The Seventh Sinner - Elizabeth Peters [21]
“That must be why you’re cultivating us,” Jean said, with a grin. “Are you picking our brains?”
“Naturally,” Jacqueline said, with an answering smile.
“You may regret that admission. We’re all indefatigable lecturers.”
They entered the church, and Jacqueline glanced appreciatively around its columned nave, with the brilliant mosaic of the apse at the far end.
“I’d rather hear you lecture about this than discuss classification with Lise. Go ahead, educate me…. What’s the matter with Andy? He looks as if he’s about to have a fit.”
“He wants us to come. That must be the entrance to the underground area, over there.”
“But I want to see this,” Jacqueline complained.
Jean beamed.
“On behalf of my century, let me thank you. Mosaics are my thing, you know, and this is a particularly good one.”
Instinctively they spoke in subdued voices. Though there was no service in progress, worshipers knelt at the various altars. Jacqueline lagged, deliberately.
“It’s beautiful. And look at the frescoes in that chapel! Aren’t they by Masaccio?”
“The attribution is disputed,” Jean said, in mild surprise. “You have been doing your homework, haven’t you?”
“I read my Guida di Roma last night,” Jacqueline admitted. “The one put out by the Italian Automobile Association is first-rate. I can’t help it anymore, it’s habit, after all these years, to look everything up…. Blast and curse Andy; what does he want now?”
“He wants us to come and see his pet ruins,” Jean said, laughing. “This basilica is twelfth-century; Andy won’t even look at anything later than the fourth. We’d better go; we can come back here later.”
Andy was waiting for them at the entrance to a room which had been fitted up as an office. There were books and souvenirs for sale; Dana leaned over the ticket counter chatting with a very young, very handsome boy in the white robe of a Dominican. Jean went to the counter to buy her ticket, and overheard a snatch of conversation which explained some of Dana’s fascination.
“…it’ll be the oldest of thim in the city,” said the soft Irish voice; then the priest looked up, smiled, and offered Jean her ticket.
As she stood waiting for Jacqueline to pay her hundred lire, Jean caught a glimpse of someone walking down the nave of the church. It was only a fleeting glimpse, but the shambling form was unpleasantly familiar. It wouldn’t be unusual for Albert to track them down and add himself, uninvited, to the group. Hastily Jean trotted down the stairs to the first landing, where she was out of sight from the nave, and after a moment Jacqueline joined her. If she had seen Albert she didn’t mention it, and Jean decided not to bring up the subject.
At the bottom of the long flight of stairs the modern world vanished. They stood in a vast dark place smelling of damp, and Jean had to look back at the well-lit staircase to assure herself that she had not been suddenly transported into another era.
A shadowy form materialized beside them.
“Boo,” it said, in sepulchral tones.
Jean started.
“Damn it, Andy, that isn’t funny.”
“It’s not funny, but it’s appropriate,” Jacqueline said. They still spoke in low tones; the atmosphere of the place was more suggestive of cemeteries than churches, but the inhibition was similar; there was a feeling that a loud voice might raise something better left undisturbed. Jacqueline added,
“I’m completely confused. Where are we?”
“We’re standing in what was once the narthex—the porch—of a basilica built in the fourth century A.D.; one of the first churches ever built. It wasn’t until after Constantine legalized Christianity in the early fourth