Sacred Bones : A Novel

by Michael Byrnes

  “I realize it seems odd, but a few years ago I actually published a formal study on crucifixion, funded by the Pontifical Commission. I tested established theories regarding how it kills the victim.”

  Charlotte wasn’t sure how to respond. “I’ve got to ask...why?”

  “Look, I know it sounds morbid. But crucifixion was practiced for centuries and it’s hugely relevant to understanding the early Roman government. I prefer to think of it as a niche,” he smiled. “It was a popular paper.”

  “I’m sure it was. A regular barrel of laughs.”

  “Would you like me to continue?”

  “Please do.”

  “Before they were crucified, criminals were scourged, usually with a cane or whip, making them more compliant for delivery to the execution site. In the case of our man, it seems the scourging was performed with a flagrum—a vicious, multi-thong whip with metal barbs.”

  “That explains why the ribs were so badly scarred.”

  “Si. And judging from the depth of the fissures, his flesh must have been severely flayed. This man would have been in tremendous pain and bleeding terribly.”

  “That’s so cruel.” She fought off the urge to visualize the razor-tipped whip streaming through the air and raking across flesh.

  “That was just the beginning I’m afraid. Crucifixion itself was far, far worse. There were a number of variations on this type of execution, basically all for the same lethal effect. The criminal was impaled on a cruciform by long spikes driven through the wrists and feet. A rope was bound around the arms to provide additional support when the body was hung upright. The cruciform could take many forms: a simple tree or post, two beams crossed like an X, or a solid structure built like a capital T. I’d guess that in the case of our victim, the cross was a crux composita, consisting of an upright post, or stipe, and a crossbar called a patibulum. We know that the familiar images of crucifixion depict victims being nailed to the cross through the hands....”

  Charlotte knew where this was going. “But the small bones and weak flesh in the hands couldn’t support the weight of a body, right? Nailed through the hands, the body would slip off the cross.” She clenched her hands round the cup.

  “Exactly. So to support the weight, the iron spikes—huge things measuring eighteen centimeters or so—would be driven into the wrist, just above the ulna and radius along with a large wooden washer to prevent slippage. Right here.” Bersei pointed to a spot just above the crease of his wrist. “It would’ve crushed or severed the median nerve, sending shock waves of excruciating pain up the arm. The hands would have been instantly paralyzed. Once both wrists were nailed, the patibulum, bearing the full weight of the body, would be violently hoisted onto the stipe. One can’t imagine how that must have felt. Unbelievable.”

  Hideous images of nails pounding into flesh came into her mind’s eye. “That explains the shoulder dislocation.”

  “It also explains the gouge patterns and trace residues of hematite we see in the wrists—evidence of extreme pressure against the bones. Grinding. Like the weight of the body was suspended on nails.”

  Hennesey dropped her cup into the sink. “I can’t drink any more.”

  Bersei put his hand on her arm. “Are you okay?”

  She rubbed her eyes. Maybe bone cancer wasn’t so bad after all. “Keep going. I’m fine.”

  “Once the body was pulled upright,” the Italian continued, “the feet would have been laid over one another, then nailed into the post. It wouldn’t have been easy as the victim would have been flailing about.”

  “Probably explains the fracture we saw on the foot. There was a struggle.”

  “Yes.” Bersei’s voice dropped. “Sometimes, to avoid that struggle, a supporting peg called a sedile was inserted between the legs. A nail was pounded through...”—he paused to reconsider this part, but felt the need to be thorough in his explanation—“the penis and into the sedile to secure victims to the cross.”

  For a moment Charlotte felt light-headed, as if she was going to faint. Every time Dr. Bersei added another layer of detail, she felt herself sinking lower, as if her bones were being picked out from inside her one by one. “That’s unbelievably brutal,” she said in a small whisper. This terrifying knowledge appeared totally at odds with Giovanni’s otherwise gentle disposition. She took a deep breath.

  Folding his hands, Bersei paused to marshal his thoughts. “The fact is, in crucifixion no one thing kills the victim. Overall trauma eventually does that. Scourging, impalement, exposure to the elements...they all contribute. Depending on the victim’s health before execution, death could take days.”

  It was impossible for Charlotte to imagine humans being subjected to such extreme punishment. Equally puzzling to her was Bersei’s intensity regarding the subject. She couldn’t help but think that men had an innate curiosity for this sort of thing. “And we already know that this man was extremely healthy.”

  Bersei nodded. “The damage we saw to the ribs suggests that the intensity of the scourging alone should have killed him. The skin and muscle structure would have been left in tatters, possibly exposing the internal organs. It’s incredible that this person could have persevered—he must have suffered horribly. Which brings me to my last point.”

  Charlotte’s stomach contracted. She knew he was about to lay it on her even thicker.

  “If the criminal wasn’t moving through the process quickly enough,” Bersei continued, “death would be speeded up—they’d break the knees with a large metal club.”

  That visual came quick and she felt her own knees wobble. “Just like we’re seeing here,” she replied. Fighting to remain objective, Charlotte pondered the consequences of the punishment’s final stage. “Without the support of the legs, the full weight of the body would pull across the rib cage. Is that why the cartilage in the chest was torn?”

  “Quite so. With the lungs constricted, the victim would struggle desperately to breathe. Meanwhile what little blood remained would begin to settle lower into the legs and torso.”

  “Then basically the criminal would have expired from asphyxiation and heart failure, right?”

  “Right. Dehydration and trauma could also speed up the process.” He paused and pursed his lips. “The victim would be kept on the cross for days, until death came. It would have been unspeakably painful.”

  “Then what?”

  Lips pulled tight, Bersei offered his explanation. “The corpses would be tossed to the ground, then vultures, dogs, and other beasts would take turns feeding on them. Any remnants were burned. The Romans were very systematic about all of this. It reinforced the last stage of the punishment— refusing a criminal proper burial—a huge blow to just about all religions of that period. By burning the bodies, the Romans were actually denying victims any possibility of eventual afterlife, reincarnation, or resurrection.”

  “The ultimate punishment.” She cast her eyes to the floor.

  “Indeed. The body was completely annihilated.”

  “Must’ve scared the crap out of people to see all this. What a sight that must’ve been—walking along a roadway and seeing all those bodies impaled on posts. Talk about suggestive advertising.”

  “Rome’s forte. It certainly left an impression . . . kept the subjugated taxpayers orderly.”

  A moment of silence fell over the break room.

  “Who do you think this guy was?” she finally asked.

  Bersei shrugged and shook his head. “It’s far too early to tell. Could be any one of thousands crucified by the Romans. Prior to this, the only crucified remains ever found was a heel bone with a nail driven through its side. The fact that what we’re looking at represents the first intact crucified body recovered makes it an extraordinarily valuable relic.”

  Charlotte inclined her head. “That explains why the Vatican’s gone to so much trouble to bring us here.”

  “Absolutely. Makes perfect sense. A find like this is monumental.”

  “Bu
t we only opened the ossuary today and if it was sealed, how on earth could they have known the man inside had been crucified? How did they know they’d need your expertise?”

  Bersei considered this. “It’s no surprise they called me here. Having worked in the catacombs for years, I’ve come across many skeletons, many relics associated with burial. As for you...well, I don’t need to tell you that using DNA to examine human remains is a tremendous tool. But let’s hold off on the theories until we study the ossuary further. After all, the physical remains tell only part of the story.”

  19

  ******

  Vatican Museum

  Down the corridor from the lab, in a cramped space normally used as a storage closet, a network of cables cascaded down to the computer hard drive, feeding live video and audio transmissions from the laboratory and its adjoining break room. Wearing headphones wired to the bank of surveillance equipment, Salvatore Conte was diligently recording all of the scientists’ activity, as directed by the Vatican Secretary of State, Cardinal Santelli.

  Two separate wireless links also monitored all phone calls in and out of Charlotte Hennesey’s dorm room (thanks to a simple patch into the Vatican’s main phone server) and Giovanni Bersei’s personal residence. He had paid a special visit to Bersei’s house last night. While the anthropologist was busy eating his wife’s overcooked veal shanks, Conte was outside splicing a transmitter into the phone line junction box on the side of his house— electrical engineering skills, compliments of his previous employers.

  Though he found all the science-talk only mildly interesting, most of his attention was focused on the attractive American geneticist. She was hot. Normally, guys like him didn’t get girls like her. But it never hurt to try. And no one tried harder than Salvatore Conte. Perseverance was everything.

  Studying Hennesey again—face, lips, hair, body—he had decided that one way or another, he would have a taste of her. He would just need to wait a little longer, until the job here was complete.

  On a separate computer monitor, he brought up the computer’s Web browser and linked to the home page for the Cayman Islands bank where he had opened a new account under one of his pseudonyms. Entering his user name and password to access his account summary screen, he paused to make sure that Santelli had made good on his end of the bargain.

  Earlier that morning, he’d had a very candid discussion with the cardinal concerning a bonus payment for expedited delivery of the relics as well as additional hazard pay for himself and his colleagues (Doug Wilkinson excluded). He made it clear that he would be “uncomfortable” leaving Vatican City without seeing that the payment had been made. Surprisingly, the cardinal hadn’t protested, readily agreeing that such an efficient operation was well worth the additional expense.

  The money was wire transferred through one of the Vatican’s outside banking affiliates, bearing no audit trail back within these walls, Conte was sure. The bank hadn’t even contacted him regarding the sum and the funds had cleared immediately.

  As a teen, Salvatore Conte had been a high achiever at Nunziatella Military School in Naples and, upon graduation, went off to fulfill the State’s mandatory eight-month military conscription. It wasn’t long before his unique abilities—both physical and intellectual—caught the attention of his commanding officers whose high commendations earned him a position in the Servizio per le Informazioni e la Sicurezza Democratica, the Italian Secret Service. There, he had learned the core skills that helped him to become a free agent. Assassinations, hostage situations, infiltrating terrorist cells—Conte took any job thrown at him and he excelled at all of them. He’d been loaned out to assist on collaborative operations throughout Europe and in the United States.

  His decision to leave the SISDE almost five years ago had been a good one. Having already established plenty of contacts during his years with them, there was never a shortage of clients seeking vengeance against a foe or scheming to “procure” new assets. They always paid in cash, and they always paid on time.

  However, he had targeted a small group of clients whom he considered the most lucrative prospects. Among them was the Vatican—a tiny country that considered itself virtually impregnable with its high walls, its nifty security system, and its mercenary army. Conte had taken the liberty in paying a visit to its top guy to remind him that no system was impenetrable. Not the pope, of course—that wouldn’t have been wise. No, Conte had chosen Cardinal Santelli—the man who he knew had truly been the brains of the operation.

  He could still recall the look on the old bastard’s face when Santelli came strolling into his office that morning, whistling, only to see Conte sitting at his impeccably organized desk playing solitaire on his computer, which he had hacked into with a portable password unscrambler. He was dressed completely in black—standard attire for a nighttime incursion.

  Appalled, the cardinal had yelled, “Who the hell are you?” “Your local security consultant,” Conte quickly replied in kind, standing and rounding the desk to offer a personalized business card with his alias and an encrypted mobile telephone number. “I was in the area and wanted to introduce myself personally to go over some obvious deficiencies in your country’s security systems.”

  The truth was, getting into Vatican City hadn’t been easy at all. Stuffed into a backpack beside Santelli’s desk was a bevy of gear: grappling cables, rappelling harnesses, glasscutters, night-vision goggles, the works. He’d had to scale the city’s northern rampart, shoot a grappling line over to the Vatican Museum rooftop, pull himself across the gap, traverse the top of the building to the Apostolic Palace, scramble the security system (using an electromagnetic pulsing device he had lifted from SISDE), rappel down to Santelli’s office window, cut the glass, and unlock the latch. Once inside, he’d eaten a mortadella, prosciutto, and mozzarella panini and drank a Pellegrino Chinotto and waited for sunrise.

  It had taken a minute or two for Santelli to calm down, to try and rationalize how anyone could have circumvented the Vatican’s tight security layers. All the while, he had been contemplating the intercom on his desk. Then, after explaining the myriad services he could provide to a “powerful man such as yourself,” Conte verbally ran through a laundry list of available services that the cardinal pretended to be offended at. But Conte knew better. Having seen the file on this guy when he was working at SISDE— particularly the one related to the infamous Banco Ambrosiano scandal—he knew the cardinal was no stranger to nefarious deeds.

  “And what makes you think I won’t have you arrested right now?” Santelli had threatened.

  “Because I’ll detonate the C-4 that’s hidden in this building before your guards even get through that door.”

  The cardinal’s eyes had gone wide. “You’re bluffing.”

  Conte held out a small remote transmitter. “The pope is upstairs right now, isn’t he? Do you really want to take that chance?”

  “All right, Mr. Conte. You’ve made your point.”

  “Keep my card. Trust me...someday you’ll be needing my help.” He went over and snatched up his bulky backpack. “I’d appreciate it if you could escort me out. Lots of stuff in here that might set off your metal detectors,” he said, patting the bag. “Once I’m safely outside, I’ll tell you where to find the C-4. Deal?”

  As far as Conte’s parents were concerned, they were convinced that real estate investing was the secret to his success, but Maria, his thirty-five-yearold sister wasn’t as easily fooled and it always made for an interesting dynamic at family gatherings.

  His work didn’t allow for permanent relationships. Not that Salvatore Conte was capable of such a thing. For the next few years, there would be no steady girlfriends...forget about a wife or kids. That kind of reckless behavior destroyed the very notion of anonymity and created too many potential complications. For now, there were plenty of other women who were willing to satisfy Conte’s more immediate desires. All it took was money. And seeing the payoff from this latest job, there would
be plenty of women in the near future. Entrepreneurship had treated him well.

  Smiling, Conte was wide-eyed as he read the account balance: a6,500,000.00. After deducting overhead expenses and the cut owed to his six remaining team members, he was left with a cool net of four million euros. Not bad for a few days’ work.

  And he didn’t even get shot. Another bonus.

  20

  ******

  Chinon, France March 3, 1314

  In a dim, cramped cell beneath the Fort du Coudray, Jacques DeMolay sat limply against the dungeon’s cold stone wall watching three enormous rats fight over the scrap of bread he had thrown to them.

  There was a damp chill in his bones that he couldn’t lose. The smell of excrement hung heavy in the air. This place was more than a prison. It was Hell.

  Now seventy years old, DeMolay’s heavily scarred body—once robust— had turned haggard. His flowing beard, shocked to pure ivory, grew out from sunken cheeks, matted and greasy, crawling with lice.

  For two decades, he had held the preeminent post within the Order— Grand Master. Now humiliation was his reward. For six years he’d been festering in this godforsaken pit, having fallen victim to the scandalous political ploys of France’s young, ambitious King Philip IV and his colluding cohort, the Holy Roman Pope, Clement V.