That he had chosen to do so opposite the Pantheon only made matters worse. He had spent the first half hour reminding himself that he would have been completely exonerated under the rule of Roman law. Yet here he sat, about to be censored by the Inquisition.
He didn’t really blame Bellarmino. After all, he was only the intellectual voice of the Holy See. Actually, Cardinal Bellarmino had always been civil and respectful to him. Hadn’t he supported many of Galileo’s previous revelations openly? Indeed, Galileo had always felt that there was a measure of mutual respect between the two of them. Thus, Galileo had been greatly surprised when the cardinal had threatened him with imprisonment if he did not agree to forthwith refrain from defending the Copernican system. Bellarmino had clearly been ordered to such action directly by the Pope. But what had made his threat so terrifying had been the knowledge that Bellarmino had signed Bruno’s death warrant sixteen years earlier.
Suddenly Galileo slammed his wine glass down on the table so hard that he sloshed half of the wine onto the table top. All of his work had been for the betterment of mankind, and here a handful of jealous imbeciles had cast a stain upon his scientific reputation, indeed the very name of Galilei and all that it stood for. It was just impossible to bear. He grabbed the wine bottle and poured the remainder into his glass, immediately signaling to the waiter his desire for another bottle. Tomorrow he would go before the Inquisition to do their bidding. He would have some serious drinking to do before he could stoop to that level.
For some reason the portico of the Pantheon captured his attention. Another glass of wine, and it would have been too late for a stroll, but his state of inebriation was just sufficient to cause his creative juices to flow, but not so much so as to stunt his ability to saunter forth in the late afternoon sun. Gathering himself, he strolled across the Piazza della Rotonda, paused beneath the massive portico, wondering for what seemed the thousandth time how the Romans had managed to quarry such massive columns, and for that matter, where the columns had come from.
He continued to walk forward, entering into the temple. As always, his gaze was immediately attracted upwards. The late afternoon sunlight caused a glowing spot on the ceiling adjacent to the oculus, the geometric grid work of the ceiling standing out from the reflected light. For some reason, he felt a sense of déjà vu as he gazed upwards at the heavenly site. After a few moments he realized what it was. The ceiling bore an uncanny resemblance to the Copernican World System, the Sun standing proudly directly in the center. He frowned to himself for a moment. Here was a house of God literally pointing the way forward for science. Why could the Church not see this as well?
1997
Paul and Antonietta arrived for their tour of the Vatican excavations at the appointed time the following morning. The tour guide was fortunately not the little man that they had talked to the previous day. Instead, it was a young cleric whose English was impeccable, as was necessary for the remaining members of their tour group. Within moments the procession was descending underground, directly beneath St. Peter’s Basilica. Once below ground, Antonietta remarked to Paul that the Roman graveyard was reminiscent of the catacombs.
“Yes, although this cemetery was at one time above ground,” Paul replied. “When Constantine commissioned the construction of the first church on this site in the fourth century the Roman cemetery was laid out on a hillside that sloped downwards towards the river, in the direction of Bernini’s magnificent colonnade in front of the current Basilica. So as we progress further up the hill, you will notice that the ceiling height above us becomes lower and lower. That’s because they had to level the hillside before building the church on it. So they took soil from the higher end of the hill and used it to fill in the lower end of the hill, thus damaging the upper part of the cemetery that was beyond the current cupola. So that is about as far up the hill as we will be able to go – beneath the center of the cupola. But luckily, they planned well because that is exactly as far as we need to go in order to see the tomb of St. Peter.”
“And all of this disappeared beneath the original church?” Antonietta asked.
“Yes, but when they razed Constantine’s Cathedral in the late sixteenth century, workers punched through the ceilings of the Roman tombs here and there as they attempted to level the ground once again. So they were aware that something was still down here. I think that is at least a part of the reason that Pope Pius XII decided to start digging under the basilica in 1939.”
By this point the pair had fallen somewhat behind the remainder of the group, as Paul carried on with his own serendipitous tour. Suddenly, a man dressed in a black suit and decked out in one of those ear pieces in his left ear that are only worn by security personnel came around a corner and politely asked them to rejoin the tour group. Thinking nothing of it, Paul apologized and he and Antonietta hurried to catch up with the tour group. Behind them, the man was speaking in rapid-fire Italian into a hand held radio.
Within minutes the entire party was standing in front of the tomb of St. Peter, at which the tour guide announced, “Ladies and Gentlemen, this is reputed to be the tomb of St. Peter.”
One woman raised her hand and said, “Reputed? Is it not certain?”
The young cleric smiled and said, “Unfortunately, there is no way to ever be certain. However, here is the evidence supporting the contention that it is indeed the tomb of St. Peter. First, we have a description from the period shortly after St. Peter describing the small table with four legs that you see above the tomb. Second, the relics within the tomb were wrapped in purple cloth, the royal color of Constantine, when they were found in the 1940’s. Third, the bones within the tomb had no feet, which of course is consistent with how St. Peter was crucified. Extant documents indicate that his feet were severed from his body when he was taken down from the cross after he expired.”
“That seems pretty conclusive to me,” the woman volunteered.
“Perhaps,” the cleric replied, making it clear that he had been coached to refrain from speculation. “There is one more piece of evidence,” he continued, “The tomb before you is directly beneath the center of the cupola.”
At this, the woman said, “Oh my,” and the entire tour group gazed incongruously upwards in the low-hung space, imagining the dome and the cupola above it.
The tour quickly concluded thereafter, and as Paul and Antonietta emerged into the sunlight in front of the basilica, Paul asked, “What did you think of that, Contessa?”
She thought for a moment, then responded, “Very moving. Thank you for taking me down there. It is very reassuring to my faith.”
“Yes,” Paul replied agreeably, “It is quite overwhelming to realize that much of the underpinnings of our western heritage are more than legend.”
Antonietta stood for a moment gazing at the Egyptian obelisk in the center of the square, and then she said, “Did you see any clues down there?”
“No, none at all,” Paul replied, “But then, I didn’t really expect to. Our Galileo leads us to the solution in the most circuitous of ways, non?”
“That he most certainly does, Professore. Where to now?”
“We should go up to the top, to the cupola,” Paul said, rubbing his hands together in apparent glee.
“Oh, please, not that again,” Antonietta replied, as if she were already exhausted just from the thought of climbing all that way.
Paul chuckled and said, “Okay, whatever. The truth is, I just wanted to see your reaction. And it was worth it, so there.”
Antonietta broke into a somewhat lame smile, replying, “Whew! That’s a relief. But could we instead step inside the Basilica and see the Pieta?”
“Absolutely!” Paul exclaimed. “It’s one of my two favorite works by Michelangelo. Some days, it’s even my most favorite.”
“Which day is it today?” she asked derisively.
“Hmm…” he replied, rubbing his chin. He continued with false sincerity, “I think today it is number one.” He paused
for a moment and then said, “Yes, definitely number one today.”
“And why is that?” Antonietta queried, expecting another one of his opinionated and inane soliloquies.
“I don’t know. It just seems like since we are in Roma, it ought to be my favorite, especially since the David is elsewhere.”
“Ha! I knew it. You’re just making it up as you go, Professore! All of this feigned intelligentsia is nothing but academic blabber!”
Paul laughed along with her, replying sheepishly, “That’s one for you,” and the pair entered the Basilica thereafter in an altogether jovial mood.
Once they had completed fighting the crowd for a view of the Pietà, they stepped back outside and strolled towards the obelisk in the center of Bernini’s colonnade. “The Pietà always takes my breath away,” Antonietta said.
“Yes, it is beyond comprehension. It just may be the most perfect piece of artwork in the history of this planet.”
“Okay, where to now?”
“Good question, Contessa. I’m at an impasse at the moment, so I suggest that we go see the Domus Aurea. Have you ever visited it?”
“No. Nero’s Golden House. I’d love to see it. Let’s go,” she replied, so off they went to hail a taxi.
Finally worn out from their tryst, the pair returned to the hotel by late afternoon. Paul entered his room to find it in complete disarray. It had clearly been ransacked. Backing out of the room in horror, he immediately knocked on Antonietta’s door.
She opened it and, a look of distress on her face, she asked breathlessly, “Yours, too?”
“Yes,” he replied and, his sense of concern mounting at an alarming pace, he added, “Frankly, I was half expecting it.”
“What? Why?” she responded.
“It was just a hunch, but do you remember the guard with the earpiece during the scavi tour this morning?”
“Yes,” she responded in confusion.
“Well, I can’t be sure, but I think I saw him at least two other times today. He was following us.”
“Ah,” she replied. “Now that you mention it, I had a queasy feeling about that same man.” She turned around, plodded back into her room, and said, “Please, come in.”
Paul followed her, saying, “Did they get anything?”
She turned to face him and replied, “How could they, there is nothing left for them to take. We either mailed or hid everything.”
Paul smiled the slightest bit and said, “Esattamente!”
Antonietta smiled for a moment, but then her smile faded completely, eliciting, “Let’s not get too enthusiastic. We may be ahead of them, but who knows how long that will last.”
Paul’s smile now fading as well, he agreed, “Right. Right you are. Let’s get some sleep and get back to Arcetri tomorrow morning. No telling what they’ll try next.”
The following morning Paul was startled awake by the ringing of his telephone. Grabbing the phone, he blurted into the receiver, “What the…Hello?”
“Paulo! Professore, it’s Antonietta,” the voice said, and there was clearly a sound of urgency in her voice.
“Yes, good morning. Is there a problem, Contessa?” he replied groggily.
“Si! Yes! Yes, there is a big problem,” and she was speaking so rapidly in English that it sounded almost like Italian to him. “The villa has been robbed! We must go home. We must go to Arcetri as quickly as possible!”
Pulling the Alfa in between the gates a few hours later, they immediately observed two black vehicles with ‘Polizia’ painted on the sides parked in front of the villa. The gravel in the driveway crunched under their feet as they trudged up to the front door, but before they reached it, the door swung open and a short balding man stepped out.
He was slender, dressed in a gray suit, and Paul noticed his handlebar mustache in particular. He approached them rapidly, saying perfunctorily, “Ah, molto bene. The contessa is here. Contessa da Vinci, it is good to see you, despite the unhappy circumstances.”
The three entered the house, whereupon Marco joined them, embraced his mother, and the necessary introductions were made. Paul was introduced as Antonietta’s ‘friend’ from the United States, and Paul discovered that the diminutive gentleman was Inspector Bustamente, of the Polizia di Firenze.
“Contessa,” Inspector Bustamente said, “I am afraid that the intruders have made a mess of things. Such a terrible mess. Please, follow me, but be careful. Do not touch anything just yet, and – most importantly – be prepared for what you are about to see.”
Inspector Bustamente then led them into the study, where they were treated to an absolute disaster. Literally everything in the room was turned over. Chairs were broken, bookcases had been overturned, and the entire collection of several thousand books, some undoubtedly very valuable, was piled in an enormous heap in the middle of the room.
Antonietta halted in mid-stride, brought both of her hands to her face in sheer disbelief and uttered, “Mio dio!” Under the circumstances, it was all she could manage to say.
“Please, there is more, Contessa,” the inspector said after a few moments, “Please, follow me.” He led them to the sitting room, where much the same scene was repeated. The selfsame scene repeated itself in every room on the first floor of the villa, even including the kitchen.
After ten minutes of this process, Antonietta said, “Is it bad upstairs, Signore Bustamente?”
“Unfortunately, it is the same everywhere, Contessa,” he replied sadly.
“Oh, my,” was all she could say.
“I am so sorry, Contessa. I am so sorry to be so blunt in this time when you are clearly in pain, but I am afraid that I must ask you some questions. Please?”
Antonietta was staring out the window blankly. She suddenly turned toward the inspector and said, “What? Oh, yes, of course.” At which the four of them sat down among the scattered debris. Antonietta continued to look fretfully to and fro. Marco seemed resigned to the reality of the situation, but Paul could feel only empathy for the Contessa.
“Where to begin,” Inspector Bustamente commenced, “So Marco called us this morning. He had just returned from a road trip. I believe that we received the call around 7:30, is that right, Marco?”
“Yes, inspector, that is correct,” Marco replied tersely. “Of course, I called my mother before I called you. She instructed me to call the polizia immediately.”
“Right. I understand that you have not touched anything at this point, Signore Marco. Is that correct?”
“Yes, of course. I showered and changed clothes, and then drove into Firenze to have breakfast after your friends arrived, as I was told that I could not touch anything.”
“Yes, and you came back an hour ago.” At that he turned to Antonietta and said brusquely, “Contessa, do you have any idea why someone would perpetrate this heinous crime?”
“No, I’m sorry, I can’t imagine why. Of course, there are valuables within the villa. I do not know if some of them may have been taken.”
“Contessa, let’s not fool ourselves. This was not a random burglary. The intruders were obviously after a particular item or items, and it appears that they failed to find it from the look of things,” at which point he turned and surveyed the disaster surrounding them.
“Yes, I see what you mean,” she replied, but she nevertheless refrained from saying more.
Turning to Marco, the inspector said, “Can you think of anything important, Marco, anything that they might have been searching for?”
Marco stared at his mother, clearly expecting her to respond on his behalf. She in turn did not so much as flinch, but it was clear that something passed between the pair. “There is only one thing that I can think of, Inspector,” Marco replied.
“And what is that?” the inspector queried.
“We bought a credenza at auction about ten days ago. It is perhaps very valuable. I haven’t checked to see if it is still here.”
“Can you go check on that now?” Inspector Bust
amente asked.
“Yes, of course,” Marco said, and, excusing himself, he hastily departed the room.
“What is the significance of this credenza, Contessa?” the inspector queried.
“It is reputed to have belonged to Galileo, Inspector,” Antonietta replied in apparent resignation.
“Ah, I see,” Inspector Bustamente replied with sudden interest. “And who knows about this credenza and that it may have belonged to Galileo, Contessa?”
“Well, no one except for my friend Professore Woodbridge here,” she replied pensively.
“And what is his connection to this matter, Contessa?” the inspector replied in Italian. For his part, Paul remained silent, curiously awaiting Antonietta’s reply.
Antonietta answered, “Oh, nothing. He’s just my friend.”
Inspector Bustamente eyed Paul for a moment, and then said presumptuously, “Ah, yes I see -your friend.”
At this inconsiderate remark, Antonietta glanced knowingly towards Paul and rolled her eyes upwards, but said nothing.
“And just how long has Professore Woodbridge been your friend, Contessa?”
“Why don’t you ask him yourself, Inspector. He speaks perfect Italian,” Antonietta replied caustically.
“Mi scusi,” Inspector Bustamente blurted in shock, and his face began to redden noticeably, “Mi perdoni, Professore,” and he bowed slightly. And at this, he signaled that his questioning was at least for the moment completed. He handed a card to Antonietta and said, “Per favore, chiamami se si pensa di qualcosa,” and he departed somewhat hurriedly, obviously still embarrassed by his gaff.
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