tracks together, our mouths agape like twin baby birds. Don Ferrente stood watching us and not the building, a small smile playing at his lips as if he had built the thing himself. At the king’s elbow I felt the constant presence of his majordomo Santiago, smooth and silent as ever. This giant place—not a house nor yet a church—seemed to be a relic of the city’s ancient past; even I knew it to be Roman by reason of its many columns.
Above the columns an inscription was hewn into the timeless rock, and as I knew he would, Brother Guido read it out. “ ‘M· AGRIPPA· L· F · COS ·TERTIUM ·FECIT.’ “ He turned to Don Ferrente. “Marcus Agrippa made me.”
Don Ferrente, who was to be our guide it seemed, nodded, and named the place. “The Pantheon.”
Brother Guido’s eyes shone. “But this is incredible. I have longed to see this wonder since a child.”
Don Ferrente smiled, gratified that he might please his guest and show his knowledge of a place “Lord Niccolò” had never been. “Come inside,” he invited. “I have arranged for our party to visit privily, so we will have the run of the place for the spectacle to come.”
We entered the huge dark maw of the church and I saw two of Don Ferrente’s heavies posted at the portico, pikes in hand, and wondered what we were to witness. I turned at the door and looked back to the square outside—unusually busy, even for a great city. I had thought at first that the populace had gathered to see the grandeur of our carriages arriving from the Castel Sant’Angelo, but the crowd remained, milling and mumbling. Some of the goodwives crossed themselves and the gentlemen talked loudly as men do in braggadocio. It must be long past Compline as we had already dined—what did they all do there? There was a buzz of anticipation and an underbelly of something else.
Fear.
As we crossed the square, Don Ferrente’s guards elbowing the burghers of Rome from our path, I pulled at Brother Guido’s sleeve.
“What is this place?” I had no doubt that although he had never set foot inside it, Brother Guido would know all.
“The Pantheon, means temple to ‘all the gods’ from the Greek pan—every—and theon—God. It was originally part of Augustus Caesar’s plan to rebuild Rome in his image.”
“I thought you said it was built by Marcus somebody.”
“Marcus Agrippa was friend and general to Augustus; it seems likely that he designed the first Pantheon, since his inscription still fills the architrave above the portico.”
I figured that he meant “above the front door.” “So it’s a temple,” I summarized.
“Not anymore. After Rome became Christianized, the Pantheon became the Church of Santa Maria dei Martiri consecrated by command of the Byzantine emperor Phocas many centuries ago.”
“All right, so now it’s a church.” I accepted his tedious corrections. “But why are we here?”
“That I know not.”
This was typical of Brother Guido, as I now knew—he would tell you about a hundred things you did not want to know, but anything you actually wanted to know was missing from his armory of knowledge. I found the Pantheon creepy, and my neck prickled as I followed the gentlemen inside, there to recognize others of the Aragonese court, milling around the great space like flies in a bottle. The queen and the trio of royal mistresses were already within, and all nodded to me. Giovanna of Aragon was serene as ever, but the concubines were in a twitter of excitement, chattering like jays. A great ring of hissing torches was set within the walls, to illuminate the interior. And I had to admit that the place was truly a wonder. I noted at once three things.
Cosa Uno: by some strange alchemy of architecture it seemed more massive inside than it even seemed from without, and
Cosa Due: the interior was an immense circular space with a marble floor. A huge dome arched above, and
Cosa Tre: in the center of the dome sat the greatest peculiarity of the place, a huge hole, open to the skies, through which the full moon could clearly be seen.
Brother Guido turned about below this false firmament, neck cricked to the ceiling, marveling at the hole.
“The oculus,” Don Ferrente supplied. “Which serves as a mirror of the round heavens.” He raised his voice for poetic effect, and those gathered stopped to heed him. “Dio Cassius said: ‘Thanks to its dome the Pantheon resembles the vault of heaven itself.’ ”
I was