“If you don’t mind me saying so, I’m surprised my field intrigues anyone in Vatican City.”
“Indeed, many within these walls would have reservations about the intentions of genetic research. I, however, like to keep a more open mind.”
“That’s good to know,” she said, smiling. “So what exactly is it that I’ll be studying?”
The priest didn’t respond right away, allowing a pair of strolling clerics to pass a comfortable distance before quietly saying, “A relic.” He considered enlarging on the idea, but decided against it. “It’s best to see it with your own eyes.”
Heading north on Viale del Giardino Quadrato, they crossed through the lush greenery of the Vatican Gardens, passing the Casina of Pius IV, the lavish sixteenth-century neoclassic papal summerhouse.
The straight pathway ran behind the massive Vatican Museum. Charlotte remembered reading that the Vatican’s extensive art collection was housed there, within the former palace of Renaissance-era popes. It was also the place where countless visitors from around the world came to marvel at the city’s most famous exhibit—the Sistine Chapel—its walls covered in narrative frescoes; its ceiling painted by Michelangelo.
She could tell Father Donovan wasn’t yet ready to divulge any more. Though she wanted to inquire why the librarian was handling the study of relics, she decided to change the subject. “This place is enchanting,” she said, gazing at the flowers, ornate fountains, and fantastic Renaissance architecture. “It’s like a fairytale. Do you actually live here?”
“Oh yes,” he said.
“What’s it like?”
The priest looked up at her, grinning. “The Vatican is its own world. Everything I need is right within these walls. It’s kind of like a college campus, I guess.”
“Really?”
He held up both hands. “Without the night life, of course,” he said with a laugh. “Though I must admit, we do have our own equivalents to fraternities.”
They were just approaching the museum’s service entrance. Even at a leisurely pace, in less than ten minutes they had walked about six hundred meters—almost the entire width of the country.
7
******
Temple Mount
Razak led the Englishman over to the blast hole, motioning him through the aperture.
Stepping inside, Barton’s analytical gaze immediately swept the chamber.
Coming in behind him, Razak remained standing near the opening, uneasy with the gloomy, subterranean atmosphere.
Energized, Barton didn’t hesitate to start airing his thoughts. “In the late first century BCE, King Herod the Great employed master architects from Rome and Egypt to design the Temple Mount. It was a huge undertaking that required the construction of an enormous platform that incorporated solid bedrock at the northern end”—he gestured behind him—“and expanded south, using vast retaining walls where Mount Moriah’s bedrock slopes down.” He swiveled round, pointing in the opposite direction. “That’s why the southern end of the platform can easily accommodate vaulted rooms, like the space that is now the Marwani Mosque. And archaeologists have long theorized that other similar spaces existed beneath the Mount.”
“Are you telling me the Israelis were aware of this room’s existence?”
Barton knew Razak was looking for suspects so he knew he had to tread lightly. Though he was aware that Jewish archaeologists had performed thermal scans on the Mount that had shown questionable subsurface anomalies, he was fairly certain that this particular chamber had remained completely undetected. “Absolutely not. I’m sure that if they had, the Waqf would have been informed.” He could tell that Razak didn’t believe a word of it.
Barton focused his attention on the stone boxes, crouching down to get a better look, moving from one to the next, his excitement building with each new discovery.
Meanwhile, Razak’s haunted gaze wandered over the stone walls. “So what is this place?”
Barton stood and let out a prolonged breath. “You’re standing in what appears to be an ancient Jewish crypt.”
Razak crossed his arms tightly across his chest. The idea of being amidst death and unreconciled souls was unnerving, only underlining his sense of foreboding. And Jewish, to boot! The place felt instantly smaller. Suffocating.
“And it looks like your thieves removed one of the permanent occupants.” Barton was shifting from foot to foot, pointing to the rectangular depression in the dirt at the end of the row.
“But aren’t those boxes far too small to be coffins?”
“Let me explain.” The archaeologist paused to gather his thoughts. “During the ancient Jewish burial ritual—the tahara—bodies of the deceased were cleaned, then covered with flowers, herbs, spices and oils. Next, the ankles, wrists, and jaw were bound and two coins placed over the eyes.” He cupped his hands over his eyes. “Finally the entire body would be wrapped in linens and covered with a shroud.” At this stage Barton knew that the prepared body would be placed inside a long niche, or loculus. There were none here, but variations in tomb design weren’t uncommon and he didn’t want to complicate matters.
Trying to visualize the inner dimensions of the box, Razak couldn’t compute how a body could fit in such a cramped vessel. “But I still don’t see—”
Barton held up a hand. “Please,” he gently cut in. “They believed that the body needed to expiate sin, shed it through the process of decaying flesh. So the family would allow the corpse to putrefy for a year, after which, they would come back to place the bones in a sacred stone box—a miniature coffin called an ossuary.”
Razak stared at him. Islamic burial practice—interment within twenty-four hours in a modest tomb facing Mecca, preferably without a casket—was in stark contrast to elaborate ancient Jewish rituals. “I see.” Razak fingered his chin.
“This type of burial was common in this region,” Barton continued, “but only practiced during a very brief period—roughly 200 BCE to 70 CE. That helps us to date ossuaries pretty accurately, even without fancy tests. As you can see,” Barton pointed to the row, “the boxes are just large enough to accommodate a dismembered skeleton.”
“Why did they save the bones?” Razak thought he knew the answer, but wanted to be sure.
“The ancient Jews believed strongly in their eventual resurrection, ushered in by the coming of the true Messiah.”
Razak nodded. The bodies of Muslims also waited in the grave for a Day of Judgment, reminding him how Judaism and Islam shared many common roots.
“The same Messiah,” Barton added, “whom the Jews believe will rebuild the third and final temple up there,” he pointed above his head toward the Temple Mount esplanade.
“That will never happen,” Razak defiantly stated.
That’s precisely what Barton would have expected the Muslim to say. “Yes, well, anyway, this was considered preparation for that day. Without the bones, there would have been no chance for resurrection.”