The Sacred Bones

by Michael Byrnes

  Bersei hesitated, sensing the same thing as Charlotte. The priest seemed to be holding back. "Much of the success of understanding antiquities relies on knowing specifics relating to its origin. Isn't there anything you know about how this ossuary was procured? Where it came from perhaps? An archaeological dig?"

  Donovan shook his head and finally glanced up at them and straightened. "We've been provided with little background. You can imagine an acquisition like this has to be approached very cautiously. The price is substantial."

  Charlotte's expression was muddled. Two prominent scientists lured here to validate bones, both having to sign letters of confidentiality. Obviously the Vatican believed the ossuary and its contents were valuable. Why else would they have gone to so much trouble and expense?

  "We'll perform a complete study," Bersei assured him. "A full pathology report. Physical reconstruction. The works." He glanced over at Charlotte.

  "And I'll be wanting to do a carbon dating analysis and draw up a complete genetic profile," she added. "It's a fantastic specimen. From what I can see here, so far it looks like you've made an excellent acquisition. I'm confident the results will be impressive."

  "Excellent," said Donovan, clearly pleased. "Please let me know when you're ready to report your findings. If possible, I'd like to present a preliminary report in the next few days."

  The scientists exchanged glances.

  "That should be fine," Bersei said.

  Donovan stripped off his gloves, mask, and lab coat. "Please direct any activity through me. I can be reached by using the intercom," he pointed to the small control panel near the entryway, "or dial extension two-one-one-four on the phone." Donovan looked at his watch-- 6:12. "Well, it's late. Why don't we call it a day and you can both start fresh tomorrow morning. Say around eight o'clock?"

  The two scientists agreed.

  "Dr. Hennesey, have you had a chance to see the basilica since you've arrived?" the priest inquired.

  "No."

  "You can't stay in Vatican City without seeing firsthand its heart and soul," he insisted. "Nothing else compares. Many say its like stepping into Heaven itself."

  "He's right," Bersei agreed.

  "Would you like to see it now?"

  Her eyes lit up. "If you have time, I'd love that."

  "Visiting hours are just winding down, so it shouldn't be too crowded. Giovanni, would you like to join us?"

  "Sorry, but I must get home to my wife," he humbly declined. "She's making osso bucco for dinner." Bersei leaned closer to Charlotte and whispered loud enough for Donovan to hear, "You're in good hands. He's the best tour guide in the Vatican. No one knows this place better."

  14.

  Outside the Vatican Museum, the sun was low over western Rome. Cypress trees swayed in a gentle breeze. Ambling beside Father Donovan, Charlotte breathed in the garden's fragrant smell that seemed to capture the complex aroma of a bouquet of flowers.

  "Tell me, Dr. Hennesey," Donovan said, "now that you've seen the relic, are you comfortable with this project?"

  "I have to admit that it's not at all what I would have expected." That was an understatement. Human bones didn't seem like the typical acquisition for the Vatican Museum. And a librarian wasn't exactly the person she would expect to handle their procurement. "I'm pleasantly surprised, though," she added. "Should be very exciting."

  "It will be exciting for us all," Donovan promised. Nearing the rear of the basilica, he gazed up at it, reverently. "In the first century, this place where Vatican City now stands was the Vatican Circus, later called Nero's Circus. It was a forum where the emperor Nero held chariot races. Ironic, since he's best known for his persecution of early Christians."

  "He blamed them for the fire that burned down Rome in 64 AD. And in 67 AD, he crucified St. Peter to entertain the crowds."

  Donovan was impressed. "You're a Christian then, or just a good historian?"

  "There was a time when I was very good at both."

  "I see." The priest could see that religion was a touchy subject, but ventured to say, "You know, back in Ireland we had a saying: 'I believe in the sun when it's not shining, I believe in love even when I feel it not, I believe in God even when he is silent.'" He glanced over at Charlotte and saw that she was smiling. Thankfully, it looked like he had not offended her. "Sometimes the things we really cherish just need to be remembered."

  Climbing a set of wide marble steps that accessed the rear of the basilica, Donovan led her to one of the largest bronze doors she'd ever seen. He produced a keycard and slid it through the reader on the doorframe. There was a metallic thunk as an electromechanical lock turned. With hardly any effort, the priest opened the huge door and motioned her inside.

  "We're going in through here?"

  "Of course. One of the benefits of being a guest of the papacy."

  With all her media appearances, Charlotte had grown somewhat accustomed to VIP treatment. But nothing compared to this. Crossing through the arched entry, she instantly felt like she was being transported to another world.

  Emerging from the entry grotto, Charlotte was blown away by the basilica's cavernous marble nave. On the plane, she remembered reading in her Fodor's that the Notre Dame cathedral in Paris could easily fit inside this grand basilica. But standing inside it completely distorted her spatial senses.

  Her eyes were immediately drawn upward to Michelangelo's grand coffered cupola. Covered in tiled mosaics, it soared four hundred fifty feet above the nave with shafts of sunlight spilling in from its west-facing windows to give it an ethereal glow.

  Gradually, her gaze panned down to the famous bronze Baldacchino that stood above the papal altar, directly beneath the dome. Designed by Renaissance giant Giovanni Lorenzo Bernini, its four bronze spiral columns rose seventy feet high to support a gilded baroque canopy that stretched another twenty feet upward.

  Even the floors were all inlaid with marble and mosaics.

  "Wow," she gasped.

  "Yes, quite magnificent," Donovan concurred, folding his arms and taking it all in. "I could easily spend a few hours here giving you a tour. There are twenty-seven chapels, forty-eight altars, and three hundred ninety-eight statues to see. But I find that the basilica is more of a spiritual journey and is best seen alone." From a wooden kiosk along the wall, he retrieved a map and guidebook and handed them to Charlotte. "If you see something that interests you, refer to the book for a detailed description. I must be going now. Enjoy."

  After thanking Father Donovan she slowly began working her way along the side aisle along the basilica's northern wall.

  Like most pilgrims who came here, she stopped in front of the thirteenth-century bronze statue raised up on a sturdy marble pedestal that depicted a bearded St. Peter. Seated on a papal throne, the saint donned a solar halo and gripped a papal key in his left hand, his right hand raised up as if to deliver a blessing. A few visitors were queued up to take a turn in touching the statue's foot. Referring to the guidebook, she read that this ritual was supposed to grant good luck. Typically, she wasn't one to believe in superstition, but she convinced herself that given her current circumstances, every little bit could help.

  Less than five minutes later, she stepped forward, staring up into the statue's solemn face, reaching out to place her left hand on its cold metal feet. Then she amazed herself by doing something she hadn't done in over ten years. She prayed, asking God for strength and guidance. Just like Donovan said, maybe she just needed to remember that she had once been a believer.

  She had all but abandoned faith eleven years ago, after watching her mother, a devout Catholic, slowly eaten away by stomach cancer. God's compassion, Charlotte quickly surmised, was not guaranteed to the pious, no matter how many novenas were recited, no matter how many Sundays were spent sitting humbly in a pew listening to sermons. Following her mother's death, Charlotte didn't go to church to find answers-- she went behind a microscope, convinced that mom's defect wasn't faith, but simply a genetic impe
rfection; corrupted coding.

  Somehow her father, even after losing his beloved wife so cruelly, had still managed to attend mass every Sunday, still said grace before every meal, thankful for every new day. How? Charlotte wondered. There was a time when she had asked him that very question. His response was quick and sincere, "Charlie,"-- he was the only person, besides Evan Aldrich, who ever called her by that nickname-- "I've made a choice not to blame God for my misfortune. Life is full of tragedy. But it's also full of beauty." When he said this, she remembered that he had smiled dotingly and gently touched her face. "Who am I to question the force behind such wonder? Remember sweetie, faith is all about believing that life means something, no matter how hard things might sometimes seem."

  Maybe now she really did want to believe that there was some divine reason for her own misfortune. But regardless of her dad's spiritual resolve, she still didn't have the heart to tell him about her own illness, knowing that it was just the two of them now.

  Lacking the structure of religion made her feel spiritually empty-- particularly as of late. Did Charlotte Hennesey believe in God? There was no place on earth that could push that question like this place. Perhaps she would find that answer here. Maybe coming to Rome was fate.

  After ducking into countless other grottos and niches to admire yet another beautiful shrine, she neared the front of the basilica where Michelangelo's famous sculpture, the Pieta, was given its own marble-clad chapel, shielded behind glass. The image was dramatic and eerily lifelike-- the fallen son draped across the mourning Madonna's lap. For a long minute she stood there captivated by the emotions such an image evoked: suffering, loss, love, hope.

  Almost forty minutes later, she was circling back beside the Baldacchino again where she came across a haunting sculpture that made her stop dead in her tracks. Tucked into a multitoned marble alcove flanked by massive colonnades, Bernini's Monument to Pope Alexander VII loomed above her. Perched high up on a pedestal, the late pope was immortalized in white marble, kneeling in prayer. Beneath him were various statues depicting Truth, Justice, Charity, and Prudence as human figures.

  But Charlotte's horrified gaze had instantly blocked those images out and had sharpened on the shrine's central figure-- an oversized winged human skeleton forged from bronze, holding out an hourglass in its right hand. A flowing veil of red marble shadowed its ghoulish face that was directed up at the pope, taunting him with his imminent demise.

  The Angel of Death.

  The basilica seemed to fall into complete silence, the image coming to life like a demonic countenance, swooping out to dump more of its wretched cancer into her body. She swore she could see the sand in the hourglass counting down. For a moment, she didn't breathe and she could feel tears welling up in her eyes. How could this evil depiction be here? She almost felt violated, as if it was purposely meant for her.

  "Creepy, isn't it," a voice cut into her thoughts.

  Surprised, she gasped. Turning, she saw a figure that seemed equally ominous. Where the hell had he come from?

  "Bernini was eighty when he designed that one," Salvatore Conte said, full of himself. "Guess he was feeling bitter about his golden years."

  Charlotte tried to give him an obligatory smile, but it didn't happen.

  "Did you know this place was built by selling indulgences?" Conte glared up at the central dome, disapprovingly. "Back in the fifteen hundreds, Pope Leo X ran out of money to finish the project, so he basically raised funds by selling Catholics 'get-out-of-Hell-free' cards. Rich people got to prepay for God's forgiveness. They even had a saying for it: 'as soon as the coin in the coffer rings, the soul from Purgatory springs.'"

  She felt like saying: How many indulgences would you need to buy to free your soul? Conte certainly looked like the type who needed a lot of forgiving. It made her wonder why he was even in Vatican City and what at all he had to do with the ossuary. Earlier, Father Donovan had looked more like a hostage in his presence, not a coworker. "I take it you don't go to Church every Sunday," she sardonically replied.

  Leaning closer, he dropped his voice an octave and said, "After all that I've seen, particularly inside these walls," he said, "I'm willing to take my chances."

  She tried to understand what he really meant, but there was nothing in his eyes and she certainly wasn't about to ask him to expound. "Are you visiting or just stalking?"

  The remark took him off guard. "Just seeing the sights," he replied, looking away.

  "Well, I've got to get going. Nice seeing you," she lied. Turning to go, Charlotte felt his hand touch her shoulder. She went rigid and turned back to him with icy eyes.

  Realizing his miscalculation, Conte threw his hands up. "Sorry. I know American women are sensitive about their personal space."

  "What do you want?" She pronounced each word clearly.

  "I was going to see if you wanted company for dinner tonight. I figured, you're here alone.... I don't see a wedding ring," he added, eyeing her hands. "Maybe you'd like some conversation. That's all."

  For a long moment, she just stared at him, unable to process the idea that he was actually hitting on her in St. Peter's Basilica. Suddenly she felt bad for any woman that had been charmed by this character. Handsome-- yes-- but everything else was severely lacking. "I've got a boyfriend and I've already made plans, but thank you." Uncertain as to how much she would need to interact with Conte during the coming days, she tried her best to be polite.

  "Some other time, then," he confidently replied.

  "Good night." She turned and made her way for the exit.

  "Enjoy your evening, Dr. Hennesey. Buonasera."

  TUESDAY

  15.

  TEMPLE MOUNT

  The rising sun cast a faint glow of deep blue and purple over the Mount of Olives as Razak made his way across the Temple Mount esplanade toward the Dome of the Rock Mosque's golden cupola, its crescent-shaped finial delicately pointing toward Mecca.

  No matter how many times he visited this place, it always affected him deeply. Here, history and emotion seemed to drip like dew.

  In the seventh century, Temple Mount had virtually been forgotten and its bare esplanade was devoid of any great monument. All of its previous architecture had been destroyed many times over. But in 687 AD-- only a few decades after a Muslim army led by Caliph Omar had conquered Jerusalem in 638-- the ninth Caliph, Abd al-Malik, began construction of the Dome of the Rock Mosque as a testament to the site's rebirth-- and Islam's physical claim over the Holy Land.

  Throughout the centuries that followed, Islam had periodically lost its hold over the Temple Mount, most notably to Christian Crusaders whose occupation spanned the twelfth and thirteenth centuries. But it was once again under Islamic control and the Waqf had been entrusted to enforce and legitimize that role. It wasn't easy, especially in the wake of mounting political instability that threatened Islamic exclusivity to the place-- a privilege that had almost been lost after the Six Day War in 1967.

  Razak tried to imagine how it would feel if the political situation had been reversed: Muslims reduced to worshipping a retaining wall with the Jews possessing a shrine on its holiest spot; Jews in occupied territories and the Palestinians in full control.

  He scaled a flight of steps to the mosque's raised platform. Outside the entrance, he removed his Sutor Mantellassi loafers, then made his way into the shrine. Hands crossed behind his back, he worked his way around the bloodred carpet of the octagonal ambulatory glancing up at the elaborate inner dome that sat high atop glassy marble columns. Directly beneath the cupola, cordoned by railings, lay a bare stone expanse of Mount Moriah's summit known as "the Rock."

  The Rock marked the sacred site where in Biblical times Abraham made to sacrifice his son to God, and where Jacob had dreamed of a ladder to heaven. The Jews proclaimed that a grand Jewish temple built by King Solomon and improved by King Herod once stood here. And the Christians claimed Jesus had visited that same temple many times to preach.

 
But the site was most significant to Razak and his people for another reason.

  In 621, the angel Gabriel had appeared to the great prophet Muhammad in Mecca, presenting him with a winged horse bearing a human face, named Buraq. Embarking on his Isra, or "Night Journey," Muhammad was carried by Buraq to the Temple Mount where he was ascended through the heavens in a glorious light to behold Allah and consult with Moses and the great prophets. There, Muhammad was also given the five daily prayers by Allah-- a core event in his ministry known as the Miraj.

  The Miraj rendered the Dome of the Rock the third most important religious site in Islam, preceded only by Mecca-- Muhammad's birthplace-- and Medina where, through great struggle and personal sacrifice, he established the Islamic movement.

  Razak gazed up at the cupola's exquisite tile work, taking in the Arabic inscriptions flowing round its base.

  Outside, the muezzin's call echoed from loudspeakers, summoning Muslims to prayer. In front of the mosque's mihrab-- the small, arched golden alcove that indicated the direction of Mecca-- Razak eased onto his knees, hands splayed over his thighs and bowed in prayer.

  After a few minutes, he stood and circled back round the Rock's enclosure, stopping in front of a stairway entrance to a chamber called the "Well of Souls," where it was said the spirits of the dead convened in prayer. There he envisioned his mother and father shining in the divine light of Allah, awaiting the final Day of Judgment so as to be delivered to Jannah-- Allah's eternal garden paradise.

  On September 23, 1996, Razak's parents had been killed by two masked gunmen while vacationing on the Jordanian side of the Sea of Galilee. Many had suspected that Israeli intelligence agents-- the Shin Bet-- had wrongly targeted his father for purported ties to militant Palestinian groups, but those rumors were later disproven. Although that turned out not to be the case, the killers were never found. Their tragic deaths were a profound loss that had driven-- and still drove-- Razak deeper into his faith for answers. Fortunately, his education at home and abroad had helped him to avoid political and religious fanaticism-- an easy trapping for someone so intimately affected by Israel's lethal politics.