Gray waved for them to proceed.
The subterranean cemetery had closed at five o’clock, but Vigor had called the caretaker and arranged this special “tour.” A petite snowymaned gentleman in gray coveralls stepped out of a sheltered doorway. He hobbled over, using a wooden shepherd’s crook as a cane. Vigor knew him well. His family had been sheepherders of the surrounding campagna going back generations. He held a pipe firmly between his teeth.
“Monsignor Verona,” he said. “Come va?”
“Bene grazie. E lei, Giuseppe?”
“I’m fine, Padre. Grazie.” He waved toward the small cottage that served as his homestead while watching over the catacombs. “I have a bottle of grappa. I know how you like a bit of the grape. From these hills.”
“Another time, Giuseppe. The day grows late and we must be about our business with much haste, I’m afraid.”
The man eyed the others as if they were to blame for the rush, then his eyes caught on Rachel. “It cannot be! Piccola Rachel…but she is not so little anymore.”
Rachel smiled, clearly delighted to be remembered. She hadn’t visited here with Vigor since she was nine years old. Rachel quickly hugged him, kissing him on the cheek. “Ciao, Giuseppe.”
“We must raise a cup to piccola Rachel, no?”
“Perhaps when we finish our business below,” Vigor pressed, knowing the man, lonely here in his cottage, only wanted a bit of company.
“Si…bene…” He waved his crook toward the doorway. “It is open. I will lock after you. Knock when you come up and I will hear.”
Vigor led them to the gateway to the catacombs. He pulled open the door. He waved the others through the threshold, noting that Giuseppe had left the string of electric lights lit. The staircase descended ahead of them.
As Monk stepped through with Rachel, he glanced back to the caretaker. “You should introduce that guy to your grandmother. They’d hit it off, I bet.”
Rachel grinned and followed the stocky man inside.
Vigor closed the door behind him and took the lead again, heading down the stairs. “This catacomb is one of Rome’s oldest. It was once a private Christian cemetery, but it spread out when some of the popes chose to be buried at this site. It now covers ninety acres and descends in four levels.”
Behind him, Vigor heard the door lock snap closed. The air grew danker as they descended, rich with the smell of loam and seeping rain-water. At the foot of the stairs, they reached a vestibule with loculi cut into the walls, horizontal niches for bodies to be laid to rest. Graffiti etched the walls, but it was not the work of modern vandals. Some of the inscriptions dated back from the fifteenth century: prayers, laments, testimonials.
“How far in do we have to go?” Gray asked, stepping next to Vigor. There was barely room for two to walk side by side as the way narrowed from here. The commander eyed the low ceilings.
In here, even those who didn’t suffer from claustrophobia found these crumbling subterranean necropolises unnerving. Especially now. Deserted and empty.
“The Crypt of Lucina lies much deeper. It’s located in the most ancient area of the catacomb.”
Galleries branched off from here, but Vigor knew the way and headed to the right. “Stay close,” he warned. “It’s easy to get lost in here.”
The way narrowed even more.
Gray turned. “Monk, keep a watch on our rear. Ten paces. Stay in sight.”
“Got it covered.” Monk freed his shotgun.
Ahead, a chamber opened. Its walls were pocked with larger loculi and elaborate arcsololia, arched gravesites.
“The Papal Crypt,” Vigor announced. “It is here sixteen popes were laid to rest, from Eutychianus to Zephyrinus.”
“From E to Z,” Gray mumbled.
“The bodies were removed,” Vigor said, delving deeper, passing through the Crypt of Cecelia. “From about the fifth century, the outskirts of Rome were plundered by a series of forces. Goths, Vandals, Lombards. Many of the most important personages buried here were moved into churches and chapels inside the city. In fact, the catacombs were so emptied out and abandoned that by the twelfth century they were completely forgotten, and were not rediscovered until the sixteenth century.”
Gray coughed. “It seems that timeline keeps crossing itself.”
Vigor glanced back.
“Twelfth century,” Gray explained. “That was also when the bones of the Magi were moved out of Italy into Germany. It’s also when you mentioned there was a resurgence in Gnostic belief, creating a schism between emperors and the papacy.”
Vigor slowly nodded, contemplating this angle. “It was a tumultuous time, with the papacy run out of Rome by the end of the thirteenth century. The alchemists may have sought to protect what they had learned, driven into deeper hiding as they were leaving behind clues in case of their demise, breadcrumbs for other Gnostic believers to follow.”
“Like this sect of the Dragon Court.”
“I don’t think they imagined such a perverse group to be enlightened enough to seek such higher truths. An unfortunate miscalculation. Either way, I think you’re right. You may have pegged the date when these clues were placed. I’d say sometime in the thirteenth century, during the height of the conflict. Few at that time knew about the catacombs. What better place to hide the clues to a secret society?”
Pondering this, Vigor piloted them through a successive series of galleries, crypts, and cubicula. “It’s not far. Just past the Sacramental Chapels.” He waved an arm to a gallery of six chambers. Peeling and faded frescoes displayed intricate biblical scenes interspersed with depictions of baptism and the celebration of Eucharistic meals. They were treasures of early Christian art.
After hiking through a few more galleries, their goal appeared ahead. A modest crypt. The ceiling was painted with a typical early Christian motif: the Good Shepherd, Christ with a lamb carried on his shoulders.
Turning from the ceiling, Vigor instead pointed to two neighboring walls. “Here is what we came to find.”
8:10 P.M.
GRAY APPROACHED the nearest wall. A fresco of a fish had been painted against a green background. Above it, almost appearing to be carried on the back of the fish, was a basket of bread. He turned to the second wall. This fresco seemed a mirror image of the first, except the basket also bore a bottle of wine.
“It’s all symbolic of the first Eucharistic meal,” Vigor said. “Fish, bread, and wine. It also represents the miracle of the fishes, when Christ multiplied a single basket of fish and bread to feed the multitude of followers who had come to hear his sermon.”