still did not know.
Suddenly, her own face was staring back at her with a confused and perplexed look. She had no memory of the picture being made but accepted as fact that many things may have taken place during the periods she could not force her memory to divulge. From the same source as the often-unrelated snippets of fact she knew, she realized her likeness was being shown in hopes someone might recognize her.
The thought frightened her. For reasons lost in the black void of her recollection, identification equaled danger. She had no idea why this was true, only that it was. As the doctor watched her image on the screen, her eyes roamed for a weapon, coming to rest on the curtain that separated her bed from the other in the room. Folded back against the wall, it hung from a rail attached to the ceiling so it could be pulled to afford either patient privacy had she a roommate.
As soon as her face faded from the screen, the doctor stretched up to turn the set off and helped her out of bed for her afternoon walk. She submitted meekly, still thinking about the rail.
It was only then she thought to say in the same language as the TV broadcast, 'I can hear again.'
The doctor's glee was genuine, even though he was as puzzled at the sudden return of the auditory sense as was she. He insisted that both he and the chief resident, a young man with wispy blond hair, examine her ears.
He used his cell phone to order a number of tests for the next day.
With a low bow that, in his long white coat, reminded her of a goose ducking its head, the resident said, 'Madame, though I don't know who you are, I do know you are well enough to join us in the physicians' dining hall instead of having your supper brought to you.'
Holding the split in her hospital gown closed with one hand, she gave the best rendition of a curtsy she could. 'If you can find me a robe, I would be delighted.'
And she would be. Delighted for company at a time she felt she was in danger, although she didn't understand exactly from whom or why. She was also delighted for a respite from the sorry fare that appeared on her tray at every meal, food tasteless and colorless, if nourishing.
National borders were no protection against hospital food.
The physicians' dining hall had more title than substance. A battered table with six chairs filled a small interior room. From the smells and the clatter of pots and pans, she guessed it adjoined the kitchen. Dr. Philipe-the name of the doctor with white hair, she had just learned-the resident, and two others sat before paper place mats and tin utensils. One of the men was giving a dissertation on the woes of the liver of a certain Mdme. Madesclair, a lengthy and not exactly appetizing discussion that she listened to simply because hearing was like a new experience.
'… It is, of course, problematic if the nodes are malign, since
…'
An orderly entered from the direction of the kitchen carrying a tray on which was a carafe of red wine and a number of glasses. The room went silent as he set it down and departed. Dr. Philipe, as senior doctor present, poured a small sample into a glass, twirled it, sniffed, and finally tasted it.
Mdme. Madesclair and her liver were temporarily forgotten.
'A second growth, once again,' the doctor announced.
There were general groans.
'We can afford better ourselves,' the resident stated.
'Who, then, will share his private collection for the good of the group?' asked one of the doctors she did not know. Silence greeted the suggestion before the conversation returned to Mdme. Marlesclair's problems.
'Is surgery an option?' the youngest asked.
This time, she tuned the conversation out until she became suddenly aware one of the physicians was speaking to her. 'Can you give us the earliest memory you have?'
Dr. Philipe said, 'This is Dr. Roge, our psychiatrist. He asked that you join us in an informal setting as soon as your hearing returned.' He gazed around the table with a smile. 'There are few more informal settings than this one.'
Everyone chuckled.
And do not concern yourself that he stares at you. He does that to all pretty girls, patients or not.'
More merriment.
'The earliest,' she repeated, pushing against the blank wall that was her memory. 'Perhaps the hillside where I was found.'
'You speak with a slight accent. Are you aware of…'
The same man from the kitchen entered again, this time with a savory roast on a platter.
'Lamb,' observed the resident.
'With rosemary' added the other young doctor.
'Let us hope it is rare,' wished Dr. Philipe.
The state of her memory was as forgotten as Mdme. Madesclair's liver. The conversation turned to lamb.
Was it better roasted on an open spit? How did it compare to that done in a certain brasserie in Paris?
Once again, her mind ceased to register the words.
Instead, it conjured up a vision of Napoleon sitting at a table in front of his tent at Waterloo. He was watching a column of dust that could mean the Prussians would arrive in time to join Wellington. But he was discussing the relative merits of whole-versus skimmed-milk brie.
