The Sacred Bones

by Michael Byrnes

"Working late again, I see," he said, flashing a friendly smile.

  "We want to make sure that the Vatican gets the best value for its money," Bersei replied.

  "Is there anything that the two of you need? Anything I can help with?"

  The scientists exchanged glances. "No," Charlotte replied. "The lab's very well equipped."

  "Excellent." Donovan's curious eyes wandered over to the skeleton and the opened ossuary.

  Bersei spread his hands. "Would you like a quick overview of what we've found so far?"

  The priest visibly perked up. "Yes, indeed."

  For the next fifteen minutes, the scientists gave Donovan a basic summary of the forensic study and carbon dating results, and showed him the additional relics hidden in the ossuary's secret compartment. Bersei maintained a clinical, objective demeanor and Charlotte followed his lead.

  Judging from the priest's reaction to the preliminary findings-- ranging from genuine surprise and intrigue, to tempered concern over the nature of the skeleton's telling signs of crucifixion-- Charlotte sensed that maybe he had no advance knowledge of the ossuary's contents. She noted that the bronze cylinder seemed to capture his attention more than anything else, a lingering concern bleeding into his puzzled gaze. Trying to gauge Bersei's take on the matter, she felt that he too was catching the same vibe from Donovan.

  "I'll tell you, Father Donovan," Bersei added, "this is one of the most remarkable archaeological discoveries I've ever laid eyes upon. I'm not sure what sum the Vatican has paid to acquire all this, but I'd say you have a priceless relic here."

  Watching the priest closely, Charlotte saw that Donovan's expression showed that he was pleased, but even more so, relieved.

  "I'm sure my superiors will be delighted to hear that," the priest said, his eyes wandering once more over to the skeleton. "I don't want to rush things, but do you think you might be able to formally present your findings on Friday?"

  Bersei looked over to Charlotte to see if she concurred with the idea. She nodded agreeably. Turning his attention back to Donovan, he said, "It will take some preparation, but we can do it."

  "Very good," Donovan said.

  "If there's nothing else, Father," Bersei said, "I'll have to be on my way. Don't want to keep my wife waiting."

  "Please, don't let me keep you," the priest said. "I very much appreciate both of you taking the time to update me."

  Bersei disappeared into the break room to hang his lab coat.

  "He's quite the family man," Charlotte whispered to Donovan. "His wife is very lucky."

  "Oh yes," Donovan agreed. "Dr. Bersei is very kind...a gentle soul. He's been quite helpful to us over the years." The priest paused for a moment and added, "Tell me, Dr. Hennesey, have you ever visited Rome before?"

  "No. And honestly, I haven't really had time to venture across the river yet."

  "Can I suggest a tour for you?"

  "I'd love that." She genuinely appreciated the priest's hospitality. Living the cloistered life of a cleric, he was quick to offer activities that were geared to a lone traveler.

  "If you don't have plans this evening, I'd highly recommend the Night Walking Tour," he energetically offered. "It begins at Piazza Navona, just across the Ponte Sant' Angelo Bridge, at six-thirty. Takes about three hours. The tour guides are fantastic and you'll get a great overview of all the major sites in the old city." He peered down at his watch. "If you leave directly from here, you can make it on time."

  "Sounds perfect."

  "Normally you have to book these tours two days in advance," he explained, "especially this time of year. But if you're interested, let me make a call to reserve you a ticket."

  "That's very kind of you," she replied.

  Bersei was just emerging from the break room. "Dr. Hennesey, Father Donovan, I wish you both a good evening," he said eyeing them in turn and bowing slightly. Then he turned to Charlotte and said, "I'll see you tomorrow morning, same time. Make sure not to stay out too late."

  37.

  ROME

  Crossing the Ponte Sant' Angelo Bridge, Charlotte strolled down Via Zanardelli to its terminus and made a couple quick turns before entering the expansive Piazza Navona, laid out like an elongated oval racetrack. Striding toward the immense Italian baroque fountain that was its centerpiece-- Fontanna dei Quattro Fiumi-- she spotted the six-thirty tour group already assembling around a lanky Italian man with a laminated badge, presumably the tour guide. Reaching them, Charlotte waited patiently on the fringe, admiring the fountain's huge obelisk and four Bernini marble sculptures representing the great rivers-- the Ganges, the Danube, the Nile, and the Rio de la Plata-- as muscular male giants.

  Moments later, the tall guide came over to her, looking down at a list of confirmed attendees. Glancing up, he smiled brightly, doing a double take when he saw Charlotte's amazing eyes. "You must be Dr. Charlotte Hennesey," he said cheerily in near-perfect English, placing a check next to a handwritten note at the bottom of his roster.

  "That's right," she replied. With a perfect smile and soft eyes, his face was young and pleasant, topped with a thick quaff of long, yet well-groomed black hair.

  "My name is Marco," he told her. "Father Donovan called ahead for you. It's a pleasure to have you join us this evening."

  "Thank you for taking me on such short notice."

  A strong voice, with a heavy trace of Italian, suddenly came at Marco from over her left shoulder.

  "Perhaps you have room for one more?"

  Both Charlotte and the tour guide turned at the same time. Her smile disintegrated when she saw Salvatore Conte standing behind her, grinning.

  Marco looked insulted by the interruption. "Your name?"

  "Doesn't matter," Conte retorted. "How much for the ticket?"

  Sizing him up, the guide pointed to his list and said abruptly, "Sorry. We're already booked. If you'd like to leave me your name, I can see if we can get you onto Saturday's tour."

  Agitated, Conte spread his hands and dramatically peered around the piazza, then back at the guide's name badge. "Come on...Marco, it's not exactly like you can't accommodate one more body. Plenty of room here, right Charlotte?" Raising an eyebrow, he stared at her expectantly.

  Amazed at his crassness, Charlotte looked away and said nothing.

  Conte made a move for his wallet. "How much?"

  Shaking his head, Marco crossed his hands behind his back, still holding the clipboard. He could see that the man was making the Vatican guest uncomfortable. She wouldn't even make eye contact with the guy. "I don't make the rules, Signore," he calmly told Conte in Italian. "Please be kind enough to contact our main office to voice your concerns. This is not the place."

  Pressing his tongue against the inside of his cheek and making a smug face, Conte jabbed a finger at the guide's chest and said in Italian, "You should have a bit more respect for your fellow countrymen, tour guide. It's no wonder you make a living walking the streets and telling stories to tourists. Well, I've got a story for you." He pressed his face close. "Watch out, because at night, the streets in Rome can sometimes be dangerous. You never know who you might encounter in a dark alley." He savored the man's discomfort. "It's a ticket, not a fucking bar of gold."

  Charlotte didn't understand what Conte was saying, but the guide's face revealed a growing concern.

  Conte's eyes drifted over to her. "Just thought you'd like some company," he said, playing the martyr. "Have a good night, Dr. Hennesey."

  With that, the mercenary paced back two steps, spun and strode across the piazza.

  "Sorry about that," she said to the guide.

  It took Marco a few nervous swallows to regain his voice. "Friend of yours?"

  "Far from it," she replied quickly. "And thanks for not giving in. That would've ruined my night."

  "Well then," Marco finger-combed his mane of hair as he composed himself, "I guess we'll be on our way."

  As Marco formally introduced himself to the group and briefly ran down the tou
r's itinerary, Charlotte scanned the piazza for Conte, sighing in relief when she didn't spot him. Who exactly was this character? How could such a creepy guy be connected with the Vatican?

  It took almost an hour for Charlotte to forget about the crazy encounter at Piazza Navona. But slowly, she had lost herself in Rome's extraordinary history, retold effortlessly by Marco. He had led the group on an amazing journey through the city's famous circular temple, the Pantheon, completed in 125 AD by Emperor Hadrian. There, Charlotte had marveled at its expansive inner dome that seemed to defy the rules of physics, as the sun melted through the wide oculus that hovered at its center.

  Then it was off to the junction of three roads-- tre vie-- to admire Nicola Salvi's enormous baroque Trevi Fountain with its seahorse-riding tritons guiding Neptune's shell chariot. Nearby, they passed the Piazza di Spagna just below 138 steps that climbed up the steep slope to the twin bell towers that flanked the Trinita dei Monti church.

  A few blocks further came the white Brescian marble Il Viattoriano, an eye-catching (most Romans wouldn't be as polite) monument that most compared to a colossal wedding cake plunked down in the center of Old Rome, inaugurated in 1925 to honor Victor Emmanuel II-- the first king of a unified Italy.

  By the time the tour had made its way up Capitoline Hill-- the only prominent remainder of ancient Rome's famed Seven Hills-- and through the crumbled arches and columns of the Imperial Forums, the sun was starting to fade over the horizon and a new moon became visible in the clear night sky. Charlotte Hennesey had finally completely lost herself in the shadows of an ancient Empire.

  By the time the tour group had traversed Old Rome to the Colosseum, the entire city had taken on a new persona, basking in glowing lights. Walking the outside of the forty-eight meter high, circular amphitheater with its three tiers of travertine porticos, Charlotte swore she could hear the clash of gladiators and roar of lions.

  Then, imagination turned instantly to cold reality when she caught a fleeting glimpse of a modern-day gladiator disappearing into the shadows. Though she wanted to believe her eyes were tricking her, there was no doubt. Salvatore Conte.

  THURSDAY

  38.

  TEMPLE MOUNT

  Just after nine a.m., Barton negotiated his way past Akbar, and through the blast hole. Razak was already in the crypt standing with arms folded, wearing neatly pressed chinos and a white collared shirt. If Barton didn't know any better, he could have sworn that the Muslim was trying to make some kind of peace with this place. "It's getting bad out there."

  "Yes."

  Barton dusted off his trousers. "Tell me, how did Farouq react when he saw his car?"

  Razak cringed. "Not well." That was an understatement. Last night, Farouq had berated him when he saw that his prized Mercedes was beyond repair. "I shouldn't have let you go! Completely irresponsible! You should have known better, Razak. And for what? What did you gain by going there?" It was like being a mischievous teenager again. "Luckily, he has insurance, which, believe me, isn't so easy to get if you're a Palestinian."

  "Did you tell him what we discovered?"

  Razak shook his head and held a finger to his lips, pointing toward Akbar. He drew Barton by the arm toward the rear of the chamber. "I don't think he's ready for that just yet," he whispered. Last night, Razak had barely slept, trying to figure out who'd sent the sniper. He could only guess that the Shin Bet was looking to tie up some loose ends. Now, there was a good chance that he and Barton might share Taheem's fate if they didn't move quickly to find answers. "Remember what we discussed-- you mustn't tell anyone what we heard or what happened yesterday. We don't know what the consequences could be."

  Barton nodded.

  Razak let go of his arm. "So what brings us back here?"

  The archaeologist collected his thoughts. "As I mentioned yesterday, I've given the concept of a crypt considerable thought. There are certain facts that simply don't add up." Barton moved to the center of the room, his eyes roving the walls. "I have been thinking about Joseph of Arimathea-- his status, power, and money. I'm troubled that this crypt lacks many of the features I'd have expected to see in the tomb of a wealthy family."

  "Such as?"

  "Refinement, for one. There's nothing here to suggest position or wealth. It's just an ordinary stone chamber-- no ornate carvings, no pilasters, frescos, or mosaics. Nothing."

  Razak inclined his head, trying to remain patient. To a Muslim it wasn't striking. "Perhaps this Joseph was a man of humility?"

  "Maybe. But remember how I explained to you that the body was allowed to decompose for twelve months before being placed in the ossuary?"

  Razak nodded. "Hard to forget. But I hope there's a point to all this."

  "Believe me. In ancient Jewish crypts, you'd expect to see at least one small niche called a loculus-- a small tunnel about two meters deep." He envisioned the tomb Father Demetrios had indicated in the bedrock beneath the Church of the Holy Sepulchre. "Where the body would have been laid out."

  Razak eyed the walls. "I don't see one."

  "Precisely," Barton agreed, striking a finger into the air. "Which made me wonder about this crypt's design. With ten ossuaries, many trips in and out of here would have been required. At the very least there would have been one visit to place the body here after each family member's death, another to practice the sacred rituals of the tahara, and then a final trip to transfer the expiated bones to the ossuary. That's a minimum of three visits per body."

  "Okay."

  "And when I studied these remains the other day," Barton motioned to the ossuaries, "I had a feeling that this family all died at once."

  Razak's brow furrowed. "How could you tell?"

  "Granted, I'm not an expert when it comes to forensic anthropology. But these remaining skeletons seem like they came out of a family photo." He eyed the nine ossuaries. "The age gaps show a very normal progression with no apparent overlap-- an old father, a slightly younger mother, and none of the children making it past their late twenties. One would expect a large family to decease in a more random pattern where at least some of the children reach their later years."

  "That is odd."

  "Furthermore," Barton's eyes canvassed the space, "do you see any sign of an entrance?"

  Razak scanned the solid earth surrounding him on all but one side. "Looks like the only way in and out was that opening covered by the brick wall." He pointed to the blast hole.

  Barton nodded. "Exactly. And look at this." Moving toward the blast hole, he motioned for Razak to follow. "See?" Barton spread his hands, indicating the depth of the wall. "This wall's about half a meter thick. But look here. See how these bricks"-- he tapped the side facing them-- "are the same style as those bricks?" He tapped the other side of the wall facing into the mosque. Then he pointed out into the cavernous, arched room and Razak's eyes followed. "And it's the same brick that was used to construct this entire room. Coincidence? Perhaps not."

  Razak was getting it. "Wait a second." He moved in closer, bending at the waist. His head circled all the way around the inner circumference of the blast hole. Sure enough, the walls had a purposeful design to them. "You're saying both sides of the wall were erected at the same time?"

  "Absolutely. Sealed away from that room," he said, pointing out into the Marwani Mosque again, "during its initial construction. Look at the opening that led into this chamber before the wall was erected." Barton paced back and spread his hands to emphasize the width where carved bedrock transformed to brick.

  Razak moved back to see what the Englishman was implying. Turning toward the blast hole again, he studied the space that the brick wall had filled. Certainly it was wide, but no larger than twice the width of an average doorway. "What do you think this means?"

  "It strongly suggests that our thieves weren't the first intruders here. It seems clear to me that this room wasn't designed to be a crypt."

  The Muslim stared at him blankly.

  "This room is a vault specifi
cally built for concealment and security," Barton explained. "Somehow it was built in conjunction with Solomon's Stables. And I think I know who was responsible." In his mind's eye, he saw the graffiti that hovered in the bedrock over Father Demetrios's stout form-- the image that helped him postulate this new theory.

  Razak thought it through, mulling over the history that he knew about this place. One thing that clearly stuck out in his thoughts was the notion that the area now converted into the Marwani Mosque was supposedly used as a horse stable centuries earlier. And supposedly, it was built by...Suddenly his face slackened. "The Knights Templar?"

  Barton smiled and shook his head knowingly. "Correct! It's a long shot, but most archaeologists credit them with constructing Solomon's Stables. How familiar are you with Templar history?"

  Clearly not thrilled that the archaeologist was venturing into history again, Razak told him what he knew from his surprisingly extensive reading around the subject. After all, he thought, to understand the modern struggle between East and West, one must open a history book.

  The Poor Knights of Christ and the Temple of Solomon had been founded in 1118 CE, after the first Christian crusade. The Knights Templar were an order of militant, monastic mercenaries commissioned by the papacy to protect the reclaimed kingdom of Jerusalem from neighboring Muslim tribes, ensuring safe passage for European pilgrims. They were notorious, feared for their lethal tactics and their fanatical oath to never retreat from the battlefield and fight to the death in the name of Jesus Christ. The Templars had remained in control of the Temple Mount until slaughtered by a Muslim force led by Saladin at the Battle of Hattin in the twelfth century. They'd even used the Dome of the Rock Mosque as their headquarters, giving it the Latin name Templum Domini, or "Temple of the Lord."

  Barton was impressed by Razak's knowledge and said so. Not many Jews, or even Christians for that matter, could readily display such command of the finer points of history. "These ossuaries were transferred here from another site where the proper rituals would have initially taken place. If we go with the theory that this is a vault," Barton continued, "it would suggest the Templar Knights might have constructed it to protect the ossuaries."