The Last Cato (4 page)

“Solve any problem you may have and access all the information on any topic you wish.”

And that’s how we left it.

I
started by examining the photographs. There were a lot of them— thirty, to be exact. They were in the chronological order of the autopsy, from start to finish. After a quick once-over, I chose the ones where I could see the entire body spread out on the metal table in the positions of dorsal and prone decubitus (face up and facedown). At first glance, what stood out was the fracture of the pelvic bones, the very unnatural arch of the legs, and a huge lesion in the right parietal area of the cranium that had left the gray gelatin of the brain exposed amid slivers of bone. I found the rest of the images useless. The body probably had a number of internal lesions that I had no way to evaluate; nor did I think they were relevant to my work. But I did notice that—most likely due to the accident—the man had bitten through his own tongue.

That man could never have passed for anything but what he was: Ethiopian. Like most Ethiopians, he was very thin and reedy, with gaunt, fibrous flesh. His extremely dark skin pigmentation was striking. The planes of his face were definitive proof of his Abyssinian origin: very pronounced high cheekbones, sunken cheeks, broad knobby forehead, thick lips, and narrow nose. His large black eyes were open in the photographs, and this really caught my attention. A nearly Greek profile. Before they had cleaned up the section of the head that remained intact, his hair had been matted down, tightly curled, rather dirty, and bloodstained. After he was shaved you could clearly see a fine scar in the shape of the uppercase Greek letter sigma
(Σ)
in the very center of his skull.

That morning I studied the terrible images over and over, reviewing any detail that seemed significant. The scarifications stood out like highways on a map, some disgustingly fleshy and thick and others nearly imperceptible, some fine as silk threads. Without exception, all were rose-colored, even reddish in spots, which gave them the repulsive look of grafts of white skin onto black. By midafternoon I had stomach cramps, I was light-headed, and the table was covered with notes and sketches of the deceased’s scarifications.

I found another six Greek letters distributed over the body: a tau
(T)
on the biceps of the right arm; an upsilon
(Y)
on the left arm; an alpha
(A)
in the center of the chest over the heart; a rho
(P)
on the abdomen; an omicron
(O)
on the quadriceps of the right thigh; and another sigma
(Σ)
on the same spot on the left thigh. Right below the alpha and above the rho in the lung and stomach area could be seen a large chrismon, a very common monogram in the tympana and altars of medieval churches. The two first Greek letters of Christ’s name,
XP
—chi and rho—were superimposed onto it.

This chrismon, however, had a very peculiar variation: a horizontal bar had been added, giving the symbol the added appearance of a cross. The rest of the body, except the hands, feet, buttocks, neck, and face, was covered with the most original-looking crosses I’d ever seen in my life.

Captain Glauser-Röist sat for long stretches in front of the computer, typing mysterious instructions without taking a break. From time to time, he came up behind my chair and stood there in silence, studying the evolution of my analysis. I was startled when, out of the blue, he asked if it would help to have a life-size drawing of the human body so I could record the scars. Before answering I moved my head in exaggerated nods and shakes to relieve the pain in my neck.

“That’s a good idea. Captain, how much are you authorized to tell me about this poor man? Monsignor Tournier mentioned that you took these photographs.”

Glauser-Röist rose from his chair and turned toward the computer. “I can’t tell you anything.” He quickly struck several computer keys quickly and the printer began to chirp and expel paper.

“I need to know more,” I protested, rubbing the bridge of my nose under my glasses. “Maybe you know some details that would facilitate my work.”

The Rock wasn’t moved by my pleading. He cut pieces of tape with his teeth and stuck those sheets of paper to the back of my door. The complete silhouette of a human being took shape.

“Can I help you in some other way?” he asked when he finished.

I glared at him. “Can you consult the databases of the Classified Archives from that computer?”

“From this computer I can consult any database in the world. What would you like to know?”

“Anything you can find on scarification.”

Without missing a beat he got to work. I grabbed a fistful of markers from a box on my desk and planted myself in front of the life-size paper silhouette. A half hour later, I had managed to rather faithfully reconstruct the painful road map of the victim’s injuries. I had to ask myself why a sane, strong man only thirty-some years old would let himself be tortured in this manner. It was quite strange indeed.

Besides the Greek letters, I found a total of seven beautiful crosses, each one completely different from the others: the first, a Latin cross on the inner part of the right forearm; the second, a Latin inmmissa cross (with a short crossbar in the middle of the staff), on his left forearm; the third, a branched cross (with tree limbs) on his cervical vertebrae; the fourth, an Egyptian ansate cross on his dorsal spine; and the fifth, a bracketed cross on his lumbar vertebrae. The remaining two Greek crosses were called decussates (in an
X
) and were located on the back of his thighs. The variety was admirable; yet they did have certain elements in common: They were all enclosed or protected by circles, squares, or rectangles (like tiny medieval windows or arrow slits), and in each case the top edge of the enclosure was crowned with serrated teeth, always numbering seven.

At nine that night we were dead tired. Glauser-Röist summed up what few references to scarifications he had located. It was a religious practice limited to a strip of central Africa that unfortunately didn’t include Ethiopia. In that region, apparently, the primitive tribes had the custom of rubbing a grass mixture into the incisions, usually made with small pieces of cane as sharp as knives. The decorative patterns could be very complex, but basically they corresponded to the geometric shapes of sacred symbols, often as part of some religious ritual.

“That’s it?” I asked, disenchanted, after he had read his most obvious and meager report.

“Well, there is something more, but it’s not significant. The
queloides
—that is, the thickest, enlarged scarification marks—are a genuine sexual lure for men when women exhibit them.”

“Oh, go on…,” I replied with a look of wonder. “Now, that’s funny. It never would have occurred to me.”

“In any case,” he went on, nonplussed, “we still don’t know why those scars are on that man’s body.” I believe that was the first time I noticed that his eyes were a washed-out gray. “Another peculiar piece of information, also irrelevant to our work, is that this practice is becoming fashionable among young men in many countries. They call it ‘body art’ or ‘performance art,’ and one of its most prominent followers is the singer and actor David Bowie.”

“I can’t believe it…,” I sighed, with a slight smile. “Do you mean they let someone cut them like that just to be fashionable?”

Well…,” he murmured, as disturbed as I. “It has something to do with eroticism and sensuality, but I wouldn’t know how to explain it to you.”

“Don’t even try, thank you very much,” I dismissed him. Tuckered out, I got to my feet and mentally put an end to that first exhausting session. “Let’s get some rest, Captain. Tomorrow is going to be another very long day.”

“Allow me to take you home. It’s too late for you to walk alone through the Borgo.”

I was too tired to refuse, so I once again risked my life in that spectacular little sports car of his. When we said good night, I thanked him, feeling guilty for the way I had treated him—although I must say, the remorse did pass quickly. I rejected his offer to come pick me up again the next morning, since I hadn’t heard Mass for two days and I wasn’t going to let another day go by without doing so. I’d get up early and go to Saint Michele and Magno Church before work.

Ferma, Margherita, and Valeria were watching an old movie on TV when I walked through the door. They warmed up some supper for me in the microwave, and I ate a little soup. I didn’t have much of an appetite; I’d seen too many scars that day. I shut myself away in our chapel before going to bed, but I couldn’t concentrate on my prayer—and not just because I was so tired (which I was), but because three of my eight siblings had called from Sicily to ask if I was planning to attend our annual celebration of Saint Giuseppe in honor of our father. I said yes to all three and went to bed, utterly exasperated.

C
aptain Glauser-Röist and I spent several hectic weeks locked away in my office from eight in the morning till nine at night, Monday through Sunday. We reviewed what little information we received from the archives. The question of the Greek letters and the chrismon proved relatively simple to solve; it was a different matter entirely to decipher the enigma of the seven crosses.

On the second day, I was closing the door to the lab and studying the paper silhouette taped to my door out of the corner of my eye, when the solution to the Greek letters hit me as if I’d been slapped in the face with a glove. I couldn’t believe I hadn’t seen it the night before: reading from the head to the legs, from right to left, the seven letters formed the Greek word
STAUROS—
STAUROS—which means, of course, “cross.” At that point, it was unquestionable that everything on the Ethiopian’s body was related to the subject of crosses.

Several days later, after poring over the story of old Abyssinia (Ethiopia) several times, with no luck; after consulting a variety of documents on the Greek influence on that country’s culture and religion; after long hours of scouring dozens of books on all styles of art from all eras, extensive files on sects sent by various departments of the Classified Archives and exhaustive information on chrismons that the captain found on the Internet, we made another very significant discovery: a monogram of the Name of Christ on the Ethiopian man’s chest and stomach corresponded to the well-known Monogram of Constantine, which had not been used in Christian art since around the sixth century.

Surprisingly the cross, as a religious symbol, was not the object of any kind of adoration in Christianity’s early beginnings. The first Christians completely ignored the instrument of his martyrdom, preferring happier, decorative symbols and images. Also, the Roman persecutions were few, limited more or less to Nero’s known acts after the burning of Rome in 64 and to the two years incorrectly named the Great Persecution of Diocletian (from 303 to 305), according to Eusebio.
*
During these Roman persecutions, public display and adoration of the cross had undoubtedly become very dangerous, so symbols such as the lamb, the fish, the anchor, or the dove appeared on the walls of the catacombs and houses, on headstones, personal objects, and altars. Without a doubt, the most important drawing was the chrismon, the monogram formed by the first Greek letters of the name of Christ (
X
and
P,
chi and rho). It was widely used to decorate sacred places. There were multiple variations of the chrismon, with any religious interpretation you may want to assign them. For example, there were chrismons on martyrs’ tombs with a palm branch in place of the
P,
symbolizing Christ’s victory. Monograms with a triangle in the center expressed the Mystery of the Trinity.

In 312 of our era, Emperor Constantine the Great, who worshipped the sun, had a vision of his decisive battle against Maxentius, his main rival for the throne of the empire. One night he dreamed that Christ appeared and told him to engrave those two letters,
X
and
P,
on the upper corner of his army’s banners. The next day, before the battle, legend has it he saw that seal appear, along with a transverse bar to form the image of a cross, over the dazzling sphere of the sun. Below it were the Greek words
EN-TOUTΩI-NIKA
, better known in the Latin translation as
In hoc signo vinces,
“With this sign you will vanquish.” Constantine soundly defeated Maxentius in the battle of the Milvian bridge. His banner with the chrismon, later called “Labarum,” became the empire’s flag. This symbol took on extraordinary importance in what was left of the Roman Empire. After the western part of the territory, Europe, fell to barbarian armies, the symbol was still used in Byzantium until at least the sixth century, after which it completely disappeared from Christian art.