Her eyes were immediately drawn upward to Michelangelo’s grand coffered cupola. Covered in tiled mosaics, it soared four hundred fifty feet above the nave with shafts of sunlight spilling in from its west-facing windows to give it an ethereal glow.
Gradually, her gaze panned down to the famous bronze Baldacchino that stood above the papal altar, directly beneath the dome. Designed by Renaissance giant Giovanni Lorenzo Bernini, its four bronze spiral columns rose seventy feet high to support a gilded baroque canopy that stretched another twenty feet upward.
Even the floors were all inlaid with marble and mosaics.
“Wow,” she gasped.
“Yes, quite magnificent,” Donovan concurred, folding his arms and taking it all in. “I could easily spend a few hours here giving you a tour. There are twenty-seven chapels, forty-eight altars, and three hundred ninety-eight statues to see. But I find that the basilica is more of a spiritual journey and is best seen alone.” From a wooden kiosk along the wall, he retrieved a map and guidebook and handed them to Charlotte. “If you see something that interests you, refer to the book for a detailed description. I must be going now. Enjoy.”
After thanking Father Donovan she slowly began working her way along the side aisle along the basilica’s northern wall.
Like most pilgrims who came here, she stopped in front of the thirteenth-century bronze statue raised up on a sturdy marble pedestal that depicted a bearded St. Peter. Seated on a papal throne, the saint donned a solar halo and gripped a papal key in his left hand, his right hand raised up as if to deliver a blessing. A few visitors were queued up to take a turn in touching the statue’s foot. Referring to the guidebook, she read that this ritual was supposed to grant good luck. Typically, she wasn’t one to believe in superstition, but she convinced herself that given her current circumstances, every little bit could help.
Less than five minutes later, she stepped forward, staring up into the statue’s solemn face, reaching out to place her left hand on its cold metal feet. Then she amazed herself by doing something she hadn’t done in over ten years. She prayed, asking God for strength and guidance. Just like Donovan said, maybe she just needed to remember that she had once been a believer.
She had all but abandoned faith eleven years ago, after watching her mother, a devout Catholic, slowly eaten away by stomach cancer. God’s compassion, Charlotte quickly surmised, was not guaranteed to the pious, no matter how many novenas were recited, no matter how many Sundays were spent sitting humbly in a pew listening to sermons. Following her mother’s death, Charlotte didn’t go to church to find answers—she went behind a microscope, convinced that mom’s defect wasn’t faith, but simply a genetic imperfection; corrupted coding.
Somehow her father, even after losing his beloved wife so cruelly, had still managed to attend mass every Sunday, still said grace before every meal, thankful for every new day. How? Charlotte wondered. There was a time when she had asked him that very question. His response was quick and sincere, “Charlie,”—he was the only person, besides Evan Aldrich, who ever called her by that nickname—“I’ve made a choice not to blame God for my misfortune. Life is full of tragedy. But it’s also full of beauty.” When he said this, she remembered that he had smiled dotingly and gently touched her face. “Who am I to question the force behind such wonder? Remember sweetie, faith is all about believing that life means something, no matter how hard things might sometimes seem.”
Maybe now she really did want to believe that there was some divine reason for her own misfortune. But regardless of her dad’s spiritual resolve, she still didn’t have the heart to tell him about her own illness, knowing that it was just the two of them now.
Lacking the structure of religion made her feel spiritually empty— particularly as of late. Did Charlotte Hennesey believe in God? There was no place on earth that could push that question like this place. Perhaps she would find that answer here. Maybe coming to Rome was fate. After ducking into countless other grottos and niches to admire yet another beautiful shrine, she neared the front of the basilica where Michelangelo’s famous sculpture, the Pietà, was given its own marble-clad chapel, shielded behind glass. The image was dramatic and eerily lifelike—the fallen son draped across the mourning Madonna’s lap. For a long minute she stood there captivated by the emotions such an image evoked: suffering, loss, love, hope.
Almost forty minutes later, she was circling back beside the Baldacchino again where she came across a haunting sculpture that made her stop dead in her tracks. Tucked into a multitoned marble alcove flanked by massive colonnades, Bernini’s Monument to Pope Alexander VII loomed above her. Perched high up on a pedestal, the late pope was immortalized in white marble, kneeling in prayer. Beneath him were various statues depicting Truth, Justice, Charity, and Prudence as human figures.
But Charlotte’s horrified gaze had instantly blocked those images out and had sharpened on the shrine’s central figure—an oversized winged human skeleton forged from bronze, holding out an hourglass in its right hand. A flowing veil of red marble shadowed its ghoulish face that was directed up at the pope, taunting him with his imminent demise.
The Angel of Death.
The basilica seemed to fall into complete silence, the image coming to life like a demonic countenance, swooping out to dump more of its wretched cancer into her body. She swore she could see the sand in the hourglass counting down. For a moment, she didn’t breathe and she could feel tears welling up in her eyes. How could this evil depiction be here? She almost felt violated, as if it was purposely meant for her.
“Creepy, isn’t it,” a voice cut into her thoughts.
Surprised, she gasped. Turning, she saw a figure that seemed equally ominous. Where the hell had he come from?
“Bernini was eighty when he designed that one,” Salvatore Conte said, full of himself. “Guess he was feeling bitter about his golden years.”
Charlotte tried to give him an obligatory smile, but it didn’t happen.
“Did you know this place was built by selling indulgences?” Conte glared up at the central dome, disapprovingly. “Back in the fifteen hundreds, Pope Leo X ran out of money to finish the project, so he basically raised funds by selling Catholics ‘get-out-of-Hell-free’ cards. Rich people got to prepay for God’s forgiveness. They even had a saying for it: ‘as soon as the coin in the coffer rings, the soul from Purgatory springs.’ ”
She felt like saying: How many indulgences would you need to buy to free your soul? Conte certainly looked like the type who needed a lot of forgiving. It made her wonder why he was even in Vatican City and what at all he had to do with the ossuary. Earlier, Father Donovan had looked more like a hostage in his presence, not a coworker. “I take it you don’t go to Church every Sunday,” she sardonically replied.
Leaning closer, he dropped his voice an octave and said, “After all that I’ve seen, particularly inside these walls,” he said, “I’m willing to take my chances.”
She tried to understand what he really meant, but there was nothing in his eyes and she certainly wasn’t about to ask him to expound. “Are you visiting or just stalking?”