They strolled past Piazza Santa Marta, circling the rear walkways along the apse of the basilica. Charlotte marveled at its marble and stained glass exterior.
“Take me for instance,” he offered. “Prefetto di Bibloteca Apostolica Vaticana ...a fancy way of saying head curator of the Vatican Library. My expertise is books and Church history. I must confess that I know little about your field. But when I saw you on television, I was convinced that you could really help me with a project I’ve been asked to undertake.”
“If you don’t mind me saying so, I’m surprised my field intrigues anyone in Vatican City.”
“Indeed, many within these walls would have reservations about the intentions of genetic research. I, however, like to keep a more open mind.”
“That’s good to know,” she said, smiling. “So what exactly is it that I’ll be studying?”
The priest didn’t respond right away, allowing a pair of strolling clerics to pass a comfortable distance before quietly saying, “A relic.” He considered enlarging on the idea, but decided against it. “It’s best to see it with your own eyes.”
Heading north on Viale del Giardino Quadrato, they crossed through the lush greenery of the Vatican Gardens, passing the Casina of Pius IV, the lavish sixteenth-century neoclassic papal summerhouse.
The straight pathway ran behind the massive Vatican Museum. Charlotte remembered reading that the Vatican’s extensive art collection was housed there, within the former palace of Renaissance-era popes. It was also the place where countless visitors from around the world came to marvel at the city’s most famous exhibit—the Sistine Chapel—its walls covered in narrative frescoes; its ceiling painted by Michelangelo.
She could tell Father Donovan wasn’t yet ready to divulge any more. Though she wanted to inquire why the librarian was handling the study of relics, she decided to change the subject. “This place is enchanting,” she said, gazing at the flowers, ornate fountains, and fantastic Renaissance architecture. “It’s like a fairytale. Do you actually live here?”
“Oh yes,” he said.
“What’s it like?”
The priest looked up at her, grinning. “The Vatican is its own world. Everything I need is right within these walls. It’s kind of like a college campus, I guess.”
“Really?”
He held up both hands. “Without the night life, of course,” he said with a laugh. “Though I must admit, we do have our own equivalents to fraternities.”
They were just approaching the museum’s service entrance. Even at a leisurely pace, in less than ten minutes they had walked about six hundred meters—almost the entire width of the country.
7
******
Temple Mount
Razak led the Englishman over to the blast hole, motioning him through the aperture.
Stepping inside, Barton’s analytical gaze immediately swept the chamber.
Coming in behind him, Razak remained standing near the opening, uneasy with the gloomy, subterranean atmosphere.
Energized, Barton didn’t hesitate to start airing his thoughts. “In the late first century BCE, King Herod the Great employed master architects from Rome and Egypt to design the Temple Mount. It was a huge undertaking that required the construction of an enormous platform that incorporated solid bedrock at the northern end”—he gestured behind him—“and expanded south, using vast retaining walls where Mount Moriah’s bedrock slopes down.” He swiveled round, pointing in the opposite direction. “That’s why the southern end of the platform can easily accommodate vaulted rooms, like the space that is now the Marwani Mosque. And archaeologists have long theorized that other similar spaces existed beneath the Mount.”
“Are you telling me the Israelis were aware of this room’s existence?”
Barton knew Razak was looking for suspects so he knew he had to tread lightly. Though he was aware that Jewish archaeologists had performed thermal scans on the Mount that had shown questionable subsurface anomalies, he was fairly certain that this particular chamber had remained completely undetected. “Absolutely not. I’m sure that if they had, the Waqf would have been informed.” He could tell that Razak didn’t believe a word of it.
Barton focused his attention on the stone boxes, crouching down to get a better look, moving from one to the next, his excitement building with each new discovery.
Meanwhile, Razak’s haunted gaze wandered over the stone walls. “So what is this place?”
Barton stood and let out a prolonged breath. “You’re standing in what appears to be an ancient Jewish crypt.”
Razak crossed his arms tightly across his chest. The idea of being amidst death and unreconciled souls was unnerving, only underlining his sense of foreboding. And Jewish, to boot! The place felt instantly smaller. Suffocating.
“And it looks like your thieves removed one of the permanent occupants.” Barton was shifting from foot to foot, pointing to the rectangular depression in the dirt at the end of the row.
“But aren’t those boxes far too small to be coffins?”
“Let me explain.” The archaeologist paused to gather his thoughts. “During the ancient Jewish burial ritual— the tahara—bodies of the deceased were cleaned, then covered with flowers, herbs, spices and oils. Next, the ankles, wrists, and jaw were bound and two coins placed over the eyes.” He cupped his hands over his eyes. “Finally the entire body would be wrapped in linens and covered with a shroud.” At this stage Barton knew that the prepared body would be placed inside a long niche, or loculus. There were none here, but variations in tomb design weren’t uncommon and he didn’t want to complicate matters.
