The Bone Chamber

the lid of one. “Cremated bones in each pot,” she said, replacing the lid. “Bones are still here, but most of the decorations-freestanding urns or anything of value-were stripped during the eighteenth century and added to the pope’s coffers,” she said, glancing at Griffin as though he might be inclined to pass on that information to Dumas.

His response was to ask, “Exactly what are you looking for that couldn’t wait?”

“A hidden chamber. Something that hasn’t yet been discovered that has a connection to another ossuary chamber.” She gave Griffin a patronizing smile. “That means bones.”

“I’m so glad you clarified.”

Sydney threw Griffin a dark look, turned the page in her sketchbook to start a new drawing. “You were saying?” she asked the professor.

“The purpose of my…grant is to prove the location of the final resting place of Raimondo di Sangro, Prince of Sansevero.”

“And why would this be important?” Griffin asked.

“For history’s sake. He is not buried in his own crypt, and there are some historians who believe that he is instead resting in a chamber elsewhere. And if you wonder at the historical significance of this, then you might also wonder at why the Vatican was interested in di Sangro’s final resting place. They questioned a friar who helped di Sangro make his final arrangements and learned that he hid three…clues you might say, each one hidden in other burial chambers, which would eventually allow entry to his final burial chamber. The friar revealed only the location of this first key or clue, but so far it has eluded even the most ardent historians as well as the Vatican, and to this day remains unsolved.”

“And yet,” Griffin said, “you say you are looking for proof of the burial site, as if you have an idea of where it is?”

“A very good idea. Unfortunately, without the hidden clues, death will surely fall on those who search within.”

“Another curse?”

“A reality. Trust me,” she said, leading them deeper into the chamber. “According to the records I found at the Vatican, what I’m searching for is located ‘past the great pyramids of the Nile, graffito behind the wall beyond the tomb of the harpists.’”

“Graffito?” Sydney asked.

“Graffiti,” she replied. “Markings on the wall added by someone after this place was built. This particular chamber has already been searched because of that clue, by the Vatican in the late 1700s. Nothing was found, which is why we thought that the friar had to have been talking about the true pyramids of the Nile, and why Alessandra organized the search of the Egyptian tomb. Of course, we know now that her search there was fruitless, which leads us back here. It’s the only place that fits. I’ve been here before, but I can assure you that I have never found anything remotely close to a clue.”

“They’re paying you money to research this?” Griffin asked, his voice filled with skepticism.

“Not to worry. It’s a private grant, as opposed to the government paying you money to follow me around. But do feel free to save the taxpayers some hard-earned cash and leave.”

Sydney wanted to strangle Griffin. If they were going to find out anything, it was not going to come about by antagonizing the professor any more than they already had. “Well, I for one am interested in what you’re doing,” she said as they followed Francesca to what looked like the end of the chamber, only to discover that it opened into another equally huge chamber branching to the right. Niches had also been set into its walls for several stories from top to bottom, an impressive sight. “How big is this place?”

“About three times the size of the chamber we are standing in. This particular columbarium is roughly in the shape of the letter E,” she said, leading them toward the farthest branch of the E. “And the door that I’m searching for is at the end of the last chamber. When this columbarium was searched and stripped in the late 1700s by the Vatican after the questioning of the friar, the entrance to the lower chamber was never discovered. Someone had taken great pains to disguise it,” she said, pausing at the entrance. “That is one more reason I think this is the right location.”

“How was it found?”

“The present owner, Signore DeAngelis, was having repairs to his water pipes, and you can imagine his surprise when his plumbers broke into a huge chamber, complete with painted ceilings and frescoes. Thankfully he had the presence of mind to bring in the soprintendenza archeologica and various scholars to study it, which was how this particular entrance was found. Once they determined that the entrance had been sealed off sometime in the late 1700s, they decided to excavate it, and to restore it to its original state. Their consensus was that the chamber had been hidden to prevent further looting, perhaps the very looting for which the Vatican was responsible. The curious thing is that after the tomb was stripped, and before it was sealed, someone went to the pains to lay a new mosaic floor in a lower chamber at the end of this branch. No one really knows why.”

“Hard to imagine why anyone cares,” Griffin mumbled.

“You might not,” Sydney replied. “But I find it fascinating.”

“Well,” Francesca continued, eyeing Sydney’s sketch of the wall of niches, “the next century, the 1800s, was the era of the great fakes. Charlatans, like the notorious Marchese Campana, palmed off”-she wiggled her fingers in quotation marks-‘“newly discovered’ antiquities, which they sold to greedy collectors and museums. Even the British Museum got stung. My theory is that the fakery started half a century earlier, which would explain why the mosaic floor was relaid-to lend an aura of authenticity to fake urns and frescoes that went on sale to credulous buyers. They very well may have paraded them down here, using the place as a showroom. What I can’t explain is why they sealed off the chamber after having gone to the trouble of putting in the new floor. Unless, perhaps, they were caught selling fakes and trying to hide the evidence.”

Francesca led them through the door at the end of the chamber, where they descended another set of steps, not so steep as the last. At the bottom, Sydney saw the floor Francesca spoke of, an expanse of finely made multicolored mosaic tiles set in what seemed to be a random circular pattern. Aiming the beam of her light, Sydney took in her surroundings and was struck by the beauty of the place. The ceilings were still intact in all their original bright colors, and the walls between the niches had been frescoed with joyous paintings-crocodiles, ibises, hippopotamuses, and lotus leaves.

Flashlight tucked beneath her arm, Sydney sketched away. Francesca had other ideas besides standing there and soaking in the history of the place. She began lifting lids in each niche, those that she could reach, then shining her light carefully on those she couldn’t, clearly looking for something.

Sydney and Griffin watched her for several moments, until she finally seemed to remember their presence. “Since you’re here, you might as well help. I need every loculus checked, every lid of every olla lifted, at least of those you can reach.”

“There are hundreds in here,” Griffin said. “It’ll take forever.”

“Isn’t it convenient that there are three of us?”

“And what is it we’re looking for?”

“Something scratched on the wall or perhaps written on the inside of one of the lids. Something that tells me where this other hidden chamber is.”

Tunisia

0805 Hours

The delivery truck turned into the drive, then stopped at the barricade. The guard stepped out of his hut, walked up to the driver’s door. Marc, dressed in coveralls matching the logo on the truck, handed a clipboard with an invoice attached. “Delivery.”

The guard took it, looked at papers clipped to the board. “Oil?”

“Motor oil. High grade.”

“Wait here.” He returned into his office, then exited a few moments later with the schedule of deliveries in hand. “You’re a day early. You’ll have to come back tomorrow.”

According to the schedule Marc had photographed, other than the oil that wasn’t due for delivery until tomorrow, there wasn’t anything scheduled until later in the week. It was the best they could do, and Marc pointed to his forged invoice. “Our paperwork says today. Tomorrow we have a full delivery schedule, and we won’t be able