This much Elisabetta recalled: the ancient Romans had been astrology mad, passionately convinced that the heavens ruled their fate. Some Emperors, those who were cocksure like Tiberius, encouraged the practice. Others, like Augustus, convinced that the populace was actively trying to predict his demise, banned astrological consultation outright.
But despite the pervasiveness of the zodiac in everyday Roman life she knew that astrological symbols were rarely found on the frescoes of homes or tombs. The symbology splashed across this columbarium was unique and given its context, disturbing.
Elisabetta compared her old notes on the original, now disintegrated wall with her new jottings. The pattern of symbols was identical, the twelve astrological signs simply but beautifully rendered in a large circle in their traditional longitudinal order from Aries to Pisces, followed by seven planetary signs in a peculiar order: the moon, Mercury, Venus, the sun, Mars, Jupiter, Saturn. And in each circle Pisces was always upright, like a standing man.
And what of the mummified and skeletal remains? She’d need to study De Stefano’s photos carefully but, more importantly, she needed to get back into the catacombs with a trowel and brush and spend some time with the remains. She started to write a reminder to ask the professor about arranging another visit but she became distracted by a sticky note with an exclamation mark on it that she’d left protruding from a page of
Monstrous births.
Elisabetta shuddered, trying to recall why she had flagged the passage.
Her computer chimed the arrival of her first email. She wheeled her chair around and clicked to the inbox, expecting the photos from De Stefano. But it was a message from Micaela – the subject line simply read CIAO.
Here’s a bunch of articles for you. Hope they’re what you’re looking for. It’s driving me crazy that you won’t tell me what’s going on. Mic.
Elisabetta sent the documents to the shared printer in the copier/file room and hurried to pick them up before anyone could see them.
She was relieved to be alone, away from prying eyes as the articles dropped into the printing tray. She stapled each one and waited for the next. Then she realized that she wasn’t alone. A young priest had emerged from the rows of filing cabinets and was looking at her.
She turned and stared too long.
He was very tall, certainly two meters, with an oblong face and fine blond hair that made him resemble the screaming man in Munch’s painting. He was wearing black plastic glasses with lenses so thick that they magnified and distorted his eyes. But it was his long torso and absurdly long arms that struck Elisabetta most. The arms were too much even for a body as stretched-out as his, and his thin, bony wrists protruded from the too-short sleeves of his black clergy shirt.
She was embarrassed at her involuntary gawking and was about to say something when he scooted out the door and disappeared without a word.
At her desk Elisabetta slipped the journal articles into her bag. Night reading. She would spend the rest of the afternoon poring over De Stefano’s computer file of excavation photos.
Gian Paolo Trapani had taken hundreds of shots. The excavation work was rudimentary and the skeletons were only partially separated from one another and the surrounding matrix of rubble. She studied each photo carefully. Her first impressions were that these people were well-off. They had gold and silver bracelets and jeweled pendants on their persons. There were clumps of silver coins here and there suggesting long-ago-decomposed purses. The bodies were pressed together rather uniformly, indicating, Elisabetta supposed, crowding in a small space. But one feature jumped out after she had seen enough shots. The skeletons of children and even infants seemed to be randomly scattered among the adults. She couldn’t find one example of an infant sheltered in the arms of one of the adults. Where was the evidence the maternal instinct?
Then a photo of one skeleton stopped her in her tracks.
It was a male, she thought, judging from its overall length and the bulkiness of its skull. As to mummification, it was among the better-preserved, with a good portion of tight brown skin sticking to the facial bones. She knew that post-mortem changes made these kinds of judgment difficult, if not absurd, but there was a frozen look of tortured rage on that rudimentary face.
The skeleton was dripping with gold. Heavy gold bracelets on the wrist bones. A beaten-gold pendant lying among the ribs. Elisabetta searched for a close-up of the pendant but there was none. She magnified the area with a photo-tool but it was no use. If there were markings she couldn’t make them out. She made a mental note to seek it out the next time she went to St Callixtus.
But it was the final photo of this skeleton that really seized her imagination. There was something in one of his bony hands: a broken silver chain with a silver medallion. A shiver of expectation ran through Elisabetta. She zoomed in. The resulting image was blurry but she was almost certain what it was: the chi-rho cross, one of the earliest Christian symbols, made by combining the first two letters of the Greek word for Christ.
What was this symbol of the early Church doing in the decidedly un-Christian context of a Roman columbarium decorated with pagan astrological symbols? Elisabetta clicked the folder of photos closed and rubbed her dry eyes.
Yet another mystery.
Elisabetta arrived at Piazza Mastai too late for evening chapel and was obliged to pray on her own while the other sisters took their evening meal together. Because the chapel was at the opposite end of the hall from the kitchen it was peaceful and quiet. When she was done, she crossed herself and rose. Sister Marilena was seated in the last row.
‘I didn’t hear you,’ Elisabetta told her.
‘Good,’ the old nun said. ‘Mama put aside a plate for you. She doesn’t like it when someone skips a meal.’
Mama was Sister Marilena’s 92-year-old mother. Marilena had years ago sought and received dispensation from the Mother General of their order to allow her mother to live with them rather than going into an old-age home. They had plenty of space. The third and fourth floors of the convent were home to only eight sisters – four Italian, four Maltese – and ten novices, all African. It was hard going these days, recruiting young novices into the fold, particularly from Italy and the rest of Europe, so the women rattled around the facility and had the luxury of their own rooms.
‘Making an extra prayer?’ Elisabetta asked.
It was their private joke. Marilena was always sneaking into the chapel for extra prayers. The order was under-funded. They needed more books and computers. With the dearth of novices entering the order they had to rely on lay contract teachers who were expensive. Most parents could ill afford a hike in fees. So Marilena was always praying for more resources.
‘I believe God heard me this time,’ Marilena said, her stock answer.
Elisabetta smiled and asked, ‘How did Michele do on her geometry test?’
‘Not well. Does that surprise you?’
‘No. She’ll need extra help.’
‘Don’t worry,’ Marilena said, ‘I have vivid memories of Pythagoras and Euclid. How did
‘I don’t like it. I hardly had a moment to pray.’
‘You hardly have a moment during school.’
‘It’s different. Here, I’m with you. Their office is alien to me and so are the people.’
‘You’ll get used to it.’
‘I hope not,’ Elisabetta said. ‘I want to finish the assignment and come back.’
Marilena nodded. ‘You’ll do what the Church asks of you and I’m quite sure that God will bless you for your
