CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CARDINAL Boeri, Gaspare, and Daria accompanied Gianni when he went to the chapel. He had taken his noon meal with the knights and approved of Vito's recommendations. Between Boeri's men and these men on loan from Count Armand, they would create quite the stir upon arrival in Avignon. But it was wise counsel, on both a safety and a stature front, he believed. With Amidei about, they might suffer an attack at any moment. And arriving with so many knights-at-arms would force the pope to address them as the nobles they were, regardless of their lack of lands or formal position. They had earned the high regard of many, thanks to the nobles of Les Baux and their friends who still held lands and position. And those new friends would join them soon in the center of Christendom, to help them with their cause. What all would transpire between now and then? Gianni mused. He frowned. Just where might they encounter Amidei and those of the dark? A sense of urgency set his heart tripping into a fast beat. What if they could not counteract the damage Amidei was already undoubtedly inflicting? They must not tarry much longer . . . they must be on their way to see through this holy mission, vague as it might be.
They moved through the narrow passageways to the castle's chapel, near the count's quarters. The front of the chapel was fairly new, with a giant rose window of colored glass, set high in the entry apse. Gianni loved to see the light come through at the end of the day as the sun set in the west and sent golden light streaming through, casting it upon the altar as if in benediction.
They had worshipped here together, observed the Hours with Father Piero, prayed before the altar. As was custom in private chapels, the sanctuary was small and narrow, capable of holding no more than thirty people. The tombs of four lords of old had been placed in cruciform fashion, beneath purple marble slabs, the Latin words noting their names and dates of life. Gianni frowned, seeing Piero, Hasani, and the count at the front, with the altar moved to one side. What had transpired?
Hasani saw they had arrived, and excitedly gestured them forward. They formed a circle. On the floor was a curious indentation in the limestone, as if a slab had been cut out, at an angle.
Count Armand looked to Gianni and Daria. “Your priest told me of your glass map, and I asked to see it.”
Gianni raised a brow. “You have more of it?”
“Mayhap. Or something related.” He moved out of the circle and gestured upward to the domed ceilings above. “Castle Les Baux was conquered and destroyed two hundred years ago. It took my ancestors twenty years to gain permission to rebuild, and another fifteen to do so. When they did, they commissioned an architect from Paris to design this chapel, presumably atop the old footings.”
“It is beautiful,” Daria said, obviously aware that the count pointed out the architecture for some deeper reason. They all studied formidable oak beams, hand-painted frescoes of stars in the domes that were to denote the heavenly realms. And newer arches and ribs that met in the Frankish Gothic style.
“Indeed. However, the old servants used to tell my sister and me stories, tales of the older, original chapel that was once hewn deeper and lower into the cliff. And Father, before he died, mentioned the chapel.”
Gianni's hair stood out on the back of his neck. Another hidden chamber?
“When the castle was razed, our family assumed that our sacred relic, a piece of our Lord Jesus' manger, brought back from Palestine by Balthazar, had been stolen. The invaders took everything, allowing my people to take nothing but the clothes upon their backs. But curiously, the holy relic has never reemerged. It is a relic worthy of a grand basilica. So one would assume that it would have emerged ages ago as the pride of some city within Christendom.”
“Even as a stolen article?” Gaspare asked.
“Was not the body of Santo Marco stolen from Alexandria and brought to Venezia?” Piero returned.
“But it has not emerged,” Cardinal Boeri said, stepping forward. “You believe it remains here? Beneath your altar?”
“We shall see,” Count Armand said, waggling his eyebrows. “Beneath our altar has always been a most curious indentation, one that was original to the first chapel, and remains here today.” He moved aside so they might all clearly see it. The indentation was set at a forty-five-degree slope. “Some thought it might be natural to the rock, but see here? It bears a stone mason's mark.” He looked up at them. “When I saw your glass map, I recognized the similar form.”
Count Armand gestured to Hasani, who bent to open the chest that held the glass pieces. Together the men pulled it out, piece by piece, and set it within the indentation.
It was a perfect match, except for one piece at the bottom center. Cardinal Boeri gasped and knelt beside it, crossing himself. “A portion of a vast map formed in antiquity . . .” the cardinal whispered. “Fitting a form hewn centuries later . . .”
“Among my father's things, at the bottom of his trunk,” Armand said, “I found this.” He unwrapped a bundle in the now-familiar waxed fabric they had found the others in.
The Gifted stood in silence as Armand set it in place. They all waited, as if something would occur now that the map was in its apparent place of destiny.
“Now what?” Vito finally voiced. “Aren't the very rocks supposed to cry out or something, Father?”
Father Piero ignored him and nestled his chin in his hand, studying the map. He paced slowly about the sanctuary, studying each crevice, each ledge, each symbol upon the marble floor tiles that marked the kings' final resting places. He returned to the group, where they all waited, shifting from one foot to the other in expectation. “I have no idea,” he said helplessly, arms out in surrender. “Is it merely a sign that we are where we were destined to be? A nod from our Lord?”
The others looked back to him in consternation. Surely there was something more . . . but what? They all set about the chapel, tapping on walls of stone and wood, examining every inch. All except Cardinal Boeri.
“And so the legend is true,” the cardinal said in a low tone, moving toward the altar. “An entire map of Christendom in glass . . . I never knew whether to believe it. And when I heard of your attempts to retrieve the pieces in Venezia, I could see God's own plan unfolding.” He knelt down and touched the lower center portion in reverence.
“What is that?” Piero asked, kneeling beside the cardinal. He pointed to the center of the piece, where an ivory orb had been inserted into the teal glass.
“I know not,” said the cardinal.
“If this is the land mass that forms Italia,” Gaspare said, pointing, “this is out at sea.”
Again, they all stared at it, thinking that something would happen, now that it was all in place. But nothing transpired. No movement, no sound, no enlightenment.
Gianni glanced at Daria, so beautiful, even in her frustration, especially in the warm streaming light that gained strength as the sun set. The light illuminated russet tones in her dark hair not normally visible, and tiny hairs along her cheek and ear. He reached out to touch her and then paused.
She looked at him with a smile of confusion at his odd hesitation, probably wondering if it was because they were surrounded by others. But he was staring at the rose window nestled beneath the roof and the warm light streaming through, moving slowly forward toward them as the sun set.
“Move, all of you,” he grumbled. “Quickly! Stand aside! To the side of the chapel!”
The people all did as he bid, their expressions denoting fear and anger at his demanding tone.
“Look!” he said. “Look to the window!”
They all stared up at the window and down to its stream of light, centered on the rose-colored orb in the middle. It came toward them as a beam from heaven, inching directly toward the glass map, first a Roman foot away, then eating up a finger width at a time.
The hair on the back of Gianni's neck stood on end again. Was that the form of an angel's shoulder in the stream of light? The curve of a head? The bend of an elbow?
Tessa broke through the chapel door, panting as if she had run all the way. Her face was already aglow. “They are here! Here!” she said in a reverent whisper. “Do you see them?
Do you see them?
”
“We see them, child,” Daria whispered. “Come, come beside us,” she said, lifting a hand to gesture the girl forward.
One by one they all fell to their knees, unable to watch as the light beam fell upon the glass, because they could not tear their eyes from the silhouette of God's holy army within the room. It was as if the angels marched back and forth before them, one moment visible, the next moving out of sight, another replacing the last.
“Look,” Tessa said, pointing to the front of the church. “You must look forward.”
The others did as she bid. The sun had hit the glass map and cast a reflection on the far wall, evolving as quickly as the sun moved. They were torn between falling flat upon their faces before the altar and staring, unblinking, at the vision at the back of the chapel. On the back wall was a cross and crucifix, of good quality, but like a hundred others in the region. An emaciated Christ figure hung in death, blood streaming from his wrists and crossed ankles, his rib cage sticking out. But as the beam of light streamed over the angled map and illuminated the back wall, a silhouette of a massive Christ seemed to emerge and grow out from the body, strong and sure, arms outstretched but lower, as if in invitation.
Cardinal Boeri crossed himself and went flat to the floor, with the bishop beside him, but the rest remained upright. As the light continued to move, the image changed. The silhouette of Christ remained, but his arms rose higher and higher, until he held them like a master dominating his realm. Behind the figure was a map of the world. Every continent. Every sea.
“They are singing,” Tessa whispered in wonder. “Do you hear them? It is so beautiful!”
Gianni listened hard, but could hear only the blood thrumming through his ears. His eyes scanned the map. This was clearly for them. What were they to do? Where were they to go? Surely their Lord did not intend for them to try to reach every nation with their message? The task was too big, too daunting. They were but mortals!
“They grow louder,” Tessa whispered again, an edge of fear in her voice.
The rumbling beneath their feet might have been building for some time before they noticed it. Dimly, Gianni heard the screams and shouts of servants and knights outside the chapel. All at once, he became aware of it fully as the ground shook beneath his knees, knocking him down to his arms. He crawled to Daria and covered her with his body, wondering if the ceiling would come down atop them. And then the quake receded.
When he opened his eyes, the light beam was gone, the sun now lower than the cliffs to the west. There were no more angels visible in the room, and to the front of the chapel, no more figure of his Messiah. The front plaster had cracked, massive fissures now visible behind the lonely Christ figure atop his cross.
But then he saw it.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
IT was a doorway, or the edge of one anyway.
“When I asked if the rocks would cry out, it was only in jest,” Vito whispered over his shoulder.
“Call for a stone mason,” Count Armand said, edging near.
“Nay. We must keep this to ourselves,” Father Piero said. “Please. Let the servants know that you are all right, so they do not come seeking you. And tell them the chapel is damaged and no one is to enter until you tell them they may.”
Count Armand, like an altar boy, obediently set off to do as he bid. Piero reached out and placed a hand on the plaster. It pulled off easily. “Quickly, see if you can help me free it,” he directed, eyeing the cardinal. Why did Boeri not seem surprised by this?
The men set to work.
In a short time, they had a narrow entry.
Tessa and Gaspare brought candles near, and Gianni reached for the nearest torches atop the walls, dipping them into the candles' flames and handing one to Father Piero, the other to Hasani. The men disappeared into the narrow crevasse in the wall, warm light inviting the others inward.
Daria gathered her skirt into a bundle so that it would be out of the way and followed them. Directly behind the false back of the chapel was a steep stairwell and then a narrow passageway, which opened up into a shallow but massively tall chapel ceiling.
Vito whistled as he came through, gazing up at towering domes above them, carved out of the limestone. There were three, soaring thirty feet above them, with perfect red Egyptian marble columns. In between were smaller green marble columns, with what he assumed were saints atop them.
“We knew it was here,” Count Armand said, looking upward. He took a torch from Hasani and stepped forward. “All this time . . .” His words broke off as the light caught a gold-gilt altar. Beneath it was a golden box, with seraphim on either side.
They all moved nearer, holding their breath as the count knelt and brushed off centuries of dust from the top. Above him was a fresco of the three kings of old, nearing the manger of the Christ.
He handed the torch back to Hasani and tenderly, reverently opened the box, moving aside the lid guarded by images of God's own. He gestured to Hasani to bring the light closer and then cautiously reached in. He took out a piece of an ancient board, rough-hewn and raw, dark with age. “It is here,” he whispered. “Our Lord Jesus might have touched this, once.”
Slowly they each sank to their knees, overwhelmed.
But the light of the second torch moved behind them, and gradually Daria, Gianni, and Gaspare followed Father Piero's gaze upward. He waited for them. When he had their full attention, he lifted the torch to illuminate the small sculpture atop the first column. It was a soldier, dressed as a Roman of old. But it had Gianni's face. Piero moved to the second, and the others rose from their knees to come closer, no one saying a word. He lifted the torch to the next figure. A patrician woman, with the face of Daria. He stared at her meaningfully, then lowered the torch. On each marble column was the etching of a sixten-pointed star, and across its center, a peacock feather.