The Last Cato (19 page)

“After the Roman Empire disappeared, Sicily was captured by the Goths. In the sixth century, Emperor Justinian, the same one who had the fort built around the Monastery of Saint Catherine of Sinai, commanded General Belisario to retake the island for the Byzantine Empire. The moment the troops from Constantinople arrived in Syracuse, do you know what they did? They built a temple in the place where the saint was martyred. And that temple—”

“I’m familiar with it.”

“—is still standing today after many restorations over the centuries, of course.” Farag was unstoppable. “But the old Saint Lucia Church’s greatest attraction is located in its catacombs.”

“Catacombs? I had no idea there were catacombs under the church.”

Our car had just sped onto Highway 19. The sun began to set.

“Remarkable catacombs from the third century. Some of the main sections have hardly been examined. They were extended and modified during the Byzantine period, when there were no longer any persecutions and Christianity was the faith of the empire. Unfortunately they are only open to the public during the celebrations of Saint Lucia, from December 13 to the 20th, and, even then, the access isn’t open to all of them. There are several floors and galleries left to explore.”

“So how are we going to get in?”

“Maybe we won’t have to. We don’t actually know what we’ll find. We don’t know what we’re looking for, the way we did in Saint Catherine of Sinai. We’ll look around and then decide. Maybe we’ll get lucky.”

“I refuse to gird myself with rushes and wash my face with the dew from the grass of Ortygia.”

“Don’t be so stubborn,” Glauser-Röist’s angry voice reverberated. “That is, indeed, the first thing we’ll do when we get there. In case it hasn’t occurred to you, if indeed we are right, we’ll be completely immersed in the Staurofilakes’ initiation process before nightfall.”

I kept my lips zipped the rest of the way.

I
t was late when we arrived in Syracuse. I was afraid the Swiss Rock would want to descend right then into the catacombs. Thank God, he drove across the city, directly to the island of Ortygia, at whose center, a short way from the famous Aretusa Fountain, was the archbishopric.

The church of the duomo was quite beautiful despite its unique blend of architectural styles piled on top of one another over the centuries. Its huge baroque façade had six enormous white columns and an upper vaulted niche with an image of Saint Lucia. But we didn’t go in. We parked the car in front of the church and followed Glauser-Röist on foot, headed for the nearby archbishopric, where His Excellency Monsignor Giuseppe Arena received us in person.

That night we were feted by the archbishop with an exquisite dinner. After chatting about matters concerning the archdiocese and paying a very special tribute to our pontiff, who would turn eighty that next Wednesday, we retired to our rooms.

At four in the morning, with not one lousy ray of sunlight entering the window, I was snatched from a deep sleep by loud knocks on the door. It was the captain, ready to get started. I heard him knocking on Farag’s door as well. Half an hour later, we were all in the dining room, eating a big breakfast served by a Dominican nun. As usual, the captain was his alert and ready self, while Farag and I could barely utter a few words. We wandered around the dining room like zombies, bumping into chairs and tables. There was absolute silence in the building, broken only by the nun’s soft steps. After a few sips of coffee, my brain began to process information again.

“Ready?” asked the imperturbable Swiss Rock, setting down his napkin.

“I’m not,” mumbled Farag, grabbing hold of his coffee cup the way a sailor grabs the mast of a ship during a storm.

“I don’t think I’m ready either,” I answered with a conspiratory look.

“Good, I’ll go get the car, and I’ll pick you up in five minutes.”

“Okay, but I don’t think I’ll be here,” warned the professor.

I laughed as Glauser-Röist left the dining room, oblivious to us.

“That man is impossible,” I said as I noticed that Farag hadn’t shaved that morning.

“We’d better hurry. He’s capable of leaving without us. What can you and I do in Syracuse at five o’clock on a Monday morning?”

“Catch a plane and go home,” I said, determined, as I got to my feet.

It wasn’t cold outside. The weather was springlike, although humid and with a stiff breeze that ruffled my skirt. We got into the Volvo and drove all the way around the plaza, then down a street that led us directly to the port. We parked and walked to the end of the road to a spot where, by the light of the streetlights, you could make out very fine, white sand and where, of course, there were hundreds of rushes. The Rock carried with him a copy of the
Divine Comedy.

“Professor, Doctor…,” he murmured, visibly moved by the moment. “It’s time to start.”

He set the book down on the sand and headed for the rushes. With a reverent gesture, he passed his hands over the grass and wiped his face with the dew. Then, he yanked out the tallest of those flexible stems, pulled his shirttail out of his slacks, and tied it around his waist.

“Okay, Ottavia,” Farag whispered, “it’s our turn.”

The professor marched over and repeated the process. Wet with dew, his face took on a special glow, as if he were in the presence of the divine. I felt troubled, uncertain. I had doubts about what we were doing, but I had no choice but to follow their lead; any rejection on my part would be ridiculed. I set my shoes in the sand and walked over to them, brushing my palms over the grass and then rubbing them on my face. The dew was cool, and it woke me up and left me lucid and full of energy. Then, I chose the rush that looked the greenest and prettiest, and tore it at the root, hoping it would some day grow back. I raised the hem of my sweater and held the plant against my waist, above my skirt. I was surprised by how delicate it felt. Its fibers were so elastic that I was able to easily tie it around my waist.

We had completed the first part of the ritual. Now we needed to know if it had served any purpose. If we were lucky, I told myself, trying to be calm, nobody had seen us. Back in the car, we left the island of Ortygia by the bridge and got on Avenue Umberto I. The city was beginning to stir. You could see lights lit in apartment windows and the traffic was already getting snarled. A few hours later it would be as chaotic as in Palermo, especially around the port. The captain turned right and headed toward the Via dell’Arsenale. Suddenly, he seemed surprised by what he saw.

“Do you know what this street is called? Via Dante. Isn’t that strange?”

“In Italy, Captain, every city has a Via Dante,” I replied, trying not to laugh. Farag’s laughter, however, clearly pierced the morning air.

We arrived at the Plaza of Saint Lucia next to the soccer stadium, in no time. Instead of a plaza, it was an ordinary street that circumvented the rectangular church. Adjacent to the solid, white stone building and its modest three-story bell tower was a very small octagonal baptistery. Despite the Norman reconstruction of the twelfth century and the Renaissance rosette on its facade, this building was as Byzantine as Constantine the Great himself.

A man of about sixty, dressed in old trousers and a worn jacket, paced the sidewalk in front of the church. When he saw us get out of the car, he stopped and looked us over carefully. He had beautiful, thick gray hair and a small face covered with wrinkles. From the opposite side of the street, he waved his arm high over his head and broke into an agile run toward us.

“Captain Glaser-Ro?”

“Yes, that’s me,” the Rock said amiably, not correcting him and squeezing his hand. “These are my companions, Professor Boswell and Dr. Salina.”

The captain had a small canvas backpack slung over his shoulder.

“Salina?” the man smiled amiably. “That’s a Sicilian name, not from Syracuse. Are you from Palermo?”

“Yes, I am.”

“Ah, I knew it! Well, come with me, please. His Excellency the archbishop called last night to advise of your visit. This way.”

With an unexpectedly protective gesture, Farag took me by the arm until we reached the sidewalk.

The sacristan stuck an enormous key into the church’s wood door and pushed it open, without entering. “His Excellency the archbishop asked us to leave you alone, until seven o’clock Mass. Our patron’s church is all yours. Go on in. I’m going back home to have breakfast. If you need anything, I live over there.” He pointed to the second floor of an old stucco building. “Aye, I almost forgot! Captain Glaser-Ro, the fuse box is on the right, and here are the keys to the entire place, including the chapel of the tomb and the baptistery next to it. Be sure to visit it, because it’s really special. Well, so long. At seven o’clock sharp I’ll come by to get you.” He took off running back across the street. It was 5:30 a.m.

“Well, what are we waiting for? Doctor, you first.”

The temple was completely dark, except for some overhead emergency lights. No light was coming in yet through the rosette or the large windows. The captain flipped the switches, and suddenly, electric lights hanging from the ceiling on long cables cast a diaphanous glow over everything. There were three richly decorated naves separated by pilasters, and a wood-trimmed caisson ceiling bearing the shields of the Spanish kings of Aragon who governed Sicily in the fourteenth century. Under a triumphal arch, there was a crucifix painted in the twelfth or thirteenth century and another one at the back from the Renaissance. On a magnificent silver pedestal was the processional image of Saint Lucia, with a sword sticking through her neck. In her right hand was a glass holding her pair of spare eyes.

“The church is ours.” The Rock’s voice sounded like a thunderclap inside a cave. The acoustics were fabulous. “Let’s look for the entrance to Purgatory.”

It was much colder inside than on the street, as if a current of frozen air bubbled out of the ground. I walked down the central corridor toward the altar. I felt an urgent need to kneel before the shrine and pray for a few moments. My head sunk between my shoulders, I covered my face with my hands and tried to reflect on all the strange things that had happened to me in the last several weeks. In just over a month, I had completely lost control of my once ordered life. In the last week, the situation had run even more amuck. Nothing was the same. I begged God to pardon me for having abandoned him, and with a desolate heart, I begged him to be merciful with my father and my brother. I also prayed that my mother find the strength she needed in these terrible times, and for the rest of my family. My eyes filled with tears, I crossed myself and stood up. Farag and the captain were examining the lateral naves. I walked up to the presbytery and looked at the red granite column. According to tradition, the saint lay there, dying from her wounds. Over the centuries the hands of the faithful had polished the stone. Its importance as an object of adoration was clear by how often this symbol was repeated on the church’s decoration. Her eyes were depicted to the point of overkill. Hanging everywhere were hundreds of those strange ex-votos in the shape of small loaves of bread. They were called “Saint Lucia’s eyes.”

When we finished exploring the church, we headed down a narrow stairway that took us to the chapel of the sepulchre. Both buildings were connected by an underground tunnel carved out from solid rock. The octagonal baptistery contained the rectangular niche, or loculus, where the saint was buried after she was martyred. The truth is, her body wasn’t in Syracuse, nor in Sicily. When Lucia died, her remains traveled halfway around the world and came to rest in San Jeremiah Church in Venice. In the eleventh century, the Byzantine general Maniace took them to Constantinople, where they were venerated until 1204. In that year, the Venetians brought them back to Italy for good. The people of Syracuse had to resign themselves to honoring an empty grave that was wonderfully decorated with a beautiful wood painting placed on an altar. Below that was a marble sculpture by Gregorio Tedeschi representing the saint at the moment of her funeral.

That was the end of our visit to the church. We had seen everything and examined it all in great detail. There was nothing strange or significant to connect it to Dante or the Staurofilakes.

“Let’s recap,” the captain proposed. “What caught your attention?”

“Absolutely nothing,” I said, very convinced.

“So,” declared Farag, pushing up his glasses, “we have only one option.”

“That’s exactly what I’m thinking,” the Swiss Rock observed, as he went back down the corridor that led to the church.

Thus, against my deepest wishes, we descended into the catacombs.

According to the sign by the door, the catacombs of Saint Lucia were closed to the public. If anyone was curious, the poster added, he could visit the nearby catacombs of Saint Giovanni. Terrible images of earthquakes and cave-ins flashed before my eyes but I brushed them aside. Using one of the keys the sacristan had given him, the captain opened the door and squeezed himself inside.

Contrary to popular belief, the catacombs didn’t serve as a refuge for the Christians in time of persecutions. To begin with, the persecutions were very brief and very limited in time. In the middle of the second century, the first Christians started to buy land to bury their dead, because they were against the pagan practice of cremation, believing in the resurrection of their bodies on Judgment Day. In fact, they didn’t call these underground cemeteries
catacombs,
the Greek word meaning “cavity.” They called them
koimeteria,
“bedrooms”—from which we get the term
cemetery.
They believed they would simply sleep until the resurrection of the flesh. Since they needed more and more space, the galleries of the
koimeteria
grew underground in every direction, becoming true labyrinths up to several kilometers long.