The Seventh Sinner - Elizabeth Peters [46]
“Ted, you do not play fair. You quote from a popular account of the saint’s life. Books written for children always sound foolish when they are quoted to intelligent adults.”
“Anyhow, you’re misquoting,” Jacqueline said severely. Taking a small book from her purse, she brandished it. “This is the Penguin Dictionary of Saints, and the writer is quite skeptical of such legends.”
“May I?” José held out his hand, and Jacqueline gave him the book. He leafed through it. “Yes, here we are. ‘Sentenced to be stifled to death in the bathroom of her own house, the heat and steam failed to suffocate her, so a soldier was sent to behead her. He struck three ineffective blows, and she was left to linger three days before she died.’ Improbable, but not as ridiculous as your version, Ted.”
Jean glanced at Michael, who stood a little to one side. He was staring steadily at the statue, which lay in a glass-fronted case under the altar.
“Oh, I don’t mind these stories,” Ted said tolerantly. “They are pretty stories—if you discount the basic Freudian hangup about virginity…. ”He dodged the fist José raised, and went on, “The part I like best is the description of finding the saint’s body.”
“That isn’t in my book,” Jacqueline said.
“Good, then I can tell you. In 1599, the tomb of the saint, in the catacomb, was opened. I do not know why. They were a morbid lot, your ancestors…. A great party of dignitaries was present, including the artist Stefano Maderno. And behold, there lay the body of the saint, uncorrupted, unchanged; her garments still modestly arranged, as you see them in the statue, her averted face veiled. The body was brought here and reintombed; and Maderno ran home and made his statue—a literal copy, according to his own account, of the actual body of the saint as she looked fifteen centuries after her death.”
They all turned to comtemplate the life-sized marble. The figure was that of a young woman lying on her side, with her knees bent and her limp hands gracefully disposed. The features were indistinct, but around the neck the line made by the executioner’s sword was clearly visible.
“Pathetic,” Michael said, breaking his own prolonged silence. “Bathetic. Schmaltz. Kitsch. Let’s go, it’s cold in here.”
The others followed him. Blinking in the sunlight of the portico, Ted turned to Jacqueline.
“What are you doing now, collecting virgin saints? We have seen—yes, six churches.” He turned his wide, innocent stare on Jacqueline. “What is the seventh?”
“Santa Prisca,” said Jacqueline coolly.
Michael let out a howl.
“Good God, that’s clear out on the Aventine. You don’t want to see that one, Jake. It’s a drag. And it’s probably closed. And besides—”
“It’s a beautiful day,” Jacqueline said, settling her glasses firmly on the bridge of her nose. “And the Aventine is beautiful on a beautiful day. And besides—”
“Well?”
“If you’re broke again, which I suspect you are, you’ll have to stick with me or you won’t get any lunch.”
“Thanks be to God, I have no such problem,” said Ted piously. “I will see you all tomorrow, at Gino’s?”
“Maybe not,” Jacqueline said. “I’m going sightseeing again.”
“Not more churches?” Michael said pathetically.
“Oh, yes. Tomorrow we start on the seven pilgrimage churches. There were,” Jacqueline said sweetly, “seven, weren’t there?”
III
“You’re flipping,” Andy said. “Or else you’re going in for numerology. Why the passionate interest in septets?”
He looked, that evening, as close to collapse as a robust, tanned young specimen can look. There were circles, not only under his eyes, but all around them.
“Stop talking and eat,” his father ordered.
Obediently Andy shoved a huge forkful of spaghetti into his mouth. The others watched as he tucked in the dangling ends, alla italiano. As soon as Andy became vocal again, he said mildly,
“Not that I’m not proud of my skill in eating spaghetti, but do you all have to stare at me? I have eaten before, I am eating now, and I will eat again. It’s no big deal.”
“You may have eaten, but not recently,” Ann said, looking at him anxiously.