Wayward Son (19 page)

“Yes, Notombo connect me right away,” Ravatti directed.

“Stand by,
Eminenza
,” replied the cardinal’s assistant, a young monsignor from the Congo.

“What a pleasant surprise, Silvio!” Ravatti greeted his caller warmly. “I’m glad you got through on a Sunday. Notombo and I are catching up on an endless backlog. What are you up to these days? Still in Naples, I trust?”

The two men were old friends. For over thirty years, they had excavated catacombs and other ancient sites around Rome. Although not technically an archaeologist, the cardinal possessed an encyclopedic knowledge of church history and was shrewd in the ways of Vatican bureaucracy.

“Actually, Sandro, I’m in Ercolano this morning. At the new site we began to investigate after the earthquake a month ago. You remember, I told you about the pictures our robot took of those large bronze doors.”

“Yes, I remember very well. But I also recall you were going to send them to me for analysis. It seems I never received your e-mail.”

Silvio paused briefly. “Oh, goodness, my memory is not what it once was. If you’ll stand by, I’ll send them right now.” He walked over to his laptop and e-mailed the photos to Ravatti.

“Okay, Sandro, they are on their way to you. Now, let me explain the purpose of my call. This morning we sent in a young archaeologist, Dr. Amanda James, to evaluate the inscriptions on the doors. She’s on loan to us from the Getty in California. We’ve partnered with them many times before, as you know.”

“Yes, they are very capable people. Was Dr. James able to shed any light on the inscriptions?”

“Indeed she did, Sandro. In fact, she deciphered the complex code for a combination lock much faster than any one of us could have expected.”

“So she succeeded in opening the doors?”

“Yes. She is making a preliminary survey of the chamber at this very moment. But I have lost contact with her.”

“She is trapped inside?”

“I’m afraid so, but we are working on that problem. In the meantime, before her wireless went dead, she said something about the chamber’s possibly being a catacomb. I thought you should know.”

Cardinal Ravatti’s ears pricked up. Anything related to crypts, catacombs, or sacred cemeteries fell squarely under his commission’s jurisdiction.

“Did Dr. James mention any evidence for this inference?” he asked.

“She didn’t have time to go into detail. Before she went in, I emphasized that she should restrict her mission to a very brief survey,” Silvio said. “But now, Sandro, we may have another problem.”

“And what is that, my friend?”

“Because of my work, I am on very good terms with the land office here in Ercolano. At the end of last week, one of my best contacts there informed me that an offer to purchase the property next to the excavation site is on the verge of closing. The doors and the chamber lie beneath this adjacent tract. And the corporation that tendered this offer has also filed a
mineral
claim.”

“How interesting,” Ravatti murmured. “And did your informant disclose the name of the purchasers?”

“It’s a large corporation named Renard Enterprises. They are based in the United States but do business around the world. The CEO is a man named Luc Renard.”

Cardinal Ravatti switched on his computer. “That name seems familiar. I’m going to put you on the speakerphone for a moment, Silvio,” he said. “But I’ll turn down the volume so we can talk in private. Just bear with me while I check something.”

From his desktop menu, Ravatti selected an icon that linked him to the databases maintained by the Vatican Museums. After typing in several passwords, he clicked on another icon labeled Acquisitions and Deaccessions. After a brief search, he found what he wanted.

Scanning the screen rapidly, the cardinal said into the phone, “I’ve found it, Silvio. I’ll turn the speakerphone off now. You know, of course, that the Vatican Museums maintain files on every acquisition and deaccession they’ve made over the past five hundred years.”

“Yes, but that information is very closely held, is it not?” Silvio asked him.

“Normally, yes. But let’s just say that I, too, have contacts, my friend. Now, as to Luc Renard and his company. Five years ago, the museums decided to deaccession a half dozen ceramic madonnas by Andrea della Robbia, dating from the fifteenth century. Renard Enterprises put in a bid. Normally, the Vatican requires that purchasers sign an indemnity pledging to respect the known facts about an object’s origin if they choose to resell the item or donate it to another collection. Otherwise, irresponsible art dealers can compromise our museum’s integrity.”

“Perfectly understandable, Sandro. But what happened with the della Robbias?” Silvio asked.

“That’s the trouble. Within a year, Renard Enterprises proceeded to offer them for sale at large auction houses, along with utterly fictitious descriptions of their pedigree. They realized a huge profit. Vatican advocates have filed a claim. In fact, my database includes a recent note about the company’s efforts to gain control of the adjacent site in Ercolano.”

“And so what do you conclude?”

“I smell a problem brewing. Let me check my calendar and see when I can get to Ercolano. We should probably deal with this side by side.”

“Can you ensure that the site will be preserved, Sandro?” Silvio asked urgently.

“If the site turns out to be a catacomb, you need not worry, my friend. Arrivederci.”

Clicking off the connection, Cardinal Ravatti turned back to his screen, which had just beeped to alert him to the arrival of Silvio’s transmission. He noted there were five pictures attached to the e-mail. Opening the first, which appeared to be a wide-angle shot of the doors, he could barely make out any detail. The next photo was a closeup of the upper left quadrant, where some of the inscriptions Silvio had referred to came into clearer view. Skipping back and forth between the left side and the right side photos, he began to marvel at the ingenuity of Dr. James in deciphering the complex puzzle.

Then, he opened the fourth picture, which revealed the lower right quadrant. He saw little of significance until his eye fell on some impressions near the bottom. Ravatti’s pulse quickened as he zoomed in on the markings. Instead of viewing the final attachment, he reached over to the side of his desk and pressed the intercom button.

“Monsignor Notombo! Call the airport and ask them to clear a helicopter for us immediately!”

CHAPTER 22

The Nile River, circa 2630 BC

“ONE MORE GAME, SIR?”

“Are you sure you wish to risk another defeat, Captain Nakht?” Cain chuckled, as he rolled the knucklebone dice and then placed his marker firmly on the board’s opening square. The two men were passing time as the massive barge and its hundreds of crew members floated slowly down the Nile. They had picked up their precious cargo weeks ago, a single four-sided piece of stone weighing more than a large herd of cattle. The
obelisk
was hewed from the rock quarry in Aswan and loaded by over a thousand men using rollers and levers. Cain was hired to deliver the pillar of red granite to one of the pharaoh’s temples downriver.

Cain and his young captain were engrossed in yet another game of
senet
, perhaps the most popular diversion in all of Egypt. From the pharaoh to the peasantry, senet was a universal distraction. Like almost everything in Egypt, the board game was bound up with religion, holding the status of a ritual for at least some players. Successful senet fanciers like Cain were widely thought to enjoy the protection of the gods. With its grid-like panels of thirty squares, arranged in three rows of ten, the senet board and its ornate playing tiles were talismanic objects, often placed in graves so that the deceased could indulge during the afterlife.

As Captain Nakht contemplated his own opening move, Cain’s thoughts drifted. The brilliant rays of a late afternoon sun sparkled on the Nile, where a northerly breeze helped to moderate the heat. He had now traversed the river more than a thousand times. His original investment, supplied by Menes’s stake, had multiplied handsomely.
He was currently the owner of a dozen barges for the transportation of heavy stones. These were much in demand for building pyramids, the latest fashion in funerary monuments. The vessels also had the capacity to handle the much larger stones from which obelisks were crafted to adorn the pharaoh’s temples.

In addition to his trading successes, Cain felt pleased that his strategy to avoid detection of his longevity was working. His routine seldom varied. He would choose a commercially promising river port as his base, remaining there for five years or so—just enough time to familiarize himself with the community and to garner profitable trading contacts. Much of this time would be spent in river transit, however.

Cosmetics proved an indispensable tool in maintaining the charade, and Cain often blessed the name of Layla, now long dead. Another ruse he occasionally employed was the impersonation of his own sons after prolonged absence from a port. If he felt that discovery of his secret was likely, he would simply move to another base on the river, taking care not to return to any community where people might be still alive to recognize him. Before each relocation, he would arrange for a trusted servant to implement a long-term trust agreement for the maintenance of family members and for the administration of his business interests.

For Cain, family relationships presented some of the most troubling aspects of his curse, much as he anticipated when Layla first became pregnant. Although his kinships in Egypt afforded a welcome contrast to the abject loneliness of the desert oasis, his ability to bond with wives and children suffered in numerous ways. His length of years brought the inevitable grief of the deaths of generation after generation of loved ones, and he felt himself becoming increasingly callous over the centuries. Moreover, there could be no real intimacy with relatives whom he was presently misleading and ultimately abandoning.

Cain found that his life had hollowed into something like a game of senet, where successfully maneuvering within its required elements of strategy, deceit, and blind luck brought him at least some satisfaction. At the same time, however, if his life was like a game it could never quite be normal—and he wondered at what point would he finally lose.

After besting Nakht, Cain looked up and saw they were nearing their destination. He stood up and motioned for the captain to follow. They walked the length of the barge to ensure the preparations for arrival were complete. Reaching the base of the obelisk at the far end of the vessel, they noticed a young crewman staring at a narrow, horizontal rectangle Cain had chiseled into the base of the stone several days earlier.

“Have you never seen a shipper’s mark before, my friend?” Cain asked.

“Oh, yes sir,” answered the startled sailor. “But I cannot make out the inscription on this one. It doesn’t look like any hieroglyph I know. May I ask its meaning?”

Cain paused for a moment, noticing that other nearby ears had pricked up, awaiting his response.

“In my travels far and wide, I have encountered many languages and writing systems,” he replied cryptically. “But this is no time for a translation lesson. Look, we are nearing port. Now, all of you, prepare to unload our cargo!”

Weeks after delivering the obelisk, Cain stopped in at
Abydos
on the way back to his base in
Thebes
. Menes had been born here, and fittingly enough, it was in Abydos that he was buried. Although Cain did not adhere to Egyptian religious beliefs, he made a tomb offering for his patron out of respect, in accordance with standard practice.

But his visit had a more commercial purpose as well. Ever since uprooting from Memphis, he had pondered the entrepreneurial potential of beer manufacturing. Like senet, beer was a universal feature of Egyptian life. It was the beverage of choice for nobles and farmers alike. To Cain, however, beer brewing in Egypt seemed curiously backward and cumbersome. For one thing, it was regarded as women’s work, confined to individual households. Closely linked to the baking of bread, the brewing of beer was a domestic task which, given the ubiquity of the beverage, cried out for economies of scale. In addition, never forgetting the bitter brew he’d managed to choke down during his first interview with Menes, Cain thought the product itself could be considerably more refined.

So his time in Abydos was largely devoted to locating a suitable site for the beer factory he was contemplating. Rather than acquiring land in the town, he decided early on that he should build the brewery by the riverside, taking advantage of abundant water and easy transport facilities. After all, this would be a factory not just for Abydos and its environs, but for distributing beer to all of Egypt.

After several weeks, he found an ideal site for the factory and its requisite grain storage and docking facilities. Negotiations with the landowner bore fruit, and Cain signed a contract to purchase a two-hundred-acre riverfront tract. From local fishermen he obtained detailed descriptions of the river’s levels and currents in that locale. Much work lay ahead, but the foundations for his new enterprise had been laid.

It was now the beginning of the planting season, and Cain intended to depart from Abydos for his home in Thebes. He missed being with his local wife and his three young sons after several months of absence, and he longed for some relaxation from river plying and constant business activities.

Yet he lingered in Abydos long enough to witness the municipal festival in honor of the god
Osiris
. This deity, whose cult was starting to gather momentum throughout Egypt, was widely worshipped as the lord of the dead. He was also the god who, according to local legend, had taught the Egyptians how to make beer.

Osiris was the subject of a detailed mythology, at the center of which was the tale of his murder by his jealous brother Set, the god of evil. Coveting Orisis’s throne, Set had killed his sibling and carved his body into many pieces, scattering the gory fragments all over Egypt. Osiris’s grieving sister and consort, Isis, searched for the body and reassembled its parts, whereupon Osiris was miraculously resurrected. Because the heart of Osiris was believed to have been deposited in Abydos, the city developed a special veneration for the deity. And every year, the theatrical performances presented at the festival dramatized the life-death-rebirth cycle of the myth.