Christian pilgrims flocked to Jerusalem to retrace Christ’s footsteps along the fourteen “stations” from flagellation to crucifixion—the “Way of Sorrows,” better known as the “Stations of the Cross.” The journey would begin at a Franciscan Monastery on the Via Dolorosa, just beneath Temple Mount’s northern wall—the site where many Christians maintained that Christ had taken up the cross after being scourged and crowned with thorns. Stations ten through fourteen—where Christ was stripped, nailed to the cross, died, and was taken from the cross—were commemorated in this church.
After all that had happened in Jerusalem over the past few days, Barton wasn’t surprised that there weren’t many tourists here today. He made his way into the main entrance.
Beneath the church’s massive rotunda high above two tiers of circular Roman colonnades, Barton walked a circle around a small mausoleum embellished with elaborate gold ornamentation. Inside this small structure was the most sacred site in the church—a marble slab that covered the rock where Christ had been laid out for burial.
“Graham?” a warm voice called out. “Is that you?”
Barton turned to face a corpulent old priest with a long white beard, dressed in the ceremonial garb of the Greek Orthodox Church: a flowing black soutane and a substantial black pipe hat.
“Father Demetrios.” The archaeologist smiled.
The priest clasped Barton with both his pudgy hands, fingers like sausages, and pulled him slightly closer. “You look good, my friend. So what brings you back to Jerusalem?” He spoke with a heavy Greek accent.
It had been almost a year and a half since Barton first met the priest to arrange for an exhibit of some of the Sepulchre’s Crusader-era crucifixes and relics in the Museum of London. Father Demetrios had graciously loaned the items to the museum for a three-month period, in exchange for a generous donation.
“Actually, I was hoping you’d be able to help me translate an old document.”
“Of course,” the priest cheerily replied. “Anything for you. Come, walk with me.”
Strolling beside Father Demetrios, he eyed the numerous clerics milling about the space. The Greek clergy was compelled by a long-standing Ottoman decree to share this space with the church’s other resident sects— Roman Catholics, Ethiopians, Syrians, Armenians, and Copts—and throughout the Sepulchre, each had erected their own elaborate chapels. It was a haphazard arrangement both physically and spiritually, Barton thought. From somewhere in the church, he heard a requiem being chanted.
“Rumor has it that the Israelis have called you in to assist in the investigation over at Temple Mount,” the priest whispered. “Is there any truth to that?”
“I’d rather not say.”
“I don’t blame you. But if it is true, please tread lightly, Graham.”
The priest led him into the Greek Orthodox chapel known as “the Center of the World,” named for a stone basin in its center that marked the spot ancient mapmakers had designated as the divide between east and west. From his last visit, Barton knew that Father Demetrios felt most comfortable here, on his own turf.
On the side wall stood a Byzantine shrine, covered with gold ornamentation and dominated by a massive gold crucifix boasting a life-sized, solarhaloed Christ, flanked by two Marys looking up in mourning. At the altar’s base was a glass enclosure encasing a rocky outcropping where Christ had supposedly been crucified. Golgotha.
The twelfth station of the cross.
In front of the altar, the priest made the sign of the cross, then turned to Barton. “Show me what you have, Graham.” He reached beneath his vestment and produced a pair of reading glasses.
Barton pulled the plastic-sealed vellum from his breast pocket and handed it over.
The priest fingered the Ziploc bag. “Good to see you’ve employed the latest technology. Now let’s see what you have here.” Putting on his glasses, he held the document higher against the ambient glow of an ornate hanging candelabrum and studied the text intently. Seconds later a blanched expression came over him and his lower lip sagged. “Oh my.”
“What is it?”
The priest looked concerned. Scared.
He peered at Barton over his glasses. “Where did you find this?” he
asked quietly.
Barton considered telling him. “I can’t say. I’m sorry.”
“I see.”
By the look in his eye, it was obvious that the priest already knew the
answer. “Can you tell me what it says?”
Father Demetrios scanned the chapel. Three rival priests, dressed in
Franciscan cassocks, were loitering close by. “Let us go downstairs.” He
motioned for Barton to follow.
Father Demetrios led him down a wide staircase that wound beneath
the nave.
Barton was pondering how the ancient words could have so spooked
the old priest. Deeper they went, until stone brick walls gave way to cool,
hewn earth.
Standing in what looked like a cave, the priest finally stopped. “You
know this place?”
“Of course,” Barton said, scanning the low-hanging rocky ceiling that
bore telltale marks of mining activity. “The old quarry.” His eyes wandered briefly to the wall behind the priest where hundreds of Knights
Templar equilateral crosses had been carved into the rock—twelfthcentury graffiti.
“The tomb,” the priest corrected him, pointing to the long burial
niches carved into the far wall. “Though I know your reservations in wanting to accept this idea.”
Where Helena was also lucky enough to unearth Christ’s cross, too,he
wanted to say, but curbed his response. The fact that Constantine’s elderly
mother had personally selected this site—formerly a Roman temple where
pagans once worshipped Venus—left little doubt that its authenticity was
questionable. Though he was no stranger to the divergent views of the historical versus the religious, he wasn’t about to offend him with blasphemy. “There’s another very sacred tomb just above us,” Father Demetrios reminded him with a serious face.
“And why have you brought me down here? Is it something about this
scroll?”
“Everything about it.” His voice was solemn. “I don’t know where you found this, Graham. But if it wasn’t from here—and I know it’s not—I caution you. Be very, very careful. You know better than most how words can be misconstrued. If you promise me you’ll remember what I’ve said, I will write down your translation.”
“You have my word.”
“Good.” The priest shook his head and let out a deep breath. “Let me have your pen and paper.”
25
******
Vatican City
Each time Father Patrick Donovan walked down the Apostolic Palace’s grand corridor he felt intimidated. This was the gateway to the Vatican’s royalty—the physical apex of Christendom’s hierarchy. Adjoining the far end of the Vatican Museum, it housed the offices of the pope and the secretary of state, while an upper floor contained the pope’s lavish Borgia apartment. The entire complex, as big as an airport concourse, felt like an extension of the museum itself with its floor-to-ceiling frescos, marble floors, and baroque embellishments.
Here the Vatican City’s military was most evident, expressionless Swiss Guards posted at even intervals and seeing them only added to his nerves.
Tall porticos ran along one side of the corridor, overlooking the Piazza San Pietro—Bernini’s massive, elliptical courtyard, which had been completed in 1667. Four sweeping arcs of colonnades embraced the space, pinpointing at its center Caligula’s obelisk that had been plundered from the Nile Delta in 38 CE. The relic sharply reminded Donovan of the pillaging done in Jerusalem only four days ago.
Large rectangular windows on the hall’s opposite side were sheathed in iron grating, serving notice that this
building had been initially designed as a fortress.
The looming double door at the corridor’s terminus was flanked by two Swiss Guards in full costume—billowing gold and Medici blue-striped tunics and pantaloons, red berets, and white gloves. Conte’s buffoons. Each carried an eight-foot long pole called a “halberd”—a sixteenth-century weapon that combined speared tip, axe blade, and grappling hook. Donovan noticed that both soldiers also carried holstered Berettas.
He stopped two meters in front of the doorway.
“Buona sera, Padre. Si chiama?” The tall guard to his right demanded his name.
“Father Patrick Donovan,” he responded in Italian. “I have been summoned by His Eminence, Cardinal Santelli.”
The guard disappeared into the room beyond. A few uncomfortable moments passed while Donovan stared vacantly at the floor, the remaining Swiss Guard stood at attention in perfect silence. The first guard reemerged. “He is ready to see you.”
The librarian was ushered into an expansive antechamber furnished in marble and wood where Santelli’s personal assistant, the young Father James Martin, manned a lone desk, his face blank and withdrawn. Donovan smiled warmly and exchanged pleasantries with him, trying to imagine just how mentally taxing it must be for him to be at the beck and call of a man like Santelli.
“You may go right in,” Father Martin said, motioning to a huge oak door.
Opening the door, Donovan moved into the lavish space beyond. Across the sumptuous room, he saw a purple skullcap and the familiar mound of thick silver hair poking over the back of a tall leather chair.
The Vatican secretary of state was facing a window that neatly framed St. Peter’s Basilica, a phone held to his right ear, frail hands gesticulating. Swiveling round, Donovan was met by the bloodshot eyes, bushy eyebrows, and heavy jowls of Cardinal Antonio Carlo Santelli. The cardinal motioned him toward an armchair in front of the substantial mahogany desk.
Donovan plunked himself down, the upholstery groaning as he shifted in the seat.
As the Vatican’s highest-ranking cardinal, Santelli was charged with overseeing the political and diplomatic issues of the Holy See, effectively acting as prime minister of the Roman Curia, accountable only to the pope himself. Though even the pope occasionally acquiesced to Santelli’s demands.
The man’s political skills were legendary. As a newly appointed cardinal in the early 1980s, he’d steered the Vatican through the murky recesses of the Banco Ambrosiano scandal and the murder of Roberto Calvi, the socalled “God’s Banker,” who had been found hung by the neck under Blackfriars Bridge in London.
While the cardinal wrapped up his conversation, Donovan took in this inner sanctum of the pontifical machine. Santelli’s immense desk was bare, save for a short stack of crisp reports arranged at a perfect perpendicular, and an oversized plasma monitor mounted on an arm. The screensaver was on—a golf-green, its flag fluttering against a virtual breeze reading: “All We Need Is Faith.” A great enthusiast for IT, Santelli had been the main advocate for the installation of the Vatican’s sophisticated fiberoptic network.
In the corner, a marble-topped credenza supported a replica of Michelangelo’s Pietà. Dominating the space to his right was a large tapestry depicting Constantine’s battle at Milvian Bridge. To Donovan’s left three Raphaels hung—almost casually—against the winecolored wall.
His gaze circled back to Santelli.
“Advise him the final decision will be made by the Holy Father,” the cardinal was saying in thick Italian. Santelli was always direct. “Call me when it’s done.” He replaced the phone. “Prompt as always, Patrick.”
Donovan smiled.
“After the appalling mess left behind in Jerusalem, I trust you’re bringing me good news. Tell me all our efforts have been worthy of such sacrifice.”
Donovan forced himself to look Santelli in the eye. “There’s enough evidence to lead me to believe the ossuary’s genuine.”
The cardinal grimaced. “But you’re not certain?”
“More work needs to be done. More tests.” Donovan knew his voice was wavering. “But so far, the evidence is compelling.”
There was a small silence.
The cardinal cut to the chase. “But is there a body?”
Donovan nodded. “Just as the manuscript suggested.”
“Splendid.”
“Will the Holy Father be told?”
“I’ll handle that when the time’s right.” Elbows on the chair’s armrests, Santelli had woven his fingers together, as if in prayer. “When will these scientists be ready to make a formal presentation?”
“I requested that they prepare something for Friday.”
“Good.” The cardinal saw that Donovan was preoccupied. “Cheer up Father Donovan,” he said, spreading his hands. “You’ve just helped give this great institution new life.”
26
******
Returning from lunch, both scientists felt refreshed. The afternoon had turned out to be mild and the sunshine rejuvenating. Bersei had taken Charlotte to the San Luigi café on Via Mocenigo, only a short walk from the Vatican Museum entrance. The soft music and inviting nineteenthcentury decor complemented the lobster ravioli Bersei recommended—a quantum leap over last night’s tuna sandwich.
With Charlotte phoning the AMS lab he recommended, Bersei was once again suited up as he began his analysis of the ossuary. Dimming the lights above the workstation, he swept each surface of the ossuary with an ultraviolet light wand. Looking through the Orascoptic’s crisp lenses, key areas—particularly the etched grooves forming the intricate designs—were tightly magnified.
The first thing he noticed was that the patina had been scuffed in many areas, particularly along the sides. Glowing under the black light, the abrasive marks were long and wide, in some areas leaving an impression of woven fiber. Straps, he guessed, though no trace fibers had been left behind. Probably new nylon webbing. Confirming that there was zero sedimentary buildup on top of the impressions, he concluded that the marks were fresh.
It wasn’t that shocking. He’d often seen relics that had been handled improperly during excavation and shipment, but this type of disregard for the past always offended him. He had read that the James ossuary had been cracked during shipment. By comparison, the damage here was forgivable and probably wouldn’t devalue the ossuary either.
After mounting the digital camera on a tabletop tripod, powering it up and deactivating its flash, he snapped some shots. Then he turned off the black light and set the workstation lighting higher.
Next, painstakingly inspecting every edge and surface, Bersei hunted for any evidence that the patina had been manually transplanted with tools. Had the box been inscribed after it was found, the geological residue would exhibit obvious inconsistencies. It took considerable time, but lengthy examination showed no suspicious scrapes or gouges. The patina was bonded tightly and evenly across the ossuary’s limestone surfaces, including the relief carved onto the box’s side.
As he stood to straighten his cramped shoulders, he flipped up the Orascoptic lenses, taking a moment to once again admire the ossuary’s decorative patterns. His twenty-fifth wedding anniversary was quickly approaching and that intricate rosette design might look nice on a piece of jewelry. After so many years together with Carmela it was becoming increasingly difficult to find an original gift.
Leaning over the ossuary again, he used a small blade to scrape samples from selected areas, placing the material on glass slides and clearly marking each one. After collecting fifteen samples, he organized the slides neatly on a tray, moved to another workstation equipped with an electron microscope and loaded the first specimen.
Super-magnified and projected onto an adjacent computer monitor, the dried minerals and deposits that formed the patina looked like grayishbeige cauliflower. He saved a detailed profile of the sample in a database, removed the first slide and continued along the tray. When the last sample image had been captured, the entire gro
up was displayed side by side on the monitor.
He entered a command to cross-check for inconsistencies. After a few seconds of calculations that compared biological content, the program detected no significant differences between the samples. If any part of the patina had been artificially “manufactured”—the most common method, using chalk or silica diluted in hot water—the program would have spotted inconsistent isotopic ratios or possibly even foreign traces of microscopic marine fossils that could appear in household chalk.
As anticipated, all the samples were high in calcium carbonate, with nominal levels of strontium, iron, and magnesium. According to Bersei’s online research, these results were consistent with the patinas on similar relics removed from subterranean Israel.
Bersei pulled the last slide from the microscope.
Sacred Bones : A Novel Page 13
