The Seventh Sinner - Elizabeth Peters [57]
“Sorry,” she said, under her breath. “I don’t know how that happened. Do you think…”
“I don’t think so. But—for God’s sake, stick close.”
Almost immediately they came out of the dismal corridors into an open underground space. It was roofed by a complex system of ancient beams and modern girders, and Jean realized, before their guide spoke, that they were now under the church. Two different ages of history were represented by the structures in that open area. There was a row of Roman mausolea in front of them, neat little brick houses whose pointed facades looked as if they had been built within the past decade. Off to one side were the remaining walls of the Christian cult center, which had been constructed over the street of tombs two or three centuries later.
Montini began explaining the layout, and Jean stopped listening. She really didn’t care whether Peter and Paul had been buried at all, much less where. Michael had had a point, even though she didn’t think he had chosen a good time or place for his theological musings. The body went back to the dust; physical relics were only trinkets, like the pebbles or shells collected by a child as mementos of a trip. Wasn’t it Paul himself who had said, “But when I became a man, I put away childish things”?
Yet she could understand the appeal made by those worthless remnants of mortality. The soul was so barricaded by flesh that it needed concrete objects to cling to. Squatting down under the low eaves of the church floor above, Jean felt a sympathetic quiver run through her as she viewed the graffiti scratched onto the wall by the men and women who had come to pray near the bones of the Apostles.
“Paule ed Petre, petite pro Victore,” she read aloud; and Jacqueline, squatting beside her, translated.
“Paul and Peter, pray for Victor. How do you like that? I do remember a little Latin from twenty years ago.”
“Very good,” said Andy, behind them. “Ignore Jean’s accent, though, she’s a medieval Latinist, and the way she pronounces the language sets my teeth on edge.”
“I’d better keep my mouth shut, then,” Jacqueline said, pushing her glasses back into place. “I keep forgetting that most of you know Latin as well as you do English.”
“It’s a working language for us,” Andy agreed. “All right, girls, tear yourselves away. Time for some pagan tombs.”
The others were on the lower level, in front of the mausolea. Over one brick facade a marble plaque still remained in place, recording the name of the man to whom the tomb had belonged. With the others egging her on, Jacqueline tried to translate the inscription. She was having a fine time; her hair was coming loose, and her glasses kept sliding down her nose.
“I can’t even get the first word,” she complained. “MCL—is that a date?”
“M for Marcus,” Andy said. “Marcus Clodius Hermes—that was the guy’s name.”
“Oh. I see. ‘Marcus Clodius Hermes, who’—I’ve got it! ‘Who lived…years…’ Now that is a number. Wait a minute, I always have to count Roman numerals on my fingers. ‘Who lived seventy-five years…’”
Her voice died away. Dana laughed and prompted her; but Andy, more perceptive, reached out and caught her arm.
“Jake, what’s the matter?”
Jacqueline turned. The sight of her face made Jean recoil. It was white as paper, with two bright spots of color burning on her cheeks. Coils of loosened bronze hair curled around her ears like copper ornaments. She paid no attention to Andy, or to the others, but broke through them, brushing them aside as if she were brushing at flies.
She caught Jean by the shoulders and shook her. Jean was too astonished to resist. Her head bobbed back and forth.
“You overeducated brats and your damned erudition,” Jacqueline said, literally between clenched teeth. “Here. Paper. Pen. I’ve got one here someplace….” She rummaged frantically in the purse, like a puppy in pursuit of a gopher. “Hell, take my eyebrow pencil.” She shoved it into Jean’s limp hand. “Write. Write down what you saw Albert write. Go on! Exactly what