“Not to worry,” Chandler said, winking. “When the time comes, I’ll get the docent’s attention. You just get Aurelius here to tell me when you need to disappear.”
“It’ll be around here,” Jonathan said, pointing at the map. “When the tour enters the octagonal room, the crowd will be gathered in a circle, and Chandler, that’ll be your cue to get the guard’s attention.”
“Welcome to the Domus Aurea! Nero’s Golden Fantasia!” said the tour guide, a pretty Italian graduate student with the ebullient tone of a kindergarten teacher. She began stepping back. “ ‘
Roma domus fiet!
’ ‘Rome is all one big house!’ said one ancient historian in describing the grand corridors we are about to explore together!”
The tour moved deeper underground through barrel vaults. The guide pointed upward at circular holes high in the ancient ceilings.
“That’s where Renaissance artists first roped down to discover this ancient ruin. Some of the sixteenth century’s most famous Roman artists wrote their names in black candle ash in order to trace their way back through the corridors to avoid getting lost!”
The tour group cooed as the guide pointed out various names, Cara vaggio and Raphael among them, scrawled across the ceiling.
Emili remembered seeing the Domus excavations as a graduate student, before it was opened to the public. She could picture where the scaffolding was, where the makeshift excavation tables were set up with maps of the sprawling ruin. Now, everything looked quite polished. Frosted-glass sheets depicted the construction of Nero’s golden palace with three-dimensional blueprints. Emili’s trained eye never ceased to be impressed by the more subtle aspects of the ancient corridor’s state of eerie preservation: a piece of crystalline marble still shining inside a brick wall, a vivid wall stucco illustrating Achilles in mid-battle.
“And here,” the tour guide said, projecting her voice louder to emphasize the location’s importance. “Here we have come to the grand octagonal room. You can tell from the arched vault that this was probably an ivory ceiling that would shed flowers and perfumes on its dinner guests.”
Jonathan nodded to Chandler.
“Or,” Chandler exclaimed, “it may have been an
orgiastica
room created for royal bathing and marathon sexual practices.”
“Excuse me?” the guide said.
“Oh, let’s not be skittish here. Nero’s dinner parties weren’t exactly rated PG-thirteen, were they? C’mon, we’re all grown-ups here!” Chandler stepped into the middle of the circle. “Rose petals would fall down from the ceiling onto rotating couches! Safe bet it wasn’t just to encourage conversation.” He pointed at an ancient mural of a nude man surrounded by three women. “And that’s a picture of the mythical god Priapus. You know, as in call your doctor after four hours? It’s called priapism for a reason, people!” The guide looked mortified as the entire tour turned toward him, and Chandler—as was his talent—became an instant spectacle, regaling the crowd with off-color legends of Nero’s nightlife.
“This way,” Jonathan whispered, leading Emili around the tour group along the perimeter of the octagonal room. He edged closer to one of the arches that led off into the darkness and, with Emili by his side, stepped backward. In a single moment they were cloaked in darkness. They waited a moment to make certain their disappearance was not noticed.
They were too close to the group to use their flashlights, and Jonathan felt Emili’s warmth close to him. The back of their hands brushed against each other as they moved backward, and the unexpected softness of her skin reminded Jonathan it was the first time they touched since his return to Rome. In the half-light of a park grate overhead, Jonathan noticed Emili was not looking at the walls but at him, as though he, too, were a fresco of the Domus Aurea and buried under the sludge of many years, something vibrant and pristine had been revealed. She smiled, slipping her hand into his.
“We have a lot of ground to cover,” she said, gently squeezing his fingers. “Let’s go.”
43
A
s a row of carabinieri sedans climbed the Esquiline Hill, Profeta could see the Colosseum at the foot of its western slope.
“Quite a view,” Brandisi said to Profeta in the backseat.
“Something Nero took into account when building his palace on the hill,” Profeta said.
At the end of the Via Eudossiana, the carabinieri cars slowed as they passed a fifteenth-century monastery, adjacent to San Pietro in Vincoli, the church of Saint Peter in Chains. Built originally to house monks, the building now contained the faculty of engineering of the University of La Sapienza. A banner hanging between two sixteenth-century columns welcomed engineering professors to an annual robotics conference. At the entrance to the old monastery court, students sat outside on the steps, smoking as they enjoyed a short break from the rain.
The carabinieri cars pulled in front of the two-story façade of Saint Peter in Chains. Even by Roman standards, the church exuded a deceptive obscurity, sitting at the northern end of an unadorned piazza that had been transformed to a neighborhood parking lot. But Profeta knew the façade was misleading. Behind its unassuming wrought-iron gate and Ionic columns were some of Christendom’s most remarkable treasures. Under the main altar in a reliquary of gold and rock crystal lay the ancient chains that bound Saint Peter in Jerusalem, as recorded in the Acts of the Apostles.
“The church’s evacuation is nearly complete,” Rufio said, meeting Profeta and Brandisi as they stepped out of the car. “I was on Janiculum Hill when I received Brandisi’s message to have the church evacuated. We had a false sighting of Dr. Travia.”
A stream of tourists funneled out of the church like refugees. A policeman argued with a gelato vendor to move his van from the piazza. The vendor’s furor was audible from across the piazza as he stabbed at the permit he wore around his neck as if it were a war medal.
By the time Profeta stepped inside, all the tourists had exited the church. The long rectangular shape of the church had few windows, and even during the summer months, the interior was dark. Twenty-four columns converged on a single point, where the chains of Saint Peter lay in a brass
confessionale
beneath the altar. Profeta’s trained eye recognized the ancient marble seat on top of the altar as being from a toilet-bath in ancient Rome, but he knew to say nothing, as the seat was now converted to an episcopal throne over the chains of Saint Peter.
Profeta stood in the middle of the aisle.
“Comandante,”
the church rector said from the far side of the aisle, “Father Zicino is ready to receive you.”
Profeta walked through a small black door to a sconce-lit sacristy. He passed the stored vestments of the priests and attendants and descended a dim hallway lined with portraits of the Renaissance-era priests of San Pietro in Vincoli, among them Francesco della Rovere, who eventually rose to the papacy from this very office. Profeta stepped through a wooden door to find a middle-aged man, more athletic-looking than he had expected. Father Zicino was approaching fifty, still with many years before him to rise politically within the Curia. The priest sat at his desk with a large cross on the wall behind him. His face was clean-shaven beneath well-groomed black hair with gray forelocks. Saint Peter in Chains was an important parish, and Profeta could decipher from Father Zicino’s immaculate office that he was an efficient man. He gestured for Profeta to sit down. He seemed at ease, as though evacuating his church were an everyday occurrence.
“Yes,
Comandante
, how may we help you?”
“My apologies for the disruption, Father,” Profeta said. “We have reason to think your reliquaries could be in danger.”
“
Comandante
, this church has been the custodian of some of Christendom’s most valuable belongings for more than one thousand years. The chains of Saint Peter have been safe here since the early fifth century, when Empress Eudossiana placed them here, after her journeys in Jerusalem. They are behind half a foot of plate glass.”
“Has there been any restoration or any construction here in the church’s sanctuary?”
“Two years ago, the restoration of
Moses
.”
Profeta knew of the restoration of the church’s main attraction. Michelangelo’s
Moses
, which sat in the church’s southern transept as part of Julius II’s unfinished tomb.
The Italian company Lottomatica had financed the cleaning of Michelangelo’s statue.
Another corporate effort.
Profeta was unsure how the Renaissance master would feel about the restoration of his statue becoming a publicity stunt by one of the largest manufacturers of casino gaming equipment.
“And no construction beneath the church?”
“Not beneath the church, no.” He paused for a moment. “Although the faculty of engineering has been conducting significant renovations along their eastern wing, the vibrations at times feel as though they are beneath this very church.”
Profeta looked up from his notepad, and nodded to Brandisi, who slipped out the door. Profeta turned back toward the priest. “May I see the sanctuary again, Father?”
They walked down the aisle, just the two of them. In the church’s dim interior, the beams of Profeta’s officers’ flashlights crisscrossed as they searched inside each transept for unmarked knapsacks or other potentially dangerous objects.
Father Zicino pointed at the transept where Michelangelo’s
Moses
sat in relative darkness. During the day, tourists lined up in front of a small coin box and for one euro could activate a spotlight above the masterpiece for thirty seconds. But in the now empty church, in a dark transept outside the basilica’s central nave, the statue appeared forgotten.
“He is a little large to steal, don’t you think?” Father Zicino smiled.
Profeta turned from the statue and stared at the front of the sanctuary.
“What is below the altar?”
“Warriors,
Comandante
.”
“Warriors?” Profeta repeated, looking around. “I thought the only graves here are the tombs of prior cardinals of this church.”
“Oh, no,
Comandante
, beneath the altar is the exception. The Maccabees’ graves,” Father Zicino said.
Profeta stopped walking. “Maccabees?”
“Yes, in 1876, a restoration discovered Maccabee graves beneath the altar. The inscriptions revealed that in the sixth century, Pope Pelagius brought the seven Maccabee brothers to be reinterred here. The location of the Maccabees’ graves beneath us is largely unknown, but we think their presence makes this church a fitting location for the tomb of Julius the Second, a man known as—”
“The warrior pope,” Profeta said. He knew Julius II tried to gain support for a Fourth Crusade to search for reliquaries in Jerusalem.
“Yes,
Comandante
,” the priest said through an apologetic smile, “Julius the Second was known for his
courage
, although some would say violence. He was a great admirer of the Maccabees as defenders of Jerusalem.”
Profeta was silent a moment. “Josephus,” he finally said.
“I’m sorry?”
“The first-century historian Josephus. He descended from Maccabean heritage—”
A junior officer interrupted, his rapid boot steps echoing down the aisle. He whispered in Profeta’s ear.
Profeta turned to Father Zicino. “I’m afraid my men will need to go beneath the altar, Father.”
“
Comandante,
I can’t simply open th—”
“This church is in immediate danger,” Profeta said. “Those vibrations you heard are not from next door.”
“But we received notice from the engineering school,” Father Zicino said, revealing his administrator’s soul.
“Those vibrations are from beneath your church.”
“How can you be certain?”
“My men just went over to inquire, Father. There are no renovations next door.”
The priest escorted Profeta down a half-flight of steps to the well beneath the altar. He removed a decorative leather box from his frock and set it on the small table, where votive candles burned. From the leather box, he removed a key that resembled a fairy-tale prop. The key rattled inside the small grate’s lock and the ratchet bolt groaned but stopped short. One of the church’s maintenance staff appeared with metal lubricant and, throwing his weight into pulling the grate’s metal lever down, got the lock to drop open.
Profeta studied the square-sized open hatch beneath the marble altar, ducking his head inside. His voice echoed from within. “It’s massive in here,” Profeta said. Rufio crouched beside him, shining his flashlight into the black air beneath the tomb. A narrow brick staircase seemed to descend into infinity.
Profeta went first, balancing himself against the wall of the stairs as he started down. His flashlight beam revealed an underground chamber hewed with ornate stone columns into the walls. Seven sarcophagi lay inside the room, each one carved with scenes of battle.
“The remains of the Maccabee brothers,” Profeta said.
On the far side of the chamber, Profeta noticed some fresh rubble. A crude opening had been hacked through the bare rock. Profeta shined his light into the space. A massive tunnel stretched into the darkness.
“This tunnel is enormous,” Rufio said. “It’s large enough for—”
“An emperor’s palace,” Profeta said. “These tunnels were here long before the church was built on top of it. We’re standing in Nero’s palace, the Domus Aurea.”
44
J
onathan cupped his palm over his flashlight to diminish its glare, just in case the tour group could see its glow in the corridor.
The ground steepened and Emili braced herself against the rock walls as they moved down the portico.
“Watch your feet; the rock is slippery,” Jonathan said.
Emili’s gray slacks couldn’t have been more inappropriate for spelunking, but she was glad they were wool. The corridors of the Domus Aurea were ten degrees cooler than the surface temperature of Rome.