The Bone Chamber

24

Sydney had lost count as to how many loculi she’d inspected, and she stopped, shone her light around the chamber, trying to figure out if Francesca was stringing them along, or if there was a real purpose to what they were doing.
Griffin, however, appeared to be trying to redeem himself in the professor’s eyes, faking his interest in the place, no doubt in hopes of getting the professor to slip up and reveal her true purpose. “Why is this chamber so different than the outer one?” he asked.
“This is where the founders of the columbarium had their loculi—niches. Prime real estate. You notice that in here the niches are lined in marble. There were also beautifully carved freestanding urns in those square niches in the far wall.”
Then, surprising Sydney that he was even paying attention, he asked, “I thought you said they were slaves and freed slaves.”
“Who saved all their money for their final resting places,” Francesca said, sweeping her light over the marble-lined niches. “These are the loculi of the officers of the columbarium club.”
“The officers?”
“Yes, it’s ironic that the slaves and freed slaves’ burial clubs were the one democratic institution in ancient Rome. They elected their own officers, and voted on how they wanted the place decorated. This group obviously was into Egyptomania.”
Francesca’s flashlight skimmed across the painting on the wall, revealing a glimpse of the great pyramids, palm trees, and cone-hatted Pygmies dancing beneath them, beside a great river. Sydney stopped in her tracks. “I’ve seen this before,” she said, slowly walking toward the fresco, unable to look away from the wall. “This was frescoed on Adami’s ceiling. I’m sure of it. He knows about this place already.”
“Adami?” Francesca said. “As in the philanthropist Adami?”
“Hardly a philanthropist,” Griffin replied, frowning at Sydney, no doubt to remind her not to reveal too much of their investigation.
Sydney turned to a fresh page in her sketchbook. “I thought that the painting had something to do with Adami’s Freemason lodge, because of a conversation I overheard about a pyramid.”
“Possibly,” Francesca said. “Egyptian symbolism figures strongly in Freemasonry. But during the first century A.D., the Romans were infatuated with all things Egyptian. You have only to look at that huge Pyramid of Gaius Cestius, just outside the Aurelian Wall at the Porta San Sebastiano.” She led them farther past the fresco. “In the early 1700s at the birth of Freemasonry, Egyptian symbols such as the Nile and the pyramid held sway, which may be why Adami chose to include them.”
She shone her light across the fresco. “Many Freemasons would have you believe that they trace their origins to early Egypt. Here is a perfect example.” She walked a few feet, sweeping her flashlight across a mosaic in one of the niches, a mosaic set in the pattern of a skull. “You are no doubt aware of the most famous of Masonic symbols, the angle and compass? Observe. This skull could be hanging from what could be interpreted as a Masonic angle, and it is resting on what well might be a Masonic compass in a mosaic in a columbarium from the first century.”
“I thought the Masons were a modern invention,” Griffin said, while Sydney’s pencil raced across her page, trying to capture the detail of the skull mosaic.
“Historians insist that the Masons didn’t come into being until the 1700s, the late 1600s at the earliest, yet here on a wall dating back to the first century A.D. are several symbols that are commonly found in Masonic iconography. Masons wanted to believe this proves their origins to early Egypt. All it proves, however, is that like the rest of the world before and after, Egyptian iconography was just as popular in the first century as it was in the eighteenth century.”
Sydney examined the skull she’d drawn, then turned back to the page with the Egyptian fresco. “So what I saw on Adami’s wall?”
“Probably nothing more than a typical Renaissance depiction of ancient Egypt.” She looked around the chamber and sighed. “Unfortunately, I have a feeling that this fresco and mosaic may also signify the customary first-century depiction of ancient Egypt and nothing more. Of course, that depends on how you interpret the phrase, ‘past the great pyramids.’ It could mean any point beyond these frescoes.”
“You mean you had a specific location to search?”
“Look.” She rounded on him. “I’m not the one who insisted that you follow me. So yes, I had a specific place to search, and by assigning you a different wall, I hoped I might search this one in peace.”
Sydney saw Griffin take a calming breath, probably telling himself that he’d be better off taking the professor to an interrogation room and questioning her as he would any other source he needed to squeeze information from.
Francesca retraced her steps, walking past the frescoed pyramids, past the river that was supposed to represent the Nile, past the palm trees and a stretch of what appeared to be barren hills, where two columns had been depicted flanking an opening in the hills where a harp stood. “The tomb of the harp.”
Sydney looked at the pyramids, then at the harp. “There’s a clue hidden here? Something leading to yet another chamber?”
“That’s my hypothesis.”
“And then what?” Griffin asked.
“And then I follow it to see where it leads. Nothing more.” She stood there, staring at the wall. “As you can see, the problem is that there is nothing else. This is the farthest I’ve ever penetrated.”
Griffin raised his hand in a gesture of silence.
“What’s wrong?” Sydney asked.
“I’m not sure. A sound up the stairs.”
Sydney heard something as well. An echo of a scrape, and Griffin said, “You locked the gate after us?”
“Yes,” Francesca said.
“Is there any other way in here?”
“None that I know of.”
Which didn’t sound too positive, Sydney thought, as Griffin drew his gun, then looked around. “Let’s hope it’s the wind, or the owner coming to check on us. But just in case, we need some cover. Can you hide in these fireplace things?” he asked Francesca, flicking his light on the loculi that were off to the right of the Nile painting and the columns.
“Far too small.”
Sydney looked around, and realized they weren’t going to offer much cover at all. And then she saw a niche just beneath the stairs, about wide enough for a person to slip into. “Maybe we can hide beneath the stairs. That will afford some cover for at least two people.”
Griffin glanced over, saw what she saw. In a low voice, he said, “Get the professor under cover.” He shut off his flashlight and moved to the edge of the stairs.
Sydney guided Francesca to the niche. “Can you fit?” Sydney whispered.
“I think so.”
Francesca tucked herself back into the crevice, and Sydney hesitated until Griffin said, “Hurry. Get that light out.” He moved up the stairs until he was just inside the entrance to the outer chamber.
She scooted into the niche next to the professor. And then they waited several minutes in the dark, her mind conjuring up all sorts of possibilities, none of them ending up well. And just when she’d decided that someone had gotten to Griffin, she heard him say, “You can come out. I think I found our intruder.”
Sydney stepped from the space and moved around to the bottom of the steps where Griffin stood holding a tabby. She heard Francesca shuffling behind her and assumed she was following her out. “We’re trying to hide from a cat?”
“It could be worse,” Griffin said. “It could have been a gun-wielding cat.” He let the cat go, giving Sydney a strange look. “Where’s the professor?”
“She was right behind me.”
But when Griffin shone his light into the niche beneath the stairs, there was no sign of Francesca. Anywhere.
Tunisia
0830 hours

The first guard waved at Marc, lifting the barricade so that he could drive the now empty delivery truck past. For whatever reason, the man didn’t question that they weren’t escorted to the gate. Not their problem. Their captive was starting to wake up, and they heard him kicking at the panels in the back of the truck. Unfortunately for him, or perhaps more fortunate, they were already out of the compound. Adami wasn’t known to be the understanding sort of employer, probably even less so once he learned the fate of his warehouse. Marc only hoped that Dr. Balraj and Dr. Zemke were sitting well away from the guard’s feet.
“Call the number,” Marc said, as they turned the corner, out of sight of the compound.
Rafiq took his sat phone, punched in a number, but hesitated before hitting send. His gaze locked on Marc’s, his dark skin looking pale.
“Maybe he’s not in there,” Marc said. “Neither scientist saw him.”
“Locked below, they wouldn’t know. I can’t.”
Marc held out his hand for the phone. Rafiq handed it over.
Marc positioned his thumb on the send button, gripped the steering wheel tightly with his other hand, and then couldn’t help it. Forgive me. He pressed the button, tossed the phone onto the seat, then stabbed his foot on the gas pedal. There was a sixty-second delay in the first charge. The longest sixty seconds of Marc’s life.
The explosion rocked the air, and a moment later, the second explosion that incinerated everything inside the warehouse hit. He glanced in his rearview mirror, saw a fireball rising in the sky.


Sydney eyed the tunnel. No way was she going in. She’d had a fear about dark spaces ever since the murder of her father, and that little tunnel seemed awfully dark to her, not that she was about to reveal her secrets to Griffin. “You go after her,” she said.
Griffin shone his light into the tunnel, then looked at Sydney. “After you.”
“Somebody should probably stand guard here, don’t you think?”
“Spider phobia?”
She was tempted to tell him the truth, but then heard Francesca call out, “There’s actually a shaft of light coming in from above. You have to see this.”
“Well?” Griffin said.
“I scoff at spiders. But you have the flashlight.”
He moved beneath the steps, shone his light into the tunnel that was hidden from view until one moved all the way into the niche. Here goes nothing, she thought, dropping her sketchbook into her shoulder bag, then trying to tamp down the fear that she’d be in the middle of the tunnel and Griffin’s flashlight would go out and she wouldn’t be able to find her way.
His flashlight was not going to go out. That’s what she told herself as she crawled after him, then came to a turn, and realized that it led to more stairs, these leading upward.
This stairwell was even narrower than the one they’d taken to descend into the columbarium. She could stand, but the ceiling was low and Griffin had to stoop as they ascended what seemed to be about two stories. And as the professor had promised, there was a bit of light coming in through the arched ceiling at the top of the steps where Francesca was waiting.
“What is this place?” Sydney asked, moving next to Francesca.
“It seems to be some sort of private viewing area of the columbarium we just left.” She pointed over the ledge, and Sydney looked out, realized they were indeed looking at the chamber from above. A stunning view, and she started a new drawing to capture the center of the mosaic floor below. From this height, the center of the mosaic appeared to be a large circular labyrinth, unrecognizable from the ground level, due to the proximity.
While Sydney sketched, Francesca began an earnest search, directing Griffin to help. Sydney was nearly finished when Francesca called out. “There’s something scratched on the wall below this painting.”
Sydney drew her gaze from the lower chamber to the wall where Francesca was standing. Another skull. While the mosaic of the skull and symbols they’d seen in the lower chamber might loosely bear resemblance to something Masonic, there was no doubt in Sydney’s mind of a Masonic connection with this painted skull. Above and below it, in much sharper detail than the first-century version, was a definite Masonic square and compass. And below it, as Francesca indicated, was something etched into the wall: “Hic iacet pulvis cinis et nihil.”
“Latin?” Griffin asked. “Meaning what?”
“‘Here lies dust, ash, and nothing,’” Francesca translated, her voice filled with excitement. “It has to be the key.”
“The key to what?” Griffin asked.
“That leads to the next clue,” she said quickly.
“Then by all means,” he said to the professor. “Lead us on.”


They returned the columbarium gate key to Signore DeAngelis, who was delighted when Sydney presented him with a sketch of the maidenhair ferns growing among the loculi. Griffin kept careful watch on Francesca, insisting that she would remain with him from this point on, as they walked down the stairs and up the street to where they’d left the van. The stone walls on either side of the street towered overhead, and they walked single file as cars zipped past them on the narrow road.
“So it seems you have found the first sign,” Griffin said, when they’d reached the van. “Where is it leading to next?”
“Right now I have no idea,” Francesca replied. “It will take more research. Perhaps another trip to the Vatican.”
“So you can take off again? I think not.”
“Maybe,” Sydney said, as she slid into the front passenger seat, “we should return to the safe house. We might even hear something about Tex.”
Griffin kept an eye on Francesca as he walked around the van, opening the side door, apparently to make sure the professor didn’t bolt. “We can’t afford to compromise the place.”
“Can we afford to at least have lunch?” Francesca asked. “I’m starved. And at the very least, we can decide on the next course of action. I would very much like to find this second sign.”
“Do you know of any restaurants nearby?” Griffin asked.
“Just up the road. The Hostaria Antica Roma. A rather apropos setting if I do say so myself.”
The restaurant was about a three-minute drive up the road, and just as she said, very apropos, Sydney thought, if one didn’t mind dining in a place that once housed the dead. “Part of the charm,” Francesca said, smiling at their expressions when they saw what made up the walls of the patio setting: ruins of a columbarium, much like the one they’d just left.
The owner, Paolo Magnanimi, introduced himself when they walked in. He stood almost as tall as Griffin, his dark, handsome features lighting up when he recognized Francesca. “It has been far too long since you last visited my restaurant. Please sit down,” he said, waving his hand toward the empty patio, it still being early for lunch.
When he started to reach for the menus, Francesca stopped him, saying something in Italian.
“Sì, professoressa. The best for you and your friends.”
He left, and Francesca told Sydney, “I told him to bring us whatever is fresh from the garden for a vegetable, for pasta, the tagliolini in a fresh tomato and basil sauce, and for dessert, his exquisite tiramisu.”
“About this second sign?” Griffin asked, apparently not about to let the matter of food get in the way of his mission. “What is it? And where is it?”
“If I knew that, I would have been there long before now.”
“Then how do you intend to find it?”
“By researching the phrase scratched on the wall in the columbarium. If it is correct, it should lead to another burial chamber of some sort. There are three, each one leading to the next.”
“And the final destination? The culmination of these signs?”
“As I said, di Sangro’s final resting place. Until I get there, I can’t be sure.”
Griffin leaned back in his chair, looking as though he didn’t believe a word she said, but was interrupted from saying anything as a waiter brought them each a glass and a bottle of sparkling water. When the waiter left, Griffin turned to Sydney. “Your friend, Doc Schermer. Do you think he can research this for us? This phrase found on the wall?”
“It’s worth a try,” Sydney said.
“Call him.”
She looked at her watch. “You realize it is about two in the morning, there?”
“Call.”
She took out her cell phone, called Doc Schermer’s cell, hoping he kept it with him, since she didn’t have his home number. He answered on the fourth ring, his voice thick with sleep.
“Hey Doc. It’s Sydney.”
“I’m guessing you must still be in Rome, otherwise you’d know it’s dark here.”
“First, sorry for waking you. Second, there’re extenuating circumstances. I need you to look up some obscure facts having to do with a Latin phrase.”
“Give me a sec.”
Sydney heard what sounded like the phone being put down, some shuffling, probably booting up his computer. She covered the phone, asked Francesca to write down the phrase. Griffin handed her a pen and a receipt he found in his pocket. When Doc returned to the phone, she spelled out each Latin word, then said, “It means: ‘Here lies dust, ash, and nothing.’ Supposedly it was inscribed there by Raimondo di Sangro, Prince of Sansevero, as a clue to find his final resting place.”
“Anything else I should know about the phrase?”
She repeated his request to Francesca.
“I’m looking for a connection to another burial chamber. Something with bones. And if it has a Masonic connection of some sort, that’s even better.”
Doc apparently heard her, and said, “Give me a few. I’ll call you back when I find something.”
“He’s checking the info now,” she said, placing the phone on the table after turning the ringer to vibrate.
They fell into a somewhat strained silence, finally broken when Griffin asked Francesca, “Why the Masonic connection?”
“Raimondo di Sangro was a Grand Master of the Masons, and as such was very fond of including Masonic iconology in whatever he was involved with.”
“And the purpose of all this?”
“As I explained, simple research in trying to locate the final burial site of the prince.”
“You expect me to believe that that’s what this is about? Trying to find the prince’s final resting place?”
“That’s precisely what this is about,” she said as Paolo showed two men to a sun-dappled table on the far side of the patio, his rapid Italian telling Sydney that his customers were locals, not tourists. One man shrugged out of his leather jacket, glancing over at them as Sydney’s phone bounced around on the table, clattering against her water glass.
Sydney scooped up the phone, glad it was too early for much of a lunch crowd. She looked at the number. “That was fast,” she told Doc Schermer, when she answered.
“Not sure if this is what you’re looking for, frankly because there’s not a lot out there on this Latin phrase, and any Masonic connection is tenuous at best.”
“Let’s have it.”
“‘Here lies dust, ash and nothing’ happens to be the English translation of the epitaph on the tomb of Cardinal Antonio Barberini, whose remains are interred at the Capuchin Crypt in Rome.”
“And the Masonic connection?”
“Depends on how you look at it. Barberini’s uncle was Pope Urban VIII, which sort of gives it an anti-Masonic bent. Of course, your di Sangro guy wasn’t born until the next century, and Freemasons weren’t officially around yet, which means the first papal bull against Freemasonry wasn’t issued for maybe another hundred years after Barberini’s time, which makes it even more—”
“Doc?” she said, knowing his penchant for delving into historical trivia.
“Sorry. Your Masonic connection is that Barberini was the Grand Almoner for France, which means he was in charge of carrying out works of charity.”
“And how does that become a Masonic connection?”
“Like I said, tenuous at best. The Almoner is an office that exists to this day in Masonic lodges in England, in charge of charity and welfare of the members.”
Sydney repeated the info to the others.
Francesca leaned back in her chair, shaking her head. “How is it I never thought of the Capuchin Crypt?”
To which Griffin said, “You think this is the connection you were looking for?”
“It certainly sounds like it. Your friend is correct. It might be tenuous, but that may very well be why di Sangro chose the Capuchin Crypt. Brilliant, if you think about it. Di Sangro would have picked the Capuchin Crypt for both reasons.”
“How is that?” Griffin asked as Paolo brought their food to them, two large platters, one filled with Swiss chard, the other steaming paper-thin egg noodles, covered with fresh tomato and basil sauce.
“He was excommunicated and imprisoned for a time by the pope for his participation as Grand Master of the Naples lodge, so what better way to nurse a grudge than to choose a location for the next key with a connection to the papacy and to the Masons, almost as if he was thumbing his nose at them.”
Sydney’s mouth watered as the scent of tomato and basil drifted toward her. “We do get to finish eating before we leave for this crypt?”
“Trust me,” Francesca said, as she dished the steaming pasta onto her plate. “You want to eat this before it cools. Besides, at this hour, there is no hurry.” Francesca slid the platter of tagliolini toward Sydney. “Like many places in Italy, the Capuchin Crypt closes for lunch and doesn’t open until three. So eat up. We have a lot of bones to look through when we leave here.”