Father Oscar was taken aback. “The keystone to God’s Will on Earth! The Clavus Quartus Society...” He caught himself, bowed his head and turned away.
Father Strozzare coughed. When he collected himself he stared hard at Roberto. “Will you reconsider your position?”
“Will you reconsider yours?” Roberto asked. He felt badly for the man.
Father Strozzare stood and said, “Thank you for the nice chat. “Mr. Donadio, the official Vatican position remains unchanged. My blessings on you both, and allow me to extend the courtesy of the Vatican to you by having Father Oscar be your guide. You can be shown niches not available to the general public.” He picked up the anti-snoop box.
Roberto extended his hand, “At first I was going to pass on the tour, but the voice inside me guides me otherwise. We will be happy to take your kind offer of the special tour. Thank you.”
The priest nodded.
When they turned, an enigmatic smiling Father Oscar had the doors open and his upraised palm indicating the way out.
Back in the foyer, Father Oscar said, “Give me a moment to make arrangements.”
Roberto watched Father Oscar walk out of sight. He turned and smiled to Diura, and said, “Listen.” He took out an anti-snoop box similar to Father Strozzare’s and pushed the button on it. Out of the box came Father Strozzare saying, “If you don’t mind, it takes care of eavesdroppers for a block around, as well as listening and recording devices and the like--for your protection and for ours.”
Diura smiled back at him. “Roberto! You are incorrigible. Aren’t you ashamed? A pissing contest with a priest?”
“Oh! I knew he was going to use an anti-snoop. When Father Oscar called and asked for a meeting. That told me immediately they wanted nothing to be remotely official involved with this meeting whether it was the fourth nail, or for what the meeting was about. I knew it was a sensitive matter, and I just out-sensitized them,” Roberto said. “Just as I ignored him calling me ‘Mister’ instead of ‘Doctor.’”
“If it came to it, would you dare blackmail him with that tape?” Diura asked.
“No!” he said. “But! who knows when something like this can come in real handy?” Roberto emphasized that, just on the surface of it, whoever found the fourth nail would be very much aware the stakes involved would be absolutely huge, historically, religiously, and financially. “Imagine,” he said, “having the keystone to God’s will on Earth?”
Diura wrinkled her brow and asked Roberto, “You really don’t know the reason it’s called the fourth nail?”
“He was testing me, to learn how much I knew. Even my father didn’t know the answer to that except that he had a carbon-dated document that spoke of a certain Marius of Rome that was hanging around Rome in very early A.D. The fourth nail?” Then, he said ominously, “Only Marius knows!”
“So no one knows how this nail came to be, or what it represents, or anything?”
“No, that’s not true. You’ve heard me tell the Librarian about the nail. This fellow Marius? He had to be someone special. I think it’s about time you knew. The name ‘Marius’ is more meaningful to us than you can imagine.”
“To us? Besides being part of the fourth nail? Really?”
Roberto nodded, then tilted his head, tightened his lips and raised his eyebrows. He pointed to himself.
Diura raddled her eyebrows. She stared directly into Roberto’s. Her eyes snapped open. Roberto grinned. She snapped her head around to face him squarely. “Your middle initial is ‘M.’ You mean ...?”
“Yes.”
Diura shook her head up and down and bit the inside of her lip. “Remarkably interesting. I can see us dawdling over a glass of wine for hours while you explain how you came to have a middle name like ‘Marius’.”
VII
Jerusalem
The forge was located in the southwest corner of the Praetorium courtyard of the Fortress Antonia, which housed the Roman Guard. The forge was no more than a large shed, which contained the workplace, a shop for the wheelwright, and sleeping room for the workers. There was what was called a “boneyard” to one side of it. There, broken wagons and iron products of every sort, shape and description were thrown until some attention could be paid to them and repaired, scavenged, or left to rust.
Under the burning sun, Captain Morgana escorted Marius and Angelus across the courtyard. “Because you two deserve special treatment, you are accorded the same assignment: the forge! The work at the forge happens to be the harshest in the country. No man has survived the forge for more than ten years. Does that number sound familiar, Marius of Rome? I will give you a clue that the forge is not the killer, the man that runs it is. His name is Horace, the forge master,” the Captain said. He stopped just outside of the shed. “Horace!” he called. “I have two candidates that need your tempering!”
The short, blockhouse of a man that came out carried a heavy forge hammer, had forearms that were the same size as his thighs, fuzz on his balding head, and tiny beady eyes. He was covered with sweat. A tiny line of spit ran out of his mouth, down the side of his chin. He wore a leather apron and sandals.
“I leave them with you, Horace!” Captain Morgana said. “This one,” indicating Marius, “is a troublemaker!” He turned and retraced his steps.
Horace stood before Marius. “Name?”
“This is Angelus, and I’m ...” Marius started.
Horace brought up a blow from his ankles that caught Marius squarely on his already bruised chin, and dropped him. “Now you know who boss. Iron collar to show you Roman property. Come!” he ordered.
Marius realized Horace was a cruel man, but he was not stupid. He did not hit him hard enough to incapacitate him, just enough to establish a level of intimidation, and authority.
Two other forge workers, Theron and Jerrold, removed the chains from Marius and Angelus and attached the iron collars. Theron said, “Wear neck cloth. Collar no rub raw.”
Jerrold indicated they follow him into the sleeping quarters. He pointed to the more secluded section of the sleeping room. He pointed to Theron, then to himself. “For us only. We work and stay with each other,” he said.
Horace told Angelus he was to work with the wheelwright, but also to keep the water bucket full, and to empty the slop buckets. Marius was to work at the forge with him. “Drink!” he told them. “Drink plenty! I drink, you drink. No fall from heat of fire or of day or Horace beat you back to sleep!”
He ordered Marius to stand opposite him at the anvil, a huge, solid chunk of metal set on a stump of a log. Horace worked the bellows to make air pass through the glowing coals where a long rod got white-hot. “Sledge!” he pointed. Marius found the sledge hammer heavy, unwieldy.
Horace said, “Is mistress. You embrace, make love!” He laughed out loud. He explained the technique for working metal at the forge. Once the metal was hot, it had to be worked quickly before it cooled. He was the master, the artisan, who knew and understood the workings of metal so he would direct the operations. He used a small forge hammer to communicate to the man at the sledge what he wanted done. First he would tap the metal where he wanted it to be struck. By the number of taps, the sledge would strike lightly, or medium hard, or very hard. He would order by voice an extra hard blow. There was not to be a moment’s delay between his call and the sledge’s accurate blow.
Horace took the glowing rod out of the forge and placed it on the anvil. He struck it near the end. He waited for the sledge to strike. Several moments passed while he watched Marius struggle with the sledge. Horace picked up the red hot rod and struck Marius across the shoulder. It burned the tunic and blistered the skin. “Quick! Quick!” Horace shouted. He reheated the rod, put it back on the anvil, and struck it again. Marius, now inspired, was waiting and brought the sledge down quickly. By the time he started to bring the sledge up again, Horace had signaled for another blow. Not halfway ready, but not looking for another scorching, Marius struck, completely missing the rod. Horace p
icked up a heavy wooden dowel he kept near the forge, and whacked Marius across the rump. “Fast! Fast!” he screamed.
Marius exerted himself for the next several blows, and gasped for air when Horace stopped to reheat the rod. At the next sledge strike, sparks flew onto the dirt floor. Marius stepped onto one of them with his bare foot.
“Yeooooowwwww!” Marius yelped. He dropped the sledge, grabbed his injured foot, and danced on one foot.
The dowel cracked against his ribs. “No play!” Horace screamed.
He pulled Marius by his iron collar into the sleeping quarters. He pointed to a pair of sandals. “Weak worker kill self,” Horace explained. “Fast way to leave forge!” Horace said.
When Marius returned to the forge, he found Horace glaring at him, waiting to get back to work. Marius picked up the sledge. He strained and grunted but did as he was bid.
It was early afternoon when Horace commanded Marius, “Sledge!”
Marius shook his head. He showed Horace he was unable to fully open his hands. “Crampus! Hold handle much tightly,” Marius tried to explain. When he tried to pick up the sledge, it slipped out of his hands. He was breathing heavily.
“You drink!” Horace screamed. He grabbed Marius’s hand, forcing it open. He laughed out loud showing his missing teeth. He pointed to the blisters, rising mounds on the palms of his hands.
Horace squeezed the bubbles. Marius gasped not at the pain but at the stink of the man. The man held the odor of rotting flesh. Then, when Marius thought there could be nothing fouler in the world, the stench was masked with the man’s revolting breath. Marius winced as spasms ran up his arm to his neck muscles. The forge master took a small knife, and one by one slit the blisters open. He threw sea sand--which he used in the forge to make the fire hotter because of the salt the sand contained allowing him to weld iron--into a small pot of water and had Marius soak his hands. As the brine bit into the raw flesh it made Marius gasp. When Horace spoke to him he bent his face to his knees as if in pain just to avoid his volcanic fulminations. “You soak. You work better tomorrow!” Horace roared.
Marius and Angelus stayed apart from the other workers to eat their meager supper of coarse wheat bread and a cup of thin red wine. He remembered the mornings he would return from his bath to his Nonni, his grandmother. She always waited for him by the side portico. She put out the warmed honey and several slices of seeded bread. He would devour every bit. She would sing him songs of heroes and heroines. He had his favorites, but could not remember a single one. And then Nonni would cuddle him, and run her hands over his hair and kiss his forehead. He would hug and kiss her back. Then, as she patted his face, she would repeat, “You, Bello Mio! You are the future of Rome!” Remembering those moments, Marius ate in silence.
Angelus spoke freely and showed the welts on his body. “How can you stand the stink of that filthy bull?” he asked Marius.
Marius slid the cup from one hand to the other. Every now and then he would glance up at Angelus. The thought that revisited him at odd moments centered not so much on returning home, but of becoming free. He remembered some small bits about his study of the stars. Now, whenever he could stay awake, he would study the sky. As he knew in Rome, the sky constantly changed from season to season, and although he wasn’t sure, even from night to night. He wondered if there was a way to draw a line from star to star that could lead him back to Rome. All he knew was that he was a long way from home. It would be one thing if a ship were to take him back, but how would such a thing be possible on land? He could get away from the forge easily, but it would be a long swim to Rome. Until he learned more, he would keep the hope alive. For the moment, he would allow himself to collapse onto his straw bed and dream of Serafina in the vineyard.
Angelus prodded him. “You know? I was man of property! I could go in the army and be better off! I need a woman! Eh? If I do not lie with one I get terrible headaches. I got to get away. Listen to those two,” he said. He jerked his thumb toward the sleeping stall of Theron and Jerrold. They made no effort to hold back on their noise. “Fucking makes want fucking. Eh?”
His expression flat, Marius said his best revenge would be to survive. Then, exhausted as he was, he fell back looking at the grape leaves dappled by the sun. Serafina sat by him touching his cheeks, outlining his ears. She fed him a grape. It was as thick and as long as his thumb. It was yellow and plump. As she pushed it between his lips, he sucked it in. When the skin broke, the juice filled his cheeks. It was yellow and sweet as honey. He closed his eyes concentrating on the taste. He caught the warm smell of her skin and the huffs of her breath when she kissed the tip of his nose. He opened his eyes. She was no more.
8
An hour later, Father Oscar led Roberto and Diura to stand before the aedicula, or “little temple,” in the lowest depths of the Basilica near the burial site of St. Peter. Roberto found himself trembling with excitement. Something was about to happen to him over which he had no control. The anticipation made him breathe rapidly. Meanwhile, Roberto could sense the anticipation of immortality popes had when they knew this would be their final resting place. Starting from the first Basilica constructed in the fourth century, their names, carved on marble sarcophagi, would be read by visitors through the ages. Now, in the present moment of the second Millennium, the anachronism was underlined for Roberto. Contrasting with the ancient inscriptions were their modern-day throwaway plastic protective coats, cell phones, pagers, and lanterns.
On his mind’s screen, Roberto could see tourists of the fourth century standing where they were, seeing the same sights, almost thinking the same thoughts. This was as close as Man could come, he thought, along with the pyramids and such, in his reach for immortality.
“Dr. Donadio? Can you read? Can you read?” Father Oscar asked excitedly. He pointed to the carving by the aedicula.
“I can try,” Roberto said as he eased past Diura, shining his light on the carving. “You were right, Father Oscar, this is not on the usual and ordinary tourist tour! We are indebted. Thank you for your enthusiasm!”
Father Oscar smiled with his lips closed to hide his teeth. He shined his light on the wall.
“Let me see!” Roberto said as he examined the lettering and read out loud. “‘Petrus roga Christus lesus pro sanctis hominibus Chrestianis ad corpus tuum sepultis,’ is what I make out. I would translate it to say, ‘Peter, pray Jesus Christ for the holy men buried near your body.’”
“Why! That is outstanding!” Father Oscar exclaimed.
Roberto smiled.
“I assume that’s why the popes liked to be entombed in this area,” Diura said. “Can you show us St. Peter’s tomb?”
Father Oscar nodded. “They refer to it as ‘Peter’s remains in this ancient street.’ St. Peter was initially buried on the southern slope of Vatican Hill. Then, with the construction of the First Basilica in the fourth century, they raised the floor to the level of the original Basilica of Constantine. Workmen brought in yards and yards and yards of earth. They left a square opening from the floor down to the site of the original tomb. That was done so artifacts for the devout could be lowered down to touch the tomb to be kept as holy relics. At the time of the construction of the modern Basilica in 1503, they wanted to be sure that it was the tomb of St. Peter, and they investigated. They did not find a skull, which confirmed the fact that in 846 it was placed in the lateran with St. Paul. The researchers were not surprised to find the legs had been cut off just above the ankles, and neither foot was found.”
“Ugh! How gruesome,” Diura said.
Roberto nodded. “That is correct, and the reason which I confirm from my research is that St. Peter was condemned to death by crucifixion. Not to diminish the death of Jesus, he said he did not want to imitate his death, and requested he be crucified upside down. That’s how he died. To remove him, it was easier to use an axe...“ Roberto leaned heavily against the wall.
“Yes! Yes!” Father Oscar exclaimed. “And over here...”
>
“What is it, Roberto?” a concerned Diura asked.
“...are the original scratchings on the wall near the aedicula...,“ Father Oscar continued.
Roberto, responding to Diura, waved his hand by his face, “It’s nothing. I’m fine.”
“...in the Greek letters which spell P-E-T-R, with two letters missing which they determined were the letters, ‘O’ and ‘S’; followed by E-N with the letter ‘I’ missing. This message was interpreted to mean and confirm ‘Peter is here within.’” Father Oscar nodded emphatically as he shined his lantern at the wall and looked from Roberto to Diura.
Diura broke in. “Father Oscar, I’m terribly sorry. I must apologize. I fell down on my job. Roberto needs his medication, which I left in my purse at the library. It did not occur to me that we would be gone this long...”
“Dio mio! Of course! We start back right away. Dr. Donadio, be comfortable and remain here while we fetch the medications? Or we go together?” Father Oscar asked.
“I can go back, too!” Roberto said. “Perhaps I won’t walk as fast as when we came. Sorry to cause you distress, Diura. We got involved....”
Father Oscar, his face drawn, waved for them to follow him.
“I would go back myself, Father Oscar,” Diura said, “but you took us on a rather complicated path, especially to see some of the out-of-the-way niches.”
“We make an appointment for you to come back. For certain!” Father Oscar emphasized. “Dr. Donadio?” He questioned.
“I’m good.” Roberto reassured him.
“Stay together, we don’t want to separate now,” Father Oscar cautioned. “We go the shorter way though a little more arduous, you know?”
When Diura noticed Roberto was falling behind, she called to Father Oscar.
“We can rest here a moment. Si? We are not doing Mt. Everest, yes?”
he said.
“I just have to catch my breath,” Roberto said. “My second wind should take us all the way.”
The Fourth Nail: An Historical Novel Page 4
