Angels & Demons (29 page)

“That’s totally incongruous!” a female student in the front had blurted when Langdon explained the reason for east-facing tombs. “Why would Christians want their tombs to face the rising
sun?
We’re talking about Christianity . . . not
sun
worship!”

Langdon smiled, pacing before the blackboard, chewing an apple. “Mr. Hitzrot!” he shouted. A young man dozing in back sat up with a start. “What! Me?”

Langdon pointed to a Renaissance art poster on the wall. “Who is that man kneeling before God?”

“Um . . . some saint?”

“Brilliant. And how do you
know
he’s a saint?”

“He’s got a halo?”

“Excellent, and does that golden halo remind you of anything?”

Hitzrot broke into a smile. “Yeah! Those Egyptian things we studied last term. Those . . . um . . .
sun
disks!”

“Thank you, Hitzrot. Go back to sleep.” Langdon turned back to the class. “Halos, like much of Christian symbology, were borrowed from the ancient Egyptian religion of
sun
worship. Christianity is filled with examples of sun worship.”

“Excuse me?” the girl in front said. “I go to church all the time, and I don’t see much sun worshiping going on!”

“Really? What do you celebrate on December twenty-fifth?”

“Christmas. The birth of Jesus Christ.”

“And yet according to the Bible, Christ was born in March, so what are we doing celebrating in late December?”

Silence.

Langdon smiled. “December twenty-fifth, my friends, is the ancient pagan holiday of
sol
invictus
—Unconquered Sun—coinciding with the winter solstice. It’s that wonderful time of year when the sun returns, and the days start getting longer.”

Langdon took another bite of apple.

“Conquering religions,” he continued, “often adopt existing holidays to make conversion less shocking. It’s called
transmutation
. It helps people acclimatize to the new faith. Worshipers keep the same holy dates, pray in the same sacred locations, use a similar symbology . . . and they simply substitute a different god.”

Now the girl in front looked furious. “You’re implying Christianity is just some kind of . . . repackaged
sun worship!”

“Not at all. Christianity did not borrow
only
from sun worship. The ritual of Christian canonization is taken from the ancient ‘god-making’ rite of Euhemerus. The practice of ‘god-eating’—that is, Holy Communion—was borrowed from the Aztecs. Even the concept of Christ dying for our sins is arguably not exclusively Christian; the self-sacrifice of a young man to absolve the sins of his people appears in the earliest tradition of the Quetzalcoatl.”

The girl glared. “So, is
anything
in Christianity original?”

“Very little in
any
organized faith is truly original. Religions are not born from scratch. They grow from one another. Modern religion is a collage . . . an assimilated historical record of man’s quest to understand the divine.”

“Um . . . hold on,” Hitzrot ventured, sounding awake now. “I know something Christian that’s original. How about our
image
of God? Christian art never portrays God as the hawk sun god, or as an Aztec, or as anything weird. It always shows God as an old man with a white beard. So our
image
of God is original, right?”

Langdon smiled. “When the early Christian converts abandoned their former deities—pagan gods, Roman gods, Greek, sun, Mithraic, whatever—they asked the church what their new Christian God looked like. Wisely, the church chose the most feared, powerful . . . and familiar face in all of recorded history.”

Hitzrot looked skeptical. “An old man with a white, flowing beard?”

Langdon pointed to a hierarchy of ancient gods on the wall. At the top sat an old man with a white, flowing beard. “Does Zeus look familiar?”

The class ended right on cue.

“Good evening,” a man’s voice said.

Langdon jumped. He was back in the Pantheon. He turned to face an elderly man in a blue cape with a red cross on the chest. The man gave him a gray-toothed smile.

“You’re English, right?” The man’s accent was thick Tuscan.

Langdon blinked, confused. “Actually, no. I’m American.”

The man looked embarrassed. “Oh heavens, forgive me. You were so nicely dressed, I just figured . . . my apologies.”

“Can I help you?” Langdon asked, his heart beating wildly.

“Actually I thought perhaps I could help
you
. I am the
cicerone
here.” The man pointed proudly to his cityissued badge. “It is my job to make your visit to Rome more interesting.”

More interesting?
Langdon was certain this particular visit to Rome was
plenty
interesting.

“You look like a man of distinction,” the guide fawned, “no doubt more interested in culture than most. Perhaps I can give you some history on this fascinating building.”

Langdon smiled politely. “Kind of you, but I’m actually an art historian myself, and—”

“Superb!” The man’s eyes lit up like he’d hit the jackpot. “Then you will no doubt find this delightful!”

“I think I’d prefer to—”

“The Pantheon,” the man declared, launching into his memorized spiel, “was built by Marcus Agrippa in 27 B.C.”

“Yes,” Langdon interjected, “and rebuilt by Hadrian in 119 A.D.”

“It was the world’s largest free-standing dome until 1960 when it was eclipsed by the Superdome in New Orleans!”

Langdon groaned. The man was unstoppable.

“And a fifth-century theologian once called the Pantheon the
House of the Devil
, warning that the hole in the roof was an entrance for demons!”

Langdon blocked him out. His eyes climbed skyward to the oculus, and the memory of Vittoria’s suggested plot flashed a bone-numbing image in his mind . . . a branded cardinal falling through the hole and hitting the marble floor.
Now
that
would be a media event
. Langdon found himself scanning the Pantheon for reporters. None. He inhaled deeply. It was an absurd idea. The logistics of pulling off a stunt like that would be ridiculous.

As Langdon moved off to continue his inspection, the babbling docent followed like a love-starved puppy.
Remind me
, Langdon thought to himself,
there’s nothing worse than a gung ho art historian
. Across the room, Vittoria was immersed in her own search. Standing all alone for the first time since she had heard the news of her father, she felt the stark reality of the last eight hours closing in around her. Her father had been murdered—cruelly and abruptly. Almost equally painful was that her father’s creation had been corrupted—now a tool of terrorists. Vittoria was plagued with guilt to think that it was
her
invention that had enabled the antimatter to be transported . . .
her
canister that was now counting down inside the Vatican. In an effort to serve her father’s quest for the simplicity of truth . . . she had become a conspirator of chaos.

Oddly, the only thing that felt right in her life at the moment was the presence of a total stranger. Robert Langdon. She found an inexplicable refuge in his eyes . . . like the harmony of the oceans she had left behind early that morning. She was glad he was there. Not only had he been a source of strength and hope for her, Langdon had used his quick mind to render this one chance to catch her father’s killer. Vittoria breathed deeply as she continued her search, moving around the perimeter. She was overwhelmed by the unexpected images of personal revenge that had dominated her thoughts all day. Even as a sworn lover of all life . . . she wanted this executioner
dead
. No amount of good
karma
could make her turn the other cheek today. Alarmed and electrified, she sensed something coursing through her Italian blood that she had never felt before . . . the whispers of Sicilian ancestors defending family honor with brutal justice.
Vendetta
, Vittoria thought, and for the first time in her life understood. Visions of reprisal spurred her on. She approached the tomb of Raphael Santi. Even from a distance she could tell this guy was special. His casket, unlike the others, was protected by a Plexiglas shield and recessed into the wall. Through the barrier she could see the front of the sarcophagus. RAPHAEL SANTI, 1483-1520

Vittoria studied the grave and then read the one-sentence descriptive plaque beside Raphael’s tomb. Then she read it again.

Then . . . she read it again.

A moment later, she was dashing in horror across the floor. “Robert!
Robert!”

62

L angdon’s progress around his side of the Pantheon was being hampered somewhat by the guide on his heels, now continuing his tireless narration as Langdon prepared to check the final alcove.

“You certainly seem to be enjoying those niches!” the docent said, looking delighted. “Were you aware that the tapering thickness of the walls is the reason the dome appears weightless?”

Langdon nodded, not hearing a word as he prepared to examine another niche. Suddenly someone grabbed him from behind. It was Vittoria. She was breathless and tugging at his arm. From the look of terror on her face, Langdon could only imagine one thing.
She found a body
. He felt an upswelling of dread.

“Ah, your wife!” the docent exclaimed, clearly thrilled to have another guest. He motioned to her short pants and hiking boots. “Now
you
I can tell are American!”

Vittoria’s eyes narrowed. “I’m Italian.”

The guide’s smile dimmed. “Oh, dear.”

“Robert,” Vittoria whispered, trying to turn her back on the guide. “Galileo’s
Diagramma
. I need to see it.”

“Diagramma?”
the docent said, wheedling back in. “My! You two certainly know your history!

Unfortunately that document is not viewable. It is under secret preservation in the Vatican Arc—”

“Could you excuse us?” Langdon said. He was confused by Vittoria’s panic. He took her aside and reached in his pocket, carefully extracting the
Diagramma
folio. “What’s going on?”

“What’s the date on this thing?” Vittoria demanded, scanning the sheet.

The docent was on them again, staring at the folio, mouth agape. “That’s not . . . really . . .”

“Tourist reproduction,” Langdon quipped. “Thank you for your help. Please, my wife and I would like a moment alone.”

The docent backed off, eyes never leaving the paper.

“Date,” Vittoria repeated to Langdon. “When did Galileo publish . . .”

Langdon pointed to the Roman numeral in the lower liner. “That’s the pub date. What’s going on?”

Vittoria deciphered the number. “1639?”

“Yes. What’s wrong?”

Vittoria’s eyes filled with foreboding. “We’re in trouble, Robert. Big trouble. The dates don’t match.”

“What dates don’t match?”

“Raphael’s tomb. He wasn’t buried here until 1759. A century
after Diagramma
was published.”

Langdon stared at her, trying to make sense of the words. “No,” he replied. “Raphael died in 1520, long
before Diagramma.”

“Yes, but he wasn’t buried
here
until much later.”

Langdon was lost. “What are you talking about?”

“I just read it. Raphael’s body was relocated to the Pantheon in 1758. It was part of some historic tribute to eminent Italians.”

As the words settled in, Langdon felt like a rug had just been yanked out from under him.

“When that poem was written,” Vittoria declared, “Raphael’s tomb was somewhere
else
. Back then, the Pantheon had nothing at all to do with Raphael!”

Langdon could not breathe. “But that . . . means . . .”

“Yes! It means we’re in the wrong place!”

Langdon felt himself sway.
Impossible . . . I was certain . . .

Vittoria ran over and grabbed the docent, pulling him back. “Signore, excuse us. Where was Raphael’s body in the 1600s?”

“Urb . . . Urbino,” he stammered, now looking bewildered. “His birthplace.”

“Impossible!” Langdon cursed to himself. “The Illuminati altars of science were here in Rome. I’m certain of it!”

“Illuminati?” The docent gasped, looking again at the document in Langdon’s hand. “Who
are
you people?”

Vittoria took charge. “We’re looking for something called Santi’s earthly tomb. In Rome. Can you tell us what that might be?”

The docent looked unsettled. “This was Raphael’s only tomb in Rome.”

Langdon tried to think, but his mind refused to engage. If Raphael’s tomb wasn’t in Rome in 1655, then what was the poem referring to?
Santi’s earthly tomb with demon’s hole? What the hell is it? Think!

“Was there another artist called Santi?” Vittoria asked.

The docent shrugged. “Not that I know of.”

“How about
anyone
famous at all? Maybe a scientist or a poet or an astronomer named Santi?”

The docent now looked like he wanted to leave. “No, ma’am. The only Santi I’ve ever heard of is Raphael the architect.”

“Architect?” Vittoria said. “I thought he was a painter!”

“He was both, of course. They all were. Michelangelo, da Vinci, Raphael.”

Langdon didn’t know whether it was the docent’s words or the ornate tombs around them that brought the revelation to mind, but it didn’t matter. The thought occurred.
Santi was an architect
. From there the progression of thoughts fell like dominoes. Renaissance architects lived for only two reasons—to glorify God with big churches, and to glorify dignitaries with lavish tombs.
Santi’s tomb. Could it be?
The images came faster now . . .

da Vinci’s
Mona Lisa
.

Monet’s
Water Lilies
.

Michelangelo’s
David
.

Santi’s
earthly tomb
. . .

“Santi
designed
the tomb,” Langdon said.

Vittoria turned. “What?”

“It’s not a reference to where Raphael is buried, it’s referring to a tomb he
designed.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I misunderstood the clue. It’s not Raphael’s burial site we’re looking for, it’s a tomb Raphael designed for someone
else
. I can’t believe I missed it. Half of the sculpting done in Renaissance and Baroque Rome was for the funeraries.” Langdon smiled with the revelation. “Raphael must have designed hundreds of tombs!”