Ancient Shadows

Chapter 3

Chapter 3

Florence, Italy

Michael awoke hot and sweaty at seven to the sound of matin bells from the Basilica Santa Maria Novella, a thirteenth-century cathedral that would be famous were it anywhere but Florence where more magnificent structures overshadowed it.

He sat up, oddly dazed and disoriented, his pillow on the floor and the bed covers twisted and yanked out from the mattress.

The night before, he saw four a.m. before he was able to quiet his mind enough to sleep. He was troubled by the way he had passed out. Nothing like that had ever happened to him before.

When he finally did go to bed, he slept fitfully with anxiety-filled, terrible dreams.

He headed for the shower. An old memory came to him of Magda, his nanny after his mother’s untimely death. She was Romanian, and he used to believe she was a gypsy. She told him to beware and to never invite a witch, warlock, devil or demon into his home. That if he did, it could possess him.

He felt better as he dried off. Renewed. Clearly, the strange old priest with his absurd stories of an evil pearl and Marco Polo, and seeing what looked like a philosopher’s stone, had triggered memories and fears deep in his psyche. In turn, they, along with an overzealous imagination, and probably a bad clam or two in his dinner, caused him to imagine flickering lights, dark swirling mists, and to briefly black out. Now, he was fine.

Surely, the bronze wasn’t from the Shang dynasty, but was a very clever fake. And the pearl wasn’t a philosopher’s stone, but just an amalgam produced in some laboratory—and probably filled with plastics and phosphorescent materials so it seemed to glow in the dark. He should laugh about it.

Marco Polo, indeed!

That the old priest mentioned Marco Polo at all was either a lucky guess on his part, or came about thanks to someone who knew Michael well. Michael’s fascination with Polo began at an early age. In fact, he often suspected learning about Polo’s adventures in China was one of several reasons he became an archeologist. The mere mention of the “Old Silk Road” sent him into a reverie of the stories he had read in The Travels of Marco Polo. He wanted to have similar adventures in his own life. He was living proof of the old saw, “be careful what you wish for.”

Several of his archeological travels had taken him to portions of the Silk Road around the Central Asian cities of Tashkent and Samarkand. Most of the road was gone now and warring governments and fierce tribal peoples made what little remained difficult to traverse.

One of the recurring themes in history was how other nations would ignore that part of the world until its inhabitants rose up in unstoppable fury and mercilessly attacked rival states—states they regarded as soft, degenerate, and arrogant in believing themselves immune to falling. The Huns, whose origin is disputed to this day, when led by Attila hastened the Roman Empire’s final collapse. Centuries later, again out of seemingly nowhere, the Mongols under Genghis Khan rose up, crossed the steppes, and extended their empire to the gates of Vienna. Even today, Michael thought, much unrest in the world traced its roots to that same rugged area, fingering into ethnic conclaves from around the Caspian Sea eastward to the deserts of Western China.

He walked to his combination living and dining room. The bronze receptacle still sat on the dining table, the bulging eyes of its monster design seemed to follow him, as if to say it would not be ignored. Maddeningly, to his trained eye it looked like the real thing. An uneasy feeling crept through him once more. He had hoped that moving to Italy would free him of these “feelings.” It hadn’t happened.

He paced back and forth, running thin fingers through his black hair, pushing it back off his forehead, all the while trying to rid himself of a horrible feeling of relentless, approaching doom. He had come to Italy to study, and if he were being completely honest, to hide amidst the antiquity here and lose himself in its museums and universities. He wanted nothing to do with anything else.

That damned bronze was the problem. He needed to find the priest and return it. He could not, would not, take this on. Too much danger lurked along that path. A lesson he had learned well.

The rain had stopped, but dark clouds covered the sky as he left his apartment. Cold morning air cut through his jacket, and he hunched his shoulders, hands in his pockets as he took long-legged strides to the corner café. He bought the morning paper, La Nazione, and ordered a cappuccino, paying extra to sit at a table rather than stand at the counter to drink his coffee, a common requirement in many Italian cafés. His smattering of Italian plus a lot of Latin—which he had studied along with classical Greek and Syriac for his archeological pursuits—helped him understand the gist of the news stories he read.

He flipped to the last page of the news section, about to sip his cappuccino, when he jolted, sloshing some coffee onto the paper. A photo of Father Berosus peered up at him. The headline read “Who is this man?” It went on to say that “this stranger” was at the Santa Maria Nuova Hospital, and the administrators asked that any relative, friend, or other person who had information on him, to contact them.

There wouldn’t have been time since last evening for the hospital to have put the request for information into the newspaper, so the news story had to have been placed a day or so earlier. Most likely, the priest had recovered and was released.

Once Michael got over the shock, he realized this was a break. The hospital would know how to contact the man.

He gulped down the rest of his cappuccino, rushed back to his apartment, put the bronze in his pocket, and then rode his Vespa motor scooter through the chilly streets to the hospital.

Santa Maria Nuova was the oldest active hospital in Florence, dating back to 1288. At one time it had housed beautiful frescos, paintings, and statues, most of which had been moved to museums. Leonardo da Vinci was said to have learned anatomy there by dissecting corpses. At the reception counter, Michael pointed at the newspaper article and said he had some information.

The reception nurse raised her eyebrows. “The doctor who attended him last night is still on duty. I’ll page him for you.”

“Last night?” Michael asked, confused. Ah! She must mean the doctor who released him. He took a seat and waited.

After some fifteen minutes, a harried physician ran to the nurse. She pointed at Michael. The doctor wore a peculiar expression as he approached. Michael stood.

“I am Doctor Orrecchino,” the man said in Italian as he held out his hand. Up close, Michael could see he was younger than he seemed at first glance. Weariness and dark circles below his eyes aged him.

They shook hands. “Michael Rempart.”

“I understand you know something about our mysterious patient.” The doctor switched to English.

“His name is Yosip Berosus, and he’s a Chaldean priest, although I assume you’ve learned who he is by now. In any event, he gave me something valuable to hold, and I need to return it.” Michael decided not to tell them he knew the priest had been released. “It’s very important that I give it back to him.”

The doctor’s expression turned grave. “Are you family?”

Something was very wrong here. “I’m a friend.”

“Would you be able to identify him?”

The question jarred. “Are you saying Father Berosus came back here last night and died? Is that what happened?”

The doctor’s lips tightened. “He came to us three days ago, signore. He was catatonic, unmoving, unaware. In the end, he slipped into a coma. Last night, he passed away very quietly without ever regaining consciousness.”

Michael told himself it couldn’t be the man he saw. The two looked alike, that was all. Or perhaps the hospital or newspaper had mixed up the photos.

“Tell me, Doctor, what was the cause of death?”

The doctor looked uncomfortable. “He was an old man.”

“And?”

“His heart stopped. He died.”

“Why the coma?” Michael asked.

“I don’t know. We found no trauma. No signs of a stroke. But, at his age …”

“So you don’t know.”

The doctor frowned, clearly not liking being questioned this way. His tone was abrupt. “As I said, he was very old. Sometimes, that’s the only reason a person dies.”

“Will there be an autopsy?”

“There is no need,” he said sternly. “In any case, if you could identify the body to be sure it’s the man you named, that would be helpful. He was taken to a mortuary for indigents since he died with, apparently, no family and no money. The nurse will give you the address. Perhaps, with your help, someone will claim the body.”

“Certainly.” Michael nodded. “But before you go, could you tell me the time he died?”

The doctor’s gaze was cold. “A few minutes before midnight. Why do you ask?”

Michael couldn’t reply. He had looked at a clock shortly after the priest left his apartment. It had been midnight. “It’s nothing,” he said, in a voice barely more than a whisper.