“Then by all means,” he said to the professor. “Lead us on.”
They returned the columbarium gate key to Signore DeAngelis, who was delighted when Sydney presented him with a sketch of the maidenhair ferns growing among the loculi. Griffin kept careful watch on Francesca, insisting that she would remain with him from this point on, as they walked down the stairs and up the street to where they’d left the van. The stone walls on either side of the street towered overhead, and they walked single file as cars zipped past them on the narrow road.
“So it seems you have found the first sign,” Griffin said, when they’d reached the van. “Where is it leading to next?”
“Right now I have no idea,” Francesca replied. “It will take more research. Perhaps another trip to the Vatican.”
“So you can take off again? I think not.”
“Maybe,” Sydney said, as she slid into the front passenger seat, “we should return to the safe house. We might even hear something about Tex.”
Griffin kept an eye on Francesca as he walked around the van, opening the side door, apparently to make sure the professor didn’t bolt. “We can’t afford to compromise the place.”
“Can we afford to at least have lunch?” Francesca asked. “I’m starved. And at the very least, we can decide on the next course of action. I would very much like to find this second sign.”
“Do you know of any restaurants nearby?” Griffin asked.
“Just up the road. The Hostaria Antica Roma. A rather apropos setting if I do say so myself.”
The restaurant was about a three-minute drive up the road, and just as she said, very apropos, Sydney thought, if one didn’t mind dining in a place that once housed the dead. “Part of the charm,” Francesca said, smiling at their expressions when they saw what made up the walls of the patio setting: ruins of a columbarium, much like the one they’d just left.
The owner, Paolo Magnanimi, introduced himself when they walked in. He stood almost as tall as Griffin, his dark, handsome features lighting up when he recognized Francesca. “It has been far too long since you last visited my restaurant. Please sit down,” he said, waving his hand toward the empty patio, it still being early for lunch.
When he started to reach for the menus, Francesca stopped him, saying something in Italian.
“
He left, and Francesca told Sydney, “I told him to bring us whatever is fresh from the garden for a vegetable, for pasta, the
“About this second sign?” Griffin asked, apparently not about to let the matter of food get in the way of his mission. “What is it? And where is it?”
“If I knew that, I would have been there long before now.”
“Then how do you intend to find it?”
“By researching the phrase scratched on the wall in the columbarium. If it is correct, it should lead to another burial chamber of some sort. There are three, each one leading to the next.”
“And the final destination? The culmination of these signs?”
“As I said, di Sangro’s final resting place. Until I get there, I can’t be sure.”
Griffin leaned back in his chair, looking as though he didn’t believe a word she said, but was interrupted from saying anything as a waiter brought them each a glass and a bottle of sparkling water. When the waiter left, Griffin turned to Sydney. “Your friend, Doc Schermer. Do you think he can research this for us? This phrase found on the wall?”
“It’s worth a try,” Sydney said.
“Call him.”
She looked at her watch. “You realize it is about two in the morning, there?”
“Call.”
She took out her cell phone, called Doc Schermer’s cell, hoping he kept it with him, since she didn’t have his home number. He answered on the fourth ring, his voice thick with sleep.
“Hey Doc. It’s Sydney.”
“I’m guessing you must still be in Rome, otherwise you’d know it’s dark here.”
“First, sorry for waking you. Second, there’re extenuating circumstances. I need you to look up some obscure facts having to do with a Latin phrase.”
“Give me a sec.”
Sydney heard what sounded like the phone being put down, some shuffling, probably booting up his computer. She covered the phone, asked Francesca to write down the phrase. Griffin handed her a pen and a receipt he found in his pocket. When Doc returned to the phone, she spelled out each Latin word, then said, “It means: ‘Here lies dust, ash, and nothing.’ Supposedly it was inscribed there by Raimondo di Sangro, Prince of Sansevero, as a clue to find his final resting place.”
“Anything else I should know about the phrase?”
She repeated his request to Francesca.
“I’m looking for a connection to another burial chamber. Something with bones. And if it has a Masonic connection of some sort, that’s even better.”
Doc apparently heard her, and said, “Give me a few. I’ll call you back when I find something.”
“He’s checking the info now,” she said, placing the phone on the table after turning the ringer to vibrate.
They fell into a somewhat strained silence, finally broken when Griffin asked Francesca, “Why the Masonic connection?”
“Raimondo di Sangro was a Grand Master of the Masons, and as such was very fond of including Masonic iconology in whatever he was involved with.”
“And the purpose of all this?”
“As I explained, simple research in trying to locate the final burial site of the prince.”
“You expect me to believe that that’s what this is about? Trying to find the prince’s final resting place?”
“That’s precisely what this is about,” she said as Paolo showed two men to a sun-dappled table on the far side of the patio, his rapid Italian telling Sydney that his customers were locals, not tourists. One man shrugged out of his leather jacket, glancing over at them as Sydney’s phone bounced around on the table, clattering against her water glass.
Sydney scooped up the phone, glad it was too early for much of a lunch crowd. She looked at the number. “That was fast,” she told Doc Schermer, when she answered.
“Not sure if this is what you’re looking for, frankly because there’s not a lot out there on this Latin phrase, and any Masonic connection is tenuous at best.”
“Let’s have it.”
“‘Here lies dust, ash and nothing’ happens to be the English translation of the epitaph on the tomb of Cardinal Antonio Barberini, whose remains are interred at the Capuchin Crypt in Rome.”
“And the Masonic connection?”
“Depends on how you look at it. Barberini’s uncle was Pope Urban VIII, which sort of gives it an anti-Masonic bent. Of course, your di Sangro guy wasn’t born until the next century, and Freemasons weren’t officially around yet, which means the first papal bull against Freemasonry wasn’t issued for maybe another hundred years after Barberini’s time, which makes it even more-”
“Doc?” she said, knowing his penchant for delving into historical trivia.
“Sorry. Your Masonic connection is that Barberini was the Grand Almoner for France, which means he was in charge of carrying out works of charity.”
“And how does that become a Masonic connection?”
“Like I said, tenuous at best. The Almoner is an office that exists to this day in Masonic lodges in England, in charge of charity and welfare of the members.”
Sydney repeated the info to the others.
Francesca leaned back in her chair, shaking her head. “How is it I never thought of the Capuchin Crypt?”
To which Griffin said, “You think this is the connection you were looking for?”
“It certainly sounds like it. Your friend is correct. It might be tenuous, but that may very well be why di Sangro
