“That’s awesome!”
Ava smiled. “Do you know about the Baghdad Battery?”
“Is it the Iraqi baseball team?”
She laughed despite herself. “No. Before World War II, archaeologists discovered terra-cotta jars buried near Baghdad. Some claim they date from the Parthian era. I think the Sassanid dynasty is more likely. Regardless, they’re at least fifteen hundred years old — and they’re basic electric batteries.”
“You mean like Duracell?”
“Pretty much. Each clay jar had a stopper. Sticking through it was an iron rod surrounded by a copper cylinder. Filled with vinegar or any other strong electrolytic solution, they produced electricity. Experts estimate each made about one volt. In 1980, Arthur C. Clarke built a reproduction, filled it with grape juice, and proved it could electroplate a statuette. The MythBusters determined it was plausible for ancient people to have used such batteries.”
“That’s so cool.”
Gradually, as Paul and Ava talked, the terminal filled with passengers. Representatives of many nationalities and ethnicities congregated around the gate. Soon the metal building reverberated with the babble of two hundred simultaneous conversations.
Efficient security personnel appeared and organized the crowd into three lines. First, an officer reviewed identification. Second, luggage was examined by customs agents, who offered to stow heavier bags belowdecks. Finally, a smiling steward tore tickets and welcomed passengers across the gangway.
Ava and Paul waited their turn, but when the officer saw Ava’s ID, he pulled them out of line and escorted them past security. In broken English, he explained that Police Commissioner Rizzo personally insisted the two Americans were to be shown every courtesy. Paul thanked the officer and helped Ava board.
Meanwhile, out on the waterfront, a diesel pump throbbed as it refueled the massive catamaran. The wharf bustled with activity. Growling, a forklift shuttled to and fro, lifting crates into the hold. Dockworkers rushed aluminum tubs of perishable food up a ramp and delivered them to the galley. Supervisors shouted instructions to burly men hefting innumerable cases of beer, liquor, wine, and soda to the ship’s four bars and passenger lounges.
Amid the chaos, no one noticed a tall Italian spiriting aboard an unregistered case and hiding it in the aft engine room.
Chapter 14
Mired in melancholy, Cardinal Jacopo Piccolomini-Ammannati attended the coronation of Pope Paul II. A vain, suspicious, and ineffectual man, Paul II was no elector’s first choice. Rather, the self-important Venetian represented a compromise between ideologically divergent factions. To secure support in the College of Cardinals, the new pope had signed a capitulation that, among other things, required him to continue Pius’s campaign against the Turks. Cardinal Jacopo was instrumental in obtaining this concession. He championed the cause not out of personal animus or ambition, but rather out of loyalty to a departed friend.
The forty-two-year-old cardinal had accomplished much in his career. He was ordained a bishop at thirty-eight. One year later he was named cardinal of Pavia. He’d served as secretary of briefs under Pope Calistus III and continued in that role until Pius II made him a member of the pontific household. Sadly, his meteoric rise would now stall. Jacopo suspected the new pope would break his political promises, arguing that preelection capitulations abridged a pope’s absolute authority. By disregarding these commitments, Paul II would ignite a feud within the Vatican, weakening the Church at an inopportune time. Fraught with internal division, Rome could never check the Ottoman advance. Pius’s steadfast allies, the valiant Knights of Rhodes, would continue to fight. But it was only a matter of time until the Turks invaded Italy. Worse, Spain might persuade the isolated pope to revive the execrable Inquisition. Jacopo’s humanist friends and cohorts, particularly de Volterra, Carvajal, and Roverella, feared that an anti-intellectual backlash could engulf all of Europe, strangling the nascent Renaissance in its crib and dragging Christendom back into darkness.
As soon as decorum allowed, Jacopo bade farewell to the assembled ministers, clerics, and plenipotentiaries. He had important duties to perform. On his deathbed Pius had ordered Jacopo to destroy the artifacts and the prophecy they contained. Jacopo had objected. The two men disagreed sharply on the topic. Jacopo believed the prophecy was simply mistranslated, by either accident or design. Pius thought otherwise. He insisted the prophecy was a demonic instrument, imbued with black sorcery that turned arrogant mortals away from God. To prove such speculations were illogical, Jacopo invoked the reasoning propounded by the brilliant Franciscan friar William of Ockham. Pius, however, would not be dissuaded. He ignored all arguments, endlessly repeating: “A daemonibus docetur, de daemonibus docet, et ad daemones ducit.” (It is taught by the demons, it teaches about the demons, and it leads to the demons.)
Though he opposed the pope’s decision, Cardinal Jacopo finally agreed to destroy the relics. To disobey the pontiff was an unthinkable sin, one that would expose his soul to eternal damnation. More important, Jacopo would never refuse his mentor’s last request.
It was vital to act quickly, before the new pope consolidated his authority. Piccolomini-Ammannati summoned his personal secretary. While Jacopo and his fellow cardinals were locked in the papal conclave, this aide collected every extant copy of the prophecy. These Jacopo would burn. Whispering to the young priest, he revealed the ancient jars’ hiding place and instructed him to throw them over the balcony. As the stunned academician turned to obey, the cardinal said, “Inside the cabinet, hidden below the jars, are two disks of pure gold. Melt them down.”
The young man’s eyes widened. “And what should I do with the gold?”
Jacopo smiled. “Cast it into coins. Distribute them to the poor to honor our generous new pope’s election.”
“Yes, Eminence.”
The secretary hurried to perform his assignment. He found the secret chamber, located the hidden jars, and dragged them onto the balcony. After inspecting the courtyard below to ensure that no one would be crushed, the young priest shoved the first jar over the edge. With an ear-splitting crack, it shattered. He wiped his hands on his cassock, then repeated the process with the second jar. That task complete, he searched the cabinet and uncovered the golden disks. For a moment he was awed by the glimmering objects, but he soon regained his composure and transported them to the goldsmith.
In exchange for a modest bribe, the artisan agreed to begin work immediately. He pumped the bellows, bringing his furnace to a white heat. Inside, the disks melted rapidly. Dripping with sweat, the goldsmith removed the assembly from the fire and poured refulgent metal into a cast. While they waited for it to harden, the smith offered the priest a cup of cool water. He smiled and drank. Suddenly, the door burst open. A gang of soldiers marched into the workshop, arrested the occupants on charges of conspiracy, and seized the gold as evidence.
At trial, few were surprised to learn that the evidence had mysteriously vanished. The missing treasure, as much as Jacopo’s able defense, persuaded the tribunal to dismiss the complaint.
Years later, after the death of Paul II, a group of cardinals inspected his treasure vault. They noted fifty-four silver shells filled with pearls; a collection of jewels, including several magnificent diamonds; and a cache of unfashioned gold worth at least three hundred thousand ducats. The origin of this gold remains unknown.
Though he mourned the lost artifacts, Jacopo maintained a fervent hope that the ancient secret endured. Hidden somewhere, probably in Africa, two jars still existed. The secret brotherhood would protect them. Jacopo whispered, “One alone shall be chaste. Only when two are gathered is the truth revealed.” As long as two jars survived, the prophecy would survive, and the coming evil might still be defeated.