chose the Capuchin Crypt. Brilliant, if you think about it. Di Sangro would have picked the Capuchin Crypt for both reasons.”
“How is that?” Griffin asked as Paolo brought their food to them, two large platters, one filled with Swiss chard, the other steaming paper-thin egg noodles, covered with fresh tomato and basil sauce.
“He was excommunicated and imprisoned for a time by the pope for his participation as Grand Master of the Naples lodge, so what better way to nurse a grudge than to choose a location for the next key with a connection to the papacy and to the Masons, almost as if he was thumbing his nose at them.”
Sydney’s mouth watered as the scent of tomato and basil drifted toward her. “We do get to finish eating before we leave for this crypt?”
“Trust me,” Francesca said, as she dished the steaming pasta onto her plate. “You want to eat this before it cools. Besides, at this hour, there is no hurry.” Francesca slid the platter of
25
Francesca hid her excitement over the discovery of the inscription being connected to the Cardinal Antonio Barberini, and at half past two they left for the Capuchin Crypt. When they arrived at the Via Veneto, the doors of the unobtrusive entrance to the Cimitero Cappuccino were open for business-if you could call leaving a modest donation for the staid woman sitting just inside the doors business, since the monks made most of their money from the postcard concession.
As Francesca shepherded them through the entrance, several British tourists with stunned looks on their faces were leaving the crypt. “They come for the skeletons,” Francesca explained in a whisper, since she was fairly certain that Sydney had no idea what they were about to see. “The place is decorated with the bones of some four thousand Capuchin monks.”
“You’re kidding,” Sydney said.
And Griffin asked, “And what are you looking for here? A sign in the bones?”
“Precisely,” Francesca said, since in truth, she had no idea what it was she was supposed to find. She only hoped that whatever it was stood out to her, and she glanced over at Griffin, about to make up some story, when she saw him watching two men who had entered the anteroom at the back of a small group of German tourists. One man wore a gray jacket, the other a leather coat. Both were holding open guidebooks.
“What’s wrong?” she heard Sydney ask Griffin in a low voice as the three of them entered the narrow crypt corridor.
“Those two men behind us,” he said. “Do you recognize them?”
“The men from the restaurant.”
Francesca whispered, “Surely they’re just tourists.”
“They spoke fluent Italian at the restaurant,” Griffin said.
“Should we leave?” Sydney asked.
“Not yet. I’ll keep an eye on them. You two play tourists and find what the professor is supposed to find so that she can finish her research and we can put her on a plane back to the States.”
Back to the States? No way, she thought, moving down the corridor into the long, vaulted, brightly lit hallway, its walls and ceilings covered in detailed latticework, intricate designs of lacelike patterns that pleased the eye wherever one looked. She glanced at Sydney, watched the agent’s face as she no doubt gradually realized that the exquisite filigrees adorning the walls and ceilings were all made of bones: butterflies were pelvises; rosettes were shoulder blades; the lacy lattices were ribs. Lanterns, hourglasses, stars, and coats of arms all made of bones, bones, and more bones.
“This,” Sydney said, “may be one of the strangest, most macabre and beautiful places I’ve ever been to, and I have seen a lot of strange places.”
“You’d be surprised,” Francesca said, “how many other such repositories there are throughout Europe.”
“Makes you wonder about the mind of the person who created this. Today he’d probably be committed.”
Francesca led them down the corridor. To their left, the hall opened up to several alcoves. The hushed voices and a couple of nervous laughs of the visitors seemed to echo off the walls.
In truth, the crypts were mesmerizing in their surreal and eerie beauty, as long as one didn’t look too closely and think about what the decorations were made of. The first, the Crypt of the Resurrection, held skeleton parts that formed a frame for the painting of Jesus commanding Lazarus to emerge from the tomb. Most of the visitors seemed to pay it little attention, and moved quickly on to the main attractions: the bones. As they passed on to the next alcove, Sydney asked her, “Anything?”
And what was she supposed to say, even if she did find what she was looking for? “Nothing. Sorry.”
Next was the Crypt of the Skulls with its circles of bone flowers predominating in the vault. Brown-robed Capuchin skeletons-their bony fingers clasped, as if in prayer, seemed to be suspended in contemplation in their eternal niches, which were made entirely of skulls and thighbones stacked atop each other, their shape, liked arched fireplaces, reminding her of the niches in the columbarium. Perhaps that was what she was supposed to see?
She and Sydney had just moved to one side of the narrow corridor to allow others a view, when Griffin stepped in behind them and whispered, “The two men. Even if they were just coincidentally tourists who arrived at the same destination, they’re definitely watching us. They haven’t looked at their guidebook once, or at the bones.”
Sydney didn’t turn around. “What do you want to do?”
“We can’t do anything now, or they’ll know that we know. Keep on walking to the end, casually, and then we’ll start weaving our way back out of here as quick as we can.”
Griffin took Francesca by the arm, she assumed for her protection, and they moved on to the next alcove, pausing only long enough at each display so as not to alert the men that they were aware of their presence. The Crypt of the Pelvises was much the same as the last crypt, except here the wall behind the friars was nothing but pelvises stacked one upon the other. Next was the Crypt of the Leg Bones and Thigh Bones, which contained a depiction of St. Francis, wearing a crown of vertebrae. The last alcove, the Crypt of the Three Skeletons, held a small, delicate, child-skeleton suspended from the ceiling. In one hand, he was grasping a bone scythe, and in the other, he held balance scales that dangled downward. The scales of good and evil come Judgment Day, she thought as Griffin nudged them back along the corridor toward the one-way entrance.
They walked as casually as possible past the group of Germans, and she saw Sydney glance up at the ceiling, which was dominated by a large clock made entirely of vertebrae and phalanges, its hands perpetually on midnight.
“The symbol of eternity,” said Francesca. “But look closely at the hands. You’ll see the bone clock is made up of Roman numerals, I, II, III, IV, V, VI. Note that the Roman numeral six is at the top? Midnight is actually six o’clock.”
“I wonder what the meaning is behind that,” Sydney asked. “Midnight that isn’t really midnight? A clock that isn’t really a clock?”
“Find anything?” Griffin asked Francesca, the tone of his voice telling her that he completely doubted the veracity of their visit.
“Nothing.”
“Good,” he said as they strolled casually past their shadows, who were now making a show of consulting their guidebooks. “Then your research is over and we can get on with our lives.”
“Forgive the bad pun,” Sydney said, quickening her pace to match theirs, “but other than the guys following us, this is one dead end. I think we should get the hell out of here.”
“I agree.”
Francesca glanced behind her. Their two pursuers had dropped the pretense of reading their guidebooks, and were now pushing their way toward them. She had a bad feeling about this, something that intensified when Sydney said, “You know what really bothers me? Those are not the guys who came after us on the Passegiata.”
“You’re sure?” Griffin said.
