The Voynich Cypher (25 page)

“I’m going to take a quick shower,” he said, ignoring the sarcasm.

He peeled off his clothes and hosed down, mildly distracted by Natalie’s proximity, but exhausted. Steven didn’t think he’d have too much problem falling asleep, even with her next to him. It was a big bed, and they were adults. She’d correctly pointed out that it would look odd if they asked for separate beds, and he’d conceded the point. Unless she climbed on top of him, he’d be out within a few minutes, and he was willing to take the risk that his raw animal magnetism wouldn’t overpower her good sense. And if it did, he knew martial arts and could defend himself…

Steven toweled off and pulled his clothes back on, trying to remember whether he’d put a T-shirt into his duffel when he’d packed it. That seemed like a month ago.

When he emerged from the bathroom, Natalie had removed the wig and was rummaging in her bag. He noted that, even after the long night she looked great, especially without the wig. She’d pulled her shirt off and was wearing only a tank top and jeans. His impression of her physique being a toned one was validated – she looked like a gymnast, but with important curves in the right places. Steven quickly shook off that line of thinking.

“My turn,” she said, then slipped past him and shut the door.

Steven retrieved his T-shirt and hastily changed his underwear, then closed the heavy curtains and climbed into bed. The last thing he registered as he drifted off to sleep was the sound of the shower turning on. He was dead to the world almost before his head hit the pillow.

A trilling jolted Steven awake. Natalie’s cell phone was clamoring. As she stirred beside him and reached for it in the dark, he tried to make out the face of the bedside clock. Four-fifteen p.m.. A little under six hours of sleep, which he supposed was better than nothing. He listened as she had a brief conversation, then he felt the bed shift as she got up and moved to the table. The blackout curtains ensured the room was as dark as midnight.

“Shut your eyes,” she called to him before flicking on the light. He groaned and rolled over, away from the table, but not before catching a glimpse of Natalie in her tank top and a pair of bright green boy shorts.

It was a good look.

She took a few notes, repeated: ‘six o’clock’ several times and then hung up. The light stayed on, much to his dismay, and she returned to the bed, this time sitting on it and facing him.

“All right, big boy,
wakey wakeys
. We’ve got a date with destiny to get into the catacombs at six. That means if we hurry, we have enough time to get something to eat and make it to our rendezvous,” she said.

He peered at her, sitting cross-legged, reading her notes on the slip of paper.

“That was quick. Where are we supposed to meet him?” Steven asked.

“Another catacomb, somewhere near here. San Calisto. Apparently, it’s a popular destination. Big tourist stop.”

He nodded. “It’s the largest catacomb in Rome. Famous, partially because of the Crypt of the Popes, where quite a few of the early popes were buried.”

Natalie studied his face. “How do you know so much about it?”

“I did a three-day tour of Rome’s sights and sounds five years ago, and that was one of the stops. On the Appian Way, not far from this hotel. I remember it because of the gift shop. At the time, I remembered thinking that it was hokey. For some reason that stuck with me.”

“We have to get going. Don’t want to miss our meet,” Natalie said.

He closed his eyes. “You do this one without me. I’m going to sleep some more.”

She swatted him with her pillow. “Come on. We’re leaving in five minutes. I’ll buy the late lunch. You’re welcome.”

Steven opened his eyes to the vision of Natalie walking over to where her jeans lay. An elaborate tattoo of a highly-stylized parrot adorned her right shoulder, which Steven found made her even more alluring as she paraded around wearing little more than a smile.

“You use the bathroom first. I’ll only take a second,” he said, not wanting to get out of bed with evidence of his interest prominent. She glanced at him, her eyes seeming to flit across the blanket, then wordlessly collected her jeans and wig and moved to the bathroom.

They had their late lunch in the hotel restaurant, which did nothing to improve the reputation of hotel food, and then waited patiently for a cab. When it screeched to the curb in front of the hotel, Steven shook his head. Even after over half a decade in Italy, he still hadn’t gotten used to the driving ethos, which treated every moment behind the wheel as a competitive race.

The trip to the San Calisto catacombs took ten minutes, and soon they were standing near the dreaded gift shop, among swarms of tourists from all over the world. The crowds were thinning as the day drew to a close, but it was still unpleasant to be in the milling concentration. After a few minutes of anxious waiting, Danny materialized from the road and honked, waving from his window. They opened the rear door and climbed in.

There was no preamble. Danny eased the car onto the Appian Way and spoke to them over his shoulder.

“I got a telephone call from the police today. Someone at the church talked and, without admitting anything, pointed the finger at me. Your prints were on the car at the murder scene, and they now record them in immigration whenever you enter the country, so they have your names. They naturally were wondering what I knew about you. I told them you contacted me on a routine surveillance job and requested help with after-hour access to the basilica. Beyond that, I knew nothing about you, or why you wanted to get in. Maybe it was a kinky fetish thing. They seemed satisfied for now, but I think it would be wise if you left Rome as soon as possible.”

“I’m sorry, Danny. I didn’t mean to cause you any problems. We had no way of knowing that we were tailed or that murder was a possibility,” Natalie soothed.

“Be that as it may, I’d make myself scarce. They asked for a description and I gave them as generic a rendition as possible. The truth is, I don’t know anything about you. When they asked how you found me, I said through the phone book. I have an ad.”

“But why are they spending so much time on us? Surely they don’t think we killed Frederick?” Natalie asked.

“They said you were ‘persons of interest’. My guess is that they’ve got nothing else, so they’re focusing on the details they do have. If you’d taken the car instead of leaving it there, they’d have had zero. It’s the prints that connected you. Otherwise you’d have just been a mystery couple I helped with a problem, who I know nothing about.”

“All right. How much scrutiny can we expect?”

“I talked to a contact in the department and, right now, they’ve only circulated your names to the force, which will trigger a cursory hotel check for your names. If you don’t turn up in a day or so, you can expect things to escalate, especially if they don’t find any leads on the killer. They may be slow, but they aren’t completely inept.”

“Then for now, we’re okay. But your advice to get out of Rome isn’t bad,” Natalie acknowledged.

They passed through fields surrounding small residential developments until they arrived at the gates of a vineyard surrounded by a seven-foot high brick wall, with an ancient, crumbling building at the far end of the property. A man in overalls waited for them at the gate and, seeing Danny, opened it a few feet. Danny parked in the driveway and turned to face Natalie and Steven.

“That’s Umberto. He’ll take you to the catacomb entrance. You’ll have an hour to view it. Here’s a flashlight…” He opened the glove compartment and checked it before handing it to Natalie. “He told me there are a few lights strung down there, but they haven’t been used in nobody knows how long. They were installed as a temporary measure decades ago. Remember, it’s a historical site, so no vandalism, right?”

“Fine. But how will we know the crypt we’re looking for?” Steven asked.

Danny shrugged. “Beats me. Ask Umberto. He knows the layout as well as anyone. They’re on his family’s property. If he doesn’t, you may find that this was all for nothing. There are a lot of passageways down there, from what I hear. Some of the catacombs go for many miles. Hopefully, you’ll find your way in and out with no problem. It would be a shame to lose you…” Danny smiled. “Don’t worry. Umberto says he hasn’t locked anyone down there yet.”

They got out of the car and shook hands with Umberto, a wiry man in his sixties with deeply tanned skin and dirty, graying hair. Steven and he exchanged greetings as they walked down the drive. Fortunately, Umberto knew the crypt they were interested in. He described the rough location and told them to look for the elaborate frescoes of birds and grapevines.

They approached the old building, in modest disrepair as so much of Rome was, and he led them through a brick corridor to an old iron door. He flourished a key ring and made a big display of unlocking the rusty deadbolt. The lights were already illuminated. He gestured to them to descend the rough stone stairs into the murky chambers below. Umberto reminded Steven that they had one hour, holding up a single finger for emphasis. Steven nodded, then led the way, Natalie following close behind.

The air had a leaden feel to it, smelled of dank earth. The corpses had long since been removed to cemeteries, and yet there was a lingering taint of death. Centuries of housing the bodies of the dead had left their indelible mark on the catacombs, and this one was no different.

They made their way carefully down the passageway that Umberto had directed them to, which was hewn from limestone and fortified in sections with ancient brickwork. Natalie edged closer to Steven as they moved past chamber after chamber, through a never-ending hall punctuated by tomb cavities with long forgotten inscriptions. Eventually, the art on the walls changed, as Umberto had told them it would. At the junction of the main passage, they came to a large crypt – if Umberto was right, that of Januarius. Most areas were elaborately painted with third-century scenes of vineyards and birds. Steven and Natalie had the same impression as they studied the art: where did they even start?

“I think it’s safe to say this is it,” Natalie whispered, taking in the marble and frescoes.

“Yes. But there’s a lot of detail here, a lot of images. Let’s work this in sections. You take the left side, I’ll take the right, and we can double our progress. Use the flashlight – I’ve got the light in my phone. We’re looking for something to do with olive pickers; maybe a carving or a picture,” Steven reminded her.

Natalie took the light and began her investigation. They pored over the walls, searching for anything that might be consistent with the cryptic message from the Basilica
of San Clemente
. It was slow going, and some of the paintings had degraded to the point that they were unrecognizable. Steven was getting that sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach again – it seemed pointless to be playing detective six centuries after the clues had been created. He was amazed that they’d gotten this far, and to expect to progress any further was a kind of madness. Too much time had passed – there were too many variables; too much entropy at play.

After twenty minutes, Natalie called out, “I’ve found something.”

“What is it?”

Steven was reluctant to leave his position, fearing that he’d lose track of what he’d already inspected, requiring him to start all over again.

“It’s a painting of men picking something. Could be grapes, or…olives.”

“Okay, I’ll be there in a sec. Let me just mark where I am.” Steven fished out his trusty piece of chalk and made a line on the floor before joining Natalie, who was shining the flashlight on several images. Birds perched upon ornately drawn vines, replete with authentic-looking flowers. At the bottom, several men were going about their business, which involved harvesting of some sort.

Steven peered at one in particular. “That’s an olive picker, all right.”

“How do you know?”

“The central figure? He’s on a ladder. And you can just make out a tree – it’s faded, but it’s there. You wouldn’t need a ladder for grapes – only for olives, which grow on–”

“Trees.” Natalie finished the thought and smiled. “We found it! What was the rest of the message?”

“…three paces from the olive pickers points the traveler to the path, five hands above the trinacrium,” Steven intoned.

“Three paces. That’s fifteen feet, right?”

“Yes. Let me walk it off,” Steven said, a hint of excitement in his voice. Maybe there was a chance, after all…

He took three long steps along the wall in one direction; he marked the floor, then reversed and took six, marking that spot as well.

“Five hands above the trinacrium,” he murmured, studying the drawings.

He went over the first area carefully, but there was nothing of note. No labyrinth crest. Nothing. Moving to the far side, he stopped at the base of the wall. There was a new, more modern painting amongst the vines: a small depiction of an island, crudely painted, in the rough shape of a triangle. Sicily, the island where Saint Januarius had died. Steven examined the image more carefully.

He knew the Romans had associated Sicily with the classic symbol of Medusa’s snake-topped head, three running men’s legs sprouting equidistant from the rough circle of the mythical woman’s face. That odd image was referred to by the Romans as the trinacrium. Even to this day, the symbol was part of the flag of Sicily, although absent Medusa’s countenance.