Cafés, hotels and nightclubs flew by as their driver took the narrow roads at even higher speeds while looking over his shoulder and telling his passengers where to eat, how to find quiet areas on the beach, where to get the best wine. He told them, “Most vacationers gone now for the season. The town very quiet tonight. No more celebrations.”
“Too bad,” Caleb said.
Then, though they didn’t ask for it, the driver offered a quick history lesson, relating how Rimini had emerged from Byzantine rule in 1320 as an independent city, and was lorded over by the Malatesta family for over 200 years. The last ruler, Sigismondo Malatesta, had taken upon himself the great work of expanding the Franciscan chapel at the center of town in 1447, in which he decided to house the crypts of his ancestors. The great Florentine architect and precursor of da Vinci, Leon Battista Alberti, had designed the exterior, incorporating Roman arches and grand pilasters. The interior, however, was what had caused such consternation and debate for centuries to come. Within the sacristies and chapels, pagan sculptures, zodiac emblems and mystical designs merged with Christian décor, crucifixes and Madonnas.
Malatesta never quite finished the reconstruction, as his political fortunes had turned and the papacy closed in, confiscating his lands and power. “Some say his true purpose in re-designing the church was for the love of his life, Signora Isotta, his third wife.” The driver turned and grinned at them, his oily mustache fanned across his face. “You will see everywhere sculptures of the ‘I’ and ‘S’ twisted together, for ‘Isotta’ and ‘Sigismondo.’ Much like the young people write on trees, no?”
Caleb nodded, smiling, but the imagery had him considering alternatives. An entwined S… like a snake… around an I, or central staff… Scholars had theorized about this church and that symbol for two hundred years, wondering what cipher Malatesta might have intended. The prevailing notion of a tribute to his wife was certainly romantic, but Caleb had the feeling there had been other forces at work, forces that had perhaps influenced Cagliostro and led him to trust that his secret would be safe here.
Finally, they passed through the Piazza Tre Martiri and pulled up onto via Garibaldi. “There it is,” said the driver. “Tempio Malatestiano. The old Chapel San Francesco.”
Helen thanked the driver and offered a large tip, then told him not to wait. They stood before the arched doorway and admired the great façade with the bell tower in the background.
“Now what?” Caleb asked, looking at his watch. It was six o’clock.
“We go in,” said Waxman, eyeing the doorway, and then looking around at the landmarks as a general would scout a battlefield before an attack. “They close at seven, so we only have an hour to see if it’s here.”
“And if it is?”
Waxman gave Caleb a sideways glance. “I’ll figure something out.”
Caleb lingered outside for several minutes, observing the intricate architecture, the host of varying symbols. Wreaths, vines and flowers, an elephant — apparently the symbol of the Malatesta family — and then, of course, the S-and-I image repeated several times.
Again he thought of the caduceus.
“What is it?” Helen asked over his shoulder. She had moved in close, and he could smell her perfume, like a floral overabundance attempting to hide something musty and old.
“I was just thinking. About how it looks like a snake coiled around a staff. Or, remember the Garden of Eden? The serpent was demonized because he offered Eve the gift of knowledge.”
“Good and evil,” she whispered. “Knowledge of everything. All from the fruit of the Tree.”
“Exactly.” Caleb pointed to the symbol. “It all stems from fear — fear that we might learn too much about this world, about ourselves. Look at the tower of Babel story; God punished us when we all got together and spoke the same language and—”
“—built a tower challenging the heavens.” Helen ruffled his hair as if he were still a little boy. “You and your theories. So much like your father. You read too many books, you know, both of you.”
“Did you really expect me to be that different from him?”
“Never,” she said with a softening smile, “and I wouldn’t want you to change. Come on, let’s go inside.”
He followed her in, craning his neck at the massive arch as he walked into a stuffy chapel, a hint of incense on the air, with sacristy areas on the left and right, and rows of candles down the middle, flickering before several Rosary-carrying locals and a few tourists snapping pictures. The crucifix above the main altar was the most solemn image in the church. The rest of the artwork — lace, sculptures and paintings of Roman cherubs and young children frolicking, scenes of angels dancing on the columns and the figures of the zodiac around the planets — all seemed more playful.
They walked slowly, Waxman leading the way, toward the altar. Caleb could tell by the heaviness in his steps he was expecting to stop any second, hoping either mother or son would drop to their knees in the throes of some great vision. But nothing happened as they stood before each alcove, each chapel, and admired the intricate ornamentation, marveled at the consistency of the classical themes, and were humbled by the grace of the Roman architecture.
After a half hour they had circled the interior twice. Caleb left Helen and Waxman to whisper among themselves when an usher came by and told him that the church would be closing in fifteen minutes.
Caleb continued circling until he stood at a chapel dedicated to the Archangel Michael, which depicted the evil serpent’s death at his hands. Below a host of other angels, Isotta’s tomb, beautifully sculpted, was set back against the wall.
Lingering, Caleb stared at the marble coffin for a long, long time. It seemed the candlelight flickered steadily brighter and brighter, flashing against the walls. He was aware of a representation of Diana riding a chariot, holding a crescent moon above two horses on the wall to his left. She seemed to be driving him onward, urging haste.
When Caleb focused again on the tomb, he saw something that wasn’t there before… the shadow of a robed man kneeling and sliding the lid back upon Isotta’s resting place. A flash of red on his cloak was all Caleb caught before he blinked and the vision faded.
But it was enough.
“Come on, we have to leave,” Helen said, suddenly at his side. “I guess we’ll have to try again tomorrow.”
“No need,” Caleb whispered. “It’s here, in Isotta’s tomb.”
Waxman gasped. “You did it, kid? You saw it?”
Ignoring the desire to tell him he wasn’t a kid any longer, Caleb nodded and walked away under the watchful gaze of the dying serpent and the triumphant expression of the Archangel.
Caleb and Helen ate under hooded lanterns at an outdoor restaurant at the Piazza Cavour across from the gothic-styled and newly renovated town hall. A circular fountain built by Pope Pius III stood in the center of the Piazza before a beautiful neo-classical theater.
“Where’s your husband?” Caleb asked when she came down from the hotel to meet him. She wore a blue sundress with a black shawl thrown over her shoulders and secured it with a golden butterfly broach.
“He’s resting. He said to start dinner without him.”
Caleb took her hands. At first she resisted, with the shock of his abruptness. “I need to apologize—”