they had lived in far-off parts of the Holy Land, not in the cities where my own grubby sandals trod.
Brother Guido’s eyes shone blue fire. “Yes. Near the Villa Borghese, not far from the Pantheon. There’s even a shrine containing the gridiron on which he roasted to death.”
“They roasted him?” I always thought martyrdom a noble, if stupid, act, but I never thought that a saint would be cooked like a Yuletide dinner.
“Yes, you do not know the tale?” His face took on a beatific look; Brother Guido was a monk once again. “He was placed on a hot gridiron by the vengeful Romans till his flesh began to sizzle. Then, with great bravery and fortitude, he said, ‘Turn me over, I am done on this side.’ ”
I began to laugh. “I’m sorry,” I apologized. “But it is funny.”
He conceded a smile. “Yes. It shows that the servants of Christ cannot be easily vanquished.”
“All right.” I sprang to my feet. “Then what are we waiting for? Let’s leave here and seek that place—Villa Borghese.”
“No.”
“What now?”
“It’s a good notion, Luciana, but it’s just not right. San Lorenzo has nothing to do with the words ‘the seventh sun.’ We are thinking too much of God and sanctity, but here in Rome everything is different. Did you not hear Don Ferrente? ‘The old gods hold sway tonight.’ These are the old days and the old ways. Unpalatable as it is, we must turn our thoughts to the pagan, even the heathen, not the Christian.”
I saw what he meant. “For even the king is different here.”
“What mean you?” But he looked like he thought so too.
“Well, in Naples, he was almost preaching the Gospel at his feast, talking of Christ, and the dayspring, and his model of the Nativity; almost as pious and pope-holy as you. Then, when we’d just left the city—do you remember, just after the earthquake—he said it was the old gods who shook the earth’? And here in Rome it’s all Romans and pagans and the power of the sun.”
“You are absolutely right. Could it not be,” he said slowly, “that in those Christian pronouncements in Naples he was dissembling—his preachings were merely clues to lead us to the church to view the fleet? He mentioned Christ on Calvary—”
“Showing us the way!” I cried.
“And that’s how we found the door to the underground fleet—the seventh station of the cross, Christ’s last journey to Calvary, on the wall of the church of San Lorenzo Maggiore.”
“But here, he is more concerned with the sun, the moon, the seasons . . .”
“He takes us to witness an eclipse . . .”
“Even his riddle speaks of the sun . . .”
“Sol Invictus!” Brother Guido crowed triumphantly. “The pendant that Venus wears in the Primavera. The sun. And,” he went on, “that Marsilio Ficino letter that you recalled in the Pantheon. The entire extract runs, ‘The Sun makes clear all your inventions by its light. Finally Venus, with her very pleasing beauty, always adorns whatever has been found.’ ”
It all fitted. Venus was the figure of Rome, she wore a sun pendant. We were on the right course. “Let’s think this through,” said I. “The king took us to a church—”
“Which was once a pagan temple . . .” Our words tumbled out so fast that they almost crossed each other.
“And told us to meet him under the seventh sun . . .”
But then we stopped, graveled for lack of matter, and could go no further.
Madonna. ‘Twas a tough cipher this time. The seventh sun. The seventh sun. There was but one sun in the Primavera, on Venus’s breast. But one sun in the heavens. What were the others?
We sat in silence then, puzzling, speaking only to begin sentences then dispose of these fragments of ideas as quickly as they had come to us. “Would there be . . . is there a temple, or palace, with seven suns painted on the ceiling? Like a fresco?” I ended weakly.
“Mayhap there is. But we would never find such a place in time.” More silence.
“Perhaps . . .” he suggested in turn, “it has something to do with months of the year? The primavera is, after all, a season, the season of spring.”
“So?” I was bullish, for my arse hurt on the cold damp stone and I was mad that my fresco idea had been dumped out of hand.
“Maybe the seventh sun is the seventh month. Sept-ember.”
“Brilliant,” I scoffed. “It’s July, but I’ll meet you at midnight