The Bone Chamber

she said, pointing up ahead and to the left. Griffin drove past, caught sight of a staircase between the massive walls that lined the road, shielding the mansions and surrounding properties from view. He parked the van farther up the road, just out of sight. Sydney rolled up the map, put it in her travel bag, and then they walked back toward the staircase, where they hoped the entrance to the columbarium would be. The sun had not yet risen, not even a sliver of moonlight illuminated the road, the high walls on either side making it seem darker, more forbidding. They reached the break in the wall, where a Z-shaped staircase led up, and they ascended, waited in the dark just beyond the west bend. As the first light began to penetrate the needles of the umbrella pines beyond the Aurelian Wall, Francesca emerged from the street below and mounted the steps.

Griffin stepped out. “Fancy meeting you here.”

Francesca froze in her tracks. She looked from him to Sydney. “I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised, considering you stole my computer last night.”

“I’m afraid your computer was already gone by the time we got there.”

She stared at him for several seconds. “So someone else was there?”

“Let me be frank,” Griffin said. “What part of your life is in danger don’t you get?”

“The part that tells me this can’t be happening.”

“It’s happening. I don’t suppose you want to share with us what is so important that you felt it necessary to avoid your protector and risk your own life as well as ours?”

The sound of someone else coming up the steps caught Griffin by surprise. He looked at Francesca, who didn’t seem the least worried, as she said, “That would be Signore DeAngelis, the property owner.”

A moment later, a man in his sixties turned the corner, slightly out of breath, his white hair looking a bit windblown, as though he’d been running. “I left it on the table,” he said in Italian, holding up a large Byzantine key, before stopping short at the sight of Griffin and Sydney. He turned an accusing stare on Francesca. “You led me to believe you were coming alone, professoressa. The columbarium is very delicate, and we cannot have people just traipsing around.”

“Yes, well-”

“These old columbaria,” Griffin said. “They can be notoriously dangerous, and the professoressa asked us at the last minute to help her with her research.” Griffin smiled, pulled a business card from his pocket, handing it to the old man. “As you can imagine, we are very interested in helping her complete her research so that she can get it to the publisher in time.”

The man looked at the International Journal business card. “He is your editor?” he asked Francesca.

“One of them,” she replied, which told Griffin she was desperate to get down there, and hadn’t exactly been forthcoming with the property owner about her real purpose-whatever that might be.

“And this is?” the man asked, eyeing Sydney.

Griffin replied, “The artist.”

“Artist?”

“My understanding is that flash photography can sometimes harm ancient works of art, and so we have brought a sketch artist to document the professoressa’s research.”

The man nodded. “Yes, this is true. We have never allowed cameras in there. You will show me your sketches?”

“She does not speak Italian,” Griffin said. “American.”

The property owner looked at Sydney, and in clear, precise English, said, “You will show me what you have drawn when you finish?”

“Of course,” Sydney said, patting her travel bag. “I think you’ll be pleased.”

The man smiled, handed the key to Francesca, then said, “Do not forget to lock up the door tight before you leave. I must go, eat my breakfast.”

“Thank you, signore.” The three of them continued up the steps, while the property owner returned from the direction he came. After he was gone, Francesca said in a low voice, “How did you find me if you didn’t take my computer?”

“The map on your wall. Special Agent Fitzpatrick has a friend who was able to discern the location of this columbarium based on the notations you had concerning a skull and pyramid. Now, about the real reason why you’re here?”

“I explained that to you. Finishing up research for a grant.”

“Then you won’t mind if we come along.”

“Surely you have something better to do with your time?”

“Your safety is our main concern.”

She looked from him to Sydney, then shrugged. “Feel free. But you’re wasting your time. Now that I’ve given you the book, I’m sure whoever you thought was looking for me, will have given up.”

Griffin could only hope. “Lead the way, Professor. You have promised some drawings to the signore, and we’re eager to see what it is you’d be willing to risk your life for.”

“Don’t underestimate the power of history, Mr. Griffin.”

“As long as you don’t underestimate the power of a bullet ripping through your flesh.”

She led the way up the steps just as the sun started to break over the wall. By the time they followed her down a long path through the trees, the sounds of morning traffic began to drown out the chorus of birds, and exhaust fumes started to mix with the spiced scent of the pines. Eventually they reached an iron gate, and then just beyond it a heavy wooden door. Griffin kept watch behind as she unlocked and pushed open the door, the hinges protesting as she ushered them into a long dark passage.

23

It took several seconds for Sydney’s eyes to adjust to the interior of what turned out to be a long corridor, and she stood there a few moments, afraid to venture farther until she could see.

Francesca turned on a large flashlight, its beam wavering off the stuccoed ceilings. “I certainly hope you brought a sketchbook,” she said to Sydney. “Signore DeAngelis will ask to see the sketches when I return the key- and I may need to return here someday.”

Griffin nodded to Sydney, and she pulled out her sketchbook as well as a pencil. “How many do you want?”

“Three or four should add some legitimacy,” Francesca replied, then aimed her light at the ground, indicating they should follow. “Do be careful. The floor is uneven, and the staircase is narrow and steep-about forty feet straight down. There’s an iron railing, but it’s not very sturdy.”

Although Sydney had no idea what to expect, she was unprepared for the immensity of the chamber as they descended. It looked nothing like the catacombs that she’d seen in pictures. The professor’s flashlight revealed neatly stuccoed walls with row upon row of half-moon niches, about two feet in height and width, each of which had two terra cotta lids set into its base. Below each niche was a marble plaque with what Sydney supposed were the names of the deceased.

As they moved into the chamber, a soft light began to filter down from light wells that had been cut at one end of a vaulted ceiling. Fronds of maidenhair fern growing from the cracks in the ancient wall swayed as the air stirred around them, sending up sparkling dust motes into the shafts of light. Sydney looked around in awe. “It’s beautiful.”

“If you like mausoleums,” Griffin said.

Sydney, ignoring him, opened her sketchbook and started drawing. “How old is this place?”

“First century A.D.,” Francesca said. “The columbaria were burial clubs where slaves and freed slaves gathered socially to commemorate and inter the ashes of their club members who had preceded them in death.”

“And the lids in each niche?”

“The one thing besides the frescoes on the wall and the mosaics on the floor that the treasure hunters didn’t bother to remove. Each niche contains two large terra cotta jars, out of sight, behind the walls.” Francesca lifted