Daughter of Ashes, page 16
The bundle was inside his armor, flush against his chest. He pulled it out and spread his fingers wide, presenting it to his audience. It was wrapped in the golden, impalpable fibers of the finest byssus.
At a signal from the tribune, one of the soldiers took the bundle and untied the knot holding it together.
The light from the torches illuminated a small, shapeless piece of wood.
Lusius’s laugh echoed among the stones and marbles of the chamber, down the dead man’s throat, and in the frightened viscera of those who had sacrificed his life.
The tribune unsheathed his sword.
“You will die.”
“So be it.”
Lusius would die, but his death would serve to uncover the true face of the enemy. Others would benefit from the revelation.
The tribune pressed his blade against Lusius’s neck. The centurions pulled at the strings that held his armor together, and let it clatter to the floor.
“Where is the figurine?”
Lusius’s stare pinned the tribune to the full responsibility of what he was about to do.
“She of many names is also known as Amentet, the hidden one. We have been expecting you, and you will not find her.”
The blade pushed into Lusius’s exposed ribs, then drew back, blood gushing in its wake.
Lusius fell to his knees, his eyes rolling up toward the arched, shadowy ceiling to find arcane constellations and godly designs which ordinary men could never comprehend. The mosaics absorbed the warmth of his ebbing life, and took on a bright vermillion hue.
He dragged himself across the floor, fingernails finding purchase on various mysterious figures until he reached the octagonal frame that held the one image he had recognized immediately, and interpreted correctly.
He brought his forehead close to the creature with a white coat and red eyes, handing himself over to death and to the god staring at him through the animal’s dilated pupil. He had one final warning to the men who were responsible for his agony.
“The might of Solomon is nothing against the Hare. And you—you are all powerless.”
25
Twenty-seven years ago
AS SHE LAY IN Sebastiano’s arms that night, feeling more alone than ever after telling him she was pregnant, Teresa realized that there was nothing more that could be done for him. He was made purely of darkness now. She had understood this from his reaction, from the glint of triumph she had glimpsed in his expression. There had been no signs of happiness, no tears of joy. Only smug satisfaction, and a comment that had chilled her to the bone: “You’ll have to skip the exam and devote yourself completely to your new life.”
What kind of new life could he possibly conceive for her, other than one of captivity and submission? And it would have been no different for their child, either.
Control. That was all he wanted. Sebastiano was so fragile that he had begun to fall apart the moment Teresa had set out on a path of her own, carving out increasingly wider swaths of autonomy.
Teresa was no longer the impressionable young woman she’d been at the start of their relationship. She had learned to see beyond his refined mannerisms, to look past the exceptional erudition he liked to flaunt so as not to let anyone glimpse what lay in the depths beneath. And that was something Sebastiano simply could not tolerate.
Whatever steps she took next, she had to be cautious. Sebastiano would rather tear her apart than let her go and admit he had failed.
At dawn, Teresa carefully nudged Sebastiano’s sleeping form away from her own, making sure not to awaken the beast.
She went to headquarters first to pick up her notebook and jot down the report she had been thinking about all night, after Sebastiano had finally fallen asleep and stopped planning her future for her.
Teresa stapled the pages together, still warm from the photocopier. She’d have to make do without the usual cover sheet and binding. She placed the copies inside an envelope and tucked it into her shoulder bag. She stepped out into the corridor and nearly crashed into one of her colleagues.
“Is Superintendent Lona in?”
“I haven’t seen him.”
Teresa looked inside Albert’s office. It was empty and extremely tidy, but his car keys were on his desk.
She stopped another officer.
“Lona?”
“You’re always one step behind, Battaglia. He’s already left.”
Teresa checked the time. It wasn’t even nine o’clock, and she’d been there since seven-thirty. Her colleague seemed to guess what she was thinking.
“While you were busy sleeping, he’s been here all night working on the report for Pace.”
“But the meeting’s in an hour. We’re supposed to go together.”
She did not like the smile on the officer’s face.
“Wake up, Battaglia.”
Teresa felt a sense of foreboding. She ran toward the elevator, but when she saw that it was occupied, she sprinted down the stairs, the sound of laughter following her.
Another trap, another trick. Would she ever be able to shrug off the feeling that she could not trust these men—or any man at all, for that matter? Would the rage she felt ramming against her chest transform her into a different woman, and change her for the worse?
She went to the security cabin and requested a car. The guard didn’t even look up from his logbook.
“Superintendent Lona took it.”
“Then call for another.”
He pushed a sheet of paper toward her through the gap in the screen.
“There was only supposed to be one car. You’re going to have to fill out this form.”
“Fuck the form! I need a car now!”
Teresa couldn’t believe she’d actually shouted. She was even more astonished than the guard. Gasping for air, she scrunched up the form and ran out onto the street, nausea dogging her every step. She rifled through her pockets for some sweets and popped two into her mouth. The sour fruitiness did the trick.
She felt like crying, and cursing, and shouting again. She could call a taxi, but she’d have to retrace her steps to do so, and she had no intention of going back into the office and dealing with her colleagues’ sarcastic remarks.
She hopped onto the first bus that passed, its doors huffing as they opened. She had to change buses twice before she finally managed to reach the courthouse, her stomach roiling from the smells and from the endless stop-starts along the way.
By the time she had climbed up the stairs to the public prosecutor’s office, she was flushed and disheveled. As she pushed the door open, she realized she hadn’t even knocked. Doctor Pace, Albert, and Doctor Parri were all staring at her. Albert was feigning calm. Parri looked concerned. Pace was inscrutable.
“I’m so sorry.”
Elvira the Witch was sitting at her desk, looking even more elegant than usual.
“Is it your tardiness or your manners that you’re apologizing for, Inspector?”
The prosecutor’s tone was brusque, but Teresa thought she detected the hint of a smile in it.
She stepped forward.
“For both, Doctor Pace.”
“Superintendent Lona requested yesterday that the meeting be moved to an earlier time. Were you not warned?”
Albert spoke up.
“I tried to reach Inspector Battaglia several times last night, but I could not get through. I would have left a message, but her answering machine didn’t seem to be on.”
Prosecutor Pace glanced at Teresa, who nodded in confirmation.
She had heard the phone ring as she lay in Sebastiano’s arms. Albert had called nine times before Teresa’s husband had unplugged the telephone. All Teresa could do was silently cry for help, as if the vibrations of her fear could travel through the telephone line and reach whoever was at the other end.
Sebastiano hadn’t touched her, but somehow the calmness in his demeanor had been more terrifying than any form of physical violence, for it had made her wonder what thoughts he must be turning over in his mind.
“It’s true.”
Pace motioned at Teresa to sit on the chair that had been readied for her.
“Perhaps next time you ought to drop by your colleague’s house in person when an appointment with the public prosecutor is moved, Doctor Lona—don’t you think?”
Albert blushed.
“Of course, Doctor Pace.”
Elvira’s gaze flashed toward Teresa.
“Though needless to say, we all hope that will not be necessary.”
In that flash of a look, Teresa saw Pace’s eyes pause on her cheek, where the bruise seemed determined not to fade, and instead turned more purple and more obvious with every passing day. It did not wish to hide, and it refused to be hidden.
Elvira had figured it out. She was telling Albert that he could help Teresa if he wanted to. She was telling Teresa that she could be saved.
Teresa watched her close the folder with the case file.
“Well, I suppose that’s all. You’ll keep me updated. Doctor Lona, do make sure to apprise Doctor Battaglia of what we have discussed.”
Teresa gathered her courage and pulled out the file from her shoulder bag, ignoring Parri’s silent admonition.
“I’d like to submit a report, too, Doctor Pace.”
“I’ve already received a report.”
“I’ve just finished writing it. You will find some considerations on the objective facts of the case, but with some new investigative methods applied—psychological and statistical. Here . . .”
“This is your work?”
“Yes.”
Elvira held out her hand. Teresa gave her the stapled documents and thought of how the prosecutor’s perfumed fingers, laden with rings, would spend the next few hours leaving their mark all over those pages. Prosecutor Pace did not seem to notice the unembellished presentation. Or perhaps she did notice, but didn’t care. She skimmed through the report with rapid efficiency, her brow furrowed.
“Doctor Battaglia.”
“Yes?”
Pace lifted her gaze—but it wasn’t Teresa she was looking at. It was Albert. She kept her eyes fixed on him as she spoke.
“Doctor Battaglia, the contents and conclusions of your report are essentially identical to those Doctor Lona submitted earlier. I was very pleased to read those, and I am impatient to see them applied in the field.”
Teresa was looking at Albert, too, now. Her bewilderment quickly turned to scorn. He had taken her notes and passed them off as his own work. With his back to the wall, and caught in the impasse of a difficult case, Albert had betrayed her, and sacrificed her professional reputation.
Teresa didn’t say another word. She kept staring at him even after Pace handed her report back and got to her feet, followed by the others. Parri leaned toward Teresa.
“I’ll wait for you outside,” he whispered.
The prosecutor said nothing more about the matter. She picked up her bag, mentioned something about needing her second cigarette for the day, and let them know they were dismissed.
The room emptied, but Teresa did not move from her chair.
She only realized she wasn’t alone anymore because Elvira’s perfume preceded her every step. She’d returned.
Elvira came to stand in front of Teresa, the backs of her thighs leaning against the desk. She tapped an unlit cigarette three times against her bag.
“You may have lost today, Teresa, but that doesn’t mean you should just sit there and take it. Remember the rage you’re feeling now: it’ll help you fight any feelings of guilt you might experience when you are the one wielding the power. As I have no doubt you will someday.”
Teresa looked up.
Elvira rifled through her bag and took out some foundation.
“The one you’re wearing now is the wrong shade. It actually brings out the purple more.” She placed the makeup in Teresa’s hand. “Try this one instead. And then get rid of that bastard.”
26
Today
ONCE AGAIN THE CRYPT of the basilica opened up for Massimo, but now it wasn’t Teresa Battaglia standing by his side.
Elena squeezed his hand.
“This is unreal!”
She had tried to keep her voice down to a murmur, but it came out sounding more like a squeak, so much so that the watchman turned around to look. He sat down near the entrance to the crypt and shifted his attention back to his phone. After all, there was nothing much for him to keep an eye on, as the visitors weren’t planning to touch the mosaic floor this time.
Dressed in a white cotton dress that grazed her ankles, Elena shivered, her feet nearly on top of each other.
“Are you cold?”
“It’s not the cold.”
There was something about the way she said it. It was love—love for the past, for the people who had dwelt in it and sung in praise of their god, for the tiles placed there by hardworking hands, and for every trace of color that had remained stubbornly attached to its square of plaster over the course of so many centuries. Massimo encouraged her to step forward.
“It’s all yours.”
Elena lifted her hands in the air.
“Can you feel that wind? An underground current. To keep the relics well-preserved.”
“I don’t really know anything about it, I’m afraid. I don’t have much to say, other than how pretty it is.”
Elena turned around.
“That’s because no one’s ever explained it to you.”
“Why don’t you have a go?”
Elena was standing under a spotlight, her cinnamon-colored hair like a golden veil cascading to her waist.
She stretched out her arm.
“That way lies the Orient, the rising sun. The first light of dawn would filter through the windows and fall upon the faithful. Imagine their awe, the potency of that ritual, the water inside the ellipsoidal baptismal font glittering in the light.”
The font was nothing but a pile of rocks now.
Elena took a few steps forward.
“But the real treasure, Massimo, lies beneath our feet. A path of initiation whose full meaning remains a mystery to this day.”
“A path of initiation?”
“Every figure you see here relates to all the others, and together they compose a majestic vision. These mosaics are in part an iconographic representation of the Pistis Sophia, a Gnostic text written in the Coptic language, and dating back to the third century. The followers of the Gnostic faith were dissident Christians who probably came here from Alexandria to evade the censorship of the Church Fathers. The four volumes of the Pistis Sophia were later understood to form part of a much more extensive Gnostic library, after the discovery in 1945 of the thirteen codices of Nag Hammadi found buried in a jar by two shepherd brothers.”
“What did the codices contain?”
“Revelations. The words Jesus Christ left behind for his apostles in the eleven years he spent with them after his resurrection.”
“After his resurrection? That’s a little alarming.”
“It alarmed orthodox Christians, too. By the fourth century, Christianity had become a religio licita, made legal through edicts issued by Galerius and Constantine. This was before the ecumenical councils, so there were still several different currents within it, many of which—from a doctrinal point of view—were often in conflict with one another. There were those who argued for a simpler faith, fearing that sophistry could lead to cheap heresies. But others were eager to preserve the philosophic and mystic precepts they had also found in Alexandrian Hellenism and in various esoteric, astrologically inclined Egyptian cults. So it was that orthodox Christians, supporters of the Great Church, began persecuting not just pagans, but their own Gnostic brothers, too, whom they quickly labeled ‘heretics.’”
“Were they seen as a threat to the Christian faith?”
“Gnostics were Christians who encouraged the study of philosophy, but also the pursuit of esoteric learning. In their view, it was gnosis, or knowledge, that led one to God—not passive acquiescence to dogma. They did not embrace faith blindly, but sought instead to investigate its mysteries. And what we have here beneath our feet is the path to that knowledge.”
“I can’t see it.”
“Gnosis was all about exploring mysteries. It required serious study, and adherence to a path of initiation that would lead to illumination. You would have to undertake a lengthy catechumenate before you earned the right to be admitted to this chamber.”
Massimo leaned over the balustrade, peering at the figures in search of a trail his thoughts might be able to follow, but he couldn’t find anything, and immediately felt lost.
“Keep going.”
“Alexandria of Egypt had been the cradle of Hellenism, but even that great city was soon aflame. Orthodox Christians began to practice the same persecution they themselves had endured. Numerous intellectuals were excommunicated. Near the end of the fourth century, the library was destroyed. Some years later, the pagan philosopher, astronomer, and mathematician Hypatia was killed and dismembered. Her remains were dragged through the streets. By the second century, the Gnostics had already begun to scatter. They crossed the Mediterranean Sea and reached the port of Aquileia. They were hoping for a new beginning. The Christian community in this imperial city described itself as descending from Alexandria, and had thus always been characterized by an atmosphere of unparalleled intellectual freedom. It was a commingling of peoples and faiths.”
“I guess things didn’t quite go according to plan.”
“We can’t really be sure, but what we do know is that there’s no trace left of them outside of this room.”
“So they were wiped out.”
“Either converted, or exterminated.”
Elena lowered herself to her knees and spread her hands over the transparent walkway.
“The Gnostic is the perfect Christian; through the path to knowledge, he is transfigured into Christ and turns to Light. Returns to Light, in fact, reconnecting with the origin of everything. And this happens not in the afterlife, but right here on earth, on this very plane of existence. Man is Christ. And the path of initiation that believers must undertake in order to rediscover man’s divine lineage and transform into ‘men of light’—gods within God—is laid out right here in front of our eyes.”
