The pale stone steps were shallow, with down-lighters under the banisters casting a dim glow onto the thin apricot-coloured bricks of the ancient wall. Occasional wall lamps, neat glowing cylinders on poles, added to the eerie lighting.
As she stepped off the last of the long flight of stairs, she found herself in the old church’s small narthex—the ancient antechamber where the unbaptized catechumens stood to observe the Christian mysteries from without.
Immediately to her left, she could make out two thin classical columns sunken into the crumbling brick wall. They stood one-and-a-half yards apart, guarding what had once been the entrance to the church, long-since bricked up. A large iron grille now sat firmly between them, seeping cold musty air from the old church onto the stairs.
Ava shivered.
Following Ferguson into the dark nave, she paused for a moment to let her eyes adjust to the extraordinary sight around her.
It was a long low room, with rows of squat solid columns dividing it into four dark aisles stretching away into the gloom.
In stark contrast to the upper basilica, this much more ancient church was not covered in a rainbow of gold, stones, glass, and marble—but simply made of bare honey-coloured brick and tufa.
Ava gazed in awe at the faded frescos just visible between the low brick arches—all suffused with a dull orangey warmth thrown off by more of the glowing cylinder lights on poles.
Aware a clock was running, she barely had time to register the ancient paintings. But as she moved quickly through the aged vaulted church, she saw a Greek-looking Madonna in an ornate headdress, a scene of souls descending into limbo, a pope in immaculate ninth-century dress, and a host of other images she could barely take in.
The late Roman age was not her speciality, but she had a good working knowledge of Roman Christian archaeology, and could instantly tell that this was one of the most important buildings in existence from the period.
“Come on!” Ferguson grabbed her arm and pulled her away from the frescos. “You can do the tourist bit another time.”
Following him, she hurried through the dimly lit vault, feeling a noticeable drop in temperature.
As she got closer to the far end, she was suddenly aware of a low rushing sound in her ears.
Telling herself to keep it together, she made for the far end of the left aisle, where she could see Ferguson disappearing down another staircase.
Moving quickly, she passed a plain stone altar table set over a rough granite sarcophagus, and realized it must be the tomb of Saint Cyril—the inventor of the first Slavic alphabet who gave his name to Cyrillic, and was now joint-patron saint of Europe. Without pausing, she ran past the ancient tomb and hurled herself down the crooked staircase behind it at full speed.
The stairs were older than the ones from the upper basilica. She figured they dated from the period of the first church, some time in the fourth century.
It was darker on these stairs, and as she followed them around an abrupt left-hand dogleg, she could hear the rushing sound in her ears more loudly.
Half worried she might be having some kind of seizure, she felt the noise became more distinct as she hit the bottom of the stairs and she realized to her relief that it was definitely not inside her head.
“Roman sewer system,” Ferguson shouted back at her from up ahead.
She nodded, looking around to get her bearings.
This lowest level of the complex was dark, dank, and cold—exactly as she had expected. They were now three floors below street level, where no sunlight ever penetrated. There was occasional electric lighting, but the good Dominican friars who ran the basilica above clearly had no funds to heat the bowels of the building.
Looking around, she was staggered to realize she was on the remains of what had once been a first-century Roman street. Next to her she recognized the unmistakable arrangement of an insula—a typical Roman apartment complex that had shops on the ground level and residences on the higher floors.
Unable to believe her eyes, she registered that most of the area was cordoned off, still unexcavated.
It never ceased to amaze her how many archaeological sites around the world had been identified but then remained unexplored. She was in the middle of Rome, once one of the richest cities in the world, and here was a slice of it still waiting for someone to unearth its prizes.
Moving forward, the brick walls glowed an eerie dark orange in the half-light, reminding her of the great fire of Rome that had ravaged them in AD 64. Some people had blamed the emperor, Nero, saying he wanted to clear the area for his new palace. But he was having none of it, and placed the blame squarely on the city’s Christians, whom he nailed to crosses, doused in pitch, and set alight—human torches to illuminate the night sky. She often wondered how many children enjoying Roman Candle fireworks knew of their gruesome origin.
Focusing back on the job at hand, she followed Ferguson down the musty dank corridors—first left and then right, until she suddenly found herself in the heart of the ancient Mithraic complex.
She briefly thought of Cyrus in his Soho office. She prayed he was already many miles away from London—on a hot beach somewhere, far from Malchus.
Looking about, she could see an antechamber to her right, complete with pilasters and a ceiling spangled with vegetative and geometric patterns.
But to her left was the reason they were there—the second-century temple of the Mithraic mysteries.
Her heart began to beat faster.
“One minute gone. Fourteen left,” Ferguson announced as the men carrying the flight cases arrived behind them.
She ducked further along the corridor, leaving the temple behind for now. She quickly needed to check the rest of the complex for any further information. Even the smallest detail could make a difference.
The mildewy corridor ended abruptly at a doorway opening into a large room. Its broken dirty floor was made of black and white mosaic, and the walls featured seven niches of varying sizes along with the faded portrait of a bearded Roman in a scarlet cloak. It looked like some sort of Mithraic schoolroom—the niches no doubt for objects symbolizing the seven grades of its mysteries.
Heading back to the temple, she ducked into the low space just in time to see the gas men opening the smaller flight case to reveal an array of tools.
The temple itself was a small hollow, about ten yards by six, hacked directly out of the tufa. The walls and ceiling were covered in original rough Roman concrete, applied unevenly to recreate the atmosphere of Mithras’s original cave.
There was a small stone altar at the far end. Above it, a low barrel vault spanned the space, marred by a hole where excavations from the church above had broken through. Along the two main walls, irregular short-backed stone benches provided the temple’s only seating.
“Two minutes gone. Thirteen remaining.” Ferguson’s voice sounded crisp and controlled.
The main object in the room stood alone in the middle of the floor: a square pedestal supporting an engraved bas-relief of the tauroctony—the mandatory scene of Mithras slaying the lunar bull.
“Is this what you were expecting?” Ferguson asked, looking around the cramped temple.
Ava nodded. It was a textbook mithraeum. Exactly as she had imagined, its bare decoration gave modern visitors no real idea of the original experience. The same was true of the great temples of Greece and Rome, and even the majestic castles, cathedrals, and churches of medieval Europe. Just like all of them, this small temple had originally been completely painted in a riot of blazing bold colours.
In stark contrast, the drab grotto around her was a forlorn husk of the vibrant multicoloured space it had originally been, with its rich Mithraic symbolism embedded into the long-vanished mosaics, paintings, and objects that formerly adorned it.
Right on cue, there was a loud click, and all the lights went out.
Excellent.
The van drivers had been tasked to find out from the lady in the bookshop where
the principal electricity breakers were, and then explain to her that the possibility of gas build-up and naked light bulbs was not a good combination. They were also to insist that just flicking off the light switches was not sufficient—the whole power system needed to be shut down in case anything was sparking anywhere along the many miles of old cabling.
As Ava had anticipated, the lady had clearly been only too happy to cooperate.
So far so good. Now the CCTV cameras were safely off the grid, she and the men could get to work.
She flicked on the headlamp mounted to her helmet, and the others quickly followed her lead. As each LED kicked five hundred lumens out into the gloom, the dark interior of the rock-temple was suddenly criss-crossed with piercing tunnels of bright white light.
“Spread out.” She did not have to speak loudly. It was a small space. “Quickly. Test all the walls, and the fronts and seats of the stone benches. See if anything seems hollow.”
The men silently fanned out across the room, and began tapping the stonework with the tools they had taken from the flight case.
With no electric light, the temple regained some of its former drama.
As Ava set to work on a section of stonework, she could imagine the ceremonies the temple had hosted, with costumed initiates moving through the mysterious grades of Raven, Bridegroom, Soldier, Lion, Persian, Sun-Runner, and Father.
There was something primal and energizing about the setting. It reminded her of the symbolic power of caves in the human subconscious, and the strong traditions in the early Church that Christ had been born in a cave, not a stable. She was endlessly surprised people did not realize that many of the traditional Bible stories, like the stable, were not universally accepted in the early centuries.
The sound of the tools striking the concrete and stone echoed around the small temple, but so far with no result.
“Five minutes gone. Ten remaining.” Ferguson’s countdown underlined how little time they had.
“It’s in here somewhere,” she announced, confident she was not mistaken. “Keep trying the walls.”
She tapped the bench in front of her. The stone was completely smooth, worn by centuries of use.
If only the stones could tell what they had seen.
“Eight minutes gone. Seven remaining,”
Ava could feel the pressure mounting quickly.
More than half the time was gone.
They needed to hurry up.
The men were working methodically and purposefully with no discussion or duplication of effort. They operated like a thinking organism, each methodically alongside the other.
As she watched them, Ava could not help wondering who they were, these ‘friends’ of the Foundation.
Only one group of people she had ever come across worked this effectively and efficiently as a team.
The military.
But if that was right, she was struggling to identify their country of origin. They all understood her English, yet the drivers had spoken native Italian to the priest, and she had overheard French and even some Spanish when they had been ushering the tourists out.
She did not know of any multilingual armies in the world. It was possible they were mercenaries, she supposed, but that would not square with Saxby’s insistence that the Foundation was a peaceful institute.
“What do you reckon?” Ferguson’s voice came from the far wall behind her. “Has it gone?”
Ava shook her head emphatically. “It has to be here.”
He tapped the wall in front of him with the heel of a hammer. “Eight hundred years is a long time.”
She gritted her teeth as she stretched round the end of the bench. “An object like the Menorah leaves its footprint wherever it goes. If it’d been moved, it would’ve left some trace.” She ran her fingers along the stone’s smooth edges. “An artefact of that significance couldn’t have been taken away without leaving some kind of a trail—accounts, rumours, myths, legends, anything. Some noise would have echoed down to us if it’d been discovered here.”
He checked his watch again. “Nine minutes gone. Six remaining.”
He was cool under pressure. She gave him that. Her own insides were beginning to knot.
“Try the floor,” she ordered the men. “There’ll be flagstones under the compacted dirt. Scrape around to find the edges. See if any of the flagstones are a different height, texture, or colour. Look for any anomalies.”
She began to feel sweat prickling down her back. Even if they found it, it would take them a while to get it out.
The knot in her stomach tightened.
They were running out of time.
She got down on her knees by the doorway and began scraping away at the dirt floor to reveal the flags underneath, worn smooth by years of shuffling feet.
She ran her fingers along the edges of the stones, realizing with a wave of disappointment they were all bonded tightly with ancient Roman cement.
“How long?” The strain was audible in her voice.
“Ten minutes gone. Five left.” Ferguson joined her, examining the ancient grouting between two large flags.
One of the gasmen approached her. He was short but powerfully built, and his deeply creased face indicated he had spent his life smoking professionally.
“We’ve checked the rest of the floor.” He spoke with a sandpaper voice and thick French accent.
“And?” Ava looked up at him expectantly.
He shook his head.
She caught sight of the name label on his overalls, illuminated in the beam of her helmet torch. “Is that your real name, Max?”
He shook his head. “But it’ll do.”
“Okay, Max,” she stood up. “We’ve got about four minutes left.” She could feel the sweat now running freely down her back. “Search the antechamber.” She did not think it was likely. But they had to be thorough.
Max and one of the men moved quickly out of the temple and into the opposite room. In no time, she could hear the sound of them banging the stonework.
Turning back to the temple, she looked around with increasing desperation.
Where was it?
It had to be here.
Think!
The space was small. There were not that many places it could be.
Where would the Vatican hide it?
She tried to focus on the clues again.
Where would she hide it?
It was definitely in the Basilica di San Clemente—she was sure of that. And there could be no doubt the mithraeum was the third level down, and the home of the bloody bull.
So what was missing?
Beads of perspiration began to appear on her face.
A little voice of doubt deep inside began to gnaw away at her.
Had she made a terrible mistake?
She reassured herself immediately. She was absolutely sure she had not made any errors this time.
So where was it?
“Twelve minutes gone,” Ferguson announced grimly. “Three remaining.”
She thought again of the clues. She had been over them a thousand times.
Were there any weaknesses in her solution?
She looked up again at the barrel ceiling. It was just bare stone now, but seventeen hundred years ago it was painted a deep midnight blue and spangled with gleaming stars.
So she knew she was right.
It had to be here—‘under the protection of the stars’.
“Two minutes left,” announced Ferguson, a sense of urgency creeping into his voice.
Ava stared around the room with increasing desperation.
What had she overlooked?
Looking upwards again, she suddenly froze.
Of course!
‘UNDER THE PROTECTION OF THE STARS’ depended which side of the stars you were. From where she was standing, ‘under’ could mean behind.
In the roof.
“Check the ceiling,” she shouted breathlessly, staring up and flooding the space above
her with the bright light from her head lamp. The Vatican could have concealed it in a roof chamber, hidden behind the stars, brick, and plaster.
The men began testing the small barrelled ceiling with their tools, probing it for signs of hollow cavities or irregular thickness.
It did not take them long. One by one they turned to Ava and shook their heads.
She pushed back the safety helmet and wiped the sweat from her forehead.
This was not happening.
She was running out of options fast.
Max had returned from the antechamber. His expression said it all.
“Check the schoolroom at the end of the corridor.” She pointed him in the direction of the room with the seven niches, and he set off quickly with a team of two.
She watched as the beams of light from their helmets disappeared down the narrow corridor, before she turned back to focus on the temple itself.
The only object in the room she had not investigated was the square pedestal with the bas-relief of Mithras standing proudly in the centre of the room.
It was a nonstarter—much too small to hold the Menorah, or even part of it.
She had not given it much attention, but as she looked at it, she realized it was actually one of the best preserved tauroctony scenes she had ever seen—beautifully carved, its edges still sharp and defined, standing out in crisp relief against the shadows cast by the LED light from her head-lamp.
She would love to have taken a photo for Cyrus. Mithras was standing triumphantly, his Phrygian cap firmly wedged on his tousle-haired head, his cloak billowing dramatically behind him as he sliced the throat of the bull with his wide-bladed knife. The paint had come off centuries ago, but when the carving was new it would have been spangled in bright colours—the dun brown of the bull, the green of the leaves growing from its tail, the silver of the knife, the midnight blue and gold of the stars under his cloak … .
Oh God.
Ava stopped dead. Poleaxed.
“Quick!” she shouted, her voice catching in her throat. “In here. Move this pedestal.” She ran to the doorway and yelled down the corridor. Max reappeared quickly with the other gasman.
“What is it?” Ferguson asked, hurrying over to her. “What’ve you found?”
The Sword of Moses Page 44
