The Omega Factor(114)
He wondered. An invitation? “Let’s take a look.”
They headed for the entrance and walked into the main foyer. No one was in sight, but all the doors leading out of it were open.
“Now, that’s not normal at all,” Kelsey said. “Especially with what just happened. In my convent all the doors leading into the building are kept closed and locked at all times. No exceptions. No excuses.”
“I gained access to the inside through an unlocked back door.”
“That would never happen in my convent.”
Which made him wonder even more. Then he heard it. Soft. In the distance. Inside the building. Singing.
Kelsey heard it too. “The Ave Maria. They were singing it when I arrived. Down in the crypt.”
“You know the way?”
She led him through one of the corridors to a stone staircase that wound downward into the earth. The singing had become more distinct, but still far off. Definitely coming from below. They descended into a crypt, the ceiling barely ten feet high, rows of heavy pillars supporting numerous vaults. Not much there other than a stone altar at the far end. Nothing on the walls. Incandescent lighting cast a yellow glow across the cream-colored stone.
“This is their chapel,” Kelsey said.
He stepped forward, past a few of the pillars, and zeroed in on the sound. From his right. Past a section of stone hinged inward. They stared at each other, puzzlement slowly replaced by understanding. He decided to accept the invitation and entered the portal, admiring how it had been cleverly built, its axle a thick, greased metal bar embedded into the rock. When closed, the panel would have been indistinguishable from the surrounding rough wall.
A long flight of cupped, slick marble steps led down on the other side. They descended, the air becoming cold, but not dank. And he felt why. A draft signaled circulation. Down they went, ending in a spacious underground, barrel-roofed chapel with a small apse at the opposite end. Most of the walls were whitewashed, surely intended to emphasize the richness and color of the intermixed frescoed spaces. Enormous iron lanterns supported by chains hung from the vaults, their glow almost dreamlike. Not a speck of anything had peeled or chipped. Not a single sign of neglect. The maidens all knelt on the polished gray-green marble floor, singing in wonderful, lyrical tones. He studied the faces, some joyful, some relaxed. He glanced at Kelsey. A flash of joy seemed to pass through her, tears forming in her eyes. He too felt the elation.
The abbess knelt in front of the assemblage.
He stared around and noticed the frescoes.
The Virgin, wearing a mystic cylindrical headdress, hands raised in prayer, the swarthy face casting dignity and beauty. Figures of Christ, hands raised in blessing, the face a buff color with a wash of red-brown, a few splashes of black, and highlights added with streaks of white to the eyebrows, nose, and lips. More of the Virgin, each time depicted as a dark-skinned woman with clearly non-European features. Then he noticed the simple limestone ossuary, atop a marble plinth that stood before the far wall. Behind, in the apse, were two craggy recesses cut into the rock-hewn cavern. One contained a stone urn, the other what looked like a glass container.
He saw an inscription on the plinth. In Latin.
“What does it say?” he whispered to Kelsey.
“In the fifty-second year after the birth of our Lord, this tomb is in honor of Mary, the Mother of God.”
The song ended. Silence reigned for a few seconds.
“Welcome,” he heard the abbess say.
And the older woman stood and turned.
As did the others in gray smocks, who divided themselves to one side, allowing him and Kelsey to step forward, close to the plinth.
“This is the Chapel of the Maidens,” the abbess said.
He was beginning to understand. “What just happened was all a dog-and-pony show. Theater. To convince Fuentes that he got what he came for.”
“Proverbs is instructive,” the abbess said. “Like a dog that returns to its vomit, is a fool who reverts to his folly.”
He grinned. “And a fool he was.”
“The quickest way to acquire a person’s confidence,” the abbess said, “is by seemingly trusting them with what they think is your secret.”
Her expression seemed easy and calm, but she was intent on him, studying, judging. He stared around at the room. Everything had assumed a strange quality of unreality. “How old is this place?”
“It was completed in 1204, right before the Albigensian Crusade,” the abbess said. “There was a real danger to us then. The pope sent an army to this region not only for the Cathars, but for us too. We were unsure what might happen, so the maidens of that time devised a clever plan. We kept the original tomb, as it was created in the first century, but replaced the bones with those of a maiden who’d died hundreds of years before. She’d rested in our cemetery. But, even in death, she was able to guard the Virgin. This room was forged out of an old cellar and the bones were brought and placed in that ossuary. Thankfully, the crusaders never came to this plateau. We escaped them entirely. But we were ready, just in case.”
He stepped close and saw an inscription on the ossuary’s exterior. Faint in the stone, but still there.
“Greek for ‘itself to itself,’” Claire said. “Those words were carved into the hollow of the original tomb. It was an epitaph, chosen at the time of Mary’s death, that says it all. She lived and died and returned to dust, as all humans do. Of course, the women who left that were not interested in elevating Mary to any godlike status.”