“The wall collapsed,” Stefan explained. “Vibrations from a jackhammer outside. When they saw something inside, that’s when they called me. And that’s when I called Miranda.”
“This was wrapped around the ossuary,” she added, lifting a tangle of crumbling cord from inside the ossuary. Near one end of the cord was an irregular disk of soft gray metal—lead—stamped with what appeared to be tiny likenesses of two men’s heads. I shot a questioning look at her.
Stefan answered. “Those figures are Saint Peter and Saint Paul. That’s a papal seal.”
“You’re saying those bones were put there by one of the popes?” He nodded. “Why would a pope seal up a skeleton and hide it in a wall?” I asked. “Was this a rival? Somebody he killed to get the papal crown?”
“Non. Not if the inscription is true.”
“Inscription?”
He pointed, and for the first time I noticed a flat, rectangular panel propped against one end of the ossuary. It was the lid, made of the same pale, soft stone as the box. Miranda hoisted it from the floor and laid it at one end of the table.
Two images were chiseled into the lid—images that sent chills up my middle-aged, incipiently arthritic spine. One was a lamb. The other was a cross.
Suddenly all the secrecy and skittishness made sense. This would be the find of the century—no, this would be the greatest archaeological find of all time—if these were indeed the bones of the Lamb of God, the crucified Christ.
“So,” he said, “perhaps you can understand why we didn’t want to tell you over the phone, or by e-mail. Too big. Too risky. And now that you know, you have a choice. Do you want to stay and help us study it, help us figure out if the inscription is true? Help us figure out if it’s Jesus?” Something about the way he put it—“help us”—hit a nerve. I wrote it off as jet lag, until he added, “You could be third author on our publications.” Third author? That was a role to which only first-year graduate students aspired. And the phrase “our publications” implied a cozy possessiveness on Stefan’s part—not just of the bones, but also of Miranda—that I didn’t like. I opened my mouth to say no, but Miranda didn’t give me time.
“Come on, Dr. B,” she coaxed, “say yes. It’s the chance of a lifetime. And there’s nobody in the world who’s better qualified to examine these bones than you.” I hesitated, but then Miranda gave me a pleading smile and clasped her hands, beseeching, and my resistance crumbled. Oh, what the hell, why not? I thought. You’ve come all this way, and it’s an interesting question. What finally tipped the scales was another thought that hit me out of the blue. And maybe it’s not a bad idea to hang out here till Rocky Stone rounds up those drug runners.
“I’d have to be back in Tennessee in a week,” I said. “Two, at the most.” Miranda beamed and bowed gratefully; Stefan smiled thinly.
“No problem,” he said. “I’m sure Miranda and I can finish everything after you go home.”
Suddenly he froze, holding a finger to his lips for silence and laying his other hand on Miranda’s arm. He turned toward the staircase, listening intently, and I strained to hear what had alarmed him. At first I heard nothing, but then came the faint clatter of metal on metal: a padlock rattling as it was inspected and tugged? the upper gate shifting from an exploratory shove? At that moment the room went pitch-black. Miranda gasped, and Stefan gave a low sshh. In the darkness, I felt a hand—Miranda’s hand—clutch mine. Finally, after an intense, interminable silence, I heard the rhythmic thud of footsteps.
Or was it the pounding of my heart?
Footsteps, I hoped, because soon the sound faded away.
“YOU REALLY THINK SOMEONE WAS TRYING TO GET IN?” I asked as we made our way up the dark, uneven stairs by flashlight. “Maybe it was just one of the guards. Turning out the lights because he thought nobody was using them.”
“Guards,” Stefan scoffed. “What guards? There is one guard on duty, at the main gate. His job is to keep tourists from sneaking in without buying tickets.”
“Okay, who has access to this part of the palace?”
“Dozens of people,” he fretted as he reached through the gate and fumbled to open the padlock. “Maintenance workers. Tour guides. Docents. But it’s dark and dirty down here, so everybody avoids it.” Finally I heard the lock click open.
“Almost everybody,” I corrected. “So who knows what’s in the treasure room?”
He shook his head, then pushed the iron grille open. “Nobody, really. Just the three of us. My boss—a petty bureaucrat—knows I found some bones, but he has no idea how important they are. And he’s not inquisitive.”