Page 50 of Skotos
Dust.
Something that hadn’t breathed fresh air in a thousand years, probably more.
“These are the original Grottos,” Marini said, voice flat. “They are not shown to pilgrims . . . or even to most within the Church. Only the Pope himself may allow entry into these vaults.”
Original Grottos indeed.
We were surrounded by raw stone, chiseled by hand and worn by time. Tombs yawned open on either side, some with Latin inscriptions barely legible. A few had no names at all—just symbols, carved in haste or secrecy or both.
A hushed wind passed through the halls.
Or was it a chill breath?
I wasn’t sure.
We passed a door sealed with iron bands coated in wax.
“What’s in there?” I asked, fascinated by the Church’s method of ensuring a room went undisturbed.
Marini didn’t answer.
We turned into another corridor.
Passed another heavy door.
Marini fiddled with more keys and another heavy door.
When we stepped into the final chamber, my breath caught.
As the door opened, the familiarwhooshof a vacuum seal being broken shattered the silence,reminding me of the latest SCIF1 technology employed by the CIA back in Washington to ensure private conversations. Thomas glanced toward me but said nothing. When the Monsignor pulled the door closed behind us, the familiarwhooshechoed throughout the chamber, confirming the use of a technology I thought only common in the most advanced intelligence services. Sure, the Library of Congress and British Museum had dabbled with the preserving arts, but none had used it on an industrial scale. Clearly, the Vatican took its prized possessions more seriously than even the most illustrious civic institutions—and had done so for more years than we knew.
A massive stone table dominated the room, its surface inlaid with a map of the world. The countries depicted on the table weren’t modern, as borders appeared fluid, drawn and redrawn many times. Rome sat in the center, while rays, like those of the sun, jutted out in every direction, the Holy City serving as the world’s beacon of light.
Past the table,shelves towered to the ceiling and tunneled far into the darkness of a room that somehow never seemed to end. Books and scrolls were stacked in countless alcoves, their leather cracked, some blackened by age. Lit by a single flickering bulb that hung limp above the slab, the place felt suspended outside of time. It felt as though we’d entered a wound in the world that had yet to heal—and likely never would.
Father Marini reached into his pocket and donned a pair of white gloves, then walked to the shelves, his fingers drifting over one then another like a blind man reading the Braille of the texts, then stilled, tapping one shelf before pulling down a tome thicker than my arm. He struggled beneath its weight as he shuffled back toward us and set it gently onto the table, a father setting his infant child to rest in a cradle surrounded by strangers.
Thomas let out a low breath. “How many centuries of secrets—”
“Millennia, not centuries,” the Monsignor corrected gently.
“What is that book?” I asked, curiosity getting the better of my patience.
“This,” Marini said, tapping the binding with his gloved hand, “is theLexicon Haeretica et Obscura: Catalogus Sigillorum et Ordinum Eclipsorum.”
His words were reverent, almost more so than when he spoke of theliving Pope.
“Forgive me, Father, my Latin is a bit rusty,” Thomas said.
“Ah, yes, right.” Marini finally looked up, his fingers stilling on the leather binding. “Benedictus Heironymiwas a twelfth-century Cistercian monk and ecclesiastical archivist, one of many scribes to Pope Celestine III. He was known for his obsessive need to document not only legitimate ecclesiastical orders but also royal crests, national symbols, secret iconography used by nations to deceive one another, rogue factions, shadow sects, and iconographic deviations deemed too dangerous for public record.”
Thomas’s brows rose. “A monumental effort.”
“Indeed,” Marini said, clearly pleased by Thomas’s note of surprise. “After his death in 1199, the work was continued—reluctantly—by successive generations of monastic scholars under papal directive, often in secrecy.”
“Why secrecy?” I asked. “These are just symbols, most of the countries or people long dead.”
Marini’s contented smile morphed into a scowl. “My boy, as long as men walk this earth, symbols will hold power. They may inspire or deter, enflame or defuse, uplift or condemn the soul to mourn. Those etched in darkness often bear no letters but speak more powerful words than tomes filled with the prattling of proud men.”
