The Bone Labyrinth

by James Rollins

  It would soon be time to get moving again.

  A scuff of boots drew Gray’s attention to the kitchen door. Roland Novak entered, hauling a large book—the size of an atlas—under one arm. He carried a smaller book in his other hand, along with a rectangular metallic plate. The young priest appeared haggard, with saddlebags under his bloodshot eyes. It didn’t look like he had slept at all. Still, he trembled with excitement.

  “You should all see this,” he pronounced as he crossed to the table, drawing Seichan along with him.

  He placed the larger book on the table, its giant cover bound in leather with gilt lettering spelling out its title: Mundus Subterraneus.

  “This is a copy of a book Father Athanasius Kircher published in 1665,” he stated, then placed the smaller book beside this larger volume. “And this is the tome we found in that other cave—a journal, I believe, that belonged to the reverend father.”

  Gray stared down at the labyrinth inscribed on its cover.

  Earlier, Roland and Lena had described what they had discovered in that cavern system under the mountains: a Gothic chapel preserving the remains of a Neanderthal man, whose bones were later stolen by the attackers. The chapel also seemed to have a historical connection to this Athanasius Kircher, a seventeenth-century Jesuit priest who might have removed another set of bones, possibly those of a female Neanderthal.

  Roland must have used these past hours to investigate this thread. The priest’s passion—not to mention his fortitude in the face of danger—reminded Gray of a younger version of a dear friend, another Vatican priest who had died in the pursuit of ancient truths.

  I could use your counsel now, Vigor.

  Honoring that memory, Gray listened as Roland continued.

  “Unfortunately,” the man said, “whatever was written in this journal was destroyed over the centuries, leaving only a few clues.”

  “Like the key we found,” Lena added. From a pocket, she removed a large key and placed it atop the table. Despite the aged tarnish, a cherub and an arch of skulls were clearly visible atop it.

  Roland nodded. “I have no idea what lock fits that particular key, but I decided to investigate the most obvious clue first.” He traced the outer edge of the labyrinth on the cover. “I thought this maze looked familiar. I believe it’s a depiction of a labyrinth from ancient Crete, where according to mythology the infamous Minotaur was caged. Look at this.”

  The priest tugged a manila folder from the pages of the larger book and slipped free a printed page showing an old silver coin. “This was minted in Knossos, the capitol of Crete.”

  Gray compared the labyrinth on the coin to the maze on the book’s cover. “They’re almost an exact match.”

  “And from my research, it’s not just in Crete where you’ll see this labyrinth. Petroglyphs of this pattern have been carved into stones all around the globe. You can find them across Italy, Spain, Ireland, even as far north as Finland. And it’s not just petroglyphs. The ancient Indian Sanskrit epic the Mahabharata describes a military formation known as Padmavyuha that is laid out in this same pattern.”

  “Interesting.” Lena shifted the photo of the coin closer to her. “It’s almost like some fundamental knowledge of this shape was shared among the ancient peoples of the world and became incorporated into their mythology. In Crete, it was the Minotaur’s lair. In India, it was a battle formation.”

  “Possibly it represents a real place.” Roland stared down at the journal’s cover. “Either way, I imagine this design had to be important if Father Kircher inscribed it here. So I sought out other examples of the reverend father’s interest in such labyrinths—and found many in this volume.”

  The priest laid his palm atop the large copy of Mundus Subterraneus.

  Seichan settled to a seat next to Lena. “So who exactly was this priest? I never heard of him.”

  Roland smiled as he pulled open the cover of the large book. Gray knew Roland had been summoned to that archaeological site because of his vast knowledge concerning this Jesuit priest. If anyone knew how this all might tie together, it would be this man.

  The priest stopped at a page bearing a portrait of a man in a frock and peaked hat.

  Roland’s words grew somber with respect. “Father Kircher was considered by many to be the Leonardo da Vinci of his time. He was a true Renaissance man, with a keen interest in many disciplines: biology, medicine, geology, cartography, optics, even engineering. But one of his greatest fascinations was languages. He was the first to realize that there was a direct correlation between ancient Egyptian and the modern Coptic languages used today. For many scholars, Athanasius Kircher was the true founder of Egyptology. In fact, he produced great volumes of work regarding Egyptian hieroglyphics. He came later in life to believe they were the lost language of Adam and Eve and even undertook to carve his own hieroglyphics into a handful of Egyptian obelisks that can be found in Rome.”

  Gray’s interest in the man sharpened. He studied the countenance, those thoughtful eyes, flashing back for a moment to his old friend Monsignor Vigor Verona. The two men, though they lived centuries apart, could have been brothers—and perhaps in some respect they were. Both were men of the cloth who sought to understand God’s creation not solely through the pages of the Bible but through exploration of the natural world.

  Roland continued, “Father Kircher eventually founded a museum at the Vatican college where he taught and studied. The Museum Kircherianum contained a colossal collection of antiquities, along with a vast library and several of his own inventions. To give you some scope of that place—and of the man’s significance to his time—here’s an etching of that museum.”

  Roland returned to his manila folder and slid out another picture.

  Gray examined the depiction of that cavernous domed space, all housing the life’s work of one man. He had to admit it did look impressive.

  Seichan appeared less stirred. “So how did this Jesuit priest end up in the remote mountains of Croatia?”

  Roland gave a small shake of his head. “Actually no one knew he had been up there. From my own doctoral research into Father Kircher’s history, he arrived in our city in the spring of 1669 to oversee the fortifications of Zagreb Cathedral.”

  Gray remembered spotting the towering Gothic steeples of that cathedral on their ride into town. They were impossible to miss, as they were the tallest structures of the city.

  “Because of the ongoing Ottoman threat during that time,” Roland explained, “massive walls had been built around the cathedral. Father Kircher had been personally summoned by the Holy Roman Emperor, Leopold I, to help with the engineering of a watchtower along the southern side, intended as a military observation post. But during my research, I found inconsistencies with this story, evidence that the reverend father went missing for weeks at a time while working here. Rumors were rife among the local townspeople that Kircher might have been called by the emperor for some other purpose, that his involvement with the watchtower was merely a story to cover up some ulterior motive.”

  “A motive that might not be secret any longer,” Gray said, nodding to the journal. “But even if someone found that cavern full of bones and paintings, why would the emperor call for Father Kircher to investigate?”

  “I can’t say for certain, but the reverend father was known for his interest in fossils and the bones of ancient people.” Roland continued to explain as he scanned through several pages of his copy of Mundus Subterraneus. “This work by Father Kircher covers every facet of the earth—from geology and geography to chemistry and physics. Inspiration for this undertaking came when Father Kircher visited Mount Vesuvius, just after it erupted in 1637. He even used ropes to lower himself into the smoking crater to further his understanding of volcanism.”

  The guy definitely put himself into his work, Gray had to admit.

  “Father Kircher came to believe the earth was riddled by a vast network of underground tunnels, springs, and ocean-size reservoirs. W
hile searching this subterranean world, he also collected thousands of fossils and documented what he found.”

  Roland stopped on a page showing the renderings of fossilized fish.

  “There are pages and pages of such drawings in here,” Roland added. “But Father Kircher also discovered caves in northern Italy that held massive bones. They were the leg bones of mammoths, but he mistakenly attributed them to a species of giants that roamed the earth alongside early man.”

  Roland flipped to a page showing Kircher’s attempt to capture what these mythical giants might look like and their relation in size to regular men.

  Roland must have read the amused skepticism on their faces and matched it with a small smile. “Admittedly the reverend father did come to some strange conclusions, but you must understand he was a man of his time, trying to understand the world with the tools and knowledge of that era. Mundus Subterraneus contains many such whimsical speculations, from ancient monsters even to the location of the lost continent of Atlantis.”

  Gray straightened and stretched a kink from his back after leaning over the table for so long. He was losing patience. “What does any of this have to do with resolving the mystery of that cavern?”

  Roland looked unfazed by his challenge. “Because I know why Father Kircher was summoned to these mountains.”

  Gray looked harder at the man, noting the return of that excited sparkle to the priest’s eyes.

  Roland shifted over to grasp the metal plate resting on the table and turned it over. Its silvery surface looked freshly cleaned. “This placard was bolted to the outside wall of that cavern chapel.”

  Gray noted the lines inscribed across the plate, all written in Latin, with a row of symbols along the bottom. “You were able to translate this?”

  Roland nodded. “The message is mostly an admonishment against trespassing into those caves, a crime punishable by death.”

  “Why?” Seichan asked. “What did they think they were protecting?”

  Roland ran a thumb under one line of Latin and translated it aloud. “ ‘Here rest the bones of Adam, the father of mankind. May he never be disturbed from his eternal slumber . . .’ ” He took another breath and finished the line. “ ‘. . . lest the world come to an end.’ ”

  6:14 A.M.

  Lena felt a prickling chill at these last words. She had also been staring at the open volume of Mundus Subterraneus, at the page depicting that ancient giant, while remembering the dance of shadows cast upon the cavern walls. Those dark figures had loomed large, climbing high above the herds of painted animals.

  As if cast by an army of Kircher’s giants.

  Gray spoke, drawing her attention away from the book. “Why would Father Kircher believe those Neanderthal bones came from Adam?”

  “Clearly he was mistaken, as with the mammoth bones.” Roland shrugged. “Perhaps he came to that wild conclusion based on the extreme age of the bones. Or maybe it was something else he found. There were those strange petroglyphs, those star-shaped palm prints . . .”

  He looked to Lena for support.

  She shook her head, unable to offer any explanation, but it reminded her of another mystery. “What about the other set of remains, the ones that Father Kircher might have removed from the site? Did he think they belonged to Eve?”

  “Possibly,” Roland admitted. “But there’s nothing written on this plate about those missing bones.”

  “Assuming Kircher believed they were Eve’s remains, why would he take them?” she pressed. “Why not leave them to eternal rest like Adam?”

  “I don’t know.” Roland frowned. “At least not yet.”

  Seichan reached and tapped the bottom of the metal sign. “What about this line of symbols?”

  Lena had noted the faded row of tiny circles, too, showing a gradation of shading along their length. “They look like the phases of the moon. See how there’s twenty-eight of them, the same number as a full lunar cycle.”

  “I think Dr. Crandall is right,” Roland said. “I do know that Father Kircher became obsessed with the moon. He believed it was critical not only to the functioning of the earth—as with the ocean’s tides—but also to mankind’s existence. He used telescopes to create intricate maps of the moon, many of which you can find in Mundus Subterraneus.”

  As if trying to prove this, Roland thumbed through several pages until he reached a hand-drawn sketch of the lunar surface.

  The level of detail for such a time—the impact craters, the mountains, the dry seas—was remarkable. Lena found herself vacillating between respect for this old priest’s work and contempt for some of his more fanciful leaps.

  Gray’s gaze remained fixed on the other book. “Kircher clearly was trying to communicate something by leaving his journal behind in that cave full of sculptures.”

  Lena agreed, remembering those alcoves crusted with runnels and mounds of calcite. She pictured the broken bits found where the book was hidden. “Father Kircher didn’t just take those bones,” she realized aloud. “He took some object from that other cave, too, and left the book in its place. Possibly like a bread crumb for some future explorer to find.”

  “But what does it mean?” Gray asked.

  Lena shook her head at the condition of the journal. “Whatever message he intended to leave behind was destroyed long ago.” She nudged the key on the table. “But I wager it was meant to lead to whatever this key unlocks.”

  Gray continued to stare at the journal. Lena could almost see the gears turning behind those storm-blue eyes. He finally reached out and placed his fingertip on the date written beneath the labyrinth.

  “Sixteen seventy-nine,” he read aloud, then turned to Roland. “Didn’t you say Father Kircher was summoned to Zagreb in 1669?”

  The priest moved closer, standing shoulder to shoulder with Gray. “That’s true. I should have caught that discrepancy myself. It means Father Kircher must have returned to the cavern system a decade later—and left that book and key.”

  “Why?” Lena asked.

  Roland eyed the group. “I don’t know, but Father Kircher died the very next year. Perhaps, like you said, he wanted to leave behind some message for the future before he passed away.”

  Lena lifted the key, feeling its heft, the tarnished steel imbued with the weight of centuries. What did this key unlock? What did this Leonardo da Vinci of his time hide away?

  Gray took up the journal and carefully cracked it open. He stared at the moldy wad of paper that had once held the last words of this mysterious priest. He studied the moldering imprint of the key, then examined the inside flaps of the covers. His lips suddenly drew thin. He moved closer to the fire, bringing the book near the flames—not to burn it, but for the additional light.

  “There’s something inscribed on the inside cover. I can barely make it out.”

  Roland joined him, drawing Lena, too.

  She stared over Gray’s shoulder. “He’s right,” she murmured, squinting at the faded image of a cross and what appeared to be a pair of upswept wings framing it.

  Seichan came to a different conclusion. “Are those flames below the cross?”

  Roland fell back a step, his eyes huge. “No, not flames. They’re antlers.”

  Antlers?

  He gaped at them all. “I know where Father Kircher wants us to go.”

  6:33 A.M.

  Gray watched Roland abandon the books and ancient messages and cross over to the kitchen’s fridge. He retrieved a chilled bottle of liqueur, returned to the table, and placed it next to the ancient tomes, the key, and the mysterious messages written in Latin.

  Seichan reached and rocked the green-tinted bottle to read the German label. “Jägermeister? If we’re going to celebrate, why not break out the sacramental wine?”

  “The monsignor likes a sip or two before bed,” Roland explained. “The drink is very popular in Croatia. But it’s not why I’m showing you this.”

  He turned the label toward Gray, as if the reason
should be obvious.

  Gray leaned down and immediately understood. “The symbol . . .”

  The logo on the bottle was a stag with wide antlers embracing a glowing cross.

  “The company states that the symbol represents Saint Hubertus, the patron saint of hunters,” Roland explained. “Jägermeisters were German foresters and gamekeepers. Hence, the connection to the liqueur.”

  “But what does this have to do with Father Kircher?” Lena asked.

  Roland lifted a hand, pleading for patience. “The story of Saint Hubertus pertains to a vision he had while hunting, of a magnificent stag that appeared before him with a golden crucifix standing between its antlers, but many Catholic scholars attribute the story to a saint from half a millennium earlier, Saint Eustace. According to legend, a Roman general named Placidus was hunting a stag near Rome when he had a similar vision and immediately converted to Christianity, changing his name to Eustace.”

  “Still,” Gray pressed, “what’s the connection to all of this?”

  “In Father Kircher’s later years, as age and decrepitude set in, he retired to the Italian countryside, where during his travels he discovered the ruins of a small church perched above Giovenzano Valley, the Sanctuary of Mentorella. It was built by Emperor Constantine to honor Saint Eustace.”

  Gray glanced over to the liqueur bottle and its label.

  The patron saint of hunters.

  Roland continued, “After discovering this forgotten church in the middle of nowhere, Kircher took it upon himself to restore it, raising funds for the task and eventually overseeing its reconstruction. It is said he was very hands-on, assisting with the engineering and managing the construction site itself, which he kept very guarded.”