Soon I forgot sumptuous surroundings; all my attention was riveted on Giotto’s paintings, especially a series of frescoes in a jewel box of a chapel in Padua, Italy. The chapel, belonging to the wealthy Scrovegni family, couldn’t have held a hundred people, but every square inch of the walls was covered with frescoes—more than fifty of them—depicting themes and scenes from the Bible, including numerous episodes in the lives of Mary and Jesus. The images were overwhelming in their number and richness; the little church reminded me of the Sistine Chapel, except that the paintings were smaller and closer to eye level. What refined and devout people the Scrovegnis must have been to commission such glorious art.
Finally I looked up from the paintings, rubbed my eyes, and then flipped to the index. I ran my eyes down the A section, toward the bottom, to see which pages featured Giotto’s Avignon paintings. I found no entry for Avignon. Puzzled, I lugged the book downstairs to the reference desk and showed the index to Philippe. “There’s nothing in this book about Avignon. Do you have another book on Giotto? One that shows what he painted while he was here?”
“Here?” He looked puzzled.
“Yes, here. In Avignon. This city.” I smiled. He frowned. “Pope Clement the Fifth brought him here,” I explained, proud of my knowledge. “He painted beautiful pictures and frescoes here, then he went back to Florence, more famous and beloved than ever.”
His frown deepened. “Monsieur Giotto did not paint here. He never even visited here.”
“But he did. I read it in an art history book.”
“What book?”
“The Lives of the Artists. By…Vasari?”
“Ah, oui, Vasari.” He laughed. “He just made up that stuff about Avignon.”
“What?”
“Yeah, it’s pure fiction. Vasari does that all the time. He tells great stories about famous painters and poets, but half of them are made up. Invented.”
This was a twist I hadn’t expected—another wrinkle in the Shroud, or at least in my theory that the Avignon bones were intimately tied to the Turin Shroud. I thanked him and began walking away, disappointed. Then a thought occurred to me, and I turned back toward Philippe. “Are there any famous fresco painters who did come to Avignon?”
“Ah, oui. The one who did the beautiful frescoes in the Palais des Papes. He is the neighbor of Giotto.”
“Excuse me?”
“Come.” I followed him to the oversized art books again, and he led me once more to the G section. “You are finished with Giotto?” I handed him the tome, and he tucked it into its slot on the shelf, but not before sliding out an adjacent volume, a much slimmer one. I noticed the word “Avignon” in the book’s title—an encouraging sign. “See,” Philippe said, smiling. “Giovanetti. Giotto’s closest neighbor on the bookshelf.” He translated the title for me: “An Italian Painter at the Court of Avignon.”
“Sounds perfect. I’ll take it.”
I returned to my window nook on the mezzanine and buried myself in the book. Most of the images showed frescoes in the papal palace—frescoes I hadn’t seen, since my forays had been confined to the subtreasury and the dark staircases leading to it. Giovanetti and his apprentices had painted three chapels in the palace, as well as the pope’s private study. Unlike the religious murals in the chapels, those in the pope’s private study showed scenes of French country life: a stag hunt, the deer portrayed at the very moment it was caught by the hounds; a rectangular pool where men fished with nets and with lines; a pair of gentlemen hunting with falcons. Despite the passage of nearly seven centuries—and obvious signs of damage—the frescoes remained vibrant. But were they the work of the same hand that had created the Shroud? I studied the faces, looking for similarities in features or style. But just as with the image on the Shroud itself, the harder I looked, the less I could see with certainty.
Immersed in art and uncertainty, I was slow to notice the electronic warble reverberating through the cavernous stone chamber. Someone’s cell phone was ringing. Frowning, I scanned the balcony and the reading room for the culprit; that’s when I noticed several faces frowning at me. I was the culprit. Embarrassed, I scurried to the staircase and checked the display; it read Tennessee Bureau of Investigation. “Hello, this is Bill Brockton,” I said in a low voice that I hoped would carry through the phone but not throughout the stone building.
“Dr. Brockton? Is that you? I can barely hear you.”
“Yes, it’s me,” I said, a bit louder, cupping my hand around the phone to muffle the sound, which tended to echo in the stone stairwell.
“Doc, it’s Steve Morgan at the TBI.”
“Steve. How are you? I hope you’re calling to say that the TBI and the DEA have rounded up that whole drug ring. I know Rocky was hot on the heels of one of them in Amsterdam.” The phone fell silent. “Steve? Did I lose you?”
“No. No, I’m here. I hate to say it, but I’ve got bad news, Doc.”
“What’s wrong? Are you okay?”
“Yeah, I’m okay. It’s not me; it’s Rocky. He…he was killed last night, Doc.”
“What?”
“In Amsterdam,” he went on. “Morales, the guy Rocky tracked to Amsterdam? He and Rocky shot each other. Both dead.”
I sat down on the stairs. “Oh, God,” I said. “You’re sure?”
“Yeah. I’ve got photos from the scene.”
“Damn it. Damn it. Does his wife know yet?”