Authors: Jack Hyland
Pietro cleared the dishes, then brought cappuccinos or espressos for everyone, and a plate of complimentary amaretti cookies.
“I’m still a bit surprised by your company’s interest in archaeological excavation,” Tom said.
“As I mentioned,” Crystal said, “our chairman has a particular fascination with the ancient world. We support explorations all over the world. He is an amateur historian and firmly believes that the past informs the present . . . and the future.”
“An unusual position for the chairman of a global company to take.”
“Yes, he is quite an interesting man.”
“Still, Nero’s Golden House seems a bit outside your core business concerns. How could it inform your agricultural research?”
“There is much we can learn from the ancient world, so long as we remain open to the lessons of history,” Parker said.
“No disputing that,” Tom said.
Winch took over. He had steel gray eyes that stared coldly, directly, at Tom as he spoke. The tone of his voice was self-satisfied, as if he thoroughly enjoyed showing whomever he was talking to that he was the brightest person in the room. “The culture of the ancient Mayans produced a city on the top of a mountain—Machu Picchu, but the Mayans disappeared. Were they wiped out by disease, a virus? We don’t know. In our Old Testament, at the time of Moses, there was a virus or viruses that killed crops, animals, and humans.”
Tom felt himself tightening up inside at the mention of a killer virus. He also realized that Winch was watching him very carefully while he talked. Tom wondered if Winch had seen Tom react to the mention of viruses. Maybe, Tom thought, I’m overreacting.
Winch pedantically continued. “What kills crops and animals is as important to us as what heals or improves them. It would be a major advancement for Belagri and for the world to find out what happened at Machu Picchu or determine the nature of the biblical plagues to prevent them from ever happening again. I wonder, for example, what happened at your excavation in the Roman Forum. It’s hard to believe that the fuss is about a collapsed roof over the underground passage.”
Tom noticed that Winch was still observing him with piercing interest. Tom said nothing.
Before Winch could finish his rambling thoughts Crystal interjected, “Ralph has just given you a hypothetical example that illustrates our chairman’s interest in archaeology. Ralph’s division is responsible for following up on all leads that can help Belagri protect the global agricultural community and our interests.”
“I understand,” Tom said, agreeably. Then, ignoring Crystal’s efforts to change the subject, Tom decided he ought to smoke out what Winch was hinting at. “I’m interested, though, Dr. Winch, in your question regarding the Roman Forum. What did you have in mind?”
Winch replied, “Hazmat teams were dispatched to the site immediately. We read that the bodies were cremated—that’s an unusual precaution. The cause for the incident is said to be a collapsed tunnel, but press reports question the truth of that statement. What, Professor Stewart, is going on? It sounds to me like a cover-up for an escaped deadly virus. In the Roman Forum? Does that make any sense?”
Tom decided that he didn’t like Ralph Winch. The man had a staccato method of asking tough questions in a way that seemed meant to intimidate.
“Dr. Winch,” Tom said, “I’m totally in the dark about what happened to Doc Brown and his colleague. I’m sorry I can’t tell you any more—I’d like to know myself.”
Winch sat back, staring at Tom. He had a look of smug satisfaction on his face, which Tom concluded meant that Winch hadn’t believed anything he had said. Tom stared back.
Parker broke in to ease the tension, changing the subject.
“We admire your work in forensic archaeology, Dr. Stewart,” Parker said. “Am I correct that you are writing a new textbook?”
“Yes, but this tragedy at the Forum seems to be taking up a great deal of my time.”
“Regrettably. However, we would like to support your work at NYU. Your skills in forensics would be particularly useful in our attempts to derive knowledge from the past. If we could call upon you from time to time as a consultant, our foundation is prepared to make a sizable grant to your department at NYU.”
“That is quite generous,” Tom offered, “but I’m busy with my coursework and other consulting commitments. I’m not sure I could . . .”
“It would not be very time consuming. Perhaps an occasional peer review of our research reports,” Winch said. “And, any insight you can give us on special projects would be helpful. We had a similar arrangement with Professor Brown.”
“Approved by his department at Bryn Mawr, of course,” Crystal was quick to point out.
“It seems interesting. Of course I’ll need to check with my dean, Dr. Brad Phelps, first.”
“We understand. If you or your dean has any questions, we’d be glad to answer them,” Crystal said. “We have in mind a grant of $500,000 payable to NYU, spread over some mutually agreed period, such as five years.”
Tom was shocked—this was a huge sum of money. He reacted quickly. “I appreciate your most generous proposal. Let me think about it and speak with Brad. I’ll do this right away. Whom should I contact regarding my decision?”
“Please call me,” Crystal said. “Once we hear, we’ll forward the paperwork to Dr. Phelps.” She stood. The other men followed suit. “Now, would you like to visit our laboratory? You might find it interesting.”
“I’d like to.”
The hot summer sun filtered through the trees as they walked the short distance from the restaurant to a low stone building.
“Belagri has owned this building for some time,” Parker said. “We also have several farms in this valley, which Belagri keeps under continuous cultivation. We grow crops from the latest Belagri seed collections, and we test new fertilizers. Our objective is to evaluate all of our products being sold into a given market, so that we know what each farmer’s expected results are likely to be.”
Parker and Winch excused themselves to return to company meetings being held in a conference room in Hotel Adriano. Crystal said she’d join them after she showed Tom around.
Crystal proceeded to the Belagri facility, walking through the glass doors that led into the building, and Tom followed. Tom was immediately impressed with the facility. Contrary to what anyone might have expected from the nondescript exterior, the inside was starkly modern, well lit, and hygienically clean. Technicians wore white lab coats. To one side, there was a bank of refrigerated units.
“Many of the seeds must be stratified—have a period of cold prior to placing them in the ground to sprout. We can also keep seeds in cold storage for long periods of time.”
As they continued the tour, Tom noticed that everything about the Belagri lab space was hyperprofessional, almost manically so. The five white-gowned Belagri employees were each introduced to him, by name, and each responded in a friendly way and explained their functions. They all spoke English.
“I’m impressed,” Tom said to Crystal. “While I don’t know much about this field, it certainly seems as if your work is first rate.”
Crystal smiled a warm smile and said, “Yes. We run a tight ship. This is one of our smaller facilities. But I did want you to see it. We do great work, despite what you might read in the press about us.”
Tom didn’t respond. He was thinking—what were you doing earlier this morning in Rome then . . . were you meeting with Dr. Pulesi?—but he held his tongue.
“Well, that’s about it,” she said, as they returned to the front entrance. “Unless you have any questions, I’ll let you return to Rome. I’ve got to get back to business.”
“Thanks for lunch and the tour. I’ll consider your offer and be back to you very soon.”
“Fine. You have my number. Have a safe drive back to the city.”
They shook hands, and Crystal walked back to the Hotel Adriano to join her colleagues, Parker and Winch. Tom watched her, a beautiful woman in a lemon-colored dress. A dangerous woman? He dropped that thought—he really had nothing to go on. Pulling out of the parking lot, Tom considered the meeting. “These people are slick, tough, corporate types, especially Winch. How much are they to be trusted?” He wondered now how Doc had dealt with them.
Then he returned to their offer. Tom was sure Brad Phelps would jump at the chance for the Belagri money. But was Belagri really sincere about being interested in his research in forensic archaeology, or was this a cover for their clear interest in what Doc Brown might have been killed by—a formidable virus? Pulesi had suggested certain groups might come after him. Was it possible that they were just trying to find out what he, Tom, knew?
8
T
om’s route back into Rome took him through the town of Tivoli and onto the autostrada. There was little traffic at this time of the afternoon. Once on the highway, no more than ten minutes passed, however, before he became aware that he was being followed by a black Fiat sedan with darkened windows. Each time he looked in his rearview mirror, he saw the Fiat several car lengths behind. As he focused on the car, he guessed it was identical to the Fiat that had followed Crystal as she had driven off after meeting with Pulesi. He corrected himself—after meeting with Pulesi or someone in his office.
Tom picked up speed and passed several cars. He watched as the Fiat did likewise. He tried this again, and the same pattern repeated itself. As he got closer to Rome, the traffic began to build. Tom started to weave in and out, but the black Fiat kept a close tail on him.
Tom took the next exit. The Fiat was right behind him.
“Damn.” Tom was in a part of Rome he didn’t know. He was now on local roads, heavy with traffic, without much room to maneuver. “What do they want?” Tom said aloud in irritation and frustration.
Almost as if to answer that question, the Fiat pulled up directly behind Tom, and then began bumping into the rear of the Lancia. Tom took a sharp right. The Fiat followed. They were in an old, industrial district. Wide streets. Narrow alleys. No traffic. Some abandoned buildings. Frantically, he looked for a way out. The Fiat accelerated and bumped him hard. He nearly lost control, but recovered. Out of the corner of his eye he spied an alley immediately to his left. He yanked the steering wheel to the left, and the Lancia’s tires screeched, and, barely avoiding concrete walls, he sped through the narrow road.
Tom checked his rearview mirror. No Fiat. They’d double back. He had to find a way out.
The alley dead-ended at railroad tracks. An unpaved road barely wide enough for a car to pass, ran along the tracks. He took it. The Lancia squeezed along the narrow path until he was past the next building, then he turned right into another alley, which, with one more right turn, led back to the main street. He turned and headed onto the autostrada, but the Fiat was waiting for him.
Tom saw a sign for central Rome and followed it. Soon, the street opened up to four lanes. Business and apartment buildings lined the street on both sides. He was back on major roads, which would take him into the center of Rome. Tom looked for a police car hoping he’d be pulled over, and thus spook his pursuer.
Tom began to weave back and forth across the four lanes, cutting ahead of car after car, darting in and out of the bus lanes as well.
The Fiat stuck with him.
Suddenly, he heard a siren. A police motorcycle was flashing its lights behind him on his left. “Thank God,” he said and moved over into the right shoulder of the road. As the traffic cop pulled over, Tom saw the Fiat speed by and disappear into the traffic.
He was never happier to get a ticket in his life.
Tom made his way back to the Academy, arriving at 6 p.m. Norm at the front gate recognized Caroline’s white Lancia and waved as Tom drove by and pulled into Caroline’s space.
Tom stopped at Caroline’s office. She was there and invited him in. “I’d like you to meet Ambassador George Wilson. You probably remember that the State Department leases one of our buildings—the Villa Richardson—for the U.S. Ambassador to the Holy See, and George has been our neighbor since his appointment.”
Tom extended his hand, and Wilson grabbed it. Tom was surprised how large the ambassador’s hands were, almost like those of a full-time farmer. Wilson exclaimed, “I’m so sorry about what happened at the Roman Forum. We all are.”
“Thanks,” replied Tom. “The newspapers won’t let go.”
“I know,” said Wilson. “Reporters are like that—eventually they’ll tire. Well, I must be off. Can’t keep God’s Vicar on Earth waiting. Tom, if you need any help, just call on me.”
With that, Wilson gave Caroline a kiss on both cheeks and walked out of her office. When Wilson had gone Tom said, “Here are the keys, but there’s bad news. A car bumped into me on the way back into Rome. I don’t think there’s much damage, but I want to look at it with you.”
“Forget it. That old Lancia has plenty of bruises from other skirmishes on Italian roads and streets. If you want me to look at it with you, let’s do that tomorrow because I’ve got a dinner I’ll be late to if I don’t run now.”
Caroline rushed off. Tom didn’t feel like going back to his apartment quite yet. His adrenaline was still in high gear. He wandered through the Academy’s
salone
, where several of the fellows were gathered around the pool table watching two fully engaged players. Others were sitting in chairs or on the sofas reading the daily newspapers. A couple of fellows were working at their computers. Tom went into the bar where he decided to have a cappuccino.
Michael Lowell, a classical scholar and fellow trustee, who had spoken at Doc Brown’s memorial service, walked up to Tom. “How’s it going?” he asked solicitously.
“If you mean, am I enjoying being hounded by the press, no, I’m tired of it.”
“Well, as the Persian poet Attar of Nishapur wrote, ‘This too shall pass,’” Michael said.
“I hope so,” Tom replied. “Speaking of poetry, I was impressed that you moved everyone to tears at Doc’s service when you read Latin poetry. I’m sorry to say that most of what you said was over my head.”
“That’s Latin poetry for you,” Michael smiled. “Read it, and everyone will cry until you stop.”
Tom laughed, as did Michael, pleased with his joke. Then Tom asked Michael, “You’re a friend of Father O’Boyle, right? What’s his story?”
“No one knows, really,” Michael volunteered. “There are rumors he was on the fast track at the Vatican. But something went wrong—years ago—and he was sidelined to running the Vatican Libraries. No slouch of a job, either, but he was not part of the inner circle. He ran the Vatican Libraries exceedingly well. We all admire him. Why do you ask?”
Tom said, evasively, “No particular reason. We had a conversation, and I enjoyed meeting him—that’s all. It’s getting late. Guess I’ll head back to my apartment. Good night, Michael.”
Norm was still on duty at the Academy’s front gate and called a taxi for Tom. By 7:30 p.m., he was in a taxi on his way to his apartment, and he admitted to himself that he was exhausted.
Just before retiring, Tom sat at his desk, sipping a glass of wine and eating some grapes from the refrigerator. He e-mailed Brad Phelps in New York to get NYU’s reaction to his working with Belagri.
Brad,
At their request, I met with representatives of Belagri, an international genetic seed manufacturer. They supported Doc Brown’s dig and periodically consulted with him. They’ve offered $500,000 in funding over a five-year period to NYU if I give them advice from time to time on forensic archaeology. They’re known as a tough, litigious company, and a very successful one as well. The offer is generous—maybe too generous. I’m really not sure what their agenda is. I’m assuming NYU would like me to accept this, correct?
I’m also being hounded by reporters wanting information on the incident. And the attitude of the Italians is odd—the man in charge of the investigation as much as confirmed to me this morning that there’s a highly dangerous virus involved and that European and American government groups—and others as well—are nosing around trying to get their hands on a supply of this virus. Where this trail leads, I’ve no idea. I’m hoping the ruckus around the incident all dies down so I can focus on editing my book. Please give me your reaction to the Belagri grant proposal. Tom.
Tom wanted to pursue two names Father O’Boyle had mentioned—Imhotep the Younger and Charles Babcock, archaeologist. A quick search on the Internet revealed that Imhotep was chief architect for Ramesses II, one of the most powerful of all pharaohs, who ruled for the exceedingly long time of thirty-five years. Imhotep built cities, temples, and monuments, all for Ramesses II, and died at ninety years of age in 1213 BC. Imhotep was descended from Imhotep the Senior, the world’s first architect, who designed the step pyramid at Saqqara a thousand years earlier.
For his work, Imhotep the Younger was treated like royalty, and when he died he was buried in a tomb befitting the most powerful priests.
Tom discovered that there were unexplained mysterious aspects to Imhotep the Younger’s death. Remains of other human bodies were found in the tomb, all of which were discovered to be in contorted positions—as was Imhotep. His tomb lay undiscovered for 3,135 years, until Charles Babcock, an American archaeologist, came upon it by accident in 1922.
There was an odd postscript. In the months after its discovery, Babcock was busy going through the artifacts in Imhotep’s tomb, making a record of his finds. Suddenly, without any warning, Babcock contracted an unknown disease and died within hours. His death was treated as a most sensitive matter by Egyptian authorities. At that time, there was a rumor going around of a pharaoh’s curse, which claimed the lives of a number of people associated with Tutankhamen’s tomb. Tom figured that the Egyptian authorities were trying to quell the pharaoh’s curse rumors.
Tom paused in his research. Babcock, the American archaeologist, and Imhotep the architect, were connected by Babcock’s excavation in Luxor in 1922. So what O’Boyle may have been hinting at was for Tom to find out more about Imhotep’s tomb.
Tom learned very little more about Babcock or Imhotep that seemed relevant. He was about to give up when he discovered a current reference to something found in Imhotep’s tomb.
On February 20, 2011, Professor Darby Smith, American archaeologist teaching at the American School in Cairo, announced the restoration of a wall painting discovered in the tomb of ancient Egyptian architect, Imhotep the Younger. The restored wall painting, more than three thousand years old, displays Egypt reeling from the onslaught of the ten plagues visited on the country by Moses prior to Pharaoh Ramesses II agreeing to permit Moses to lead the Hebrews out of Egypt. Smith gave credit to the restoration to a team headed by his wife. The team worked for seven years to restore and interpret the wall painting.
Tom checked his contact list on his iPhone. He still had Darby Smith’s e-mail address. Why not contact him?
Tom immediately wrote the following e-mail:
For Darby Smith—you may recall we met at the archaeological conference at the New York Hilton two years ago. I’ve read recently about your restoration of the wall painting from Imhotep’s tomb. Congratulations, by the way. For reasons I’ll explain, it’s important for me to understand something about what you and your team discovered. Could we talk by telephone? I’m in and around the American Academy in Rome, working on editing my new book. Kind regards, Tom Stewart, Professor of Forensic Archaeology, New York University.
Tom sent this message off to Smith. Tom was playing a hunch, that Father O’Boyle’s suggestion that he should learn about Imhotep might provide insight into the origins and nature of the virus. Tom took a final sip from the wine, then, dressed only in his shorts and a T-shirt, he went out of his apartment onto his terrace. Rome spread out before him as if he was at the rim of a huge valley of twinkling lights. He filled the watering can and enjoyed walking around from one geranium box to another under the starry sky as he fed the plants. When this was done, having saved the best thing for the last, he called Alex.
“Hi—it’s Tom.”
Alex laughed. “I know. How are things going?”
Suddenly, Tom’s fatigue vanished. “Are you interested in a night-cap?”
“Maybe,” Alex replied. “Where?”
Tom took no time to reply. “The roof restaurant of the Hassler. The views are spectacular—it’s a beautiful evening. We can have some snacks and wine. And, I’ll tell you about my encounter with Crystal . . . ”
Alex immediately responded, “Crystal—she’s that blonde who was standing with you at Doc’s memorial service?”
Tom, surprised, replied, “You remember her?”
“Tom. Of course. I didn’t know who she was, but how could I fail to notice her? That black dress she was wearing was the most provocative mourning outfit I’ve ever seen! She’s hardly what I’d call innocent or naïve.”
“Appropriate then for a senior officer of Belagri—and, they offered me a grant.”
“A grant? Okay,” Alex said, “that’s enough. I want to learn more. I’ll meet you in twenty minutes.”
It was earlier in the evening at the Basilica of San Clemente near the Colosseum. There were a few tourists still in the upper church, and a bell had just rung to announce that it was time to leave. The night watchman began making his final rounds. He was alone, as was customary at this time of the evening. He enjoyed his job and felt that he intimately knew all three levels of the church’s famous history and would often tell his story to anyone who was willing to listen. He particularly liked his version of the story of St. Clement, the fourth pope, who ruled from AD 90 to 99, and was exiled to the Crimea and martyred after he was tied to an anchor and drowned.
The watchman looked around again, seeing two tourists earnestly studying the mosaics. He sighed. There was no obvious person to tell his story to.
“Nothing amiss,” he muttered to himself as he completed his survey of the ground floor of the twelfth-century church. He paused at his favorite fresco in the church depicting the legend of a boy found alive in St. Clement’s tomb beneath the Black Sea.
Candles flickered in the stairway to the first lower level, which was once a fourth-century church. He’d blow these candles out for the night after he checked the still lower levels. For now, they lit his way.
But as he made his way down, he noticed something different. “Strange,” he said, “there’s no reason for it, but the deeper I go, the less strength the candles seem to have.”
The final flight of steps would take him to the catacombs level containing sixteen wall tombs, as well as the Temple of Mithras slaying the bull. The watchman was superstitious about this lowermost part of the church, this place where men used to meet in secret prior to Nero’s fire of AD 64, which had destroyed the area. Men had met in secret to practice Christianity or its rival religion, Mithras. There was a gap in one of the walls through which he could see the ancient Roman street.