The Manuscript I the Secret by Blanca Miosi, Gretchen Abernathy Page A

they reached another door similar to the first but with a large metal crucifix on it. Passing through, they went down fifteen more steps and came to an open gallery from which several tunnels branched off. Francesco took the one going farthest down. As they continued, the air grew progressively thinner. A light odor of sulfur wafted up, mixed with earth, mold, and dampness.
    Another gallery, more forks in the road. Francesco went down a long corridor whose earthen walls seemed ready to collapse at any moment. A labyrinth of paths crossed and recrossed each other, some going up, some going down, but Francesco’s steps were sure and determined as he followed a familiar route. They filed by long rows of niches marked only with crossbones, an occasional ancient Armenian symbol or two, or a couple words in Latin. At the end of one long tunnel adorned with skulls etched into the walls, the path split yet again. Francesco took the right-hand fork and continued downward. Claudio noticed that at this depth the air grew somehow less oppressive.
    “There are chimneys,” Francesco explained, pointing to some holes in the rock. “I think they go up to the walls of the ravine. To my best guess, the gorge is on this side,” he lightly tapped the wall to the right even as he continued descending the steep narrow path.
    “I guess the builders had to make them so they could breathe,” Claudio concluded, hurrying to keep up.
    “Here it is,” Francesco announced, indicating the arched doorway at the end of the trail.
    He went through, with Claudio at his heels.
    One rock-covered niche differed markedly from the rest. It did not seem to be as old as the other six. Its figures and descriptions set it apart: on top was the Armenian inscription Francesco had mentioned and which was incomprehensible to Claudio. Underneath was the cross with the inscription in Latin: “May divine wrath fall upon the desecrator.”
    “These look like gammate crosses. That’s the Nazi symbol, isn’t it?”
    “Well, the symbol was being used all the way back in the Mesolithic era. Here in Armenia you can find crosses and swastikas from over nine thousand years ago. They might have been related to some sort of astrological event,” Francesco explained solemnly as if giving a class lecture.
    “Who’s tomb is it?”
“Probably someone important.”
    “Or some thing ,” Claudio retorted. “I think we should open it to know for sure. Nazis hid huge amounts of gold in the least likely places.”
    “Oh, no. If anyone’s going to open it, it’s got to be you. I’m afraid of that divine wrath.”
    “Francesco, you’re a researcher, a scientist. You can’t let little things like tomb inscriptions get to you. What were you doing down here anyway? Isn’t this every scientist’s dream, to find such a tomb and analyze the contents?”
“Ancient tombs, yes. But, Claudio, this tomb can’t be more than twenty years old. I’m just following my intuition. I think we should get out of here.”
“Oh, come on, friend. If you really thought that, you would never have told me about it. You want to know just as bad as I do what it all means.”
    “We talk about all sorts of things—I just happened to mention this, and you took it seriously. You’ve collected so many relics you can’t even appreciate them anymore. Your hobby is plain old commercialism now.”
    From one of his pockets Claudio extracted a Minox, a small camera no more than two inches long and barely an inch wide, flash included. He snapped several pictures of the inscriptions. Then he pulled off his jacket, laid it to one side on the dirt floor, and grabbed the pick. He tried prying at the edges of the rock that served as the gravestone. It would not budge. It had been cemented in with mortar. He began hacking methodically, and little by little the stone chipped away before the onslaught of the pick in Claudio’s expert hands.
    “Well, who would have thought? You’re a stonecutter at